BLUE BAYOU ~ Book I (historical): Fleur de Lis

by Bonds, Parris Afton

Nicolas heard Natalie’s startled gasp. She whirled to flee, her blind steps directing her toward a thirty-foot wall of nearly impenetrable and brittle cane brake. Once in there, she would make as much noise as a cow loose in a cornfield.

  Sprinting lightly after her, he leaped forward and dragged her down with him into the tall grass. At the impact, her dowry chest thudded against the soft earth at the same time as all the breath whooshed from her lungs. His hand clapped down on her mouth before she could scream. Her darting eyes, wide with fright, stared up at him without immediate recognition.

  “It’s Nicolas,” he whispered. Her eyes focused on him with concentrated effort, and he said, “Don’t make any noise. Do you understand?”

  Her frightened gaze clung to the movement of his lips; she nodded.

  “They mean no harm, but they are emotionally overwrought. They might unintentionally react dangerously.”

  She nodded again, indicating her comprehension. With the motion, loose hair about her temples fell across her eyes, and he brushed away the silky strands. At the intimate gesture, her eyes locked with his.

  His temples tightened. He gathered her against his length. Her rich golden color was a counterpoint to his swarthy skin. Beneath him, he felt her heart beat an erratic, rapid tattoo against her fragile rib cage. A mighty yearning was reborn in him after a long period of quiescence. His manhood stirred at the pressure of her warmth against him: not aggressively, just a growing— quiet and sure—even as he sensed a subtle change in her breathing.

  He simply could not give her what she wanted. He rolled away from her, his features controlled, expressionless.

  “Why were you running away?” he asked quietly. He lay stretched beside her, one hand holding her wrist to keep her from bolting.

  Behind them, the drums started up again, their irresistible, syncopated beat of tribal and primeval passion punctuating the air.

  Her face looked numb; her lips moved uncertainly. “Nicolas . . . Nicolas . . .”

  He released her hand, and her little fists began pounding ineffectually on his uplifted shoulder. “I can’t stay here,” she murmured brokenly. “I can’t. Not the rest of my life, all the years to come, I can’t.”

  “Why not?” he asked piteously. “Where else would you go? If you show your face in France, what do you think this Fabreville will do? Do you have any family—anyone—left to turn to?” He caught both her wrists in one hand and gave them a little shake.

  She stiffened. Her mouth set in rebellious lines.

  “No,” he answered for her. “That’s what I thought. And what about François? He’s in love with you, you know. He married you and took you in, knowing nothing about you—neither that you are a felon nor that you have known other men. Don’t you owe him loyalty, at least, if not a wife’s love?”

  Her rigid body went limp. Wet lashes dropped over the beguilingly sad eyes. “Help me, Nicolas,” she whispered. “Help me. I’m so alone, so lonely!”

  “Why should I? I don’t like you. I don’t like you one damn bit.”

  At her deep, shuddering breath, he felt a moment of exasperation, mainly with himself. His eyes glittered, reflecting something savage in his face. He bent his head and lightly brushed her lips in a kiss meant to comfort. It was the wrong thing to do.

  Beneath his lips, hers moved pliantly, languidly. The crescendoing beat of the distant drum lit a fire in his blood. The fecund scent of the moist earth and grass—and that emanating from her body, which was hot, damp with sweat—stirred a powerful desire in him. Her mouth tasted salty; her lips were soft, yielding.

  Sensing all would soon be lost, he groaned and set her from him. She stared up at him, dazed, as mesmerized as the vodun worshippers. “This is wrong,” he ground out darkly. “Do you understand?”

  Did he understand? Really?

  She nodded dumbly, and he rolled to his feet, pulling her upright along with him. Whatever he expected to happen next, it certainly was not the manner she evinced. Sweeping past him to retrieve her chest, head held regally high, she declared in that husky contralto of hers, “Merci bien for saving me from an indiscretion, Monsieur le Sauvage."

