Savage Surrender

by Natasha Peters

  His women! I wondered again what kind of plans Monsieur Lafitte had in store for me.

  "Would you like to look at yourself?"

  "No, no, Lily, that's very kind of you, but I'd rather not. Mister Lafitte is very generous."

  "He's a fine man," Lily declared staunchly. "Now you're too pretty to be sittin' 'round in a sickroom. Why don't you go and look around the house for a bit, and later I'll walk you down to the water."

  I obeyed and ventured forth on my weak legs. The more I saw of Lafitte's mansion the more impressed I became with his taste as well as his wealth. The bedrooms on the second floor were arranged on all sides of the house around a central circular staircase with a leaded glass skylight above it. My room was done in shades of peach, and there were rooms decorated in gold, wine red, and pale blue. One of the corner rooms held an enormous bathtub—big enough for two, it seemed—and shelves loaded with flasks of perfumes and scented salts. I shook my head in amazement. It must take five men a whole day to bring up enough water to fill that tub, I thought. Then I opened a closet door and saw that a dumbwaiter had been installed for just that purpose. Most ingenious!

  The room next to mine was the simplest of all, I noticed. Aside from a massive bed and an equally massive chiffonier and washstand, the only ornament in the room was a huge Titian canvas depicting a nude Venus with Mars. An old master for the master bedroom. How appropriate.

  The rooms downstairs were equally tasteful and opulent. Fully one half of the ground floor was taken up by a ballroom of grand size, complete with musicians' balcony, crystal chandeliers, and beautifully designed inlaid wood flooring. The walls were lined with floor to ceiling mirrors. I caught the barest glimpse of myself and fled. I was being silly, I knew. I would have to face the truth about myself sometime, but perhaps later, when I felt stronger.

  On the other side of the center front hall were drawing and dining rooms, and a comfortable looking library. I guessed that Jean Lafitte spent much of his time here. The shelves held a number of well-thumbed books, mostly French, but some English and Spanish authors as well. In the center of the room stood a large desk, loaded with a vast clutter of letters, receipts, log books and diaries, and account books. The mess reminded me of Uncle Theo's desk, without the knick-knacks.

  Over the mantelpiece hung a painting that looked remarkably like a Rembrandt. I stepped closer to examine it.

  "I hope it bears up to your inspection, Mademoiselle Elise," said a soft voice from the doorway. I whirled around and he smiled. "I would be most offended were I to discover that any of my treasures were not originals. The Rembrandt was on a ship that was destined for Kingston, and it was intended to grace the home of some fat colonial. I decided he couldn't possibly appreciate it as much as I and so I borrowed it. You're looking very well, Elise. And quite astonishingly pretty."

  "Thank you, Monsieur Lafitte," I said politely. "And thank you for the dress. It's lovely."

  He waved a hand. "Don't give it another thought, Elise. You needed something to wear, after all. Lily showed me the rags you had on when they found you."

  "Not rags," I said. "My trousseau."

  "Oh, you are Madame Lesconflair?"

  "No, I—I have no husband."

  "A great pity." He sat down in his desk chair and glumly surveyed the disorder on his desk. "What chaos. If only one could occupy two places at once. Have you ever felt that way, Elise? That there are too few hours in the day?"

  "Not lately, Monsieur. If you will excuse me—"

  "Not until you tell me why you have suddenly reverted to addressing me as 'Monsieur,' Elise. What have they been telling you about me? I suppose Dominique has been bragging to you about my sixteen mistresses, or some such nonsense."

  "I have no great interest in your mistresses, Monsieur Lafitte. But I would like to know what you intend to do with me."

  He frowned. "Do with you? What do you mean, 'do with you'?"

  I faced him squarely. "Am I not part of your loot? Are you going to put me in one of your warehouses now that my condition is improved, or perhaps in one of your wretched slave pens with my companions from the Charleston Belle? How will you transport me to market? Gently, I trust, lest I be damaged in transit. How much will I bring? Three hundred dollars? Two hundred?" I pinched the flesh on my forearm. "I'm not strong yet, and I cannot bear children, you know, and worst of all I am ugly. What kind of woman is that? You'll be lucky to get twenty dollars. Of course you can keep me here a little longer to fatten me up—"

  "I think you have said enough," he said in a low but penetrating voice. His dark eyes flashed angrily.

