Louisiana History Collection - Part 1

by Jennifer Blake

  The guests departed, carrying by their strings the masks that now looked bedraggled and rather silly. They spoke smooth phrases of praise and appreciation for their night’s entertainment to their host and hostess, called out farewells that echoed in the wet and empty streets, and scattered into the night.

  A fine rain was still falling, dropping out of the black night sky with the relentless persistence that indicated it might not stop for days. The ditches along the street outside the Government House were running streams of water that reflected the flaring torches beside the door. The sedan chair René had commanded to wait was a welcome refuge, even for the relatively short walk to the lodging.

  As Cyrene settled on the narrow seat of the chair and it was lifted on its poles, a linkboy came hurrying toward them with his lantern of pierced tin swinging on its bail. “Light the way, m’sieur? For you, very cheap!”

  He was young and thin and soaked to the skin, but was gamely looking for custom on this dreary night. There were no few like him in New Orleans, orphans left to make their way, victims of the terrible death toll that had always plagued the colony. Most were cared for by the Ursuline nuns, but there were always those who preferred living in the streets to the discipline of the nuns.

  René tossed the urchin a coin. The boy flashed a grin and set off down the street ahead of the chair. Government House was soon left behind. Around them was the dark, wet night, relieved only by the dancing yellow beacon of the linkboy’s lantern.

  The rain spattered on the small, square roof of the sedan chair. The leather curtains billowed inward to let in a fine mist. Now and then one of the chairmen slipped in the ankle-deep mud, causing the chair to lurch and tilt before it was righted. Cyrene braced her feet as best she could and held on to the loop set into the wall, but at one particularly violent jolt she threw out her hand to catch herself and bruised her wrist on the window frame.

  She was nursing the aching arm when she heard a shout. The next thing she knew she was tumbling, sliding, first forward then backward, as the chair was thrown to the ground. Cyrene gave a startled cry. The chair teetered, rocking, before righting itself. She reached for the door and thrust it open.

  “What is it? What’s happening?”

  Back the way they had come there sounded the thud and splatter of running feet. Cyrene turned her head sharply in that direction in time to see the chairmen in retreat with heads down and arms pumping. The linkboy was gone, but his lantern lay in the mud, its candle guttering, giving off a feeble light. There came the hiss of a sword blade being drawn. She swung in the other direction.

  In that dim glow, René could be seen with his sword in his hand and the end of his long cape twisted about his wrist as he held off a pair of men. They were rough-looking, with battered and pockmarked faces that spoke of back streets and hidden deeds. One held a knife and was slashing the air with it so that the feeble lantern light gleamed along its edge and winked from its sharp tip. The other carried a weighted cudgel that he hefted while he breathed through his mouth, licking his lips with a wet, thick tongue.

  What could be done? Possibilities slipped through Cyrene’s mind like ghosts, but each was more unlikely to help than the last. She had never felt so useless in her life. She longed for her knife, left behind at the lodging. In agitation, she stepped from the chair into the street, her silk shoes sinking into the mud and water.

  There was a soft sound behind her. Before she could turn, before she could move in the thick ooze that held her feet, a hard arm whipped across her throat. She gave a strangled cry, and the arm clamped tighter. She was pulled backward against a man’s solid form, then forced step by staggering step toward the alleyway between the two nearest houses. An overpowering smell of woodsmoke, greasy leather, cheap liquor, and unwashed male struck her senses.

  Cyrene tried to twist, to strike backward with her elbow. The arm pressed into her neck, cutting off the air. She coughed, gasping, as pain rose in a red mist behind her eyes. She could feel herself being half lifted, her heels dragging in the mud. Dimly she could see René as he flung a quick glance over his shoulder in her direction. He uttered a grating oath and redoubled his efforts, thrusting, feinting, his sword blade whining in the air.

