Louisiana History Collection - Part 1

by Jennifer Blake

  She had expected better of René. In spite of the way he had used her and the things he had done, she had somehow clung to the idea that there was something strong and fine in him. To discover that there was not was such a disappointment it made her feel physically ill. She drew back the hand that held the notes, aiming it toward the fire before her.

  Slowly she lowered her hand once more to her lap. There would be no satisfaction in destroying the notes. Moreover, it would be a stupid gesture. What she held in her hand was not just pieces of counterfeit money; they were her passport to freedom. If there had been any doubt that she was able to leave René without repercussion, there was none now.

  She gazed down at the notes, trying to think. She must send a message to Gaston, tell him that she was leaving, that he must make arrangements for them to journey into the wilderness to rejoin Pierre and Jean. She should get up and begin to gather her things, decide what she would take with her to wear among the finery that was all she had. It would be a kindness to say good-bye to Martha; she had become fond of the woman with her hard work and willingness to please. And she should compose some message for René.

  There were things to be done. Still, she didn’t move.

  She sat turning the notes over, fighting a terrible urge to cry. She was an idiot. Somewhere inside herself, hidden, unacknowledged, there had been a lingering dream that René would realize how he had wronged her, would discover that his life would be barren without her at his side as his wife, the mother of his children. Foolish, foolish, foolish.

  There came a quick, hard knock on the front door of the house. She jumped, startled, and panic ran in a swift current along her veins. She stuffed the notes back into the lining of the coat and began to fold it. The knock came again. Martha was in the kitchen and could not hear. Cyrene hurried to the armoire and slid the folded coat onto the shelf, then closed the doors on it. With one hand going to her hair to smooth any stray strands into her chignon under her lace coif, she picked up her skirts and went quickly into the salon.

  It was only Armand at the door, come on his afternoon call. She railed silently at herself for being thrown into such disorder. Who had she expected? The authorities come to take her away for the crime of rifling through her lover’s belongings? Hardly. René? He would not have knocked, and so she would have known if she had been in her right senses. It was too ridiculous.

  She left Armand in the salon and went through to the pantry, calling down the stairs to Martha for chocolate for herself and wine for Armand. Returning to her guest, she took her place as hostess.

  It felt strange, sitting making pleasant conversation when her mind was entirely elsewhere. She wished that she had never encouraged Armand or that he would have the sensitivity to sense he was not wanted and be gone. Instead he talked on and on of the ball, his inquisitive gaze upon her face.

  At last he fell silent. He sipped his wine, watching her closely. She could think of nothing to say and so took refuge in her chocolate cup.

  “Forgive me if I pry, chère,” he said finally, “but you seem distraught. What can the trouble be?”

  She had been wishing he would show more sensitivity. The moment he did so, she wished he were not nearly so observant of her state.

  “Nothing at all,” she said.

  “It would relieve my mind considerably to believe it, but I have the evidence of my eyes. You are extremely pale, if you will permit me to say so, and on your cheek there is a bruise that — that sickens me to the soul. I have no right to ask, but I must. What has happened? Were you struck in the altercation with the lieutenant last night? Or can it be that Lemonnier became violent over the governor’s attentions?”

  “Oh!” she said, relief pouring over her in a wave. “You don’t know.”

  His face lightened at her dazed exclamation. “No, but I’m endeavoring to find out.”

  “But of course,” she said, and went on to tell him of the attack upon René and herself.

  Armand clenched his hands on his wineglass, shaking his head as he stared down at it. “Useless, I have been so useless to you. First I was too far away to come to your aid when you were insulted by the pig of an officer, could only watch from afar as I tried to reach you. Now this. I long to be your protector, but I fail you in your need.”

  His regret was genuine, not the false lament of a mere social friend. There were others, perhaps, who had their dreams. She reached out to touch his hand. “Don’t upset yourself. Your sympathy means much to me, more than your protection.”

  “Does it, really? How kind you are,” he said, catching her fingers and raising them to his lips. “How very kind.”

