Creole Hearts

by Toombs, Jane

A long bang shattered the silence, a gunshot. Another, then another. Bells clanged, voices shouted.

  Senalda flinched and pulled away from him.

  "It's but the charivari," he assured her. "They saw the lights go out and so they

  thought--”

  "How barbaric! They act like peasants."

  "It's merely a custom," he said soothingly. "Come to the balcony with me and wave to them. They'll soon go away if we do."

  "Tanguy, I'm in my night robe. I won't have them staring at me."

  "It's dark, no one can see more than is proper. Come." He put an arm about her waist and urged her toward the double glass paned doors that led to a small balcony.

  Senalda resisted him. "I won't be treated like a servant girl."

  Guy sighed. "Sweetheart, everyone respects you."

  "You aren't even—you aren't clothed," she protested.

  He slid his arm into the sleeves of his robe and tied the sash. "I am now," he said, damping down his growing annoyance. "We'll go to the door." Despite himself, the words came forth as an order.

  Senalda said nothing, walking with him to the doors, waiting while he pulled the curtains aside, opened one, then stepped onto the balcony.

  A cheer went up.

  Senalda slipped from the room to stand by his side and the group below shouted their approval.

  "Good night," Guy called down to them.

  "Sweet dreams," a man's voice called back. Others laughed.

  Guy led Senalda inside and closed the glass door. He guided her back to the bed. He touched the front of her robe, feeling for the buttons. She pushed his hand away.

  "Cherie" he said, "certainly you don't intend to sleep in your robe."

  "I'll take it off myself. You—you get into bed first." Her voice quivered.

  He smiled in the darkness. A maiden's fears.

  He'd be loving and gentle. Guy took off his own robe and slid naked between the sheets.

  Long moments later he felt Senalda climb into bed on the far side. He waited a few seconds before he moved close to her and touched her.

  "My darling," he whispered, "my love."

  When he tried to caress her breast he found she still wore a thin night shift. "You won't need this," he told her as he began to pull it up her body.

  "Don't," she begged, clutching at his hand. "Do what you must—but don't undress me."

  "It's all right," he said. "I'm your husband, Senalda. I want to feel your loveliness next to me with no cloth between. Trust me, cherie."

  "No, no, I want my gown left on. It's a sin. The other—that's a husband's right but I won't be naked."

  Guy sighed. The exhilaration of the wine was gone, leaving him with a slight headache. Have patience, he counseled himself. Gently he slipped his hand under her shift and touched skin that was silkier than the finest fabric from China. He ran his finger along the curve of her hip and along her side until he felt the soft roundness of her breast.

  Senalda, rigid, submitted to his caresses.

  He leaned over and put his lips to hers. She gave no answering pressure. He let the tip of his tongue trace the outline of her lips, hearing a small sound of—was it protest?

  Guy pulled back. "What is it?" he asked. “We’ve kissed many times before and always you clung to me, felt pleasure in my embrace, at least I thought you did."

  "It was different then," she said.

  "But how?"

  "I wasn't your wife. A kiss was permitted but nothing more. Now . . ." She fell silent.

  "Has my kiss changed so much since yesterday?"

  "You want to do more. What a husband does."

  "Well yes, Senalda. We're married in the eyes of God and man. It's no sin to love one's wife." Her gardenia scented flesh so close to him made him burn with desire. He laid his palm on her cheek. "I'll show you that love between a man and woman is a heavenly gift, a wonderful feeling."

  "I know it's my duty," she said. "I won't refuse you."

  Guy rose on one elbow to run a hand over her shoulder down across the wispy cloth, pushing the shift up until he could touch her bared thighs. Her caressed her slowly, finally slipping his hand into the soft warmness between her legs. He heard her draw in her breath. Carefully, he caressed her, clenching his teeth against his own mounting need.

  He pushed the shift higher, putting his lips to her breast, his tongue circling her nipple. She hadn't relaxed, he could feel her tenseness. He tried to be patient, to go on touching her, caressing her, but he could no longer control his desire and with a groan he pushed her legs farther apart and thrust himself into her.

