Forbidden Affair Read online

  Claudette blinked her eyes in surprise, and a soft smile stole across her face. The girl had moved in across the hall a couple of months earlier. She was slender, extremely pretty in a dark, haunting way, but she was quite shy and withdrawn. She seemed to have no friends at all. She wore a wedding ring and had told Jacquelyn her husband was overseas. Jacquelyn had felt sorry for her and had gone out of her way to be friendly. A few times she had invited the girl to go out to dinner with her. They had poked around antique shops and looked at the paintings on the sidewalk displays around Jackson Square, but they'd never really become close.

  Once, when they were examining a piece of furniture in an antique shop, Claudette had revealed impulsively that she was a firm believer in reincarnation. She said she could remember previous lives quite well and that she had lived an earlier lifetime in this city a hundred years before and "died" in a yellow fever epidemic. Frankly, Jacquelyn had decided Claudette was a bit on the peculiar side, though certainly one of the most beautiful girls she'd ever met.

  As Jacquelyn entered the girl's apartment, Napoleon sprang down from a couch and gave her leg a perfunctory rub of greeting. He was part Siamese— at least he had the standard Siamese markings and the blue eyes—and it was certain he wouldn't have qualified in any pedigreed cat show. He had a great, fine tomcat head which bore the scars of many back alley fights. Jacquelyn had found him months ago on the walk outside her apartment building, half dead from an untreated puncture wound infection. She'd spent some thirty dollars on antibiotic shots at the vet and had nursed him back to health. Then he'd become her house pet, which apparently suited him fine. It seemed he'd arrived at the age in his tomcat career when he was content to settle down to a regular routine of good meals and a warm spot to sleep at the foot of Jacquelyn's bed.

  "Claudette, I'm going to be away visiting my uncle for the next week or two. Would you mind very much boarding Napoleon?" Jacquelyn knew in advance what the answer would be. She was glad to be able to ask Claudette, because she knew it would make the girl feel important and would give her an opportunity to care for Napoleon full time.

  "Oh, I'd just love to," she said, quickly picking him up and hugging him and rubbing his head with her cheek. "He's such good company. And no trouble."

  Jacquelyn sensed that she was, in effect, giving Napoleon to Claudette. When she returned, the bond between the two would be so strong, how could she have the heart to insist on getting the cat back? It was just as well, she thought. Claudette needed Napoleon.

  "I want to pay you for his food, of course," Jacquelyn said, taking some bills from her purse.

  "Oh, no. I wouldn't hear of it," Claudette protest-ed, pushing her hand away. "I'm just happy you weren't seriously injured. I hope you enjoy your visit. I'll keep Napoleon as long as you wish. Don't worry about him."

  Jacquelyn smiled knowingly to herself. So it was done. Without speaking the words, they both understood that the cat now belonged to Claudette. Jacquelyn told Napoleon good-bye, rubbed his large head with her hand, and admonished him to be good. Her leaving didn't appear to tear the cat up very much, she thought wryly.

  That matter taken care of, Jacquelyn followed Austin down the stairway of the Vieux Carre apartment building, across a small courtyard, and out to the street where his car was parked. He put her suitcase in the trunk. Soon they had left the city behind as they crossed the Huey Long Bridge and were headed south on Highway 23.

  The afternoon grew old and the warmth of the September sun died. Gray shadows of dusk began staining the silent depths of the swamps. Bone white, draped in cloaks of dripping Spanish moss, the bare arms of swamp cypress trees were raised in mute and endless supplication toward lead-colored skies. A wraithlike mist was rising above the dark waters.

  Jacqueline sat silently in the car next to Austin, the sight a foreboding reflection of her inner emotions. It had been so very long since she had allowed herself to think of Scott McCrann. She had tried to bury her feelings for him under a bustle of constant activity, keeping her mind so busy she had no time or energy left over to brood over him. She had told herself she had buried forever any attachments to him. But speeding along the highway in a direction she knew would eventually bring her close to him, she had to admit she had lied to herself.

  Following the convolutions of the winding bayou, the road brought Jacquelyn and Austin at last to the oak-fringed entrance of Cypress Halls' grounds. She gazed down that mile-long tunnel that led under an archway formed by hundred-year-old trees to the time-ruined mansion. Her childhood had been spent in the isolated world that existed beyond those tireless oak sentinels.

