Lorenzo and the Turncoat (9 page)

Hawthorne occupied the chair opposite her and drummed his fingers on the armrest while he waited for a servant to bring breakfast.

They were alone, except for the innkeeper who flitted in and out of the room from time to time.

Eugenie wanted to draw Hawthorne into a conversation so she could find his weak spots and increase her chances of escape.

“You speak French very well,” she said.

He smiled slightly. “Thank you.”

“Where did you learn it?”

“From my nursemaid and nanny.”

“They were French?”

“Yes. My father wanted me to be fluent in French.”

“Why?”

Hawthorne studied her intently as if judging her sincerity. “From the cradle, I was being groomed to marry a French girl, the daughter of my father's business associate. When I was born, my father and Marie Claire's father signed a contract marrying us.”

Eugenie gasped, horrified by the idea. “Is that a common English custom?”

“With some of the aristocracy, yes. It was a business deal joining two great houses and two great fortunes. Nothing more, nothing less.”

Keenly interested, Eugenie leaned forward. “Robert,” she said, using his first name for the first time, “when did—”

“I do not wish to talk about it further,” he said curtly.

The war had caused separations from Lorenzo that had been hard to bear, but it made them appreciate the time they had together. She hated Hawthorne for kidnapping her, but a small part of her felt sorry for him.

A servant put plates loaded with eggs, ham, biscuits, gravy, and jam in front of them. Another servant brought a teapot and two cups.

Eugenie stared at the food. It looked appetizing and smelled delicious. She was famished, but didn't think she could force a bite down her sore throat.

Hawthorne, on the other hand, ate with gusto. He stopped suddenly and frowned at her. “Why aren't you eating?”

“I don't feel like it.”

“You can't travel on an empty stomach.”

Eugenie picked up a biscuit and nibbled on it.

“Come, now!” He put down his cup. “You must eat more than that!”

“I can't. My throat hurts.”

He picked up the teapot. “A cup of tea will help.”

“I hate tea. It reminds me of the British.”

“Why do you dislike the British?”

“Because they are barbarians who kidnap people.” He looked amused by the remark.

He poured a cup of tea, stirred honey into it, and pushed it toward her.

She pushed it back.

“It will make your throat feel better.”

“I told you I don't like tea.”

“Drink this or I shall force it down your accursed throat.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, but accepted the tea and took a giant gulp.

“Sip it, Madame. Good Lord, where did you learn manners?”

“A kidnapper dares lecture me on etiquette! You have some nerve.”

“See here, Madame! We shall spend quite some time together. Shall we make a pact to act civilized?”

“Not possible. You're British.”

“Why do you hate us so?”

“Because you think the world belongs to you.”

“We do not!”

“Of course you do! I can give you dozens of examples to prove it. Let's start with your American colonies. They are rebelling against you because of the exorbitant taxes you placed on them.”

He snorted. “The colonists are a stingy, ungrateful lot! We fought a war to protect them from the French and the Indians, but when we raise taxes to pay for that protection, they whine like spoiled children!”

“The British forced French Canadians to leave their homes.”

He shrugged. “We won the war and the French lost. To the victor go the spoils.”

“The Spanish took over Louisiana a few years ago, but they didn't burn down our homes. They didn't put us on ships and force us to leave.”

“No, they moved in with an iron fist and executed five men in one blow.”

“Because they led an armed rebellion against the Spanish. Once everything calmed down, we realized the Spanish were our friends.”

Hawthorne laughed. “We conquer Canada and we are monsters. The Spanish conquer you and they are ‘friends.'”

“They didn't ‘conquer' us, so it's not the same thing.”

“Of course it isn't,” he said mockingly. “One was an occupation and the other was … an occupation!”

She sipped her tea and regarded him over the lip of the cup. “We have French Canadians, Germans, Canary Islanders, Americans, Irish, and free blacks living side by side in complete harmony. If that is what the Spanish do to a province, perhaps the world would be better off if it were all Spanish.”

“And the fact that you are married to the Spanish governor of Louisiana makes you completely objective in the matter.”

“He's a wonderful man. Very kind. Generous. The people of New Orleans adore him. Do you know that he sent flour to Pensacola when he heard the people had nothing to eat? He fed his enemy.” She drained her tea cup.

“More?”

“Sure.”

Sure
. Not “yes, please” or “if you would be so kind.”
Sure
. There was something common about this woman. She used words and expressions he didn't expect from an aristocrat's wife. Perhaps she lacked refinement because she had been raised in a backwater colony.

Hawthorne admired her passionate defense of Colonel Gálvez. Would his own wife do the same for him? Highly doubtful. He took a long look at Madame De Gálvez. She was heart-stoppingly beautiful. What a lucky man her husband was.

He wanted to draw information from her, but he did not want to be obvious about it. He cast about for a subject
she would welcome. “How long have you and Colonel Gálvez been married?”

She hesitated. “A little over a year and a half.”

“And he's been governor for three years?”

“Acting governor.”

“I stand corrected. How did you meet?”

“At a party soon after he arrived in New Orleans.”

