He had been so certain he’d find her at home that he had gone directly there. Instead, all he found was the overseer from Le Rêve waiting for him. He realized now that Monique had gone looking for him at the Ducoles’ to advise him of Roselle’s arrival at the town house. It seemed that an urgent matter had come up at the plantation shortly after he had left there that morning. But Miguel was too upset to discuss business at that moment. All he could do was beg Roselle’s patience and explain he couldn’t attend to anything until he’d found his missing ward.
On overhearing that Monique was missing, Grandmother Chausson was beside herself with fear. She began to weep hysterically and remind Miguel how the two other girls who had been missing recently had never been found. But Miguel tried his best to assure her he was going back out to comb the city, if need be, all the while trying to hide his own frantic misgivings.
No sooner had he stepped out of the front door, however, then the fire alarm sounded. Miguel looked up Rue Royale in dismay. The fire was only a few blocks away on the other side of the square. As if he didn’t have enough to worry about already!
The strong wind that had been blowing all afternoon was rapidly fanning the flames, and the overcast sky to the opposite side of the city had taken on a reddish glow that had little to do with the sun.
Just to be on the safe side, Miguel gave hurried orders to Roselle to help the women and the household servants get whatever valuables they wished saved into the family coach and wagon and take them immediately to the plantation. He needed to be free to give his undivided attention to finding Monique. He didn’t want to have to be worrying about the rest of the family’s safety, as well, if the fire should reach the town house.
“Just leave the geldings and the houseboy here for me,” he told Roselle hurriedly. “As soon as I find Monique, we’ll join you at Le Rêve.”
Even as Miguel rushed to the plaza, he continued to hope that the danger of the fire would make Monique come running back home, but meanwhile he decided to look around his ward’s favorite haunts—the main square and the Orange Tree Walk.
The longer he walked the streets looking for her, however, the more difficult it became, for the people were milling about in a panic-stricken frenzy as memories of the destruction wrought by past conflagrations filled them with terror. Many were already trying to return to their homes, but the majority of the townsmen were rushing to the scene of the fire to help fight it before it reached tragic proportions.
All hell seemed to have broken loose. The soldiers were dragging out the town’s pumps from the firehouse on the square, and several of the citizens, as well as one or two more elegantly dressed members of the city council, were urging them on to greater speed. There were only six pumps, and some of them had never really been put to the test, since they had only recently been acquired. Even the wooden building in which they were housed, with a door for each “engine,” had just been built.
Miguel tried to stop two or three people he knew to ask them if they might have seen Monique during that past hour, but they simply gave him glazed looks and shook their heads.
With each passing moment his despair mounted. Where could she be? In some corner crying her eyes out, thinking he didn’t love her and had only been deceiving her all the while? Or worse yet, perhaps trying to fend off the advances of some drunken Kaintock, like that time he had first met her and Celeste on the square? In a port where drinking and whoring were the favorite pastimes of two-thirds of the male population—townsmen and boatmen alike—a lone girl roaming the streets was fair game for any rake who chanced upon her.
He made his way quickly down the gravel path lined with trees that ran along the levee, deserted now of its usual afternoon strollers. The icy wind felt even colder up there, so close to the river and tunneled through the orange trees. He doubted the girl would have sought refuge in such a windy place, yet he could leave no stone unturned.
Quickly he made his way back toward the square, this time along Chartres, which had probably been the street Monique had traversed on first leaving the Ducole town house. The fire on Roy ale was only a block away and already the backs of several houses on that thoroughfare were beginning to shoot up in flames, as well. He wondered whether Henri and Azema were going to abandon their place or stay and try to fight it out. He would have liked to stop off to offer Henri help, but he didn’t dare. Every minute now made his finding Monique more urgent than before.
Back on the plaza, with the crowds milling around him more frantic than ever now that it was evident the fire was out of control, Miguel made his way toward the cathedral. The thought occurred to him that the girl might have taken refuge there. As soon as he entered, however, his spirits sank, for he saw the place was empty.
With the faint hope that he simply might have missed Monique somewhere along the way and that she had returned home by that time, Miguel decided to return to the town house. Since the Rue Roy ale was the street that ran back of the church, he made his way across the polished marble floor toward the rear, wishing, as he went, that he could find some padre still on the premises who might have seen Monique around the plaza or even in the church earlier that afternoon.
Worried as he was over the girl, he couldn’t help noting how splendid the new cathedral was. Of course, he had seen a few more lavish ones in Europe during his travels, but this one was especially elegant for a city the size of New Orleans.
The altar with its fine marble and gold work was particularly impressive in the late-afternoon light filtering in through the stained-glass windows. Perhaps it was because everything in the place was so new—so shining and clean—that the dark clump of delicately spun lace lying on the floor in sharp relief against the light-colored tiles had immediately attracted his attention. Or perhaps it was because he had recognized that particular wisp of lace from the moment he had seen it. But whatever the reason, he knew at once it was Monique’s, even as he stooped to pick it up.
