Louisiana History Collection - Part 1 (136 page)

Greater than the pain of ostracism, however, was her growing fear that some rumor of the fact that she was living with a Spanish officer would reach her father. Though he could not have visitors, he could speak to the guards, could sometimes receive a note if the officer in charge was in a lenient mood, even if he could not send one. The state of mind that must overtake him in such a case, the torment without knowing the reasons for it, was something she did not dare contemplate. To add this burden to the fears and oppression of the spirit he must already be supporting was unthinkable.

Her father was not of a robust constitution. He had also an introspective and pessimistic frame of mind. The only thing worse than having him discover her circumstances would be if he should learn that they had come about in her attempt to save him. He would be appalled. His pride and honor would be extinguished by such a sacrifice for his sake. Situated as he was, helpless to exercise his parental obligation to protect her, he might well make himself ill.

At last she hit on a means of deflecting some of the damage of any rumors that might reach him. In a note of forced cheerfulness, delivered with his food tray, she told him with perfect truth that a number of Spanish officers had been quartered upon the townspeople, and that the Lafargue house had been honored with the person of the second-in-command under O’Reilly, one Lieutenant Colonel McCormack. With great care, she stressed the advantages in the situation, those of extra food and the addition of the colonel’s manservant to make the work easier and serve as an escort for Ashanti and herself when they walked out on the streets. She did not, of course, mention the fact that Valcour was not in residence. In fact, some small reference she made to her brother might be taken to indicate that he was still there, going about his usual pursuits. Valcour had not bothered to apprise the imprisoned man of his previous disappearance; it seemed safe to conclude that he would neglect to send word of this last. As distasteful as was the subterfuge, it was the only way she could think of to protect her father.

What she would do when Olivier Lafargue discovered the truth on his release, if he was released, she did not know. It would have to wait upon that time.

It was more than a week after Morgan had set up his quarters in the Lafargue house. Félicité, with Pepe close beside her, was returning homeward after delivering her father’s meal. She was in no hurry; preparations for Morgan’s dinner were well in hand, and in any case, he seldom made his way to the house from O’Reilly’s headquarters before dusk. Walking in the evening air was pleasant. She considered making a circuit of the Place d’Armes as she had in other times, but decided against it. There would be too many opportunities there for her to be humiliated. It would be much better if she turned her footsteps back toward the center of town.

The streets had been laid out by a military surveyor when New Orleans was founded nearly seventy years before. They ran straight and true to the river, with the side streets cutting across them in precise right angles, instead of winding like European thoroughfares. It would be easy enough for her to make her own square walkway, returning at its end to the Lafargue house.

She skirted the parish Church of St. Louis, intending to traverse the garden behind it to reach the next side street. Across the way, she caught sight of the flash of a red uniform and the golden glitter of officer’s braid. Without thinking, she came to a halt, pausing in the deep shade of a moss-draped live oak. Pepe froze into immobility beside her, sucking in his breath with an audible sound. It was only then that Félicité was certain the officer was Morgan, only then that she noticed the woman on his arm.

Dark, dressed in black silk overlaid with a skirt of gold lace, her hair dressed high with its distinctive white wings threading the shining blackness and gold combs supporting a mantilla, it was the woman Félicité had seen arriving that memorable day she had gone to see Morgan at the government house. She strolled beside the colonel; her bearing regal, her manner gracious and assured. For his part, Morgan gazed down at her as though she held him fascinated, one brown hand covering the slim white fingers that lay upon his sleeve.

That Pepe knew something more of the situation than she was obvious. Félicité slanted him a quick glance. “What a charming-looking lady. I wonder who she can be?”

“I believe, mademoiselle,” the manservant said carefully, “that it is the Marquesa de Talavera.”

“How interesting. A Spanish title, I presume?”

“This is so. It comes to her from her husband, the marqués, a fine man who, regrettably, is no more.”

“She is most attractive.”

Pepe inclined his head. “La Paloma is considered to be one of the most beautiful women in the Old World, or the New.”

The name he had given the woman meant “The Dove.” It seemed an unlikely title for such a personage, conjuring up as it did mental images of soiled doves, the name often applied to public prostitutes. Sending Pepe a look of frowning inquiry, Félicité repeated, “La Paloma?”

“She is called so because of her hair, mademoiselle,” he said, his face impassive, “and because the reference amuses her.”

“I see,” Félicité said, though she was not certain that she did. It would not do for the manservant to think that she was overly interested, however. It was no concern of hers if Morgan McCormack wanted to flaunt members of the Spanish peerage around the town. She sincerely hoped that the lady was able to keep him entertained for the remainder of the evening.

If it had not been for seeing Morgan with the other woman, however, Félicité might have been less polite when she met Juan Sebastian Unzaga a few yards from home. He stepped from a doorway to bar her passage, sweeping the ground with his hat as he made a leg before her. She returned his greeting with as much aplomb as she could muster while ignoring the flush of embarrassment that rose to her cheekbones.

“Mademoiselle Lafargue — Félicité! I had to see you, to speak to you.”

“For what purpose?” She gave a small shake of her head as she tried to smile.

“To make certain that you are happy, that this — arrangement between you and my friend Morgan is what you want.”

Félicité glanced at Pepe. “Your concern is flattering, but I hardly see how I am to answer such a question.”

“By telling the truth! May I not ask that much? And that you give me a few precious moments of private conversation with you.”

Before she could form an answer, Pepe inclined his head. “Your pardon, mademoiselle, I will leave you. You have only to call if you need me.”

