“Madame,” Gabrielle began again, putting out her hand gently. “Let me help you.”
The woman started, looked up, dark eyes slowly widening in her pinched face. Gabrielle dropped her basket, and she felt as though a hand was squeezing her chest. Tears appeared in the woman’s eyes, and she struggled to stand up.
“Gabrielle! Gabrielle! Oh, my God, Gabrielle!” the woman babbled, crying and swaying as she leaned forward.
“Isabel!” Gabrielle could hardly believe her eyes. “Isabel, is it really you?” she cried, clasping her in her arms.
The two women wept unashamedly for some moments before Gabrielle finally recovered herself. “Isabel, I can’t believe that you’re here! How—when—?” Her eyes darted from the woman’s thin neck to the woefully distended belly, beneath a dress that was none too clean and had been torn in several places.
Isabel looked as though she were about to collapse at any moment, and Gabrielle helped her to a stool, the only piece of furniture that she could see.
“Gabrielle—what—what are you doing here?” Isabel gasped. “How did you come to be here? I thought—they told us that you—”
“Hush now,” Gabrielle soothed her, realizing that Isabel probably hadn’t been told the truth about her departure from France so long ago. “I live here, Isabel,” she said simply. “I’m married.”
Isabel seemed not to hear her, for her eyes had sharpened perceptively as they stared at her gown and the fine-kid shoes she wore. “You—you didn’t come over with the others,” she said. “You don’t live in this wretched place, as I do?” Her tears were bright and uncomprehending as she looked up at Gabrielle, confused.
Gabrielle, her heart breaking at her friend’s grief and ignorance, placed a comforting hand on her shoulder and made a quick decision. “Isabel, I’m going to take you home with me. Where is your husband? Where is—Henri?”
Isabel seemed to jerk forward, and then her face broke Into little pieces as she once more let rain a torrent of lours. “Henri, oh, Henri!” she sobbed into her hands.
Gabrielle looked at her uncomprehendingly. “Is he all right?” she asked quickly.
Isabel shook her head violently. “He’s dead, Gabrielle. He died on board ship during the Atlantic crossing,” she said, struggling for control. She wiped the tears from her face with a corner of her skirt and took a deep breath. Henri and I left France when Napoleon abdicated in April,” she began quietly now. “We left with friends and tried to take as many valuables as we could, but it was hard to get organized because of the frenzy of people scrambling to get away before the Prussians and the British took over completely. I was quite—quite ill during the voyage, as I had recently found out about my—pregnancy. Then—” and here her voice shook again and tears threatened to spill down her cheeks,“ then a bad storm hit us. The captain was very brave and managed the crew spectacularly, but everyone was so frightened. Some of the passengers—the men—were asked to help relieve the crew at their watches during the night. Henri—Henri was killed by a falling mast on the second night of the storm.” She gulped and for a moment her eyes were stricken by the remembrance. “We came to New Orleans and lived near the docks for a few weeks, but—but one night a man tried to break into our room and besides— our money was—gone.”
“Oh, my poor Isabel,” Gabrielle said. “My dear Isabel.” Where was the vivacious, laughing girl she had known In Paris? “Your parents?” she asked, dreading the answer.
“My father was killed at Leipzig. He insisted on fighting, despite his age. Maman died shortly before we left France. I’m glad she wasn’t here to see this.”
There were so many questions that Gabrielle wanted to ask her. What about Aunt Louise? Was she well? And her husband—she had a husband, yet Henri was dead. The question formed on her lips when a voice broke through her inner turmoil.
“Isabel! What are these soldiers doing here? Christ, don’t tell me we’re in trouble with the law now!” Gabrielle turned, and her eyes met astonished grey ones. The blond hair, the athletic build—it couldn’t be, but, yes, on top of everything else—it was Charles! He was looking from her to Isabel who stood now and was smiling almost happily.
“Oh, Charles, look who has found us. It’s Gabrielle, it really is!”
“Gabrielle!” the name came out on an explosion of sound. “Gabrielle de Beauvoir? But—she’s dead!” Gabrielle found herself shaken by the words and the deliberate way in which he said them.
