Louisiana History Collection - Part 1

by Jennifer Blake

  “The quickness and coordination that a swordsman requires are gifts of nature.”

  “Granted, but not so the skill and accuracy that makes a man a formidable opponent. These things take work and dedication, plus something more, usually a willingness to use the blade, or else the necessity.”

  “You sound as if you have some personal knowledge of the subject.”

  “Most soldiers do,” he answered, his tone dry.

  “And most pirates?”

  “As you say.”

  “Valcour is neither,” she pointed out with an air of reasonableness.

  “Nonetheless, you will tell him,” he said with heavy irony, “should you see him, that I would like a word with him. The matter of his unauthorized departure from prison remains. It would be unfortunate if we were forced to put out a flier on him like a common criminal.”

  At that moment, Ashanti rejoined them. Without giving Félicité a chance to answer, Colonel McCormack made a brief adieu with the excuse of the press of responsibility, bowed, and walked away. Watching him go, Félicité was aware of a hollow feeling beneath her ribs. It was caused by the suspicion that he had sought her out not because of their agreement, but specifically to give her the message for Valcour. If that was indeed the case, then she should not be troubled by him again. But was it?

  “What is it, mam’selle? Why do you look so?” Ashanti asked, her smooth, fine-boned face with its high cheekbones and flaring nostrils creasing with anxiety.

  Félicité told her in a few short sentences, including what the neighbor woman had said concerning her brother’s whereabouts.

  “It may be,” Ashanti said, a faraway look in her eyes, “that it would be better if this man, this colonel, should find M’sieu Valcour and put him back in prison.”

  “What are you saying, Ashanti?” Félicité exclaimed.

  “He is an animal, M’sieu Valcour, one who caters always to his appetites, who enjoys rending and tearing the flesh of others.”

  “Ashanti, please.” The maid had not been rational about Valcour since the night when he, as she claimed, tried to violate her.

  “Very well, mam’selle. But what of the colonel? He is much of a man. You walk with him before the town, something that is allowed among your people only if the couple is to be wed.”

  “I don’t intend to marry him, if that’s what you are thinking!”

  “But would it not be better to entice him into the church for vows than to allow him to share your bed without them?”

  “Sharing my bed is not part of the bargain, Ashanti!”

  “Are you sure, mam’selle?” Taking Félicité’s silence as an answer, she went on, “The idea is there. Even if he does not speak of it now, he will someday. When he does, you must have your answer ready.”

  Félicité frowned. “Must I? What makes you think so?”

  “It is in the way he looks at you, mam’selle, and in the air when he comes close, a quiet thunder, like the beat of a distant drum.”

  Gooseflesh rose uncomfortably on Félicité’s arms, running with a chill down her spine. “He will have nothing of me, Ashanti, nothing. I will see to that.”

  “Guard yourself well, then, mam’selle. Give soft answers and gentle smiles. And don’t cross him. Never cross him, mam’selle.”

  Despite the colonel’s abrupt leave-taking, that was not the end of their pact. He arrived in the street outside the Lafargue ménage early the next morning. Mounted on a superb bay stallion, he led a dappled gray filly with the proud neck and fine bone structure that spoke of Arabian bloodlines. Where he had found such good stock was a mystery until Félicité remembered a vague rumor brought on the servants’ grapevine of a transport ship given over entirely to the mounts of the Spanish officers. To refuse to test the mettle of the mount brought for her pleasure was unthinkable, not only because of her agreement with Morgan McCormack, but because she could not resist the prospect of a gallop. With Ashanti’s help, she struggled into her riding habit and descended to the street.

  Félicité returned from the outing perhaps a shade more in charity with the colonel. No hint of the reason for her accompanying him had intruded. The man had set himself to please, to gain her confidence and put her at ease. Though suspicious of such tactics, Félicité could not but own that he had a certain hard-bitten attraction when he cared to use it.

