Tender Fury

by Connie Mason

  “I will be safe enough here while you are gone,” she insisted stubbornly.

  Rob frowned, deep lines creasing his usually sunny countenance. He knew he could not force her to leave. “Will you promise not to run off on your own in a strange city?”

  “I promise,” she answered solemnly.

  “Gabby, I have never questioned you before, buy why you are reluctant to return to your husband? I don’t know him but General Jackson thinks highly of him.”

  “Then your general does not know him!” spat Gabby vehemently. “He is a killer, a man who murdered his own wife!”

  “My God, Gabby! Do you know what you are saying?”

  “He told me himself and I have no reason to doubt him. He is cold, arrogant, and hateful; he treats me as a possession, not as a wife. I never want to see him again!”

  “And you never shall, darling. When this battle is over nothing will prevent me from taking you to South Carolina. Not even your own protests.”

  The following days passed swiftly. Gabby did not attempt to leave the small apartment but sat often on the balcony. Rob was gone much of the time, caught up with duties and his expedition to Natchez. He did manage to find time to stock the kitchen with supplies, and to take her out into the French marketplace disguised as a boy to acquaint her with the place in the unlikely event he should be gone longer than anticipated.

  Each night, after a look of intense longing at the bed, Rob made his pallet on the floor without comment. On their last day together he took her out of the vieux carre in a closed carriage for a picnic along the banks of Lake Ponchartrain. The days were turning cooler but the sun was still warm when they reached the secluded spot Rob had chosen for their outing. She felt like a child on her first picnic, which in truth it was. She sipped cool wine and ate crusty bread and cheese as if it were the most extravagant feast in the world. Later they walked hand in hand along the beach and explored the surrounding woods. Rob was attentive where Philippe had been uncaring of her feelings; Rob was warm and gentle where Philippe was cruel and arrogant. Why then did she not love Rob? They lingered long enough to view the perfect sunset to end a perfect day.

  Rob was full of last minute instructions when they returned to the Patalba Apartments. “Don’t go out without your disguise, for St. Cyr is still in the city,” he warned. “Lieutenant Gray has returned to New Orleans from Barataria and your husband must know by now that you are alive. There is enough money in the bureau drawer to last until I return. When I return things will have to be settled between us, darling, because I cannot continue like this. Your nearness has driven me mad these past days.” Then he drew her into his arms. “Promise me you will not leave in my absence. That you will be waiting for me when I return.”

  “I shall be here when you return,” promised Gabby, touched by his caring.

  That night, as usual, Rob made his pallet on the floor and after a goodnight kiss which Rob seemed unwilling to break off, both retired to their own bed. Gabby could hear him tossing and turning on the hard floor, but hardened her heart against his need. Finally she fell asleep, troubled by her dreams as she squirmed restlessly on the bed suddenly grown too big for one person. She dreamed she was aboard the Windward, in the cabin she knew so well, with Philippe. She could almost feel his hands upon her body, arousing her in the many ways she had come to know, to desire. Suddenly she was wide awake. The hands exploring with gentle firmness were as real as the warm presence next to her. Shocked, she started to rise.

  “No, Gabby, stay with me,” Rob begged. “Let me love you this once before I leave, my darling. My God,” he sobbed, “I want you so badly. Please let me love you!”

  His kisses felt soft and gentle on her lips but did not stop there. With trembling hands he drew her nightdress over her head, tossing it to the floor, then proceeded to discover all the sweet, secret places of her body for himself. Her feeble protests went unnoticed as she vainly tried to push him aside.

  “God, Gabby,” he groaned hoarsely, “don’t stop me now. I’ve waited so long for you. You’re so incredibly desirable and I love you so much.”

  Even if she wanted to, Gabby could not have stopped him. Suddenly her need for this gentle, sweet man overwhelmed her; she desperately warned to be consumed by his passion; needed to have Philippe cleansed from her mind and soul forever.

  “Stay, Rob,” she urged, desire flooding her loins. “Love me! I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want you and I was never any good at lying.”

