The feel of her little sister’s hand trembling in hers fired Monique all the more. She let Celeste go and tried to place herself protectively in front of the girl.
“You let us go, or I’ll start scratching your eyes out and screaming for help,” she warned, holding up a threatening fist.
But the grip on her other arm only tightened, and the man named Jeb seemed to find her threats all the more humorous as he toyed with her as a cat might with a mouse trapped within its paws.
“For myself, lassie, I’m not so particular.” He grinned. “I don’t give a damn whether you just took a bath or not.” He poked a curious finger into the folds of her neatly crossed collar. “From the feel of you, I wager you’ll be something to keep me going all night, once you’ve shed these trappings!”
Monique was so horrified at the feel of a man’s hand testing the fullness of her breasts that her fury fanned her desperation all the more. She tried again to free herself. She was about to let out a cry for help when suddenly she heard a cutting masculine voice coming from behind her.
“Perhaps you ruffians would prefer tilting swords instead of ladies’ parasols?”
The roustabouts paled beneath their suntans, but they continued to hold fast to their prey.
“This is none of your concern, sir,” retorted the older man. “These wenches here gave us every reason to think our attentions would be well received.”
“That’s right,” seconded the other, but his bloodshot eyes were blinking nervously. “We was just discussing where to go.”
Monique turned quickly around to face that unfamiliar but very welcome voice. For a second she was taken aback to see that her savior was a tall, elegantly dressed Spaniard in a claw-hammer tailed frock coat of mulberry-colored velvet with black satin breeches and vest. He had probably just exited from Don Almonester’s house, the huge mansion extending along one side of the plaza where the governor and the city council were temporarily holding most of their meetings until adequate chambers for the Most Illustrious Cabildo would be ready.
“Oh, no, monsieur, that’s not true!” she exclaimed, the spots in her cheeks burning redder than ever as her large gray eyes widened in dismay at the drunken boatman’s words. “I assure you we did nothing—”
“Say no more,” the stranger bade her with a wave of his long, discreetly cuffed hand. “I can see the situation at a glance, although what possible reason such ruffians could have for molesting children in the street, I can’t for the life of me understand.” He turned contemptuously to the two men once more. “Surely, senores, you can find wenches more suited to your needs in any tavern or bawdy house. From what they tell me, the town abounds with them.”
Monique didn’t especially appreciate the reference to her and her sister as “children”, but she was in no mood to quibble over the point. She tried again to pull herself free from the boatman’s grip, and this time he offered no resistance.
“Now don’t go getting your dander up, seenyour,” the older riverman ventured sheepishly. “We was under the wrong impression, that’s all.”
“That’s right,” echoed the younger man, releasing Celeste’s arm of his own accord. “You can’t blame us for thinking the wenches was out looking for some fun. After all, they was running around loose here like they wanted someone to come on to them.”
The dark-eyed young Spaniard gave them such a glaring look that they quickly decided to withdraw any further protestations of innocence.
“All right, all right, sir, we’ll be on our way,” the older man assured him, tugging at the sleeve of his partner to leave with him. “Our apologies, ladies. No offense meant. We only wanted to show you a good time. Come on, Will, there’s nothing here for us. Let’s go to the Maison Coquet. We’ll be more appreciated there.”
For a moment Monique and Celeste stood there beside their unexpected deliverer, watching the two flatboatmen walk rather unsteadily across the square and disappear into a cluster of people standing near the river side of the plaza.
Monique was trying to think of some appropriate words of gratitude to say to the stranger, but before she could speak, he had turned back to her and, with the easy bow of one accustomed to such courtly manners, removed his high-crowned black beaver hat and addressed them. “And now, little ladies, if you’ll tell me where you last saw your chaperon, I’ll be glad to help you find her. She must be looking frantically for you by now.”
The two girls lowered their eyes in confusion. For a moment they could only stammer, feeling suddenly very young and foolish.
