Page 23 of The Wondrous Life and Loves of Nella Carter
Like a flower under a patient gardener, I blossomed, flourishing under the warmth of Jacques’s affection and weekly book selections. I began to look forward to the title he would bring and discuss the one he had offered the week before. My favorites by far were Ann Radcliffe’s dark and moodyThe Mysteries of UdolphoandThe Travels of Dean Mahomet, which detailed Mahomet’s travels to Europe from India, opening my mind to places I didn’t know existed. I stayed up late into the night reading his accounts of the delicacies, people, and cultures he encountered.
Jacques didn’t read the books, seemingly satisfied to have me recount the contents to him. I felt important as I shared the ideas and the conversation the books sparked. I didn’t question why he spent sumson books, only to give them away. I was interested only in growing my own collection as I read deep into the night, learning of lands far beyond this one, grateful for Death’s gift of being able to read and speak any language I heard.
Some Sundays, we broke off and walked alone, his hand lingering over mine. It felt good to be the center of his attention. It wasn’t the red-hot love Eugène had for Eulalie. I didn’t know if I was even capable of those kinds of feelings, but it was a warm, pleasant glow.
In September, Eulalie and Eugène moved into a large two-story home on Rampart Street. They hosted a masked ball at their house to celebrate their commitment, a celebration open to all who understood the nature of their relationship.
For the occasion, I had chosen a blue cotton dress with marigold petticoats, a white shawl tucked around my shoulders and into the neckline, and a marigold tignon to match.
Eulalie bustled by me. “Is that a new dress? Quite fetching.”
I nodded, fluffing the cream cotton skirts with the dark-blue trim.
She gave me a long look. “Anyone you’re hoping you’ll see tonight?”
“Possibly.” I blushed and straightened the row of extra masks meant for guests.
The steady stream of guests soon consumed my attention as a quartet began to play. The sound of stringed instruments mingled with lively conversation as a pair of dancers swept about the room, waltzing to the sprightly fiddle. Other couples joined them on the dance floor, and the room became an atmospheric swirl, colored with the flicker of candlelight, the spin of vibrant cotton and patterned silk, the spice of tobacco, and the titters of laughter from tongues loosened by wine and champagne. The scene was a wonder, and my place in it would have been unthinkable before Death had given me this chance.
I stood watching, until suddenly Jacques came up behind me, pulled me into his arms, and took me out through the open door into the darkened summer evening.
“Mr. Boudreaux, you forget yourself!” I yelped. But I went willingly with him into the night, my grasp on propriety loosened by the effervescence of the champagne and the atmosphere.
“Miss Noelle, I’m sorry to say that your mask does nothing to hide you from me.”
“That’s a shame. I paid far too much for it then.”
He grasped my hand and pulled me into a twirl—my back pressed to him, his cheek next to mine, our bodies swaying to the music.
“No matter what you picked, I would always know it was you. You have utterly bewitched me.”
My heart hitched as he gazed down at me, the slightest dimple visible on his left cheek, rough with a day’s growth.
“Now that you know it’s me, what will you do about it?” We were not the only couple strolling along in the darkness, farther away from the lamplight of the interior, slipping into the shadows that only the garden could provide.
“Everything.”
No one had ever spoken to me this way. A flush bloomed in my heart and sank low into my belly.
I wasn’t innocent. There had been ... incidents at home right after Master Carter, my father, died. Sometimes memories I had buried deep returned to me in flashes, and I’d startle and struggle to remember that I wasn’t back home.
But this was the furthest thing from that place, that time.
And Jacques was a good man.
Right hand on my cheek, he drew me in, brushing his lips over mine, his free hand on my back. I lost myself in the kiss, the music tinkling through the air, and the hum of the cicadas in the background, his warmth stirring me from the tips of my toes.
Then he looked down at me. His eyes lost their teasing light, becoming serious.
“Noelle,” he said, his breath heavy, “would you consider something more between us? Something more ... secure.” His eyes swept over my face as he searched for the words.
He wasn’t being coy. I knew true marriage was not an option, but Eugène and Eulalie had settled for the closest they could get.
“I—” I couldn’t finish the thought. It all felt so sudden. He crushed his lips to mine, his kiss more urgent, his hands more insistent. Heat flooded between us. It frightened and thrilled me.
I pushed against his chest, allowing more summer breeze between us. “You can’t ask me something like that and then make me lose my senses.”
He grinned good-naturedly, still not letting go of my side. “Think about it, and tell me in the true light of day. We can go on a ride tomorrow.” He grasped my hands, his strong, pale fingers dwarfing mine. “I will take care of you.”