  Then there was time for no more words between them as Gabby rose eagerly to accept his weight. His passion sparked hers and transported her into a world she had known only with Philippe as he kissed her breasts, her belly, then moved back to her lips in an unhurried and sensuous exploration. The taste of him filled her mouth. He was a tireless, consummate lover whose imminent departure the next morning made him all the more passionate. He was also a gentle, thoughtful lover, exhibiting none of the wild fire that raged within Philippe when he took her. And although her pleasure was nearly as complete as Rob’s, it was not as dramatic or violent as she had known before. But the sweetness of fulfillment with Rob was like balm to her soul, unlike anything she had ever experienced. When dawn streaked the sky, she fell asleep with Rob’s golden head resting on her breast. Darkness made it impossible to see the tears that sprang to her eyes and spiked her eyelashes with tiny dew drops but nevertheless Rob sensed the turmoil within her heart.

  Rob arose the next morning before Gabby was awake. He dressed in silence, then stood beside the bed gazing down at her with loving eyes, as if trying to memorize her features. The golden lashes were like butterfly wings against her cheek and his heart contracted violently at the sight of her curled childlike and innocent amidst the rumpled bedding. But there was nothing childlike or innocent about her response to him last night, he thought, his body hard with remembered passion. Somehow, when he returned he must find a way to persuade her to return to South Carolina with him. He perched at the edge of the bed and gently nuzzled a bare shoulder.

  “Gabby, darling, I’m leaving,” he said softly so as not to startle her.

  Gabby stretched like a playful kitten before coming full awake. “There is something you should know before I leave. I didn’t tell you everything yesterday for fear of spoiling our last day together.”

  “What is it?” Gabby asked, little fingers of fear playing along her spine.

  “I did not tell you that Lieutenant Gray has already collected the reward offered by your husband. I saw him in General Jackson’s office yesterday.”

  “Does he know I am with you?”

  “No, thank God,” sighed Rob. “He still believes you on Barataria and that’s what he told St. Cyr.”

  “Then Jean and Marie must have convinced him that I was ill,” breathed Gabby with relief.

  “Nevertheless,” warned Rob ominously, “when St. Cyr finds you gone from Barataria he will scour the city until he finds you. Unless you wish to return to him,” he paused dramatically, searching her face, “you must remain inside our apartment until I return.”

  “I have no desire to return to Philippe,” Gabby denied fiercely as she threw her arms around Rob’s neck. “Oh, Rob, I would be a fool to refuse your love.”

  “Gabby, sweetheart, does that mean… dare I hope… I mean, could you love me?” His eyes were alight with happiness.

  “We’ll discuss it further when you return,” she promised. “For now just know that your love has made me very happy. Never have I known such sweetness.”

  He kissed her deeply, gratefully, then drew away reluctantly. “I must go. Remember your promise to me. And, darling, in my heart you will always be my true wife, legal or not.” His eyes held all the promise of tomorrow. Then he was gone and already Gabby could feel the empty days and nights stretching endlessly before her.

  Gabby remained true to her promise and did not venture from the apartment on Rue Chartres for nearly two weeks after Rob left. Sometimes she sat on the little b
alcony, other times she wandered around the tiny courtyard. She read the few books lying around but in the end boredom became her greatest enemy. One day, after discovering her larder nearly depleted, Gabby donned her boy’s garb, wound her long, pale locks beneath a cap and set out for the French market, the promise of adventure coloring her cheeks. Stuffed in her belt was the pouch of coins Rob had left her.

  She felt gay and lighthearted as she jauntily drank in the sights and sounds of the vieux carre. Women of various hues, dressed in gaudy outfits and wearing madras turbans chatted gaily as they headed for the market with baskets slung over their arms or balanced on their heads. Many were very beautiful and looked haughtily down on their lesser sisters. Before long the acrid odor of the waterfront assailed her nostrils and she wrinkled her nose at the combined smell of fish, decaying fruits and vegetables, and human waste.

