“Pray God they are right,” Cassard said. “I grow weary of the whole business.”
It seemed a good time to change the subject. Accordingly, Christien inquired about the state of the plantation’s ditches, the repairs to the river levee that were required of landowners, the numbers and health of the mule herd, the repair of the sugar mill set some distance away from the main house and the rate of use of the plantation nursery, infirmary and chapel. While deep in discussion of these and other matters, he and his host visited the stable, barns and various other outbuildings. The last of these, the chapel, was a small wooden building with attached steeple whose bell not only called the hands for services, but also rang them in from the fields and warned of fire, flood and other calamities.
Christien was glad enough to inspect it. It was here, in this simple, whitewashed structure with its plain altar and one window of stained glass, that he and Reine would be married. That was, of course, if she agreed.
Leaving the chapel, they walked slowly down the track that fronted the row of neat, whitewashed cabins that housed the slaves on River’s Edge. An enormously tall, broad-shouldered hand, so dark his skin had a purple cast to it, was wielding a hoe along a row of vegetables outside the end cabin. Cassard paused to introduce the man as Samson, second in command under the overseer and the driver responsible for seeing work was carried out in the fields. Knowing the prosperity of the place rested as much on this man’s shoulders as any other, Christien took a moment to talk to him, sizing him up. He liked what he saw, and said so as he and Cassard walked on again.
“He’s a good man, is Samson. He takes pride in his position.”
“He was working a garden patch. You allow one for every cabin?” Christien looked up ahead, noting the patches of beans, squash and okra that flanked the structures, many of them brightened with morning glories and yellow daisies.
Monsieur Cassard gave a considered nod. “And a pig or two, as well. It adds to their larder and keeps them healthier and more content, or so my father always claimed. I’m happy to follow his lead, even if…”
“Yes?”
“Well. My…that is, our overseer, feels the practice uses effort that could be put to better use. He may attempt to persuade you to his view. I hope you will leave things as they are.”
“I see no reason to change,” Christien said readily enough.
“You relieve my mind. I lean toward the French manner of plantation management, not unnaturally, which allows for elasticity in the use of time. The overseer is Américain so less tolerant, as was his father, who held the position before him. The attitude was gained from my father-in-law, I regret to say, as he once owned the property. River’s Edge was a wedding gift, part of my wife’s dowry.”
“A handsome one.”
“It was,” Cassard agreed. “Not that he missed it. He had two or three other places along the river in his possession, was forever buying and selling.”
“An enterprising gentleman.”
“To a fault, yes. Everything must be made to pay. Maximum effort must always be expended, and he saw that it was so, being a strict taskmaster who preferred to control all in his purview, from the least of his children to the oldest of his slaves. Bonhomie was not his style, you comprehend, nor social grace. He never quite adapted to French Creole ways, though he came from Virginia decades ago, just after Louisiana was turned over to les Américains.”
The comments seemed noticeably grim, given Cassard’s easygoing temperament. Christien wondered what lay behind it. Inquiring too deeply didn’t seem politic at this juncture.
The heritage of the plantation’s original owner no doubt accounted for the design of River’s Edge, he thought, glancing back at the white bulk of the house rising through the trees. It was Georgian in style, with rooms that opened on either side of a long hallway on the lower floor, as he’d noticed earlier, and likely the same upstairs. The basic plan had been altered to suit the climate, however, with French doors rather than windows to admit every chance current of air and wide galleries, or verandas, to protect the walls from semi-tropical downpours. That the galleries functioned in the French mode, as convenient outside hallways for moving from room to room, was incidental.
“I was not aware your wife was American,” Christien went on after a moment.
Maurice Cassard’s smile was tender. “My Nora has spoken French in our family circle for such a long time she’s almost forgotten it was not her first language.”
“Your daughter must be modeled upon her.”
“What makes you say that?” Cassard gave him a keen look.
“She seems a forthright lady, if I may say so, with little use for coquettish airs.”
“Quite right, though it’s her grandmother, my wife’s mother, you must look to for that pattern card. That lady was Irish and formidable in her strength of character. My Nora, I fear, is made of more fragile clay.”
Christien gave him a quick look, but Reine’s father was staring out over the cane fields ahead of them with such an unhappy expression on his face it was plain the description gave him no pleasure. “Was? The grandmother is deceased?” he inquired.
“She died in childbirth, a change-of-life baby that perished with her.”
Condolences were necessary, though Christien allowed only the smallest of pauses before he went on. “And Madame Pingre’s grandfather, this Américain? He lives nearby?”
“At one time he did, only a few miles down the river road. He, too, is gone.”
“A pity,” Christien replied with perfunctory courtesy.
“These things happen,” Cassard said with a shrug.
“You may wonder that my wife and I are so dependent on your good will, given her father’s extensive holdings. She came of a large family, you understand, with ten brothers and sisters who lived to adulthood. By the time everything was portioned out among them, there was scarce enough in any one allotment to matter.”
