I loved nothing better than to surprise Jean bathing in the huge tub I had noted on my first inspection of the house. I would tiptoe up behind him and splash water in his face, then tumble into the tub with him. We would splash around like young muskrats, then I would scrub his back, his lean buttocks, his hard chest and thighs. When I gently soaped his soft sleeping tool of love and the little leathery pouch that held his man-jewels, I could feel him awakening, growing, rising in my hands. Then Jean would soap and caress me all over, playing with my breasts until the tips stood out as firmly as his own awakened desire, stroking and probing in the softness between my legs until the small spark of my passion became a roaring fire. Then I would feel his warm, wet, soapy body slipping over and around and into my own, and we would drown ourselves in the hot foaming sea of love.
We went to New Orleans for Christmas and the Mardi Gras season. Jean owned a little house on Dumaine Street. The rooms were spacious and cool, and a walled garden with a fragrant sweet olive tree gave us a place to go for peace and privacy outdoors. An elderly French couple whom Jean had rescued during the uprising in Haiti lived in the house as caretakers, tending to the gardening and the cleaning, and Lily came with us and acted as cook and my maid.
I loved being in a French city again, but I would have loved New Orleans had it been Spanish, Italian, or Portuguese. Its elegant homes with spreading lawns lined wide tree-shaded streets that were treacherously muddy in wet weather. I loved the warmth of the people, the colors and smells of the markets, the ever-blooming flowers. We had roses at Christmas and perfect camellias when my birthday came in February.
That night, when I was nineteen, Jean and I celebrated at home, just the two of us. I realized for the first time that I had missed my eighteenth birthday completely. A year before I had been less than human, a slave lower than the lowest slave, and I had not even remembered my birthday. For the first time in my life I had not celebrated—worse, I had not even known I had a birthday. And I wept a little, knowing that the delightful little Elise Lesconflair who had gotten so much out of her birthday parties was gone forever.
Lafitte introduced me to all his friends, distinguished or otherwise; he escorted me to balls and to the theater; and he let me accompany him on visits to his buyer and merchant friends. The days went by in a whirlwind of activity.
Jean's business, as New Orleanians jokingly called it, gave him an entrée into the city's most exclusive homes. No hostess would dream of giving a party without inviting the charming brigand. Jean took advantage of those invitations, as much for his own sake as for mine, for he loved good talk and good food, and he enjoyed showing me off.
"I have no illusions about why they ask me," he told me once. "If the day comes when I have nothing left in my warehouses to offer them, they will knock me down and step right over me. But until that day we will continue to use each other for our own reasons, and everybody's happy with the arrangement."
I was the scandal and sensation of New Orleans during the winter and spring of 1812. Although Jean carefully introduced me as Mademoiselle Elise Lesconflair, newly arrived from France, and my credentials of nobility in this French city were undeniably genuine, everyone in the city seemed to have heard some part of my story—how I had been a captive on a slaver and been rescued by Lafitte's men. Word of my subsequent exploits on the high seas leaked out, thrilling the citizens. And the fact that I lived openly as Lafitte's mistress added luster to my image as an adventuress.
Men desired and admired me because I was beautiful and supposedly shameless. Their women could not ignore me for the same reasons, and also because my connections with the Bonapartes made me the closest thing they had to visiting royalty. So they could not afford to exclude me from their parties. Even the most conservative Creoles took me into their homes, and after I made it clear that I posed no threat to their sons and their husbands, they even made me feel welcome.
I felt happy in these days, less involved with my own problems, and I began to think more and more about my family, about Uncle Theo, and Philippe and Honoré. Should I write to them? They must have given me up for dead. I didn't want to go back to France. I still felt uncertain of the future, and I could not face my brothers' questions about the past until I had some answers for myself about the future. Would Jean Lafitte and I remain lovers forever? I didn't think so. Would I marry him if he asked me? Would he ask me? I didn't know.
I enjoyed being back in society again. Although New Orleans was not as sophisticated and exciting as Paris, it was a good deal more lively than country society around the Chateau Lesconflair had been. The upper-class French Creoles were cultured and educated, and I found their company amusing and stimulating. Much of the talk concerned the adventures of their ancestors: their grandfathers and great-grandfathers had been the first French settlers in Louisiana early in the eighteenth century.