  Again she thought about Scott McCrann, also a part of that isolated world. How she was going to cope with the emotionally charged situation of being so close to him again, she was not sure. Maybe it had been a mistake to agree to return here.

  She drew a deep breath as the car proceeded down the ancient private roadway that had known the shuffle of chained slaves, the rumble of ox-drawn sugarcane wagons and the marching of Civil War troops. No matter how many times she had seen the neglected plantation house where Uncle Luther lived, she was never quite prepared for it. It almost had a personality of its own, an overpowering character that always made it difficult for her to leave once she had returned.

  When Austin's car emerged from the oak-shadowed drive, there it stood, a mansion still recalling the days of its bygone splendor. Cypress Halls. In a dying burst of color, the final rays of the September sun tinged the columns, galleries and wings in a soft diffusion of rose tints. Great sweeping shadows stretched over the gardens behind the structure, while pockets of darkness multiplied in the recesses of the galleries, doorways and windows.

  Without even realizing that she was once again coming under the spell of the house, Jacquelyn smiled and thought about this great old structure in bygone days. Here, many lives had been lived out, many love affairs consummated and broken, and many fortunes lost and made. She could easily have been convinced that right now, the shadowy forms of plantation belles in hooped skirts could be seen behind the paint-thin shutters. She imagined hearing faintly the music of the quadrille from the ballroom.

  The architecture of Cypress Halls was the classic Louisiana Creole style, composed of Greek Revival and Georgian influences cast in the mold of its own time and location. The great Ionic columns, like the last desolate outposts of an army long since gone, stood in solemn dignity against the ravages of time and weather. But chipping masonry, a broken window here and there and a garden spotted with weeds admitted to a recent era of neglect, forced on the owner, Uncle Luther, by financial circumstances.

  Jacquelyn knew that inside the forty rooms, the constant damp air had taken its toll on the interior walls. However, the north wing remained in good repair. It was there that Uncle Luther lived.

  Austin parked his car on the graveled drive in front of the north wing. In the silence that followed the switching off of his engine, Jacquelyn could hear the beginning night sounds of the frogs and whip-poorwills off in the darkness of the swamp to the south that separated the land of Cypress Halls from Glen Oaks, where Scott McCrann lived.

  Scott! The word ripped through Jacquelyn like a jagged sword, slicing her emotions into tattered fragments. In a sudden flash, all the old bitterness and anger bubbled up in her. How stubborn Scott was—and how ruthless! When she had refused to marry him before she'd had a chance to test her wings, he'd resorted to running her brother Gerrard out of business.

  It all came back to her in a blinding storm of heated accusations. She had never dreamed that her little bid for independence would unleash such a torrent of evil forces.

  She had loved Scott then, or so she had thought. But she had wanted to finish her last year of college. Scott agreed to that. He remained at Glen Oaks while she spent the school year in New Orleans. That summer, after her graduation, Scott had expected her to marry him. But something in her longed for a measure of freedom first. She had spent most of her life at Cypres
s Halls under the care of Uncle Luther. Now she was being asked to return to the same kind of life, only as Scott McCrann's wife at Glen Oaks. It was what she wanted to do—but not quite yet. Something told her she must have a year to live on her own, to make it as a person in her own right. Maybe it was a need to establish her own identity. Perhaps it was to justify Uncle Luther's confidence in her and to make his sacrifices for her worthwhile.

  The family property on which Cypress Halls sat had once been extensive. But through the generations, the family's holdings had dwindled to the mansion proper and a few acres. Uncle Luther had sold off much of the remaining acreage to send Jacquelyn to college and to set Gerrard up in business. How could she accept his help if she never planned to put to use any of the talents she had learned in college? As Scott's wife, there would be no need for her to work. Besides, there was a certain pride in her that begged to be satisfied. It was a pride that said she could make it in the world on her own—not as somebody's wife or as somebody's niece, but as herself. Until that was satisfied, she could not have married Scott.

