Tainted Lilies

by Becky Lee Weyrich

  She thought back over the day, frantically trying to piece things together. After the two pirates had taken Sukey from the cabin, one of them came back for her. She’d been terribly groggy at the time, dazed from the blow to her head. She remembered the man fumbling at her dressing gown, using vile language when she tried to fight him off. Then he’d lashed her to the cabin bunk. The next thing she remembered was seeing the corpse-strewn deck and the second party of men leaping over the side to do battle. Finally, her last waking vision from the ship: this man who claimed to be Jean Laffite poised to strike a killing blow. But how had she escaped that perfectly aimed thrust of his rapier?

  How did I get here? she wondered. And where are Aunt Gabrielle and Sukey? Then strange, wistful pieces of her dream crowded in from the edges of her memory—the soothing parts where love took away all the pain and revulsion of earlier in the day. Who was that tender pirate who plundered her while she slept?

  In order to avoid answering her own questions, she tried to get up to find her robe. But the effort of moving made her head throb. She lay back against the pillows and studied her surroundings, forcing her mind from all thoughts of Jean Laffite.

  The room represented a microcosm of many countries and cultures. The wall opposite where she lay was dominated by a massive armoire of cedar, masculinely handsome in its solid strength of design. Next to it sat a black lacquered dressing table with oriental pictures inlaid with mother-of-pearl and gold. A mahogany half chest like the one her father used for storing spirits stood near one window, its door ornamented with gilt figures of the Greek deities Aphrodite and Apollo.

  She turned and spied her tired face in an oval mirror set in an ebony frame, its side candle-holders supported by winged sphinxes.

  The bed itself was most elaborate of all, with its fanciful turnings touched with gold leaf, its monogrammed sheets of antique gold satin, and heavy, burgundy velvet hangings suspended from a corona attached to the high ceiling.

  “Like a king’s bed,” she marveled to herself.

  “It was, once.”

  A sudden flash of lightning illuminated the room for an instant. Jean Laffite lounged against the doorframe, dressed in a gold velvet robe, the exact color of the flecks in his green eyes—eyes now caressing her bare shoulders from a distance.

  How long had he been standing there watching her? Nikki had no idea.

  “King Carlos of Spain slept in that bed—he and his many lovers shared it. I borrowed it,” he offered her a slightly mocking bow, “especially for you, mademoiselle.”

  She hugged the sheet closer, feeling totally defenseless in her nakedness.

  “If you’ll kindly give me my clothes back, I’d like to 6e on my way home.”

  “Home? But this is home—my home, Grande Terre. Maybe you’ll like it after you’ve been here a while. I hope so.”

  She tried to ignore his remarks and the smoldering look in his eyes. “Where are my aunt and Sukey?” she demanded.

  “Safe… resting.” He moved closer to the bed.

  “How long have I been here?”

  An enigmatic smile touched his lips when she made a slight gesture with her hand, which seemed to suggest that by “here” she meant in his bed, rather than on his island.

  “Long enough, Nikki,” he answered, reaching out to caress her shoulder. “Don’t you remember anything?”

  “No!” she gasped.

  She watched one eyebrow cock upward as he drawled, “A shame.”

  Those two words seemed to say so much—more than she wanted to hear. Tears gathered behind her midnight blue eyes, but she refused to allow him the satisfaction of seeing her dismay. It had only been a dream! He wouldn’t have… would he?

  Thunder crashed suddenly, making the whole room clatter and quake. Nicolette felt the shock deep inside her and cried out. Laffite took her into his arms to comfort her.

  “No!” Nicolette pleaded, terrified by his nearness. “Don’t touch me!”

  Jean Laffite rose from beside the bed, looking down on her, his smile vanquished by her words.

  When he spoke, each word jolted Nicolette’s nerves and conscience. “But I already have, Nikki.”

  She couldn’t think of anything to say. When the full impact of his words struck her, a sob wrenched from her throat and she turned her face into the pillows to muffle it.

  “It isn’t the end of the world, you know. Drink this,” he ordered, holding out a steaming cup of tea laced with hundred proof rum, which had been warming over a candle by the bed. “It should calm you. You’ll be able to sleep. Don’t worry. I won’t disturb you the rest of the night. I’ll take the guest bedroom until you get used to the idea of having me with you.”

