“So do I,” Jeannette said. “At least, from now on, I will. That’s a lovely word, infamous.”
“What it is, is practical,” Thérèse said.
“Infamous,” Jeannette countered.
“Infamous for the slave and practical for the masters, to have every worker possible in the fields while they’re at their youngest and strongest.”
“But surely if a man wishes to free his own children...” the captain put in.
“The Americans think there are too many free blacks in New Orleans already.” Thérèse sighed. “Which is why we were hoping that your army would win. If you gave Louisiana back to Spain, Jeannette could be free tomorrow.”
“I’m afraid that won’t be the way of it. Even if we had won, I think by now both sides are hoping for an honorable peace more than any kind of conquest.”
Thérèse wasn’t sure what made peace honorable or otherwise.
Jeannette shook her head in disgust. “I’m going to see if that water is warm enough and get a poultice ready.”
With that, she stalked off, leaving Thérèse alone with their patient.
“You must think us odd,” she said. She hated to present such a strange and bedraggled face to the world when only months before she had been something of an heiress and a belle among the gens de couleur libres.
“It isn’t my place to judge,” he replied. “I’m only glad someone was here.” He turned his head to stare pensively out the bare window, its curtains long since stripped away. “I would’ve been in a bad case if this place had been as abandoned as it looked.”
“Why did you wander so far?”
“I didn’t intend to.” He colored, just the faintest flush on his blood-drained cheeks. “I was knocked senseless when I was wounded. When I awoke, the battle was over. I was surrounded by dead men, and—I thought that Death would come for me, too. So I wandered into the swamp to escape it.” He wouldn’t meet her eyes. “I don’t know what came over me. It’s not as if I’m some Johnny Newcome who’s never seen a battle before. I’ve been in the army five years. I fought my way through Portugal, Spain and France. I’ve seen any number of dead men.”
After a moment’s pondering, Thérèse translated this to mean he thought himself a coward, which was absurd. “Who wouldn’t feel horrified to awaken and find himself surrounded by corpses?” She feared she’d have nightmares simply from the thought of it.
He shook his head in frustrated dismissal. “If I’d waited where I was, someone would’ve come to my aid.”
“Never mind,” she said. “You’re safe, and I daresay after a good night’s rest you’ll be strong enough to go back. If you don’t want to tell why you wandered away, you could say you were thirsty and went looking for water, or you thought you heard someone calling for help and got lost in the swamp.”
He studied her through narrowed eyes. “You’re very practical,” he said at last.
She shrugged. “Someone needs to be.”
“You’re accustomed to the company of the impractical, then?”
She considered for a moment before speaking. He was a stranger, and she had no desire to share her private concerns with all the world. On the other hand, he’d be gone tomorrow, so what harm could it do to unburden herself to him? She’d been sorely lacking for a confidante since Mama had died. Océane, her best friend from her school days, was married now, and so busy with a sickly baby son that Thérèse hated to add to her troubles. As much as she trusted Jeannette, she was still just a child, and reliant on her to secure her freedom from Bertrand Bondurant. It wouldn’t do to let her see just how weak and uncertain she felt.
And though she loved the Roches as the aunt and uncle she’d never had, she couldn’t confide in them, either. She’d lied to them about why she and Jeannette had left the city. They thought she’d gone upriver to stay with another school friend, away from the armies rather than closer to them. They’d never understand why she needed to claim the treasure her father had left for her and Jeannette. They’d wanted to take her into their household, have her marry Gratien right away and try to buy Jeannette away from Bertrand as a wedding present. But if Thérèse was practical, she was proud, too, and she couldn’t go to her husband as a beggar when just months ago she’d believed herself almost as wealthy as he was.
“Pretend I didn’t ask,” Captain Farlow said when she remained silent. “It’s none of my concern.”
No, but it was hers. “Well, Jeannette is almost practical,” she said.
“She does seem levelheaded for her age.”
Thérèse snorted. “You’ve never heard her arguing that it would be better to run away to the Indians than wait for her freedom among civilized people.”
The captain laughed, a weak, bloodless chuckle that drew her attention to his wounded pallor. She hoped Jeannette hurried with her bandages and poultice.
“Thirty is more than half her lifetime away,” he said. “No wonder she’s impatient, even if she trusts you to free her.”
“Well, of course she trusts me. I’m her sister.”
He studied her, thoughtful despite his evident weariness. She dropped her gaze, embarrassed under his scrutiny, but then all she saw was the lean elegance of his bare torso so terribly marred by his wound, so she met his eyes again. “Not all white women would be so accepting of such a sister, I think,” he said. “Nor so open in acknowledging the kinship.”
So he did take her for white. Lovely Spanish lady, he’d said. She might be darker than most French women, and she was almost certainly too brown to be English, especially if Captain Farlow, with his dark gold hair, light blue eyes and the ruddy tan of a fair-skinned man who lived much outdoors, was a typical representative of his race. But she had no trouble passing for Spanish. It was convenient, but she still often wished she looked more like what she really was.
“What would you know about it?” she asked. Who did he think he was, this stranger, this Englishman, to pronounce judgment on her—white woman, Spanish lady—and her sister?