Monique was the first to regain her aplomb. “Oh, we’re not lost, monsieur,” she replied, deciding to brazen it out as best she could. “We live only a few blocks from here, on the Rue Royale just past Dumaine Street.”
The Spaniard narrowed his dark eyes and scrutinized her more closely. “Then those men spoke the truth. You really are unaccompanied. You were… as they so aptly put it… running around loose?”
“We were doing no such thing!” protested Monique indignantly. “That is, it’s not the way they made it sound. We only wanted to see the marionettes. Then we would have gone right back home. After all, we’re not children!”
The tall, ebony-haired stranger kept a stony, disapproving look on his lean face, but a faint twinkle flickered momentarily in the depths of his dark eyes.
“Indeed? Well, permit me, then, to accompany you to your home. I didn’t realize things were so lax in the colonies, but then I’m newly arrived here. Where I come from a lady doesn’t go about unaccompanied, especially not to the plaza!”
“But we’re not really unaccompanied,” insisted Monique with a firm set to her fleshy little mouth. “After all, my sister and I are accompanying each other, aren’t we?”
The twinkle flashed again in the Spaniard’s eyes as he bowed. “Very well… if you say so,” he acquiesced. “And now, if you’ll show me where you live…”
He offered them each an arm, but Monique hung back hesitantly. She dreaded arriving home escorted by someone who might call attention to the fact that she and Celeste had been out. She had hoped they could sneak back in through the carriage entrance without anyone’s being the wiser.
“Please don’t bother,” she said, giving him her most gracious smile. “We’ve already caused you enough trouble. We can return home all right. Thank you, sir.”
“It’s no trouble at all,” he assured her politely. “My own destination is on the Rue Royale. Perhaps you’d be so kind as to direct me to where I’m going once I leave you and your sister off at your home?”
Monique cast a reluctant glance in the direction of the still-performing marionettes and, with a sigh of resignation, accepted his proffered arm, whereupon Celeste, following suit, took the other.
But they had no sooner turned to go toward the Rue Royale than they nearly collided with the dark, silent form of a hooded Capuchin monk. Monique recognized him at once as Padre Sebastian and realized uneasily that he had probably been standing nearby all the while observing the whole incident.
“By your leave,” began the monk, his clasped hands lost in the loose folds of his long sleeves, his wizened face barely visible in the shadowy recess between the peak of his hood and his equally pointed beard. “I’ve been watching these two young girls for several minutes now, curious to see just how far their brazenness would lead them astray,” came the monk’s acrid voice from out of the dark hollow of his hood—a voice so dry that it seemed about to break off at any moment from the very brittleness of it. “I was just about to intervene when you, like the gentleman you obviously are, stepped in and put an end to such scandalous goings-on.”
“It was a simple matter, Padre,” replied the stranger politely. “They were molesting these young ladies, so I sent them on their way.”
“We’re going home now, Padre,” Monique quickly assured the monk.
The Capuchin turned toward her, and although she couldn’t see his face clearly since he was standing with his back to th
e sun, she could feel the accusation in his gaze. “I can’t help wondering what you and your sister were doing here on the square without a chaperon in the first place,” he admonished sharply. “Looking for mischief, I daresay!”
“Oh, no, Padre,” exclaimed Monique in dismay. “It was all perfectly innocent, I assure you.”
“We only wanted to see the marionettes,” ventured Celeste timidly.
“It’s not enough to shun evil,” cautioned the friar. “One should avoid the appearance of it, as well.”
Monique hung her golden head, and the frilly little white parasol on her shoulder drooped, too.
“Yes, Padre, we realize now how wrong we were to have come out alone as we did,” she admitted. “But it was as my sister says. We wanted to see the puppet show, that was all.”
“And meanwhile you are letting the devil make puppets of you!” scolded the Capuchin mercilessly.
The Spanish gentleman felt the poor girls had suffered enough and came to their rescue a second time. “I promise they won’t get into any more mischief today, Padre,” he assured the priest. “My own business takes me to Royal Street, so I will personally escort the senoritas to their home if you have no objections.”