The stodgier Creoles still considered themselves French, in spite of the changing ownership of the city over the years from French to Spanish to French and finally to American. Over the years the Creoles had intermarried with Spaniards, Englishmen, and Americans, and this cosmopolitan mix lent a distinctive flavor to their gatherings. Current talk was unabashedly political: possible war with England and Louisiana's recent statehood were prominent in their discussions.
The Creole mammas protected their sons and daughters with a provincial ferocity, however, and they saw me as a potential corrosive influence. Whenever I saw their eyebrows lift disapprovingly at me I would launch into an account of the Lesconflairs at the Crusades, or My Father General Lesconflair, Friend of Napoleon, and the tension in the room would dissolve. These things in my past were no longer important to me, but I enjoyed using them, I confessed to Jean, because I was so amused that they made effective social weapons.
"It's wonderful, Jean," I said gleefully, "I am the wickedest woman in the city, but because of General Lesconflair and the title and estates and old Napoleon I am actually socially acceptable. Where else in this benighted country would that be possible."
His put his arms around me and hugged me until my spine cracked. "Then the Fates must have brought you to these noble lands. They knew that here in New Orleans we appreciate beauty."
"Here in New Orleans you are snobs, pure and simple. Really, Jean, everyone is aping my dresses, my hair style—suddenly all the girls have cropped their hair à l'Elise, have you noticed? And I'm trying to grow mine long again! And they are even naming foods after me: Soufflé Elise, Sauce Lesconflair! I have never heard of such nonsense."
"Ah, the poor Americans, Elise. Even the Creoles. They are unsure of themselves. They think they are inferior to their European cousins, and they try their best to compete. But don't tell me the Europeans don't have crazes. Why, a few years ago the ladies were chopping their hair off so that they would resemble Marie Antoinette on her way to the guillotine."
"Oh, all right, Jean, I do like being adored by them. But more than that I like being adored by you. You never make impossible demands, never criticize the way I act, and no matter how much money I spend you don't complain."
"Why should I? It's not my money."
I looked at him and burst out laughing, and he joined me. "Oh, Jean, sometimes when I am with you I feel happy, really happy." I hugged him tightly around the waist.
"Thank you, my dear. I consider that a true compliment."
His tone was serious and I glanced up at his face. I saw a sadness in his eyes and something I hadn't seen before: Jean Lafitte was in love with me. For some reason this knowledge didn't make me as happy as it should have, and when I was alone I asked myself why. I knew the answer: I wasn't in love with him, not that way, and it was the sorrow of my life. Oh, I loved him dearly. He was my whole life, the center of my existence. I loved his intellect, his style of living; I loved his gentle ways; and I loved his sensual body. But in spite of everything I felt for Jean Lafitte, I was still my own woman. I would never belong to him wholly, passionately, deliriously, instinctively,
uncontrollably. I had felt like that about only one man. Garth McClelland.
He did not deserve it—Jean was worth a dozen Garth McClellands. But I would never love Jean or anyone else the way I had loved—and hated—Garth.
Sometime in February, about a week before Mardi Gras, the Arceneaux family gave a masked Pirates' Ball in our honor. Jean and I decided we ought to appear dressed as real pirates: shoeless, hatless, ruthless, and dirty. We amused ourselves for hours imagining how we would look, and how the Creole snobbery would look at us. Eventually, however, we decided not to further besmirch our reputations, and we arrayed ourselves in gorgeous formal attire. Jean looked resplendent in white satin knee breeches and a dark green velvet frock coat, and I wore a high-waisted jade green silk gown with large puffed sleeves, and white camellias strategically placed in my bosom to soften the effect of the scandalously low décolletage. When we were masked we both looked splendidly and delightfully mysterious.
Just as we were about to leave we had an unexpected caller: Pierre arrived from Barataria with urgent questions about a Spanish ship due to arrive from Brazil. Jean disposed of the business with his usual quick efficiency, but the delay made us rather late to the party.
