by Toombs, Jane
Guy reached for a glass of white champagne and raised it. "To President Thomas Jefferson," he cried. "To the United States of America.”
There was a moment's silence. He saw de Laussat's approval, Andre Lafreniere's sardonic glance, Gabriel's raised eyebrows and the mocking smile of Nicolas Roulleaux. Then everyone lifted their glasses and drank as the cannon continued their salute.
Nicolas grabbed a glass. "To the fair and lovely ladies of all countries," he said.
With wild shouts of approval, the men drank, glasses raised in complete agreement.
For the moment.
Chapter 2
The day was clear, the weather mild after the rain. Guy sauntered down along the banquette, the plank sidewalk, past delicately colored two story houses of blue and peach and pale green stuccoed over brick. Across the street a Negro woman, a slave, emerged from one of the tall glass doors onto the lower gallery.
The contrast of dark skin with her red tignon, the madras handkerchief tied over her head, was pleasing to the eye. The Spanish hadn’t succeeded in humbling the Creoles of color with Governor Miro’s ordinance twenty five years before that forced tignons onto the heads of Louisiana women of color, free or slave. None had dared to appear in public without a tignon since then, but female ingenuity had made them ornaments to enhance the beauty of the women.
The slave sloshed water from a bucket across the wooden floor, once, twice. Through the iron scrolls of the carriage gate, Guy caught a glimpse of a banana tree rising in a courtyard. A small yellow bird flew through the space between the tip of the gates and the archway above and soared into the washed blue of the sky.
Blue as the Spanish eyes of Senalda Gabaldon. Guy’s steps slowed as he remembered dancing with her last night, for one dance only. Ah, how beautiful she was, but how aloof. She wished to return to what she called the "civility of Madrid."
He'd have his work cut out convincing her she should stay in New Orleans and marry him. Before Mardi Gras. Not merely because he'd openly announced his intentions, but because he wanted Senalda for a wife. After seeing her, only she would do. He hadn't seriously considered marriage before meeting her.
"Un bon placage vaut mieux qu'un mauvais manage." A good placage is better than a bad marriage. He muttered the words under his breath. Wasn't it possible for both to be good? He was no different than most of the Creole men he knew, taking a free woman of color as a placee, in place of a wife.
Francois, the fencing master, was born of such a union between Guy's father and a mulatto named Genevieve Olivier. She'd died of yellow fever the same year the disease killed Guy's mother and his baby sister.
Francois was seven years older than Guy, a black half-brother, freed as a matter of course by his father. He bore the La Branche name and was certainly as talented as any La Branche with the sword—as well as with the mulatto women, or so it was rumored. But, of course, no black could ever inherit a white father's property. Francois had no claim on La Belle.
Surely Senalda would be happy at La Belle, Guy thought. He'd make her as happy as she'd make him by consenting to the marriage.
As he neared St. Louis Cathedral, next to the Cabildo at the Place d'Armes, Guy looked to his left, seeing the masts of the ships in the river, French, Spanish and American, stretch out like a forest afloat, as many ships as he'd ever seen anchored there at one time. He turned right onto Orleans, passed the gardens behind the church and walked toward the rue des Ramparts, his pace quickening. He'd not seen Aimee for a week with the press of his duties as aide to the prefect.
Ah, Aimee, with her skin the color of heavy cream and as smooth and tasty. She had the ripest breasts, the roundest hips of any quadroon in the city. Guy smiled as he remembered how he'd won her from the very arms of Nicolas Roulleaux at one of this year's Quadroon Balls. Aimee had been far and away the belle of the ball.
Gentle Aimee, eager to please him in all ways. Was he to give her up when he married? Not all men deserted their placees when they married. He'd at least see Aimee was provided for. If Senalda was his, he wouldn't need a placee. Would he? Some men said otherwise.
His father hadn't given up Genevieve for there'd been other children besides Francois, one a girl the same age as Madelaine. All except Francois were now dead of Bronze John, the yellow fever.
The afternoon was too fine to spend worrying about the future. It would take care of itself, would all work out. Meanwhile, he'd enjoy Aimee.
