Sapphire. Rosemary Rogers
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Orchid Manor had been built by her grandfather in the style of the great French châteaux of the Loire Valley, but he had created an airy West Indies ambience with wide doors and windows that opened from almost every room onto stone patios and lush gardens.
“I won’t do it, Angel.” Sapphire tossed her head as she fastened a pearl earring to her lobe. “When Mama died, he told me I was an adult now and that I would be treated as such.” She lifted the hemline of her new plum-colored silk dress with its fashionable bell-like skirt and low-cut décolleté and ran to catch up. “And now, when I have found a man to love, he speaks of sending me back to the convent school. Never!”
“You mustn’t run or you will ruin your hair.” Angelique reached up and fussed with an auburn pin curl above Sapphire’s ear. “Do not bring up Maurice at dinner this evening. Do not bring him up at all.”
“Not bring him up at all?” Sapphire said sharply. “I want to marry him. We want to be married at once.”
Angelique smoothed the skirt of her pale pink gown. “You should not be so free with your heart. You are young—you’ve much to learn about love. There will be many Maurices who—”
“Not you, too!” Sapphire flared.
“I am on your side, the same as Papa.” She turned toward the music wafting from the garden where the musicians played for her father’s English guests, all business associates. “Come, we don’t want to be late and anger Papa any further. We will talk about this later.”
“You sound just like him,” Sapphire spat. “You have not heard the last of this, you or Papa!”
“Could we have any doubt?” Angelique murmured under her breath as they breezed into the large dining room elegantly furnished in white and blond Louis XIV furniture.
“Ah, my lovely nieces,” Aunt Lucia declared, embracing the young women and leaning toward Sapphire. “What have you done now? I don’t think I’ve ever seen Armand so infuriated.”
“I did nothing wrong!”
Lucia, a round figure of a woman with red hair and a beautiful face for a middle-aged woman, looked to Angelique, who only lifted her brows and shrugged gracefully.
“Come, come,” Aunt Lucia said gaily, brushing back her mountain of lemon-colored satin skirts and petticoats. “Everyone is here and it’s time to be seated. Lady Carlisle’s gown is lovely, oui? And look at the headpiece,” she said with a French accent that always seemed to be stronger when there were guests or strangers about. “Isn’t the little bird tucked in the lace simplement divin?”
“Simply divine,” Sapphire said sweetly, forcing a smile as she walked to her chair near the head of the table. She did not care for Lady Carlisle. Only yesterday morning Sapphire had overheard the countess in the library talking to her friend Lady Morrow. “Monsieur Fabergine is quite charming, but his red-haired daughter is entirely too free-spirited for a young woman. She would do well to have her wings clipped by her father before she is lost to good society forever. I wonder,” Lady Carlisle had continued, “if Armand realizes how difficult such a hoyden will be to marry off?”
“Papa,” Sapphire called, smiling. “Please, everyone sit,” she announced to her father’s guests. “Join us—dinner is served.”
Armand walked behind her chair and eased it out for her. “You look lovely, my dear,” he said. “The color of your new gown becomes you.”
She was still angry with him but her smile turned genuine as she sat and peered up at him over her bare shoulder. “Thank you for the gown, Papa. It is lovely.” She smoothed the skirt as she slid her chair forward.
“A lovely gown for a lovely woman,” he whispered in her ear. “Even if she is a hoyden.”
She looked into his eyes and had to cover her mouth with her hand to avoid giggling aloud. Apparently he had heard about Lady Carlisle’s comment concerning her behavior.
“Merci tellement,” Armand said grandly to his guests, helping Aunt Lucia into her chair before taking his place at the head of the table.
One of the married male guests aided Angelique, Sapphire noticed. All men adored Angelique because she was never argumentative and there was something about her dark beauty that men seemed unable to resist.
“Please,” Armand continued, taking his chair and opening his arms grandly. “Here at Manoir D’orchidée, Orchid Manor as you would say, we are quite informal.”
He waved to one of the new servants, a girl from the village that Sapphire suspected had caught her father’s roving eye. It was a vice of his that her mother had always overlooked; an innate male weakness, Mama called it. Be that as it may, when rumors circulated years ago that Angelique was actually Armand’s daughter by one of the native women, Sapphire had decided that the man she would marry would not have this innate male weakness. She would not stand for it.
The servant girl, Tarasai, who was no older than Sapphire, approached the table, eyes downcast, carrying a large white porcelain soup tureen with gilded handles. With the serving of the tortoise soup, the two-hour-long event of dinner commenced, and as course after course was served and carried out, Sapphire found herself sinking further into her chair.
Since her father’s English guests had arrived a week earlier, dinner conversations had been incredibly dull. The middle-aged men spoke of nothing but crops and their health, and as boring as that was, Sapphire found their talk of gout and the price of cane presses more interesting than the Englishwomen’s tedious conversations concerning London society. Aunt Lucia was quite adept at smiling and nodding and adding a oui or a yes in all the right places, and Angelique occupied herself by flirting with the men in the room, servants and guests, old and young. But Sapphire simply could not feign interest.
Waiting for the next course to be served, Sapphire lifted her gaze upward with a sigh of boredom and focused on the giant crystal chandelier hanging over the dining table. Orchid Manor was quite modern in many ways; the rooms were lit by efficient oil lamps, but her father insisted on using only candlelight in the dining room.
Sapphire heard a quiet whine beneath the table and felt a cold nose push against her hand. She made sure that no one was watching, then tore a piece of bread from her plate and eased it under the table. One of her father’s hounds licked it greedily from her fingers and nuzzled her hand for more.
Lady Morrow, who was the same age and temperament as the fifty-ish Lady Carlisle, was telling Aunt Lucia about a lady who had to dismiss her maid for pilfering soap from the larder. Sapphire rolled her eyes at the pettiness of the conversation and reached for another piece of bread to feed the dog.
Baroness Wells, seated beside Sapphire, met her gaze and smiled. Sapphire liked Patricia. Patricia was a newlywed and she could be quite fun, but she was Lady Carlisle’s niece and, therefore, well under the wretched woman’s thumb. Sapphire had tried several times to convince Patricia to go riding or swimming with her, but each time Lady Carlisle had rejected the idea on the grounds that a white woman was unsafe in the jungles of Martinique. The fact that many aristocratic French families lived quite safely in the area did not seem to be a consideration.
Sapphire offered another piece of bread to the hound, and this time he drew his nose just far enough from beneath the white linen tablecloth for Patricia to see him. Patricia spotted the black nose and lifted her napkin to her mouth to hide her amusement.
Lady Carlisle cleared her throat and Sapphire suddenly realized that the women at the table were all looking at her. Apparently someone had asked her a question, but she’d been too preoccupied with the dog to listen.
“Sapphire, dear,” Aunt Lucia said smoothly, “tell Lady Carlisle about the altar cloths you and Angelique recently embroidered for Father Richmond. I was just telling the countesses how well schooled you were by the nuns.”
“The truth?” Sapphire asked, knowing very well that was not what her aunt was seeking. “Angelique’s cloths were quite lovely, her stitching perfect. Mine were bloodstained