“Of course I’m not dead,” she said quickly. “I’m here in New Orleans. It really is me, Charles.”
He still looked dazed, distrustful. “But word came that your ship, the Lillias, was sunk. No survivors were reported.”
Gabrielle didn’t stop to wonder how he knew of such a thing but concentrated on convincing him that it was truly she. “You’re both coming home with me,” she said matter-of-factly. “I’ll not have Isabel, in her condition, exposed to all—all of this.”
“You live here?” Charles frowned, and Gabrielle could see the cold look in those grey eyes. “I suppose you’ll be taking us to some new little hovel, as wretched as all the others we’ve been in.” His voice was sarcastic, “Please, don’t do us any favors.”
Gabrielle grew angry at his hardheadedness. “Then stay here if you like. Isabel is coming with me, Charles. I can make her comfortable and put some good food into her. What can you offer?”
She gazed contemptuously at him, and his knuckles tightened as his hands balled themselves into fists.
“I’ll find work. I’ve already applied at the Cabildo for a job in the governor’s guards. I’m sure they can use a fine soldier.”
“And what is Isabel to do in the meantime—have her baby here on the grass?” Gabrielle wondered disdainfully.
Charles looked almost murderous, and Gabrielle was amazed at the animosity that had so naturally sprung up between them. Isabel was getting to her feet, pushing her way between them. “Enough of this nonsense,” she said sharply. “Charles, Gabrielle is an old and dear friend! I love her like a sister, and she is offering us her help.” She gazed at Charles with a beseeching look, and he shrugged.
“Do as you like, then.”
Isabel glanced back at Gabrielle. “It seems I do remember that you and Charles never did get along,” she said musingly.
“I’m not going to let that stop me from taking care of you,” Gabrielle said firmly. “Get your things together, and I'll come back in a few minutes with my carriage.”
When she returned, Gabrielle saw that Isabel had tied into neat bundles what pitiful belongings they had. On perceiving the elegance of the carriage, Isabel’s eyes grew rounder.
“My goodness, Gabrielle, it seems you have done quite well,” she said softly. “Whom did you marry, my dear, the governor of Louisiana?”
Gabrielle smiled and shook her head. “Not quite.” Their belongings were strapped to the carriage, and Charles and Isabel climbed in to sit opposite Gabrielle, Charles’ face anything but friendly, and Isabel still looking rather dumbfounded.
“It seems like years since I’ve ridden in a carriage,” she said, a hint of her old humor returning.
“Well, don’t get too excited,” Charles put in sourly. "It’s not as though it’s yours, my dear.”
Gabrielle hated to see the effect his words had on Isabel’s countenance. How in the world had Isabel ever married Charles de Chevalier? Why had she chosen him?
As they drove away from the city, Isabel filled her lungs with air. “Lord, I’ve gotten so used to the stench of that canal, I hardly realized what clean air smelled like.”
“We live out a little from the city, but Rafe says that fairly soon the city will expand to meet us,” Gabrielle replied. “He’s probably not home now—he has duties as one of the governor’s aides, but he’ll arrive in time for supper. He’ll certainly be surprised to see you!” Surprised was probably not the word, Gabrielle thought. She wondered just exactly what his reaction would be. Surely he would re
call Charles as the son of the man who had financed his smuggling venture in Paris. She wondered what kind of reception Rafe would give them.
“It’s—it’s really breathtaking!” Isabel exclaimed, her eyes bright with growing excitement as the carriage rounded the drive and stopped in front of the door to Fairview. “You must be quite wealthy, my dear,” she added archly.
Charles was silent, his eyes going slowly over the graceful architecture.
“Come inside,” Gabrielle urged. “We’ve plenty of room, as there are only Rafe and I and Paul—”
“Paul?” Isabel wondered, taking the steps slowly. Gabrielle blushed for a moment under Charles’ surveillance. “Paul is my son. He was born last Christmas.”
Isabel pressed her hand delightedly. “Congratulations! So you’re a mother before me!”
