He stood framed in the opening, staring at her with overbright eyes, almost as if he had not expected to find her there. His face was flushed beneath the bronze of his skin, and he held his right arm clamped across his abdomen with his fingers thrust into his sword belt while his tricorne hat hung from the other hand. His gaze fastened upon her, moving from the shining, honey-blond curls arranged in a crown upon her head, down over the pale oval of her face, avoiding the dark apprehension of her eyes to probe the soft folds of her fichu tucked into the square neckline of her floral print gown of cream silk.
“Mademoiselle Félicité,” he said, inclining his head with what appeared to be extreme care. “I bid you good evening.”
“Good evening,” Félicité returned. She looked away with an effort, folding her sewing and placing it in the basket that sat on the table beside her chair.
“Did Pepe put in an appearance?”
It was at that moment that the small manservant came hurrying from the rooms that had been given over to Morgan’s use. “I am here, my colonel, you need not worry. Your chamber is prepared, your bath—”
“I should have known,” Morgan said, a flicker of what might have been amusement crossing his stern features.
The manservant sent him a sharp glance that missed nothing as he reached to take the tricorne from Morgan’s unresisting fingers. “Indeed you should! Will you change before dinner, perhaps bathe, take a glass of wine? The maid, Ashanti, has told me it will be fully half an hour before the meal is ready.”
“For now the wine will suffice.”
“If you will permit me, I will remove your boots that you may lie upon your bed.”
“Thank you, no.”
“But my colonel, I am persuaded your head aches; and your wound, it should be looked after.”
Morgan lifted a brow. His voice soft, he said, “I am not an invalid, Pepe. I will have the wine here, with Mademoiselle Lafargue.”
“Yes, colonel, at once, colonel.” In breathless haste, the small man scampered from the room.
Félicité, watching Morgan’s advance from under her lashes, could see well enough what had caused the manservant’s concern. The shoulder of his uniform appeared stretched and strutted, not merely from the bandage beneath it, but from swelling. Moreover, he had all the signs of being in a raging fever. To point out his condition seemed unnecessary; he could hardly be unaware of it. Likewise, any offer of aid, judging from his response to Pepe, would be both unappreciated and of uncertain safety.
She waited until he had thrown himself into the armchair across the table from her and thrust his long legs out, crossing his mud-caked boots one over the other, before she ventured a question. “Did you make your report — on the attack against you, I mean?”
“I did.”
“I suppose Valcour is now a wanted man?”
“He was wanted before, for treason, and still is. A charge of attempted murder, on further consideration, seemed unnecessary.”
There was an edge to his tone that sounded a warning, but she could not heed it. “He — he hasn’t been caught?”
“Not yet,” he said deliberately, “and if you are fretting about what character I gave you, let me put your mind at ease. The official version reads that I saw no evidence to indicate you were involved.”
“But you said—”
“What I said, and what I know to be the facts, are two different things.”
“Oh.”
“Yes,” he drawled. “I have been wondering about my sanity all this day. What I should have done was given evidence and let you take the consequences for your misdeeds.”
“But you didn’t.” Her words were tentative, almost an inquiry.
“No, and I have a feeling that is something I am going to regret.” He sent her a long, burning glance. “I have always said no woman is worth being cashiered for. The question is, my sweet Félicité, will I be proved right or wrong?”
Félicité met his fevered gaze with coldness. Her tones brittle, she said, “I doubt it will come to that. You have only to say that you were mistaken, that you overlooked the evidence that pointed toward my guilt.”
“The governor-general doesn’t permit mistakes, not in his officers.”
“It seems then,” she answered, “that it will be to your advantage if the question of my guilt or innocence doesn’t arise.”
It was a moment before he spoke. “It strikes me that my position as an officer has been extremely useful to you, first to protect your father, now to do the same for you. I might even go so far as to say that you are dependent upon my goodwill.”
“You might.” Félicité forced the words past the sudden constriction in her throat. “What of it?”
His expression was difficult, to discern in the encroaching shadows of the room, but his voice held an abrupt note of grim satisfaction. “That fact is the only thing that makes this situation worthwhile.”
“Why?” Félicité flung at him as she came to her feet. “Because you anticipate what I will do to keep it? I wouldn’t count on it! You are here, and that is enough!”
“For you, maybe, but not for me.”
There was no time to reply, even if she could have thought of something to say. Pepe came into the room then, bearing a decanter of claret and a pair of glasses on a wooden salver. As the manservant poured the wine, Morgan watched Félicité with narrowed eyes. Her challenge and its answer lay between them like a flimsy barrier that had been felled with a single blow, leaving behind debris that must be cleared away.
“Shall I light a candle, my colonel?” the manservant asked.
Morgan looked up at him. “You must ask Mademoiselle Lafargue. This is her home.”
“Of course, forgive me,” Pepe said in tones of chagrin. “Shall I, señorita?”
