The Magnolia Duchess

by Beth White

  Maddy sat down beside her aunt and accepted the teacup with a smile that she hoped didn’t look manufactured. “Elijah is sound asleep, but Ruthie read me a rather startling story that he concocted. I don’t know where his imagination comes from.”

  Maddy’s mother rolled her eyes. “I’m afraid the flair for the dramatic comes straight from the Gonzales side.”

  “It is true,” Papa said, winking. “All the world is a stage, as they say.”

  “Then I’m sure you’ll find Elijah entertaining as well as maddening,” Maddy said. “Papa, you know I am thrilled to have you both here, but could you not have written to tell me you were coming? I would like to have prepared your room—”

  “Yes, I have bad manners, I know, to appear without warning,” he said with a grimace, “but my business is official, and somewhat delicate in nature.” He hesitated, glanced at his wife. “Speaking of drama, it’s actually fortuitous that your cousin Fiona is here in Mobile, as it is in response to her entanglement with young Kincaid that we are here. Did you know that she had written to Lord St. Clair to request that his grandson be exchanged for Sullivan?”

  Relieved to discover that the quilting business had come to an end, Fiona slept well and awoke early. After lunch she borrowed clothes from her cousin Israel and spent the afternoon in Uncle Rémy’s small barn, which housed the two elderly horses, as well as the family carriage, a little gig, and the children’s pony cart. Cisco, the young black groom her uncle kept on retainer, was happy to let her help muck stalls and curry the horses while he cleaned and polished the vehicles. He didn’t seem to mind that she for the most part ignored him while carrying on a murmured conversation with the horses. Sehoy, on the other hand, had quickly gotten bored and took her sketch pad to the market to draw.

  What she had learned today was that she was a creature of intense, fatal loyalty. Once she had given her heart, it would not be reeled back in.

  She remembered once when the family had visited Mobile in the spring, her mother had taken her to a spot near Fort Charlotte, where Mama had spent most of her growing-up years as the daughter of the British commander of the city. Close to the water’s edge, a tiny island floated, in the center of which grew a towering oak tree with an osprey nest in its upper branches. That day she and Mama stood for over an hour, watching the two big, beautiful birds—the male and the female—fly to and from the nest, diving for fish and bringing the prey back to feed their young.

  “These same two birds were here last year,” Mama told her. “They’ll go somewhere for the winter, probably Mexico or Brazil, then come back again next spring.”

  “How do you know it’s the same birds?” Fiona asked.

  “I just know. I remember one of the old slaves told me ospreys mate for life. They choose, and then never change their minds. God made them that way.” Mama’s smile was sweet, her gaze faraway. “That’s when I made up my mind that I would wait for your father. I’d loved him since I was a little girl.”

  And she’d loved him purely and faithfully right up until the very end, when that British schooner of war had sunk the merchant ship carrying the two of them to the Netherlands on business.

  Fiona jammed her pitchfork into a pile of soiled hay and dumped it into a wheelbarrow. The ultimate twist of irony was that she should have chosen to love a British warrior.

  Chose. Yes, she chose. And could not un-choose, no matter how hard she tried.

  She couldn’t help wondering, in a case like Maddy’s, how it was possible to love a man who died, then make room for another good man like Desi. Presumably, God made arrangements for that.

  But Charlie was not dead, though she could have killed him if she’d wanted to, the day he stole Washington. She shuddered. Thank God she hadn’t. The Lord had straightened her aim, allowing her to hit his leg instead of his head or his body. Now she only had to bear this separation, this loneliness, and not the horror of being an instrument in his death.

  She laid her palm over the bump of Charlie’s ring under her coat. Jesus, would you take him in your hand? Show us a way to do your will? Please keep him safe and give me wisdom beyond my years. I feel so young and stupid.

  “Fiona, are you still out there! Come inside! Hurry!”

  At Maddy’s shout, Fiona leaned the pitchfork in a corner and went to the doorway. Her cousin stood on the back step, shivering in the late afternoon chill. “What is it?”

  “Come see!”

  With a shrug, she bid Cisco goodbye. Crossing the yard, she entered the kitchen.

