Louisiana History Collection - Part 1 (133 page)

Félicité moistened her lips with wine once more. “Ashanti also heard on the street that Foucault has been arrested.”

“That’s right.” Morgan did not look at her as he spoke.

“But it’s absurd. The man was the commissary-general under the French, little more than a keeper of the king’s stores.”

“Among which were the weapons supplied to the men who attacked Ulloa’s ship.”

“Such an attack, cutting the lines that held the vessel to the levee!”

“There was a force of four hundred armed men present at the time. It was only Ulloa’s good fortune that they decided he wasn’t worth more drastic measures of ensuring his departure.”

“Armed men?” she scoffed. “They were guests in high spirits returning from a wedding. I seriously doubt their numbers would have come to two hundred, much less four.”

“That is one of the things the trial must discover.”

“First Lafrénière and Braud, now Foucault, all men of rank under the French regime, men with the king’s commission. This grows more unbelievable every day.”

“I suppose it must, and yet the list of men arrested is not long in comparison to similar incidents elsewhere. In the provinces of Mexico two years ago, eighty-two men were executed for insurrection, and with much less evidence against them.”

“That may be, but they were Spaniards, one supposes. I speak of Frenchmen. Why should they answer to Spain?”

“The instigating of rebellion after the transfer of the colony to Spain makes theirs a double crime, against both their own government and mine.”

Félicité set her glass down with a sharp thud. “You are all mad! What does it matter if a man disagrees with the policies of a government, no matter which one? Why should it become a thing of life or death?”

“A man may think what he pleases, but he may not persuade others to think the same. The moment he does, he puts himself in opposition to authority. If enough join him, then the country is divided, and therefore weakened. Strife causes uncertainties that interfere with the basic rights of all men; the right to raise food for their families, to work to better themselves, to learn, to create, to enjoy. And in this state of chaos, it becomes easier for a stronger, more determined country to move in its armies and conquer those in disarray.”

“And yet sometimes that happens,” Félicité said bitterly, “when there is peace and all men are in agreement.”

From the doorway to the combined entrance and dining hall there came a cough. Pepe bowed when he had their attention. “Dinner is served.”

The first course was a small bowl each of crab bisque. This was followed by coq au vin, along with a few spears of unadorned asparagus as a side dish. There was plenty of bread, but no other vegetable, no red meat course, no rich sauces, no gelatins. For dessert there would be only a custard to round out a menu that might well have been prepared for someone who was ill. That was, in any case, not far from the mark. Morgan picked at his food, drinking a few spoonfuls of the bisque, taking a mouthful of chicken.

As the meal progressed, Pepe cast several anxious glances at his master. He was in and out often, pouring the wine to complement the food, removing the crumbs that fell from the bread as they broke it, taking away the used utensils.

Pausing at Morgan’s elbow to refill his wineglass, the manservant said, “Was the chicken not to your liking, my colonel?”

“It was fine,” Morgan replied.

“But you eat so little. I would offer you a sliver of ham or some such thing as a substitute, but there is no other food in the house. None.”

Morgan glanced up at the man. “What are you saying?”

The manservant made a small movement of his thin shoulders. “Other than a bit of flour and chocolate, and a small pot of wild honey, there is not another morsel in the kitchen. Half of what was cooked this night was taken to the prison, at that. According to the woman who presides in the kitchen, there is no money for more.”

Morgan turned to Félicité, a frown drawing his brows together. “Is this true?”

“What of it?” Félicité answered, a flush of angry humiliation lying across her cheekbones.

“I find it hard to believe, especially in view of your offer of riches not too long ago.”

“That was a matter of commissions and privileges, not — not hard currency. Even then, I had been warned not to try to sell any of my father’s property that had been listed for confiscation, and of course the draper’s shop has been closed since his arrest. You would have had to wait on his release, his vindication, before you could have received the reward I was offering. I could not venture to sell even my own wearables, it being assumed, and quite rightly, that even these belonged to my father.”

His scowl deepened. “But surely your father had something put by, a ready reserve that might have been used for food? No one could object to your taking it for that purpose.”

“There was a small amount, but it — is gone.” She lowered her lashes, staring at the chicken congealing on her plate.

“Gone?”

“Taken, by Valcour.”

He leaned back. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“To what purpose?” she inquired, her tone hard.

“I would have given you money.”

Her head came up. “I want nothing from you!”

“That may be, but you have to eat. And though I have no particular preferences in food, I believe I would notice if there was none at all on the table.”

There was no answer to that. When he saw she was not going to reply, Morgan turned on Pepe, making him jump with the suddenness of the attack. “You had funds, did you not?”

“Yes, my colonel.”

“Why is it you didn’t go to the market when you noticed the need?”

“I would have, my colonel,” the manservant said in doleful tones, “but by the time I realized the lack, it was too late. The people of the market had closed their stalls and gone home for the day.”

Silence descended. Morgan stared from his manservant to Félicité. He closed his eyes, putting a hand up to rub over them, then downward to rasp over the day’s growth of stubble on his chin. Lowering it, he grasped the arms of his chair and pushed to his feet. He swayed a little as he said, “I believe I will have that bath now.”