  Gabby passed back and forth in front of the many stalls before deciding upon her first purchase, a plump hen. She pulled the pouch from her belt to pay for her purchase unaware of the pair of sharp eyes watching her movements. She was so caught up with her choice of vegetables to accompany the hen that she failed to see the small, ragged urchin dash from the throng of people crowding around the vendors until it was too late to prevent what happened next. The frail body, exhibiting surprising strength, lurched into Gabby, knocking her off her feet. In a trice the urchin’s agile hands snatched at the money pouch. Before anyone in the milling crowd of onlookers knew what was happening the ragged child had disappeared, the pouch clutched tightly in a grubby fist.

  “Help!” Gabby cried when she finally found her voice. “Stop that child! He stole my purse!”

  Immediately two soldiers were beside her helping her to her feet. “Are you hurt, sonny?” asked one of them kindly. “What happened?”

  “I am not hurt,” Gabby explained, “but a ragged street urchin knocked me down and stole my money.

  “It happens all the time,” sighed the other soldier, shrugging his shoulders. “They are too swift for us to catch. But surely you were aware that these things happen along the waterfront and should have been more careful with your money.”

  He looked sharply at her, taking in the dainty, almost girlishly slim figure and pretty features. Gabby raised her hand to her cap to assure herself it was still in place.

  “What’s going on here, Sergeant?” The authoritative voice came from behind Gabby but she recognized it immediately. She lowered her head under the penetrating gaze of Lieutenant Gray.

  “Aw, nothing much, Lieutenant,” shrugged the sergeant. “Seems like this here lad was robbed by one of them street urchins. But he wasn’t hurt none, were you, sonny?”

  “No,” whispered Gabby.

  Lieutenant Gabby studied the slight figure standing before him with shrewd eyes, then asked, “What is your name, boy, and where do you live?”

  “I am Gilbert La Farge,” replied Gabby, lowering her voice an octave. Her father’s name was the only one she could think of on the spur of the moment. “I live… I live… on Rue St. Charles.”

  Lieutenant Gray’s deepest eyes did not waver from her face and Gabby became increasingly uncomfortable under his close scrutiny. Only when he reached out a hand to remove her cap did she realize that he had seen through her disguise. Instinctively she ducked, and quick as a flash her slim body slipped between the two soldiers on either side of her.

  “Stop that boy!” shouted the lieutenant as Gabby moved swiftly into the surrounding crowd.

  “What’s he done, Lieutenant?” asked the sergeant scratching his head in bewilderment.

  “Don’t question me, just do as I say,” Lieutenant Gray shouted as he took off after the fleet figure. “Catch him and find out where he lives.”

  Gabby found it difficult to lose her pursuers in the narrow maze of streets. No matter where she turned either the lieutenant or one of the soldiers were close behind. She dare not return to Rob’s lodgings and she had no money with which to pay for another room for herself, thanks to that ragged child who had robbed her. With growing alarm she realized that eventually she would be forced to return to Philippe. The streets were no place for a woman alone with neither friends nor money.

  Gabby had just turned a corner and stopped to catch her breath when she happened to glance up at the street sign she was leaning against. It read: Rue Dumaine. Then she remembered. Marcel’s sister lived on Rue Dumaine. But which house? The street appeared to be several blocks long and she only recalled that his sister’s last name was Gaspar. She glanced furtively around and breathed a sigh of relief when she found the street nearly deserted. Perhaps she had lost her pursuers, she hoped, silently praying for that miracle. But it was not to be for at that moment Lieutenant Gray rounded the far corner.

  “Mon dieu!” Gabby cried aloud, casting frightened eyes to the other side of the street where she spied an open gate leading into a courtyard surrounded by a high wall. Without a second thought, Gabby dashed into the street hoping to gain the safety of those walls before Lieutenant Gray saw her.

  But fate intervened. Gabby was nearly to the open gateway when a carriage suddenly appeared beneath the portals and she found herself lying in the street dazed and bruised but alive. The cap concealing her bright hair lay some distance away and those glorious locks spread about her still form like a cascade of silvery moonbeams.

  The carriage ground to a halt and the driver crouched down beside Gabby making clucking noises in his throat.

  “What is it, Pitot?” asked a voice from within the carriage.