  She must do something. She must. Snatch at her abductor’s hair, claw his eyes, something. Was it rational thought or instinct that guided her? She didn’t know. The idea presented itself and she acted upon it. She let her muscles go suddenly limp, permitting her knees to buckle. Her teeth snapped together as her chin caught on the man’s arm, but her assailant was pulled off balance. He let go of her as he threw out an arm to save himself. She pitched forward into the muck, her knees pressing into its softness through her skirts, her hands sinking past the wrists as she caught her weight.

  The man muttered a savage obscenity and swung his fist. The blow caught the side of Cyrene’s face. Pain exploded in her skull, but she used the momentum of the blow to dive away from him. As she scrambled in the clinging mud to put even more distance between them, she flung a glance over her shoulder.

  The man was masked.

  The surprise was so great that she faltered, going into a crouch, her eyes wide.

  In that moment René’s attackers broke and ran before his onslaught. One was howling with a sword slash down his arm, the other bent over a seeping hole in his chest so that he weaved as he lunged away into the night. René swung toward Cyrene, sending the blowing mist of rain wafting in her direction. The man in the mask looked up, saw René start forward, saw the glimmering light of the lantern shining wet and crimson on his sword.

  The masked man thrust his hand into the pocket of his greatcoat and brought out a pistol. Cyrene cried out, launching herself toward him. He twisted away, aiming again. The hammer of the pistol clicked. There was a blue flash and a sputtering, fizzing sound.

  The pistol had misfired in the damp. The man grunted, then, with vicious strength, threw the pistol at René and turned to run.

  René saw the pistol coming almost before it was thrown. He flung up his arm and tried to dodge it, but his boots were held in the mud, preventing movement. He slipped, lurching to remain upright. The heavy butt of the weapon thudded into his temple. The pain was a bursting, numbing explosion behind his eyes. He dropped to one knee in the mud. Blood, hot and wet, welled and ran down his face. He could hear the thud of running footsteps as the man in the mask took to his heels, but could not move to go after him.

  Cyrene struggled to her feet, staggering forward, then going to her knees once more beside René. Her hands were so muddy that she could not touch him, but she snatched up a handful of his cloak and rolled it into a pad, pressing it to the wound.

  “I’m all right,’ he said. “It’s of no moment.”

  His voice was gasping but vital and shaded with astringency. She believed him in spite of the blood trickling down his face. “Let’s go home, then.”

  They rose, extracting themselves from the sticky mud, and turned toward their lodging. Before them, just at the edge of the lantern’s light, there was a furtive movement. It was the linkboy trying to retrieve his lantern. René recognized him first. He took a step forward, his voice sharp as he called out.

  “Hold there, you, boy! Come here.”

  The boy backed away, his eyes large in his narrow face. “I didn’t know, m’sieur! I swear I didn’t know!”

  René started to call again, but Cyrene squeezed his arm.

  She spoke in a quiet, calming tone. “What was it you didn’t know? Tell us.”

  “I was just to light the way, that’s all! That’s all.”

  “We know, we paid you. What are you saying?”

  “The other man, too. The one with the pistol. He showed you to me through the window. He said I was to light the way, give you a special price, even do it for free. I didn’t know what he meant to do. I didn’t know!”

  “Did you know the man?” Cyrene asked. The street boys often knew many unusual things.

  “No, ma
demoiselle. It was dark and he wore the mask.”

  Beside her, René reached into his purse and, squinting against the blood that still trickled into his eye, fished out a coin. He tossed it to the boy. “We believe you. Take your lantern and go.”

  The boy did not hesitate. He caught the spinning coin and snatched up his lantern almost in the same movement, then took to his heels as if there were demons behind him. Cyrene would have liked to do the same. It was pride and dignity and a stubborn reluctance to allow the man in the mask to put her to flight that prevented it. That and René’s arm under her hand, increasing her courage, sharing her strength.