  § CHAPTER SIXTEEN §

  With a woven basket under one arm and a broom in her hand, Natalie moved among the oaks that peppered the pine and other trees surrounding the clearing. In the hot July sun, her motions were mechanical. She knocked the moss from the drooping limbs with the broom and gathered it in her basket for drying, after which the soft, blue-green plant would lose its color and turn black. Its horsehair-like texture was perfect for cushions and mattress stuffing.

  She would have preferred a chore that called for greater concentration. Too often her thoughts returned to Nicolas. Her attempted flight the night of the voodoo ceremony had changed everything—or perhaps clarified everything would be a better way to put it, she thought. No, the feelings she had certainly couldn’t be termed “clarified,” not when she felt such confusion, especially in his taciturn presence.

  She couldn’t be falling in love with him. She yanked viciously on the beardlike moss. She loved Philippe.

  Was she lying to herself?

  She couldn’t even recollect Philippe’s features. Concentrating, she could remember other, nonvisual things about him: his contentment with life, his joyous energy. Then, too, she had always admired his absorption in the moment without the tiresome prudence that always requires one to look ahead.

  Yet he was completely of the Old World; how would he fare here in this bawdy and unformed New World? If she were honest with herself, his contentment with life had been accompanied by an irresponsible streak. His joyous energy had alternated with his love of indolence. If one were ever imprudent in this unforgiving wilderness, if one didn’t look ahead even in planning the next footfall . . . why, there was no “next” anything.

  She stuffed the moss into her half-filled basket. Ducking her head to avoid a limb, she moved onto another spot where the moss draped like a green cascade. Beyond the shadows of the huge oak, on the far side of the stream, she could just barely make out the forms of François and Nicolas. Both were shirtless. Nicolas, his skin a gleaming mahogany, knelt atop the frame roofing of his cabin, hammering cedar shakes into place. Below, François hacked the shingles from slabs of cedar. Every once in a while, Nicolas’s voice reached her, a richly melodious baritone that prickled her mind with forbidden images.

  Dear Lord, couldn’t she at least be true in thought to one man?

  Farther across the field, she could just make out a lone figure approaching. As the person drew closer, she could distinguish the blue guinea wrapper the woman wore. Jasmine. An image of the African slave swaying sensually during the occult ceremony filtered through her thoughts, causing revulsion to rise in her like bitter wine in a glass.

  The black woman stopped to speak to the men, then continued toward François’s cabin and Natalie. She glided effortlessly through the tall grass like a sleek black panther stalking its prey. When she paused before Natalie, her head was proud atop the long, graceful column of her neck.

  “Madame St. Denis wishes that I give this to you.” Her French was flawless, but then she and her brother had been born into the French household of a Saint-Domingue sugar planter.

  Natalie took the folded parchment. Actually, there were two sheets, both beautifully scripted. The first gave Jasmine, the fifteen-year-old female Negress slave of Louis Antoine Juchereau St. Denis, permission to travel between Natchitoches and the concessions of François de Gautier and Nicolas Brissac. In order to limit attempted slave runaways, the travel letter was especially prevalent those days since the attempted slave uprising south of Natchitoches at the military trading post at Poste des Attakapas. That settlement, on the Bayou Teche, smack in the heart of the reputed cannibalistic Attakapas Indian nation, had been established, like Natchitoches, by the irrepressible Louis Antoine Juchereau de St. Denis.

  The second sheet invited Natalie, François, and Nicolas to a festivity in honor of
Louis’s birthday the following week. “Tell your mistress the wife of François de Gautier accepts her kind invitation on behalf of the three of us.”

  Jasmine’s wide nostrils flared at Natalie’s intentionally accented “wife.” Gravely, she nodded her head as if accepting the homage of a subject, but her lips set in a surly thrust and there was an adversarial quality in her stance.

  Watching the girl leave, Natalie felt reluctant sympathy for her. She was obviously hopelessly in love with François. She had seen it in the proud girl’s face that first afternoon at the St. Denis home. She knew the African slave would have been furiously indignant, had she been aware of Natalie’s sympathy.

  François sat, head bent over the enterprise books, as he scratched out the latest entries. Natalie briefly assessed the trimming she had given his queue and found it to be, everything considered, not too bad a job.

