“If people asking questions bothers you, I don’t see why you don’t take Papa’s name. He was your father too, and people wouldn’t know the difference.”
Lydia shook her head, the emeralds in her ears twinkling. “I don’t expect you’ll understand. The world looks different through your eyes. Just because I was raised for white doesn’t mean I am. And if I gave up my name, it would be like turning my back on Mimi Lisette’s memory and my own maman, wherever she is.”
Lydia had never known her maman—Justine, Mimi Lisette’s only daughter. They’d come to Anaquitas Farm to work after the long and bloody war, when Papa was more concerned with patching cannonball holes on the roof than finding a high-society wife. But marry he did—and a French Creole wife at that, with flaming red hair and the temper to match it. Helene DeSaulnier’s dowry came with the kind of money that turned the small but prosperous farm into a booming plantation. No one seemed to mind that Eliza had arrived four months sooner than the wedding date said she should have.
But even though Maman was ever swanning in the background of Eliza’s life, soft-voiced Mimi had been the one to soothe Eliza to sleep after her nightmares, while her own mother slept on, unaware of her childish fears. On the days Eliza was supposed to be sitting at her lessons under her surly French tutor, learning to beunefille de la noblesse, she would escape to the kitchens instead, where Mimi shared a special kind of magic—one wrought of spices and measurements, patience and time.Together, she and Lydia learned to spin sugar into sticky sweet pralines at Christmastime and took turns tending the gumbo pot as Mimi told them old Haitian stories in her lilting patois.
As for Justine, Eliza’s memories were as elusive as shifting light. She only remembered a young woman with balletic, long-limbed grace who moved across polished floors on gliding feet. When Eliza asked about Lydia’s mother, one afternoon in springtime when Lydia had stormed off in a fit of pique over Eliza’s new Easter dress, Mimi’s eyes had grown hard.Justine fell in a bad way with a white preacher. That man wanted her, but he didn’t want no child. After Lydia was born, my Justine run off. I never seen her since.At this, Mimi’s eyes spilled over, her dark brown irises clouding to black. Eliza learned not to ask about Justine again, because when Mimi cried, her tears brought sadness into the whole house.
But the truth had come years later, crashing like a rogue wave from behind. She would never forget the betrayal she felt as she sat next to Lydia in the attorney’s stifling office, her parents three days cold in the tomb.To my natural firstborn daughter, Elizabeth Marie-Claire Sullivan, I bequeath my land and property. And to my natural-born, undocumented daughter, Lydia Anne Tourant, I bequeath ...
She hadn’t heard the rest of the will. She’d only heard Lydia’s sobbing.
The feckless preacher had been a lie to protect the reputation of the man—thefather—Eliza had thought she’d known. The man who taught her how to read a green horse and gave her a roan stallion on her tenth birthday. The gentleman farmer who had walked with her over spring pastures and knelt in his fine clothes to show her the subtle differences between the sprouting alfalfa and fescue. A man built like a bulwark, with a ready laugh and a dimple in his chin, known for his work ethic and how well he treated his servants.
But her noble papa had been an invention, his honor forever altered by a single line of script. The man who had scorned others for taking improper liberties with their servants had been a hypocrite. While he’dbeen willing enough to provide for the child he’d gotten with Justine, he hadn’t had the decency to acknowledge Lydia as his trueborn daughter until death absolved him of facing his shame. Eliza was wrestling with it still. But at least they had one another. With Lydia, she’d never be alone in the world.
Eliza emerged from her broken memories with a shake of her head. As she fastened her pearl earrings, she caught and held Lydia’s gaze in the mirror. “You know, cher, I’ve grown fond of things the way they are. You and I, living a free life, without men telling us what to do. Between Theo’s will, and now this ball—I’m feeling backed into a corner.” She thought of Mr.Brainerd’s hound curling at her feet. “I think I’d rather have a dog than a husband. Their hearts are much more steadfast.”
Lydia laughed and shrugged into her dress—a burgundy Worth concoction shot through with gilt beads. It was her best color, meant to set the amber freckles in her eyes aflame. “Yes, but if you want to remain in England and construct this fantastic new life you’ve imagined, you’ll need to do as your aunt wished. We won’t have enough money to last forever, even with the sale of the farm—not the way you like to spend it,” Lydia chided. “Besides, being married wouldn’t be such a bad thing. I’dlike to marry as soon as I find someone suitable. People are already starting to give me queer looks.”
Eliza gave a rueful snort. “Yes, sister. I know those looks well.”
“I was thinking of our old suitors the other day. Do you remember Eustace?”
“Poor Eustace. He tried his best at winning you, didn’t he?”
“He was hopeless. My toes are only now recovering from being stomped upon. I found out his poor wife is on her fifth child in as many years!” Lydia turned and lifted the cascade of ringlets from her graceful neck. “Do me up, would you?”
Eliza grew pensive again as she fastened Lydia’s buttons. “I didn’t care for any of the men in New Orleans. Except for Jacob. He wrote to me from Cuba. Twice. I never told you.”
“Oh?”
“He asked me to marry him.”
Lydia gave a sharp frown over her shoulder. “And did you answer him?”
“I did ...”
“You turned him down, didn’t you?”
“Only because he deserved better, Lyddie.” Better than a stupid girl who hadn’t stood up for their love in the face of her mother’s rage. Better than a girl who had hidden herself in a dark house, full of shame at her own recklessness. Eliza struggled with Lydia’s final button, which stubbornly refused to be threaded through its loop. “He married a girl—a nurse—he met at the army hospital. Her name was Yolanda, I think.”
“Well, you can’t blame him for marrying someone else. You were being foolish. I don’t ...” Lydia sighed. A crease etched between her brows. “There will be someone that catches your eye again, Liza. Someone who will make you just as happy as Jacob did. But youmustgive things a chance.”
“Yes, but three months is hardly enough time to be choosy ... to even get to know someone. And what if no one fancies me? I am getting old, after all.”
“You may be old, but I’ve not seen a truly pretty girl since we’ve set foot in this town. I’ve a feeling your odds are quite good.”
“You are horrid!” Eliza said, laughing despite herself. “My eyes are much kinder than yours, cher.” She stepped into her layered, frothy petticoats, then into the gown of cornflower-blue silk. The dress had been made in Paris and cost more than most men made in a year, but it exaggerated her curves in a decidedly becoming fashion. Society balls were such a game—the fine clothing and dancing, the artful flirting. Tiring. All of it. Eliza checked her reflection in the mirror and pulled on her gloves, then gave a swift kiss to her sister’s cheek. “I suppose if Imustmarry, I’d hope to find a husband who respects my dreams as well as his own—and one who’ll cover me with passionate kisses, too.”
“Careful with that,” Lydia teased. “You may end up like poor Eustace’s wife.”
Lydia and Eliza stood on the terrace of the rambling Tudor mansion before them, waiting to be let inside. A glittering queue wound through the fragrant courtyard—a sea of unfamiliar faces wearing nodding feathers and silk top hats. It was a temperate night, but Eliza was growing dizzier and more flushed by the moment.
“Are you all right?” Lydia asked.
“Yes, only a bit overheated. My corset is bothering me.”
