Dream Song

by Linda Ladd

  Leaning down, she gave him a quick hug and a kiss, then did the same for Raffy before she stood back, waiting for Michelle to step into the coach. But, Michelle, who looked absolutely terrified, hung back.

  Bethany patted the girl's arm. "Don't worry, everything's going to be all right. I know your father will want to see you again!"

  Michelle glanced at Jemsy, who sat high on the driver's perch, but the black man looked pointedly away. Michelle stared at the ground, her words coming very softly.

  "You don't understand. There are many laws here concerning quadroons. They are not allowed to ride in carriages. I once saw my cousin whipped publicly for doing so."

  Bethany gasped in outrage. Her chin angled up in her characteristic gesture. "Well, I am not a Creole, thank goodness, and this is my carriage-or Luke's, I guess-and if I say you can ride in it, you can. Hurry, though, before Luke or Andrew comes back from town."

  Michelle still seemed reluctant, but Bethany gave her a little push toward the open door. "No one will see you anyway if you stay away from the windows."

  Michelle let herself be persuaded, but she hoped Bethany didn't get into trouble, not after all Bethany had already done for her. More than anything in the world, though, she wanted to see her father again. She wanted him to hold her in his arms and pat her hair as he had when she was a little girl and he had visited them in their cozy house on the Rue des Ramparts. She could still remember the scent of his fragrant tobacco and the peppermint candies he always kept for her in the inside pocket of his coat.

  Bethany settled across from Michelle on the gold velvet seat, then leaned out to wave at Peeto and Raffy, who chased the coach until they were covered in dust. Jemsy took a route that led away from the levee, and the team of matched grays trotted down a narrow country lane dappled brightly with sunlight.

  Cool breezes from the open window blew their hair, and though Michelle often put her hand up to neaten the tight chignon at her nape, Bethany didn't pay much mind to her blowing curls, not even when a good many of the silky tendrils escaped their pins and formed wisps around her nape and temples. As far as she was concerned, the breeze felt good.

  It didn't seem long before they reached the narrow dirt streets at the outskirts of New Orleans. Bethany peered out the window with a good deal of interest. With its narrow buildings of pink or pale yellow stucco-covered brick, the town was very unlike St. Louis or Natchez. Here nearly every house had fancy iron galleries with decorative grillwork behind which stood long rows of tall, shuttered windows and doors.

  "Do you know where we are now?" Bethany asked Michelle as the carriage rattled past one such building.

  "Oui, we have just turned into the Rue Ste. Anne. I grew up not far from here."

  Bethany heard the wistfulness in her friend's voice and hoped with all her heart that she was right about Monsieur Louis Benoist. She could not bear to think what it would do to Michelle's fragile state of mind if he refused to see her.

  "Luke said he has a house on Toulouse Street," she told Michelle. "Is that far from here?"

  "Non, but 'tis strange for Américains to live here in the Vieux Carré. Most live past the Rue de Canal," Michelle told her, then grew quiet as Jemsy brought their conveyance to a stop before Number 34 Rue de Dauphine.

  Bethany climbed out first, gazing up at the narrow house with the same wide iron balconies overhanging the wooden sidewalk, called a banquette, along the edge of the street. All the houses were built with their entrances right on the street with no yard or porch, and all the shutters on the windows of the upper gallery were closed, making the house seem deserted and unopen to visitors.

  A few steps away was a tall archway for carriages, the entrance blocked by two heavy wooden doors. A smaller door was cut into one of them for the use of pedestrians, a brass bell bolted to the bricks beside it. Bethany pulled the leather cord, smiling reassuringly to Michelle, who still hovered inside the coach.

  "I shouldn't be here, Bethany," Michelle whispered. "This is the house of my father's white family. Mother never even allowed me to walk down this street."

  "Wait there if you want. I'll talk to him first and find out if he wants to see you."

  Michelle ducked back inside the carriage as the small door swung inward.

  "Bonjour," Bethany said to the Negro butler who stood in the opening. Since that was about the extent of her French Creole, she was forced to revert back to English. "I would like to see Monsieur Benoist."

