Louisiana History Collection - Part 1 (124 page)

“And that is all?” Félicité asked, the tone of her voice blank.

He smiled, his green gaze meeting her brown eyes in a direct clash. “That was the original intention. I will be happy to take your brother’s suggestion under consideration if you prefer.”

She drew in her breath as a rush of heat suffused her, followed by the chill of dismay. The brief glimpse of controlled ardor she had caught in his expression brought the rise of something near panic to her chest. “If this is your idea of gallantry—”

“I am offering you the opportunity to aid your father in the only way possible. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“No! No, it’s impossible!” The words were spoken before she could think, before there was time to soften them or make them less final.

“Decisions taken in haste are often regretted, mademoiselle. I will give you time to consider before I require an answer.”

The tone of his voice was assured, faintly mocking. It was a dismissal of sorts, one Félicité was not loath to take. Fearful of what she might say if she stayed, she whirled in a flurry of skirts. Snatching open the door, she stepped through and slammed it behind her.

5

FÉLICITÉ WAS GIVEN LESS than seven hours to consider the colonel’s proposition. She spent the time in agitated reflection, going over the scene between herself and the Irish mercenary again and again. Half the time she was assailed by the fear that she might have harmed her father’s case instead of aiding it, by the wish that she had spoken more diplomatically. The other half, she paced the floor in flaming outrage at his confident manner, railing that she had not given him a final refusal in virulent and emphatic words. Ashanti, when she had listened to the tale of the colonel’s perfidy, counseled cautious accommodation up to a point. What choice had she, after all, when brave men of wealth and resource were bowing the Spaniards into their shops, girding themselves to take the oath of allegiance required by O’Reilly? It could not hurt to be on terms with McCormack, and might actually help. At any rate, her situation was too precarious to make an enemy of him.

Ashanti was not the only person who feared for Félicité. An hour after Félicité’s return from the governor’s house, she had received a call from a neighbor woman. A motherly soul with a penchant for gossip, she was all sympathy over the arrest of poor Monsieur Lafargue and concern that Félicité was alone. She had noticed that Valcour did not go in and out these last few days, and wondered what was the reason. Her husband had seen the dear boy on Bayou St. John in company with a set of men of reputations most unsavory; smugglers, chére, veritable pirates, if the truth were known. It was a pity to wring the heart of le bon Dieu himself how families were being torn apart by the cruel orders of this devil O’Reilly. The man was made of stone; everyone said it was so. He could not be moved by the tears of a mother or the pleas of a young and gentle bride. Did Félicité know that Jean Baptiste Noyan, the very nephew of the great Bienville himself, founder of the colony, was among those arrested, dragged from the side of his new wife? A mere boy, he was, son-in-law to Lafréniére, also taken up by the soldiers. How evil could such a one, scarcely a man yet, be? And poor little Madame Noyan, to be bereft of father and husband at once! Life was a great sadness, nothing more, nothing less.

The neighbor heaved a sigh from the depths of a comfortably padded bosom, and returned her thoughts to Félicité. Her situation was grim, a young girl alone with nothing more than a trio of female servants in the house to protect her. What Valcour could be thinking of to leave her so was a puzzle, with the Spanish soldiers loose in the town. How long their officers could control them was anybody’s guess, though the officers, especially the paid Irish hooligans, might well be worse than the men. It would not be surprising if every woman in New Orleans was raped in her bed! Would it not be best if Félicité removed next door as her guest, or at least sought refuge with the good sisters at the convent?

Such a course did not recommend itself to Félicité, any more than did the idea of resigned and prayerful acceptance of the events gathering around them. What did that leave, however? She could protect herself with pistol and sword, but she could not secure the release of her father by marching in and brandishing such weapons. The odds against success were overwhelming. It was possible, then, that her best chance of improving his chances was through Lieutenant Colonel Morgan McCormack.

It was a calculated risk; she knew that. Though there had been some sign that her cooperation, as outlined by the colonel, would result in the lightest practicable sentence for her father, there was no guarantee. The colonel, very carefully, had not put what he was offering into words, any more than he had said precisely what he expected in return. In such a situation, it would be fatally easy to read too much into what he said, or not enough.

Noon came and went. Movement slowed to a standstill as the heat grew, and breathing became an effort. The sky overhead washed out to a faded blue without a sign of clouds. A heat haze shimmered over the cypress shingle rooftops of the houses, and people retreated inside, closing the shutters against the silver-white glare of the day. Only as the sun began to settle toward the west did they come out again, moving at a lethargic tempo that would not increase until the coolness of the evening made itself felt.

The walls of the houses held the accumulated warmth until well after dark, however, and it was the custom to venture out of doors in the twilight, to sit on the steps or balconies. The more energetic walked slowly along the streets to the river levee, or strolled around the Place d’Armes, the dusty parade ground before the Church of St. Louis.

The levee was Félicité’s favorite promenade. Scorning to be deterred by the presence of the Spanish, she set out with Ashanti to take the air. It was possible the soft and peaceful air of the evening and the breezes off the river would banish the dull headache that had formed behind her eyes and quiet the turmoil that gripped her.