  But Scott became angry with her and didn't understand her needs. They had a bitter quarrel and said many dreadful things to each other, accusations that lingered long after the heat of the argument had died down. Jacquelyn had believed that, in time, she and Scott would patch up their romance. But then Gerrard had come and had told her the awful truth about Scott. She had never been able to feel the same about the man she had once loved after finding out what kind of ruthless person he really was.

  The memory of the night Gerrard came to her apartment was bitterly etched in her mind. She'd heard the knock late one night, just as she prepared to go to bed. When she looked through the peephole in her door, she saw a wretched, disheveled Gerrard, and she'd gasped with fright and concern.

  She'd opened the door. Gerrard had stumbled in. She saw at once that he had been drinking. He was hatless and coatless, drenched from walking through the rain.

  Quickly, she put water on the stove to heat for coffee. She grabbed towels and a robe and got her brother out of his wet shirt. He hunched over the table, his eyes hollow and dark like two burned-out coals.

  She had not seen Gerrard in several weeks. Now she was shocked and dismayed at how bad he looked. His cheeks were sunken and feverish. He'd lost a lot of weight. "Gerrard, what on earth is wrong?" she gasped. "Have you been sick?"

  He shook his head. "Not the way you think," he mumbled. "It's just that everything's shot. My business, my life—"

  "I—I don't understand."

  He sighed, shaking his head. He was half incoherent, but as he talked, Jacquelyn began to grasp what had happened. She knew Uncle Luther had given Gerrard money to get started in business. He had opened a lumberyard with the money. Gerrard was her own brother, but she would have been the first to admit that he'd been spoiled by Uncle Luther and Hattie, their nursemaid, when he was a youngster, and he'd been a bit on the wild side as a teenager. Uncle Luther had bailed him out of several scrapes. But the past year he had settled down, she thought, working at making a go of his business. Jacquelyn had thought her brother's future was secure.

  But now he was telling her his business was bankrupt. He'd lost everything.

  "Oh, Gerrard," she'd wept, her heart going out to her poor brother. She knew how much pride Gerrard had and how humiliating this failure must be. No wonder he was in such a state.

  "It's all your ex-boyfriend's fault!" he suddenly cried, the dullness in his eyes giving way to a sudden flaming anger.

  "Scott?" Jacquelyn faltered. "I don't understand, Gerrard. How is it his fault?"

  "He ran me out of business," Gerrard said bluntly. "You know he has the only other lumberyard in town. He cold-bloodedly set out to destroy me, and he did it. He began cutting prices way below cost. With his money, he could afford the loss. When I couldn't keep pace, he slashed his prices even deeper. Uncle Luther had no more money to help me. I had to go to the bank to get a loan just to stay in business." A bitter laugh twisted his lips. "You can guess how far I got with the bank. Scott McCrann is on the board of directors, so naturally they turned me down."

  Jacquelyn was heartsick. She could see clearly that she was the indirect cause of her brother's tragedy. It was crystal clear to her why Scott had chosen to destroy Gerrard's business so ruthlessly. His precious male ego had been hurt by Jacquelyn's refusal to marry him when he had dictated. Scott McCrann was not accustomed to being turned down by anybody. Smarting under this affront to his male pride, he had chosen to get back at her by cold-bloodedly ruining her brother's life. At that moment, she knew she would despise Scott McCrann to her dying day.

  Tearfully, she asked Gerrard what he was going to do. "I don't know," he'd mumbled. "Go someplace else, I guess. Start over. What hurts, Sis, is losing the money Uncle Luther gave me to start my business. The poor old man just doesn't have that kind of money to spare."

  Then Jacquelyn thought about Natalie D'Raulde, Austin's beautiful dark-haired sister. She and Gerrard had been sweethearts since childhood and would surely marry one day. "How about Natalie?" Jacquelyn asked.

  Gerrard shrugged. "That's over, too. No woman wants a man who's a loser. Everybody said I was too wild and harebrained to ever amount to anything. Ol' Scott saw to it that their predictions came true."

  "But you must be wrong about Natalie. She loves you, Gerrard—has loved you since we were all children together. Surely she'd stick by you…"

  Gerrard shrugged. "Don't want her pity…" he mumbled. He stumbled over to the couch and flopped down. He fell into an exhausted sleep. Gently, Jacquelyn had drawn a cover over him, then she'd gone to bed.