  “A boy, Monsieur, no, it is a girl,” Pitot corrected. “He… she… is injured.”

  The passenger stuck his head from the window in exasperation. “Move him… or her aside and let’s be off,” he ordered impatiently.

  Just then the glitter of silver caught his eye and he turned shocked eyes to the still figure on the ground. A shimmering curtain of pale hair surrounded a white face he knew so well. “ Dieu!” he exclaimed, his voice quivering with disbelief. “It is not possible!”

  A shiver went through him as he felt the full impact of violet eyes gazing up at him. “Gabrielle? Is it really you, Gabby, ma chere?”

  “Marcel!” Gabby cried with joyful recognition. “Help me, please!” She didn’t know where Marcel had come from but his appearance at this moment was providential.

  “Quickly, Pitot, get her into the carriage,” Marcel ordered briskly. A crowd had begun to gather in the streets and from it an American officer started forward.

  “Wait, sir!” called Lieutenant Gray as he pushed his way through the people milling around the carriage.

  “Please hurry, Marcel,” Gabby pleaded, violet eyes glazed with fright, “he intends to take me back to Philippe!”

  “Forward, Pitot,” Marcel called to the driver. “Make haste!” Pitot flicked the whip over the horses and the carriage lurged forward, soon leaving the crowd and the American officer behind. Only after Marcel was certain they were not followed did he turn his attention to Gabby.

  “Are you hurt, cherie?” he asked with concern.

  “Only shaken and bruised, Marcel,” she assured him. “I am just thankful that you came along when you did.”

  “I can’t believe you are alive! It’s like a miracle. Everyone though you had drowned. Where have you been all this time and why didn’t you let Philippe know you were alive?”

  “Please, Marcel, not now,” pleaded Gabby. “I am still too shaken.”

  “Forgive me, ma petite, for being thoughtless,” Marcel murmured solicitously. “You are safe with me. I will take you to my sister’s house where no one will find you. You can tell me everything in your own good time.”

  It seemed to Gabby that they spent an inordinate amount of the time winding in and out of alleys and narrow streets before they finally entered a courtyard. Just before they had turned in she saw the number 30 emblazoned on the door to the imposing brick house. Almost at the same time she recognized the street as the same one she ha
d been on earlier. In fact, the courtyard they had just entered was the very one she had thought to hide in. They were at number 30 Rue Dumaine. Gabby wrinkled her brow in concentration but her head hurt too badly for her to associate this fact with something she had heard weeks before.

  The carriage halted and Pitot jumped down from his perch to close the gate while Marcel helped Gabby, ushering her immediately inside the house where he turned her over to a tall, dour black woman.

  “Lizette is my cook and housekeeper. She will take good care of you, cherie,” insisted Marcel when he noticed Gabby’s reluctance to accompany the woman. “After you have rested we will speak further.” He chastely kissed her cheek and Gabby had no choice but to follow Lizette up a long flight of stairs.

  Much later, bathed and dressed in clothing belonging to Marcel’s sister, Gabby joined Marcel in the salle. She wondered where Marcel’s sister and her family were but Lizette proved highly uncommunicative when questioned, answering in a guttural jumble of French and Creole Gabby found hard to understand.

  Ah, cherie,” greeted Marcel warmly, running an appreciative eye over her slim form, “now you look more like yourself. You do justice to my sister’s gowns.”

  “Where is your sister, Marcel? I am anxious to meet her and thank her for the loan of her clothes.”

  “That is not possible at this time. The entire family are north for an extended vacation.” Gabby’s distress was so obvious that Marcel immediately took her arm and led her to a chair. “What is it, cherie? What have I said? Are you still shaken from your harrowing experience?”

  “Nothing like that, Marcel. It is just that I had so counted on seeking employment as a governess to your sister’s children,” Gabby said dejectedly. “Now I must find another position.”

  “No!” Marcel objected. “The position is yours as soon as Celeste and her family return, which should be soon after the battle for New Orleans is resolved one way or another. Meanwhile, you are my guest.”

  “When do you plan on returning to your home on Martinique?”