Wife of the Left Hand (Sugar Hill Book 1)

  Text copyright © 2016 Monica L. Bullock

  All rights reserved

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to Katie R.

  With many thanks and heaps of gratitude.

  I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers,

  From the seas and the streams;

  I bear light shade for the leaves when laid

  In their noon-day dreams.

  From my wings are shaken the dews that waken

  The sweet birds every one,

  When rocked to rest on their mother’s breast,

  As she dances about the sun.

  I wield the flail of the lashing hail,

  And whiten the green plains under,

  And then again I dissolve it in rain,

  And laugh as I pass in thunder.

  Excerpt from The Cloud

  Percy Bysshe Shelley, 1820

  Prologue

  Belle Fontaine 1820

  Light from the setting sun and the swathes of candlelight fused together to create a magical glow that seeped through the open doors of the ballroom. This was not Chase Dufresne’s first social gathering, but he entered the gala feeling like a wide-eyed child taking his first peek inside an elegant cathedral. Perhaps it might be more precise to say he felt less like a saint and more like Odysseus as he sailed past the Sirens’ Rock knowing that if he looked or listened too closely he would be enchanted.

  And so he would be enchanted.

  Tonight he was Odysseus—bound to the mast of familial obligation and braving the faces of the lovely sirens who greeted him, all the while hoping to keep his heart shielded safely in his own chest. Chase reminded himself that he didn’t want to be here, yet he felt a rush of excitement knowing that he should not like being here as much as he did. The young man had railed against this expected tradition, the taking of a “left-hand wife.” He was a modern man with modern ideas, but his father expected him to comply. And the man had endured so much lately, the loss of Chase’s mother and sister, the utter despair that had encircled them both. Could he disappoint him now? If his mother had been alive, he would have complained to her, but he had no advocate now.

  Chase lost count of the cotillions and soirees he’d attended in the past few months, but this entrance surpassed all the others. A curious combination of floral perfumes such as rose, gardenia and jasmine swirled around him. The aroma of seafood boiling added to the tempting assault; it was a promised meal offering to please the wealthy wanderers from high society, he supposed dryly. He cast a cautious eye around the ballroom. This was his first visit here, and to say he was impressed was an understatement. The walls were draped with carefully arranged festoons of coral fabric, and the floors were clean and white. Gold candlesticks lined tables, as did silver platters of fruit, cakes and candies. Dark-skinned slaves dressed in gold satin pants, vests and white shirts with gold laces at the neck quickly carried dark bottles of wine into the ballroom and set them carefully on a table. It was no mistake that the visitors to the ball would expect to indulge. This was a demonstration of wealth, but he had no idea who it was that commanded such influence and opulence. Behind a gauzy white curtain, a small orchestra began to play a pleasant tune. No detail had been missed, and he wondered at the cost of all this. His father would no doubt be disappointed to hear his thoughts. As a gentleman, Chase wasn’t supposed to be concerned with such things, but numbers were his secret passion. He knew exactly how much a good horse would cost, not just the purchase price but how much the feed would run over a year, two years. He knew how much they were worth and how much money they were losing by refusing to participate in the Mobile Shipping League, the local shipping league. His father didn’t want to hear any of his ideas. But one day that would change. He knew that, and it saddened him.

  “Good evening, Mr. Dufresne,” a familiar face greeted him. Nevin Daughdrill waved and smiled pleasantly, and he returned the greeting. He was surprised to see Nevin here; he was only the son of a mercantile owner but nevertheless very wealthy. He was respectable enough for Chase, but some members of the other old families did not feel the same way. Ah, politics and snobbery. These were the pillars of Southern culture, and he had no illusions that he would ever be able to change that.