Christien suspected a certain amount of Madame Cassard’s portion had vanished over the gaming tables. That was none of his business, though he also thought the fact that Cassard had done nothing to earn the honey fall made wagering it on the turn of a card easier. The same applied to River’s Edge, of course. Not that he faulted Reine’s father for the way he lived. For one thing, idleness and reckless plunging at cards was the way of the aristocratic French Creoles, and Cassard would be condemned for acting otherwise. Then, he himself was hardly in a position to feel superior given the way he had gained the place.
“You will forgive me for bringing up another death,” Christien said as they strolled on a few more steps, “but I have a certain curiosity over the passing of your daughter’s late husband. He was killed, I believe.”
“So it’s supposed. I prefer to think it a tragic accident.”
“Your daughter is credited with aiding his passing.”
Cassard made a sound of disgust. “Nonsense, utter nonsense.”
“Why should anyone think otherwise?”
Reine’s father shot him a quick glance from under lowered brows. “You know what people are, always looking for scandal in anything the least unusual.”
“True, though I gather the affair was something of a three-day wonder.” Persistence, Christien had noted, sometimes had its rewards.
“Oh, it was a damnable business. Theodore—her husband, that is, Theodore Pingre—simply disappeared from the house one night. All that was left to indicate what happened to him was a welter of blood and gore on his bed linens and a poker stuck with bits of flesh and hair on the carpet beside it. Nothing was heard from him for several days. A body was pulled from the river then, and identified only by the alliance ring on his finger. Turtles and catfish had got at him, you understand.”
Christien was unmoved by the image. He’d seen his share of bodies that floated up from the river’s bottom, the occurrence being all too common along the New Orleans waterfront. Bloated, waterlogged, the victims were often so changed it was difficult
for their own mothers to identify them. “When you speak of the house, I take you to mean from their home?”
“No, no, they were here at River’s Edge.”
“Indeed.” He allowed idle curiosity to layer his tone.
Cassard frowned a little but answered readily enough. “Young Marguerite was ill with a stomach complaint. Her life was feared for as these sicknesses take so many little ones. Reine and Theodore were living at Bonne Espèrance, her husband’s family place that borders with River’s Edge. It was the usual ménage, including Monsieur and Madame Pingre, a widowed sister of madame, a bedridden uncle and his daughters who looked after him. All that was lacking were brothers and sisters to Theodore, this because he was the only child to live to maturity. No great tragedy, that, as Madame Pingre is a woman who should, perhaps, never have been a mother. Monsieur Pingre, before he died, lavished a fortune on the boy to make up for it.”
Christien nodded his understanding as Cassard paused. The last circumstance might provide some explanation for how Pingre had become a man who cared nothing for the young females he despoiled. “Madame Pingre, his mother, is still in residence there?”
“By no means. She embarked for Paris not long after her son died. The house has been closed up these two years and more.”
“I don’t suppose she has any idea of selling?” It seemed possible one of his friends from the Passage de la Bourse might have an interest. It was always a good thing to choose one’s neighbors.
“If so, I’ve heard nothing of it,” Cassard said.
He would keep it in mind, nevertheless, Christien thought. At least Cassard had the same opinion of the lady that he had acquired. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your story,” Christien said with a slight bow of apology. “You were saying?”
“Where was I? Oh, yes, Theodore. He was never one to abide illness, so took himself off to town. His uncle, already ill with a wasting sickness, came down with Marguerite’s childish complaint and was carried off by it in a matter of hours. Reine, being apologetic over the death and feeling the funereal atmosphere was unlikely to aid her little one’s recovery, bundled her up and brought her here where she might have the aid and support of her family.”
“Your son-in-law returned and came to River’s Edge to be with them, I suppose.”
“It would appear so.”
Christien lifted a brow. “Meaning?”
“No one saw him arrive on that night, just as no one saw him leave. Or be taken away, as the case may be.”
“How did he get into the house? Was the butler not on duty?”
“Alonzo had been sent to bed after more than twenty-four hours on his feet, carrying trays up and down, also endless cans of hot water. The doors were not locked as Reine and the baby’s old nursemaid, Demeter, were still going in and out to the kitchen. Everything was at sixes and sevens, you perceive, as we feared for Marguerite’s life.”
Christien gave a nod as he pictured it. To close off access to the outdoor kitchen would not have been practical. “No one saw or heard anything unusual?” he asked after a moment.
Cassard shook his white head. “The sheriff came and put the same question to the house servants and everyone else on the place. Yes, and with the same lack of results. Monsieur…”
Christien lifted a brow as he waited for his host to arrange his thoughts. When he failed to continue, he said, “You meant to say?”
“I hesitate to speak for reasons that may be obvious, yet honor compels that I be frank with you. The circumstances here are more difficult than you imagine. Because of it, I shall not hold you to your offer of marriage. That’s if you think to withdraw it.”
“No.” It was the last thing Christien intended.
“You are not put off by the notoriety surrounding Pingre’s death?”
“It was a trying time, I’m sure, but I can’t imagine your daughter was at fault. My concern is only for how she came to be implicated in such a bloody affair.” As he was not inclined to pursue his release from his proposal, he went on with hardly a pause. “What do you believe happened?”