“Not very much, I suppose,” he said disarmingly. “I had a friend in my regiment—well, he was a corporal, but we were friendly, and I learned a great deal from his example when I was a new officer. He was black, the son of slaves who ran to our lines during our last war with you Americans. His father was half-white, the son of his master, but the master never openly acknowledged him. He just saw to it that his son learned to read and worked in the house rather than the fields.”
“That isn’t uncommon,” Thérèse allowed. “Men want to provide for their children, but if they don’t say why they’re giving that particular light-skinned child and his mother preference, his wife and legitimate children can look the other way, and everyone is happier.”
“Happier?”
“Sometimes a pretense is all it takes.”
“Hmm. True. But you aren’t pretending. How did your mother feel about that? How did you feel, growing up with Jeannette?”
“Shouldn’t you be resting?” she asked. “I don’t want you to tire yourself out by talking.” Her concern was genuine. It wasn’t that she didn’t wish to speak of her family’s complexities to someone who could never possibly understand. At least, it wasn’t only that. Englishman or not, surely he shouldn’t look quite that pale.
“Oh, talking isn’t tiring,” he said. “At least, not much. It takes my mind off the pain. But you don’t have to answer my question. I know it’s presumptuous of me. Ordinarily I have better manners.”
It would be easy to lie and let him go on thinking of her as white. Years ago, when Father had been flush with money and full of wild dreams, he’d talked of taking her to Paris to make a grand match with someone from Napoleon’s new nobility. They’d never need to know her background. In their eyes she’d be a white Creole just like the Empress Josephine. But Thérèse had never craved
that. She wanted an honest life among her own kind. Father had always sneered at Gratien as a suitor for her hand because he was dark for a cuarterón. Thérèse had considered his tawny skin and tightly curled hair assets. When she was on his arm, no one missed the faint hints of Africa in her features.
So she told the Englishman the truth. “Mama was furious when she learned of it,” she said quietly. “But she had no true grounds to complain. She was only his mistress, you see, but she had her own house in New Orleans and worked as a dressmaker. I grew up there, so I first met Jeannette a few months ago, when Father sold all the slaves here and brought her to the city. Mama was the best,” Thérèse added proudly. “There wasn’t a woman in the city who didn’t want her to clothe her for a ball or a wedding.”
She lifted her chin and searched Captain Farlow’s face for any sign of disapproval, but what she saw was merely puzzlement. She supposed the English weren’t so very different from their rebellious American children and were just as baffled by Louisiana customs. “Such pairings aren’t unusual here,” she said.
He shook his head slightly. “You said she was the best. So...your mother is dead, too?”
The sympathy in his voice made her blink back unexpected tears. “Yes. She died in November. The same illness that killed Father.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.” She wished Jeannette would hurry back with the water and bandages. She was starting to regret entering into such a personal conversation with a near stranger.
“So what becomes of you now? Is that why you were digging up treasure?”
She sighed. “Yes. If Father had been practical, he could’ve made a will and provided for us both. There are certain limitations to what a man can do for—for children like us, but a good lawyer can find ways around them. He hadn’t much left besides this land, which will go to his eldest nephew once he gets around to claiming it, but he could’ve left me Jeannette and enough cash to go on with.”
“He didn’t make a will?”
“He was only forty-five. He wasn’t expecting to die.”
“Well, I’m only twenty-five, and I have a will. I made it before I went into the army, and I don’t have any children to consider. To leave you and your sister without any provision at all goes beyond impracticality, if you ask me.” He shook his head and sagged back against the sofa as if exhausted by his anger. “Forgive me. It isn’t my place to judge.”
He shouldn’t allow himself to become so agitated while freshly wounded, not on her behalf. “No apology is necessary, Captain. I’ve already done my share of judging myself. At least he regretted it, when it was too late.”
“Couldn’t he have summoned a lawyer to his deathbed?”
“I daresay he could have, and I would have if I’d thought...” She shook her head. She hadn’t realized how ignorant she was until after her parents died. When she’d learned how disordered their affairs had become, it was too late to do anything about it. “It was late at night, and he was in the act of dying. He—he told me he was sorry he hadn’t done more for me, that he’d meant to regain his fortunes and see me established. He was raving. I’m not sure a lawyer would’ve been willing to help him. You couldn’t say he was of sound mind.”
Thérèse was lost in the story now. It truly was a relief to be able to confide in a sympathetic, mature listener. “That’s when he told me about the treasure,” she said. “I didn’t know whether to believe him or not, but he insisted it was on the plantation, and that Capucine would know where to find it. Which wasn’t so encouraging, because Capucine was Jeannette’s mother.”
“Who has been dead for two years.”
“Exactly. Not of sound mind, as I said. But he insisted it was here, and I must find it, and see that Jeannette was freed. So I promised. And after he died, I asked Jeannette. She remembered her mother saying something about there being more than just yams and beans planted in her garden, so it seemed worth looking. If we didn’t find it, we wouldn’t be any worse off than before.”
“And you found it. So what will you do now?”