  Shears in hand, she stared at Nicolas, who sat, shirtless, on the stool. He braced his hands outward on his knees and eyed her warily with a skeptical lift to his arrow-straight brows. Her fingers ached to trace the heavy ridges of muscle that bunched beneath the velvet skin of his shoulders.

  “I don’t suppose reminding you that I’m opposed to being scalped is going to do any good?” he asked.

  “Stop behaving like an infant, Nicolas,” she grunted, moving behind him. Their banter, almost sibling-like in its outward lightness, masked the intensity that struck sparks between them like iron wheels against granite cobblestones. At least the bantering did so on her part. She wasn’t quite sure just what Nicolas felt, he was so good at concealing his feelings. That he wanted her was quite likely. But beyond that . . . Did he still hold her in such utmost contempt?

  As she wielded the shears through his coarse black hair, she wondered where he found the release men were so driven to seek. He was so private. So hidden. She had a thousand questions, yet to ask even one would put them at the threshold of an entirely different relationship. As it was, their relationship was as tenuous as a spider’s web.

  Or was it? He was more stable, more self-assured than any man she had ever met, and he could offer her a bond of friendship as strong as manacles. But what if she wanted more? There could be no more; they both understood that implicitly.

  Fiercely, she clipped away at great sections of his hair. Within a few more days, he would be moving his effects into his cabin. Once he was gone, what would she do? Lying in bed at night, she invariably thought of him, only a few feet away. She yearned to be held. She was a woman; she needed the love of a man.

  Her lips smiled wryly. She had the love of a man. Two men. Both Philippe and François adored her, both from afar.

  “Natalie,” Nicolas drawled in that sonorous voice that caressed her very soul, “I don’t want to be bald.”

  “You have a long way to go before that happens,” she said, smiling. Her free hand ruffled through the shorter hair, amazed at how the clipped locks took on a life of their own and curled around her fingers. When he tilted his head to look at her inquiringly, her breath almost caught in her throat. No longer did he resemble a fierce chieftain. With the shorter hair wreathed about his ears and nape, he could pass for a full-blooded Frenchman.

  Someday, she would learn the full story of his French-Indian heritage, not just the bits and pieces she had gleaned from conversations between him and François.

  “You’ve washed the shirts?” François asked from the table. He rarely looked at her if he could help it; yet she could swear that she felt his eyes on her when he thought she was unaware.

  She tossed him a glance over her shoulder. “They’re outside drying.”

  For St. Denis’s birthday festivities, both men were donning their best. In François’s case, best meant yellow satin breeches and matching coat with an embroidered brown waistcoat for contrast. For Nicolas, she had washed a pair of soft deerskin trousers along with a collarless linsey-woolsey shirt bloused at the wrists. François would be wearing jackboots of a rich cordovan leather; Nicolas, his beaded moccasins.

  For herself, she had spent her spare time mending the badly tattered and faded velvet-trimmed emerald silk dress. Her needlepoint training at Poissy had stood her in good stead. Even freshly washed, though, the dress was lackluster after all the time and wear, and doubtlessly would hang limply on her thin frame.

  When her fingers brushed the wisps of clipped hair from Nicolas’s shoulders, she felt him tense beneath her lingering touch. “We’d best begin to ready ourselves if we’re to leave by this afternoon,” she said brusquely.

  In the privacy of the bedroom, she washed the grime from her body and hair with two buckets of water drawn from the stream. Thin crescents of dirt lay under her nails, and it was some time before they were completely removed. With the dirty water, she washed her cracked leather shoes. The water swelled the leather so that the fine cracks weren’t so obvious.

  As she rebraided her hair, she thought of how odd it was that she was so excited about attending a party at a frontier post when before—before La Salpêtrière—her life had consisted of nothing but one party following another.

  When she was ready to dress, she found in her casket, instead of her refurbished emerald gown, a satin dress the color of French champagne spangled with tiny pearls at the hem and along the low neckline. Her hands moved lovingly over the exquisite material, and tears at possessing such a luxury welled in her eyes.

