Ashes and Ecstasy

by Catherine Hart

  “But you were so good for each other—so special together,” Kathleen argued.

  Eleonore shook her head, her gentle brown eyes holding Kathleen’s. “Jean and I both need more than the other can give. It is better this way. Jean cannot give me what I desire.”

  “What is that, Eleonore?”

  “I want to go home to France, where I hope to find a husband on my own social level—perhaps a count or a marquis.” Eleonore's face took on a dreamy look. “You can not imagine how I have missed being a part of that elite circle of society at court! There is a special excitement and intrigue that is particularly addictive. I love it.”

  “It is distinctly lacking here, I must agree,” Isabel put in. “These Americans take democracy very much to heart. In many ways, that is good, but there is a certain grandeur missing.”

  “Quite so, Isabel,” Eleonore affirmed, “and besides Versailles, there is a special splendor unique to Paris. How I long to walk its streets again; to shop with old friends and stop at a little cafe for croissants and coffee when we are done; to visit the galaries.”

  “And catch the eye of some very eligible bachelor?” Kathleen teased.

  “But of course!” Eleonore declared. “Before I am too old, I wish to have children.” Her eyes became dreamy. "We shall have a townhouse in Paris for the social season, and the rest of the year we shall spend in our country chalet raising babies and grapes. My husband will adore me, and we shall be very happy.”

  “I hope your dream comes true, my friend,” Kathleen said sincerely. “I shall miss you when you leave.”

  “As I shall miss you,” Eleonore returned. “We have shared so much. We shall write, as we have since you went with Reed to Savannah. The letters will take just a little longer to reach their destination. You must come and visit me in France. We will sit up late into the night after everyone else has retired, and share memories that only the two of us could guess at, n'est-ce pas?”

  Kathleen nodded, and Eleonore added with a laugh, “And when I am an old woman, I will take my grandchildren on my lap and tell them tales of pirates and the wild adventures I have known in younger years, and they will wonder if their grand’mère really did all those amazing things or is merely addled in her old age!” With an odd gleam in her expressive eyes, Eleonore continued, “I will especially tell them of a certain piratess and the men who loved her, both as Kathleen with the flaming red hair and flashing green eyes, and as Emerald with her midnight tresses flying in the ocean breeze. ” After a small pause, she said softly, “Jean loves you, Kathleen. I can see it in his face when he looks at you.”

  Kathleen swallowed hard. “I do not want him to love me, Eleonore. I do not want to hurt him—and I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “You wouldn’t be hurting me,” Eleonore insisted.

  “On the contrary, it would make me very happy to see you and Jean together. You see, Jean needs a strong woman who shares his love for the adventurous life. You would be perfect for him!”

  Tears glistened in Kathleen’s eyes. “Don’t match-make, Eleonore,” she choked. “It is too soon. It may always be too soon, loving Reed as I have.”

  “Perhaps now is too soon, but you are a young woman. You have many years ahead of you, and there is no reason all of them have to be empty—or filled only with memories of happier times. Do not close your heart and mind to loving again, Kathleen,” Eleonore counseled. “Your children need a father to guide them, and you need a man in your life; someone to fill your days and hold you in the long, dark hours of the night. Jean could be that man. There has been a spark between you from the first. I believe it is still there, beneath your pain.”

  Kathleen groaned in dismay, covering her face with her hands. “Is it so obvious, Eleonore? When Reed was alive, it was so easy to ignore this attraction. Now, so soon after Reed’s death, I hate myself when I feel the pull of Jean’s charm. I choke on my guilt, yet I feel drawn to him against my will. And Jean is becoming increasingly obvious about his feelings for me. He is kind and gentle, and was so helpful in my search for Reed ... his patience amazes me.”

  “The man adores you,” Isabel corrected. “His devotion increases daily. It is plain to anyone who has eyes that the man is totally enthralled by you. Eleonore is not the only one to notice this.”

  “Then it should come as no surprise to you when I say that Dominique is equally entranced by you, Isabel,” Kathleen countered. “are you ready to return his love?”

