The Creole Princess

by Beth White

  “Shut the door and come sit down.” Simon dropped into one of the wing chairs, leaving her to choose the sofa or the other chair.

  The sofa was closer to him. As she sat, the hem of her skirt fell across one of his boots, and she stared at it, afraid to look at him. He was going to hurt her in some way, and she didn’t want to see it in his eyes.

  “I can’t ask you to marry me.” He threw the words like stones into the silence.

  She absorbed them. Do not cry. Do not.

  He took a harsh breath. “But I will, when I come back. If I come back. Your papa said I might.”

  And then she looked up into his face. His deep-set eyes, so dark as to be nearly black, bored into hers with a banked passion that flooded her with such relief that she came close to fainting.

  Then she realized what he’d said. “When you come back? Where are you going?”

  “I can’t tell you. And you mustn’t wait for me. I’m leaving in the morning at daybreak.”

  “I m-mustn’t wait for you? W-what do you mean?”

  He looked away. “If I’m not back in a year, you are to find someone else to make you happy, because—because that would only be right.”

  She jumped to her feet. “Simon! What have you done?”

  “I’ve found a way to gain your father’s blessing. A way to make a fortune for us—so you can live like the English lady you are.”

  “No! I don’t want that! Why did you not ask me what I want? All I need is you!” She had said it aloud, and if that made her a pathetic beggar, so be it.

  His head bowed, and he clasped his hands across the nape of his neck.

  “Look at me, Simon Lanier! I know you love me, and I know my father loves me, but in this case you are both a hundred miles away from wisdom.” When he didn’t move, she flung herself to her knees in front of him and put her arms about him. “Please, beloved, don’t go away from me. I’ll talk to Papa and make him see I’m determined to—to belong to you. If he won’t agree, then we’ll just find another place where we can live together in peace. I’d rather—”

  “No!” He sat up, taking her hands and holding them still, his eyes blazing. “Don’t you see, that is exactly what I cannot do? My father destroyed his relationship with his family forever by marrying beneath him, and I won’t let you do that with me. You can’t possibly know the misery that kind of poverty brings. It’s—please, Daisy, I couldn’t bear it.”

  Stubborn pride limned every angle of his face. She would not easily get around it. “All right, but there’s got to be another way. What about your grandfather? Lyse says he has reestablished the connection with your father. He’s still a wealthy man and would undoubtedly sponsor you in business. Or—has he already?” She frowned. From where she knelt before him, the polished bronze buttons of his waistcoat were in her direct line of vision. “Simon, where did you get these clothes?”

  “I paid for them—I worked for them. Just like everything else I own. Nobody—nobody, do you hear me?—is going to give me anything I didn’t earn. Not my grandfather, not your father, not even you.”

  “But that isn’t how love works! It isn’t earned, it’s given freely, expecting nothing but love in return.”

  “And if you love me, you’ll understand why I have to make my own way. Daisy, this is who I am, it’s how God made me—like the color of my hair and the shape of my hands.” He let go of her to spread his big hands, palms up, fingertips brushing the ruffle on her fichu. “There’s something I have to do, to prove to myself that I deserve you. It’s—it’s already in motion anyway, and there’s no going back.”

  She stared at him for a long, hopeless moment, sensing him retreating from her by the heartbeat. Finally, she bent to press a kiss in each of his callused palms. “All right then. But know this. If you’re not back in a year, I will come looking for you.”

  10

  Watching the anteroom door, Rafa conferred rather at random with the violinists regarding the next choice of music. As he stood pretending to listen to one of the fiddlers rhapsodize over a new tune called “Love in a Village,” he watched the colors of the company shift like a series of glass windows in a cathedral.

  Earlier, while dancing with Daisy, he had seen a tall young man whom he didn’t recognize from the back approach Major Redmond. The dark blue coat fit smoothly over broad shoulders, rich lace fell from the piped cuffs, and the buff-colored breeches were carefully tailored. Curly, unpowdered dark hair was clubbed in a neat queue. There couldn’t be many men in this backwater little town who dressed with such fashionable flair—so who was he?