  Shame flooded over me. I sat down and hid my face from him.

  "I fear your experiences with men like Captain Fowler have made you bitter and suspicious," he said quietly. "I can quite understand that, Elise. But know this: at no time have I thought of you as anything but an honored guest in my home. You are free to go at any time. If you stay I promise you that you will be as safe in this house and on this island as if you were at home in France, and probably safer. You have no family in this country? No one?" I shook my head. "Do you wish to return to France?" I could make no reply. "Or perhaps I can find a husband for you. I am sure that would not be a difficult task."

  "I don't want a husband!" I cried. "Oh, who would want a woman like me? Dear God, after the things that animal did to me, and what he made me do to him—I'm not even fit to look at anymore. I used to be really beautiful, did you know that? And now I'm ugly, ugly, ugly! Oh, why didn't I die, why? What do I have to live for now?"

  He stood over me, a puzzled expression on his face. "Why, Elise, I believe you are trying to insult me. Surely you have not discovered me looking at you with any measure of distaste? Can you suppose I would permit you in my house if you offended my artistic sensibilities? Perhaps you think I have none? Come with me."

  Lafitte firmly drew me out of my chair and led me across the hall to the ballroom with its hundreds of mirrors.

  "No, no," I pleaded. "I beg of you! Please don't—please don't do this to me!"

  We halted in front of a mirror, but I pressed my hands tightly over my eyes. Gently but firmly he grasped my wrists and pulled my hands away from my face.

  "Open your eyes, Elise. Perhaps it won't be as bad as you think."

  I can't, I thought—But you must—All right, I can take it. I took a deep breath, clenched my teeth, and slowly opened my eyes.

  I stared at the reflection, and slowly my irrational fear drained away. The face I saw was mine, really mine. The hideous, swollen, disfigured caricature that I had seen on the ship had returned almost to normal. I put my hand up and touched my skin: I traced the outline of my temples, my forehead, my chin and lips. Faint discoloration still showed around the eyes, and the cheeks were sunken and gaunt—all of me was too thin, in fact—but flushed patches on my cheekbones lent some color to the pale flesh. And in my eyes, the old jaunty gleam was dancing, perhaps somewhat sedately. The frame of black curls around my face looked very attractive indeed.

  "I'm all right," I whispered softly with amazement. "It's me, Jean, really me!"

  "Who else would it be, Elise?" said Lafitte. "Of course it's you. How do women conjure up such strange ideas, anyway? You are a beautiful, charming woman." Our eyes met in the mirror, and a little current of excitement ran through me. "It doesn't matter what happens to us, do you understand that, Elise? We are what we are in spite of what people do to us. If you can keep your mind and your soul, you can keep yourself." He stepped back, leaving me alone in the reflection. "You are what you are, Elise."

  I contemplated the little figure that stared back at me and let out a long sigh. I had surmounted another barrier, and this one in my own imagination. The obstacles to happiness were unlimited, it seemed, but at least one more was down.

  "Thank you, Jean," I said softly.

  "You are more than welcome, Elise."

  We returned to the library. I told him everything then, omitting only Garth's true n
ame.

  "But I might be able to trace him," Jean said, "if you would tell me who he was. There are many ways. No one ever disappears without a trace, even in the British navy."

  "No, no. I don't want to know, Jean. I hate him and I never want to see him again. If we met I might—" I clenched my fists and whispered, "I would kill him. No. I want to put it all behind me. And start over."

  Jean looked at me searchingly. "Whatever you wish, Elise. Only remember that I am always at your service. If ever you want him traced, or if there is anything else I can do for you, please do not hesitate to ask."

  I thought for a moment. He would help me return to France if I wanted to go. France. France might have been a million miles away rather than several thousand. How far away, how long ago it all was. No, I was not yet ready to return to France, not ready to face my family after all that had happened, not ready for their tears and their pity. I had had enough tears and pity for the time being.