Félicité gave her assent with a wave of her hand. The servant moved to kindle a flame and touch it to the tapers in a candelabrum on a floor stand. She swung away, her trailing skirts held out by panniers sweeping over the floor as she walked to the open doorway leading out onto the balcony. A gray moth fluttered past her, wafted on the fitful breeze that stirred the portieres. The darkening sky had a lavender tint that was reflected in the puddles lying in the still street below. A cat, half grown, half starved, came picking its way along the muddy thoroughfare, then dropped into a crouch before pouncing on a crayfish, carrying it off in triumph.
It was a little cooler since the rain, though a humid stickiness hung in the air. It was this, combined with tight stays, that made it difficult to breathe evenly. Her hands were trembling, and she clasped them together, staring with unseeing eyes at the house on the opposite side of the narrow way. If it were not for her father, she would pick up her skirts and walk out the door, down the stairs, and into the street. She would throw herself on the mercy of some neighbor, some merchant who had done business with her father. If she pleaded hard enough they might lend her the means to join Valcour at Balize, where she could take a ship for France. If it wasn’t for her father—
“Come drink your wine.”
Félicité let out her breath in a soundless sigh. Turning with reluctant obedience, she moved toward the table, skirting Morgan’s out-stretched legs to take up her wineglass. She cast the man in the chair a quick glance. He had loosened the buttons of his waistcoat and removed his stock. Now he drank his wine as though he were parched with thirst, and leaned to refill his glass. Lifting his right arm to tilt the decanter must have been an effort, for when he leaned back, the candle flame that shone in the russet waves of his hair caught a sheen of perspiration across his upper lip.
Pepe had effaced himself, though he had retreated only as far as the entrance hall. Through the open doorway, he could be seen hovering over the table in that large open space, getting in Ashanti’s way as she checked the setting for dinner. His presence and that of her maid prevented a return to the subject they had been discussing. It was just as well.
Félicité drank from her glass. The claret
was from a cask her father had put down two years before, one of his favorites. She swallowed, clearing her throat. “When Ashanti took my father’s meal to him this evening, the guard told her he thought the trials for the men under arrest would begin soon.”
“Very likely they will. As far as O’Reilly is concerned, the sooner the better.”
“What are they waiting for? Why don’t they begin tomorrow?”
He shrugged. “Evidence has to be gathered, depositions taken from anyone who might have knowledge of the insurrection; witnesses must be found, two per man, who are willing to swear to personal information concerning their guilt.”
“From men like Director-General Aubry, I suppose?” she said, her tone heavy with scorn.
“And from Father Dagobert, and others like him. Every effort will be made to discover the exact truth.”
Père Dagobert was the French Capuchin friar who was the religious leader of the community. If anyone could give an unbiased accounting of the happenings of the past month, it was he. A generous and kindly man, beloved, well known for his tolerance of human foibles, he could be depended upon to do everything in his power to aid the prisoners.
Félicité moistened her lips with wine once more. “Ashanti also heard on the street that Foucault has been arrested.”
“That’s right.” Morgan did not look at her as he spoke.
“But it’s absurd. The man was the commissary-general under the French, little more than a keeper of the king’s stores.”
“Among which were the weapons supplied to the men who attacked Ulloa’s ship.”
“Such an attack, cutting the lines that held the vessel to the levee!”
“There was a force of four hundred armed men present at the time. It was only Ulloa’s good fortune that they decided he wasn’t worth more drastic measures of ensuring his departure.”
“Armed men?” she scoffed. “They were guests in high spirits returning from a wedding. I seriously doubt their numbers would have come to two hundred, much less four.”
“That is one of the things the trial must discover.”
“First Lafrénière and Braud, now Foucault, all men of rank under the French regime, men with the king’s commission. This grows more unbelievable every day.”
“I suppose it must, and yet the list of men arrested is not long in comparison to similar incidents elsewhere. In the provinces of Mexico two years ago, eighty-two men were executed for insurrection, and with much less evidence against them.”
“That may be, but they were Spaniards, one supposes. I speak of Frenchmen. Why should they answer to Spain?”
“The instigating of rebellion after the transfer of the colony to Spain makes theirs a double crime, against both their own government and mine.”
Félicité set her glass down with a sharp thud. “You are all mad! What does it matter if a man disagrees with the policies of a government, no matter which one? Why should it become a thing of life or death?”
“A man may think what he pleases, but he may not persuade others to think the same. The moment he does, he puts himself in opposition to authority. If enough join him, then the country is divided, and therefore weakened. Strife causes uncertainties that interfere with the basic rights of all men; the right to raise food for their families, to work to better themselves, to learn, to create, to enjoy. And in this state of chaos, it becomes easier for a stronger, more determined country to move in its armies and conquer those in disarray.”
“And yet sometimes that happens,” Félicité said bitterly, “when there is peace and all men are in agreement.”
From the doorway to the combined entrance and dining hall there came a cough. Pepe bowed when he had their attention. “Dinner is served.”
The first course was a small bowl each of crab bisque. This was followed by coq au vin, along with a few spears of unadorned asparagus as a side dish. There was plenty of bread, but no other vegetable, no red meat course, no rich sauces, no gelatins. For dessert there would be only a custard to round out a menu that might well have been prepared for someone who was ill. That was, in any case, not far from the mark. Morgan picked at his food, drinking a few spoonfuls of the bisque, taking a mouthful of chicken.