After all, hadn’t he brought two like it from Madrid as gifts for his pretty young wards? He’d had them handwoven just for them—little triangular patches of black lace with delicate gold threads running along their scalloped edges. He even remembered how he’d thought the gold of his Monica’s curls had put those threads to shame the first time he had seen her pale blond hair shining through the gossamer weave of her headscarf.
The faint scent of crushed rose petals rising from the shimmering triangle of black and gold lace immediately evoked the girl’s image and, with it, a flood of countless questions that required answering.
Chapter Thirty-seven
“Really, Vidal, I’d like to help you if I could, but you can see what I’m up against. The fire is spreading by the minute, and I’m afraid Chartres— perhaps everything from Bourbon to the levee—will go before we even begin to get this damn fire under control.”
The dynamic little Baron de Carondelet was in one of his more agitated moods. He had temporarily set up his center of operations on the ground floor of Almonester’s palatial residence, the only formidable building flanking the square on the side of the fire. Once more on hand to help the city in its hour of need, Don Andres had opened the portals of his home to the ever-increasing number of victims who had instinctively come clamoring at his doors seeking his aid.
The huge salon where the gala ball had been held only two months before was already beginning to overflow with haggard-eyed, tattered townspeople who were there, for the most part, simply because there was no place else to go. Amid the cross whimpering of frightened, soot-streaked children who didn’t quite understand what was going on and the soft weeping of their tragic-faced mothers, who knew only too well what it all meant, the ever-increasing number of victims of the fire sat lining the walls. A few sought the privacy of some far corner, stunned and silent, contemplating the significance of what the complete loss of all their worldly belongings would mean to their futures, while others simply struggled to hold on to their very lives as, burned or injured, they mo
aned and anxiously waited for someone to come have a look at them and perhaps offer a few moments of relief until they could get to the hospital or back to their homes—homes they hoped would still be standing by the time they’d be able to return to them.
Miguel had found the governor in the center of all the turmoil, conferring with a knot of uniformed officers and several members of the city council, trying to decide what steps should be taken to head off the fire before it could advance any farther.
At first the baron had been delighted to see him and, assuming he had come to help them fight the fire, had invited him to join the group. But when Miguel had insisted that he needed to speak of an urgent yet confidential matter, Carondelet had finally taken him aside to the privacy of one of the front sitting rooms.
On hearing what the frantic young Spaniard had to say, the baron was glad he had had the foresight to withdraw to where no one could hear them.
“In God’s name! Do you realize the situation we have here, Vidal? Between the damn wind and the low water pressure at this time of the year, we’re in danger of losing the whole damn city! And all because of two brats playing with flint and tinder in a patio there on Rue Royale! A few sparks in some neighboring hayloft, and look what we have—a major catastrophe!”
The plump, energetic little man dabbed furiously at his brow with a lacy monogrammed handkerchief. “At least we got the alarm sounded sooner this time than they did in ‘88. They tell me the priest back then wouldn’t let anyone ring the bells because it was Good Friday. Can you imagine? They let four-fifths of New Orleans burn down without sounding a single damn bell! God help us! The things that go on in this town! Now you want me to let you have one of my officers so you can go off looking for some mad monk that you think might have designs on your wayward ward! That’s all I needed!”
“I assure you I have good reasons for making such a conjecture,” Miguel replied, trying to remain calm in spite of the desperation welling up within him as he realized he probably wasn’t going to find the cooperation he’d hoped to obtain from the governor.
“I’d like to help you, Vidal. If circumstances were different, I’d assign a man to aid you in your search; but, as you can see, I can’t spare anyone right now. Actually, I need you here, too, helping to control the people out there on the street trying to fight the fire. They want to help, but they need direction.”
Vidal hit the hilt of his sword impatiently. “There’s nothing I’d rather do more than serve where I’m most needed in such an emergency,” he assured Carondelet, “and I promise to report to you as soon as I’ve found my ward. But surely you understand my predicament. The girl may be in grave danger, and as her guardian and sole protector, my first duty is to her.”
“Do you realize this city may burn to the ground?”
“I’ll tear down this damn city myself house by house if I don’t find my ward soon!” exclaimed Miguel, his exasperation increasing by the moment.
“Well, when you do find her, marry the wench and keep her pregnant so she’ll quit running around loose in the streets. If ever a girl needed a man to settle her, that one does!”
“I’m afraid there were some… some rather unusual circumstances on this occasion—some that were probably more my fault than hers.”
“In the name of heaven, Vidal! Go find the wench! If ever I’ve seen a man smitten, you are!”
“But if what I suspect is true, I’ll probably need help… some officer of the law…”
“Are you certain the girl hasn’t returned home by now?”
“I’ve just come from there, and my grandmother is near hysteria. I’m certain the girl would have been home by now if she could have gone there of her own volition. She’s in trouble, I know it!”
“But the suspicions you’ve confided to me are too monstrous even to consider.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time a man of the cloth has found his vows of celibacy too heavy a burden to bear.”