  Still clutching the sheet tightly to cover her trembling breasts, Nicolette turned and allowed Laffite to support her with his free arm while he held the paper-thin china cup to her lips.

  Better to drink quickly, she thought, and then he will leave. Her mind refused to remember anything clearly after the initial invasion of her cabin onboard the Fleur de Lis. Just as well, she told herself. If Jean Laffite made love to me, I’m better off not remembering.

  “Good girl,” he said when she’d swallowed the last of the scalding tisane. “Iil send Sukey in… now that you and I have finished with

  He started to rise from the bed, leaving his sentence as unfinished as Nicolette’s thoughts. She was just allowing herself a sigh of relief when Laffite turned back to her. Without warning, he pulled her into his arms. The sheet slipped until her bare breasts felt the contact of his hard, bare chest. He covered her lips with his and clung to her—searching, probing until Nicolette felt she would drown in her own desire.

  She might have lost her will completely—thrown off the partitioning sheet to feel the full length of his body pressed to hers—had he not broken their embrace, cleanly and abruptly. He strode to the door without looking back.

  Nicolette collapsed, trembling and gasping, among the down pillows. What had she done? What had she allowed him to do? If only the fuzz would clear from her brain! Her shame and embarrassment at the thought of Jean Laffite being the man in her confused dream—the man she longed for so desperately—drove all the horror of the time with the Sea Ravens captain to the black recesses of her subconscious.

  Nicolette tried to hold her heavy lids open until Sukey arrived. It was useless. Whatever potion Laffite had forced upon her, its effects were quick and sure. Gathering shadows dulled her senses.

  The rain drummed a soothing tattoo on the window-panes and roof. With the darkness that crept into the room came an easing of her mind. At last she felt totally relaxed. Her breathing became even and heavy.

  Only faint sounds penetrated the curtain of drowsiness descending over her—the shuffling of feet, the ticking of a clock, pots and pans rattling, voices outside in the hallway. Men’s voices. Or was she dreaming again?

  “You gone crazy, Boss?”

  “I know exactly what I’m doing, Dominique.”

  “But I heard what you told her just now. She’s gonna think you did this to her!”

  “Dom, don’t you understand? The girl can’t go home to her fiancé now. Not after what they put her through. Her pristine Creole husband would make her life hell after he found out on their wedding night. I don’t think she even realizes what’s happened to her. I told her aunt I’d take full responsibility and I mean to.”

  “Responsibility is one thing, Boss. But to take the blame! Sacrebleu! She may hate you tomorrow!”

  “Let’s hope not, brother. A wife shouldn’t hate her husband.”

  The dream voices drifted off out of Nicolette’s consciousness with the rest of the world. She missed the end of the conversation—the part where Jean Laffite told his brother how much he loved her. She slept.

  Chapter Three

  Sukey and Gabrielle both went to Nicolette’s room as soon as Jean Laffite left her. But when Madame DelaCroix saw that her niece was sleeping peacefully, she left for her own b
ed, trusting the servant to keep careful watch over her charge.

  Sukey eased her old bones into a fragile gilt chair beside the bed, where she could monitor every breath Nicolette took—every flutter of an eyelash or twitch of a muscle. Out of habit from years long past, she crooned a soft lullaby in gombo, the patois spoken by Creole slaves, a combination of French and ancient African dialects. One toe tapped the thick Turkish carpet and her turbaned head nodded slowly.

  For nearly an hour, Sukey’s eyes never left Nicolette, who slept fitfully, her dreaming obvious in the soft sounds she uttered from time to time. Still, the smile on her face indicated to Sukey that her night-wanderings were pleasant. She had no need to worry about her enfant.

  The servant nodded off finally, releasing her own mind to travel back over well-worn roads of memory. She saw herself, a younger and more energetic woman, hovering over the accouchment bed as Francine Vernet, frail and terrified, struggled to give birth to Nicolette on December 8, 1794.

  Sukey might not remember her own birthdate, but she would never forget the day Nicolette was born, during the great holocaust that destroyed most of New Orleans.

