Busbee, Shirlee

by Lady Vixen

  Bluntly and to the point, she informed Monsieur that his wife, she was sorry to say, was meeting a strange young man in the front dressing room.

  In that dressing room Nicole's mind was working furiously. Once her first shock had fled, it hadn't taken her but a second to realize why Allen was in the city. She could not allow Allen to leave, not when she guessed that he had information that might mean the death of her husband. Nor could she turn him over to the authorities, knowing that the gallows would be his fate. Too vividly did she remember the upward spiral of that shark, and she knew she could not live in peace with herself if she were the cause of Allen's death. She must render him incapable of leaving the city until after the battle.

  With an elated gleam her eye fell upon the warming brick that sat so innocently in the far corner. If she could grasp that and strike Allen unconscious, she could then, with Madame's help, tie Allen and hide him somewhere in the city until his knowledge was no longer of any value. Then she could set him free.

  Allen was thinking much the same thing, except he had decided to overpower Nicole, gag and tie her, and then beat a hasty retreat from New Orleans. By the time Nicole was discovered he would be safe.

  Christopher was making his own plan. He had to get Madame out of the shop while he silenced Allen, and the only way he could do that was to send her after the military. But then, he surmised, that would work very well, although instead of a live spy they would find a very dead one—one who could tell no tales. Christopher explained to Madame that when he stormed into the dressing room, she was to race immediately to the authorities.

  It did not go as anyone planned. By dropping her reticule, Nicole had managed to get her hands on the warming brick and hide it in the folds of her cloak. Allen was on the point of forcing himself to deliver a powerful blow to Nicole's delightful chin, one which he hoped would knock her out, when Christopher, murder on his mind, burst through the thin door, and Madame, faithfully following his instructions, darted from the shop, speeding after the authorities.

  At the sound of the shattering wood Allen jerked in that direction, and Nicole, taking advantage of his distraction, coolly brought the brick up and aimed it at his head. Unfortunately her aim was rather bad, and instead of connecting with Allen's head, it landed very painfully right in the middle of her husband's chest, knocking the wind from him and causing him to stagger back into the other room.

  Allen, now intent only on escape, leaped from the fitting room, while Nicole wasted a precious second staring in horrified disbelief at her husband as he reeled from the room. But then realizing that Christopher would be absolutely no help for a moment or two, she shot after Allen.

  Allen was almost to the door, and the only way she could reach him was a headlong tackle. She made it despite her long skirts, and wrapping her arms in a stranglehold about his knees, she bought Allen cursing and tumbling to the floor.

  To Christopher, his breath coming in painful little gasps, it looked as if the two of them had been trying to escape, only Nicole had tripped and fallen, dragging Allen down with her. Wasting little time on speculation, he heaved himself away from the wall, and as Allen struggled to his feet, seeking to escape from Nicole's embrace, Christopher landed him a mighty punch on his chin. Allen crumpled, and Nicole, with a satisfied sigh, loosened her grip.

  Christopher dropped to his knees, his fingers itching to close around Allen's throat and still forever his tongue, but Madame had been more than fortunate in meeting one of the patrols that Jackson had ordered to enforce the martial law, and just as Christopher was about to reach his goal, Madame and a patrol came rushing into the shop.

  With resignation, and knowing he had lost his chance, Christopher rose painfully to his feet and said in a dull voice, "This man is a British spy... I recognized him. Take him away and inform the general that I will report to him later this evening."

  Nicole, her heart heavy in her breast, watched with shadowed eyes as they complied with Christopher's orders. But the real anguish of what had happened didn't occur to her then. It was only when Christopher's steely fingers closed cruelly around her arm and she glanced up at his face in surprise that she saw his disillusionment, contempt, and anger.

  "But I..." she began helplessly.

  Christopher's lips thinned and he snapped, "Shut up! Don't say another word until we are at home."