  When the younger man abruptly bowed to the major and turned on his heel, Rafa had nearly swallowed his tongue. Simon Lanier? When had he turned into this—this dandy? No wonder poor Daisy was so taken aback.

  And what subject had so completely occupied Simon and the major that the two of them quit the room for nearly half an hour? When they returned and Simon closeted himself in the anteroom with Daisy for a most improper length of time, Rafa’s curiosity sprouted like mushrooms after a rain. Something odd was afoot.

  Suddenly the anteroom door opened, and Simon emerged alone. He pushed through the crowd and stalked outside again with nary a word to a soul.

  Rafa turned to the violinist, waving a hand. “Yes, yes, señor, of course, but I must leave you now and return to the ladies, else they will think I’ve more interest in music than in dance—which is true, but not the impression one likes to leave with one’s hostess. Yes?” He dodged a bow, then leapt from the dais and followed Lanier to the door.

  There was time to speak to neither Daisy nor Lyse, but he took a quick look over his shoulder on his way out the door. Judging by the uniforms crowding the far corner of the room, Lyse was being inundated with offers of dance partners. Regretfully forfeiting the satisfaction of swooping her out from under the noses of all those redcoat rubes, Rafa slipped outside onto the gallery. The mission had to come first.

  Lanier had disappeared into the darkness. Rafa hesitated, listening, anxiously searching the quiet innyard. There was no knowing whether Lanier had arrived on foot or on horseback, but supposing Major Redmond had given him some assignment, he would likely need some means of transport.

  Before he could take action, a quiet voice rumbled from the shadows beside the tavern door. “You need some’n’, sir?”

  Zander, Burelle’s houseman.

  Rafa hesitated, decided not to waste time. “I meant to speak to Señor Lanier regarding transport of supplies out to my ship, but I see he has slipped away. I don’t suppose he mentioned where he’s off to?”

  Zander’s dark form materialized as he moved into the light beside the door. “No, sir. But he left on foot, headed toward the water. You might catch him, if you hurry.”

  “Ah. Thank you, Zander.” Flipping a coin in the slave’s direction, Rafa vaulted over the porch rail to the ground.

  As he rounded the corner of Royal and Dauphine streets, he could see a few lights flickering along the wharf, where the piers jutted into the water. Fishermen, oystermen, and shrimpers were cleaning nets and dumping the remains of their catches into wagons. He walked the short block to Water Street, aware of every movement and sound. Lanier could have stopped in any doorway, and he knew he could pass by his quarry without knowing it.

  He hesitated. Maybe he should forget the whole thing and return to the party. One more dance with Lyse—

  Then out of the darkness came a growled half-curse, followed by an indistinguishable answer in a deep, Creole-accented voice. That second voice—Lyse’s brother Simon. He’d met Lanier only once, and that nearly a year ago, but a musical ear for voices was perhaps his greatest gift. He continued toward the water, angling south toward the second pier.

  The voices grew louder, amplified by the water but distorted by distance. Now Rafa distinguished two dark figures moving around on a midsized vessel. One man was bullish, with big shoulders hunched under a large head, the other tall and lithe, the build of a h
ealthy young man in the prime of life.

  Rafa slowed and slouched into a boneless, drunken meander perfected while watching the court cards of Madrid when he was at university. He began to whistle the first thing that came into his head, the air from “Love in a Village.”

  The argument onboard the boat halted.

  “Who’s there?” demanded Lanier.

  The Bull sneered, “Just some redcoat wandering the wrong way back to the fort. Pay him no mind.”

  “Shut up,” Lanier said. “Wait until he’s gone by.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  Rafa staggered past a stack of empty kegs and lurched into them. They fell with a rattle and boom of empty wood, rolling under Rafa’s feet. With an exclamation he fell heavily and lay supine. After a moment he began to snore.

  He could hear the men on the boat laughing.

  “See, nothing to worry about,” the Bull snickered.

  The two men continued to shift some cargo across a gangplank. From his vantage point among the tumbled kegs, Rafa counted some twenty crates they moved from the pier to the hold of the boat, apparently heavy ones, judging by the grunts and swearing. Consumed with curiosity, he listened, trying to determine what exactly was being transported, and where.