At the rue des Ramparts, Guy turned to his left toward a row of one storied white cottages built directly on the ground. Aimee's was at the far end, somewhat apart from its neighbors. He'd bought it for her. As he hurried his steps, he saw her on the porch, waving. She ran to meet him and Guy caught her in his embrace.
"Oh, I've missed you so," she whispered.
He picked her up, carried her into the house, strode directly to the bedroom and laid her atop a spread of ecru lace covering the mahogany four poster.
"Un minute, s'il vous plait,'' she begged, sliding off the bed and taking off the lace cover, folding it carefully. Her hands began to unbutton his waistcoat.
"No," he said. "Take your clothes off. I want to see you as I undress."
With the charming grace of a kitten she swayed and bent as she slipped off her gown and her chemise. The light brown nipples of her breasts came erect as he gazed at her, his coat and shirt in his hands.
She was lovely, a pale yellow Venus, and she was his. Guy tore at the buttons of his breeches, ripping one off in his haste. It rolled onto the floor as he yanked his breeches down, stepped out of them and reached for Aimee.
She came into his arms with a little cry and then he could think of nothing but his need, feeling her silky skin, the softness of her breasts. He lifted her onto the bed and lay beside her, wanting to savor his excitement, but when he touched her he couldn't wait.
Her sex was smooth and warm as he entered her and she clung to him, fueling his desire so that it rose out of control, mounting, mounting, until he exploded in a spasm of release.
A few moments later he lay beside her again, facing her, lazily watching the rise and fall of her round breasts. His fingers moved to a nipple and he caressed it gently.
"What have you done while you were missing me?" he asked.
He thought she tensed. "I—I've done nothing," she said.
Guy raised himself on one elbow to look at her. She stared up at him, her yellow cat's eyes wide.
"Nothing at all?" he said.
Tears spilled over and ran down her cheeks. "Oh, why do you ask?" she cried. "You know I'm yours and no other's."
"Sweet Aimee, I wasn't accusing you."
She began to sob brokenly. Guy gathered her into his arms, stroking her back. "Hush," he murmured. "Hush."
She pressed against him, her tears damp on his chest. As he caressed her, his hands moved down her back and along her hips until at last she sighed and wiped at her eyes.
He trailed his hand along her thigh, between her thighs and she quivered and clung to him. His mouth found her breasts, first one, then the other. Aimee moaned, closing her eyes.
He kissed her eyelids, tasting the salt of her tears, then ran his tongue over her lips until they parted.
"My love, my heart," she whispered.
When he mounted her he did so gently, easing inside with a slow rhythm that increased only when she arched to him, her hands insistent on his back. Then he let himself go, pounding into her faster and faster, hearing her small cries of pleasure before his own passion climaxed.
Aimee slid from the bed a few minutes later.
"Don't go." he said.
"But I must find the button you lost and sew it back onto your breeches." She slipped her arms into a peach colored robe whose thin batiste revealed the contours of her shapely body.
He watched with amused affection as she threaded a needle and bent to her task with solemn concentration. She was dear and wonderful and he would take care of her always.
Aimee l
ooked nothing like her mother, Vedette Rusert, f.w.c., free woman of color, who'd once been the placee of a Creole planter from upriver. Vedette was tall and thin and her skin was darker. He'd only seen her once.
"Aimee, does your mother still dance the voodoo?" he asked.
She looked at him in surprise. "She's the voodooienne, the voodoo queen—she must dance."
"Doesn't it frighten you?"
"A little. 1 don't like to go to the voodoo. Since I have my house here with you, I never go. My sister Estelle . . ." She paused.
"I've met Estelle," he said. Taller, older, darker, more like their mother. Estelle had never been presented at a Quadroon Ball, no Creole would chose her as a placee, She was the wrong type.
"What about her?"
"Estelle understands voodoo. She's not afraid of the snake like I am. She goes."
Aimee bit off the thread and smoothed the breeches across her lap. "There."
He yawned and sat up. "I'm hungry," he said. Aimee rose and placed his breeches on the chair.
"I've made okra gumbo with shrimp and pain patate, sweet potato cake."
"Have you wine?"
Aimee bit her lip. "Only biere douce, sweet beer, I'm afraid."