  And found herself enveloped in the extravagant embrace of her father’s younger sister, who had also been her mother’s best friend—and thus the closest thing she had left to a mother on this earth. “Aunt Lyse! Oh, I’ve missed you! What are you doing here?” Emotions already raw, her tears broke free.

  “Ah, chéri, it is a wretched time of it you have had, n’est pas?” Aunt Lyse’s French Creole upbringing slipped out on occasion, making her, if possible, even more unique and dear. She crooned over Fiona, repeatedly kissing the top of her head.

  When at last Fiona pulled away and looked up at her aunt in embarrassment, she realized they were alone. “Where is everyone?”

  “They are in the parlor, including our Desi.” Aunt Lyse, ever practical, handed Fiona her handkerchief. “But I wanted you to myself for a few minutes first.”

  Fiona blew her nose. “I want to hug Uncle Rafa.”

  Aunt Lyse held her by the shoulders. “There will be time for that, after I discover your part in this bumblebroth of spies and prisoners and horse thieves. Look at you, back in breeches, after all the trouble I went to to turn you into a lady!” She tsked. “You look exactly like your cousin Israel!”

  Fiona hung her head. “Oh, Auntie, I’m afraid there is no good explanation for the things I have done. Neither a beautiful curtsey nor correct teacup etiquette seemed to matter when Charlie rode off with my horse!”

  Aunt Lyse’s laughter was deep and infectious. “Believe it or not, that makes perfect sense! Now take off your coat, sit down, and listen to me.” Once they were settled at the kitchen table, Aunt Lyse folded her hands and fixed her golden eyes on Fiona’s face. “Now. It seems to me these men have looked right past you as their best source of information.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that women—smart young women like yourself—often hear things, observe things, that men don’t realize they are revealing. Did you know that your mother and I acted as operatives in the service of Governor-General Gálvez during the American War for Independence?”

  “I often begged Mama to tell me how Papa came for her and escaped with her to New Orleans. She wouldn’t give me any details.”

  “That’s because we were sworn to secrecy by the Spanish high command. And I still cannot reveal all that I know. But I can ask you questions, which you must discreetly use, for yourself and the good of your country.”

  Fiona blinked. “All right.”

  “Good. Desi says Sehoy replicated a ciphered message that Lieutenant Kincaid carried in an oilskin pouch under his shirt. Did you ever see this cipher?”

  “Yes. After Charlie was injured at Fort Bowyer, I tended him. And while he was unconscious, I saw the pouch and wondered what was in it, so I opened it and looked at the message.” She shook her head. “I could make no sense out of it, except that the letters were grouped like words in sentences.”

  “How many sentences? Was there any punctuation?”

  Fiona closed her eyes, trying to picture the cipher. “Yes, there were maybe two periods. So . . . three sentences?”

  “Ah. And were there any one-letter words?”

  “No.” Fiona opened her eyes. “I suppose that would be too easy.”

  Aunt Lyse sighed. “Yes. Did you confront Charlie about the message?”

  “Of course. At the time, he claimed he didn’t remember writing it. But I could tell he was lying.”

  “How do you know?”

  “He w
as suddenly . . . so bland. He’d been raving like he was having a nightmare about something that really happened, and then he woke up and grabbed me as if I had been attacking him, so I shouted at him, and all of a sudden he recognized me and started k—well, he knew me, that’s for sure.” Fiona felt as if her entire body were on fire, remembering the way Charlie had known her.

  “What a lovely blush,” Aunt Lyse observed mildly. “Presumably there was some physical affection involved at that point.”

  “Oh, dear.” Fiona twisted her hair around her finger.

  Aunt Lyse laughed. “I’m interested in the nightmare.”

  “I’ve thought about it a lot since then. It didn’t make any sense at the time, but there were a couple of names Uncle Rafa might know. Charlie was addressing somebody named Easton who was supposed to get word to an admiral . . . maybe Cochrane? And I know he mentioned Pensacola.” Fiona tried to remember more details. “At one point he was mumbling in French. Really bad French. Could have been something about pirates. But maybe not.”

