Charlotte's Promise

by Jennifer Moore

  Servants, soldiers, slaves, and even Indians gathered among the shops, but what surprised her most were the beautifully dressed dark-skinned women mingling among the wealthy crowd. In Mississippi she’d only known blacks as slaves. It seemed that in New Orleans the same rules didn’t apply.

  The sounds of music, of voices speaking various languages, the colorful clothes and people, and the smells of fish and butcher shops were new and fascinating. Charlotte craned her neck, wanting to see everything, to take it all in. Children ran through the crowd, and she looked closely at each face, searching for her brother.

  “Charlie, there you are.” Captain Thatcher took her arm and steered her though the crowd. They walked past the rough men into a small dimly lit shop.

  Charlotte squinted as her eyes adjusted. It appeared the shop didn’t specialize in one type of merchandise but sold everything from bolts of silk to weapons to exotic spices. She even saw a box of assorted shoes.

  Captain Thatcher kept hold of Charlotte’s arm as if worried she’d get lost again. And she kept hold of her coin pouch and ring, thinking this place looked rather disreputable.

  Marchand spoke in French to a man on the other side of the counter. The man glanced at Captain Thatcher and Charlotte and then went into the back room. A moment later he returned and motioned for them to follow.

  When they stepped through the curtain that separated the small shop from the back room, Charlotte gazed around, realizing they were in a warehouse of some sort, lit by sunlight filtering through high windows. Dusty boxes and barrels surrounded them, some partially opened or in the process of being unpacked. An assortment of wares was piled up haphazardly.

  The French-speaking man disappeared behind a stack of crates and reappeared a moment later accompanied by another.

  The new man raised a hand and grinned. “Alden Thatcher. Wondered if I’d ever lay eyes on you again.”

  When the man drew closer, Charlotte saw he was much older than she’d envisioned an overseer of a smugglers’ warehouse to be. His hair was white, his back stooped, and wrinkles covered his face like cracks in a rock.

  Captain Thatcher smiled and shook the man’s hand. “I just keep turning up, don’t I, Jim?”

  “Like a bad penny,” the older man grunted as he sat on a crate. He motioned for the others to do the same.

  The captain touched Charlotte’s arm, motioning with his head for her to sit near him.

  “Jim, you remember Henri Marchand.”

  “I do.” Jim nodded toward the Cajun man.

  “And this is Charlie Bower, another of our crewmates.”

  “Charlie.” Jim nodded to her.

  “We’d hoped to see Pierre,” Captain Thatcher said. “Is he—”

  “Arrested,” Jim said. “And, naturally, he’s already escaped, but he’s lying low for now. Governor Claiborne sent the navy after Lafitte’s island in Barataria Bay.”

  Alden raised his brows. “Destroyed?”

  Jim shrugged. “Parts of it. But of course Jean Lafitte is too crafty to store all of his valuables in one place.” He turned a shrewd gaze to Captain Thatcher. “And to what do I owe the privilege today? You’ve something for me to sell, no doubt.”

  “Indian tea,” Alden said.

  “Always in demand,” Jim said. “And possibly more so, should the city be taken by the English.”

  “You believe New Orleans will be invaded?” Alden asked.

  “I do. English ships have already taken Lake Borgne.”

  “They think to invade through the bayous?” Marchand snorted. “An ambitious and foolish plan.”

  Jim gave a cruel chuckle, showing a mouthful of missing teeth. “I imagine the area looks much easier to traverse on a map.”

  “A pity the Americans drove away the Baratarians,” Alden said. “They could have used their expertise. Nobody knows the bayous like the Lafittes.”

  “And that’s just where things get interesting,” Jim said. “In spite of the governor’s offense, Jean Lafitte has thrown in his lot with Andrew Jackson. Made a bargain for the pardon of his men and gave the American general an enormous stash of weapons.”

  “Jean must think the Americans have a chance of holding the city,” Alden said. He rubbed his chin. “What do you think, Jim?”