  Isabel frowned. “I am not sure, but that is not the point.”

  Kathleen disagreed. “It amounts to the same thing, Isabel. Jean no longer bothers to conceal his emotions for me. Sometimes, my heart tells me one thing, and my body another.”

  “Your conscience is too active,” Isabel stated. “Reed is dead, while you and Jean are both very much alive and attracted to one another. There is nothing wrong in that.”

  “Isabel is right,” Eleonore added. “You last saw Reed in early May. That was nine months ago. Your official period of mourning will end shortly, and no one would condemn you for starting life anew and loving again. You are so young, and it is natural to reach out for love and joy.”

  “I didn’t learn of Reed’s disappearance until July,” Kathleen pointed out. “Besides, Reed was the great love of my life. Surely I could never love Jean as I did Reed, and I could not cheat Jean that way. It would not be fair to him at all.”

  “Has it ever occurred to you that you could love Jean perhaps differently than you loved Reed?” Eleonore suggested gently. “Perhaps it would not be with all the wonder of first love, but with the warmth of a tender, abiding sharing. Each love is unique, bringing its own excitement and splendor. This I tell you from experience, my friend. It is possible to love more than once in a lifetime; deeply, wholly, and wonderfully.”

  “I do not want to think if it now,” Kathleen said firmly. “All this talk of loves lost and found is depressing and confusing. Let us talk of something else.” Her eyes brightened suddenly as she set her mind on a different tack. “Better yet, let’s put on our prettiest new gowns and go to the theatre, just the three of us!”

  “Ah, yes,” Eleonore sighed appreciatively, as Isabel nodded vigorously. “Let us go tempt the gentlemen of New Orleans until they are out of their minds with desire for the three most elusive women to be found anywhere!”

  They raised their teacups in smiling salute to one another. “To New Orleans’ three femmes fatales!” Kathleen’s eyes sparkled once more. “Long may they reign!”

  Isabel added her own wicked merriment. “To beauty, charm, and feminine wiles. Long may they triumph!”

  “Amen!” laughed Eleonore.

  One incident alone marred Kathleen’s introduction to New Orleans. Quite by chance, she happened upon a jeweler’s establishment while strolling with Jean one afternoon. The display in the window, small as it was, was enough to draw her attention to its fine workmanship. Intrigued, she wandered into the shop to see more of the merchandise, Jean at her side.

  “Monsieur Lafitte! How nice to see you!” the jeweler greeted him effusively.

  “Mr. Lovit, how is business these days?”

  The man shook his head dismally. “Slow, as it will probably remain until the blockade is lifted.”

  “We are trying our best to encourage the British to go home,” Jean told him. “A few blockade runners are still getting through.”

  Mr. Lovit suddenly brightened. “That reminds me— your friend, Captain Taylor from Savannah, has not been in to pick up the last necklace I made for him. Would you tell him it is ready, when you see him? I thought he had said he wanted it in time for Christmas, but I must have been mistaken.”

  Kathleen grabbed for the counter as her knees threatened to give way beneath her. A strangled cry alerted the jeweler to her paper-white face, as Jean’s strong arms went about her.

  “Cherie, take a deep breath. I am here.” Jean’s soothing voice was the only reality that registered through the shock she wa
s feeling.

  “Can I get your lady something?” Mr. Lovit offered hastily. “A chair? A glass of water?”

  “The necklace ...” Kathleen gasped.

  “What?” Jean barely heard her words.

  Taking a deep breath, Kathleen blurted, “The necklace, Jean. Tell him I want it.”

  The jeweler had heard her request. “Oh, but madame, this necklace is not for sale! It is for Captain Taylor’s wife —made especially!”

  Jean’s arms tightened about Kathleen, as if to support her against the impact of his next words. “Mr. Lovit, Captain Taylor died last spring. This lady was his wife. The necklace was meant for her. Please bring it.”

  “Oh, dear!” the man exclaimed, thoroughly distressed. “I am so sorry, madame! I will bring it right away!” He scurried off to the back room.