The monk hesitated, while Monique squirmed uncomfortably.
The young man, sensing the monk’s vacillation, continued. “Permit me to introduce myself, Padre. I’m Miguel Vidal de la Fuente, at your service. I arrived in Nueva Orleans only a couple of hours ago on the Maria de la Concepción, but I’ll probably be making my home here for a while. I’ve just come from presenting my credentials to His Excellency the Governor.”
The monk stepped back, obviously impressed. “A pleasure to meet you, Don Miguel. Welcome to our humble city. I see that the senoritas are in good hands. Don’t hesitate to call on me if you should ever have need of the Holy Church in the colony. Just ask for Padre Sebastian Montez de Barcelona. I’m at your service.”
He cast a scathing glance once more toward the two blushing sinners and added, “As for you, girls, I’ll speak to your grandmother about this incident at mass. For now, go with God.” He made a sweeping sign of the cross over their bowed heads.
Then, with a second benediction for the aristocratic young Spaniard, he directed his parting words to the latter. “I hope to see you attending our church services while you are here in the city, sir. Meanwhile, God be with you.”
Vidal and the two girls stood there staring after the monk as he moved silently across the flagstones of the plaza in his bare sandaled feet and disappeared into the crowd. It took them a moment to recover from the impact of that strangely phantom-like presence, but finally the aristocratic Spaniard turned his attention back to his bewildered young companions.
“And now, ladies, if you’ll be so kind as to show me the way…“He offered them each a velvet-sleeved arm once more, and without further objections they allowed him to escort them from the plaza and over to Rue Royale, only a block away behind the cathedral.
As they neared an attractive little white two-story house, Monique paused. She hoped she could be rid of their solicitous escort without having to alert the entire household to their arrival.
“This is where we live,” she told him. “We’ll be all right now, sir… Did you say your name was de la Fuente? I’m sorry, but I was so upset before… I don’t believe I caught your full name.”
She extended her hand toward him in her most ladylike manner. “My sister and I are eternally grateful to you for your timely intervention on our behalf today. I assure you, you’ll be remembered in our prayers tonight.”
He gave her a polite bow and quickly replied, “Miguel Vidal y de la Fuente, ladies, at your feet.”
“Vidal?” she echoed with arched brows. “My late aunt married a Vidal. Perhaps you know the family? She and my uncle lived in Madrid, and I understand they were quite well known there until their untimely death in a boating accident a couple of years ago. My uncle’s name was Roberto Vidal y Flores.”
The Spaniard was taken aback.
“By all the saints! But I think you’re speaking of my father!” Disbelief bathed his angular face. “Your aunt… what was her name? By any chance, was it Isabella?”
“Isabelle Chausson, my father’s sister.”
“And my stepmother! It’s incredible!” A flood of rapid Spanish surged to his lips and he spoke excitedly, his dark eyes glowing with emotion, until he saw the looks of bewilderment on the two young faces and realized they didn’t understand a word he had been saying. With a smile he continued a little more slowly in French. “I’m sure you’re speaking of my poor dear stepmother,” he explained. “Now tell me, little ones, do you have a grandmother by the name of Madame Aimee Chausson?”
Now it was the young girls’ turn to be taken by surprise.
“Why, yes,” replied Monique confusedly. “That’s Grandmother!”
“Then this… this, I suppose, is the Chausson residence?”
“Yes.”
“The saints be praised! Then you have unwittingly led me to my destination, for I have come to New Orleans specifically to see Dona Aimee!”
The three of them stood there in front of the entrance to the whitewashed house in the shadow of the iron-lace balcony hanging above them, staring at one another with mouths agape.
“Then… then we are… in a manner of speaking…” Monique was still unable to digest the unexpected development and its implications completely.