  She screamed.

  He wanted to draw back, knowing he was hurting her, but it was too late. He couldn't stop, but could only hold her to him and thrust within her until his overwhelming need was satisfied.

  Afterwards, he tried to comfort her as she lay sobbing next to him, but she turned her back and in a few minutes he fell asleep. He woke in the night and reached for her, but when he felt her flinch from him he moved away from her to sleep again.

  In the morning she wasn't in the bed when he woke. He sat up. "Senalda?"

  She came out of the dressing room wearing a blue velvet robe, a hairbrush in her hand and smiled at him as though the night had never happened.

  I'll make it up to her, he told himself. The next time I'll be more patient. I won't hurt her again.

  But as the days and nights passed, Guy found that no matter what he did, no matter how hard he tried to give Senalda pleasure, she could only view the marriage bed as a duty. And a disagreeable one, at that.

  In April, after a night of gambling with friends, when he found himself heading up the rue des Ramparts at dawn, he hesitated only a second, shrugged and went on.

  Aimee stared at him when he opened her door. Her peach robe had been hastily thrown on and her eyes were still drowsy.

  "Guy!" she cried, running to him and flinging herself into his arms, clinging to him, laughing and crying at the same time. She smelled not of gardenias but of woman.

  He kissed her, finding her full lips warmly responsive. He picked her up and carried her into the bedroom.

  Her body was strange under his hands, yet only when he felt the roundness of her belly did he remember the child. But she wanted him, her eyes, her lips, her body told him. He made love to her and it was like coming home.

  Guy visited Aimee often after that. She offered him the physical love that Senalda wouldn't or couldn't give him. Though he adored his beautiful blonde wife, he began to treat her more casually.

  Aimee's son, Denis, was born on July Fourth, a day the Americans celebrated with fireworks, music and speeches as the birth day of their country. His country. Denis' country.

  Guy found himself caught in the festive spirit of the day. After all, the child might be his and despite being born a little early and small, he was a healthy, beautiful boy. Besides, it was only polite to help the Americans mark this twenty eighth anniversary.

  Still, he didn't really feel the United States was his country. He didn't think of himself or his friends as Americans. On July fourteenth, Bastille Day, the Creoles had their own celebration, one that meant more to Guy than the Fourth.

  The remainder of the year sped by. Guy assisted General Wilkinson in his dealings with the Spaniards over a contested strip of land on the southwestern border between the Louisiana Territory and Spanish held Texas.

  Guy admired and had confidence in the general until late in the year when a man named Aaron Burr came to New Orleans and spent long hours in conference with General Wilkinson. None of the general's aides, Guy included, were made privy to what was discussed.

  The coffee houses buzzed with gossip, rumors that the general was a secret spy for Spain, that he was plotting with Burr to form a western empire of Louisiana and Mexico.

  "I don't fancy Americains," Andre told Guy. "Still, I believe the governor is honest enough. Why doesn't he arrest General Wilkinson?"

  “We might join in Burr's
scheme and then take over the empire ourselves," Rafe Devol said. "Louisiana for the Creoles. Nicolas Roulleaux would agree with me, even if you don't, Guy."

  In his heart he did agree, Guy thought. In his mind, he knew the Creoles were too few, the Americans too many to make any such cloud castle plan practical. About Burr he wasn't so certain. The man was charming and persuasive. If Burr had Wilkinson in back of him, might not his scheme succeed?

  * * *

  Early in 1806, Senalda told Guy she was expecting his child. He celebrated the news with a party and afterwards, in bed, took his wife into his arms.

  "You've made me very happy," he told her as

  Senalda lay limply in his embrace.

  "You mustn't touch me now," she said. "It's not proper. We mustn't come together as man and wife until after the baby is born."

  Guy, who'd been thrilled to the center of his being at the idea of a La Branche heir, couldn't help but think of Aimee, and how she'd welcomed his love making until the very month of Denis' birth. He turned away, suddenly not wanting to hold Senalda, his desire for her gone. After an hour of trying to fall asleep, he rose, dressed and went to the rue des Ramparts where he spent the rest of the night with Aimee.