  His grasp was a little tight, his gaze carried an intentness that indicated he might well say more unless prevented. She went on quickly. “I am also in grave need of your amusement just now to take my mind from things. Pray, have you no tidbits of scandal for me, no stories of clandestine escapades to divert me?”

  He accepted the ploy with grace, settling back with his wine and regaling her with a tale of how, at the masquerade, a gentleman known for his habit of spilling snuff down his cravat was seen coming from an empty card room with a lady who was brushing snuff from her bosom. From there, he went on to the antics of a pair of elderly roués who were trying to solicit the interest of a plump young widow who had inherited not only a plantation on Bayou St. John but also an indigo factory, a brick yard, and an operation for the making of candles from the wax berries of the local myrtle shrubs.

  “And, of course,” he went on, “Rouvilliere is still agitating about the activities of Madame Vaudreuil. He claims she dispenses drugs to the soldiers from her own house, with her own hands, when her steward is not available.”

  “What is Rouvilliere’s purpose in all this? Does he hope to gain Vaudreuil’s recall?”

  Armand lifted a shoulder. “It may be simple revenge for all the clashes that he has not been able to win and especially the charges of malfeasance filed against him by Vaudreuil. It may also be an excess of duty. On the other hand, he may have his own candidate for the office of governor. But if his intention is merely to have the governor replaced, he may save himself the trouble. Vaudreuil is bound for New France and only awaits the appointment of his successor.”

  “It has been announced?”

  “Not yet. My aunt in Paris—”

  “Writes to say so, I suppose?” she finished for him, smiling. “The governor will be happy.”

  “As you say. It will be like going home for him — though I expect he prays nightly that his replacement reaches him before the Indians attack in force or the smuggling becomes a public outrage.”

  Cyrene ignored the last, seizing on the word that brought the race of alarm to her veins. “Indians?”

  “I was forgetting you might not have heard. News came this morning of another trading party attacked. One man was killed, another injured.”

  “Their names?” Cyrene’s stomach felt like a knotted fist as she thought of Pierre and Jean, out in the wilderness somewhere, searching out the English traders from the Carolinas and visiting the Indian villages with their goods.

  “No one seems to know. I’m sorry.” Armand knew enough of her story to realize the impact of his news. “The attack was only thirty or forty leagues upriver. Vaudreuil is said to be in a rage at the effrontery. He is preparing to send to our Choctaw allies a request for a meeting at Mobile for talks, a most precarious gamble as matters now stand.”

  “Precarious, for the governor?”

  “Oh, he will be well protected by the king’s soldiers, never fear. But in order for the Choctaw to take him at all seriously, he will be required to do more than exercise his charm and diplomacy. He will be required to hand out gifts on a sumptuous scale.”

  “Gifts he doesn’t have,” she said. She had seen the main warehouse. There had been nothing there to impress the poorest Indian, even before the fire.

  “The governor gave out presents with a lavish hand this past Novembe
r in Mobile, but more will be expected, of course, with the request for warriors to aid us.”

  “If he appeals to Maurepas, makes him see the seriousness of the situation, surely goods will be sent?”

  “Possibly. We can only hope the merchandise will not be too shoddy. If France doesn’t have a care, she will lose Louisiane for lack of a few beads and blankets.”

  “It does seem so,” Cyrene said, lifting her hand to her head where a small ache was beginning to gather, an ache caused by the upsets of the morning.

  “I am an imbecile to trouble you with all this when you don’t feel well,” Armand said, his dark eyes stricken. “Does your face hurt you? Would you not like a cool cloth to hold to it?”

  “No, no,” she assured him, lowering her hand and summoning a smile. “It’s kind of you to worry, but I’m all right.”

  “Are you certain? To see you injured in that way cuts me to the heart. It is none of my affair, but… it has been reported to the governor?”

  “I assume René will tell him.”

  “Good, good. Investigations will be made, then.”

  “I suppose something may be discovered of the injured men, though odds are that we will learn they are scum who have now fled. As for the other, there is no way to identify him.”