  "Oui, mamzelle," was the butler's answer, and Bethany followed him, relieved that he understood English. Apparently, a good many people in New Orleans did not.

  The archway led through a cool, dark tunnel to an open gate of iron bars. Bethany wondered at the age of the place as she was led across a large courtyard paved with uneven cobblestones. Masses of dark green foliage darkened the brick walls where more iron galleries faced the courtyard and the walled gardens that stretched for at least a block behind the house. The property was much more extensive than it had looked from the street. In the distance, she could see the stables and carriage house. Michelle had told her that the Benoist family had always raised horses.

  Bethany saw an old man sitting in a brown wicker chair on one of the galleries overlooking the gardens. He was an elegant-looking gentleman with iron-gray hair and a long drooping mustache of the same hue. He was attired formally in a jacket of deep, rich brown, but he appeared very frail as he sat with one blue-veined hand braced on the top of a silver-headed cane. He turned to look at her as the servant led her forward, then rose stiffly with gentlemanly courtesy, inclining his head and speaking to her in rapid Creole, which Bethany couldn't begin to understand.

  "Please tell him that I am here with news of his daughter, Michelle Benoist," she said to the servant.

  At mention of Michelle's name, Louis Benoist started visibly, one hand moving to his heart.

  "Michelle, ma cherie?" he cried.

  The butler looked concerned at the excitement the old man was displaying and listened carefully to what he was saying. Bethany waited helplessly until the butler turned to her.

  "He wand to know wad zou know of hez daughter?"

  "She is in the coach. She would like to see him, if he will allow it."

  The butler translated, and Louis immediately nodded, gesticulating wildly and sending the butler running toward the street entrance. Louis turned to Bethany then, speaking in quick, incomprehensible sentences.

  "I'm sorry, I don't understand. No parlez-vous francais," she added, remembering that phrase from Michelle.

  Louis Benoist looked exasperated with her inability to answer his questions, then his eyes moved past her. He made a choked sound, his faded blue eyes filling with tears, and Bethany turned to find Michelle moving across the courtyard toward them. She backed away as father and daughter stared at each other, then, Louis Benoist took a few feeble steps toward Michelle, leaning heavily on his cane.

  "Michelle, ma petite, ma cherie-" he cried before Michelle ran into his outstretched arms.

  Bethany smiled, touched by their reunion, suddenly glad she had insisted Michelle come. After all, why wouldn't Monsieur Benoist want his only daughter back? She was kind and gentle and beautiful, and she needed him. When father and daughter sat together on a small iron bench, speaking in Creole, Bethany moved away, wanting to give them some privacy.

  Looking around, she decided to stroll toward the stables. She walked along a cool, shady path made of white shells. This would be a wonderful home for Michelle, so quiet and private and protected. Behind the tall brick walls and barred gates, she would feel safe from the Hacketts and after Luke left for the mountains again, Bethany would bring Peeto and Raffy here to visit her.

  The thought of Luke troubled Bethany, and she sighed, wishing she understood him. He could be so kind at times, she had seen that, but it was almost as if he didn't want to be nice, as if the kind words slipped out of his mouth before he could stop them, then made him angry. Why in the world did he act
that way?

  Bethany closed her eyes, remembering how he had kissed her with such tenderness. But, he didn't care about her, and he didn't want her to care about him. In fact, he had married her because she didn't like him. Now, she didn't know how she felt about Luke. She didn't exactly dislike him.

  A whinny sounded nearby, and she looked up to find a sleek white mare trotting restlessly back and forth along a low stone wall. Bethany stopped where she was, filled with admiration for the beautiful Arabian mare. It was the most magnificent animal she had ever seen, with its long, flowing white tail and braided mane. It galloped a short distance, arching its neck and swinging its tail with proud arrogance.

  Fascinated, Bethany moved to the wall, tucking the hem of her gray skirt into the waistband, so she could climb to the top. The spirited mare was wild and free and beautiful, and Bethany watched the horse for a few moments, then began to hum the soft, melodic tune that had always had a near-magical effect on the horses she had handled in the past. All her life she had had an unusual affinity for animals, especially horses, and never yet had she found one she couldn't ride.