  There was nothing she could do, and confused and slightly resentful, she allowed Christopher to hustle her away. She tried once more to explain, but Christopher's cold, "I said later and I meant later!" froze the words on her lips.

  By the time they reached Dauphine Street Nicole was in a fine simmering temper. Christopher couldn't believe that she had purposely met Allen at Madame's! How vexingly stupid and absolutely ridiculous! If that was all the faith he had in her, well she just wasn't going to put up with it!

  Standing in the center of her bedroom a short while later, she faced him and demanded, "What is the matter with you? Don't you want to know what happened?"

  Taking a deep draught of the brandy in his hand, Christopher replied bleakly, "No. I already know what happened and I don't need your lies to distort the truth!"

  Drawing her breath in with a sharp gasp, Nicole cried, "Then suppose you tell it to me! Obviously there is something I don't know about or don't understand."

  "In that case, madame, I'll tell you," Christopher began in a cold voice. "This afternoon I was walking to meet my dearly beloved wife"—he grated out the words—"when it was my unpleasant chance to see her openly caressing a strange man on the street. And then if that wasn't enough, the two of them slunk away, like two alley cats, into a snug little rendezvous. What's more, the man my wife was so eager to meet and touch was none other than an English spy. Tell me," he asked sneeringly, "have you been supplying him with information? Is that why you have been so interested in what I have been doing? You were gathering it for your confederate?"

  Nicole blanched at the venom not only in his tone, but in the hard gold eyes that bored into hers. That he believed her capable of such perfidy left her feeling sick and drained of every vestige of fight. Wearily she said, "Very well, if that is what you believe, I'll not try to change your mind. Tell me, do you intend to turn me over to the authorities also? I would like to know so that I may pack a few things to take with me."

  Her calm acceptance of his accusations left Christopher staring at her in angry dismay. No, he wasn't going to turn her over to the authorities, he almost shouted, she was his wife! But what was he going to do? And did he honestly believe those terrible things he'd thrown at her? As some semblance of coherency trickled back into his thoughts, he realized that there were certain things about what had happened this afternoon that were decidedly odd. For instance, the lunacy of meeting at Madame's when he was expected at any moment. And that warming brick that had been hurled at him. There had been no warning that he was about to burst in on them, so what was she doing with it? The ugly surmise crossed his mind that Allen had been making a nuisance of himself and that Nicole had been protecting her honor. And if that were so...

  Christopher swallowed painfully, as it occurred to him that this time he had well and truly leaped to very wrong conclusions. Hesitatingly he said, "Nicole, I..."

  But it was too late. Heartsick, wounded more than she could have thought possible, Nicole regarded him hostilely. "What?" she spat. "Have you thought of further crimes to add to my list?"

  "No. I . . ." he fumbled, his ready address failing him in the face of the enormity of his accusations.

  Her eyes were scornful as Nicole regarded him. "Oh, have you had second thoughts?" she asked sweetly. At Christopher's curt nod, her face blazed with fury, and crossing to stand in front of him, she gritted, "Well, it's just too damn late! I'll never convince you that I am not my mother's daughter, will I? You have to cling to that idea, don't you? I hope it gives you pleasure, and don't worry that I'll try to change your mind—I would sooner try to roll back the tide than to waste my tim
e with the likes of you!" Her voice breaking just a little, the topaz eyes bright with tears, she said in a small voice, "Get out of my room and stay out of it. Right now I don't think I ever want to see you again."

  Christopher made a move to touch her, but furiously shrugging off his hand, she whirled away and, running to the bed, flung herself face down on it, the tears uncontrollably slipping down her face. In a muffled sob she said, "Get out! Leave me alone and let me be."

  Still he hesitated, but knowing she was too hurt, too angry to listen to him now, Christopher did as she requested, shutting the door quietly behind him.

  His own anguish was almost unbearable; he was aware that with one jealous, thoughtless action he had shattered the fragile bond between them. But I'll make it up to her, he thought unhappily. Somehow I'll make her understand, and maybe if I'm lucky she'll forgive me.