  She could still see the unearthly orange glow on the blush-pink walls of the third floor bedroom of the old house on Toulouse Street. She remembered the hysteria in her mistress’s pain-filled eyes, heard her frantic moans: “The bells… the cathedral bells! Why don’t they ring?”

  She listened in her dream to her own words of reassurance: “Don’t fret yourself, madame. This time won’t be like back in the fire of ‘88. This isn’t Good Friday. The priest, he’ll ring the bells in time… bring all the menfolk running to put out the blaze before it gets to us. You just lay easy. Let that baby come natural.”

  In her dreams, Sukey went again to the window of the bedroom. She felt the air, stifling for the month of December. She gazed out at the tongues of flame licking along Royal Street, leaping and gnawing across rooftops to threaten Toulouse Street. She prayed fervently for M’sieu Claude to hurry back with Dr. de Beaumont. But the men never came. The bells never rang. Sukey alone tended her mistress—sponging her, trying to quiet her, promising her things that only God could deliver.

  The sleeping servant broke out in a sweat and squirmed in the elegant, uncomfortable chair. Somewhere deep in Laffite’s mansion, a clock chimed five.

  Sukey started joyfully out of her doze. “The bells, Miss Frannie! The bells, they ringing!” Then she realized where she was.

  She rose and went to gaze down at her sleeping mistress. “Those bells rang that day, Mam’zelle Nikki, and you came into this world right then. Couldn’t wait to hear their beautiful sound. Not you! No, you never could wait, little missy.”

  Nicolette stirred and smiled, seeming to understand that Sukey was watching over her—that all was well.

  Sukey sat for a while longer, remembering. Francine Dubois Vernet had had other pregnancies, other children. But one by one, they slipped away—fever, measles, even a freak carriage accident, which plunged two of the Vernet children, their nurse, and the driver off the top of the levee to watery deaths in the river. Only Nicolette, the child born of fire and fear, had survived.

  “The one horn for love,” the old servant whispered.

  The house at the corner of Toulouse and Royal Streets remained untouched by the fire with mother and daughter safe and healthy inside. Among the slaves, Nicolette Vernet’s birth had been and still was looked upon as an omen. They considered her birth miraculous and expected extraordinary things from her.

  “But just how many miracles can one person expect to conjure up in a lifetime?” Sukey muttered softly, shaking her head. “This child ain’t got nine lives like a cat!”

  Her mind still roaming, Sukey didn’t hear the door open quietly behind her. She jumped when a hand touched her shoulder.

  “Oh, Madame Gabi, it’s you!”

  “Go along to bed now, Sukey. I’ll sit with Nicolette until she wakes up. Monsieur Laffite has had a room down the hall fixed for you, so you’ll be close to her.”

  Sukey nodded to the statuesque woman whose hair was piled high as an ebony tower and whose curving body, unrestrained by corset or stays, was wrapped in a shimmering robe of silvery-rose silk. How different Gabrielle DelaCroix was from her frail and timid sister, Francine Vernet.

  “Sukey, is that you?” Nicolette’s voice came small and sleepy from the huge bed.

  “No, darling, it’s Gabrielle. I sent Sukey to bed. We didn’t mean to wake you.”

  Nicolette propped herself up against the pillows, her dark eyes luminous in the moonlit room. The sheet slipped and Gabrielle caught a glimpse of her niece’s naked breasts—two pale globes peaked with perfect twin rosettes of dusky pink. She looked away quickly, allowing Nicolette to cover herself.

  “Tante, what are we doing here? We have to get home… to Papa and Maman… and whoever else is waiting for me.”

  Gabrielle took her niece’s hand and stroked it with long, satiny-smooth fingers. “Why, Nikki, we all need a rest before we start for home. It’s a three-day joumey along the bayous through the swamps—and according to Captain Laffite, that’s under the best conditions. With these heavy rains, it isn’t even safe. He doesn’t want to endanger us further.”

  Gabrielle eyed her niece, trying to read any reaction to Laffite’s name that might register on her face. Nicolette maintained a closed expression.

  “He’s very charming, don’t you think?” she prodded. “The type of man any woman would desire.”

