The Immortelles

by Gilbert, Morris

  “Don’t worry about it. Yancy’s a clever fellow.”

  Jeff turned to Charissa and said, “I always thought Devereaux was a savvy man, but this is suicide.”

  Charissa was smiling. “Look around you. Everybody’s laughing. It’s become a joke, which is exactly what he intended, I think.”

  “After that last dance, he’d better have a plan,” Jeff said. “He’ll need doctors if he fights all of these men.”

  “This is the last dance, Damita,” Yancy said. His eyes were bright, and he smiled. “I’m so glad we came. I’ve never had so much fun at a ball.”

  “You have lost your mind, Yancy Devereaux.” Damita was worried. “Some of these men are expert duelists. I know you’re trying to make a game out of it, but that just makes it worse. Anthony Rivera has no sense of humor about these things.”

  “He’s the first, is he? I get them all confused. Let’s see, there must be at least fifteen or twenty of them now. You know, it would be great if we could make a little money off of this.”

  Damita stared at him as he whirled her around. “What are you talking about?”

  “We could sell tickets. Yancy Devereaux’s Famous Dueling Extravaganza! Ten dollars a ticket. Why, all of New Orleans would come out to see me get punctured by these hotheaded young fellows.”

  Damita shook her head. “I don’t think it’s funny, Yancy.”

  “You’re too serious, Damita. Forget about it. Enjoy this last dance.”

  Damita tried to focus on the dance. She studied her partner. He’s really enjoying this, she thought. How could he? Doesn’t he have any nerves at all? “Please, Yancy, let’s leave before it’s over. Let’s get away from here.”

  “Why, we couldn’t do that. We’d disappoint all of your admirers.”

  “They don’t admire me. They just want to shoot somebody or stick him with a sword.”

  “I’ll have to give them a chance.”

  The music stopped, the danced ended, and the crowd began to whisper, every eye on Yancy Devereaux and Damita Madariaga.

  Yancy said to her, “Come along. I see my foes are gathering around Debakky.”

  He offered his arm, and she took it. As they walked over, she noticed Lewis Depard staring at her, disbelief on his face. Jeff was standing back in the crowd with Charissa.

  “Dr. Debakky, have you made the arrangements?”

  Debakky’s eyes were sparkling. He had a small piece of paper in his left hand. “I think I’ve got them all in order. I believe, Mr. Rivera, you are the first.”

  Yancy said, “Suppose we all retire outside, where such business as this is usually conducted. Will that satisfy you, sir?”

  “Perfectly,” Rivera said. His face was pale. He knew that Yancy was making light of something important to him. “Laugh while you can, Devereaux.”

  Yancy grinned at him, then asked Damita, “Will you wait here, dear? I have a few engagements.”

  Damita said, “No, I’m going with you.”

  “Why, ladies don’t attend such things, Señorita Madariaga!” Rivera exclaimed.

  “Then maybe I’m no lady, but I insist on going. I’m ready, Yancy.”

  Almost everyone who had attended the ball crowded outside to watch the spectacle. It took some doing to get a space cleared away for the duelists to carry out their business.

  The night was bright and clear, with the stars and a full moon overhead. “Good night for shooting, eh, Señor Rivera?” Yancy asked cheerfully.

  Rivera glared at him. “I’m willing to accept your apology.”

  “I’m sorry, but your mustache still offends me.”

  Laughter rose from the crowd.

  “Dr. Debakky, I am acting for Señor Rivera,” said a man named French, who often served as a second in duels. “We’ve chosen our ground, and I have the weapons here, if they would suit you.”

  “Let me see,” Debakky said. He stepped forward and examined the leather case that French held open.

  “These look very nice,” he said. “What do you think, Yancy?”

  Yancy was standing alone, but his eyes were scanning the crowd. He saw Damita watching him, her face pale in the moonlight, and he winked at her. “Just a minute,” Yancy said. “I’m the challenged party. I have the choice of weapons.”

  “There’ll be no duels with axes, sir,” French said coldly. “We’ve heard of your frivolousness.”

