Iron Lace

by Lorena Dureau

  Iron Lace

  By

  Lorena Dureau

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Chapter Forty-two

  Author’s Note

  “I Hate You!” She Cried. “I Never Asked You to Come After Me.”

  Suddenly he caught her by the shoulders, his lips seeking her out in the darkness. A fresh gust of wind lashed them together, their bodies molding one to the other. A flash of lightning illumined her upturned face, and he saw her eyes were half-closed, her lips lifted expectantly to his. He could feel her rain-soaked body swaying in his arms, readily yielding herself to him.

  “You’re just a child in love with love.”

  She cringed as though he had struck her. “You arrogant scoundrel,” she exclaimed angrily.

  Silently Miguel turned away from her, grateful now for the darkness. He couldn’t bear to see the hatred in her eyes, nor did he want her to know how those brief moments of intimacy with her had really affected him.

  Copyright © 1983 by Lorena Dureau

  First published in the United States of America 1983

  by Pocket Books

  Coronet edition 1983

  ISBN 0-340-33770-2

  To my many friends in Mexico who taught me to know and love their country—and most of all, to those very special amigas who were always there to help and encourage me over the years:

  Alicia Kamel Ortega

  Adela Dinorah Ponce de Mejia

  Josefina Saldana de Marin

  —and the late, but dearly remembered—

  Bertha Valencia U.

  and

  Sally Zeitlin

  Acknowledgments

  Besides the usual sources of information consulted while researching such a book, the author wishes to give special thanks to the following people for their invaluable assistance:

  Miss Florence Jumonville, Head Librarian

  The Historic New Orleans Collection

  Dan Gill, Asst. Area Agent, Horticulture

  The Louisiana Cooperative Extension Service

  Vaughn L. Glasgow, Chief Curator

  Louisiana State Museum

  Dr. Charles Nolan, Associate Archivist

  Archives of Archdiocese of New Orleans

  Sidney Villere, Louisiana historian and author

  Dr. Joseph A. Polack

  Audubon Sugar Institute

  Louisiana State University, Baton Rouge, La.

  Chapter One

  “Mon Dieu, Monique! We shouldn’t be out alone on the street like this. There will be the devil to pay when we get home!”

  “Oh, stop your fretting, Celeste. Grandmother will still be dozing when we get back. She’ll never know we’ve been gone.”

  The traveling marionette troupe had already begun its show, and the two young girls had run all the way to the plaza, not wanting to miss any of it.

  The Plaza de Armas was bustling this afternoon, yet the Chausson sisters attracted considerable attention as they wended their way breathlessly through the clusters of townsfolk milling around the large square. Seventeen-year-old Monique and her sister Celeste, younger by less than two years, were a delight to behold as they darted about in the warm spring sunshine like bright-winged butterflies fresh out of their cocoons. Beneath their tiny ruffled parasols, their golden curls bobbed merrily about their shoulders as they swished along in their full-skirted gowns of diaphanous white muslin draped over colorful petticoats of rustling taffeta, their wide satin sashes streaming behind them. They fancied themselves quite the grand ladies of fashion, even though they were surrounded mostly by other youngsters.

  “Heaven knows we have little enough distraction these days now that Papa’s gone,” sighed Monique, the rosy glow of her deep pink underskirts momentarily opposed by the shadow of sadness that flitted across her round doll-like face. “Grandmother never likes to go anywhere these days except to mass or the cemetery, and now we don’t even have a chaperon to accompany us if we want to go somewhere. I’m afraid we’re well on our way to becoming old maids!”

  Celeste smiled as she adjusted a fold in her sash of crushed green satin. She was accustomed to her elder sister’s tendency to dramatize. “Oh, I doubt that, my dear. You already have more than your share of beaux. Every time we go promenading on the levee, there are always more young men around you than there are orange trees along the walk. Grandmother will have to let you begin going out with them before too long.”

  But Monique had her doubts. Although her grandmother often boasted that her nieces were among the most outstanding beauties of the Louisiana colony, Monique was far from satisfied with herself. Secretly she hated the babylike chubbiness of her cheeks that were not pale enough to be fashionable, and that silly button nose of hers that made her look more like a child than the classic-featured Parisian lady she so yearned to be.

  Of course, beaux like Maurice Foucher insisted that the dimples in the middle of her cheeks made her all the more charming, but then he was always reciting pretty phrases. She knew better. Her face was too round, her nose too small, and her mouth often made her look as if she were about to go into a pout. There was absolutely nothing classic about her at all!

