Louisiana History Collection - Part 1 (139 page)

It was not the first time Félicité had come, not the first time she had stayed until her knees were sore. It was, however, the first time it had given her no consolation. And though she was grateful for the kind blessing and the soft-spoken words of comfort given by Pére Dagobert, neither seemed to penetrate the haze of dread in which she moved.

With her fair hair still covered by a scarf of lawn and lace and her prayer beads clutched in one hand, she moved homeward through the streets. The Spanish soldiers were much in evidence today. A patrol crossed an intersection in front of her, and a pair of officers, apparently out for an aimless stroll, though their watch around them was sharp, stepped aside for her passing. Glancing at them, Félicité thought of Juan Sebastian Unzaga and his offer of aid. She had not seen him since that time except at a distance, nor had she been troubled by the attention of any other Spanish soldier, officer or enlisted man. She had come slowly to understand that this was due to her unofficial position as mistress to Colonel McCormack. As O’Reilly’s grip had tightened upon the town, and his influence, prodded by the progress of the trial, had grown, the importance of his second-in-command had also come gradually to the fore. No merchant and his wife, no planter, no lowly vendor of fruits and shellfish in the markets, now dared offend such a personage by insulting his woman. Her passage through the streets had not become much easier, however, for she was still bombarded by their cold hostility, cut off in her fears from the support and understanding of those who should have shared them. From all this Morgan could not protect her, though from the tenor of his words at times she thought he realized her loss and the distress it caused her.

Ashanti was in the kitchen when Félicité reached the Lafargue house. She could hear her scolding the cook, her way of releasing the tension of the waiting. With weighted footsteps, Félicité climbed the stairs. She pushed open the door, removing her scarf as she crossed the salle to her room. Folding it, she put it away in the armoire with her rosary, then tucked a few stray hairs into her high chignon in front of the polished steel mirror. With her head still bent, trying to catch a fine curl with an uncooperative pin, she turned toward the doorway. She would join the others in the kitchen. Perhaps if she kept busy, she would not have time to think.

Without warning, a man stepped from behind the doorframe to block her path. She halted, a startled gasp catching in her throat. An instant later, her eyes widened in recognition.

“Valcour!”

“Oh, yes, it is I, your long-lost and unlamented brother. Not, regrettably, your lover.” He threw at her the bunched-up shirt he held in his hand, one much larger than any he himself had ever worn. It struck her breast and spilled to the floor in a pile of crumpled linen.

Félicité stared at him for the space of a heartbeat, stared at the malevolent light in his yellow-brown eyes, and the smile that twisted his thin lips. For that length of time something undefined but ugly hung between them. She moistened her lips that were suddenly dry. “Where — did you come from, and — and what do you mean sneaking up on me like that?”

   “Where I came from, I do not care to say. As to the rest, I was not anxious to meet Ashanti. I wouldn’t put it past that black bitch to turn me in to the Spaniards. But enough. What I want to know, my darling sister, is why you have turned yourself into a strumpet.”

“I am no such thing!”

“No? Deny if you can that you are living here out of wedlock with that turncoat son of an Irish bitch. Only think, I actually ran the first man to tell me of it through. Isn’t that a fine jest? But it was not enough to keep you from being known all over town as McCormack’s doxy.”

He fondled the hilt of his rapier as a woman might handle a necklace she particularly enjoyed wearing. He was thinner than when last she had seen him, and he wore neither facial powder nor patches. His pockmarked skin, without such adornment, was brown with a yellowish undertone that made it near the color of his eyes, an indication that he had been much in the sun. His voice was sharper, if that were possible, with a more cutting edge of insult. But the changes did not stop there. Over a gray-white bagwig he wore a black hat with a plume encircling the crown and the brim fastened on one side by a jeweled pin. His coat was of green velvet of a sable darkness, heavy with silver braiding. It was worn over a shirt with lace-edged ruffles, though without either cravat or waistcoat. A gold sash bound his narrow waist, and his breeches were tucked into boots of soft cordovan leather dyed a discolored green.

“Before you heap more names upon me I don’t deserve,” Félicité said with a lift of her chin, “and before you injure other blameless men, perhaps I had better tell you that it is your doing I am in this position.”

“Mine?” he snapped, his eyes narrowing. “How so?”

“If you had not been so stupid as to try to kill Morgan here at this very house, I would not have become embroiled in your ill-considered attack. Morgan would not, then, have considered me a part of the attempt, and for my apparent betrayal, forced his way into my house, my room, and my bed.”

“You defend him?” Valcour queried in contempt.

“Never! Neither will I absolve you of the portion of the blame that is rightfully yours.”

He ignored her words. “It seems to me the groundwork for what you call your position was laid down before I drew sword against the Irishman. I remember a bargain you made; your company for your father’s life.”

Félicité realized suddenly that for all the years that Olivier Lafargue had called Valcour his son, her adoptive brother had never given him the name of father, always speaking of him as Félicité’s father alone, which of course he was. She brushed away the irritating insight. “What of it?”

“It is plain to me that your precious Morgan intended from the start to have you where you are now, his creature, his plaything between the sheets, his — daughter of joy.”

His eyes roved over her, resting with indecent speculation on the curves of her breasts. Félicité was aware of the brush of crawling distaste. “That isn’t true!”