  "If—if I could just stay here a little longer," I ventured.

  "Of course, Elise. My house is yours for as long as you want. I would feel honored if you could learn to be happy once again in my part of the new world."

  "I would like to learn to be useful again," I said shyly. "I wonder if I could help you in your—ah, business—if there was anything that I could do." My eyes went to the welter of papers on the desk.

  He followed my gaze. "You astound me, Elise. Surely, with your beauty, you have not also an eye for business! I didn't know women knew anything about money and numbers. But I've been thinking of training a secretary, and no doubt you will do as well as any of these brawny lads who have bashed their brains around fighting and brawling." He shook his head in dismay at the jumble of books and documents. "I fear I may be all too willing to accept your offer, Elise. You know, I used to be able to keep up, but things have gotten rather out of hand lately. Many of the warehouses are overloaded, and the inventory lists are phenomenal. Perhaps we can begin later this week, if you feel rested."

  "I am so tired of resting, Jean. I would love to begin—today?"

  He looked at me curiously. "I've never seen anyone so eager to work! Very well, we will begin immediately."

  Lafitte swatted the papers around a bit and complained about how boring the business end of smuggling was, but finally, searching methodically through the pile, he began to explain which log was which and what receipts went where. He even found a piece of heavily perfumed parchment which he scanned quickly and then tore into small bits before discarding.

  "November, 1809! I can't imagine why this was never thrown away."

  I stifled a grin. Eventually we sorted things out and were ready to enter the figures in their appropriate books.

  "This is quite enough for today," he said. "I am fatigued and all this dust has given me an uncontrollable thirst for fine wine. And look at the grime on my shirt! A good thing it is that you forced me to go to work before I had time to change it. And you, Mademoiselle Secretary, would not be so relieved if you were to gaze at your reflection now. The smudge of dirt on the end of your nose is nearly as black as your eyes. Allow me to wipe it off for you."

  Jean rubbed gently at the smut with a gorgeously embroidered handkerchief. "That's better. Elise, you are a good influence on me. I should have begun this months ago, but I always managed to persuade myself that the more exciting tasks were also more important. I trust, however, that you won't begin nagging me to keep at it. Nagging women are the scourge of the earth. I am tempted to beat them, and it would try my conscience sorely to beat a poor frail invalid like you. Do you nag?"

  I smiled. "I should not be likely to admit to it after that threat!"

  "But you do have a temper. I caught a nice glimpse of it a short while ago, when you professed not to be interested in my sixteen mistresses."

  "I am far more interested in your warehouses, Monsieur Jean. But I do have a temper, I confess. I was the worst tempered girl in France."

  "And now you wish to set Louisiana on fire as well, do you?"

  "Certainly not," I said firmly. "I'm too old to be throwing tantrums and causing scenes."

  "Well, we shall see. But now we must prepare to dine and to drink some of that fine wine. Will you join me for dinner tonight, Mademoiselle Elise? I imagine your uncle taught you to appreciate fine food and drink?"

  "He did indeed. Dining was his greatest passion, aside from reciting the glories of the Lesconflairs."

  "Wonderful. I am delighted at last to have found a woman who can not only read and write and count, and who can appreciate the finer things in life, but who is charming and strikingly beautiful to look at as well, when she doesn't have a smudge on her nose. Perhaps you would like to rest a little before dinner. You have done more than enough for one day."

  I dropped a curtsy and left the room. I felt a bit amused by Jean Lafitte's formal politeness, and a little tired. His manners seemed to fit as tightly as his skin, unlike the men of my previous experience. My recent distasteful adventures had not been peopled with gentlemen aspiring to the social graces, and even the rigid impeccable formality at the French court was a façade which the cavaliers of the court would drop in a flash to banter obscenities with their friends or to force their attentions on a young debutante.