The man Morgan called Bast waited until the manservant was out of earshot, though not out of sight as he took up a vigil in the open doorway that led to the staircase of the Lafargue house. Juan Sebastian, his thin face earnest, turned to Félicité. “This volte-face you have made, from despising my countrymen to allowing one to share your bed, is unbelievable to me. I can only suppose you have been coerced in some way.”

“Oh, come,” she said, essaying a small laugh. “You are too absurd.”

“That may be, but I have felt that you were too fine, too full of grace, to—”

“Please,” she interrupted with a small, abrupt gesture, at the same time turning her face away.

“I will say no more, since it distresses you. Whatever your reasons, I will respect them. Only tell me if there is any way that I may aid you.”

“I appreciate your concern, but I think not.”

“Very well, then. I know that you are alone, without a male relative to see after you. I beg you will come to me if anything happens to cause you pain, if you ever need a protector.”

“A protector?” She turned to stare at him.

“You may be assured, Félicité, that my protection shall always be extended to you with love and devotion.”

“This is — most irregular, most unconventional. I don’t know what to say.”

“Say only that you agree.”

“But Lieutenant Unzaga, it seems in the highest degree unlikely that I will require to change my protector.”

“One never knows. Some say the fates, like justice, are blind.”

He bowed then once more and walked quickly away. Félicité watched him go, a troubled frown between her eyes. His last words, nay, the whole tenor of his conversation, echoed in her mind with a disturbing ring. Did it indicate that he had some inkling of how matters stood between Morgan and herself? Or was it only that he refused to believe she was a willing party in her association with Morgan out of some exalted idea of her character? It made no great difference, and yet it might be best to be wary of Juan Sebastian Unzaga.

Morgan returned to the house earlier than usual. With Pepe in attendance, he removed his coat, waistcoat, and sword belt and splashed water over his face before he joined her in the salle. Over a glass of wine they engaged in stilted conversation. Félicité made a great play with the palmetto fan she held, using it to screen her face and to keep her hands busy, as well as to stir the muggy stillness of the air. She thought Morgan sent her a penetrating glance more than once, but his comments were general, concerning the unloading of a shipment of arms and ammunition, reports of increased pirate activity in the gulf, and the robbery of a party of colonists from an outlying parish who had been returning home after making the trip into town to swear allegiance. It was, all in all, a relief when dinner was announced.

The food set upon the table was plentiful and delicious. Still, Félicité could display little appetite. The sense of strain between Morgan and herself grew more pronounced with every passing moment. A brooding expression descended over the features of the man across the table, and he waved away the dessert Pepe offered. Toying with the last few swallows of wine left in his glass, he watched as Félicité tried to do justice to the custard that the cook had prepared. Under the circumstances, it was all she could do to choke down the sweet concoction. Finished at last, she pushed aside her dish. As if on signal, Pepe entered to remove it.

“Would you care for coffee in the salle?” he inquired.

Félicité shook her head. “It’s much too hot.”

“As you wish, mademoiselle. And you, my colonel?”

“Thank you, no.” Morgan’s tone was dismissive. He waited until the manservant had whisked from the room before he reached up to massage his shoulder.

Félicité watched him for a moment. Pepe had been tending the wound. As a result, she had not seen it at close quarters without the bandaging for several days. Morgan seemed to consider it an inconvenience best ignored, as though it was less a weakness if it remained unacknowledged. She had assumed it was healing satisfactorily, but she could not be sure. Before she could think better of the impulse, she asked, “Is your cut paining you?”

There was surprise bordering on amazement in his eyes as he glanced up at her. A slow smile curved his mouth. “No, but the twice-damned thing itches. I think it’s time your sewing stitches came out.”

“That should be no problem.”

“No, except that such tasks make Pepe nervous, and then he can be confoundedly cow-handed.”

“I suppose I could do it for you.” Immediately regretting the offer, she added, “I will understand if you would rather I didn’t.”

He shook his head, his green gaze holding hers. “I can think of no one I would prefer.”

“Félicité went to fetch her sewing box, and they repaired to his bedchamber. He stripped off his shirt, then took a seat in a low chair. Félicité brought the scissors. Stationing herself in front of him, she took a deep breath and leaned to cut away the bandaging. She started a little as she felt his hands at her waist, but he only drew her nearer, between his long legs.

She clipped the strips of cloth with slow, even strokes, slipping the needle nose of her embroidery scissors under them with care so as not to scratch the skin. The pad came away in her hand at last, revealing the long, pink line of the slash. It was well healed, covered with a clean scab in which the black thread of the stitches was plainly visible. With one hand on Morgan’s good shoulder, she stretched to place the bandaging on a side table. The rounded shape of her breast beneath her bodice brushed his cheek, and she drew back sharply.

The upward glance he sent her was bright, and also speculative. His thumbs smoothed the narrowness of her waist, rubbing over the whalebone stays that constricted it, before he spread his fingers out over the exaggerated width of the panniers supporting her skirts at the hips.

“Why,” he asked, his tone musing, “do women wear these things?”

“Because it’s the fashion.”

“You mean, because some royal lady with an enormous backside decreed that all other women should look no better than she, like a horse with carrying baskets on each side?”

“Such a gallant description. I must thank you for it.”

“Oh, I know well enough that your shape is slimmer by far,” he assured her, with laughter threading his voice. “I only wonder that you would change it so drastically.”

“Perhaps you would prefer it if I wore my nightrail? Or even breeches like a man?”

“That might be interesting. I rather liked that gown you wore to the masquerade ball. But as to what I would prefer—”

“I know well enough,” she interrupted, her tones scathing. “You would be happiest if I went naked.”

He flicked his thumbs once more over the stays that compressed her ribcage. “I would admit it would be more — convenient.”