Stone That the Builder Refused - Madison Smartt Bell [422]
Strangely, Maillart was not piqued by this remark, but rather felt pleased by her confidence. He watched, admiring the lift of her breasts as she raised both arms to loosen her hair. From their moments of intimacy, he knew there were now a few white strands in the current of dark curls flowing loose of their ribbon, although the moonlight was not strong enough to betray them. The breeze swirled up and the salt air moved an excitement through him. He wanted to sink his finger into her hair, but something moved him to reach for her hand instead.
“Will you marry me?”
Isabelle shook back her hair and turned to him, eyes wide with the moon.
“No,” she said. “I will not.”
“It is better to marry than to burn,” Maillart quoted.
Isabelle’s fingers fluttered within his palm. She was looking at him with a distressingly distant curiosity.
“I didn’t suspect you knew so much scripture,” she finally said, then disengaged her hand from his and curled it over the warped iron railing. “Well. Perhaps I prefer to burn.”
Maillart felt no need to say anything further. In fact he was more surprised by his own question than her answer.
“I am much sought after,” Isabelle said brightly. “Captain Daspir made the same offer, and not long ago.”
“The pup!” said Maillart. “I should spank him with the flat of my sword.”
“He meant well by it,” Isabelle said. She turned and looked up into his face.
“I don’t want a husband,” she said. “I want a friend.”
“Yes,” said Maillart. “I suppose I understand that.”
She raised herself on her toes to kiss him very lightly on the cheek. “You’ve been a good friend to me,” she said. “Don’t stop.”
A little before noon of the following day, Maillart was summoned by none other than Daspir to wait upon the Captain-General Leclerc. They walked together from the barracks of the Carénage, where Maillart was now billeted, up the slow rise to the gate of Government House. Maillart led them close along the house walls, to take advantage of whatever thin patches of shade could be found at that hour. Daspir stumped along behind him, uncharacteristically glum, and eyed Maillart with a certain suspicion whenever he thought the major was not looking.
Of course, Maillart thought, he supposes I will win the prize we have both missed. He grinned at Daspir and stepped toward the middle of the street, throwing back his shoulders and expanding his chest, letting the full sun pour all over him, and glancing back from time to time to see if Daspir was appreciating the implications of his display. But after all he found small pleasure in this teasing. The truth was he’d gone home alone himself last night, unsatisfied as the younger man, though he hadn’t felt the sharpness of frustration that came steaming off of Daspir.
Maillart slackened his pace, letting Daspir overtake him, and dropped his hand on the captain’s shoulder, giving it an amiable squeeze. Daspir recoiled at the gesture, at first. But his humor seemed to lighten as they walked on. The courtship of a woman such as Isabelle would render a man philosophical, Maillart thought, and that was what he wanted his attitude to convey, though he could not have phrased the words aloud.
When they had been admitted at the gate of the Government compound, Maillart saw the heavy, tight-knit figure of Dessalines preceding them along the avenue of scorched palm trunks. The black general climbed the steps, slapping his thigh with his plumed hat, and disappeared into the shadows of the doorway. Once they got into the corridor themselves, it was a little cooler, though not calm, for the hall echoed with the clattering of hammers of laborers still busy replacing sections of the roof. Dessalines went into the Governor’s antechamber, and a moment later Christophe emerged, passing the two white officers with the barest flicker of acknowledgment. Maillart caught a wisp of his mustache in the corner of his mouth and chewed it as he pondered.
Dessalines had already been admitted to the inner chamber, and the door was shut. Daspir would have knocked