His earnest declaration felt heavy. To be taken care of—I hadn’t even considered what that would mean.
Having someone to do all the worrying for me.
Someone to give me space for my writing and the time to complete my task.
Someone whose resources could be put to use in finding my brother.
I was still processing his words when he kissed me again, his lips soft this time, moving gently over mine, the caress making me feel whole and complete. He ended the kiss, then bowed and said, “Please consider my offer, Miss Noelle.” And then he took his leave.
The carriage slowed and shuddered to a smooth stop.
“Do you find it pleasing?” Jacques asked, sitting so close I could barely turn, my hand gripped in his. A fine sheen of sweat sat on his pale brow as he glanced out the window, then back at me, blue eyes darting over my face.
“It’s everything you’ve promised and more,” I said, placing my free hand on his arm.
He’d kept his side of theplaçagearrangement. I pushed away thoughts about what it would actually mean to be his, while his white French wife lived miles away on the family plantation. Though she was here in Louisiana, unlike Eugène’s wife, Jacques had assured me there was no love between them. Their marriage had been more or less arranged—the union of two wealthy families—and I, he insisted, was his focus.
I believed him. Eulalie had discreetly inquired and had been told that Jacques’s wife had her own arrangement, with a woman in her social circle.
Jacques beamed, wrapping me up in his arms, the scent of fine tobacco flooding my nose. I waited for the appropriate time before I leaned toward the window and gazed at the house.
“It’s beautiful,” he said.
And it was.
The house on Rampart Street spoke of affluence—whispering of sugarcane wealth from the thickly paned glass door to the brass lion-head knocker centered at eye level, its mane curling, a brass ring clutched in its sharp metal teeth. Long and narrow, two stories of white stucco rose skyward, supported by four white Grecian columns standing like sentinels, centered on a large corner lot, one of the grandest on the street, attesting to its own importance. A stately wrought iron balcony wrapped around the second floor, and the forest-green shutters were thrown open to catch any breeze that cut through the swampy heat. Trimmed hedges peeked from the back garden, nestled next to the carriage house and stables.
It was a far cry from that tiny cabin on the outskirts of Savannah. It almost didn’t seem fair that I’d be living there—that I’d have the opportunity to call it home. What would Mama think of all this? Guilt rattled through me that while I’d been blessed, I still hadn’t discovered Silas’s whereabouts, but I was determined.
“And yet, it is nowhere near as beautiful as you, Noelle,” Jacques murmured, distracting me. He stroked my arm, his fingers lingering, tracing a path up to my shoulder, along my jaw, his eyes on my mouth, their color like the sea after a storm, his dark hair curling forward.
I flushed at his words and his touch, jumpy as a jackrabbit, ready to bolt, but kept myself still.
From the moment our arrangement had become official, Jacques never missed a chance to touch me. The intensity of his affection was overwhelming.
Jacques had always acted honorably. But I continued to carry what had happened to me in Savannah. My body had been my own for the past eleven years: to work, write, and survive. In entering into this agreement with him, I would discover what it meant to live and lie with a man.
We just have to get used to each other,I thought.He knows how to be affectionate.
Jacques sat beside me, his hands clasped around mine. “Are you ready?”
I swallowed the butterflies twirling in my stomach and remained still, focusing on his handsome face, square jaw, curling hair, and hungry gaze. I reminded myself this was not all for me. This was also a way to find my brother, Silas.I can do this.
Still, I couldn’t shake the tightness in my chest when he came near, as if my new corset had been laced too tight.
“Should we go inside?” I asked, one hand on the handle as I smoothed my white-and-blue-striped shirt and adjusted the fabric rose at my waist, the garment symbolic of my new station as aplacée.
“I’d love to see our home.” I sweetened my voice, playing the part.
Jacques blinked, the lust clearing from his eyes as a red blush traveled up his milky-white cheeks. His usual calm demeanor slid into place. The tightness in my chest eased.
“Of course,” he said. “We’ll have time enough together.” Jacques bent quickly, grasping my hand and kissing my knuckles as the carriage door hinged open.
The driver, William, stood waiting, dressed in a cotton shirt and dark-blue waistcoat that contrasted his rich, dark skin, allowing us room to pass. Taller than us both, William had the neat trick of appearing smaller, taking up less space, hovering in the background, as silent as a shadow when he drove us on our outings before the arrangement had been finalized. I’d always wanted to speak to him. Back home, I would’ve acknowledged his presence, all of us tracking each other, keeping an eye out for one another. A free Black man, he cared for the horses in Jacques’s stables, working as his driver and farrier, shoeing Jacques’s horses and those of others in the city. He operated a small forge and fabricated the nails, horseshoes, and tools. But I struggled to find the words just yet. William didn’t say much, sticking to one- to two-word responses, always keeping his attention fixed an inch above my shoes.
Jacques trundled out and reclaimed my hand to help me out of the carriage. William said nothing, per usual, his eyes forward, trained on the distance.
Sometimes I wondered what William thought of our arrangement. A freepersonne de couleurmoving in with a white man of French descent. Did he think it strange? Did he think about it at all?