  “No, firearms will be fine with me, but I’ll choose which firearms.”

  “What did you have in mind?”

  Yancy said, “Wait right here. I have them in my buggy.” He strode to his buggy, which was parked nearby, and threw back a canvas cover.

  “What’s he got in there?” Charissa asked Jeff.

  “Can’t see. It looks like rifles.”

  Yancy brought back not rifles, but shotguns. Holding one in each hand, he said, “You may take your pick of these, sir. Both of them are in working condition, and your man may do the loading himself.” He thrust one of the shotguns at French and another at Debakky, then reached into his pocket. “Here, this ought to do. Double-ought buckshot.”

  “What do you mean by this foolishness?” French demanded.

  “Why, this is my choice of weapons. What we will do is this: You gentlemen will load the guns. Mr. Rivera and I will stand ten feet away from each other, aim, and at the count of ten, we’ll fire.”

  A silence fell over the crowd. Yancy stared at Anthony Rivera. “I’m sure you wouldn’t want to take advantage of a man, sir. You might be a better shot than I am, but with shotguns, accuracy is not a problem.”

  “This is foolishness!” Rivera cried out.

  “Do you always have to have the advantage? Neither man has it with these. I’m the challenged party. These are the firearms. Let’s get at it.”

  Rivera stared at him. “You jest! You wouldn’t dare do a thing like that.”

  “Try me,” Yancy said grimly, and the crowd murmured in disbelief.

  The pressure was on Anthony Rivera. He could not believe that any man would suggest such a thing. Neither man could possibly survive the encounter. He challenged Yancy again. “You’re bluffing.”

  “Try me,” Yancy repeated.

  Rivera said huskily, “Give me that shotgun!” French loaded the shotgun, handed it to him, and Debakky did the same for Yancy. Rivera said, “I’m ready.” His voice was defiant, and he moved into position.

  Yancy took the shotgun Debakky handed him and moved until he was ten feet away from his opponent. “I’m ready, too.”

  “French, start the count,” Rivera said and lifted the shotgun, aiming it at Yancy.

  Yancy coolly lifted his own shotgun. “I’m ready,” he said. “You may begin, Mr. French.”

  The spectators hushed. Damita was having difficulty breathing. She cried out, “Don’t do it! Don’t do it, Yancy!”

  Yancy paid no attention, nor did anyone else. He was taking aim with the shotgun, his eyes locked on his target.

  French continued to count, “Three, four, five—”

  Anthony Rivera was a man of cool courage. He had engaged in many duels with sword and pistol, but always he had a good chance of surviving. He still could not believe this crazy Kaintock meant what he said, but the cornflower-blue eyes stared at him down the length of the shotgun without blinking.

  When the count reached eight, Rivera cried out, “No! Stop!” He found that his hands were trembling. He laid the shotgun down and said to Yancy, “This is murder! It’s not dueling!”

  “It’s about as close to it as most duels are.”

  Rivera glared at Yancy, then turned and walked away, declaring, “I will have nothing to do with this foolishness. It does not follow the code.”

  Yancy called out, “Come again if you change your mind, Anthony.” Then he asked, “Who’s next?”

  “I believe Mr. Leslie Thornton is next.”

  Leslie Thornton, however, quickly spoke up. He was a short, heavyset young man who immediately said, “I don
’t believe that I will engage in a shotgun duel with anybody.”

  “Number three. Franklin Towns.”

  Debakky continued to call off the names, but the mood of the crowd had changed. Obviously, no man in his right mind was going to stand up to a crazy Kaintock and exchange shotgun blasts from ten feet. Finally the doctor said, “That’s the last. I guess we can all go home now.”

  Yancy handed the shotgun to Debakky, who whispered, “What would you have done if somebody had taken you up on it?”

  “I’d have run like a rabbit, like any sensible man!”

  Damita had been silent all the way home. Yancy drew up at a small creek that overflowed the road. “The horses are probably thirsty. We’ll give them a drink.”

