Solange lay on the bottom bunk before the window. A damp cloth lay folded across her forehead, and a vial of smelling salts was clutched in her hand. Madame Thibeaut sat at her feet, pushing a flashing needle in and out of the minute piece of petit point she held in her hand.
“I knew our solitude was too wonderful to last,” the younger girl said in fainting accents as she turned her face from the door.
Catherine thought she could see the decision to humor Solange forming in the American girl’s expressive face.
“How are you?” Fanny asked cheerfully, “Is there anything Catherine and I can do to help you?”
“Yes,” Solange answered, her voice muffled. “Go away.”
“Very amusing,” Fanny returned. “We don’t intend to be broiled for the sake of your ill-temper, however.”
“Ill-temper!” Solange flounced over in the bed, staring at them with black, accusing eyes in her pale face. “I am suffering from mal de mer,” she said viciously, “and a sickness of the soul from knowing that my brother was tricked into marriage by this — this scheming intrigante!”
“Chèrie—” Madame Thibeaut cautioned, but Solange would not listen to her.
“I will not be quiet. I have held my tongue these long weeks for my brother’s sake, because he asked me to befriend this creature. I will do so no longer.”
Catherine’s face went blank at hearing herself described as an adventuress. It was a term so foreign to her habit of regarding herself that she could not quite absorb its meaning.
“Solange,” Fanny began, “you don’t know what you are saying.”
Catherine shook her head. “Let her go on. Your brother told you that I tricked him into marriage?”
Solange glanced at her companion as if for support. “Everyone knows it,” she said defiantly. “From the moment of our arrival, New Orleans talked of little else. Your unprincipled conduct, your brazen effrontery in attending a quadroon ball was on every tongue.”
“Was it?” Catherine asked softly.
“Yes, it was. And it is my belief that what happened was exactly what you wished to happen. You found a gentleman ready to be taken in by your odd attraction, and when the affair had gone too far to be mended, you used his honor as a weapon to induce him to marry you.”
“That isn’t true,” Catherine whispered.
“Isn’t it? Why else should Rafael decide to marry you immediately on his return to the city? Why else did he drag me from my home, except to add countenance and respectability to you and your aging femme fatale of a mother—”
“That will do,” Catherine said, something so menacing in her quiet voice that Solange fell silent, though her eyes still flashed with a hate-filled resentment.
Catherine went on. “I misdoubt that anything I have ever done, or dreamed of doing, could be altered one jot or tittle by the addition of your countenance, Solange. As for my mother, we will not speak of her, now or ever — for you, I think, are more vulnerable than I in that relationship. My marriage concerns no one but my husband and myself. If he is satisfied, then I am afraid you will have to be also.”
“Yes, and I will have to stand by and see you break his heart, and cast it aside the way you cast aside that of Marcus Fitzgerald.”
“I don’t believe—” Catherine began, at a loss for the meaning of the triumph that had blossomed on the sallow face of the girl before her.
“Do you not? Marcus told me of the way you behaved, of how you enslaved him with your beauty and honeyed, empty promises, until he would do anything you asked. He told me of how you used him to find better game, then cast him aside, crushed by your treachery. Would it distress you to learn that he was able to find comfort in my presence? It is a simple pleasure, but one he never knew with you. By his own word, a pleasure which would not pall over a lifetime. He intends to pay a long visit to relatives on his mother’s side, the Trepagniers, who live not ten miles from Alhambra. Can you guess the purpose of the visit? He intends to pay me court. You may even have the edifying experience of seeing his heart completely cured of your evil spell by my influence. How will it feel, Catherine, to be forced to extend to us your felicitations?”
Catherine smiled, a wry twist of the lips that brought a baffled look to Solange’s black eyes. “I will extend my felicitations, and most willingly, if you have indeed captured the interest of Marcus Fitzgerald.”