  They did not realize how covered with bruises, blood, and mud they were until Martha opened the door of the lodging to them and they saw the horror on her dark brown face. Exclaiming, questioning, she hustled them inside and gingerly removed their cloaks, which had caught the worst of the dirt. She sat them down before the fire and slipped off their shoes, then hurried away to the kitchen where she put water on to heat for a bath and mixed hot rum toddies, which she insisted they drink.

  Whether it was the potency of the rum or the effect of having something hot to warm her, the shivering deep inside Cyrene began to die away. The cut on René’s temple had stopped bleeding, but it required tending. When Martha brought bandaging and a pan of hot water, Cyrene watched her attempts to tend her master, then rose and moved to stand at her shoulder.

  “Permit me,” she said, and took the wet cloth the woman was using to dab, more or less ineffectually, at the cut. “We’ve given you a fright, I think; why don’t you have a toddy, too?”

  “Mademoiselle is a lady of understanding,” the woman said, relinquishing her place with transparent relief.

  “There’s no need for either of you to coddle me,” René said, reaching up and attempting to take the cloth from Cyrene. “I can manage.”

  Cyrene fended him off. “You’ll start it bleeding again. Lean back against the settee and hold still.”

  Wry amusement sprang into René’s eyes at her scolding tone. There was something about injuries that turned women into martinets, he had discovered. He had taken care of himself for years, tying up much worse cuts and scrapes with rough-and-ready dispatch. However, it was not unpleasant to be coddled; he might as well enjoy it. René did as Cyrene bid him, folding his hands on his chest in all docility.

  Cyrene eyed him with suspicion, but the look in his eyes was limpid, patient, in spite of the faint smile at the corners of his mouth. For an instant the trembling returned to her fingers and she felt awkward, unbearably clumsy. She dragged her gaze from his, concentrating fiercely on what she was doing, and slowly her deftness of touch, and her composure, returned.

  The cut had bled copiously, as did all head injuries, and although deep at one end, it did not appear serious. Cyrene washed the area around it, washing away also the streaks of blood that had dried in his hair. Lacking any of the medicines with which her mother had once aided the healing of her own cuts and scrapes, she wrapped a strip of bandaging made from an old sheet around his head and hoped for the best.

  The antagonism she had felt for René earlier in the evening was gone, she discovered, banished as much by their shared dishevelment as their shared danger. In its place was a kind of weary concern and a tight feeling that hurt her chest.

  She said abruptly, “This attack on you, do you think it has anything to do with the other?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The attempt on your life the night I took you from the river, of course. It appears to me that someone wants you dead.”

  He lifted a shoulder in a careless gesture. “More likely they wanted my money.”

  “They didn’t take it before.”

  “An oversight. They didn’t mean to kill me, and when they thought they had, they panicked.”

  “You don’t believe that.”

  “Don’t I?”

  “There were two of them that night; I saw them toss you into the river. Tonight there were three, and one paid the linkboy to act as bell goat to lead you into their trap. It smacks of hired cutthroats to me.”

  “For what purpose?” He sat up, smiling a little, reaching to finger his bandaging, testing to be sure it was secure. “I’m practically a stranger here.”

  His casualness was incensing. “There must be something. Could you have been followed from France? Was there anything that happened there that might have made enemies for you, some connection, perhaps, with your reason for leaving?”

  “Not that I’m aware. It was a coincidence brought about by greed and a rainy night. If you won’t have that, then you might consider why one of these cutthroats, as you call them, was trying to kidnap you.”

  “That seems fairly obvious. I was a witness, and I don’t doubt that had they been able to kill you I would have met the same fate.”

  “Too dramatic, I fear. It’s more likely some man wanted you and took rather drastic means to appease his desires.”

  A laugh was surprised from her. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “You doubt it? Think of your lieutenant. Desire and revenge make men do strange things.”

  “Speaking from experience, of course?”

  “Oh, of course,” he said, the look in his eyes suddenly desolate.