“Agreed, but Padre Sebastian? I can’t believe that dried-up prune could roll a woman if he wanted to! Why, the man is one of the most notorious zealots of the Church! He usually has a reputation for going overboard.”
“Perhaps so, but his own bridled passions might be the chink in his armor. I tell you I’ve seen lust in that man’s eyes on more than one occasion. Every time I’ve caught him looking at my little ward, it was there.”
“Good Lord, man, keep your voice down!” The baron drew Miguel even farther away from the door and continued in a lower tone. “If Fray Sebastian were one of those French monks, I’d be more inclined to accept such a possibility. I can tell you about a few of those Capuchins from the old regime who I know have their concubines on the side. But even if Padre Sebastian does have his secret vice, there are women enough around town who’d be only too willing to gratify him for a few bits. I doubt the monk would risk the complications involved by molesting a decent young girl like your cousin.”
Vidal tried to remain patient, but he was in no mood to keep going over each point with the baron while precious time ticked away. “I admit I may be mistaken,” he conceded, making an effort to keep his annoyance out of his voice, “but I know for a fact that Monica was in the church with him this afternoon, and I can’t help but suspect that something happened to her while she was there.”
“I’ve been stopping and asking people about her all afternoon, and one of the workmen who was in the new cathedral earlier this afternoon told me that when the alarm first sounded, he saw a young girl answering my ward’s description talking to Padre Sebastian by the altar.”
“Yes, but you can’t be sure it really was her. It might have been some other young girl.”
“But there’s the headscarf I found as well,” insisted Vidal. “I’m positive it belongs to Monica, and she’d never lose her headscarf like that. The girl is very careful about her things. She’s always kept her headscarf neatly folded either in her reticule or in the pocket of her cloak. What’s more, she wouldn’t take it off while still by the altar.”
“Of course, I’ll grant you that there’s always the possibility that some ruffian might have ventured into the deserted church and waylaid her, but frankly, I don’t think we have to look any further than Padre Sebastian himself, when you consider that he was the last person seen with her just as the fire was breaking out and I’ve seen that very same monk ogling her with anything but a holy expression in his eyes! That’s why I want an officer to accompany me to that Capuchin’s hut to look around inside and, if possible, ask him some questions, as well.”
“Vidal, you’re relatively new here in New Orleans, so you don’t know what you’re asking,” protested the baron. “That monk you’re referring to is one of the pillars of the Church here in the colony, with connections that reach as high up as La Suprema in Madrid.”
“Look, Vidal, all I can do is tell you that you’re on your own. Go investigate the possibility that the girl might be with this Fray Sebastian in his hut or somewhere around the deserted church, but, in God’s name, be discreet about it.”
Chapter Thirty-eight
Monique strained at her bonds, trying feverishly to break free, but Fray Sebastian continued to chant and turn the iron slowly in the flames as they rose higher and higher from the brazier.
“Don’t fret, child. What we do is for the good of your immortal soul,” he assured her as he paused a moment in his orations. “The devil has made you his pawn, but we will draw him out of you. Only through fleshly torment can you hope to be cleansed and forgiven. Satan is going to try his best to distract us from our task, but we must be firm and go forward.”
The smooth perfection of the girl’s skin glistened in the ruddy glow of the firelight, moist with the sweat of terror and the heat of the disagreeably humid air around them.
Fray Sebastian knew the iron was well up to temperature by now, but he was deliberately delaying the moment when he would approach the girl once more. Of course, after a few days of fasting on the r
ack and perhaps some lashes with the cat-o’-nine-tails, she wouldn’t be so tempting anymore. Once he’d raised a few welts on that flawless skin of hers and marked her with two or three well-placed crosses, he’d be more easily reminded of the fact that it was his sacred duty to resist any desire he might feel for her over the weeks that lay ahead.
He wondered whether the fire was still spreading throughout New Orleans at that moment. For what he cared, that wicked city could burn to the ground… all except the cathedral, of course. It would be a pity to see a house of God destroyed. He would have thought the colony had learned its lesson by now. How many more calamities would the Lord have to send down on that wicked city before it would realize that, even as the Egyptians had been brought low in Moses’s day, the sinful citizens of New Orleans were going to have catastrophe after catastrophe heaped upon them until they ceased their rebellious activities and religious laxities? After all, the Supreme Council had proved time and again over the centuries that treason and heresy were often one and the same… simply the two sides of one coin.
He toyed thoughtfully with the branding iron, turning it about in the flames by its long handle as he watched the cross glowing there in the midst of the flames. The hand that had touched the girl’s breast still smarted, as though the soft firmness of her flesh had singed his palm. His heart pounded at the memory of it. The very thought of touching her again, the anticipation of how it would feel, now that he had experienced it, sent the blood rushing wildly through his veins. Perhaps he should wait a bit before marring the perfection of that smooth young body.
The girl was softly weeping now, spent from the prolonged suspense of waiting for that inevitable moment of agony she knew to be forthcoming. In her mind he had branded her a dozen times over.
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