Louisiana History Collection - Part 1 (132 page)

“A travesty,” she scoffed. “You know well enough O’Reilly would find these men guilty and hang them tomorrow if it wasn’t for the public outcry it would cause.”

“I haven’t the time to argue the issue with you now.” He moved to place his hand on the knob before he turned back. “I will point out, however, that you are in your present plight because you connived with your brother to seek my death. For that crime, I don’t believe you can complain that justice has been either slow or unsure.”

“No,” she said, “not if I am guilty. But what if I am innocent?”

He stared at her a long moment, the green of his eyes as dark as jade, then, without answering, he opened the door and went out, closing it quietly behind him.

It was mid afternoon when Morgan’s manservant arrived. A small man with the lined and worried face of one of the monkeys brought by seamen from the African continent, he introduced himself as Pepe. He carried with him a portmanteau which, he said, contained the uniforms of Colonel McCormack. When he was shown into Félicité’s presence he was at the head of a procession of three husky soldiers, each burdened with trunks, boxes, and oddly shaped parcels.

His bow a masterpiece of respect and homage, he said, “Señorita Lafargue, I have been told by my colonel to report to you. Since you have had the kindness of heart and soul to accept us under your roof, it is our wish to disturb you as little as possible. You need only tell me, Pepe, where the colonel is to be established, and I will do all else.”

Where indeed? Félicité stood frowning in indecision. What would Morgan expect from this arrangement? Would he wish to share her bed at all times? Or only to enter it at his convenience? Was this request made by his servant a delicate way of allowing her to make the decision of where he would sleep, or was it a mere courtesy, a means of creating the pleasant fiction that she was to be nothing more than his hostess?

“Señorita?”

She was his hostess, wasn’t she? Why should she not arrange matters to suit herself, and let him complain if they were not to his liking?

“Marie,” she said to the young maid hovering in the doorway, “show Pepe to M’sieu Valcour’s room, since my brother will not be needing it. You will then remain to see that he has everything he desires.”

“Gracias, señorita,” the little man said, his eyes lowered as he bowed then turned to follow the girl.

Félicité said impulsively, “There is also a connecting room facing the street on that side of the house which the colonel may find useful. It was my father’s study, but I will clear it of his papers.”

Pepe turned back to incline his head once more. “You are all goodness, all thoughtfulness, señorita. I am certain my colonel will be grateful.”

Would he? Félicité was not so positive.

The remainder of the day sped by in a flurry of activity. The tramp of booted feet was a constant sound up and down the stairs. Pepe was everywhere, directing the removal of what was left of Valcour’s possessions, seeing to their storage in a room off the courtyard, rearranging the furnishing, laying out the colonel’s razor and ivory-backed brushes, bestowing his clothing in the armoire with many a careful pat and adjustment. Dismissing the soldiers, he descended to the laundry room with a handful of soiled garments, among them the shirt and breeches Morgan had worn the night before. From there he nipped into the kitchen to check on the progress of the preparations for dinner, making so many suggestions and disparaging remarks that the cook rounded on him with an upraised iron spoon, threatening to brain him.

The food was not of the best; the cook knew it, as did Félicité and everyone else in the house. How could it be when there was no money to purchase fresh vegetables and meats in the market? It was due solely to the charity of neighbors, who sent their servants to the back door with a loaf of bread, a few crabs, a fistful of scallions, and a young chicken, that they were able to scratch together a meal of any kind. It was a good thing such matters were unimportant to Morgan, for the situation was likely to get worse.

Morgan returned when night was falling. His footsteps as he climbed the stairs and crossed the entrance hall were slow. Félicité’s fingers tightened on the piece of embroidery work that lay in her lap as she sat in the salle, sewing in the dim light that fell through the doors that stood open to the balcony. She did not look up until Morgan came to a halt in the doorway.

He stood framed in the opening, staring at her with overbright eyes, almost as if he had not expected to find her there. His face was flushed beneath the bronze of his skin, and he held his right arm clamped across his abdomen with his fingers thrust into his sword belt while his tricorne hat hung from the other hand. His gaze fastened upon her, moving from the shining, honey-blond curls arranged in a crown upon her head, down over the pale oval of her face, avoiding the dark apprehension of her eyes to probe the soft folds of her fichu tucked into the square neckline of her floral print gown of cream silk.

“Mademoiselle Félicité,” he said, inclining his head with what appeared to be extreme care. “I bid you good evening.”

“Good evening,” Félicité returned. She looked away with an effort, folding her sewing and placing it in the basket that sat on the table beside her chair.

“Did Pepe put in an appearance?”

It was at that moment that the small manservant came hurrying from the rooms that had been given over to Morgan’s use. “I am here, my colonel, you need not worry. Your chamber is prepared, your bath—”

“I should have known,” Morgan said, a flicker of what might have been amusement crossing his stern features.

The manservant sent him a sharp glance that missed nothing as he reached to take the tricorne from Morgan’s unresisting fingers. “Indeed you should! Will you change before dinner, perhaps bathe, take a glass of wine? The maid, Ashanti, has told me it will be fully half an hour before the meal is ready.”

“For now the wine will suffice.”

“If you will permit me, I will remove your boots that you may lie upon your bed.”

“Thank you, no.”

“But my colonel, I am persuaded your head aches; and your wound, it should be looked after.”

Morgan lifted a brow. His voice soft, he said, “I am not an invalid, Pepe. I will have the wine here, with Mademoiselle Lafargue.”

“Yes, colonel, at once, colonel.” In breathless haste, the small man scampered from the room.

Félicité, watching Morgan’s advance from under her lashes, could see well enough what had caused the manservant’s concern. The shoulder of his uniform appeared stretched and strutted, not merely from the bandage beneath it, but from swelling. Moreover, he had all the signs of being in a raging fever. To point out his condition seemed unnecessary; he could hardly be unaware of it. Likewise, any offer of aid, judging from his response to Pepe, would be both unappreciated and of uncertain safety.