  Jim scowled. “I think the English army is the most powerful in the world. They’ve not been defeated and have the advantage of troops and experience.”

  A slice of fear moved through Charlie’s stomach.

  “But . . .” Jim held up a crooked finger. “I also trust Lafitte’s instincts. The man is never wrong.”

  Voices from the front of the store made Jim look up. The French-speaking man leaned through the curtain and asked a question Charlotte couldn’t understand.

  Jim gave an answer in French. He turned back to them and sighed. “Always work to do.”

  Captain Thatcher stood. “Thank you for your time.”

  The others rose as well.

  “Glad to see you again, Alden,” Jim said, shaking his hand. “Thought you’d stay away from New Orleans for good, hoping to avoid a certain lady.”

  “There is just one more matter, if you don’t mind.” Captain Thatcher motioned toward Charlie then stopped and tipped his head as if just registering what Jim had said. “I beg your pardon? What lady?”

  “Mademoiselle LaFontaine,” Jim said. “Don’t imagine you’d want to chance a meeting with her, not after leaving the way you did.”

  Alden’s brow furrowed. “Marguerite? But she died . . . the fire . . .” His voice trailed off.

  “The Fontaine house was indeed burned, but all the family came through just fine,” Jim said. “Away at their plantation house, I hear.” He gestured over his shoulder with his thumb. “I saw Marguerite this past Sunday at mass looking hale and hearty.”

  Charlotte felt cold.

  Alden pressed a hand on a crate as if he needed it to keep from falling over. He shook his head slowly back and forth. “René de la Croix told me she . . .”

  Jim barked a laugh. “René de la Croix? You believed him? That man’s tried to court the mademoiselle for years. The lady won’t give him a second glance.” He shook his head. “Looks like René pulled the wool over your eyes, my friend.”

  “I . . .” Alden’s head snapped up, and his glassy gaze sharpened. “I must go.” He spun and ran from the room.

  Charlotte’s heart shattered to bits.

  Chapter 16

  Alden stood before the mantel in the drawing room of Chez LaFontaine trying to comprehend what was happening. He’d occupied this exact spot on numerous occasions, waiting for Marguerite, but this time . . . He shook his head.

  This couldn’t be real. How was it even possible? At Jim Stewart’s words, Alden had felt like he’d been dropped into the ocean depths, and he’d still not found his way to the surface.

  His mind was sluggish as he tried to make sense of it all. He glanced around the room, a room he’d never thought he’d enter again. A room he’d thought no longer existed. Much of it looked the same: a faux marble mantel with Vieux Paris style vases, ornate furniture on plush rugs, carved mahogany, and gilded gold frames surrounding expensive artwork. A newspaper lay on the table, printed in both English and French. But the wall color was different, as well as the carpets. Likely they’d been damaged in the fire.

  The fire. He rubbed his eyes. He’d imagined the horror of that day so many times, pictured this house burning, flames licking the walls, windows shattering, beams collapsing and trapping Marguerite. He’d heard her frantic cries in his dreams. Could the entire tragedy have been nothing but a fabrication created by a jealous rival?

  He paced to one of the balcony doors, looking at the street below. People gathered, he supposed for an event of some sort. He’d not even noticed as he passed by half an hour earlier in a daze.

>   Footsteps sounded behind him.

  Alden’s chest tightened. He drew in a breath and turned.

  Marguerite LaFontaine stood in the doorway, her dark curls cascading over her shoulders. She looked complete and perfect, and very much alive. She also looked furious.

  Alden had been away for months, almost a year, after promising to return within a few weeks. What could he possibly say to fix this?

  Marguerite entered the room accompanied by the smell of magnolias. She moved with the grace of an aristocrat. One brow lifted. “I see you have returned, Alden Thatcher.”

  “Marguerite.” He whispered her name, unable to convince his mind that what he was seeing was real. “It is you. I can’t believe . . .” He reached toward her, wanting to touch her, to prove she was not an apparition.

  “Can you not?” She glared at his outstretched hand and held his gaze with flashing eyes.