His future father-in-law looked at him for a second while relief eased the lines of strain in his face. Glancing away again, he said, “I cannot answer that, I’m sorry to say. I was not at home that evening.”
“You were in town?”
“Gaming, you mean?” Cassard grimaced. “I can hardly fault you for wondering, but no. The upset with Marguerite had brought on one of my wife’s nervous spells. She had but a single dose left of the laudanum she takes at bedtime. I drove to town late that evening and slept at the town house overnight so as to purchase a new supply the instant the apothecary opened next morning. By the time I returned with it, the sad business was done.”
It made sense, Christien saw. If Cassard had been on the premises, the murderer would surely have thought twice about entering the house. “Exactly how long ago did all this take place?”
“Over two years now, as Marguerite was five her last birthday. She saw it, you know, or we must suppose so as she was in the same room. You might think she would recall nothing, being so young. Nevertheless, she has horrific dreams, sees monsters everywhere since that night. Why, she even claimed she saw one the night you saved her outside the theater. I’d thought her release from mourning black might improve matters, but…” He trailed off with a shake of his head.
Papa. Oh, Papa.
The child’s soft cry echoed in Christien’s memory, the undercurrent of his every thought concerning that night outside the opera house. He’d thought he might have reminded Marguerite of her father, but it seemed unlikely given what he’d just heard. What did it really mean?
“Marguerite and her father,” he said with a frown, “they were close?”
Cassard gave Christien a quick glance from under lowered brows. “Theodore was not what one might call a doting parent. He was far more occupied with his friends and their round of cockfights and barrel houses.”
“Wild, in a word.”
“Immature, I would say instead,” he answered with a sigh of weary tolerance. “It’s a failing of men who marry young, before they have time to become jaded with town pursuits or to settle into the role of husband and father. They improve with age.”
“Hard on their wives.”
“Who are equally young and inexperienced, yes, though usually have their families to support them.”
“It was an arranged marriage, I suppose?”
“It seemed a good match,” Cassard said in immediate defense. “Theodore was his parents’ only heir, as I told you before. He and Reine played together from the time they left their cradles, were of the same age and didn’t dislike each other. His family had been friends and neighbors for many years. Worse alliances have prospered.”
Indeed they had, Christien thought, and this one must have been compatible enough given that it had produced Marguerite. Before he could express that unpalatable thought, however, he caught the thud of quick footsteps. He turned to see the object of his thoughts racing toward them down the lane they had been following.
Marguerite Pingre wore a ruffled pinafore over full skirts and pantaloons and narrow boots of white kid on her small feet. The pink ribbon that held her bright, flying hair away from her face was tied in a bow on top of her head. It threatened to come loose from its moorings with every pounding step. Gamboling around her was the big red bloodhound that had greeted Christien on his arrival. With his tongue lolling out and his eyes bright with joy, he had no aspect of fearsome watchdog whatever.
“Help, Grand-père, help me!” the child called. “I’ve run away from Babette to see the gentleman with the sword she and Cook talk about. I run fast, fast so she can’t catch me. She says I’m naughty and the loup-garou will get me.”
Monsieur Cassard bent and closed his arms around the child as she threw herself against his legs. Lifting her, he gave her a firm buss on one flushed cheek, smiling into her piquant little face. “What would any old werewolf want w
ith the likes of you, hein? Such a small kitten as you are would hardly be a mouthful for him. Now say hello to Monsieur Lenoir, ma chère, for he is our visitor and we must make him welcome.”
The child lifted clear blue eyes fringed with fine, dark lashes to him. They widened and she gave a quick gulp. She made no other sound, but held so still she might have been a small wax effigy.
“Have you nothing to say, Marguerite? It’s impolite to ignore a guest.”
“It’s the man,” she whispered, her face serious as she leaned to confide this news into her grandfather’s ear.
“C’est vrai? But which man, ma petite?”
“The man who knocked me down in the street. Yes, and Maman, too, so the horses wouldn’t hurt us. Is he the man with the sword? Will he kill the loup-garou?”
Cassard shot Christien an amused glance. “You must ask him, yes?”
The hope in the child’s deep blue eyes as she turned them on him was too much for Christien to resist. “But certainly I will slay the beast for you,” he said, making her his best bow. “Only show him to me, and he won’t live a minute.”
Her expression was uncertain, and still she didn’t smile. “Truly?”
“I swear it on my honor.” It seemed a safe enough vow considering werewolves existed only in childish nightmares. The best thing to be done to rid young Marguerite of these fantasies, and perhaps her nightmares as well, would be to see to it her nursemaid ceased using the threat of monsters to frighten her into obedience. That was, of course, if he was allowed a stepfather’s right of interference, or any right at all where she and her mother were concerned.
“I like you,” the child said with abrupt decision.
“You are very kind, mademoiselle,” he answered, his voice as grave as hers had been, “just as a lady should be.”
“Maman isn’t always, or Grand-mère.”
“Marguerite!” Monsieur Cassard exclaimed in protest.
“I’m sure they have their reasons.” To prevent irony from surfacing in his voice took more effort than Christien expected.
Triumph in Arms Page 4