  However, Jean Lafitte seemed always sincere and serious, if distant. I wondered if spending time with his brothers wouldn't be more relaxing and more fun. They certainly didn't guard their tongues so carefully. But perhaps Lafitte's formal manner was just as well. If I were to work with him, having him leer at me would make things difficult. I wasn't ready to think of men in that way yet. I didn't know if I could bear to have a man's arms around me again, or to feel the crushing weight—no, the memories of Captain Josiah Fowler were too fresh in my mind. Even thinking about him made me feel cold and sick. Was he really dead?

  No, Jean Lafitte would shower me with politeness to his heart's content and treat me as if I were the male secretary he had expected to have. I would do the best I could to deserve his kindness and respect, but anything more than that was unthinkable.

  In the weeks that followed I learned the business end of the Lafitte smuggling operations inside and out. A tour of the warehouses on Grand Terre brought to life what I had previously only heard about or seen on paper, and it left me gaping in astonishment at the mind-boggling wealth stored there and at other points along the Mississippi.

  Grand Terre was as busy as a seaport. Its little harbor was crowded with ships of varying sizes, many of them captive vessels that the pirates had seized and brought back for their own use. The Charleston Belle, as Jean Lafitte had told me, had sunk to the bottom of the gulf. Had Josiah Fowler's corpse really been on board? God, I hoped so. I couldn't bear ever to set eyes on that ship or her master again. Even the smallest recollection of anything or anyone connected with those days set me trembling with a fear that I could not conquer.

  Lafitte's mansion was the island's most imposing structure. The tropical sunshine, reflected doubly by the sky and the sea, glistened from white pillars and tall windows which opened from the lush bedrooms and the elegant rooms onto identical wide verandas that swept around the building on all four sides, one above the other.

  Most of the pirates lived in single story dwellings built on Barataria Bay, on the north side of the island. Several of the men had brought their wives to Grand Terre; others brought their mistresses. All of the men loved to go to New Orleans for drinking and brawling and whoring. The trip took three days through the bayous and swamps and over a short stretch of land.

  Jean Lafitte did not work me very hard, and the weeks of walking, and swimming in the gentle breakers of the gulf, and playing with the children on the island made me stronger and healthier than I ever had been. Dominique You adopted me after a fashion and took me on guided tours around the bayous in a little pirogue, a kind of flat-bottomed skiff that was ideal for navigating shallow swamp waters. Dominique loved Louisiana and he showed off her wild beauties proudl
y, as if he had had a hand in making them. I became reasonably accustomed to the infernal heat and humidity, and I even got to the point where I could tolerate the infinite varieties of insects. The bayous were thick with alligators. I had never seen such odd-looking creatures before, but Dominique warned me to stay away from them. One of the pirates had lost his leg to a 'gator, and some of them looked big enough to swallow a whole man.

  I loved the mysterious gray veils of Spanish moss that draped everything in the swamps like witches' tresses; I loved the gnarled cypress trees that grew in the shallow bayous with all their little knees protruding out of the water like upside-down icicles. Most of all I loved the peace and freedom that came with living where few men dared to penetrate. The pirates had carved out their empire in a wilderness that was easy to defend because it was so inaccessible.

  Dominique's proudest possession, and the one he loved best to show off, was his flagship Tigre. She was a trim little craft, laden with guns but fast and sleek.

  "She can outrun any warship ever made," her captain boasted as we toured her. "Maybe I'll take you out on her someday."

  "I'd love to go, Dominique. She's a beauty."

  "You're not afraid of ships, then?" Everyone on the island knew or guessed my story by that time, and I found I didn't care too much. What they knew they didn't have to ask, and when they didn't ask I didn't have to answer.

  "No, I'm not afraid of ships. Only of the men who sail them." I looked at Dominique sternly.

  He chuckled. "You're a bold wench, Mademoiselle. You'd make a damn fine crewman, with some training."

  I said nothing for a moment. Then I looked up at him. "Dominique," I said slowly, "will you teach me to shoot? Not guns like these, not cannons. Pistols. I want to learn to shoot."

  He looked doubtful. "I don't know that that's such a good idea. You might blow your pretty head off."

  "Oh, pooh, I wouldn't hurt myself, not if you trained me properly. And you're the best shot in Louisiana, everyone says so."