"Oh, my dears, how naughty of you to be so late but how lovely of you to come at all and how sweet you both look," Madame Arceneaux twittered. "Elise, my dear, the men have been panting for you. Look, Andre, Elise is here at last. You don't mind, Monsieur Lafitte, if Andre has the first dance with Elise? He is smitten with her, simply smitten."
I blew a kiss to Jean as Andre Arceneaux, masked but unmistakable, guided me carefully onto the dance floor and positioned his arms around my waist. One, two. Bump, two. Turn, two. I smiled bravely at him as he went through his paces. Andre was eighteen and painfully shy. I heard him speak a complete sentence on only one occasion, and that had caused heads to turn and mouths to fly open in astonishment. He had told me that I looked beautiful, but a group of onlookers, which included his mother, had behaved as though he was an infant just forming his first coherent words. Since that time Andre had never spoken to me again, but he always smiled charmingly and seized every opportunity to be near me.
At the end of our dance a cluster of young men surrounded me, each begging me for the next dance, which was to be a waltz. I laughed merrily at their squabbles, and decided to end their arguments by closing my eyes and choosing at random.
I pressed a gloved hand over my mask. "Very well, gentlemen, I am sufficiently blind. Now if you will arrange yourselves in a circle around me—" The music started. I spun slowly and just as I stretched my finger out and stopped turning I felt myself being swept away by strong arms into the sea of dancers.
I looked up. "Why, Monsieur, you are too precipitous!" I exclaimed. "You were not, as I recall, even one of the candidates for this dance."
His blue eyes gleamed coldly at me through the black domino mask he wore. He was tall; indeed, he towered over most of the men in the room, and his thick hair was like shining gold—
I felt the blood drain away from my face. It couldn't be— I would have fainted but his arm gripped me tightly and kept me on my feet until the dreadful moment passed. He compelled me to step and whirl like a machine, even though I longed to run away, far away, anywhere to escape the chilling light in those eyes.
"Perhaps you will tell me with whom I have the honor of dancing, Monsieur?" I asked with assumed brightness. His eyes did not even flicker.
We danced on. I did not speak to him again, and he made no effort to converse. As we circled the floor the memory of another night, another ball, another waltz filled my mind. Who was this man if not the Devil himself come to haunt me? I moved like an automaton in his arms, and it seemed to me that we were revolving slowly, more slowly than the music, twisting together in a dream world of fear and sorrow and memory.
When the waltz ended he bowed stiffly over my hand, and as he stood up he plucked one of the camellias from my bosom. I gasped at his daring and looked down at the place where the flower had nestled. When I raised my eyes he had gone, vanished into the crowd. I felt queasy and I pushed my way out of the ballroom and up the stairs to the ladies' dressing room. Tearing off my mask, I fell back into a chair and uttered one, long shuddering sigh. No, it wasn't—it couldn't have been he. Dead. He was dead. God, how my ghosts plagued me.
"Why, Elise, are you ill?" Madame Arceneaux leaned over me and put her hand on my forehead in motherly fashion. "You're as white as a ghost, you poor dear. Can I get you some brandy?"
When she had fortified me with liquor and I had regained my speech, I asked, "Who is that tall man downstairs in the black coat and black domino mask? He has—blond hair, I think, and he's very tall."
Madame Arcenaux frowned. "Why, I don't know. Andre has light hair. You don't mean Andre, do you? Did Andre fool you? Oh, he'll be thrilled! Wait until I tell him!"
I smiled weakly. "Isn't that silly of me? Yes, do tell him—tell him I thought him very handsome and mysterious."
She patted my hand. "Oh, I will. He's smitten, Elise, simply smitten. Well, I must get back to my guests. You rest here as long as you like. I'll have one of the girls bring you some coffee, would you like that? Oh, I must tell Andre."
She bustled out, and I sat back and threw my arm over my face. No, no I was dreaming. I was tired, that's all. Too many parties, too much excitement. Just tired.
I did not see him when I regained sufficient courage to go downstairs an hour later, nor at midnight when the guests unmasked. What had happened to him? I tried to reassure myself that it had been a dream after all. I could not bring myself to enter into conversation with Jean on our way home. He looked at me curiously, but he asked no questions. Later, when we were in bed, I pulled him to me, locking my fingers in his hair and covering his face with kisses. "Make love to me, Jean." He did, softly, gently, warmly. We did not speak again.
