“Look who she’s ruining herself with!”
“They intend to marry, Marguerite. After all these years apart, that hasn’t changed. Delphine might have wed a dozen other men while Guillaume was at university and travelling.”
Precisely. Not that anyone on Saint-Domingue deserved her. Marguerite narrowed her eyes as her daughter tilted up her face for a kiss. “I had hoped the old proverb would prove true.”
“‘Far from the eyes, far from the heart’?” Matthieu offered with a smile.
Marguerite nodded gloomily.
“I prefer: ‘Absence is to love as wind is to fire; it extinguishes little ones and feeds great ones.’”
Marguerite could only sigh in defeat as the lovers vanished around the corner of the house.
“Why is Guillaume so objectionable to you?”
“He’s aCreole.”
“Our children are Creoles too.”
Yes, they had been born here—but Guillaume’s family had been wallowing on this island for more than a century. “He is descended from pirates and whores.”
“And I am the son of a barber! If it were not for those ‘pirates and whores,’ France would never have gained a foothold on Saint-Domingue. We owe them a great deal.”
“Do we?” She forced her eyes to the four rose bushes surrounding them. White, pink, red, and variegated—a rose for each child they had lost. Marguerite remembered their birthdays, their death days, and every day in-between. Félicité would have been two years old today, if she had lived.
Soon they would be unable to visit any of their children’s graves. So cramped was the cemetery in Le Cap, every three years, negroes turned over the soil to make room for more corpses. This was not the New World Matthieu had promised her. No one had warned them about the fevers, that they would “pay the clime’s tribute” with half of their children.
Matthieu sat beside her on the bench. “We might have lost just as many in France.”
That was no comfort. She knew it wasn’t a child stopping her menses now. She was forty-six: she had reached the critical age. If Matthieu ignored her much longer, she wouldneverhave another child to love or to lose. She wasn’t sure whether to lament or give thanks.
Themulâtressecame outside with a jar on her head and sauntered toward the well. Marguerite clenched her teeth.
“Do you really think any of it would have been different in France?” Matthieu asked. “It is hardly a bastion of morality, and there are servants there too.”
Thiswasdifferent. Just look at her.
“If Ève bothers you so much, she will be gone by nightfall.” Matthieu set the bee hood on the ground next to them. At the back of the house, they heard gunshots and whooping again. “I made certain Gabriel and Narcisse confessed before Holy Week. They are far from ruined. Remember Saint Augustine?”
Marguerite remained silent. She was waiting for the little whore to disappear.
“You cannot say the island has ruined Étienne.”
“Not yet.”
Matthieu took her hand, but she left it limp. “Are you ready to write to Denis?”
Marguerite closed her eyes. In his letters, her brother had mentioned the fine school in his parish. Even if the boys began their educations on Saint-Domingue, the island would never have a university—such a thing encouraged independence, as the British colonies had proved. She knew it would be best to surrender hersons to Denis’s keeping, that they should have sent Gabriel and Narcisse to France years ago; but to lose them, too…
“Can’t we go back with them, Matthieu?” She squeezed his hand in supplication. But when she opened her eyes, he was shaking his head. “Surely no one would recognize us now.”
“You have only a convent to fear; I have a noose.” His voice became strident. “I won’t risk it—not while your husband is still alive.”
“Matthieu! The children might hear you!” Her gaze leapt toward the sounds of their laughter.
Matthieu stood at once and cupped his hands around his mouth. “Gabriel! Narcisse! Étienne! Delphine!”
He’d always wanted to tell them—the lies were hers. Panic strangled Marguerite, and suddenly her limbs were useless—she couldn’t stop him.