  “I thought you were dead.”

  She tipped her head and blinked, watching him. The fire remained in her eyes, but her gaze was more curious now than angry.

  “Last winter, when I returned from Hispaniola, René de la Croix met me at the docks. He told me you’d perished in a fire.”

  She faced fully toward him. “Last winter? You returned?”

  “Of course I did. I promised I would.”

  Marguerite studied his face, and bit by bit, her expression softened as the anger dissipated. She crossed the room, taking his hand and laying the other on his cheek. “Oh, my poor Alden, mon amour. How sad you must have been.” She dropped her hand to his chest. “Your dear broken heart.”

  She frowned, and the flames flashed in her eyes once more. “René is a villain. To go to such lengths to keep us apart . . .” She huffed out a breath. “But you are here now, and we can resume where we left off.” She gave a slow blink, looking up at him through dark lashes. “I have missed you, Alden.”

  He knew that look and felt the familiar pull. He glanced at her soft lips and waited to lose himself in her gaze, but all of it was wrong somehow, like this moment belonged to his past. Marguerite’s touch, her flirting glances had once filled his heart with warmth and desire but now felt . . . flat.

  What was wrong with him? He’d dreamed of this, ached for it, mourned its loss, but now, looking into her eyes, he felt nothing but a friendly affection. “I—”

  Marguerite stepped back, but she didn’t release his hand. Her gaze took on a sharp perceptiveness as she studied him. “Alden, what is it? Your eyes.” She pouted her lower lip. “You do not feel the same as you once did.”

  “I—” Did he? He loved Marguerite. He was certain he did. His memories of dancing with her, laughing . . . they filled him with a fondness. Seeing her alive was utter relief. Her smile made him happy; her beauty still astonished him. But the quickening heartbeat, the breathlessness, the longing to hold her . . . was gone.

  But why? What had happened? Did it have to do with his mourning her death? The guilt he’d felt? The anxiety of a problematic voyage? His injury? He couldn’t for the life of him figure out what had changed.

  “Oh. I see.” She dropped his hand. “You love another.”

  Another. Of course not. Alden dismissed the notion immediately. I don’t— A memory washed over him. He lay in a semiconscious stupor, shoulder on fire, and felt her cheek on his, heard her whispered plea. He thought of the funny noises she made when she slept, her stubborn determination to climb the rigging, the line that appeared above her nose when she worried . . . The realization hit him with the force of a fancy pistol’s bullet.

  I am in love with Charlie.

  The instant the thought came into his head, his nerves buzzed and his heart pounded. He knew with a surety it was true, and an urgency overcame him. He needed to find Charlie Bower, to be with her, to hold her and tell her—

  He looked up, remembering he wasn’t alone, and became aware of how very inappropriate it was to have such an epiphany in the company of his former beloved.

  Marguerite watched him. And she knew. Her lip trembled, and her eyes were wet.

  Alden’s stomach turned into a rock. “I am so sorry, Marguerite. You must know I didn’t leave you. I never would—”

  “I know. I should have never doubted you, Alden.” Her voice faltered, but she held up her chin.

  He was hurting her, and he didn’t know what to say to make it right. “I should not have come.”

  “You think it would be easier if you still thought me dead and I believed you’d abandoned me.” She shook her head, blinking hard. “Love is not always easy, Alden.”

  He swallowed hard. Leaving behind his past was difficult. And knowing he was hurting her made his heart ache. He reached for her, pulling her into a one-armed embrace, and prayed she would find a man who adored her as she deserved.

  “She must be very special.” Marguerite pulled away and dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief.

  “She is,” Alden said.

  “And beautiful?”

  Alden grinned, remembering when the swabbie with her shorn hair, shabby hat, and oversized clothes fell to the deck in front of him. Was Charlie beautiful? He’d hardly thought of her in those terms. But when he pictured her wide eyes, the one dimple, and her fifteen freckles, his heart felt like it might explode.

  The urgency to find Charlie returned. “I should go.”