  But if the passing days were anything to go by, Nicole wasn't going to forgive him, he decided wretchedly. She treated him as if he were a leper, and he, so very conscious of that wrong he had done, was helpless to bridge the widening chasm between them. Was this to be the end of their frail beginning?

  Avoiding his own home, Christopher spent more and more hours at Jackson's Royal Street headquarters, and because of that he was there on December 23 when Major Gabrielle Villere, Colonel de la Ronde, and Dussan La Croix burst into the general's headquarters with the appalling news that the British were encamped on the Villere plantation just nine miles from New Orleans.

  Jackson, his body wasted by disease, his face thin and yellowed by jaundice, swayed for a moment at the news but then straightened proudly. To Christopher watching intently from the doorway, it was as if he suddenly took strength; the lines of pain smoothing from his face, vitality springing from some unknown inner source, he was like a different man—a fighting man with fire in his eyes and bravery in his heart. Taking a sip of brandy, he calmly ordered the assembly of his secretaries, aides, and other members of his staff. And standing before them, he said, "Gentlemen, the British are below. We must fight them tonight."

  CHAPTER 40: EPILOGUE

  What happened in the following days on the plains of Chalmette below the city of New Orleans is history: Andrew Jackson won a most decisive victory over the British. There is no denying that the outcome might have been vastly different had it not been for Jean Lafitte, his men, and his ammunition and flints.

  The Battle of New Orleans was actually two battles with scattered fighting in between, the main and final battle taking place on January 8, 1815, in the cane fields of the Macarty plantation. The loss of life was terrible; the British lost over two thousand men in only two hours in a vain attempt to breach the earthen barriers that Jackson had strewn before them. American losses were a mere seventy men, although those seventy men were as important to the Americans as the two thousand had been to the British.

  The British also lost two of their most able leaders, Major General Samuel Gibbs and Major General Sir Edward Pakenham. Casualties among the more junior officers and sergeants were crippling—one regiment alone lost twenty-four officers, including its colonel and twelve sergeants.

  Indecisiveness and lack of communication between commanders cost the British the Battle of New Orleans. They should have won it: they outnumbered the Americans almost three to one; they had a powerful fleet to supply them and protect their rear flank; and they were fighting against a polyglot army of untried men. Creoles and English-speaking citizens of New Orleans; lean Kentuckians carrying their rifles in the crooks of their arms; bronzed Acadians from the prairies and bayous; small companies of mulattos and Negroes—"free men of color"; Mississippi dragoons and Tennesseans in homespun coats; Lafitte's Baratarians and a small band of Choctaw Indians, indeed a polyglot army—but an army that brought the British lion to her knees.

  Ironically the Battle of New Orleans was fought after the Treaty of Ghent was signed by the British and United States negotiators on December 24, 1814. Word of the treaty agreement did not reach the United States until February, and by then the Battle of New Orleans was an accomplished fact.

  The United States ratified the treaty on February 16, 1815, and it is ironic that there is no mention of British impressment of American seamen in the treaty—and that was presumably one of the overriding reasons for the War of 1812.

  Christopher and Jason exchanged wry glances when at last a copy of the treaty reached New Orleans. But neither saw any reason to comment on that curious, and yet not so curious, oversight. America was at peace again and for the moment that was all that mattered.

  Walking slowly toward Dauphine Street a short while later, Christopher ruefully admitted that all he wanted now was peace within his own household—peace between him and that stubborn little spitfire he had married and loved.

  For almost three months now, they had lived in a state of armed hostility—Nicole, unbending, met his attempts at reconciliation with icy contempt. And Christopher, uncertain how to proceed, withdrew behind a mask of indifference.

  He was very conscious that he had misjudged her, very aware that the wrong had been his, and because he feared as he had feared nothing in his life to alienate her further, his behavior was exactly the opposite of what it should have been.