  Only after she drew it forth from the casket did she notice the length of folded netting. A mosquito baire. Immediately, she knew which man was responsible for which gift. François would have provided the dress, for Nicolas would never by word or gesture indicate any feelings of a personal nature. He would have selected something more practical.

  When she joined the other two, they all stood staring at one another, stunned by the difference in appearances. François looked incredibly dashing in his curled wig and satins, a dress sword fastened by a gold sash. Nicolas looked . . . She couldn’t put her finger on it exactly. Dressed as he was, he didn’t seem quite the backwoodsman, but the improved clothing could not conceal the underlying primitive essence he possessed—that same strong primitiveness she had unaccountably felt the night she had witnessed the vodu ceremony.

  “Your ladyship.” Nicolas bowed, but the usual mockery was absent from his voice.

  François flashed one of those rare, roguish smiles that had the power to snare all females. “I knew you’d be beautiful in that dress.”

  She planted a brief kiss on his cheek. In his eyes glowed the unquenchable wanting of her. Looking at his attractive face, her heart went out to him, along with her gratitude. “It’s so lovely, François! Thank you! Thank you!”

  Then she turned to Nicolas, who was watching the scene closely. With him, she felt an even greater silence. “I can’t tell you how much I will value the baire." Before she could lose her courage, she stood on tiptoe and brushed his smooth jaw with her lips. The mere act left her breathless.

  “Shall we be on our way?” François asked, his mood gay.

  Gallantly, he lifted her into the saddle of the waiting Appaloosa. The tension that had formerly marked his conversations with her was noticeably absent. Why hadn’t she realized earlier that the elegant dress of a gentleman would help to restore François’s damaged masculinity?

  Though François had a little difficulty mounting his steed, Nicolas wisely made no offer to assist him. Once astride, François handled the horse well. Earlier, Natalie had assured the two men she could ride, but in the course of the trip their dubious expressions changed to approving looks at the way she controlled her mount.

  They passed other couples journeying to the party afoot. The women had doffed their shoes and stockings, tying them carefully in handkerchiefs so that they wouldn’t dirty their attire trying to cross the innumerable little maraises, small depressions filled with summer rainwater.

  By the time they neared Natchitoches, the dusky sky was flagged with gorgeous pastels, pinks, mauves, and p
urples. Several other saddled horses and a lone caleche, a lumbering carriage swung on rawhide straps, stood outside the long, L-shaped cedar trading post, which was the only place large enough to contain all the people coming from the surrounding countryside for the birthday ball. Opportunities to party were rare, and the festivities would continue until sunrise the next morning.

  Natalie watched in astonishment as barefoot women halted at the open door where a tub of water had been provided. They shook one foot after another in the water. After repeating the process a half-dozen times, their feet were freed of the accumulated mud. A slave posted at the door held towels and wiped their feet dry. Then the silk stockings and satin slippers were put on, the cloaks thrown aside, the tucked-up trains were let down, and the ladies sashayed inside.

  Cane torches lit the interior. A long table graced one wall and on it were fruits, candied orange peels, Charlotte Russes, custards, jellies, cold meats, smoked game, and salads. A variety of chairs and stools, obviously donated from other households, flanked either side of the table. A few hungry men had already helped themselves to food and taken seats, while others were sampling the various wines offered.

  Natchitoches might be a rude little frontier settlement, but as a port and a distribution center to the West, it had access to the best to come out of France’s growing mercantile industry.

  A dais girded another wall, where a stocky young man in a brown-curled wig was taking a violin and bow from a deerskin sack. Some of the bachelors were already engaged in vingt-et-un, their shot bags filled with doubloons used in the game.

  Looking around her, Natalie realized there were no older people present. Louisiana was a place where only the young with their dreams dared to come, where only the strongest survived. For the first time, she felt a little thrill at being a part of the beginning of the history of this new land. What tales she would have to tell her grandchildren—if she and Philippe ever had the opportunity to have grandchildren. They would! She must never give up hope for his release. To do so would mean accepting her fate in Louisiana.