It was impossible to remain in the cabin after that exchange of words. Stepping out into the sunlight, Catherine remembered the small window above the girl’s bunk, and wondered how much of her tirade had been heard by the men. Not that any of it could come as a surprise. But she would have liked some sign from Rafael, even if only a smile, to show that he did not condone his sister’s attack, that he supported her defense. There was nothing.
It was with intense gratitude that she heard Fanny Barton call to her brother that she could not abide the closeness of the box and must have an awning erected. Did Giles look a little conscious as he turned toward them? She could not tell. The impression passed, however, as he complained good-naturedly about the demands of a sister, and the lack of reward for service.
When they were seated under the canvas shelter, Catherine turned to the other girl to thank her. “You are tolerant, considering what you must have heard of my conduct.”
Fanny waved a deprecating hand. “Don’t let Solange upset you. She tends to exaggerate in her jealousy. She is not a happy person at the best of times.”
“Isn’t she?”
“She has been left alone for too much these past years. She is, in consequence, insecure. In my opinion it was not well done to leave her in the sole care of a companion, especially such a one as Madame in there. Still, it could not be helped. People are prone to avoid those who are connected with tragedy. Regrettable, but there it is. I did my best to befriend her, but she developed a childish passion for Giles. She would ride out to meet him in the fields, following him about like a kitten wanting to be petted, and making endless excuses to be alone with him. It eventually proved too much of an embarrassment to him, and an encouragement to her, to continue.”
“By tragedy, you mean her mother’s death?” Catherine asked, unwilling to comment on a situation that must have been awkward for all involved.
“And that of her father. It did not help to have her only brother banished with the name murderer ringing in his ears. I hesitate to interfere, but I think it is important that you try to understand Rafael’s feelings for his sister. Not that I am any kind of an authority on them, of course,” she disclaimed hastily.
“Yes, go on.”
“It is my belief that he is hampered in his dealings with her by the guilt he suffers for his unintentional neglect. He is inclined to make excuses for her, to be indulgent, even lenient. A mistake, I think, but I am hardly an impartial judge. I am conscious of annoyance with the child, even when she commands my sympathy the most. There, I don’t want to prejudice you. It is possible that when you arrive at Alhambra, and she recovers from her illness, you will be as close as sisters.”
“It seems unlikely,” Catherine said dryly. “Solange disliked me the moment she met me.”
“Hardly surprising. You are only what, a year or two at the most, older than she? Yet you have had easy access to the life she craves. You are more attractive than she could ever hope to be. You have had numerous suitors. Why, for all that I could be a bit green-eyed myself! In addition, you have married her only brother.”
“It seems there is more than that to her antipathy.”
“Don’t let it distress you. I will agree that Solange is difficult, but, as I keep reminding myself, much of the reason lies in the peculiar deaths of her parents.”
“I wonder—” Catherine stopped, then went on resolutely. “I wonder if you would tell me about her father. I have heard something of it, but I do not understand it, and I would not like to question Rafael. The incident is obviously still painful to him.”
Fanny nodded. “I wi
ll tell you what I can, but it will not be much. Men, you know, do not talk to females of this sort of thing. Giles is a superior brother, but he has the same maddening reticence on unpleasant subjects as other gentlemen.”
They exchanged a smile and Fanny went on. “Rafael’s father blamed himself for the death of his wife. You know—”
“Yes, I have been told of her.”
“Well, his disposition had not been good to start with but after her suicide it grew worse. He began to drink heavily and the drink gradually destroyed his reason. He could not stand the sight of Solange. The poor child was banished to the nursery, while he was in the house, long after she was old enough to leave it. But it was his son who received the brunt of his drunken anger. He could stand not the least hint of opposition. Any questioning of his orders or interference with his methods made him reach for his whip. The plantation began to fall apart. It is not astonishing that as soon as he was old enough and strong enough to oppose him, Rafael went his own wild way. The slaves, of course, could not escape so easily. Their only recourse was a secret rebellion, slack work, idleness unless watched constantly, petty thievery, neglect of farm animals and tools. Some of these slaves had been present on Santo Domingo during the uprising there and were familiar with a military type organization. These were — and still are — particularly dangerous. The quiet revolt enraged Rafael’s father. His answer was an increase in discipline. It was after the whipping of one of the Santo Domingo slaves that open rebellion came. The man and two of his friends slipped away into the swamp. A week or so later the older M’sieur Navarro was returning along the swamp road on horseback when he was attacked, dragged from his saddle, and beaten to death.”