  She sat motionlessly until her song finally brought the mare nudging close, eyeing her hesitantly.

  "You're a real beauty," she whispered, deciding in that moment that she had to ride the mare before she went home.

  After a time, she reached out to stroke the mare's smooth back, and to her delight, the horse stood still for her as if hypnotized by her voice. Carefully, ever so gently, just as she had done so many times before when breaking horses for her father, she eased from the wall onto the animal's back, her fingers entwined in the thick mane.

  Her slight weight made little impact on the mare, and Bethany smiled in triumph, leaning close to speak soothing words into the animal's quivering ear. The horse took a step forward along the wall, then at Bethany's gentle urging, broke into a slow trot down the length of the corral. She turned the mare with a gentle pressure of her knees, exhilarated at being astride again.

  "Uh oh," she muttered beneath her breath as a young groom emerged from the nearby carriage house and saw her. He ran toward her at full speed, waving his arms, shouting at her in Creole. Bethany slowed the mare, who pranced nervously to one side as the boy continued to yell.

  "No Parlez-vous francais," Bethany said for the second time that day, glad when she saw Michelle hurrying across the gardens toward them.

  The groom immediately began to yell toward Michelle, who promptly blanched, turning terrified eyes on Bethany. "He says Osiris is dangerous! He says no one can ride her!"

  "But, I am already riding her," Bethany replied calmly.

  The groom kept up his frantic gestures, and afraid the horse would be eventually spooked by the commotion, Bethany slid to the ground and climbed quickly over the wall. The mare galloped away with a contemptuous shake of her mane, and the groom stared at Bethany as she straightened her long skirts around her legs.

  "Will your father be angry with me for riding Osiris? She was just so beautiful I couldn't resist."

  "Oh, no, the horse does not even belong to Papa. Jean-Paul here says it is Philippe's horse. Philippe is Papa's son, but he is in Pensacola."

  "Good," Bethany said, and Michelle hugged her.

  "Oh, Bethany, how can I ever thank you! Papa wants me to stay here. He has been very ill for a long time now, and he needs me to nurse him."

  "You see, I told you everything would be all right, didn't I?"

  "Oui. But, come, Papa insists that you dine with us. I have already told him how you saved my life, and he is very grateful to you and Monsieur Randall."

  Bethany looped her arm through Michelle's as they walked back to the house. It was wonderful to see her friend so happy after all the tragedy she had experienced.

  Before they left the garden, Bethany gave one last, lingering look back at Osiris.

  Luke paced back and forth in the entry foyer of Cantigny, his jaw clenched tight. He still couldn't believe Bethany had been so brazen as to order the carriage and take off in it without a word to anyone about her destination. It was a good thing he had decided to come back to check on her and Pete, but now she had been gone all day, and it was already dark outside. Good Lord, would she never learn? The last time she had been out alone at night, she ended up chained to a wall in the calaboose! He couldn't believe she had run away again, though. Not with Peeto safe upstairs with Tante Chloe. But, where the hell could she have gone? And was the stupid kiss he had given her the reason she had fled?

  That thought raised more questions about why he had kissed her in the first place, something he had asked himself more than once in the last week spent away from her. Not really wanting to think about what had happened between them, he turned and went to the library.

  Andrew looked up as Luke passed by him on his way to the liquor cabinet. "She'll be back," he said without much concern. "What are you so worried about?"

  "Because I know Beth better than you do, and she attracts trouble like a bloody magnet."

  Andrew smiled to himself. If nothing else, Luke's black scowl proved one thing-Bethany had managed to get under his skin. That in itself was an accomplishment for any woman.

  At the sound of the foyer door opening, he looked toward the hall. Luke straightened, bottle still in hand. Their eyes locked as the sound of Bethany's laughter came to them. Luke set down his glass and moved out of the room with long, angry strides. Andrew followed, curious to find out where his pretty little sister-in-law had been all day and what Luke was going to say about it.

  "Where the hell have you been?"

  Bethany whirled to face Luke, startled to see him back at Cantigny, and even more surprised by his angry tone, especially when she saw Andrew standing behind him in the library doorway, almost as if they had been waiting for her.