  Kathleen was battling tears and gulping great lungsful of air. “Kathleen, cherie, do you wish to sit down?” Jean suggested.

  Suddenly she turned into his embrace, her face hidden against his shirt front. “Oh, Jean!” she whimpered. “Please hold me. Just hold me!”

  With a tenderness that would have amazed his enemies, Jean complied. “As long as you will let me,” he whispered so low that she thought she must have imagined the words.

  The necklace the jeweler brought forth was an exquisitely designed collar of intricately carved ivory. Between the top and bottom bands of beads lay three carved letters spelling the word KAT. On each side of the name were three delicately detailed frigates. When worn, the name would be centered on her throat, the ships riding in silhouette against her skin. Since they were first married, Reed had been bringing home necklaces such as this for her. They had become Kathleen’s own distinctive symbol, each different in design, but each fashioned as a collar to fit snugly about her throat. Upon presenting Kathleen with the first, Reed had jokingly commented that every green–eyed “Kat” should have a collar, and over the years he had ordered many from this very jeweler.

  Now, as she lightly touched the beautiful crafted ivory, Kathleen trembled. “It feels so strange, Jean, to know that Reed ordered this for me so long ago. It seems ironic that his last gift should by symbolic of ships, don’t you think? Do you suppose he somehow felt that something would go wrong? Could he have had a premonition of doom?”

  “I think you are imagining more than you should,” Jean counseled. “Reed knew your love of ships and the sea. That is all there is to it.”

  “You are probably right,” she said on a sigh. “Still, it makes one wonder ...”

  Turning to the jeweler, she asked, “How much do I owe you?”

  Still embarrassed, and looking quite pained, the man answered, “Your husband paid in advance, Mrs. Taylor. The necklace is yours.”

  Later, Kathleen would ponder whether the man had told her the truth, or had merely let her have the necklace out of pity. She even entertained the possibility that Jean might have gone back later and paid the jeweler, but she never asked him. Either way, she cherished this final gift from Reed, despite the fresh pain it brought.

  With Jean as escort, and sometimes Eleonore, Isabel, and Dominique, Kathleen saw much of New Orleans in those few days. They went shopping, to the theatre, visited Jean’s warehouses, and even attended a couple of dinner parties. As luck would have it, Governor Claiborne was also invited to one of the parties.

  From the moment Jean arrived, Kathleen on his arm‚the tension rose, until the very air seemed to vibrate. Behind exaggeratedly polite facades, Jean and Claiborne dueled verbally, pointed remarks finding their targets more and more often. Fortunately, the other guests were used to this, and tended to ignore it. Certainly, it was no secret that the two men disliked one another.

  Shortly after their arrival, the governor openly inspected Kathleen, his eyes roving appreciatively, if speculatively, from her raven head to her satin-clad feet. Having cast aside her mourning, she was wearing a magnificent emerald satin gown, with a daringly low neckline. Her midnight tresses were swept up onto the crown of her head, to fall in a profusion of artfully careless curls. About her throat, the ivory collar rested as possessively as a lover’s hand.

  Kathleen saw the admiration in Claiborne’s eyes—as well as the disdain he could not quite hide.

  With a sidelong glance at Jean, Claiborne commented slyly, “Where is Eleonore this evening, Lafitte? Could this beauty on your arm be the reason we have seen less of you these days?’’

  Kathleen felt the muscles of Jean’s arm beneath her hand tighten, but he answered lightly, “This curiosity about my life never fails to amaze me. It seems almost that others know more about what I do than I—or they think they do.”

  Claiborne’s attention centered on Kathleen. “You have not introduced us, Jean.” His fingers came up to lightly stroke the ivory letters on her necklace. “Kat, is it?”

  “Caterina,” Kathleen supplied tightly, standing her ground. This man raised her hackles, and she deliberately used Isabel’s Spanish version of her name. Her eyes swept the man before her with a disdain equal to his.

  “Caterina Emeraude,” Jean said, adding the French word for Emerald. This bit of private humor set Kathleen’s eyes glimmering with laughter, and curved her lips upward in a beguiling smile.