He put his hand to his chin in a purposefully thoughtful pose. “I know little of Spanish custom. Must members of the nobility have the king's permission to marry?”

Again, she hesitated. “Yes.”

He wondered why the king had allowed a man of Gálvez's importance to marry a provincial woman with little to offer. To be sure, her father was a wealthy merchant, but the Gálvez family was one of the richest in Spain and didn't need her fortune.

The clock on the wall chimed seven.

“We must be going,” he said, rising. He tied her hands and led her to the stable behind the inn. If all went well, they would reach his brother's house on the morrow. He didn't relish going there, for it would dredge up painful memories, but it was the best place to take Madame De Gálvez.

They set out up the river road that angled toward the northwest. At a rock outcropping, they veered due north and took an Indian trail that ran through the woods.

They traveled for hours.

Eugenie looked for opportunities to escape, but they never materialized. Running into the forest wasn't a good idea. Indians, wild animals, and poisonous snakes lived there. For the time being, she was safer with Hawthorne than on her own.

She recalled something Lorenzo often said.
Better the devil you know than the one you don't know
.

Poor Lorenzo! Her heart ached to think about him. By now, he knew she was missing. He must be frantic.

When the sun was directly overhead, Eugenie and Hawthorne stopped at a trading post. She looked around the settlement and hoped to see someone she knew, but did not. New people were constantly moving into Louisiana. A year earlier, pioneers from the Canary Islands had built a village they called Gálveztown near the West Florida border.

Hawthorne dismounted and tied their horses to a hitching post. He helped Eugenie down.

A woman sat on the front porch with a little boy on her lap and cleaned his face with a handkerchief. He looked about a year old, the same age as Colonel Gálvez's daughter, Matilde.

Eugenie smiled to think how many times she had wiped jam and grime from Matilde's face.

The mother's gaze fell to the cord binding Eugenie's hands. Her eyes widened. She pulled her child away as if Eugenie were a mad dog.

Hawthorne, taking Eugenie by the elbow, steered her into the trading post. He looked acutely uncomfortable, as if he wanted to say something, but couldn't find the right words. “Put your hands out,” he said gruffly.

Eugenie obeyed.

He unfolded a pocketknife and sliced away her bonds.

“Thank you,” she said, rubbing her wrists, surprised by her sudden freedom.

“Don't abuse my generosity,” he growled. “If you misbehave, you will be tied up for the rest of the trip.”

Hawthorne bought a mule and other supplies, including seven changes of clothes for himself and Eugenie.

Fear zipped down her spine. Judging by the number of items he purchased, he intended to keep her prisoner for a long time.

By late afternoon on her second day of captivity, Eugenie noticed a change in the landscape. Lovely meadows and woods replaced marshy land. They seemed to be at a higher elevation than before. An hour later, they splashed across a shallow river about fifty feet wide that emptied into the Mississippi.

Two forts sat across from each other, one on the north shore, the other on the south.

In a burst of understanding, Eugenie knew where they were. Manchac! Colonel Gálvez often complained about illegal smuggling that went on there.

Bayou Manchac, sometimes called the Iberville River, separated the English colony of West Florida and the Spanish province of Louisiana. She had never been here, but she had seen it on a map. What the map had not shown was a narrow wooden footbridge connecting the Spanish fort to the British one. She supposed that it was difficult to live in isolation as these people did without becoming friends with the enemy.

“You are now officially in English territory, Madame,” Hawthorne said, grinning, his relief evident.

Eugenie's heart sank. Escape would be even more difficult now. She had learned a little English from Lorenzo but wished she knew more.

Hawthorne suddenly drew rein. “A word of warning, Madame. I will introduce you as my wife, Marie Claire. Deviate one iota from that role and the bonds go back on.”

“Do you really think you can get away with this?”

“Of course. Marie Claire has never been in West Florida so no one knows what she looks like. If you tell anyone that you are Governor Gálvez's wife, I will shake my head sadly and explain that you suffer delusions of grandeur.”

After two days of travel, Eugenie was exhausted. All she wanted was to sleep. She felt like she was coming down with something and didn't feel as mentally sharp as she should. She scratched her neck and wondered if she had poison ivy.

“What's wrong?” Hawthorne asked.

“Nothing.”

He ducked his head to take a good look at her neck. “It looks like a sunburn. There's an Indian village up the way. We'll stop there and get something for that.”

True to his word, they stopped at a trading post two miles above Manchac. It held the usual: bolts of cloth, sacks of flour, barrels of oil. On a high shelf were vials of medicine along with herbal bouquets.

It reminded Eugenie of the medicine in Lorenzo's office. She tried not to think about him because it made her sad.

Hawthorne bought food and a jar of salve. He escorted Eugenie to the trading post porch where they sat on a bench and ate lunch. He bit into an apple.

Eugenie chewed on beef jerky. She was barely able to swallow it.

He watched her out of the corner of his eye. “Does your throat still hurt?”

She nodded.

He unscrewed the jar top. Using his index finger, he scooped out a vile-smelling substance.

Eugenie shrank from him. “What's that?”

“Alligator grease.”