“How terrible,” Catherine breathed.
“Yes. Insurrection. One of the most terrible things possible in a slave community. Rafe found the body. Like all young men of his age, he knew the swamp well from hunting in its depths. He sent his valet who was with him for help, and started after the murderers alone. The search party quartered the swamp all that night. At daybreak they found Rafe. He informed them they were no longer needed. What had to be done, was done.”
Catherine had known her husband was a ruthless man, but even told in Fanny’s soft voice, there seemed a cold-blooded air to this exploit. When she said as much, the American girl defended him.
“There were those who did not understand, a vocal minority who looked at it as you do. Others, Giles among them, felt his action had averted a full-scale uprising. So you see, it was not cold-blooded, Catherine, but just. Rafe is always a just man, whatever the cost.”
Catherine looked away from Fanny’s earnest gray eyes. Ahead the river rushed toward them in its spring spate. Limbs torn from trees and uprooted trunks were borne upon the current as effortlessly as the tattered leaves and bits of bark that dotted the surface. Catherine now knew she had not been mistaken that night at her wedding supper. When Fanny spoke of Rafael there was an expression in her face, a timbre in her voice, which — No, she was being fanciful. What she saw was no more than a guileless affection for her brother’s friend. Fanny Barton could not be judged by the same standard she would use with a Creole girl. Their ways of looking at life, at men and courtship were not the same, any more than their customs or religion were the same.
The bright sunlight was not kind to the other girl. In its reflected glare she appeared older than Catherine had thought on first acquaintance, perhaps in her middle twenties. Fine lines radiated from her eyes, and there were the indentations of a smile on either side of her mouth.
To make up for her uncharitable imaginings, Catherine smiled warmly. “Thank you for telling me. Perhaps I can impose on you further by asking you what I can expect to find at Alhambra? What will the house be like? And the grounds?” Because she thought it might sound odd that Rafael had not told her these things she added, “Men are hopeless for details of this sort.”
Fanny’s face cleared as if she, too, were glad of the change of subject. “You are aware that Ali, Rafe’s valet de chambre, was sent ahead to prepare for your arrival? Ali is more than just a valet. He has been friend, secretary, fellow-adventurer, and general factotum to Rafael for years. With him in charge you should not have to worry too much about the conditions you will find at Alhambra. The house? It’s a typical West Indies planter’s style with heavy shutters and deep galleries to protect against sun and rain, and a raised basement with the main living quarters on the second floor to escape floodwaters. Alhambra’s special feature is the central courtyard which must have suggested the name to the original owner. The bedrooms overlook the area, which has a strong Spanish influence with a wrought iron staircase they say was imported from Madrid, and a fountain. You will not be disappointed, I hope, that the stone basin is supported by only four lions instead of a dozen?”
Catherine shook her head at that whimsy. “You make it sound fairly large.”
“Larger than most. There are ten main rooms upstairs, all opening into each other for the free circulation of air. The grand and petit salons, a study, and a lady’s sitting room-cum-entrance hall are on the front, then the bedroom wings, three rooms per side form right angles around the courtyard. I expect you are used to this style, but when I first came here I thought it ugly and secretive, a terrible, closed-in way of building a house. In New England we have steep roofs, to help keep the snow from collecting, and very little overhang, so the sun can warm the rooms. But I quickly learned the benefits of the galleries for outdoor living at Cypress Bend.”
“Cypress Bend is the name of your house?”