  “Perhaps not, and then again something may be done. I think I must make a few investigations of my own.”

  “Not if it will be dangerous, as well it may.”

  “You are not to worry. This is something I must do, something I wish to do for my own sake.”

  She had no means of forcing him to desist. In any case, it seemed possible he might be able to discover something; he was such an excellent source of information. She permitted herself to be reassured.

  They spoke of other things, with Armand stopping now and then to interject some exclamation of sympathy and self-blame as his gaze went to her face. At last, when Cyrene was beginning to think he would be with her still when dinnertime came, he took his leave, still lamenting that he had not been able to serve her.

  Martha emerged from the kitchen almost immediately, where she must have been listening for Armand’s departure, and began to clear away the clutter of wineglasses and chocolate cups and the remains of the tarts and cheese that had been provided. The woman had the chocolate pot in her hand when a knock sounded on the door once more, announcing another caller. With an expressive lift of her eyes in Cyrene’s direction, Martha set down the pot, wiped her hands on her apron, and went to answer the door.

  The man who stepped into the salon was Touchet. It had begun to rain outside once more, for the fresh, moist coolness of it came with him into the room, and his cape, which he stripped off, shone with wet. He removed his tricorne also and handed it with his cape and cane to Martha. Madame Vaudreuil’s man then sauntered toward Cyrene where she sat on the settee. He bowed over her hand in formal greeting, though without touching it to his lips, for which she was thankful. His gaze rested a moment on her bruised cheek, but he either saw nothing there to excite his interest or else thought it the better part of courtesy to pretend he did not.

  It occurred to Cyrene as he came toward her with jaunty self-satisfaction in his step that he must have waited deliberately until Armand was gone. It made her feel uncomfortable to think of him loitering somewhere, watching the house, noting who arrived and left. She could not be surprised at it, however.

  She depended on cool politeness to carry her over the first few moments of the visit, inviting Touchet to be seated, requesting that Martha bring wine once more, commenting on the wet weather and also on the magnificence of the entertainment that had been offered to them the evening before. At the same time, her mind was busy choosing and rejecting reasons why Madam Vaudreuil’s lackey might have decided to pay her a call. It was a great relief when Touchet, after a glance around to be sure Martha was gone, came to the point.

  “As much as I appreciate your charms, mademoiselle, this is not for me a visit of gallantry. I come as an emissary from one lady to another.”

  “From Madame Vaudreuil?”

  “Just so, from the Marquise de Vaudreuil.”

  The insistence on the title was telling, meant undoubtedly to make her aware of the power and high standing of the woman of whom he spoke. It served merely to put Cyrene on her mettle. She felt the normal social need to come to his aid in some way when he paused, apparently at a loss. She ignored it. Let him flounder.

  Touchet pursed his lips and a hard gleam came into his eyes. “The marquise is… concerned, concerned about you. She feels that Lemonnier may have taken advantage of you. She worries that you may not realize the hazardous path you are treading as his mistress.”

  “I am touched by her regard for my welfare,” Cyrene said with a shading of irony.

  “Yes. She does not have a great deal of time for such concerns, but as a great lady she takes her duty toward the people under her husband’s jurisdiction seriously.”

  “I’m sure.” Was there a veiled threat in that phrase, some hint that Cyrene was in the power of the marquis and therefore of his wife? It did not seem likely, but it was possible to read anything into Touchet’s too-smooth tone.

  “On the other hand, Madame la Marquise perceives in you a female above the ordinary, one of intelligence who cares for more than fine feathers and the pleasures of the moment. Because of this, she is prepared to invest in your future.”

  “My future?” Cyrene repeated. “I don’t believe I understand.”

  He gave her a snide smile. “Let me make it clearer. She will pay you handsomely, enough to live on while you apprentice yourself to a milliner or dressmaker, or even set yourself up in a small pastry shop or some such, if you will agree to leave Louisiane for Paris to take advantage of this opportunity. The monies will be paid to you on the day you sail, when you are aboard the ship. Le Parham sails within the week.”