  “Now that is useful information. If it could be applied to the cipher itself, then we might have something.” Aunt Lyse smiled her approval. “Listen to me, chéri. I’m going to ask you to do something very hard. Rafa and I have talked it over, and he likes the idea, but you must be the one to decide.”

  Fiona swallowed apprehension. “What is it?”

  “It is clear to all of us that you have a powerful influence over this young man—”

  “All of us? You have talked about me, me and Charlie, with . . . who, Aunt Lyse?”

  “Just Giselle and our Maddy and Desi. Rafa wanted me to discover how far the attachment had gone. Maddy is less certain that you should be allowed to see him again, but Desi thinks you can handle the situation.”

  “The situation? See who? You want me to see Charlie again?” Fiona felt her mouth fall ajar.

  “Hear me out.” Lyse held up an elegant finger. “Rafa has had a letter from Admiral Lord St. Clair, sanctioning—or, rather, I should say demanding—the exchange of his grandson for our Sullivan. The exchange has gone through the proper channels, rather quickly, I might add, and Rafa himself has been authorized to deliver Charlie to a British prisoner caravel off the coast of New Orleans. Darling, please, you’re going to crease my dress!”

  Fiona relaxed the strangling hug she’d inflicted upon her laughing auntie. “I’m sorry, but—oh, that’s wonderful!”

  “Indeed it is. And Sullivan has already been escorted to the counterpart American caravel. But before we move Lieutenant Kincaid, it occurred to us that some practical use might be made of his unfortunate tendre for a certain magnolia duchess.”

  13

  NOVEMBER 13, 1814

  The implications of what she was about to do left Fiona a quivering, gelatinous mass of emotion and nerves. She wanted to see Charlie, oh, she did—but not like this. Not to deceive him.

  As she walked the short distance from Uncle Rémy’s house to Fort Charlotte, she felt as if she were balancing her way along the parapet of a castle, with a deep moat on one side and a cold stone roof far below on the other. Dusk had fallen, pushing the last of the sunshine and daytime heat into the bay, leaving only a thick, black misty chill that had her shivering and clutching her cloak together for protection. She found little comfort from Desi’s protective presence some distance behind her. He wouldn’t let anything or anyone physically attack her. But who would guard her wretched heart?

  God, this is not what I asked for.

  Swallowing her tears, she kept going until she reached the fort. A sentry usually stood guard in the gatehouse atop the outer brick wall, but no one hailed her until she was standing at the gate.

  “Halt right there, ma’am,” someone called sleepily. “State your business.”

  She found herself stammering. “M-my Aunt Giselle—Giselle Lanier?—s-sent me with a blanket for the p-prisoner.”

  An astonished young face peered over the wall alongside a lantern. “Fiona?”

  “Oh! Timon! You’re still here?” Sullivan’s childhood friend, distantly related to the Lanier family through marriage, had joined the Mississippi militia at the tender age of sixteen, and she would have assumed—if she’d thought about it at all—that he’d have marched to West Florida with General Jackson.

  “Yes,” he said glumly. “They left me here to guard this blasted redcoat officer, and you’ve never heard of such a monotonous duty in your life. All the fellow does is read.” He paused, sudden suspicion wrinkling his spotty forehead. “And fend off nosy young ladies who want a gander at his good-looking face. It’s awful late for you to be making a charity call. Let me see the blanket.”

  Other young ladies besides herself had had the effrontery to visit Charlie? Endeavoring to hide the irritation that dispelled her shaky nerves, she smiled and opened her cloak to reveal the blanket. “I know it’s late, but they say he’ll be gone tomorrow, and I’ve never seen a real enemy spy. Please, Timon. I promise I won’t stay long, and—and I’ll let you walk me home after I’ve talked to him for a few minutes.”

  But Timon wasn’t as gullible as she’d hoped. He scowled. “Now that I think about it, I heard you’re the one that caught him and brought him in. You always were a strange female, Fiona. What are you up to now?”

  Why was he making this so difficult? Maybe this was God’s way of letting her out of this whole impossible situation. She could go home with Desi and truthfully say she hadn’t been able to find a way to get in to talk to Charlie.