  Damita said, “Yancy, I don’t understand you at all. I don’t understand men. You could have been killed.”

  “Not much chance of that.”

  “Why, one of them might have taken you up on it.”

  “I didn’t think so. Not much of a risk, really.”

  She said again, “I don’t understand you.”

  “I like to have a little mystery about me. It’s provocative to women.”

  The moon was round and silver overhead, and as they sat in the buggy, the only sounds they heard were the horses nuzzling in the water and far-off the cry of a bird.

  Damita said quietly, “I was afraid.”

  “Afraid for me?”

  “Why, of course. You could have gotten killed—I don’t care what you say.”

  “But you were really afraid for me. I find that hard to believe.”

  “Why should you?”

  “Why, we have done little but fight since we met.”

  “I know. But I owe you so much. You saved my life once, and now you’ve saved my home and my family.” She turned to face him fully. “You’ll never know how much gratitude I have for you.”

  He said, “We’re good friends, then?”

  “Yes,” she said, smiling. “Very good friends.”

  “Don’t you think good friends should express their feelings in a more tangible way? Something more than just words.”

  Damita felt the fear and the tension leaving her. She decided to play along with Yancy’s unpredictable sense of humor. “What did you have in mind, sir?”

  “Something like this.” Yancy put his arms around her and drew her close. Then he bent his head and kissed her.

  Damita returned his kiss. His lips were firm on hers, and his arms pulled her near him with strength. Something timeless brushed them both at that moment, and it somehow frightened Damita. Yet she held the kiss longer than she had intended.

  He broke away first and said huskily, “You are all woman, Damita!”

  “You make me afraid, Yancy.”

  “Afraid of me? You shouldn’t be. You should know that by now.”

  “I don’t trust—” She could not finish.

  “You don’t trust me, Damita?”

  She laughed, reached up, and put her hand on his cheek. “No, I don’t trust myself. Take me home, Yancy.”

  He laughed then and turned, speaking to the horses. “Get up, boys. This lady doesn’t trust herself.”

  The horses picked up the pace, and Damita sat so close beside Yancy that she could feel the warmth of his body, and from time to time she stole a glance at him. She had never known a man like this. As they moved along under the bright moon, she could not help but wonder how she would handle him in the days to come.

  Chapter twenty-two

  As Damita Madariaga walked along the path that led from the back of the house to the line of cabins, she was carrying a heavy tray covered by a white cloth, and her arms ached from the weight of it. For some reason she thought of a passage in the Bible about Moses, who held up his hands until they grew weary, and then Aaron had to support them. Wish I had him here to help me, she thought grimly. I’m going to drop this.

  The cabins were built in a double line, facing each other, and in the center a woman was boiling clothes in a huge iron pot, poking them with a stick. Damita said as she hurried by, “Hello, Matilda.”

  “Hello, Miss. Kin I hep you with that?”

  “No, thanks. It’s food for Hetty’s family. Is she any better?”

  “No, ma’am, not that I kin tell. But I’m watchin’ her, and I keep checkin’ on the kids.”

  Stopping in front of the last whitewashed cabin, Damita stepped through the open door. The window at the side threw a beam of pale sunlight across the floor and on the bed, where a woman lay. Damita put the tray down and glanced at Hetty’s three children, sitting on the floor and watching her with big eyes. The youngest was no more than a year and a half old. “Hello,” she said. “How are you today?” She got no answer, but then, the children rarely spoke to her. She turned and greeted Hetty. “Are you feeling any better?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I believe I am.”

  “I brought you something for supper tonight. I brought some extra, too, so it should be enough for tomorrow’s meals.”

  “Miss Damita, you is powerful good to take care of us like this.”

  “I just want to see you get well, Hetty. Can I do anything else for you?”

  “We hain’t got no water, ma’am. I’d get it myself, but I’s powerful feeble.”

  “I’ll take care of that.”

  Damita picked up the bucket, walked down the pathway to where a well with a stone curbing served the slave population, and filled the bucket. Once back inside the cabin, she filled the pitcher and then left the rest in the bucket on the table. “There you are, Hetty.” She stood over the woman. “I’ll come back to check on you tomorrow.”