  "Why?" she asked. "Has something happened to Petie?"

  "Dammit, nothing's happened to Pete! Where have you been? And where's Michelle?"

  "I took her home to see her father, and he insisted she stay there with him. Isn't that wonderful?"

  "Don't you know how dangerous it is for two women to be alone in town at night?" Luke demanded furiously, ignoring her news about the octoroon.

  "I wasn't out alone. I was at Monsieur Benoist's house on Rue de Dauphine."

  Bethany was beginning to feel annoyed at the way Luke was glowering at her, but at her last answer, Andrew spoke up. "Not Philippe Benoist?"

  Luke looked at him as Bethany shook her head. "No, his father, Louis Benoist."

  "And, he asked her to stay with him?" Andrew asked, finding it hard to imagine. After all, Michelle was the illegitimate daughter of Benoist's quadroon mistress. Her presence in his home would create a huge scandal among the Creoles.

  "Does Philippe know about her being there?"

  "Not yet. He is away on business."

  "Who the devil is Philippe Benoist?" Luke interjected angrily, furious at being talked around, especially when he was demanding an explanation.

  "He's quite a rogue hereabouts, and a horse racing enthusiast as well. That's how I got to know him. It's said he's had quadroon mistresses since he was fourteen."

  "Fourteen!" Bethany said, laughing.

  "To hell with that!" Luke said through clenched jaws. "By going to a man's house unescorted like that you could have destroyed all the work Andy and I have done to make you look respectable! I'm taking you to the opera a week from Saturday for your debut appearance, and I don't want you leaving this house before then without my permission. Do you understand?"

  "Is that an order?" Bethany asked coldly.

  "You're damned right," Luke answered tightly. "And you better take heed of it."

  Bethany's fingers curled in frustrated anger as Luke stalked back to the library. She looked helplessly at Andrew.

  "He's impossible," she declared, her face flushed.

  "True," Andrew replied with an unperturbed grin. "Would you care to join me in the drawing room for a glass of wine?"r />
  Bethany hesitated, glancing up the stairs. "I really should see about Petie."

  "He and his little shadow are sound asleep. Tante Chloe told me so not fifteen minutes ago."

  "All right."

  "You'll have to overlook Luke's behavior now and again," Andrew advised a few moments later in the drawing room. "Believe it or not, I think maybe he was worried about you."

  Bethany finished tugging off her gloves before she accepted the glass he handed her. "Really? He certainly didn't seem worried."

  "My brother's not one to show much emotion of any kind."

  "But, why? I don't understand him at all. One moment he's so nice, the next he's angry and saying cruel things." She blushed, remembering the gentleness of his one haunting kiss.

  Andrew sat down beside her. "He's a loner. He's always been like that since he came back from the Indians. It was hard for him then. I can remember how he wouldn't sleep in a bed for a long time or even stay in a crowded room. I think it makes him uncomfortable to be around people."

  "I can't imagine anyone wanting to be alone," Bethany said, thinking of her own early childhood, when her father had ignored her, and then about the orphanage, where she had been even lonelier.

  "Me neither. I like people, but Luke always backs off when anyone gets too close. Like Camille."

  Andrew grimaced as Bethany regarded him with new interest. "Camille? Who's she?"

  "I really shouldn't be talking about all this with you. Luke wouldn't like it." That was an understatement, Andrew added to himself.

  "Was she from New Orleans?" Bethany prodded, curious about any woman to whom Luke had shown attention.

  "Yes, from a wealthy Creole family. But, I think you ought to let Luke tell you about it."

  "Oh, be sensible, Andrew. Do you really think he will?"

  She sounded so exasperated that Andrew had to laugh. "No, I suppose not. From what I understand, it was all a big mistake, but a scandal resulted anyway."

  "What mistake?"

  "It happened after Luke returned from the Indians. He stayed with us in St. Louis for about five years. We were living with Hugh and his mother then. The Widow Younger took us in after our father died. Then, Luke decided to come down here for his education. That's when he met Camille. There was talk of a marriage, but apparently Luke backed out at the last minute to go west again with Captain Lewis and Captain Clark."