  But perversely, she found herself unwilling to be bested by the likes of Timon Lafleur.

  “I’m not up to anything, you obstinate—” Clutching at the fringes of her temper, she took a deep breath and told him the truth. “I’m feeling guilty about injuring him. He really is a nice gentleman who happened to land in enemy territory, and I wanted to tell him how sorry I am, before he leaves in the morning. My aunt doesn’t actually know I’m here”—Aunt Giselle at least did not, though Aunt Lyse did—“and she would box my ears if she found out. So will you please let me in before I freeze to death, standing out here in the street?”

  Timon blew out a long-suffering sigh and disappeared with the lantern. A moment later, she heard clanking at the gate, and it swung open a few inches.

  “Come on in—and hurry,” Timon said. “I’m going to be put in the guardhouse myself if anybody finds out I let you in this time of night.”

  “Thank you.” Astonishingly, she was inside the fort, going to see Charlie one more time before he went away for good. Bizarrely she felt as if she floated outside her own skin, watching herself commit this act of Judas-kiss patriotism.

  Before she could turn and run back to the warmth and safety of Maddy’s house, Timon had unlocked the guardhouse, stuck his head inside, and said, “Someone here to see you.” He took Fiona’s arm and shoved her into the building.

  This was different from the night she’d knelt on the other side of the tack room door in the barn, confessing that she loved him. This time she saw Charlie right away in a cell to her left, lying on a cot too short for his tall body, one arm under his head, a book propped on his knees. Someone had found him some clothes that properly fit, he had recently shaved, and his hair was clean, if a bit long and untidy. He was in stocking feet, his boots squared away on the floor at the end of the cot.

  She didn’t see chains anywhere.

  All that she took in in a flash, before he looked around and recognized her.

  He jerked into a sitting position, dropping the book onto the floor. “No.”

  This was the second time she had thrown herself at him. She hadn’t told Aunt Lyse about that other time, the night in the barn. What was she going to say?

  She stood there wishing she hadn’t come, insides writhing in humiliation. She was no better than those other girls who had come to the guardhouse to gawk at the handsome prisoner.

  His expression softened. He got up and walked over to the bars, wrapped his hands aro
und them as if to keep from reaching for her. His lips quirked. “Did you bring me some sweet potato pie?”

  She put back her hood and opened her cloak. “Just a blanket.”

  He glanced at the fireplace behind her, where a smoky fire crackled. “It’s not bad in here. Nothing like Scotland in November.”

  Silence smoldered as they stared at one another. Finally Fiona said, “How is your . . . limb?” She let her gaze drop to his injured thigh. It was thicker than the other, probably still heavily bandaged under his breeches.

  He laughed. “My limb is healing nicely—no thanks to you. The surgeon here in Mobile gave me enough laudanum to get me past the first couple of days.”

  “That’s good.” Another long, awkward silence. “Well . . . here.” She shoved the blanket at him. “You might need it later tonight.”

  He took it, letting it unfold so that it would fit between the bars, then refolded it neatly and laid it on the cot. “Thank you.”

  She almost left. Then something stiffened her spine. She walked right up to the bars of the cell. “Charlie, this is silly. I just came to say that I forgive you for taking my horse and for lying to me, because I might have done the same thing in your place. And I want you to know I regret having injured you. We can’t change the circumstances of what brought us together, but we can at least say goodbye with civility.”

  He stared at her, looking vulnerable and dear in his stocking feet, his shirt open at the throat, his jaw working.

  Judas. Judas.

  Holding her gaze, he pressed closer to her, so that his clothes brushed hers through the bars. When she didn’t move, he put out his hand to cup her cheek. Closing his eyes, he let his thumb brush her lips. She caught his hand, turned her head, and kissed his palm.

  He sucked in a sharp breath, but he let her kiss his fingers one by one. “This is so unwise,” he muttered, then, “Come here . . .” He slipped his hand to the back of her neck and drew her close to kiss her lips, the cell bars creating a frustrating but oddly tantalizing barrier. They both slid to their knees, kisses becoming deeper and wilder until Fiona felt as if she might melt into a hot puddle of wax.