  “Caterina, may I present our esteemed governor, William Claiborne.” Jean completed the introductions.

  The governor bent low over her hand, kissing her fingertips. “You must be a newcomer to our fair city. I do not recall ever having seen you before, and I am sure I could not have forgotten someone as attractive as you.”

  Kathleen extracted her hand as unobtrusively as possible. “This is my first visit to New Orleans,” she replied coolly.

  “I hope you are enjoying your stay,” Claiborne persisted. “Where are you from?”

  Kathleen’s chilly gaze speared him. “If I wished you to know, I would have volunteered the information, Governor,” she told him with regal scorn.

  Claiborne glared at her, his voice raised to carry to the ears of the other guests. “Gossip has it that you are Jean Lafitte’s new light-o’-love, madam.”

  Several people gasped at Claiborne’s ungentlemanly conduct, and Jean nearly leaped at Claiborne’s throat, but Kathleen's hand, firmly on his arm, held him back. Flaming emerald eyes met Claiborne’s challenging look squarely, and she managed a careless shrug. “I rarely put much stock in gossip, Mister Claiborne. Wagging tongues reflect the dull minds of those with unexciting lives and little imagination. I am much to busy to be bothered with the opinions of small-minded persons.”

  Amidst the indrawn breaths of the fascinated onlookers, Kathleen stared victoriously at the red-faced governor.

  Jean’s delighted laughter rang out clearly in the silence surrounding her words. “Aptly put, cherie," he chuckled, leading her away from the irate, speechless governor.

  Thus it was that Kathleen discovered herself believed to be Jean’s latest mistress. Governor Claiborne and his sycophants seemed to be the only ones to berate her, however, as most of the people she met were friendly and outgoing. No one else dared question her relationship with Jean, and many simply did not care. They accepted her as she appeared to be, a beautiful, intelligent, well-mannered lady of obvious refinement. Her ready wit and enchanting smile endeared her to them, and her quick mind and reserved demeanor earned their respect.

  While she did not bother to refute the gossip about herself and Jean, neither did she do anything to fuel it. Knowing they would believe what they wished, she doubted there was much she could actually do about it. If she protested too loudly, it would only make people believe the tale all the more, so Kathleen went about as if none of it disturbed her in the least.

  Actually, she was very upset. Not that she gave a whit what the citizens of New Orleans thought, for she might never meet any of them again. For herself and her own most private feelings, she was deeply concerned, however. That old, deeply buried attraction toward Jean was coming more and more to the fore. There was
no denying that she found him extremely handsome. His old-world charm was tremendously hard to resist, particularly when it was combined with his devil-may-care attitude. She had seen him in the role of the cultured gentleman and that of the daring corsair, and admired him in both. His unsurpassed expertise with sword and ship had won her undying respect.

  All this she could admit, and not find fault with. What troubled her now were her own feelings and longings rising to the surface—her own reactions to Jean’s disturbing presence. At times, she would turn to find his eyes on her, hot with desire, and her heart would leap in response to the urgent message in his eyes. His hand would reach for hers, and the contact would set her nerves tingling until her hands would actually tremble. If his arm brushed her breast, her skin would feel seared. His tender smile would bring an answering curve to her lips, his devilish humor set her laughing. His arm about her shoulders or waist was comforting and disturbing at the same time, confounding her further.

  She and Jean had so much in common. At odd moments, Kathleen felt she had known him forever, and at others, not at all, especially when he was silently imploring her to become a part of his life. Not by spoken word or overbearing advances did he press his suit, but she felt his ever-present desire—exactly as he intended.

  While Kathleen held him off with one hand, a part of her wondered what he would be like as a lover. For these thoughts, she berated herself severely, constantly reminding herself how deeply she and Reed had loved one another, how much they had shared. With shame, she told herself that a woman so recently widowed as she should not be entertaining thoughts and feelings of this sort toward another man. It was too soon. It was too much. Oh, Lord, it was so confusing—so tempting—so wrong— so increasingly hard to resist!