It was that early life which had brought him here, to now.
He hung it in his private room, the refurbished former pigeonnier, so that it could remind him of who and what he was.
The woman on his sofa moaned in distress at his distraction, and he shifted his gaze from the painting, refocusing attention back on her as he slid his tongue smoothly between her hot, wet thighs.
As if he could ever forget what he was, what he had stupidly asked for, what he was chained to for eternity.
There was no forgetting, and there was no escape.
Chapter Two
Made. Damien du Bourg
River Road, St. James Parish
Louisiana
Father Francis Montelier
Sacred Heart Church
Lyons, France
November 19, 1790
Dear Father Montelier,
Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been nineteen months since my last confession.
I understand, Father, that my confession here is irregular and that it may not be within your power to grant a sacrament via the post. But I hope that given my family's longstanding relationship with you, and the personal affection I had for you as a child under your holy tutelage, you will approach my confession with a measure of understanding for the circumstances I find myself in. There is no priest here at Rosa de Montana, and my husband does not permit me to travel the distance to the local parish, so as such, I am alone with neither counsel nor religious influence.
However, neither loneliness nor lack of guidance can excuse nor explain the things I have done, and I ask you and God for forgiveness. My egregious sins are as follows:
Taking unseemly pleasure in marital relations. Willingness to overlook my husband's improprieties. Envy of those improprieties and their beauty. Self-loathing for my lack of control. Interference with the purpose and sanctity of marriage.
Sin is rampant here in Louisiana, vice wrapping around us as oppressively as the heat, but that is no excuse for my unspeakable actions, and I ask very humbly that, in whatever way is possible, you grant me a measure of comfort and cleanliness, with your forgiveness from a loving God.
I am yours most sincerely,
Marie Evangeline Theresa Bouvier du Bourg
Marley watched out the window as the taxi turned into a deeply rutted drive, nearly consumed by low-hanging branches and lush foliage.
"Are you sure this is it?" It looked abandoned, and there was no sign, no address marker. Just thick, oppressive trees that formed a heavy canopy, blocking out the relentless sun.
"Sure it is," the driver told her, dark eyes glancing at her in the rearview mirror. "Everyone here 'bouts knows Rosa de Montana. Lots of people coming and going all the time."
"Why?" This didn't look the kind of place anyone would be eager to just dash off to on a regular basis. They were miles from anything resembling civilization, and Marley thought most funeral homes were cheerier than this isolated entryway. The two dilapidated posts on either side of the drive screamed Texas Chainsaw Massacre, Amityville Horror, The Seventh Sign.
"Parties."
"Parties'? Like cocktail parties?" Maybe Damien du Bourg was the Jay Gatsby of the bayou.
Her driver gave a little laugh and smiled at her over his shoulder. He was in his fifties, his hair a bristly gray, and he wore an ear bud for his cell phone. "Not exactly. Word is they're more like sex parties."
"Sex parties?" Marley adjusted her canvas summer purse on her lap and contemplated the concept. "What do people do at sex parties?"
Okay, so that came out wrong. Of course she knew that sex had to be involved, somehow, but she was having a little trouble visualizing exactly how these things played out in a crowd. It seemed to defy logic that a large gathering could dissolve into intimate hedonistic sexual gratification. Were there hors d'oeuvres? Alcohol? Did they start off mingling over dinner, cocktails… and then what? Someone rang a bell? Were there rules? Who did you hook up with? Was it in front of other people?
Yeah. She had a hard time visualizing it.
The driver gave a real hearty belly laugh, the guffaws cutting in and out each time the taxi hit a rut in the pitted driveway. "Sweetie, you sure you want to go on up there?"
"I have to. My sister is there." She hoped, anyway. No one knew where Lizzie was, and Marley was more than a little worried, fear starting to replace her earlier irritation.
So Lizzie was unreliable. So she had run off before and always resurfaced. But never had she cut herself off from her family for over eight weeks. It was too long, and the only place Marley could think to look for Lizzie was here, at the plantation house she had mentioned in her last e-mail.
"She know you're going to visit?"
"No." But Lizzie would be glad to see her. Her sister was always glad to see her, even when she pouted and told Marley she was a fun-sucker, ruining all Lizzie's good times.
It was true. She was a fun-sucker. She couldn't help it. Someone had to be rational, even if it was boring.
They slowed to a crawl, the taxi turning into the circular drive that abutted the impressive mansion. It had definitely seen better days. The once white paint had softened to a dirty gray and flaked aggressively in all directions. The shutters clung to the house precariously, like novice mountain climbers with white knuckles, knowing if they relaxed just a little, they'd be down on the ground.
"She ain't much to look at," the driver said.
"No. But it's still gorgeous." It was massive, its long galleries sweeping left and right from the front door, a grand reminder of the days when conversation was an art, the French owned New Orleans, and sugar was the road to riches.
In the closed chill of the car, the air-conditioning blasting next to her shoulder, Marley was puzzled. This type of crumbling house, with the past struggling to remain in the present, the musty whispers of history wafting out from it, was Marley's brand of pleasure, not Lizzie's.
Marley loved history, the past, anything vintage or antique. A progressive Jesuit priest in college had told Marley that history and religion were the most effective means of avoiding the present, and she suspected that was true. She had certainly used both as a means to that end from time to time, though she felt no guilt for it. Every day she was firmly grounded in reality as an urban teacher and designated Sane Person in her dysfunctional family and was entitled to an occasional respite. She found that escape in antiques, and in old houses, with the stories they breathed, and how they sparked her normally dormant imagination.
On the opposite end of the spectrum sat her sister. Old made Lizzie itch. She wanted new, shiny, clean, the next big excitement, the latest and the coolest. This wasn't the kind of place her sister would enjoy staying in, yet Lizzie had claimed she was here.