  When she awoke the next morning, her brother was gone. On the kitchen table was a short note from him:

  Sorry to be such a bother, Sis. You were sweet to listen to my troubles. I'm off to the West Coast. Maybe my luck will change out there.

  Love, Gerrard

  A few weeks later she received a letter from him. He'd gotten a job at a lumber camp in Oregon. Since then, they had corresponded from time to time. Gerrard had never been one to write many letters. He seemed to be doing all right in his new career. He was determined to put his old life behind him and never mentioned Natalie in his letters. Apparently she was part of the life he was determined to forget.

  With a sigh, she shook off the painful memories, forcing herself back to the present moment.

  Darkness had come quite suddenly with a rush of black velvet. Jacquelyn welcomed its comforting arms around her. The house seemed to draw back into a shadowy cloak. At the same time, lights went on behind the shuttered windows of the north wing. Austin lifted Jacquelyn's suitcases out of the trunk, then came around and opened her door. She stepped from the car, painfully and stiffly. The long ride reminded her that she was not entirely free from the aftereffects of her recent ordeal.

  From the shadows of the great porch, she heard the sudden growling, snarling charge of one of the biggest and ugliest dogs that had ever drawn a breath.

  "Brutus!" Austin said sharply.

  Recognizing him, the dog stopped his charge, came up to Austin and sniffed around his legs, his fierce growls turning to greeting whines. But then he moved in Jacquelyn's direction, becoming stiff-legged and suspicious again.

  "Good heavens, does Uncle Luther still keep that monster around?" she asked uneasily.

  "Oh, he won't hurt you once he remembers you're one of the family." Austin grinned.

  "I hope he's got a good memory," Jacquelyn muttered, holding out her hand to him. "Here, Brutus, old fellow. Remember me?"

  He indicated by deep-throated growls and showing his teeth that he wasn't sure. But after circling around her a couple of times and sniffing suspiciously, he apparently decided not to tear her limb from limb for the time being. For that she felt grateful.

  "Have to keep a watch dog," Austin said. "The house is too tempting a target for prowlers and vandals."

  "I'd say Brutus is an excellent choice," Jacquelyn s
aid nervously. "I certainly wouldn't brave his fangs just for a peek inside the house."

  They continued up the path and Austin tapped the massive brass knocker at the main door of the north wing. The door opened almost at once, releasing the light behind it. Silhouetted was a familiar figure.

  "Hattie!" Jacquelyn exclaimed.

  "Miss Jacquelyn! Come in the house, honey. We've been expecting you all afternoon."

  Jacquelyn felt a sudden rush of warmth as she gave Hattie a tight hug. Hattie, Uncle Luther's maid, had been a part of the family for as long as Jacquelyn could remember. Jacquelyn hadn't seen Hattie or the house for two years. Only two years, yet it seemed like a lifetime ago. It had been that long ago that she'd left Scott after their bitter argument. With her parents dead, her brother Gerrard moved away and the man she loved turned against her, Jacquelyn had seen no point in ever coming back, except for Uncle Luther's sake. She had moved into an apartment in New Orleans after college and that was where she'd lived ever since.

  "We've been so worried since we heard about that terrible accident you were in, Miss Jacquelyn," Hattie exclaimed, looking at her with motherly concern.

  "I'm fine now," she reassured Hattie. "I got off lucky. No broken bones or anything like that. But I am still a little sore and stiff."

  "Well, it's Jacquelyn," came a deep voice from behind her. She turned to greet Uncle Luther, who was emerging from his study down the hall. Seeing Luther Cordoway was always an experience of some magnitude. His height was impressive—six feet four, to be exact—and he had the shoulders and bones to go with it. More impressive than his towering size, however, was the impact of his forceful personality. It was a bit like being engulfed by the tide.

  But as he moved nearer, Jacquelyn saw with a twinge that the last two years had laid a heavy hand on him. His bushy hedge of rusty hair had turned completely white. There was a slight stoop now to his massive shoulders. But his eyes peering at her over his half-moon reading glasses were as sharp as ever.