  She stared at him for long moments with distress slowly creeping in upon her, bringing the rise of gooseflesh to her skin. To think that someone wished her harm, would plot to seize her, use her for their base desires and ends, was horrible. She turned sharply from him, flinging out her hands as if to ward off the suggestion. “No, it’s impossible.”

  His voice soft, he said, “Is it?”

  The fire crackled in the quiet room. Outside, the rain fell with a steady, endless pattering on the roof and heavier splattering as it poured from the eaves to the ground. Cyrene thought of the pent-up rage on the lieutenant’s face when he had been prevented from harassing her. But that was not all. If one person could set out to hurt her, then why not others? Madame la Marquise, though she had no real reason, had looked at her for a brief instant this evening with virulent hatred in her eyes. And there was Touchet. She had humiliated the little man that evening on the beach, though she had not intended to. Such a one as he would not soon forgive the slight. Who else might there be? Armand, because she could not return his affection or respond to his vaunted adoration? The Bretons, for the threat she posed to them?

  “No!” she cried, clasping her arms around her. “No, it wasn’t me. It was you.”

  He rose, moving to put his hands on her shoulders. His voice quiet, he said, “Yes, I expect it was. Or else just robbery, with the two of us chosen at random.”

  His touch was soothing, his attempt to reassure her a kindly impulse. The only trouble was, she didn’t believe him.

  Their hot water was ready a short time later. Since the fire in the dressing room, lighted for their comfort as they dressed for the ball, had been allowed to go out, the porcelain hip bath was placed in the bedchamber. It sat with the water gently steaming, rapidly cooling. René remained in the salon, sipping the last of his toddy while Cyrene had first use of it. Martha bustled around, laying out toweling, testing the temperature, positioning the candles. Her fussy movements set Cyrene’s teeth on edge. She permitted the woman to secure her hair on top of her head for her and to unbutton the back of her gown, then sent her, protesting, to bed.

  She bathed quickly in order to leave a little heat in the water for René, though it was a great temptation to sit there soaking, letting the distress of the evening seep from her body. She was washing her face, wincing as she ran the cloth over her cheek where she had been struck, when René came into the room.

  He closed the door behind him, his gaze moving to where Cyrene sat in the hip bath, her skin shimmering with wet and the blue and orange gleam of the fire behind her, the perfect curves of her body outlined in its glow, the oval of her face …

  The warm appreciation rising in his eyes turned abru
ptly to concern. He came forward with quick strides and went to one knee beside her. “You were hurt; I should have known. What an idiot I am not to have seen.”

  She drew back as he reached out to touch her bruise. “It’s nothing, really.”

  “Don’t be so brave,” he said shortly as he gripped her chin, tilting her cheek toward the light.

  The bruise was livid, deep blue. It lay just under her cheekbone, however, in the concealing natural shadow. Though the skin was not broken, it would be some time before the discoloration faded. With gentle fingers, he probed the bone.

  “Is your jaw sore?”

  “A little.”

  “But you can move it?”

  “Oh, yes,” she said, “I have no trouble talking.”

  The look he gave her was unamused. “Are there any other injuries?”

  She shook her head. He gave her a skeptical glance, then allowed his gaze to move slowly over her, inch by naked inch.

  “All right, I bruised my arm on the door,” she admitted with color rising in her face, “but that’s all.”

  He took her wrist and turned it over. On the underside was a long scrape with bluish purple color beneath it. He sat for long moments, his lashes lowered, concealing his expression as his gaze rested on her arm. At last he bent his head and pressed his lips gently to the marred skin. His voice was soft, hardly more than a whisper, when he spoke. “I’m sorry.”

  His remorse, she thought, was for more than the events of the evening.

  “Are you? For what?” she asked.

  He lifted his head, meeting her gaze squarely. “For everything. I never meant — I didn’t intend that you should be hurt.”

  She looked away, her voice quiet yet toneless as she spoke. “My bruises will heal. There has been no great harm done.”

  “Hasn’t there? I would like to think so. For myself, I’m not so sure.”