She waited until he had thrown himself into the armchair across the table from her and thrust his long legs out, crossing his mud-caked boots one over the other, before she ventured a question. “Did you make your report — on the attack against you, I mean?”

“I did.”

“I suppose Valcour is now a wanted man?”

“He was wanted before, for treason, and still is. A charge of attempted murder, on further consideration, seemed unnecessary.”

There was an edge to his tone that sounded a warning, but she could not heed it. “He — he hasn’t been caught?”

“Not yet,” he said deliberately, “and if you are fretting about what character I gave you, let me put your mind at ease. The official version reads that I saw no evidence to indicate you were involved.”

“But you said—”

“What I said, and what I know to be the facts, are two different things.”

“Oh.”

“Yes,” he drawled. “I have been wondering about my sanity all this day. What I should have done was given evidence and let you take the consequences for your misdeeds.”

“But you didn’t.” Her words were tentative, almost an inquiry.

“No, and I have a feeling that is something I am going to regret.” He sent her a long, burning glance. “I have always said no woman is worth being cashiered for. The question is, my sweet Félicité, will I be proved right or wrong?”

Félicité met his fevered gaze with coldness. Her tones brittle, she said, “I doubt it will come to that. You have only to say that you were mistaken, that you overlooked the evidence that pointed toward my guilt.”

“The governor-general doesn’t permit mistakes, not in his officers.”

“It seems then,” she answered, “that it will be to your advantage if the question of my guilt or innocence doesn’t arise.”

It was a moment before he spoke. “It strikes me that my position as an officer has been extremely useful to you, first to protect your father, now to do the same for you. I might even go so far as to say that you are dependent upon my goodwill.”

“You might.” Félicité forced the words past the sudden constriction in her throat. “What of it?”

His expression was difficult, to discern in the encroaching shadows of the room, but his voice held an abrupt note of grim satisfaction. “That fact is the only thing that makes this situation worthwhile.”

“Why?” Félicité flung at him as she came to her feet. “Because you anticipate what I will do to keep it? I wouldn’t count on it! You are here, and that is enough!”

“For you, maybe, but not for me.”

There was no time to reply, even if she could have thought of something to say. Pepe came into the room then, bearing a decanter of claret and a pair of glasses on a wooden salver. As the manservant poured the wine, Morgan watched Félicité with narrowed eyes. Her challenge and its answer lay between them like a flimsy barrier that had been felled with a single blow, leaving behind debris that must be cleared away.

“Shall I light a candle, my colonel?” the manservant asked.

Morgan looked up at him. “You must ask Mademoiselle Lafargue. This is her home.”

“Of course, forgive me,” Pepe said in tones of chagrin. “Shall I, señorita?”

Félicité gave her assent with a wave of her hand. The servant moved to kindle a flame and touch it to the tapers in a candelabrum on a floor stand. She swung away, her trailing skirts held out by panniers sweeping over the floor as she walked to the open doorway leading out onto the balcony. A gray moth fluttered past her, wafted on the fitful breeze that stirred the portieres. The darkening sky had a lavender tint that was reflected in the puddles lying in the still street below. A cat, half grown, half starved, came picking its way along the muddy thoroughfare, then dropped into a crouch before pouncing on a crayfish, carrying it off in triumph.

It was a little cooler since the rain, though a humid stickiness hung in the air. It was this, combined with tight stays, that made it difficult to breathe evenly. Her hands were trembling, and she clasped them together, staring with unseeing eyes at the house on the opposite side of the narrow way. If it were not for her father, she would pick up her skirts and walk out the door, down the stairs, and into the street. She would throw herself on the mercy of some neighbor, some merchant who had done business with her father. If she pleaded hard enough they might lend her the means to join Valcour at Balize, where she could take a ship for France. If it wasn’t for her father—

“Come drink your wine.”

Félicité let out her breath in a soundless sigh. Turning with reluctant obedience, she moved toward the table, skirting Morgan’s out-stretched legs to take up her wineglass. She cast the man in the chair a quick glance. He had loosened the buttons of his waistcoat and removed his stock. Now he drank his wine as though he were parched with thirst, and leaned to refill his glass. Lifting his right arm to tilt the decanter must have been an effort, for when he leaned back, the candle flame that shone in the russet waves of his hair caught a sheen of perspiration across his upper lip.

Pepe had effaced himself, though he had retreated only as far as the entrance hall. Through the open doorway, he could be seen hovering over the table in that large open space, getting in Ashanti’s way as she checked the setting for dinner. His presence and that of her maid prevented a return to the subject they had been discussing. It was just as well.

Félicité drank from her glass. The claret was from a cask her father had put down two years before, one of his favorites. She swallowed, clearing her throat. “When Ashanti took my father’s meal to him this evening, the guard told her he thought the trials for the men under arrest would begin soon.”

“Very likely they will. As far as O’Reilly is concerned, the sooner the better.”

“What are they waiting for? Why don’t they begin tomorrow?”

He shrugged. “Evidence has to be gathered, depositions taken from anyone who might have knowledge of the insurrection; witnesses must be found, two per man, who are willing to swear to personal information concerning their guilt.”

“From men like Director-General Aubry, I suppose?” she said, her tone heavy with scorn.

“And from Father Dagobert, and others like him. Every effort will be made to discover the exact truth.”

Père Dagobert was the French Capuchin friar who was the religious leader of the community. If anyone could give an unbiased accounting of the happenings of the past month, it was he. A generous and kindly man, beloved, well known for his tolerance of human foibles, he could be depended upon to do everything in his power to aid the prisoners.