  “Thank you kindly, Miss.”

  Outside the cabin, Damita blinked at the fading sunlight. The sun was sinking like a huge ball in the west, and for one moment she watched it, then turned and walked back down toward the house.

  As she crossed the grounds, she heard the familiar noises of the plantation. She recognized the sound of an ax biting into a tree, and to her right, men’s voices shouted from an open field. She could not make out the words, but she saw one of the slaves plowing in the field calling out to another one.

  The life of the plantation had come to mean a great deal to her since she had thrown herself into its operation. She thought of Hetty and felt a pang. I never would have even known Hetty was sick before. I wouldn’t have bothered to learn her name. The only slaves I knew were those who served in the house. Now, I know the names of every one of them and most of their problems, too.

  She walked around the huge chestnut tree that sheltered a group of chickens, which clucked and fluttered at her approach. Damita considered how different life had been since Yancy had come. She no longer took everything for granted. Always before, when meals were put on the table, she never thought about where the eggs came from. Now she took a sense of pride in them; she often gathered them herself, and sometimes she even helped in the kitchen when Ernestine, the rotund cook, taught her the secrets and fine art of cooking.

  She entered by the back door and paused for a moment, wondering what they would have for supper. She had made herself responsible for the menu, and she and Ernestine worked on it together. Her mother was not much help with this. She seemed to know nothing about domestic things. But she liked to suggest different meals.

  Damita had started down the hall to find her, when Elena approached and said, “Mr. Depard is here, daughter.”

  “Where is he, Mother?”

  “He’s in the small parlor. He’s been telling me about his journey to Europe.”

  When Damita stepped into the parlor, Lewis Depard was sitting on an old wooden chair, looking at a month-old newspaper. He stood and tossed the newspaper aside. “Oh, there you are, Damita.”

  “Hello, Lewis. Have you been waiting long?”

  “Not long.”

  “I had to take some food to one of the slaves. She’s had some kind of sickness.”

  Lewis Depard’s face changed slightl
y. “Do you have to do things like that?”

  “I do now. Sit down, Lewis.”

  Lewis took his seat and said, “It doesn’t seem right for you to have to work the way you do.”

  “It hasn’t hurt me at all. As a matter of fact, I don’t mind it now. I did at first.” She saw that the idea was completely foreign to Lewis. He had never done a day’s work in his life, she supposed, and the idea of personally seeing to a sick slave was beyond his comprehension.

  “Hetty’s a good woman and a hard worker, but she’s not able to take care of herself right now,” Damita explained. “Her husband is Big Jake. They have three children. I can never keep their names straight. One of them, I know, is Henry. Another is Mason, and one is Jeb.” She shook her head. “I was talking to Hetty yesterday. I’d never really talked to a slave before about anything personal. She told me how afraid she was that my father would match her with some man she hated. She had always favored Big Jake, and she was so happy when Papa put them together. I started thinking about how little they have in their lives, these slaves. Not much good.”

  “I suppose that’s true.”

  Damita saw that Lewis was hardly listening to a word. He was usually cheerful and smiling, but today he wore a sober expression. “Why do you look so serious, Lewis?”

  “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, Damita, and I’ve come to ask you to marry me.”

  “Marry you! Why, Lewis, I’m surprised.”

  “Why should you be?” he asked, eyebrows raised. “You know I’ve always intended to ask you.”

  “You’ve pursued so many young women. I think sometimes you planned to romance the eligible young women in New Orleans in alphabetical order. You just worked down to me as a matter of course.”

  Lewis walked over to the sofa and sat beside her. He took her hand and said, “Don’t be foolish, Damita. You think I have no feelings at all?”

  For some reason, Damita could not take him seriously. “I think you have too many feelings, Lewis.”

  Lewis reached over, pulled her to him, and kissed her. “I want us to get married. It’s time for me to settle down, and you don’t need to be doing all this work. We can live here, if you please. I’ll take over all the debts.”