  They appeared to live separate lives—Christopher busy with his affairs and Nicole drawn into the lively social circle of New Orleans. They attended functions together, but only for the look of it, riding to and from the various affairs in deathly silence, and at their destination promptly finding their own groups of friends, most times never meeting until it was time to depart.

  At home they avoided each other. Christopher was up and gone many mornings before Nicole arose, and most evenings he dined out with other acquaintances, leaving Nicole to find her own amusements.

  In the beginning Christopher had tried to break through her wall of silence and disillusionment, but because he had proceeded gently and delicately, instead of with his usual arrogance and ruthlessness, Nicole had viewed his attempts as only halfhearted.

  He had done one thing, though, that warmed her heart slightly and made her wonder if perhaps all was not lost. Shortly after the final bloody battle with the British, he had arranged for her to meet with Allen. It had been a short visit, and staring unhappily at Allen through the bars of his cell, conscious of the guard a few yards down the hall, Nicole had been vividly reminded of the similar circumstance on Grand Terre.

  For several moments the two could think of nothing to say, but then Allen, with a crooked grin, had murmured, "Either I am a singularly inept spy, or your husband is my nemesis."

  Nicole swallowed, thinking uncomfortably that this time it was more her fault than Christopher's that Allen was behind bars. Awkwardly she said, "Allen, I'm sorry I didn't let you escape when you had the chance." Her eyes were huge and beseeching on his blue ones as she said huskily, "But I couldn't let you go—not knowing you might be the cause of Christopher's death! Please understand!"

  Allen smiled almost gently. "I do, little one. I do. Although I don't really relish the thought of hanging, I can't blame you for what you did." His eyes filling with mockery, he added, "I could wish that you were not quite so agile and hadn't such grim determination to stop me, though. What a little bulldog you were."

  "Don't tease!" Nicole cried. Her hand curling around one of his as it rested on the bars, she muttered, "I'll try to help you. Maybe they won't hang you."

  "Maybe they won't. But they sure as hell aren't going to exchange me with the other prisoners either! Spying is a little different than fighting on the honorable field of battle." There was a certain bitterness in his tone that he couldn't conceal. But shaking off the bleakness that crept through his bones, he said lightly, "Mayhap you can get that husband of yours to do something to lessen my punishment. From what I hear, he is very close to Claiborne and Jackson both, and a loving wife has swayed more than one man."

  Nicole gave him a watery smile. Allen had enough to contend with without knowing t
hat he was the direct cause of the present terrible estrangement between her and her husband. There had been little more to say, and with a quick, bone-crushing clasp of hands they had said good-bye.

  They had not met again, and Nicole dared not ask Christopher what Allen's eventual fate would be. She had not been blind to the fact that behind his fury and accusations that last night had laid jealousy, and she dared not awaken it by questions about Allen. And because she knew him to be jealous of Allen, his actions in arranging the meeting between them had been all the more puzzling. What had he hoped for—that they would somehow give him the proof he wanted? Yet astonishingly she had thought for a second there had been an almost kind expression in his eyes when he had informed her that she was to see Allen. Christopher kind? Ridiculous! Quelling the promptings of her heart, she cloaked herself in righteous anger, telling herself that Christopher was unworthy of her love and not to be trusted.

  But in so doing, Nicole had backed herself into a corner, and now to her horror discovered there was no way out of her predicament. She was ensconced in her castle of icy disdain and Christopher showed every sign of letting her stay there!

  During the weeks that followed the Battle of New Orleans, with the cessation of fear of attack, Nicole had had time for cooler reflections. Without the worry of assault on her mind, there had been room for more introspective thought—and it was not pleasant.

  Did she really want to live out the rest of their days in this state of armed indifference? Did she never want to feel Christopher's body take hers again? The doors between their rooms had remained securely shut, Christopher denying himself even the rights of a husband. Was all her pious fury worth never again having the laughter and love that had been hers for those few short weeks? That glimpse of paradise that had beckoned to both of them? The answer was a resounding and heartfelt no!