Guy liked the Creole beer made from the skins and eyes of pineapples fermented with sugar, rice and water. He smiled at her. "My favorite meal."
Aimee served him, taking nothing herself while he ate, although he urged her to sit with him. "I'm not hungry, that's all," she told him.
"Can you please stay for the night?" she asked hesitantly as she set coffee before him.
He took a sip and sighed appreciatively. She'd made the coffee exactly as he liked it. Noir comme le Diable, forte comme la mort, doux comme l'amour, chaud comme l'enfer. Black as the devil, strong as death, sweet as love, hot as hell.
"I can't stay," he said. "I'd like to, but I can't. There's a party tonight, one every night this week to celebrate the Spanish transfer, and the prefet expects me to attend them all."
She crossed her arms over her breasts as if cold, though the room was warm enough. He reached out to touch her. "I wish I could be with you tonight," he said. Still she didn't smile or change her posture.
"What's the matter, Aimee? Are you all right?"
She dropped her arms, only to clutch her fingers nervously together. "I'm fine. I'm very well. Nothing is wrong."
"Sit, then, and have coffee with me."
Aimee poured herself a half cup and perched on the edge of a chair next to him. She touched the cup to her lips. The sun slanting through the slatted blind on the window gleamed in the black hair curling to her waist. She turned her head and he noticed the lovely curve of her throat. Desire flickered in him again.
If only he'd ridden instead of walking. There wasn't time. Guy got up from the table. Aimee rose, too, taking his arm and pressing her body against his side as she walked with him to the front door.
"Tomorrow?" she said hopefully.
He lifted her chin and looked into her eyes. Something troubled her. Was it his week's absence? "I'll come tomorrow," he promised.
As he walked away from the cottage he saw a dark skinned woman dressed in white, her tignon white as well,. As she passed, he recognized her as Estelle, Aimee's sister. He turned and called her name.
She stopped, looked back at him, then turned to face him. She said nothing, her large eyes as dark and unrevealing as bayou water.
"Estelle, I want to ask you about Aimee," he said. "She's upset. Do you know why?"
"You'd have to ask her, Monsieur La Branche. Only Aimee can say."
"If you know, tell me," he demanded.
He stared at her, certain now there was a great deal wrong and also certain Estelle wouldn't reveal a thing. She looked sullen, almost defiant. He quelled an urge to grab her shoulders and shake the truth from her. It wouldn't do to lay hands on Estelle in the street, and besides, he had little time to spare. Already the gaming tables at the party would be ...
He heard a shriek and looked over Estelle's head to see Aimee running from the house toward them.
Estelle turned just as Aimee flung herself at her sister. "No, you mustn't tell him," Aimee cried. "You promised you wouldn't. Not him or maman. You promised."
Estelle put an arm about Aimee and urged her back toward the cottage. "Be still," she said. "Don't be a spectacle for others to watch." She didn't glance at Guy.
He stood for a moment watching them. By damn, he’d discover once and for all what this was about, he vowed, striding after the two women. Aimee wept wildly and he took her other arm, helping Estelle lead her inside. He shut the door.
"You may as well tell me," he said to Estelle, his voice cutting through Aimee's wailing.
Estelle sat beside Aimee on a settee upholstered in gold velvet and held her sister in her arms. She looked at Guy over Aimee's head.
"No," Aimee sobbed. "Please, no."
"I must speak now, cherie" Estelle told her. "It's too late to ask for silence." She took a deep breath. "I want you to understand, first of all, that Aimee isn't to blame. She's not like me, not a fighter and she was helpless."
"I know what Aimee is like," Guy said impatiently. "Just explain what's wrong."
"He came here two nights ago, Aimee told me. She thought it was you and so opened the door. He pushed past her into the house. Aimee was so frightened she couldn't cry or even move. And who'd have listened if she had screamed for help?"
"Who was he?" Guy spoke through clenched teeth, glaring down at the two women.
"He took Aimee against her will," Estelle said angrily, tightening her hold on her sister. "She's afraid you'll blame her and leave her. She says she'd die if you left her, and she well might. So she didn't tell you. Aimee has feelings for you . . "
"Damn Aimee's feelings," Guy shouted. "Who is this man?"
