Louisiana History Collection - Part 2

by Jennifer Blake

  The maid searched his face for long moments. What she saw there seemed to decide her. She stepped back abruptly and turned to throw the door wide.

  Ryan pushed through the opening and strode along the gallery. The night was so deep and warm that nothing stirred there. He continued along to the steps, descending them to the courtyard. He stood for a moment, then moved toward the black shade of the oak tree.

  There were footsteps behind him. It was Devota, bringing a wooden bench which she placed against the tree. Ryan sank down upon it, using the tree trunk for a backrest as he settled Elene comfortably in his lap. He reached to brush back her hair, straightening the long strands that had become entangled with the braiding on his dressing gown. He felt her cheek, and knew despair at its unrelenting heat. Bending his head, he pressed his lips to her forehead.

  The relief at being in the open and the pleasure of the gentle caress against her skin was so great that Elene sighed and curled closer against the man who held her. She had lain like this she knew for countless hours in the last few days. She did not care if she ever moved.

  From her heated skin rose the fragrance that seemed a part of her, smoothed into her skin by Devota even in her illness. The air around Ryan was permeated with it, a rapturous blending that caught at the spirit with intimations of a thousand half-forgotten memories, a thousand fervently remembered desires.

  “Elene, my love, I love you,” he said, the words a whisper almost lost in the rustle of a stray breeze in the leaves overhead.

  But she heard them, and marveled that he could be so ready with the words she most needed to hear, even if he did not mean them. She sighed and closed her eyes.

  Perhaps an hour later, while she slept, her skin was dewed with perspiration as the fever broke. The perspiration, mingling with her perfume, soaked through the thin gown she wore and Ryan’s dressing gown until he was bathed in the essence of her. Feeling that sweet, moist warmth, he was suffused with wonder and a strange, inevitable joy.

  The dog days of summer, the fever time, dragged on. The daily rains, appearing punctually every afternoon, continued until the curtains were spotted with gray mildew and any piece of leather left shut away from the air was instantly covered with mold. Elene’s convalescence was slow due to the unremitting heat and dampness. July had passed away and August was upon them before Ryan considered that she was strong enough for visitors.

  The first to come was Madame Tusard. Ryan did not leave the woman alone with her, but stood guard as if he had nothing in the world better to do. Elene tried to suggest that he go about his business that she was sure he must be neglecting, but he would not hear of it. The reason may have been that he knew already the news that Madame Tusard was bursting to impart.

  There was first the courtesies to be observed, the inquiries after Elene’s health, the expressions of regret for her absence from among the group. Mention was made of the returning health of the colonial prefect who was slowly recovering also, but still not making appointments. They also discussed the progress of the fever epidemic that had so far sent several score of people into flight upriver to stay with friends and relatives until the danger had passed.

  Madame Tusard and her husband had thought of going, but the expense would be prohibitive and the traveling inconvenient since, inns being practically nonexistent, they would be forced to rely on the hospitality of landowners along the way. Too bad about Mazent; people were saying he and his daughter had spoken of leaving town before his death.

  It was a moment before the woman’s words, so casually spoken, made sense. Elene said, “You mean — M’sieur Mazent is dead? Flora’s father?”

  “I fear so. Such a tragedy.”

  “He died of the fever?”

  “No, no. I did not mean to mislead you. The medical men were quite sure it was yellow fever at first, or else a colic due to his stomach disorders. But then this doctor of chemistry brought from France by the colonial prefect chanced to view the body. He said at once that the cause of death was neither fever nor colic. It was one you will never guess!”

  As Madame Tusard paused expectantly, Elene shook her head. “I’m sure I won’t. What was it?”

  “Arsenic, chère. Can you believe it?”

  Arsenic. First Hermine, now Mazent. A chill moved over Elene. “Oh, but how? Why?”

  “No one knows. There seems to be no reason, though some suspect the maid Germaine. Flora is prostrate, of course, poor child. Also, her betrothal was just about to be announced. One supposes that will be postponed until after the mourning period.”

  “This doesn’t seem possible. Are you sure?” A second death from poison would be too bizarre. What connection could there be between the two, that of an actress and a middle-aged planter?

  “There is disagreement between Mazent’s physician and Laussat’s man. The doctor from Paris is said to have mentioned a smell of garlic as pointing toward the poison, though garlic is a common seasoning in food here.”

  “Then it may have been a natural death, after all,” Elene said in relief.

  “It may be. Of course, there are always those who will snicker and claim, when a man Mazent’s age keeps a mistress, that he expired from what is known as an excess of physical excitement.” The woman’s eyes glittered as she made her suggestion.

  “You mean—”

  “Precisely.”

  “M’sieur Mazent and Germaine, after all this time. It seems unlikely.”

  “I assure you these things do happen.”

  Elene sought for a way to deflect Madame Tusard’s thoughts. “Flora will be lost without her father.”

  “Indeed. The wealth she will inherit will not make up for her loss, though I suppose the fiancé will come forward to support her; certainly he could not be so foolish as to be backward in that regard. No doubt the man was the choice of her father. Flora need not have him now, of course, though I cannot picture her doing otherwise.”

