Page 13 of Devil's Haunting
Phillip doesn’t care, that much has been made abundantly clear.
Does he not think I can see the small baby bump Desiree both hides and flaunts?
Their affair has been ongoing. If I were to wager on a time frame, I’m sure they would have been otherwise engaged for a long while. Probably before our courting began.
It should not bother me, but it does. How could he? And with a servant?
Then there is the added humiliation of her being a mulatto. I have heard it whispered that her mother was moved to the Landry home from the estate of a family friend after being found in the family way and the master of the house didn’t want to face his indiscretion.
Apparently, Phillip has no such issues.
Desiree should be putting her energy into working within this home, working under me and at my discretion. Instead, she is in a delicate condition and there is no doubt in my mind as to who the bastard belongs to.
They will never be claimed, not formally.
But in the same home I am to reside with my own children?
The indelicacy of it all has me cracking under the pressure and we have only been married for a matter of weeks.
What will happen when her condition can no longer be denied? Will Phillip dote on her and expect me to look the other way? Will I be able to do so if that is the expectation?
As if everything I have learned about Phillip’s life before our nuptials isn’t enough, there is no doubt in my mind that he continues to be a bedswerver and chooses to still warm Desiree’s bed when he should be focused on our marital bed.
How shall I become with child if all his attention and energy is spent on her?
What a horrendous world we live in when I am jealous of another woman who is a victim of the circumstances just as I am. And yet here I am.
If this were a race, I would fall back and let her win, but this is my life and my future as the Landry matriarch hinges on producing an heir. Her bastard will be born first, but for what will it matter?
That claim will never be brought into the light and by then, hopefully, I will have my own happy news to share. Pray for me. I will need all the help I can get.
I let the leather journal drop to the floor and look up at the ceiling as my eyes well up with tears. I’m struck by the injustice of it all. Knowing it happened right here, in this house, almost makes me want to raze it to the ground and build fresh.
The souls of the past deserved better. Blanche certainly did. But Desiree did as well. I can’t imagine the arrogance of a man like Phillip who didn’t bother trying to hide his mistress, his affair, or the love child they created. Not only did he not hide it, but he flaunted it in his own way.
He never sent Desiree away. He allowed her to serve his new wife; his wife who was, at least at first, blissfully unaware of the war she was walking right into the middle of.
Phillip gave her no cover, no warning. He let her walk onto the battlefield as if she were armed and dressed for battle when she might as well have been naked with a painted target on her skin.
“My Mischief-maker,” Tripp’s husked greeting has my head dropping down and locking eyes with him where he’s crouched down next to me. The curiosity in his eyes disappears as a scowl forms on his face and he demands, “Why are you crying?”
I reach up and touch my cheeks, only a little bit surprised to find tears coursing over my skin. Brushing them away does nothing, they are replaced immediately. I hadn’t even realized I was crying.
“He was awful to her,” my words are filled with pain and probably don’t make much sense to him, but he doesn’t flinch or pull away.
His dark eyes study my face, his eyes racing between mine, before he looks down and notices the leatherbound red journal. His body softens as if my words unlock some sort of understanding which couldn’t possibly be true.
“Is this your great aunt’s journal?” His question is soft and meant to give strength to my weakness.
The opposite happens. It completely tears me down. It isn’t Marilyn’s journal, but it could be. That is the cold, hard reality. It could be hers.
I shake my head, my words a whisper I must fight to get past my lips. “No, it belongs to Blanche Ann Landry. She married into this family in 1901 amidst the destruction of a hurricane. She might have been the great grandmother of the man Marilyn married, if I were to guess since I didn’t get very far in her journal.” I sigh, my tears starting to dry on my cheeks as the comfort of Tripp’s closeness helps to chase them away. “The beginning is heartbreaking enough.”
Tripp nods sadly. “Will you tell me about what you learned?”
My heart aches but sharing this burden is exactly what I need to do. Before I can answer him, he gently picks up the journal and places it in my lap before picking me up bridal style. My face goes to the crook of his neck without me even needing to think about it.
He smells a little like sweat, but it’s surprisingly comforting. The woodsy clean scent which always seems to cling to his skin wraps around me and calms my racing heart and mind.