His voice had been steady, and his movements were well controlled as he moved around the end of the table, and yet there was an unnatural set to his shoulders, as if he was exerting greater than normal strength to keep himself erect. Almost against her will, Félicité rose, watching as his strides took him through the door and into the salle. She was only a few steps away, with Pepe close beside her, when he turned in the direction of the bedchamber he had used the night before, her own.

“This way, my colonel,” Pepe said, gliding forward to touch his arm, indicating the chamber that opened on the far side of the salle. I was directed to establish your quarters on this side of the house.”

Morgan swung slowly around. “Were you?” he asked. “Were you indeed?”

“But yes. Two rooms have been given over to your convenience, one for sleeping, the other for your work, should you care to do it here.”

What Morgan might have done if he had commanded his full strength Félicité did not care to consider. As it was, he sent her a glittering glance with a threat in its depths.

“How gratifying,” he drawled. “I can’t wait to see them.”

8

THE HOUR WAS LATE when the stirring from the rooms allotted the colonel finally died away. Before it was over nearly everyone in the house had been involved — Marie, the upstairs maid, to bring extra hot water as far as the outer door and to find quilts for a pallet for Pepe to be put down in the connecting room; Ashanti to search out fresh bandaging; and the cook to simmer the collection of leaves and herbs Ashanti insisted was necessary for a fomentation for the in-flamed wound. Only Félicité was not pressed into service.

She did not offer to help, but neither did she interfere. Morgan had more than enough people taking care of him, or trying to do so. No one would expect her to show concern, least of all he. He was in no danger, according to Ashanti; a man of M’sieu Colonel’s great strength would recover in a day or two, with her aid, from such a thing as a slight poisoning of the blood.

After a time, Félicité sent the maid to retrieve the copper tub Pepe had appropriated. She took her own bath at leisure, soaking in the scented water. Finished, she donned her nightrail, brushed and braided her hair, then blew out the candle and lay down upon her bed.

Sleep was impossible. The turmoil and disturbance of the day, combined with the distress of the night before, had left her nerve-strung. The residue of fearful anger ran like acid in her veins, churning in her mind with all the cutting things she might have said if only she had thought of them. With bright, stinging eyes, she stared up into the darkness of the mosquito baire enclosing the bed. She did not see how she could have behaved differently, and yet the situation in which she found herself lay upon her conscience and her pride with an intolerable weight.

The hours passed. Félicité closed her eyes and dozed, only to wake once, twice, three times. The fourth time that she was jerked into awareness, she heard the crowing of a cock. Before the sound had died away, there came the tramping of the dawn patrol passing, the squad of stiff Spanish marionettes whose duty it was to keep the town quiet.

They did their job well. So still was the fading night when they had gone by that Félicité could hear the thudding of her own heartbeat. There also came from the room across the salle the creak of the bed ropes and the rustle of the cornshuck mattress as Morgan flounced and turned. Was he in pain? Had his fever worsened?

It made no difference to her, of course, except she could not bear to think of a human being in need. Moreover, her father’s case would not be helped if the Spanish mercenary was allowed to die in the Lafargue house.

Pepe was nearby, sleeping in the room that had been her father’s study. Surely he would awake and see to his colonel? It was his duty, after all, one he seemed to enjoy. How could he sleep through such a racket of shifting bedclothes and wincing sighs? Still, some men were heavy sleepers, especially when they were tired, as the manservant had every right to be.

For long moments, Félicité could hear nothing. Had Morgan stopped breathing, or had he merely fallen into the quiet and even respiration of sleep? The last was much more likely. There was also the possibility that Ashanti’s warm poultice had done its work, that his fever had broken. That was not a comfortable phase of any illness, but Morgan should be able to see to some things for himself, to throw off his cover or reach a carafe of water. The man was not helpless. At least he had not been the last time she had seen him.

With her lips pressed in a stiff line, Félicité slid from the bed and padded to the armoire to take out her dressing saque. She swung it around her, pushing her arms into the sleeves with impatience. She would just go to the door, she told herself as she drew her long braid out, letting it dangle over her shoulder; there could be no harm in that.

Félicité’s window and the balcony doors leading from the salle had, despite the heat, been closed against the miasmas of the night. The shutters of Morgan’s chamber stood ajar, however, as did the door. A pale light seeped into the room, outlining his long length in the bed. The sheet made a diagonal line across the flatness of his abdomen, leaving his upper torso bare. His right arm was stretched out stiff and straight, but his left was flung above his head. The bandaging that covered the top part of his chest on the right side was an indistinct contrast to his skin in the dimness. She could not tell if it was overtight with swelling from where she stood, but she did not think so. Seconds ticked by. He did not move. Apparently he was asleep, though he might also be unconscious. The baire had been let down from its ceiling hook and pulled about the bed, but he must have pushed it open on one side, perhaps for air from the window on the left. It was a wonder he had not been devoured by mosquitoes.

On tiptoe, Félicité crept toward the bed, holding her breath against the squeak of an uneven board or the scrape of an unwary step that might betray her. Her gaze fastened on his face. She thought he did not seem as flushed as before. In repose, he was, in a bold way, attractive. His forehead was broad and the bones of his face strong and well defined. The shape of his nose and the chiseled outline of his lips were classical, as was the jutting firmness of his chin. Some women might be taken in by such a face, but not she. From the first she had seen his arrogance, his overbearing certainty of right.