  “Not really,” Elene answered, though her mind was not on Flora’s reaction to her marital prospects. “Who do you think this fiancé could be?”

  An expression of annoyance crossed Madame Tusard’s face. “The chit does not say; in fact, she is being most stubborn about keeping the name of the paragon a secret. Why, one can only imagine, unless there was some disagreement between her and her father — which is why I wonder if she will have her father’s choice now.” The glint of a shrewd smile crossed the woman’s black eyes. “One is privileged to guess the man’s identity, regardless, and I can’t help remembering that it was Durant Gambier who escorted Flora on the night we attended the vauxhall.”

  It was precisely what Elene had been thinking. Almost to herself, she said, “I cannot quite see the two of them together.”

  Madame Tusard laughed, a sound shocking in its bitter irony. “Nor can I, but stranger matches have been made when money calls the tune.”

  Elene thought of the money Durant had been spending and the death of Mazent that had made his daughter an heiress, and a shiver moved over her.

  From the corner of her eye, she saw Ryan start forward. His features set in a hard mask, he said, “That will be enough for now, I think. I’m sure Elene is grateful for your visit, Madame, but she must not tire herself.”

  “Oh, but I have so much more to tell—”

  “Another time.”

  The brusque words were a dismissal. Madame Tusard made her good-byes, though not without a number of resentful glances in his direction. Ryan paid no attention whatever, but removed the pillows from behind Elene’s back where she was propped against them and settled her in her bed for an hour of rest. It might have been her imagination, but Elene did not think his hands were as gentle as they usually were, nor his admonition that she sleep quite as concerned. Moreover, while she rested, he left the house for the first time in weeks.

  Josie came the next morning while Ryan was out. She was dressed in a fashion more than little reminiscent of Hermine’s, being less fluffy than was her usual wont.
It gave her a certain flair, and even a modicum more dignity. She could not imitate Hermine’s voice, however, along with her manner of acting and her clothes, and though she was entertaining in her chatter of plays and fashions and bits of scandal, she could not duplicate Hermine’s caustic wit.

  “How is Morven?” Elene asked.

  “Much as usual. He holds the widow captivated while flirting with all and sundry. I don’t know what the fuss is about. He deigned to give me a tumble one evening while the widow was out, and frankly he wasn’t that much as a lover.”

  Elene nearly choked on her coffee. “You mean you and he—”

  “Over before I knew it. I was never so disappointed in my life. Men are so funny. It’s the ones you would never expect who are best.”

  “Speaking from your vast experience?”

  Josie grinned. “I’ve had a few, more than you, I don’t doubt. Now, my new man isn’t much to look at, but he knows how to use what he has, and the dear is so grateful for being allowed the privilege. He is also more generous than you would believe. Nothing could be more perfect.”

  “You mean to marry him?”

  “Why should you think so? No, no, I have no wish to be tied to any man. Besides, he’s married.”

  “I see.”

  “Do you now?” Josie asked, preening a little, arching her back to push out her chest as she looked at Elene askance. “I don’t see you jumping into wedlock with Ryan. I have it from Madame Tusard that he is most attentive, guarding your health and comfort with the devotion of a knight-protector.”

  “She exaggerates,” Elene said with an attempt at a light laugh.

  “Does she? When he has not left your side for weeks? This is dedication beyond most lovers — beyond most husbands, for that matter. You would do well to capture him while you can.

  “Would I indeed?”

  “You needn’t jeer; you don’t have a profession to fall back on.”

  “I have my perfume,” Elene said with a shading of stubbornness.

  “So you do, which reminds me that I must have a bottle. I’ve spoken of it to — to my lover, and he has given me the money. He dotes on giving me what I want.”

  Elene looked around for Devota to send after the bottle of scent, but at some time during the conversation the maid had slipped from the room. Josie rattled on about other things, jumping from the death of Mazent, and Flora’s subsequent expedition for mourning clothes that had enriched several dress shops, to a boating party given by Bernard Marigny for a few of his male friends and two or three carefully selected women, one of whom had been Flora. Somehow, the perfume was forgotten.

  Elene thought of it perhaps a half hour after Josie had left. She turned at once to Devota, telling her the problem. “Why don’t you deliver a bottle to Josie?”

  Devota paused in her task of stacking the coffee cups Elene and her guest had used on a tray along with their crumb-filled cake plates. It was only a brief hesitation; still, it took on significance as Elene stared at the maid’s stern features, noting the way she avoided meeting her eyes.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “Nothing, chère. How could there be now that you are growing stronger?”

  “It’s the perfume, isn’t it?”

  There coursed through Elene’s mind a sudden spate of memories, of Devota bringing the new perfume to her while she talked to Hermine. Of the three days Ryan had refrained from touching her in their bed while she went without scent, and the way he had returned to her as magnet to steel when she had used the newly made perfume. Josie’s words so short a time before echoed in her ears. Devotion. Has not left your side for weeks. Dedication.

  Devota’s silence was an assent.

  “It’s the same. You replaced the missing ingredient.”

  “It was not right otherwise.”

  “It isn’t right now! You can’t go around giving people such power!”

  “I thought you did not believe in it?”