As the meal progressed, Pepe cast several anxious glances at his master. He was in and out often, pouring the wine to complement the food, removing the crumbs that fell from the bread as they broke it, taking away the used utensils.
Pausing at Morgan’s elbow to refill his wineglass, the manservant said, “Was the chicken not to your liking, my colonel?”
“It was fine,” Morgan replied.
“But you eat so little. I would offer you a sliver of ham or some such thing as a substitute, but there is no other food in the house. None.”
Morgan glanced up at the man. “What are you saying?”
The manservant made a small movement of his thin shoulders. “Other than a bit of flour and chocolate, and a small pot of wild honey, there is not another morsel in the kitchen. Half of what was cooked this night was taken to the prison, at that. According to the woman who presides in the kitchen, there is no money for more.”
Morgan turned to Félicité, a frown drawing his brows together. “Is this true?”
“What of it?” Félicité answered, a flush of angry humiliation lying across her cheekbones.
“I find it hard to believe, especially in view of your offer of riches not too long ago.”
“That was a matter of commissions and privileges, not — not hard currency. Even then, I had been warned not to try to sell any of my father’s property that had been listed for confiscation, and of course the draper’s shop has been closed since his arrest. You would have had to wait on his release, his vindication, before you could have received the reward I was offering. I could not venture to sell even my own wearables, it being assumed, and quite rightly, that even these belonged to my father.”
His scowl deepened. “But surely your father had something put by, a ready reserve that might have been used for food? No one could object to your taking it for that purpose.”
“There was a small amount, but it — is gone.” She lowered her lashes, staring at the chicken congealing on her plate.
“Gone?”
“Taken, by Valcour.”
He leaned back. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“To what purpose?” she inquired, her tone hard.
“I would have given you money.”
Her head came up. “I want nothing from you!”
“That may be, but you have to eat. And though I have no particular preferences in food, I believe I would notice if there was none at all on the table.”
There was no answer to that. When he saw she was not going to reply, Morgan turned on Pepe, making him jump with the suddenness of the attack. “You had funds, did you not?”
“Yes, my colonel.”
“Why is it you didn’t go to the market when you noticed the need?”
“I would have, my colonel,” the manservant said in doleful tones, “but by the time I realized the lack, it was too late. The people of the market had closed their stalls and gone home for the day.”
Silence descended. Morgan stared from his manservant to Félicité. He closed his eyes, putting a hand up to rub over them, then downward to rasp over the day’s growth of stubble on his chin. Lowering it, he grasped the arms of his chair and pushed to his feet. He swayed a little as he said, “I believe I will have that bath now.”
His voice had been steady, and his movements were well controlled as he moved around the end of the table, and yet there was an unnatural set to his shoulders, as if he was exerting greater than normal strength to keep himself erect. Almost against her will, Félicité rose, watching as his strides took him through the door and into the salle. She was only a few steps away, with Pepe close beside her, when he turned in the direction of the bedchamber he had used the night before, her own.
“This way, my colonel,” Pepe said, gliding forw
ard to touch his arm, indicating the chamber that opened on the far side of the salle. I was directed to establish your quarters on this side of the house.”
Morgan swung slowly around. “Were you?” he asked. “Were you indeed?”
“But yes. Two rooms have been given over to your convenience, one for sleeping, the other for your work, should you care to do it here.”
What Morgan might have done if he had commanded his full strength Félicité did not care to consider. As it was, he sent her a glittering glance with a threat in its depths.
“How gratifying,” he drawled. “I can’t wait to see them.”
8
THE HOUR WAS LATE when the stirring from the rooms allotted the colonel finally died away. Before it was over nearly everyone in the house had been involved — Marie, the upstairs maid, to bring extra hot water as far as the outer door and to find quilts for a pallet for Pepe to be put down in the connecting room; Ashanti to search out fresh bandaging; and the cook to simmer the collection of leaves and herbs Ashanti insisted was necessary for a fomentation for the in-flamed wound. Only Félicité was not pressed into service.
She did not offer to help, but neither did she interfere. Morgan had more than enough people taking care of him, or trying to do so. No one would expect her to show concern, least of all he. He was in no danger, according to Ashanti; a man of M’sieu Colonel’s great strength would recover in a day or two, with her aid, from such a thing as a slight poisoning of the blood.
After a time, Félicité sent the maid to retrieve the copper tub Pepe had appropriated. She took her own bath at leisure, soaking in the scented water. Finished, she donned her nightrail, brushed and braided her hair, then blew out the candle and lay down upon her bed.
Sleep was impossible. The turmoil and disturbance of the day, combined with the distress of the night before, had left her nerve-strung. The residue of fearful anger ran like acid in her veins, churning in her mind with all the cutting things she might have said if only she had thought of them. With bright, stinging eyes, she stared up into the darkness of the mosquito baire enclosing the bed. She did not see how she could have behaved differently, and yet the situation in which she found herself lay upon her conscience and her pride with an intolerable weight.
Louisiana History Collection - Part 1 Page 94