  They had ridden along the river, leaving the stale miasma of night odors from the town behind them, plunging into the freshness of the morning. It was only as the sun climbed higher, pouring its molten heat down upon them, forcing them to turn back, that active animosity had arisen between them again. It came when Morgan introduced the subject of Valcour once more. He had learned of Dom, her brother’s body servant, and wanted to speak to the man. The information that the servant could neither speak nor read and write was not to his liking; still, he insisted on seeing Dom. Since the name of his new master was something the colonel could learn from anyone, Félicité had no choice except to tell him.

  There was a problem with Valcour that Félicité had not yet faced. If he was anywhere near New Orleans, if he came and went in the town, then he must eventually learn of her association with the Spanish-Irish officer. He had disapproved, sometimes violently, of any interest taken in her by men of her own social and national background; what would be his reaction to her seeming preference for the company of the mercenary?

  It had crossed Félicité’s mind more than once that if Morgan McCormack was aware of Valcour’s attitude he might well be using the situation to entice her brother out of hiding. It was unlikely such a plan would succeed, even if she was correct in her suspicions. When she had refused to go with Valcour, to leave her father and flee for France, he had more or less washed his hands of her; it was unlikely he would put his head into a noose for her sake. And yet, he had not departed for France, had not even left the vicinity, though he had certainly made preparations to do so, as witnessed by his sale of the body servant. What he was doing she could not imagine, nor could she help being apprehensive.

  There was another evening stroll with Colonel McCormack, made bearable by the light, if strained, conversation. This time he came for her at her house, and returned her to the foot of the stairs at the entrance passage. She did not invite him inside, nor did he suggest it, though there was a moment when he stood waiting, almost expectant. Her fears had been allayed somewhat, since at no time had he indicated by word or deed that he expected more from her than their formal meetings. It was simply a reluctance to allow him to enter the private precincts of her life, to bid an enemy to enter her father’s house while he himself resided in prison at the behest of that man’s government, that made her bar his entrance.

  There was a shuttered look about the colonel’s face as he bowed, ready to take his leave. “I have matters to attend to in the morning,” he said, “which will make a ride impossible. There is a masque arranged for the evening, however. Will you do me the honor of accepting my escort?”

  Félicité sent him a straight look, appreciative, suddenly, of the fact that the request for her presence was not couched in the form of an order, as it well might have been. Gravely she replied, “It is I who shall be honored.”

  Levees, soirées, bals masques, such entertainments were not unusual for the town, but they were normally reserved for the winter season from November until after Easter in imitation of Paris, whence came the rules of polite society. That they were being given now was but a symptom of the consternation that had swept the town. To make the new masters welcome, to disarm them with frivolous amusement and an air of gaiety, was a technique ingrained through ages of seeing conquerors come and go in their homeland of France. No one understood this more thoroughly than the women of the town — the hostesses, the fearful wives and mothers.

  Regardless, Félicité could not think that her arrival at such an affair as the bal masque on the arm of the colonel would be looked on with favor. Knowing that she would be the object of many stares an
d much censure, she dressed with care, but also with a certain proud defiance.

  The night was sultry and oppressive. Not a breath of air filtered through the shutters of Félicité’s bedroom. The heat of the candle flames around the dressing table, combined with that of the curling tongs Ashanti wielded, brought a flush of hectic color to her face, though it might well have been augmented by the appearance of the costume she was wearing.

  Of softly draped muslin edged with gold-embroidered blue satin braid, it was a copy of the Greek chiton made popular by Madame Du Barry, official mistress to the King of France since April. The blond courtesan had been involved in a liaison with Louis XV for some years previous, and the fashion doll on which the ensemble had appeared had arrived in New Orleans the past winter. Du Barry, a commoner by birth, was not much emulated. Moreover, the simple style and material seemed no substitute for the richness of brocades and silks and the stiff formality of panniers, high-piled hair, and powder. Still, the chiton was eminently suitable for the masque held in the caldron warmth of a late summer night.