A few days later word came that pirates had captured a Spanish ship. This was no news to us, but Spanish officials complained to the government of the United States in the person of William Claiborne, and the Governor issued an order for Jean's arrest. Notices were posted all over town offering a reward of five hundred dollars for the delivery of Jean Lafitte to William Claiborne.
Jean took a special delight in this new phase of their eternal warring, and he brought me a notice as a souvenir. Then he sat down to compose another notice of his own, in which he offered a reward of five thousand dollars to anyone delivering Governor Claiborne to him at Grand Terre. After they were printed Jean sent out a squad of men to post them all over the city. The good citizens of New Orleans, who had more fondness for their resident outlaw than for their cold Yankee governor, loved the joke.
Jean and I continued to appear in public and no attempt was made to arrest him. At first I was terrified that he would be snatched away from me and sent to prison.
"Don't worry," he assured me. "No one will lay a hand on me. They're too fond of their coffee and their cheap cinnamon and slaves, not to mention the silk stockings I can get for them at nine dollars a pair instead of twenty. Believe me, the people of this city are better off if I'm free. Now come on and get dressed. We have dinner and the opera tonight, remember?"
"I think we should stay home."
"No." He put his hands on my waist. "Do you want them to think Lafitte is afraid to show his face?" He slid his hands down to my buttocks and kneaded them gently. His voice lowered meaningfully. "But perhaps we can compromise, and miss dinner."
Later, before we left for the Opera House, Jean presented me with a pearl necklace. I touched the perfect round beads that encircled my throat and said, "They're beautiful, Jean. Was I that good?"
He kissed my hand and held it fast. "You're the best, chérie, you know that. You said once that being with me made you happy. Well, being with you has made me happy, too, very happy. I shall never forget you, Elise, do you believe that?"
I was puzzled. "Why, of course I believe it, Jean." I caressed his face.
"Maybe we should miss the opera, too. Two strings of pearls are better than one." He smiled, but not with joy, and I went on more seriously, "I shall never forget you either, Jean. But don't be sad, my darling."
"We can't go on forever, Elise."
"Why not?" I demanded. "Who's going to stop us? William Claiborne or President Madison or Napoleon Bonaparte can't come between us. No one can." Even as I said it a cold shiver traveled up and down my spine. No, no one could ruin what Jean and I had. I made a silent vow to myself. "This isn't the moment of our final good-bye, is it, Jean?"
"No, of course it isn't. I must be a little feverish, that's all. It was just a feeling."
"Tristesse, Jean?" I asked archly. "Surely you're not sad after making love to me!" I kissed him. "Now let us go to the opera."
The first act of Mozart's The Marriage of Figaro had already started, and we slipped into our box quietly so as not to disturb those around us. Jean had taken the box next to the Governor's for the season, so they could take mutual delight in ignoring each other during the intermissions. I loved Figaro and I kept my eyes glued to the stage.
The first intermission had begun, then, before I glanced over at our neighbors and discovered that it was not Governor and Mrs. Claiborne next to us at all.
The months flew away from me and I was once again sitting in the forests of the Lesconflair estates, trying desperately to cover myself from a pair of smiling blue eyes. The blood rushed to my head and forced a small strangled noise out of my throat. Slowly he turned his head. He fixed his eyes on mine for a long moment—the same cold blue eyes, but without a trace of the smile—before nodding coolly; then he turned and spoke to his companion, a tall, striking blonde woman. She craned her neck to inspect Jean and me. Jean nodded to her politely, but she tilted her chin up and swiveled her head away from us again.
"Hm, another snub," Jean remarked. "It must be that box."
I sat frozen in my seat, but as the second act began I heard the woman say something about the Witch of Barataria. The man laughed—Garth McClelland laughed. I felt myself grow suddenly hot and then cold. A blackness settled over me and my limbs felt dead. I could see the Countess beginning her aria, but the thunderous roaring in my ears drowned out all the music. Those blue eyes had turned me to stone.
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