"Monsieur Roulleaux," Estelle said. "Monsieur Nicolas Roulleaux."
In the blueness of early evening Guy paced back and forth on the banquette across the street from the Roulleaux townhouse. Seized with fury as he was, he still wouldn't lower himself to ask for entrance into the house. Nicolas would be out sooner or later—he could wait.
Guy took deep breaths, trying to calm himself. His defi, his challenge to Nicolas, must be proper even though he longed to batter the bastard with his fists, to grind him into the mud of the street with his boots.
The small door to the courtyard opened, a man came out. Guy drew himself up and stalked across the street. "Nicolas Roulleaux!" he called.
The man turned. "I'm Philippe," he said.
Guy stopped abruptly. The brothers looked much alike, and in the fading light he'd mistaken the slighter Philippe for Nicolas. They both had the same brown curls, the same hazel eyes. Roulleaux eyes.
“I seek your brother, not you," he said. "Where is he?"
"Who seeks me?" Nicolas' voice came from behind Guy. He whirled, saw Nicolas standing in the courtyard door.
Guy strode back to him, raised his hand and slapped Nicolas across the cheek, a light blow but hard enough to jerk Nicolas' head to the side. Guy gritted his teeth to keep the furious words back. A defi must remain courteous.
"To the death." Guy's voice was low and intense. "No apology accepted. You know the cause, it need not be stated."
Nicolas smiled mockingly. "If you think you've grown expert enough to challenge a master,” he said, "we shall meet. My choice is the colichemarde, the rapier."
"My second will be Gabriel Davion," Guy told him.
"Marc de la Harpe will be mine. Sous les chenes, under the oaks?"
"I prefer to meet on the Fortin plantation, in the old place," Guy said. He didn't add that La Branches had met Roulleauxes there before. Nicolas knew this as well as he did.
After the duel, he knew, the question would be asked a hundred times and more in the coffee houses.
"Which of them lived?"
Guy vowed the answer wouldn't be, "Nicolas Roulleaux."
Chapter 3
<
br /> Although the sun had risen, tendrils of mist still wavered like ghost moss in the branches of the cypress trees edging St. John's Bayou. Frogs croaked in unison and from among the reeds came the high pitched whistling call of a red winged blackbird.
Guy shifted from one foot to the other, his rapier unsheathed and ready.
"You're good," Francois had assured him earlier. "Only I, myself, could take you for sure now. Don't lose your head, go after him like a cane snake, only don't give warning like the rattler does."
I'll take Nicolas, Guy assured himself. Take that bastard. He could feel the beat of his heart, rapid, impatient for the duel to begin. He started when Gabriel spoke to him.
"Are you ready?"
"Yes."
"I'll inform your opponent's second." Gabriel left Guy's side and walked to where Nicolas stood talking to Marc.
The seconds conferred briefly. Only the four men were on the field beside the bayou, since both Nicolas and Guy had refused to have a doctor stand by.
Guy moved into position, Nicolas did the same. They faced one another, unsmiling.
"En garde," Marc cried.
Swift as a Chitimacha Indian arrow, Nicolas' rapier cut through the air. Guy avoided the thrust adroitly, feinting to the right, then lunging so that Nicolas turned slightly to face him. Guy twisted and came at him from the left, his blade catching and slitting Nicolas' right sleeve.
Guy changed his ground, circling Nicolas. Nicolas closed in, pressing Guy warmly. Still Guy circled, feinted, circled again. The rapiers flashed in the sunlight as first one man, then the other, parried murderous thrusts.
The tip of Guy's rapier pricked Nicolas' right arm. Blood stained the torn shirt sleeve. Had this been a first blood duel, Guy could now step back, his honor satisfied and the duel would end. But he was out for his enemy's heart's blood, nothing less would do.
Guy smiled tightly as he sidestepped a rush from Nicolas, his confidence growing, feeling he'd become the better swordsman. He began maneuvering to keep Nicolas to the right so he could finish him with a well-directed coup de pointe a droite. He circled, making Nicolas follow him. He was almost ready . . .