It seems now almost as if I took on my husband's personality as my own, that his attentions overtook me, consumed me, infected me with his moral flaws. Or perhaps he merely drew out whatever defects a quiet life in the convent school had hidden. It certainly did not take much for me to embrace passion and to become infected with the petty feelings of envy, jealousy, and loathing.
At one of our dinner parties during this period in our marriage, I slipped into the hall to confer with the cook and stumbled across Damien and Mademoiselle Delerue, her hand on his chest, her mouth close to his as she giggled, Damien looked over at me, a smile on his face, his eyebrow rising. His expression looked bemused, as if he had found himself cornered by the enterprising miss and hadn't yet managed to extract himself.
He didn't look guilty of an indiscretion and he was not embracing her in return. All anger and disgust I felt was directed at her, and yes, at myself. Had I been a better wife, I would have dissuaded this type of behavior long ago. But my inattention had practically invited other women to try their hand at dalliance with Damien.
"Oh," she said with a giggle. "Madame du Bourg. Your husband was just kind enough to show me the ancestral portraits."
"Those are upstairs," I said flatly, overcome by the sudden urge to yank every last one of her golden curls from her youthful and stupid head. "A part of this house you shall never see."
"Well." She sniffed a little, her white silk gown rustling as she drew back. "How ungenerous of you."
"Perhaps. But I don't share well with others, so if you would kindly keep your interest fixed on what's occurring in my drawing room, I would be much obliged."
She did not even pretend to misunderstand. "Oh, what do you care? The servants talk and we all know you don't even have a relationship with your husband."
Clearly, her information was old, dating back from the time after I had lost my first child. How dare she imply Damien didn't desire me? Anger made me indiscreet. "Apparently your servants should not serve as spies, as their information is simply inaccurate. If you disbelieve me, my husband and I would be happy to give you a demonstration of our relationship right here."
She gasped, and Damien let out a loud laugh. Mademoiselle Delerue lifted her chin. "You are vulgar and I refuse to listen to this anymore."
"Then keep your designs and flirtations away from my husband, and I will not have to offend you with my vulgarity any longer."
She made a miffed sound through her nose and returned to the drawing room.
Damien grinned at me, putting his arm around my waist. "You are quite commanding when you wish to be. I find it highly arousing."
I pretended to show disdain. "Really, you find everything arousing, so this is hardly a compliment."
He nuzzled my ear, starting a slow burn that burst into flames inside my body. "I find everything about you arousing, wife, and if you want compliments, steal away to the music room with me for a few minutes and I shall compliment you profusely from your head to your toes."
"They'll notice we're gone!" I protested, while secretly thinking it was rather a marvelous idea. It was always pleasant to know that Damien desired me, that he could not resist me even during a dinner party, that he no longer had to seek out women such as Rosa of the red dress for his gratification. I, his wife, could be everything he required.
"Not for five minutes. They'll never miss us. Come now, you can be commanding, ordering me about, and I shall shower you with pretty words of devotion."
"You are shameful," I said, with so little censure that I was already smiling, and kissing him in return.
"Absolutely. Never doubt that."
He pulled me to the music room and I confess I followed most eagerly, assisting him most obligingly by lifting my skirts before bracing my hands on the pianoforte.
Mademoiselle Delerue is a conniving young thing, no better than she should be, and I was certain she had cornered Damien largely against his will. Yet the same could not be said for our scullery maid.
I was walking along the path that cut between the kitchen and the house, inhaling the thick heavy scents of baking bread and jasmine. The air was humid and I felt warm, but not unpleasantly so. The cruel heat of August had given way to September, and I was inclined to forgive the climate its vagaries for once.
When I turned the corner and came into the back garden, my contentment fled. Damien and the fleshy maid were in an embrace, her cap askew, her dress down around her waist, showing plump, heavy br**sts. Damien's mouth was on one, suckling, his hand grinding into her bottom.
Anger such as I'd never experienced before exploded in me, shattering like a champagne flute tossed on a stone floor, "Forgive the intrusion," I said in a shrill voice.
The maid jerked back, cheeks flushing. "Oh, Madame… oh."
I stepped forward, and without thought, without hesitation, I struck my hand across her cheek, slapping her soundly for her insolence. She let out a startled cry and stumbled backward, hand on her cheek, eyes pooling with tears, bosom bouncing in her tawdry half-dressed state. I felt no sympathy, no remorse.
"Get back to the kitchen. If I ever see you with my husband again, I'll turn you out and you'll be forced to hawk yourself on the streets of New Orleans,"
With increased sobbing, she turned and ran up the path, fussing to fix her dress as she went.
Damien wiped his bottom lip. "That was rather harsh, my love."
"Do not speak to me." I whirled, intent on going back to the house, my fury forcing tears into my own eyes. I had foolishly thought that since Damien and I had entered this new period in our marriage, he had been content with me. That he enjoyed my attentions and needed no other. I thought, perhaps, even that he and I were starting to care for one another. That we laughed together and chatted together and shared great pleasure together and that it meant something. That we were husband and wife, together.
Now he had taken that notion and spat on it.
Damien caught me by the elbow. "Do not tell me you are jealous. That was nothing, Marie, it meant nothing. She is such an ugly plump thing, I felt sorry for her."
I drew up short. "There are other ways to show compassion for one you pity!"
To my mortification, the tears were escaping and rushing down my cheeks. Damien wiped my face and tried to kiss me. I raised my hand to slap him away, irrational and volatile. He of course simply grabbed my hand and held it.
"You don't want to do that."
"Yes, I do." I yanked my hand hard, struggling to free it, my slippers sliding on the bricks, unbalancing me.