  When the last crate had been hauled over and disposed of, the two stood panting on the pier. Lanier gave the Bull a jingling handful of coins and said, “There’s more if you can keep this quiet. I’ll be back in a few months, depending on how long it takes me to disperse this.” He paused, his tone darkening. “Not a word to anybody, hear me?”

  “This is more than I’ve made in months, Chazet,” the Bull growled. “No need to threaten me.”

  It was all Rafa could do to keep from sitting straight up. He had heard that name before—in reference to the pirate in the Gulf who had absconded with the king’s gold.

  Several pieces fell into place.

  But a multitude of questions rose to take their place. How much did Lyse know of her brother’s clandestine activities? Where had Simon been keeping the gold to this point? Where was he moving it now? And why? What did Major Redmond have to do with it, if anything?

  Of course Rafa wanted it back. He must have it back, because the American cause depended on its delivery to purchase arms, uniforms, food, and other necessities. But perhaps there was a way to obtain it without bloodshed, maybe even deliver it to General Washington without further expense to the Spanish crown.

  Think, Rafa.

  He must get a message to Gálvez in New Orleans, because he was going to need help. Perhaps one of his brothers could meet him—but again, where?

  Acting on instinct alone, he sat up with a snort and loud groan. He was still rubbing his eyes when he felt cold, hard metal press against his temple.

  “Make a move and I will blow your head off, Spaniard.”

  He opened one eye and squinted up at Lanier—Chazet the pirate, Rafa reminded himself. Lyse’s brother. The Bull stood right behind him, a second musket aimed at Rafa’s midsection. “Hola, my dear señor,” he said, grimacing at Lanier. “Someone, as you see, left a very untidy pile of barrels right in my path. Sorry if I disturbed you.” He extended a hand. “Perhaps you wouldn’t mind—”

  “I wouldn’t mind pitching you into the river,” Lanier said grimly. “What are you doing here, and why are you following me?”

  Rafa sighed. “I would be happy to tell you, but I confess the gun in my face is upsetting my already queasy stomach.”

  Lanier glanced at his companion, who shrugged, and both men stepped back. As he pushed to his feet, however, Rafa noticed that neither gun wavered.

  He took the bull by the horns, so to speak, and shoved aside Lanier’s musket, an expensive flintlock of Italian origin. Interesting. “I’m not following you,” he said with less-than-absolute candor. “I came down here on a notion that I might find someone willing to help me move supplies out to my ship.” He paused. “I believe you are in the family transport business?”

  Lanier’s frown deepened. “I saw you at Burelle’s, dancing with Daisy—Miss Redmond. There was nothing stronger to drink there than the worst lemonade in West Florida. Cut line, Gonzales. You were following me, and you are neither drunk nor stupid. So tell me what game you are playing.”

  Rafa blinked. That emotion he saw in the Frenchman’s eyes was mainly jealousy, mixed with the obvious distrust and puzzlement. Lanier was in love with the major’s daughter. Which explained a lot. “I certainly did dance with the lovely Miss Redmond, and the lemonade is undoubtedly the source of my dyspepsia. Also, I rejoice that you perceive me to be an intellect, though my Latin tutor might disagree with you.” He scratched his head. “Where was I? Oh, yes—I was looking for a man named Chazet, but if I attached myself to the wrong shadow, I sincerely apologize.”

  Lanier flinched. “Chazet is no longer here. What do you want of him?”

  “He has something that belongs to me, and I should like to have it back.”

  Rafa had kept his voice deliberately cool and light, but the words hung between them, a palpable threat.

  Lanier said coldly, “You shouldn’t expect him to have retained whatever you lost.”

  “That is a great deal too bad.” Rafa shrugged. “You must tell him—should you chance to see him when he returns—that no matter what style of brigand the English have been tolerating in the Gulf, our new governor Gálvez is determined to stop the smugglers using New Orleans as a clearinghouse for their wares.”