They walked through the impressive hallway and into the sitting room, where Isabel seemed rather loath to sit on any of the chairs. Charles immediately sprawled in the nearest one and looked for all the world as if he belonged there.
“For God’s sake, Isabel, it’s not as though you’ve never known a house like this before. Christ, we’ve only been away from France for six months!”
Isabel’s face tightened. “That’s true, of course, but even in France we—that is—poor Henri was in some rather dire financial straits,” Isabel returned.
“Can I get you something to drink?” Gabrielle intervened, fearing an outburst.
“Some tea would be Heaven,” Isabel answered.
“I could use a good, stiff whiskey,” Charles added. When she returned with the tea, Gabrielle could sense the tension in the air. She handed the cup to Isabel, whose eyes were reddened considerably.
“Gabrielle—you’ve been more than kind—bringing us here—and—offering your help, but—but Charles insists that we cannot accept your charity,” she got out with difficulty.
“Charles, you’re a pompous fool!” Gabrielle spat at him, her violet eyes dark with frustrated anger. “Because of some silly pride, you would put Isabel’s life in danger!”
A nasty smile appeared suddenly on his face. “And you, my dear, are still the little spitfire, defying me every step of the way.” He looked over to Isabel significantly. “I’ve missed that in a woman.”
Gabrielle fell silent, watching him with mingled rage and repugnance. Charles walked about the room and finally came to stand next to the window, looking as though he were surveying the property for a price.
“All right, then,” he said finally. “If you are so insistent, we’ll accept your hospitality, but only until I find employment and am able to find our own lodgings.”
“Of course,” Gabrielle managed, hating him for the way he had invariably twisted things so that it seemed she had been obliged practically to beg him to stay. She beckoned to Isabel who had sat silently through the discussion. "I’ll show you to your room.”
The two women left Charles, who watched them speculatively for a moment, then shrugged and walked back to the sideboard to refill his glass. Once in Isabel’s room, Gabrielle called for a maid to bring hot water, towels, and soap.
When the girl had gone, Isabel turned to her friend, a weary smile on her face. “I keep thinking that any moment I'm going to wake up and I’ll be underneath that little tent, slapping those damned mosquitoes and willing to give anything for a cool drink of water,” she said soberly. “It really is true, isn’t it, Gabrielle?” She hesitated. “It really is you?”
Gabrielle nodded. “Yes, it really is me, and you’re here with me in my home now. I’m going to take care of you until that baby makes its appearance.”
Isabel sank into a chair, feeling its material idly with her fingers. Her dark eyes were cloudy with memories, and she looked up at her friend almost warily.
“It’s not going to be the same—is it?” she said wistfully. “I’ll never again be able to picture you as that innocent little girl, blushing at my ribald stories of love and dreaming about balls and escorts. I’m not the big sister any more, the strong one, leading you around by the nose on all my little escapades.” She stopped and shot a look that was part grateful, part pleading. “You were the best friend I ever had, Gabrielle. When they told us what happened—that you had been charged with treason! I didn’t know what to think! I knew you were incapable of so foul a deception, but—but—when Henri and I arrived in Paris after his campaign, there was—nothing—I—could do.” Her voice slowed as she relived the frustration and anger she had experienced. “I grieved for you and asked Henri if there was anything to be done, but we found that you had already left France, exiled forever. We—we didn’t even know where they had taken you! But, then, I had so many things to occupy my mind,” she ended. “I—I suppose you blame me for not—for not trying harder to find out what had happened to you?”
Gabrielle lowered her eyes. “I hated you for a while,” she said simply. “I thought about everything you had—a home, wonderful parents, a devoted husband—everything you could have wanted, and I pitied myself for having nothing.”
Isabel’s laugh was harsh. “And now justice has been done,” she said wryly, “for the tables have surely been turned.” She looked at the other girl steadily. “And did you think I had completely forgotten you?” she half-whispered.
“I didn’t know what to think. Everything was so hushed up and done so quickly.”
“Well, at least everything has worked out well for you.”