“Try to convert it into nice plain money without drawing too much attention to ourselves.” If she was any judge, they had a small fortune in emeralds, diamonds, pearls and less precious stones, but she couldn’t simply dance into a pawnshop or a jeweler’s store and walk out with their value in cash.
“Mmm, yes, I can see why you wouldn’t want that. If I may ask...why did your father have such a treasure, and why was it buried here instead of safely locked up or adorning your mother’s neck on grand occasions?”
She swallowed. “I said Jeannette and I weren’t thieves. I never said our father wasn’t.” Off his widened eyes, she added, “If I knew how to get them back to their original owners, I would. But I don’t, and I don’t see why Jeannette and I shouldn’t have them instead of the Lafittes. We’ll put them to better use.”
“The Lafittes. Those are the pirate brothers, are they not?”
“My father had...interesting associates.”
“I see.” He chuckled, and Thérèse’s heart gave a lurch at the return of his smile. “When I make it back to my army, they’ll never believe it if I say I was entertained by a beautiful pirate princess and her sister.”
“I’m far from a princess. And the less said of this, the better.”
“Don’t worry. All I’ll say is that I met with kind American ladies who bandaged my wounds and sent me on my way.”
Before she could reply, Jeannette returned bearing a small washbasin and several lengths of cloth. All talk ceased for a time as the girl cleaned the captain’s wound and Thérèse assisted as best she could. She took charge of the bandaging, obeying Jeannette’s dictate not to tie the cloth pad on too tightly.
Once they had finished, they gave their patient water mixed with rum, covered him with a warm blanket and left him to rest under Jeannette’s watchful eye. Thérèse, who under her mother’s tutelage had learned to be a capable cook, adjourned to the kitchen, where she prepared cornmeal mush and ham and pondered their limited stores. She and Jeannette had only brought what food they thought they might need for a day or two. The cornmeal had been left behind in the plantation kitchen, but she couldn’t find anything else fit to eat.
Reasoning that ham would be too hearty for a wounded man, she made the captain a thin gruel of cornmeal and water, which he ate without complaining, though he was much more weary and quiet than he’d been at first.
As darkness fell, Thérèse took the first watch over their wounded patient by the guttering light of a candle set on the floor a careful distance away. He tossed in his sleep, and she patiently tucked the blanket back around him when he threw it off and rearranged his limbs when he looked near to slipping off the sofa. When he began to mutter to himself, his eyes fluttering open then closed again, she smoothed his hair back from his brow and sang to him the same French lullaby her mother had used to soothe her through childhood illnesses.
He caught her hand in a surprisingly strong grip. His hand felt too hot and dry, and she frowned at him in worry. Was he turning feverish?
He gazed straight at her, but she sensed he saw only some faraway vision. “Maman.”
She blinked. Was his mother French, then? She sang the second verse, trying to infuse her voice with maternal assurance, and after a moment his grip loosened and he settled back to a comfortable sleep.
She hoped he’d be well enough to leave tomorrow. She didn’t need another soul in her charge, another complication. But she’d miss him. It had been such a relief to unburden herself, even for a quarter of an hour, and to such a patient and sympathetic pair of ears. Yes, that was all. His eyes and his smile and the breadth of his shoulders had nothing to do with it.
Chapter Two
Henry dreamed of fire—of the mine exploding in the breach at Ciudad Rodrigo, of standing to
o close to the hearth but for some reason unable to edge away and, strangest of all, of the house where he now lay engulfed in flames. Intermittently, his pretty hostess and her sister appeared, sometimes fanning the flames, sometimes attempting to douse them with mere teacups of cool water.
Then all at once his dreams grew vivid as life, and both of them were there, with the beauty Thérèse at his head, pinning his shoulders to the hard floor with surprising strength. Jeannette knelt over him, slicing at his side with razor-sharp claws until at last she gave a cry of triumph and held up a shard of metal in one hand and a knife in the other, exclaiming in that strange language they’d been using when he first encountered them.
Henry blinked hard, trying to stanch the tears of pain streaming from his eyes. He realized with sudden clarity that he’d been feverish and out of his senses, and that the culprit had been a shell fragment embedded in his wound.
“In French,” Thérèse said in that language. “He doesn’t understand Creole.”
“He hasn’t understood anything for three days,” the girl replied.
He’d been like this for three days?
“I think he does now. Look at his eyes.”
Jeannette did, then grinned and brandished the gory piece of shell casing in his face. “See this? It was killing you, and I cut it out. I did.”
She looked indecently smug, but then, she had a right to be. How many girls her age—or of any age—would’ve had the skill and nerve to accomplish such a feat? “Then I am forever in your debt, mademoiselle,” he rasped.
“Mademoiselle.” She stretched the word out as if she were tasting it and finding the flavor sweet. Henry supposed she’d never been so addressed before.
“Thank you. Both of you,” Henry said, though it took a great effort to summon his voice. “I fear I’ve been a great trial to you.”
Thérèse smoothed his forehead, then jerked her hand back as if burned. Well, he supposed he did still have a fever. “Not so great. We only did for you as we hope anyone would for us, should we find ourselves in like need.”
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