  Glancing again he saw that some local politicians, Reece and Jeb Camden, were talking animatedly with their father. Master Durant sneered at Chase as he always did. The man had nothing to sneer at. He was a notorious bastard with a horrible, black temper. God help the man, woman or child who crossed his path when he drank. Chase neither sneered back nor acknowledged him in the least. Durant was a rank man, but he was in the minority from what Chase could see. He never dreamed a quadroon ball would draw such a mixture of both highly esteemed members of society and new men. He recognized Emille Sota and his twin sons, Emilio and Esplanade. Even in the greatest heat the man wore grease in his short hair, making it appear even blacker. His sons, both tall, spindly young men, greeted the younger Dufresne politely as he passed them by. They were as wide-eyed as he was, their dark eyes feasting on the bevy of beauties who approached them with wide, white smiles. Chase smiled at seeing them so utterly captivated.

  A crisply dressed butler met Chase, his father and his cousin as they shuffled up the line of young men and their fathers. His father puffed on an expensive tan cigar as the dark-skinned attendant read their names from the invitation Mr. Dufresne handed him dismissively.

  “Presenting Mr. Arthur Dufresne and his son, Chase Dufresne.”

  He pronounced their last name with an emphasis on the first syllable, and it sounded like “Doo-frez-nee.” Cousin Ambrose trailed a step or two behind them but was not given a proper introduction, which led to many stares in his direction. Ambrose did not voice a complaint, despite Mr. Dufresne’s earlier promise to publicly declare him a relative. It was a promise the older man dangled in front of Ambrose from time to time as a way to keep him and his “bohemian ways” under control. Even Chase knew this promise would remain unfulfilled, though he couldn’t understand for the life of him why this was so. His dark-haired cousin rarely revealed his emotions, and as quickly as they occasionally appeared, they disappeared again behind the mask of his handsome face. Chase looked away and continued to survey the lovely, light-filled room while he enjoyed the many oil portraits that peered down at them and the massive potted palm trees that lined the room. It was as if they were indeed at some exotic location in a faraway land.

  When reminded of his expected attendance tonight, he had been bored by the mere idea of another vacuous conversation. But curiosity, along with the will to live, drove him to be an obedient son, although he would not admit this to his father. He immediately knew this was different, for here there were no white-clad, simpering, spoiled daughters and no creaking of whalebone corsets and ridiculously powdered cheeks. This glorious event was devoid of austere fathers and snarling mothers who carelessly whispered about bloodlines and family gossip. He had no worries in regards to the latter, but it embarrassed him no end for Ambrose, who was frequently the subject of these vicious tales. He glanced at him over his shoulder and could see he too appreciated the fine view.

  Yes, this was a magical land, filled with ethereal creatures with dusky skin and sparkling eyes. These were treasured daughters with glittering jewels dangling from their ears and slender necks. Some stood with fathers, some with mothers, but all behaved with friendly decorum and varying shades of eagerness.

  Chase suddenly became aware that he was witnessing a rare and fading practice of elite society. Quadroon balls were quickly becoming illegal, thanks in part to the increasingly influential religious communities springing up in Belle Fo
ntaine and the growing voices of the wives of respectable white society. But this knowledge escaped him quickly, for he was fully enchanted with the “heavenly host” that surrounded him.

  His father made their introductions to one young lady and then another, and Chase gave the obligatory responses, repeating names and other minute details that were so kindly shared with him. He had learned this skill at an early age, for his father believed in using his riding crop to improve the behavior of both his horses and his children. It sounded cruel, but it worked. Chase had not been given any leeway in this practice. He would “toe the line,” as he was reminded occasionally but probably not as often as necessary. Ambrose did not speak but only nodded politely and continued along behind the favored cousin. It must have appeared to the gathering that Ambrose was more a manservant than Chase’s friend and relative.

  As they strolled from one small party of pale brown faces to another, Chase secretly gathered information. Most of the young women at Belle Fontaine’s annual quadroon ball were slightly older than Chase. Unlike with the coming-out parties for young white women, quadroons took their time releasing their daughters into the pools of potential left-hand wives. No awkward hothouse blooms here. These young women, he thought, were more like rare, exotic orchids ready to be sniffed and observed but never picked. Never cut from the plant.