  What’s more, her eyes had a way of changing color. Instead of being an intense violet or emerald-green, they mirrored whatever happened to be near them at the moment. Although they were a strikingly clear gray, heavily lashed and well set apart, they had no color of their own as far as she was concerned, and Maurice’s assuring her they were all the more fascinating because of their unpredictability didn’t do much to console her.

  About the only thing she could really be proud of was her generous mane of pale gold hair. Sometimes she was not above calling attention to it by giving her head an extra toss or two. She was doubly glad, therefore, that it was no longer the style to powder the hair now except for formal occasions.

  Monique cast an affectionate glance down at her younger sister. At fifteen, dainty little Celeste might still be immature in many ways—an inch or two shorter and not very developed yet under her fichu —but the girl had a beauty all her own. Her hair was of a darker gold, more honey-colored, and she had inherited her father’s hazel eyes, giving her a doelike appearance that seemed to match that air of calm about her that often bordered on timidity.

  The bond between the sisters was a strong one. Six years before, their mother and younger brother had died in the epidemic that had followed the Great Fire of 1788, whe
n four-fifths of New Orleans had burned to the ground. Since then the girls had been raised under a loose rein. Their father had been engrossed with the rebuilding of their partially destroyed town house and trying to get the family plantation upriver on a better-paying basis. He had left them to the vigilance of their doting grandmother and their well-meaning but easily manipulated governess.

  Six months ago, however, Louis Chausson had suddenly been killed in a freak accident when his horse, startled by a snake, had thrown him to the ground and broken his neck. The shock of losing her son so tragically and without warning aged Aimee Chausson almost overnight. Now she left the running of the plantation almost entirely to the overseer. Most of the time she just sat sighing or dozing over her sewing, murmuring that the burden that had been left on her shoulders was more than she could bear.

  As luck would have it, two months after the death of Louis Chausson the girls’ governess had suddenly resigned to marry a simple but hardworking planter on the German Coast farther up the Mississippi. Since then, Grandmother had not been able to find a suitable replacement for her, so Monique and her sister had been enjoying even greater freedom than ever lately.

  Sometimes Aimee Chausson even spoke of closing up the town house and going to live permanently at their plantation upriver. Monique hoped they wouldn’t move. She much preferred the more active life of New Orleans to that of the plantation. In the city there was always something exciting going on. She especially loved to come to the Plaza de Armas. There was always so much to see: elegantly clad noblemen and uniformed soldiers with long slender swords swinging impressively at their sides… street vendors hawking their wares in singsong voices… hooded friars gliding calmly through the busy throng in dark homespun robes and bare sandaled feet… buckskinned rivermen who had poled down from the Ohio Territory to sell their produce in New Orleans… and in the midst of all this activity, the laborers working feverishly away on the new cathedral.

  The broad expanse of the mighty Mississippi could even be glimpsed from the plaza. From one of her favorite spots, Los Naranjos, Monique would often sit for hours on the levee, just watching the continuous parade of vessels going by—as imaginative a collection of man-powered or mule-drawn barques as was ever contrived by merchants to get their wares to market.

  Although the loading and unloading docks were farther down the embankment, a distance away from the main plaza, the sounds of the activities going on there could be heard. The shouted orders, the squeaking of the pulleys, the warning cries, occasional grunts and curses… they all drifted into the square to mingle with that reverberating symphony of innumerable sounds that made up the thriving little port of Nueva Orleans, political and ecclesiastical seat of His Catholic Majesty Carlos IV’s Louisiana colony. Of course, it was still better known as Nouvelle Orleans by the majority of its citizens, who continued to be passionately French at heart, despite the fact that well over a generation had gone by since they had become a Spanish colony.

  Although many of the townspeople continued to cling to the old-type buildings, like those of the original French settlement, some were slowly changing over from the wooden structures to the more solidly built ones of plastered brick, neatly painted in white or pastel colors and frosted with black iron-lace balconies and gateways. Much as Monique hated to admit it, the new Spanish style of architecture was giving New Orleans a more elegant air than it had ever had before. Her father had even adopted the style for the Chausson town house when he had rebuilt it after the fire.

  Their more or less unwelcome rulers were making other improvements, too. New Orleans had a newspaper of its own now, and the newly appointed governor, the Baron de Carondelet, was planning to put up street lights and organize a permanent police force for the city in the near future.

  Only a few months ago, the governor had signed a peace treaty with the Indians and reinforced the five forts guarding its palisades, although Maurice had observed that the Spanish had probably taken such measures more to keep its subjects inside the walls than protect them from any dangers without!

  Monique cast a disdainful glance up at the royal red and yellow flag lightly fluttering in the mild afternoon breeze. It was one of the few things she didn’t like about the plaza, but she hoped the day would come soon when that Spanish banner would be replaced by the fleur-de-lis of. France.