“How can you deny it? It is perfectly plain that he never had the least intention of helping your father, that he meant to use your soft white body to slake his desire while he did nothing in return. For proof you have only to look at what has happened today. Have not all of the conspirators, all, been found guilty?”

“What?” she whispered.

“Had you not heard?” Valcour’s tone was all innocence.

“And what of the sentences? What was given to my father?”

“I know not. Some were sentenced to be hanged, some given life imprisonment, others lesser punishments. My informant did not recall the names.”

“My father will have one of the shorter prison terms, you will see,” she said, desperation threading her voice.

“Such trust,” he sneered. “To my mind it can mean only one thing. You are enamored of this hired soldier who deflowered you.  How degrading. And how lost in the throes of passion you will be if your father has happened to draw the shorter term.”

“That is so ludicrous, so insulting, that it doesn’t deserve an answer! But at least Morgan has been man enough to keep his side of the bargain, at least he has tried to help my father. That is something you have certainly never done, Valcour Murat, with your running and hiding, your scraping up of money by the illegal sale of your manservant, and your cowardly theft in the night of my father’s small hoard of gold. How dare you deny him the comfort that it might have bought as he rotted in his cell these many weeks while you, who should have shared his prison, slunk away to enjoy your freedom? Oh!”

He slapped her, reaching out with casual viciousness to crack his hand along the side of her face. She spun backward with tears starting from her eyes and the taste of blood in her mouth where her teeth had cut the inside of her cheek.

He stalked forward to stand over her, his voice hissing as he spoke. “Whore! I will make you sorry you ever said such words. I will make you weep with remorse that you ever spread your legs for Morgan McCormack, that you were born a woman, the daughter of your father. And one day I will make you curse yourself for ever feeling one shred of emotion for any other man!”

His footsteps retreated. The door crashed to behind him. Valcour was gone, and yet it was a long time before Félicité could drop the hands that covered her face, or shut out the frenzied shouts that rang in her ears with the sound of a vow.

10

FÉLICITÉ HAD REGAINED some semblance of composure by the time Morgan returned later that evening. By then also, the names of the five men who were to die had been whispered from house to house,

carried by the servants as well as their masters, until there was not a soul in New Orleans who could not have recited them.

Lafréniè, Noyan, Caresse, Marquis, Milhet the younger.

As Morgan entered, Félicité came to her feet, her velvet-brown eyes searching his face. She moved forward a few steps. Her voice was quiet, well controlled, as she spoke. “It’s true, then?”

“I suppose it depends on what you mean. The verdict was guilty.”

“The sentences?”

“Five are to be led to the public square on asses, there to be hanged. It might have been six, but the death of Villeré by apoplexy will be allowed to count for one.”

“I thought he was bayoneted by his guards.”

“The official version is apoplexy,” he corrected with savage irony. “His memory, incidentally, has been officially, condemned by the court to eternal infamy. You realize that this dead man, for the sake of the accusation impugning his honor, was represented during the trial by an attorney to his memory?”

Had that ludicrous provision been brought about by meticulous spite, or meticulous fairness? It was impossible to decide, and there were other, more important considerations than either the manner of his death or the treatment of it.

“And the others?”

His voice rough, unencouraging, he answered, “Of the remaining seven, one received life imprisonment, two were given ten years, and four drew six years each, plus in every case confiscation of their property to the profit of the king, and perpetual banishment from the dominions of Spain. For all other inhabitants of the colony a blanket pardon has been issued, its purpose being to end this affair.”

“What — what of my father?”

“Six years at El Morro Fortress on the island of Cuba.”

She did not realize she had been holding her breath until she released it on a shuddering sigh. Six years. Could Olivier Lafargue with his uncertain health survive so long? “El Morro? The place is little more than a dungeon.”

“It isn’t pleasant, but prisons aren’t supposed to be.” He turned from her, shrugging from his coat. “At least he will be alive long enough for appeals to be made for clemency. That is more than can be said for the five who will hang tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow! But why such haste?” She moved after him as he walked into the bedchamber and flung his coat onto the bed.

“The sooner, it’s done, the sooner the thing will be over. It can be put behind us while the business of improving the colony is taken firmly in hand.”

“And O’Reilly will no longer have to listen to the supplications of the people of New Orleans.”

“That too.”

“Dear God!” she exclaimed with suppressed violence. A few quick steps took her to the window, where she breathed deep of the evening air with one fist resting on the sill.

There was a quiet rustle of clothing as Morgan came to stand behind her. “It isn’t enough, is it? Nothing short of freedom for your father was ever going to be enough.”

“You have kept your part of the bargain,” she said, her voice tight.

“The bargain be damned!” He caught her arm, swinging her to face him. “It’s you I am concerned about.”

“You needn’t be. Like the others, I will survive.”

“But how? With what damage to pride and spirit? Félicité—”

What he might have said then she could only guess, for Pepe appeared in the open doorway and the moment passed. Still, the residue of some soft and impulsive inclination lingered between them. It was enough so that later in the silence of the night as they lay side by side in bed, Félicité could stretch her hand across the space that separated them and spread her fingers over his chest in a caress that was also an invitation.