Fanny agreed. “It is built back on a rise near a large curve in the river and, like Alhambra, in a grove of oak and cypress trees. The only thing we have changed is the kitchen. It burned last year, a separate building, of course, so the house was not damaged. But Giles could not resist improving the premises by importing brick, red New England brick, and using them for a safer building. I must confess it looks odd to me behind the plastered house.”
They chatted on in this style, carefully skirting the personal, through the afternoon. Occasionally Catherine thought she detected a hint of reserve in the other girl’s manner, but after her friendliness and consideration she could hardly quarrel with such a small thing. During the day the number of men poling had slowly decreased until at any given time there were only fourteen men on their feet while the others rested. They were all exhausted; you could tell by their gray faces and the vacant look in their eyes, though the liquid strength they found in the rum barrel might have contributed to the latter. Food had been kept ready for the asking, but toward sundown Fanny rose saying she needed to supervise the evening meal.
“Can I help?” Catherine asked, getting to her feet.
“No, no, I have my maid for that. It’s mostly a matter of finding the special fried fruit tarts I had made up for this time of day, a little something to put heart back into us all. We still have a fair way to go. Besides, there just isn’t room in there for more than two women to stir about.”
Catherine accepted her dismissal without further protest. Having learned something of Fanny, she suspected their hostess felt it was time she inquired after the other women also.
This morning she had looked back toward New Orleans. The time for that was over. Keeping well out of the way, she moved to the bow of the boat to stand beside the windlass, facing forward with her hand resting on the capstan.
It had been an uneventful trip for the most part. They had nearly capsized once in the effort to miss a giant sawyer, an uprooted tree, bearing down upon them. Still, they had avoided the sandbars and taken no wrong turnings. Two or three flatboats or rafts had passed them, headed downriver, one with a long cabin complete with smoking chimney upon it. Another time they had seen a canoe, piled high with fur pelts, paddled by an Indian and his woman who had stared at them from flat, incurious faces as they drifted past.
A footfall sounded behind her and she turned her head as Giles came to stand nearby, leaning wit
h one hand on the gunwale.
“I expect you’re anxious to reach home — Alhambra, that is,” he corrected himself.
Catherine agreed then said conventionally, “I’ve enjoyed the trip today, however.”
“We’ve had good weather and good luck,” he said, nodding.
“And a good pilot?”
A tinge of red appeared under the skin of his face at the compliment. “Don’t say that until we get home. There’s still a lot of water between here and there.”
Catherine smiled without comment. The sun was dying behind the trees in a splendid golden funeral pyre. Indigo blue shadows stretched out over the shimmering water. A freshening breeze blew toward them with the scent of wood’s fern and wild honeysuckle overlying the dank river smell. And stretching out from the trees came the spring chant of crickets and peeper frogs, an unending paean.
The man beside her reached out and pressed her arm, a brief contact. “Mosquito,” he said showing her the crushed insect. “They will make life miserable when it gets a little darker. Fanny hates them; they are one of the few things she hasn’t been able to adjust to here.”
“Some people are more susceptible than others. My nurse used to rub mint and sage leaves over her arms and face, and leave a bottle of pennyroyal standing open in her room—” Catherine trailed off, aware of a sudden tension in the big man. Following his gaze, she saw on the river ahead another keelboat bearing down upon them.
Heading downstream, the river provided the power for the other boat. The two or three men standing with poles in their hands had nothing to do but steer. As the distance between the boats closed, these steersmen were joined by others. Catching sight of a fair-haired woman, they began to shout and gesticulate, though their words could not be heard.
More men crowded to the front of the oncoming boat, rough men dressed in buckskin, half-cured pelts, and other coarse, colorless materials. Their hair grew long and matted and their faces were covered with a heavy growth of beard, giving them a bestial appearance.
Kaintocks, Catherine thought, with a tight feeling in her chest, then saw with dismay that the boat had changed course, veering toward them. Giles straightened, shouldering in front of her, shielding her from view with his body in an instinctive gesture of protection. He had time for no more before a hard voice rang out behind them.
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