  Chase thought it a strange thing that his father had had two wives. Like his father before him, Arthur Dufresne had a left-hand wife before he had a white wife. It seemed so out of character for his father, who followed all the proper social protocols to the letter. Chase’s mother, Rose, had mentioned the woman once. She’d asked Chase to never speak about his father’s other wife in front of her. “It would break my heart, mon Chase. I am your father’s true wife.”

  After Chase’s mother and his sister Regina died from a winter fever, the elder Mr. Dufresne did spend more time away from home, and it only made sense that he would find solace elsewhere. Chase had a difficult time dealing with the death of half of his family. He had doted on his sister, although she was older and much more intelligent than he was. And he had been on a trip of enjoyment to New Orleans when she and his mother died. His father had insisted that he make his introductions to the Beauchamps there, but nothing had come of it. The Beauchamps’ daughter was not interested in him in any sort of way. However, she did ask often about his sister and pouted that Regina had not attended her as well. He politely begged off for Regina and shortened his stay quite a bit. He had had a good time, listening to the music of the waterfront and, of course, visiting the lovely homes and ladies of the Garden District.

  Chase never asked about Arthur’s left-hand wife, nor did he speak to his mother about the subject beyond the one time. He didn’t even know the other woman’s name. The young Dufresne tried to reason with his father when the subject of the quadroon ball first arose. “I am in no hurry to marry, Father. Besides, taking a placee is old-fashioned and unfair—to both women. How can you expect a woman to be faithful if you are not?”

  To his utter surprise, his father had thrown his head back and laughed. When he stopped laughing, he wiped the tears from his eyes and said, “Faithful? You think men are faithful? You have so much to learn, son. So much to learn. No, this is the way we do things in our family. Placee first; right-hand wife second. That is tradition, and we will not change it. Fortunately for you, you are my son and not the son of Emille Sota. I can afford to arrange a marriage to the placee of your dreams. This is a good thing, Chase. One day you will thank me for my generosity. Of that I am sure.”

  There was no arguing with him. He immediately began writing letters of formal introduction and made it known far and wide that his son would soon marry. And here they were. During the carriage ride here, Chase had felt sullen and rebellious, but now all of his senses seemed alight. This was no longer an idea but a reality. He would make a marriage with one of these young women, and with that came a thrill, an excitement he hadn’t expected. Ambrose observed him through slitted eyes, smiling all the while. He hadn’t much to say on the way. He’d rubbed his chin with his hand as he stared out the window watching the sun fade.

  Chase pretended to listen to the young ladies and studied their faces, mostly their eyes; still, it was hard not to stare at soft-looking bronze skin pushed against bright silk fabric. What interesting lives they must lead! Envied they were, there was no denying that, for they were fair and amiable to the letter. This select group was both loved and hated. Loved for their beautiful faces and figures, yet envied by the dark-skinned slaves because they were free. Born free, in fact, but that freedom must be secured by way of a white marriage.

  Quadroons had their own society, with their own legal system and traditions. The organizers of this ball made sure they invited young women from all over Belle Fontaine and Mobile, but the most sought-after attendees were young women known as Serenes. These Serenes were celebrated for their exceptional beauty and were trained all their lives to become skilled at music, conversation and, of course, pleasing a husband. Chase was both appalled and fascinated.