  “Oh, how should I know if he’s charming?” Nicolette suddenly burst out. “He did take me to the ship when I left that awful night Octave was killed, but that was only for convenience. Maman had gone into a swoon and Monsieur Laffite had his carriage there and ready. Of course, we were properly chaperoned by Sukey. Otherwise, Papa would never have allowed him to drive me, even the short distance to the levee. As for what I’ve seen of him since we were attacked—almost nothing! How could I know if he’s charming or not? I suppose he might seem so to some women, but I really haven’t noticed him that closely.”

  Nicolette realized that her words were tumbling all over each other in their rush to deny to her aunt*that Jean Laffite held any special allure for her. She was glad dawn hadn’t dispersed the deep purple shadows in the room so that the other woman couldn’t see the tinge to her cheeks, throat, and breasts which felt hot—a brand proclaiming her shame.

  “So you’re anxious to get home to whatever man your papa says is right for you? Live out your life in New Orleans with a husband you don’t even know?” Gabrielle asked in an accusing tone.

  “But I do know him!” Nicolette insisted. “Papa wrote that we’d met… talked

  “Kissed?” Gabrielle demanded.

  “Well, of course not! That would be unthinkable before we’re officially engaged. Why, I’d never let a man take such liberties!”

  “You let Jean Laffite!” Gabrielle’s statement came like a shot. “Sukey told me you let him kiss you that night on the levee. She was scandalized.” She paused, holding her niece with a piercing gaze. “And tonight he was in this room with you for a very long time before he called Sukey to come in. Do you want to tell me what happened?”

  Nicolette caught a ragged breath. The last thing she wanted to discuss with anyone was what went on during that time between herself and her pirate captor!

  She forced a reply out of her parched throat. “Would you believe me if I told you I don’t know what went on?”

  Gabrielle put a slim, bejeweled finger under Nicolette’s chin and raised it until they were eye to eye before she said, “Probably not, unless it’s like an old conjure woman in New Orleans told me years ago—that people can block out of their minds things that they don’t want to remember or don’t want to admit to themselves.” She paused, letting the full portent of her words sink in. “All I know is that I came to this room with Sukey to peek in after he left and you were sleeping. You were wearing a lovely smile, my darling, noth
ing else!”

  Gabrielle DelaCroix paused dramatically to allow her niece a chance to speak, but Nicolette said nothing. The girl either truly didn’t remember or had no intentions of enlightening her aunt as to what had transpired, considering it none of the other woman’s business.

  That’s fine, Nikki. Don’t tell me a thing! Gabrielle thought to herself. I didn’t want to discuss my first affair with anyone either.

  When Nicolette continued to hold her tongue, her aunt tried again to provoke some response. “You know, ma chere, proper Creole ladies, even married ones, keep their robes de nuit on and modestly tied up to their chins when they allow their men to…”

  “Aunt Gabrielle!” Nicolette gasped.

  Gabrielle didn’t finish her sentence, but laughed quietly at her niece’s stricken look.

  “I’m not blaming you, dear. Monsieur Laffite, as I said, is a most charming man, and undoubtedly, a lover to be reckoned with! And, if the truth be known,” she whispered, “I’ve always found the bedpost a convenient place for my nightgown under similar circumstances. But then no one ever accused Gabrielle Dubois DelaCroix of being a proper Creole! We are much alike, you and I, mais oui?’

  “Please, Tante, you’re embarrassing me.”

  “Very well, Nicolette. But before you plead with Jean Laffite to take you to New Orleans to be locked into a loveless marriage for the rest of your life, give it some thought… a great deal of thought. If my guess is correct, you are no longer a chaste maiden.”

  Nicolette guessed the same, but hearing it said aloud and so bluntly came as a terrible shock. A sob escaped her tight-drawn lips.

  “Don’t act so devastated, Nikki!” Gabrielle snapped, annoyed suddenly. “You aren’t the first tainted lily and you won’t be the last. Our kind survives. We even have it better than most, in my estimation. After it happened to me, I ran away to Paris rather than be forced to marry another man. I could have refused my papa’s orders and stayed in New Orleans, of course. But that would have meant ‘tossing my corset on the armoire’—being resigned to an old maid’s fate. Can you see me knitting and gossiping with those old crows? It’s too outrageous to contemplate!