  “Is it so?” Lanier’s lips twitched. “And what does he propose to do about it? Theoretically speaking, that is.”

  Rafa was pleased to note that the musket was now pointing at the ground, and Lanier’s attitude seemed almost amused. Bull had taken to looking back and forth between the two of them, an expression of dumb confusion coloring his blunt features.

  “Why—” Rafa spread his hands—“he has authorized and armed his Spanish majesty’s navy with the means to halt, board, and search any vessel which approaches the waters of the city. If her captain does not possess proper documentation for all laden goods, Gálvez reserves the right to seize the ship and confiscate her cargo.”

  Lanier’s amusement vanished. “That’s grounds for war!”

  “Oh, no, it is all quite within the most recent trade agreement between Madrid and London.” With a subtle flick of his wrist that he was sure would have delighted Lyse, Rafa produced a knife from his sleeve and let its oiled blade gleam in the moonlight. “But, my dear señor, I beg you not to commence waving about that terrifying gun again, because I have a proposition that I think you will like, if you take but a moment to ponder its wisdom.”

  “A proposition?” Lanier sneered. “By all means, let’s hear it.”

  “Why, simply this. I propose that you and I become . . . partners, shall we say, and enter the port of New Orleans together. If you come in under my aegis, there is likely to be little fuss about such details as documentation and cargo manifests.”

  “Now I know you are insane! What do you expect to gain from this—this—partnership?” Lanier spat the word as if it burnt his mouth. “And what makes you think I plan to sail to New Orleans?”

  Rafa wanted to laugh. Sometimes, oh, his job was so much fun. “Well, as to that, you are clearly upset by Governor Gálvez’s previously unsuspected backbone. And as to what I hope to gain . . . let us just say that I would like a share in whatever is in your hold.”

  Lyse lay awake late into the night, listening to Daisy’s muffled sobs, wondering what her pestilential brother had said to provoke such despair—and touching her lips, where the imprint of Rafa’s mouth still lingered like the taste of blackberries after rain.

  What a wanton to have allowed such privilege without mention of one word of marriage. And after all, what did she know about him, beyond surface chatter at the social functions they had attended? That he had a mother and a beloved sister. He liked to fish and pretended not to be good at it. He was a merchant who spoke at le
ast three languages. He had a delightful, whimsical sense of humor and sang like an angel. His clothes were beautiful and he could make a living as a dance instructor.

  In short, she knew little—except that, with him, nothing was as it seemed. Like one of those beautiful jewel-toned lizards that in the summertime sunned themselves in the Redmonds’ garden, Rafa would take on the color of the closest background. And then disappear without the least notice.

  She would be wise to cast her lot with Niall, who could be depended upon to say what he meant and mean what he said.

  Father, have mercy on me, she thought. I am undone.

  She rolled out of bed and slid to her knees beside the bed. She’d always prayed in times of crisis. And her life had been one crisis after another. Surely there were calluses on her knees. And now Rafa had blown like a hurricane across her little island of peace here with the Redmonds, stirring up longings that could never be met. For all she knew, he had gone back to New Orleans without a word of goodbye. After he’d uttered those weak words “depend upon it” and left her, she’d seen him work his way to the musicians’ dais. Then, while her back was turned, he had simply vanished.

  Prayer would not come. She knelt with her forehead pressed to the counterpane, eyes squeezed shut, knees aching. Daisy was quiet now. Perhaps she had fallen asleep. Or maybe she lay awake as well, trying to form words of self-comfort.

  Lyse pushed to her feet, found her slippers and robe, and padded down the hall to Daisy’s room. She opened the door. “Daisy,” she whispered. “Are you asleep?”

  “No.” The answer was hoarse, teary. “I just—can’t sleep.”

  Lyse slipped inside the room. “Me either. Can I come in?”

  “Of course.” Bedclothes rustled as Daisy sat up. “What’s the matter?”

  Lyse felt her way to the bed and climbed onto it. “I heard you crying,” she said, pulling her knees up under her chin. She could see the outline of Daisy’s white bedcap and nightgown, a small ghost hunched in the canopied bed. “What did Simon do this time?”