  Celeste nudged her sister nervously and whispered, “Look, there’s Padre Sebastian. I’m sure he’s spotted us. See how he’s looking this way? Now we’re going to get it for sure!”

  Monique crinkled up her tiny nose until it almost disappeared from sight between her rosy cheeks.

  “I hope he doesn’t come over here,” she moaned. “That Spanish friar gives me goose pimples every time he comes near me. He always seems to be peering down my fichu!”

  “He’s writing something down on that piece of slate he always has stuck in his prayer book. I wager it’s something about us!”

  Monique gave a toss of her wheat-colored curls. “Don’t be silly!” She laughed lightheartedly.

  But Celeste cast another anxious glance at the hooded figure standing in front of the church. “I’m sure Fray Sebastian will say something to Grandmother this Sunday about having seen us without a chaperon.”

  “You fret too much, my dear,” insisted Monique merrily, but she pulled her sister deeper into the crowd, hoping they were no longer in range of the Spanish monk’s disturbingly penetrating gaze.

  As they stood on tiptoe, stretching their necks as far as they could to see what antics the Harlequin was up to just then that had the people laughing so much, their view was suddenly blocked by two stockily built figures in dirty buckskins.

  The unsightly pair stood there facing them, and the men’s bearded, suntanned countenances suddenly broke into broad, mocking grins as they saw the consternation they were causing the two young girls.

  Chapter Two

  “Well, lookie here, Will! We done stumbled on two pretty little French feeyahs!” exclaimed the older of the two while he shifted his wad of tobacco from one side of his mouth to the other.

  Instinctively Monique caught her sister’s hand in hers and drew herself up indignantly, feigning a bravado she was far from feeling at that moment.

  “Will you please step aside, messieurs? You’re blocking our view of the show,” she protested, trying to keep her voice steady despite the growing apprehension within her.

  “But the view right here is sure better than any old puppet show, isn’t it, Will?” snickered the same man as his pale bloodshot eyes swept approvingly over Monique’s fully developed figure. “I want this one for myself,” he added with a sly wink to his companion. “I’ll bet there’s a lot of tit under there holding out that fichu!”

  The younger man flashed a row of crooked yellow teeth behind his scraggly beard. “What luck to find choice ones like this without any leashes on them,” he replied. “They look like real quality, too. A pair of dainty little Frogs like this would make a trip downriver worthwhile anytime!”

  Monique recognized them as flatboatmen—the type of men that the colonists in New Orleans referred to contemptuously as “Kaintocks” from the Ohio and Kentucky territories to the north. They were carefully cutting the bewildered young girls off from the knot of spectators gathered around the marionette show and easing them over to a less busy part of the square.

  Monique continued to hold tenaciously on to Celeste’s trembling hand, pulling the frightened youngster along with her as she tried to walk away from their unwanted admirers.

  “Come now, my chayrees, don’t run off on us like that!” coaxed the older man as he laughingly placed himself in their path once more. “We can show you two one hell of a good time if you let us,”

  There was the strong odor of alcohol about them, and the one who was speaking teetered a little as he tried to balance himself in front of her.

  “That’s right, girlies,” interjected the younger man. “We just sold our flatboat, cargo and all, so we ha
ve a bagful of money now to spend on the lucky wenches who give us a little loving before we have to start back up the trail.”

  “Please, messieurs, let us be on our way,” insisted Monique, wishing she could keep her voice from sounding so tremulous.

  The older man detained her with a large callused hand.

  “Come on, dearie, don’t put your airs on with us,” he chided. “You two came out to have a good time, didn’t you? Well, we’re the ones to give it to you. I promise you that.”

  “Let go my arm, you smelly old man!” snapped Monique, stamping her foot impatiently. The pink of her dimpled cheeks was turning to apple red as she struggled to break free from that ironlike grip, all the while trying to hide how frightened she really was.

  The man reeled back unsteadily as though she had struck him. “Smelly? Did you hear that, Will? She called us smelly! And us that just paid out good money for a bath up the street!”

  Celeste, on the brink of tears, went white as a sheet as the younger man caught her by the arm.

  “Now, ladies, don’t be so finicky!” he scolded. “Although we may not look it, me and my partner here are all nice and washed up, so don’t go calling us names. Of course, we didn’t bring no change of wardrobe with us, but I don’t see where that ought to matter much. We’ll be only too glad to peel it all off for you as soon as we get to a more private place. Right, Jeb?” He chuckled meaningfully and pulled Celeste in closer to him. The poor girl looked as though she were going to faint away at any moment.