“Yes, we’re cousins!” Vidal assured her. “You, your little sister here, and I are cousins. At least we are by law, and although I’m Roberto Vidal’s son by his first marriage, your aunt was really the only mother I ever knew, bless her. But please, take me to your grandmother at once. There’s no need for us to be standing here in the street, is there? Take me to Dona Aimee, little cousins… my pretty little cousins!” He threw back his dark handsome head and burst out laughing as the humor of the situation struck him.
Monique and Celeste watched in bewilderment as he took the huge brass knocker in his hand and sounded it against the large oak door. Then they stood there, continuing to stare at one another in amazement while they waited for someone to come let them in.
Chapter Three
The arrival of Don Miguel Vidal de la Fuente from Madrid had taken the Chausson town house so by surprise that Monique and Celeste’s escapade earlier that afternoon would be soon forgotten.
Fortunately Vidal had thought it prudent to skim lightly over the girls’ disagreeable encounter with the rivermen so as not to upset their grandmother.
“You can see for yourself, Miguel, just how desperate the situation is here these days!” she exclaimed as she ordered her abashed granddaughters to their room so she could continue talking to her late daughter’s stepson in private.
Monique and Celeste were beside themselves with curiosity, but they obediently went to the upstairs bedchamber they shared. Confused by the latest developments, they sat apprehensively on the side of one of the two four-poster beds in the room, trying to analyze what it all might mean.
“I can’t understand why Grandmother never said anything about a cousin from Spain coming here,” mused Monique. “Yet from the way she received him, it’s obvious she invited him.”
Celeste seemed not only ready to accept Miguel Vidal as a member of the family but to be rather pleased with the prospect.
“It might not be so bad to have him as a cousin,” she observed, more dreamy-eyed than ever. “He’s quite handsome, don’t you think?”
Monique tossed her head nonchalantly. “I hadn’t noticed. I suppose he is… for a Spaniard, that is,” she conceded halfheartedly.
“You can’t say it wasn’t very gallant of him to come up and chase those horrid men away from us with his sword,” said the young girl as she smoothed over her golden-brown curls and puffed out her fichu just a little more.
“Yes, but did you hear the way he called us children?” Monique reminded her indignantly. Then, after a m
oment’s thought, she added, “How old do you think he is?”
“Oh, I don’t think he’s middle-aged yet. Cousin Miguel can’t be more than twenty-seven or so.”
“Don’t call him cousin! He’s not really any relation of ours,” chided Monique, annoyed with even the idea that they could be related to a Spaniard.
“I rather like him,” insisted Celeste. “After all, he tried to soften things for us with Grandmother. He could have told her a lot more than he did, you know, and we’d be in worse trouble now if he had!”
“Yes, he has been unusually kind, especially when you consider where he’s from.”
“There you go again!” scolded Celeste. “Just because the man is Spanish and not French…”
“You’re too young to remember all the things Mama used to tell us about what those horrid Spaniards did when they took over this colony, but I can,” Monique declared, her gray eyes suddenly flashing sparks of flint. “That monster—that Spanish mercenary O’Reilly—used trickery to trap our grandfather and those other French patriots. He promised them amnesty if they surrendered, and then, once they came out into the open to make their peace, O’Reilly had the leaders shot or sent to prison. So much for taking Spaniards at their word!”
“Actually, O’Reilly wasn’t Spanish. He was Irish,” ventured Celeste timidly.
“But he was acting on orders from Madrid, and came with two thousand Spanish troops! Thanks to him, Mama’s father died!”
“At least he wasn’t among those executed,” sighed Celeste. “He was finally pardoned and released, wasn’t he?”
“A lot of good that did!” snapped Monique angrily. “After those horrid Spanish dungeons in Havana, he came out a broken man and died only a few weeks after he returned home. They killed him just as much as if they had stood him up against the wall and shot him. Believe me, our family has good reason to hate them!”
“But all that happened so long ago,” sighed Celeste. “The governors we’ve had since then—at least the ones we can remember—have been good.”
Iron Lace Page 2