  “I am glad you came.” Marguerite gave a sad smile. “I have truly missed you.”

  He winced.

  “Do not worry for me, Alden Thatcher.” Marguerite lifted up her head in her most dignified pose, but her eyes still looked sad as she forced an overconfident smile that held just the slightest tease. “I am young, beautiful, and very rich, bien sûr. I shall manage.”

  A moment later Alden closed the door to Chez LaFontaine, feeling the significance of leaving behind his old life. While he still felt sorrow, hopefulness lifted his despair. Ahead lay Charlie and their future together. He hurried back through the crowded streets toward the French market, realizing he’d left her and Marchand with hardly an explanation. They would understand, wouldn’t they? Realize why he’d gone?

  He wondered what Charlie must be thinking. Had his leaving to find Marguerite hurt her? Did she even care? He pulled up short. Did Charlie love him? He’d just assumed . . . The question opened the floodgates to countless others, and they tumbled through his thoughts.

  If he declared his feelings for Charlie, she would know he’d guessed her secret. Would she feel deceived? Embarrassed? Angry? Would she believe herself to be the second choice since he’d left her behind to go find Marguerite? He could have kicked himself for behaving so carelessly. Why had he confided in her his love for another woman? Could Charlie trust his feelings for her were true? His stomach twisted with urgency. He needed to reach her, to explain.The crowd grew denser the closer he got to the city’s central square, and Alden found it more difficult to move through the streets. Townspeople lined the upper-story balconies and crowded together in windows. Some even gathered on rooftops.

  Finally he inquired of a passerby the source of the commotion.

  “General Jackson’s announced a procession in the Place d’Armes,” the man responded, motioning toward the square in front of the cathedral. “A military parade.”

  Moments later the roll of drums was joined by a cheering crowd as two regiments of militia marched into the square. Local militia, Alden assumed, based on the cheers and waving handkerchiefs of the women in the crowds as their husbands, sons, and fathers marched past. Most of the militia were dressed in civilian clothing, and they carried an assortment of weapons: fowling pieces, rifles, muskets. And among them Alden recognized some of Lafitte’s pirates.

  Behind the militia marched the uniformed companies of the active army regulars, wearing full parade dress uniforms. The townsfolk continued to cheer, and martial music played as another re
giment marched in—a battalion of freemen and, following the black soldiers, a company of Choctaw Indians.

  Another line of men marched into the square wearing blue hunting shirts and wide-brimmed black hats. The men shouldered long Kentucky rifles, sharpshooters. “Beale’s Rifles,” the man beside Alden said in an excited voice.

  Alden studied the gathered army, amazed by the brilliance of its commander. New Orleans was a city divided along racial and cultural lines. By parading freed slaves, Indians, farmers, pirates, woodsmen, militiamen, merchants, and colonials through the streets and gathering them together, General Jackson was making a statement. Uniting the various groups into one army, he showed the people who their defenders were, and the townspeople rallied behind them.

  The crowd quieted as the general himself rode into the square. Sitting tall atop his horse, Andrew Jackson drew all eyes to him. He was a thin man with long legs and a shock of gray hair, whose sharp eyes and authoritative manner demanded immediate respect.

  The general spoke to the gathered soldiers and the surrounding townsfolk in a commanding voice, and a translator repeated his words in French. He began by complimenting the people of the city for their bravery then urged them to continue the course as they prepared to meet the enemy. He promised the city not only safety but victory and then spoke to each of the military groups in turn.

  The speech was inspiring to the soldiers and reassuring to the civilians. Alden was impressed by the man’s poise and his strategy in unifying the city. It seemed simple, but it was imperative that prejudices and animosity be set aside if the army had any hope of standing against the English.

  Alden walked through the square as the crowd dispersed. He imagined Charlie and Marchand would have come to the parade as well. If he didn’t find them here, Marchand had a favorite inn where he would go for food and lodging while the ship was in port. Alden hoped Charlie would stay with him and not head off on her own in search of her brother.