“Yes—it has,” Gabrielle responded quietly, thinking of the Lillias, Jean Lafitte, Barataria, and Renée’s whorehouse—everything that had brought her to this point.
“I must admit—I am looking forward to meeting your husband, who must love you very much.”
Gabrielle blushed and turned away. “Your bath should he here momentarily,” she said to hide her sudden discomposure. “I’ll leave you to relax while I search for something for you to wear.”
She half-fled from the room and the whirl of emotions that Isabel’s sudden words had evoked. “. . . who must love you very much. . . How easily the words sounded on the tongue, but how very different it was in the world of reality! she thought sadly, her mind unwillingly remembering the whiteness of Melissa’s body in the dark. She had never mentioned the incident to Rafe, hating herself for her cowardice, but even to say that hateful woman’s name made her cringe.
She called one of the maids to go up to the attic and bring down to Isabel the trunk that held the clothes she had used during her own pregnancy. The maid dispatched, Gabrielle went downstairs, remembering that she had left Charles alone in the sitting room, a disquieting thought somehow, as though she had invited a burglar to dine with them.
As she expected, Charles was still lolling in the chair, his shirtfront stained where he had spilled a little of the liquor. Obviously, he had been imbibing freely, for his manner was loose and his mouth already a little slack.
“I think, perhaps, you would like to see your room now, Charles. You can bathe and rest before dinner, if you like.”
He eyed her blearily. “Are you my mother to order me about?” he inquired nastily. “I’ll thank you not to give me orders, madame.”
Gabrielle gazed at him worriedly. Perhaps she ought to call the majordomo to help her with him. She had turned to go when she felt Charles’ hand on her arm, pulling her down to sit beside him.
“The years fall back quickly, don’t they?” he wondered.
“This could be my father’s house and you and I in the sitting room there, the old antagonism stronger than ever. I would ask you if you were frightened of being alone with me here, and it would goad that fiery temper of yours. We would have a battle with words, both of us knowing how easily I could silence those tempting lips, close those candid eyes—”
“Charles, you—you can’t look backwards now. This is not your father’s house. It is my house.”
He laughed again. “So it is, so it is. And so you may order me about as you wish and tell me to go to my room when I
displease you. You could lock me in my room for disobedience, or send me to bed without my supper.”
Gabrielle stared at him, at a loss to explain his words. “Charles, don’t be silly. You’re a man, and I—”
“Am I a man to you, Gabrielle?” he cut in savagely. “I haven’t experienced the feeling for a long time, you see. After Leipzig, after I saw my men cut down like dogs, there was nothing I could do, you do understand. I was a great soldier, a brave man—but I ran. I ran like the worst coward. I ran because I didn’t want my shining brass buckles to be shot off, my new white uniform to be soiled by my own blood. I ran from the enemy! I let my men be killed by those cursed Prussians!”
He was nearly in tears now, but still his hand was hard on her arm, forcing her to listen to his agonized tale. “I ran until I came to a wagon of wounded men, and I pushed one of them out to make room for myself.” He glanced fiercely at her. “He would have died anyway, and, I reasoned, wouldn’t it be better to save an officer—a man who could lead them into battle once more? After all, men in the rank and file could be had anywhere—could be bought for the price of a pair of boots. But the funny part about it was that the man was not a footsoldier, and he didn’t die, you see. He lived, and he was not one of those toads whose guts are spilled on the battlefield every day. He was a captain, my dear, and he was determined to see me thrown out of the army in disgrace!”
Gabrielle couldn’t bear to listen anymore. “Please, Charles, you don’t have to—”
His fingers pinching into her flesh silenced her. “Oh, I do have to tell you, I must tell you! I was disgraced, kicked out of the army! People shunned me, and only dear old Henri kept on supporting my case, doggedly determined that there must have been some mistake! Henri really was a fool—I told him so enough! So you see, there was really nothing else for me to do when he died on board ship—I had to take care of his wife—a woman whom I cared for very little, but in this, at least, I thought I could regain my manliness.”
“Charles, it was a wonderful thing you did!” Gabrielle soothed him. “Isabel needed protection and you—”
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