  The next day he registered Aimee's son in the parish books as Denis La Branche.

  Senalda was upset when Guy didn't come back to La Belle for a week.

  "Can it be he's been taken ill in the city?" she asked Madelaine.

  "We would have heard. He's staying in the townhouse, no doubt."

  "No, he's not. I asked Josefina to seek him there. The servants at the townhouse haven't seen him."

  Madelaine thought it very unwise of Senalda to trust her maid, Josefina, with such a query. The slave was capable enough as a maid but she was young and talkative. It would be all over the city that Madame was a fool for not realizing where her husband was. The slaves, all the people of color knew very well. Certainly Josefina knew, as did most of the Creoles. Even I know, Madelaine thought.

  "Don't fret over Guy, Senalda," Madelaine said. "He'll be home when it suits his fancy."

  "Josefina said something about another house in town—a cottage?"

  Josefina was a menace. "A—a cottage?" Madelaine repeated, trying to think how to parry Senalda's next question.

  "By the fortifications at the edge of the city. Why would Guy have a cottage there?"

  Madelaine wasn't fond of her sister–in-law. In truth, Senalda acted as though everyone else was of less consequence than herself. She deplored Madelaine’s manners, her demeanor, even the way she wore her hair.

  It’d been months since she’d been able to slip away to meet Philippe because once Senalda had caught her coming into the house in the evening at a time she shouldn’t have been outside. Since then Senalda had taken all too much interest in her comings and goings.

  “I really don’t think Guy has such a cottage,” Madelaine managed to say.

  Senalda’s blue eyes narrowed, grew chill. “You’re not telling me the truth, Madelaine—you constantly lie to me.”

  A spurt of anger thrust words onto Madelaine’s tongue. “If I’m lying it’s because I was trying to keep you from knowing. If you must have the truth, Guy has a placee and she lives in that cottage. It’s hers, and that’s where he is now. With her.”

  The color drained from Senalda’s face. Madelaine put a hand over her mouth, whirled and fled from the room.

  When Guy returned to La Belle that evening, Senalda was waiting, her face pale and set.

  “You’ve been with your filthy quadroon,” she burst out as he came under the parlor archway.

  Guy stooped, staring at her, then drew a deep breath. “Madame,” he said between clenched teeth, "this is not a matter for discussion.”

  Senalda stalked across the room and slapped him, hard. “I’ll talk about it if I choose,” she cried. “How can you do such a thing to me, to your wife?”

  “If you acted more like a wife in bed and less like a stick of wood,” he began furiously, When her shriek of rage cut him off.

  “Animal! Beast! To lie with a black woman when I carry your child!”

  Guy’s eyes glittered. Do you think you’re the only woman in the world who’s ever been pregnant?” he shouted. “I already have a son by Aimee. A boy named Denis.”

  She flew at him, beating at his chest with her fists, screaming and crying. He tried to fend her off but she struggled with him, clawing with her nails, until he finally clamped both her wrists in one hand. "Josefina!" he yelled. "Come here, Josefina!"

  The black maid appeared instantly in the archway and hurried to Senalda. "Hush," she said. "Be still, Madame."

  Senalda was beyond hearing as she alternately sobbed and laughed, twisting her body from side to side, her hair straggling down from its chignon.

  Madelaine rushed into the parlor. "Can I help?" she asked, her voice trembling.

  "We must put Senalda to bed," Guy told her.

  As they led the resisting Senalda from the parlor, Guy saw the other house servants gathered in the foyer.

  "Tend to your duties," he ordered harshly and they dispersed.

  The three of them managed to get the hysterical woman up the curving staircase and put her to bed. Senalda curled on the far side, her body shaking with sobs.

  "Give her something to calm her," Guy ordered and Madelaine hurried to measure a draught of laudanum which Josefina finally coaxed Senalda to swallow.

  In the hall outside the bedroom, Madelaine touched her brother's sleeve. "I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to tell her about your placee but she kept asking and I ..."

  "It's all right. Someone else would have told her if you hadn't. In fact, I—I supposed she knew. Most wives . . ." He broke off. "This isn't fit conversation for your ears, Madelaine."