  The one thing not apparent on the miniature version displayed by the fashion doll was the extreme low cut of the neckline, a most revealing plunge that was repeated in the back, and the lack of sleeves, which left her arms and shoulders virtually bare. While admittedly cooler, such a lavish display of her charms might well give rise to speculation Félicité would as soon avoid, such as in what other particular she might be seeking to copy the king’s mistress.

  It was too late to fret over it. If she had thought her reputation could withstand the wearing of such a gown weeks before, then surely it could do so now.

  “There, mam’selle,” Ashanti said, setting the curling tongs back on their frame erected over the candlestick. “It is done.”

  Félicité rose to her feet, shaking out the folds of white, unstarched muslin. The soft material draped around her, molding itself to the slender, pliant lines of her body. A gold cord looped and tied into a girdle encircled her waist. On her feet were soft leather sandals without heels, the fastenings of which crisscrossed up the calves of her legs, which were nude of stockings. In keeping with the simplicity of the effect she sought to create, she had washed all traces of powder from her hair, then Ashanti had drawn the shining golden mass into a knot at the crown of her head, from which fell a cascade of soft, gleaming curls.

  “You are most beautiful, mam’selle, even if it does look as if you are wearing your nightrail.”

  It was an apt description, since the gown was worn without undergarments of any kind beyond a thin underdress. Lacking the confinement of stays or the bulkiness of panniers, minus her chemise that with its long tail drawn between her thighs and tucked into her petticoat tapes in front constituted her drawers, her body appeared unfettered to the point of abandon. And yet there was also a look of purity, of passionless allure seen in portraits of the Holy Virgin in her flowing robes. The impression was one of angelic, unknowing wantonness.

  “Perhaps I had best send my excuses?” Félicité suggested doubtfully.

  “How can you, mam’selle? The colonel will not allow it.”

  “I could plead illness, if it were not such a coward’s trick.”

  “You have never been that, mam’selle.” At the sound of a firm knock, the maid tilted her head. “That will be the colonel now. Shall I send him away?”

  Could the maid manage it? Félicité doubted it. “No,” she said, gesturing toward the demi-mask of white satin edged with braid and the shawl of Norwich silk that lay close to hand. “I will go.”

  The streets were dark, making the linkboy Morgan had hired a necessity in order for them to pick their way along the rutted thoroughfare. Gazing down one dark-shadowed way, Félicité saw the flash of heat lightning along the horizon beyond the dark open space of the river.

  The pine-pitch torches that burned outside the house where the masque was being held were welcome beacons as they burned with a yellow-orange flare in the still, heavy air. Inside, however, it was scarcely more bright than without, as was the custom with such entertainments, where a major part of the amusement depended on keeping identities concealed until the unmasking at the stroke of midnight. As might be expected, the atmosphere was lively, and a trifle free, though not to excess. Still, the masque was not considered an appropriate occasion for the appearance of jeunes filles. Most of the women present were young matrons bent on discreet flirtations, or widows. Their hostess, a woman who often spoke of her cousine who was a companion of the mesdames of France, the daughters of King Louis, enjoyed a marriage in the aristocratic style with both her and her husband turning a bland eye to each other’s little indiscretions.

  Félicité’s costume, therefore, was not as outré as she had feared. There was not another Greek chiton to be seen, but at a single glance one could see a Circe in a skimpy gown without petticoats that featured green spangles on sarcenet, and a lady from the Court of Love in a slim gown with wide, flowing sleeves and a pointed cap from which was suspended a veil. Yet another costume appeared to be constructed of feathers attached to a black gauze underdress fully as décolleté as her own, if not more so. Though the wearer was masked, her unpowdered hair gave her away. It was the Spanish lady, the noblewoman Félicité had seen near the governor-general’s house. The white wings in her dark hair revealed her identity, though she seemed as careless of the fact as she did of the glimpses of her charms revealed by her floating gown. Those females who had worn the heavy court fashion were already looking wilted, fanning themselves with vigor as they dabbed with scented handkerchiefs at the perspiration making tracks in their maquillage, and casting glances both scathing and longing at the gowns of the others. Nonetheless, when Félicité slipped her silk shawl from her shoulders, handing it to an attendant, the man at her side drew in his breath. She sent him a quick glance from under her lashes. He was staring at her, a trace of disapproval stamped on his hard features, though his green eyes through the slits of the scarlet domino he wore over his uniform appeared luminous with something that might have been desire.