  “How can I not?” Elene said, the words a cry of despair.

  “The power is greatest where there is belief, and knowledge.”

  “But that doesn’t mean it won’t work. Does it?”

  “No, chère.”

  “Do the others, Serephine and Germaine, know what they bought?” Elene asked slowly.

  “They know.”

  Of course they would, being from Saint-Domingue. Most likely they were members of the Voudou cult, familiar with its mysteries. Hermine had not known, and Hermine was dead.

  Aloud, she said, “You told them, but not me.”

  “It was to safeguard your future! You should have married Ryan, then this would not matter.”

  Elene stared at her maid, her eyes dark with the knowledge of her betrayal. She had thought Ryan’s devotion, Ryan’s love was for herself. “It would matter.”

  “It was for you, only for you.” The maid’s words, though soft-spoken, hovered in the air.

  Elene closed her eyes, suddenly tired beyond measure. After a time she heard the quiet rattle of crockery and Devota’s soft footsteps as she went away.

  Elene lay still, trying to grapple with what it meant that the perfume was not as she had thought, trying to think how many people had the perfume and how they might be affected by it.

  She could not avoid thinking of how it affected her, also. Once she had been fascinated by the capacity of the scent to enthrall, to captivate. Now she felt as if she was its most certain slave, for none was more dependent on its power than she who had none without it.

  14

  ON THE FIRST DAY THAT ELENE felt strong enough finally, to exchange her nightgown and wrapper for a morning gown of yellow batiste embroidered with green leaves and vines and to leave her cushions and settee, she descended the stairs to the ground floor workroom. She moved with care, not only because of the lingering weakness of her illness, but because she did not want to attract Devota’s attention. The maid would not approve of what she meant to do. It would be best if it was accomplished before she learned of it.

  Elene found an empty olive oil jar, a pottery vessel shaped like a huge snail. She would have preferred a pail, but since none was available, she would make do. Placing the jar on the workbench, she took down the bottle that contained the last of the perfume Devota had made. Removing the stopper, she poured the contents into the olive oil jar. Setting the empty bottle aside, she reached to gather the small, ribbon-tied blue bottles that she had made up for sale. She held one in her hand, feeling its slight weight, smoothing her thumb over the glass.

  She thought of the pride and hope that had gone into its filling, of the dreams of independence, and the certainty she had felt that she was doing something to secure her future. There was so much diligent effort contained inside, Devota’s as well as her own, so many plans, so much anticipation of success. Useless, all of it had been useless.

  Tears welled up, burning in her throat, spilling over her lashes. Her fingers tightened around the small bottle until they were white.

  Power, that was the main thing the perfume she held represented, the ability to control men, and therefore the pleasures and elegancies of life. Power, not just for herself, but for countless other women. What a boon it could be to them, providing the means to order their existence as they wished, without regard for the dictates of men. It was a breathtaking thought.

  It was also a power it would be base to use, and possibly dangerous. She could not do it, could not allow it.

  With a sudden movement, she wrenched the stopper from the bottleneck, and tipped the small amount of perfume into the olive oil jar. The smell of the liquid rose into the air, cloying in its richness, stifling in the failed promises and subjection it had come to represent. Elene allowed the last drop to fall, then set that bottle aside. The perfume dripped over her fingers and onto the crisp lavender and green ribbons at the bottle’s neck, but she ignored it. She reached for another bottle, and another.

  “What are you doing!”

  It was De
vota who cried out the question, her voice as near a scream as Elene could ever remember hearing it. Elene did not look up as she answered, “Removing an unfair advantage.”

  “This is madness!”

  “Funny, it seems the only reasonable thing to me.” Elene set down the bottle she held and brushed away tears with an impatient gesture before picking up another. There were three left.

  Devota’s gaze moved from the bottles that were left to the pottery jar. “What will you do with it?”

  “Destroy it.”

  “By pouring it in the street? Isn’t that a risk?”

  “That someone will roll in the mud or scoop it up, dirt and all? I hardly think so. But I mean to pour it into the river. That should weaken it.”

  “I can’t let you do it”

  “You can’t stop me.” Elene’s voice was rough with determination.

  “Think of your mother’s necklace. How will you regain it if you destroy what was bought with it? You will lose it.”

  “I can’t help that.”

  As Elene reached to take another bottle, Devota shot out her hand and grabbed up the two that were left, holding them to her bosom. “These I claim as my part, for my labor.”

  Elene did not think, just now, that she would be able to wrestle the bottles from Devota, even if she felt it necessary. She did not. There was more than one way to neutralize the perfume’s effect.

  She met the maid’s brown concerned gaze, her own implacable. “Wear the scent yourself if you wish, but you must not sell it.”

  “No, chère.”

  “I have your promise?”

  Devota made a brief gesture as binding as any Christian oath to those who would recognize it.

  “Very well then. Is there anyone else you sold or gave it to that I don’t know of, anyone other than Hermine and Germaine and Serephine?”

  “No one.”

  “Good. It should be easier then.”

  Devota watched her, her dark eyes opaque with hidden thoughts. “What do you mean to do?”

  “Get back the perfume that was sold.”

  “That may not be easy.”