  She shrugged.

  Guy sighed and shook his head. "Senalda will get over this," he said. "She'll be... "

  "Mademoiselle Madelaine!" Josefina's voice was shrill with fear. "Please come. Blood be over the bed. She do be losing her baby."

  Chapter 7

  Guy devastated with guilt over the loss of the child his wife carried, tried at first to comfort her. Senalda, pale and listless, only turned her face from him and didn't speak. He'd moved to another bedroom during the time of the miscarriage and there he stayed, aware that she wouldn't welcome him back to her bed.

  Somehow, soon, they must have a rapprochement, he knew, but he couldn't seem to reach Senalda as she sat wanly in her bedroom, refusing to come downstairs even though Dr. Goodreau had assured her she could return to her normal activities.

  Guy wasn't happy, either, about his position with General Wilkinson. At first Guy had thought the stout, red faced American rather foolish, but he had learned that the genial manner concealed a ruthless efficiency. Guy tried to ignore the rumors that branded Wilkinson a Spanish spy, conspiring with the Marquis de Casa Calvo.

  After all, Governor Claiborne, under orders from President Jefferson, had sent Casa Calvo a passport with "best wishes for the health and happiness of the nobleman whose presence has become so unacceptable."

  Whereupon the angry marquis left New Orleans for Spanish held Florida.

  Was it likely the President would tolerate the general remaining as Commander in Chief of the United States Army if the gossip about him and the Spaniard had been true?

  More rumors drifted down the Mississippi about Aaron Burr recruiting men for a takeover of Mexico and Louisiana. General Wilkinson's name became ever more firmly linked to this conspiracy.

  Guy couldn't make up his mind if the general was involved in the filibustering scheme or not, and he was torn between resigning his position as aide to the man he suspected of being a traitor and staying on to keep close watch on the general.

  The hot months passed, the sugar cane harvesting began, then the grinding. Guy was in the sugar house at La Belle with the overseer when a messenger arrived from General Wilkinson requesting that Guy report to him immedi
ately.

  Guy hurried to the house to change his clothes. As he came down the stairs dressed for town, he saw Madelaine waiting for him in the foyer.

  "I'm worried about Senalda," she said.

  "You told me last week. I'm in a hurry now, we'll talk later."

  "This can't wait. She's—different. She acts strangely."

  Guy sighed. "I know she's not herself."

  "Is there anything you might do to—well, to make her take an interest in things again?" Madelaine asked.

  Guy gazed at the tip of his boots. He'd let too much time go by without insisting that Senalda accept him in her life, in her bed. The truth was he no longer desired the pale, cold ghost of the haughty beauty he'd married. Yet she was his wife and he knew they must reconcile.

  Many months had gone by since the loss of the baby. Perhaps if Senalda became pregnant again she'd improve. As soon as he came back from meeting with the general he'd force the issue.

  If he gave his whole heart to wooing her, was there a chance he could make Senalda love him with all of herself? To be his wife completely? If that could happen, surely he’d regain his desire for her, Guy struck his fist into his hand.

  Dieu, he’d give it his best shot. In a way, he still loved her.

  He smiled at Madelaine. “I’ll do my best to help Senalda,” he said. “Now I must go to the general.”

  "Burr's threatening New Orleans," General Wilkinson told his aides and officers in a secret meeting. "We'll fortify the city, set up blockades. I intend to ask the governor to declare martial law."

  "Burr's coming down the Mississippi?" Major Tomlinson asked.

  Wilkinson nodded curtly. "I've informed President Jefferson of the threat against New Orleans, but we can't expect troops to get here before Burr and his men."

  "How many does he command?" the major asked.

  "Perhaps as many as ten thousand."

  The room was silent. New Orleans had the newly formed guarde de ville, the city guard, and the Louisiana militia available. Neither were large, nor were they seasoned fighting groups.

  "I'll be sending a force of men upriver to watch for Burr's expedition, to strike at him if he slips past the guards at Natchez." The general looked from one to the other. "I'll accept volunteers."