  “Morgan, my friend, you have captured a goddess, a veritable Diana, an Hebe — no! A Venus!”

  Those liquid, admiring tones could only belong to Juan Sebastian. He had not put in an appearance outside her window for several days, not since she had met him in the office of the colonel, in fact.

  “So it seems,” Morgan answered.

  “I am consumed with jealousy. I swear upon my honor, no other lady in this room, nay, in New Orleans, can compare to Mademoiselle Lafargue!”

  “You are too kind,” Félicité said in conventional reply, though there was a crinkle of amusement around her eyes for his obvious flattery.

  “Not so kind as I would surely be if you did not have this surly Irishman at your elbow, who is, lamentably, my superior.”

  “I see,” Morgan drawled, “that I am going to have to do something about the lack of discipline and respect in the ranks. A few weeks of duty aboard the frigate in the harbor should serve to instill an appreciation for those virtues.”

  “You jest, my friend! Don’t you?” Juan Sebastian, also in a red domino, bent a look of comical inquiry upon the other man.

  Morgan’s chiseled mouth curved into a deliberately enigmatic smile.

  “Ah, I think you jest, but in case you do not, I will beg a dance from the beautiful one on your arm, the memory of which will sustain me should the worst befall. I realize this is the opposite of what you intended, compadre, but the fault is your own for failing to take into account the fatalism in the Iberian character.”

  “Approach at your own risk,” Morgan drawled.

  The Spaniard laughed, and with a flourish of his cape-like domino, moved away. The room was full of dominos, it seemed, most of them scarlet, though there was a sprinkling of black and gray ones. In every case there was a scabbard point nudging at the material in the back, as the gentlemen kept their swords at their sides. With the powdered wigs and black demi-masks, it had the
effect of making most of the males in the room look alike, a vast concord of brothers.

  Félicité’s quick gaze fastened on a slim gentleman in the corner, talking to a lady whose coiffure was shaped like a beehive, complete with silken bees perched upon the mass. Because of the dim light and the fact that he was half turned from her, she could not be certain it was Valcour; still, she was almost positive it was he.

  Without haste, she allowed her gaze to wander to the next couple, and the next. Her voice deliberately casual, she said to Morgan McCormack, “Do you suppose the governor-general is here?”

  “He is supposed to put in a brief appearance. He is not fond of masquerades, however. I suspect it will be after midnight before he makes an entrance.”

  Félicité was saved from having to discover another subject for conversation by the arrival behind them of a giggling friend from convent days. She had in tow her plump, curly-haired, olive-skinned husband. Her manner exquisitely polite, Félicité presented the couple to Morgan, and the four of them stood chatting until the music began.

  They took the floor together, she and the Irish colonel. It seemed to Félicité that every eye, in the room was riveted upon their performance as they went through the figures. Glancing once at Morgan from under her lashes, she found him watching her, his expression speculative, absorbed.

  “You are very quiet this evening,” she ventured.

  “The better to concentrate on you.”

  “A boring exercise, surely?”

  “You would not think so,” he answered with a sudden flashing smile, “if you could read my thoughts.”

  It would not do to discourage such passages between them completely, and yet her position must be made plain. “I’m sure I am more comfortable without that ability.”

  The evening crept onward. Félicité danced with Juan Sebastian. Afterward he left her sitting beside a window alcove while he fought his way to the punch bowl to bring her a cooling drink. Scarcely had he vanished into the growing press of people when there was a movement at her shoulder.