  “This — this is incredible!”

  “I find it so myself, but that is the offer of the marquise.”

  It was, of course, a bribe; the fine phrases of concern were so much rhetoric. Madame Vaudreuil, it seemed, was afraid of her husband’s attraction to Cyrene. It might also be that the woman expected the Bretons might follow her to Paris, thereby eliminating another of her problems. How very foolish. Madame greatly exaggerated her influence.

  “You cannot be serious,” she said.

  “I assure you Madame la Marquise is very serious, indeed.”

  “I am not her responsibility. You must tell her for me that I am honored to think she has taken so much time and thought over my situation, but I must refuse. Louisiane is my home.

  I have no wish to leave it.”

  Touchet frowned. “She won’t be pleased.”

  “I regret that, but my answer remains the same.”

  “Is it, perhaps, affection that holds you? Or is it your prospects with Lemonnier? Or even young Moulin?” She gave him a cold look. “That is none of your concern or Madame Vaudreuil’s.”

  “You are making a mistake.”

  “Perhaps.”

  He leaned forward in his seat, his voice low. “Your position here could be made extremely unpleasant if you stay.”

  She got to her feet in a quick, smooth movement. “How kind of you to warn me. Now if you will forgive me for sending you away without refreshment, I believe I must ask you to leave me. I have a touch of the headache.”

  “Not yet,” he said, rising slowly from his chair to face her. “We haven’t come to an agreement.”

  “I fear we are as near as we can be.” She refused to look away from his yellow-brown stare as she stood with lifted chin and clasped hands.

  “I think not.” His voice was soft with menace. “I feel sure there is something I can do that will persuade you to change your mind.”

  There came the sounds of a noisy approach from the rear of the house. For a moment, Cyrene thought it was Martha trying to make certain that she did not interrupt anything of importance as she
brought the wine that was ordered. Then she heard Gaston’s voice and turned with relief toward the dining room, from which it came.

  It was both Gaston and Armand. One carried a tray with a bottle of sherry and a collection of tinkling glasses, the other a crystal compote piled high with small cakes and bonbons and also a stack of small plates. They jostled each other back and forth, laughing and protesting and uttering dire warnings. They made it safely to the table beside Cyrene with their burdens where they began to serve what they had brought with every show of skill in the art.

  Gaston filled a glass, then turned with it to Touchet. “Wine, m’sieur?”

  The presence of the two young men was not without purpose. It was plain from the look of frustrated rage on Touchet’s face that he understood that fact as well as Cyrene. He made a curt bow in Gaston’s direction, though his gaze did not leave her face. “Thank you, no, I cannot stay. I will convey your answer, mademoiselle, to the person concerned. It may be that we will have to discuss it further.”

  “For myself, I can assure you it will be of no avail whatever.”

  “We shall see,” he said, and turned on his heel.

  Armand moved quickly to gather Touchet’s cape, tricorne, and cane, which had been left on a side table, then stepped to open the door. Touchet snatched his belongings from the younger man’s hands and stalked from the room. His footsteps could be heard on the stairs for a moment, then were lost in the sound of the pouring rain.

  Cyrene heaved a sigh of relief, then turned to face the two young men. She said with some asperity, “You may tell me now just what you two are doing here?”

  Gaston and Armand had overheard enough to guess what had transpired, but they wanted the details. Cyrene related them as simply as possible, also expressing her profound relief at seeing them. Armand had noticed Touchet in a doorway as he had left a short while before. At first he had thought he was merely sheltering from the rain, then he had looked over his shoulder to see him making a dash for the house. He had been undecided about his course of action until he had caught sight of Gaston on his way to pay a visit. He had intercepted him, told him of Cyrene’s visitor. They had decided it might be better to allow Touchet to have his say, whatever it might be, before they put in an appearance. Martha had seen them hanging about in the rain and her suspicions had been aroused until she recognized them. She had practically hauled them into the kitchen. It had been an easy matter then to eavesdrop, with their excuse for interruption prepared if it was needed.