  Which brought him to his next observation; each quadroon wore a bright jewel-toned dress. Every color was represented in this room, except for purple. Only one young woman would hold that honor, or so he had been told by his cousin. It was an exclusive privilege held for the belle of the ball. Whoever she was would be the ultimate prize, if a man were to consider such things. He surreptitiously cast his eye around the ballroom in hopes of finding this mysterious woman. He had all but given up hope when he heard the whispers. The musicians ceased their tune. A lone violinist stood to serenade the young woman in the purple dress as she entered the room. Immediately his eyes were drawn to her face. It was a face he’d never forget. She looked like a living statue, purely feminine, with a sculpted jaw, rounded chin and full lips. Her arched brows were perfect and her eyes expressive and dark. She had dark, silky hair that she wore piled neatly on her head in luxurious curls. She did not float into the room like a debutante but walked past him with a confidence he’d rarely seen in someone so young. Chase was glad she did not stop to talk to him, for he was sure he would have been speechless and appeared stupid. She took her place on the upper dais and settled in a chair to oversee the ball held in her honor. Beside her stood an older but handsome woman who whispered in her ear. The older woman’s dress, exceptionally tight on her bosom, was a deep burgundy that flattered her light brown skin. As if she could feel him stare, she clamped eyes on Chase, and he remembered his manners. He turned his attention to the line that had begun to move and shuffled along obediently. There would be introductions first, then the dance, and then who knew what?

  He smiled pleasantly at the girl before him, politely repeating her name, Flower. His father backed away to talk to Emille Sota and allowed Chase to make his own introductions.

  Hmm…that was a change.

  As he walked up the dais to greet a pretty girl in a yellow dress, he resisted the urge to stare again at the woman in purple. Instead he focused on Vivian, a young woman who told him she was from Mobile. Vivian had slanted green eyes, and her skin had a golden hue. Chase glanced around for Ambrose, who had abandoned the line and was standing against the wall with the servants. Chase witnessed him shamelessly flirting with a servant girl who didn’t resist him. So like Ambrose to make the most of every situation, he thought.

  As the next young woman dipped a curtsy and spoke with Chase in an excited rush, he listened patiently, but his eyes were wandering now. She who was clad in the darkest purple silk was only a few feet away now. He didn’t know how he knew this, but he felt like she knew he was watching. She wanted him to see her. She turned her head to him slightly in between her greetings but never made eye contact with him. His hands felt sweaty. Would this receiving line never end?

  He played a game as he smiled at the girl before him, and the next, and so on. He imagined what the lady in purple’s name might be. Anastasia? No, that would not suit her at all. Someth
ing simpler, a name that would fall off his lips with ease. In a moment he would speak to her, know her name. The he would say it and remember it for the rest of his life. Violins soared in the background now, and someone began to sing a Creole song about love. It was a lovely sound. So much nicer than the screeching voices and the poorly plucked harps in the white parlors that he had heard of late.

  Closer, closer…

  Finally he stood before her and time stood still. She raised her eyes to him, and he felt like Icarus, flying too close to the sun. He had not been prepared for this. He now knew what the poets meant. That love had a will and mind of its own and that it could appear at any moment. The two of them faced one another, but she said nothing. Then it occurred to him that she was waiting for him to make his informal introduction. She did not shower him with smiles like the other women; she merely watched silently, her face an unreadable, beautiful mask.

  “Good evening, madam. My name is Chase Dufresne of Sugar Hill. May I know yours?” His hands and voice shook. He had never felt such anxiety at the idea of speaking to a woman. He wasn’t exactly experienced with ladies, but he wasn’t frightened of them. Not usually.

  And then he saw it, the most beautiful smile he had ever seen. It reminded him of the sun rising over the ocean, and it was his own heart’s awakening. Her eyes widened slightly as she smiled, and he could see that he had been wrong. Her eyes weren’t brown but a rare, deep purple, as purple as her dress. Instead of curtsying, she extended her hands to him, as if the two of them were the dearest of friends. It was a surprising gesture, but he grasped her hands as she stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. He could hear the whispers around him, but he cared not at all. He breathed her in, the smell of roses and peppermint. The softness of her lips, the warmth of her cheek and finally there again, he saw her smile.

  The smile that stole his heart.

  He felt a fool, but he knew he was utterly and completely hers.