It was a vain hope. Hardly had she reached the area of the river-front when she saw a uniformed officer detach himself from a group beneath the sycamore trees that edged the parade square and come toward her. There was a challenge gleaming in the emerald depths of Colonel McCormack’s eyes, though his bronzed features were stiff as he stopped before her. “Mademoiselle Lafargue, an unexpected pleasure,” he said, executing a perfunctory bow.

“I suspect that is something less than an accurate statement,” she returned in cool tones.

His smile was ironic. “I assure you, I am most pleased to see you.”

She was not certain enough that he had been waiting there on the chance that she might put in an appearance to charge him with it. Instead she murmured, “It is a pity I cannot say the same.”

“So it is, especially since we will be spending much time together in the future.”

She stared at him, hardly aware of the light warning touch of her maid’s fingers on her arm. “What makes you think we will, colonel?”

“I may be wrong, of course, mademoiselle, but since you have not yet twitched your skirts and walked away from me, I am encouraged to think you have decided to favor the plan I outlined this morning.”

It had come without warning, this moment of decision. In an effort to gain time, she said, “I cannot believe you were serious.”

“I was never more so.” The timbre of his voice was low and deep, his expression watchful.

“Why me?” she asked abruptly.

“You are a beautiful young woman,” he answered. “Besides which, if you will remember, it was you who brought yourself to my attention.”

“Not for this purpose!”

“That much is certainly true, though it scarcely matters now. Tell me, Mademoiselle Lafargue, will you walk with me, or will you not?”

His words seemed to indicate that he expected no more of her than this public show of cordiality, as he had suggested that morning. Félicité took a deep breath. “It seems, Colonel McCormack, that I have little choice.”

“Regrettable,” he said, the word clipped for all the quietness of his voice. “However, it is not I who compels you.”

“No, you are merely using the situation to your advantage, are you not, colonel?” There was a shadow in her clear brown eyes.

He made no attempt to avoid her gaze as he turned, offering his arm, indicating the direction they would take. “Quite true, I am.”

The agreement had been made; it would be useless to quibble over how it was carried out. With no more than the barest instant of hesitation, Félicité placed her fingers on the broadcloth-clad arm of the colonel, and they moved off together. Ashanti, with a sigh that might have been of relief or pained acceptance, fell in behind them.

Félicité was more aware than she cared to be of the man beside her, of his height, the lithe grace of his stride, the muscles beneath the sleeve of his uniform, and his sheer male presence. For long moments these things were so overwhelming, so at odds with the unreality of what she had done, that she failed to notice the covert glances cast in their direction, or the manner in which people gave way before them. As she recognized how it must look, Monsieur Lafargue’s daughter walking out with a red-coated soldier, one of O’Reilly’s Irish henchmen, while her father lay behind bars, a wash of color rose to her hairline. Then she lifted her chin. Her conduct was no one’s concern except her own. The wisdom of what she was doing would one day be evident, and in the meantime she would stroll with the devil himself if it would benefit her father.

They reached the levee and climbed the rickety wooden steps that led to the top of that long, curving bulwark of earth. More than ten feet across on top, slanting to nearer twenty at its base, it had been thrown up as a not always adequate protection against the Mississippi River at flood stage. Now, in late August, the river was at its lowest level of the year, but so wide and mighty still that its far bank was indistinct in the evening distance. It smelled of fish and mud and rotting vegetation, and yet the breeze that rippled its surface was fresh and cooling.

Colonel McCormack slanted her a look of grim amusement. “Are you always so silent, or am I to assume you are having trouble finding a topic suitable for the occasion?”

“I wasn’t aware that I was supposed to entertain you.”

“You aren’t,” he answered, the warmth dying out of his eyes, “but an appearance of common politeness does seem in order.”

“By all means, if that is your wish,” she answered, and had the pleasure of seeing a frown of annoyance appear between his brows.

“My wish,” he said, stressing the last word, “is to be treated as you would treat any other man of your acquaintance.”

“But you are not any other man,” she pointed out, a clouded expression in her eyes. “My father’s fate may depend on your goodwill.”

“If you follow that idea to its logical conclusion, then politeness would seem mandatory.”

“Is that a threat, colonel?”

“If you mean bread and water for your father if you displease me, no. Everyone, man or woman, should pay for his own misdeeds.”

For some reason she could not have named, his words were more chilling to Félicité than an outright intent to make her father suffer for her uncooperative attitude. It was not so much the thought that she might be in jeopardy as it was the implacable manner in which the words had been delivered. Her voice cold, she said, “Am I to understand then, Colonel McCormack, that your presence here may be as much because of the affair of the chamber pot as for my pleas on my father’s behalf?”

An expression impossible to decipher flitted across his face. “The reasons, mademoiselle, are many and varied, but since the fact has been accomplished, they need no longer concern us.”

“Very well,” Félicité replied after a long moment. To follow his lead seemed easier, and possibly safer, than delving into that question any further.

He smiled with a touch of mockery. “While you are in so agreeable a mood, I will request that you address me as Morgan, that being my given name.”

Félicité inclined her head in acquiescence, carefully refraining from extending the freedom of her name to him. That did not deter him, however.

“Thank you, Félicité,” he said, his manner grave, though his expression was expectant.

She sent him a fulminating glance, but did not protest.

They turned south along the levee, he fitting his long strides to her slower pace. After a few moments she said with vinegary sweetness, “Tell me, how do you like Louisiana?”