by Connie Mason
Almost immediately the packet was in Lafitte’s hands and he scanned the pages, a pleased smile creasing his handsome features.
“Eh bien!” he exclaimed excitedly. “This General Jackson is a man of action and he won’t be sorry he trusted Jean Lafitte! Together we will send the English back to England in defeat.” Then he turned to Philippe. “ Merci, Monsieur St. Cyr. No answer is necessary. My brother Pierre and my men will be released from jail and a full pardon for all is being drawn up. Just inform the good general that he will not be sorry. As for you, St. Cyr, you shall be my guest for the night and in the morning I will see that you are returned safely to New Orleans.”
For all purposes Philippe was being dismissed. But that was not his intention. “I have come to Barataria on a mission of my own as well as the one I performed for General Jackson,” he explained briefly, forestalling Lafitte’s imminent withdrawal. “I understand that my wife is on your island.”
Lafitte studied the handsome, intense husband whom Gabby had chosen to abandon in favor of another, and instinctively knew that this man could never be guilty of cold-blooded murder. Especially the murder of his own wife. Somehow, something was very wrong. Jean felt in his heart that St. Cyr was owed an explanation.
“Your wife is no longer on Barataria, Monsieur St. Cyr,”
Lafitte said, watching closely the other man’s reaction. What he saw must have satisfied him for he continued. “We found her nearly drowned and covered with bruises on our shore. My own Marie nursed her back to health and they became close friend. I offered her haven on my island.”
Philippe’s face was carefully blank as he asked, “Why did she choose to remain on Barataria once she had recovered? Wasn’t she aware that everyone assumed her dead?”
“I did not pry, Monsieur. She obviously had her own reasons for wishing to remain dead to you,” shrugged Lafitte. “In truth, I was much too caught up in more pressing matters to investigate her motives. I know only what Marie has told me, and I swore I would not betray her confidence.”
“May I speak with your woman?”
“That is not possible, I’m sorry. Marie is now in New Orleans visiting her sister.”
“Please, Captain Lafitte, I must find my wife,” Philippe pleaded. “Do you know where she went after she left Barataria? Once I find her I’m certain we can overcome our differences.”
Somehow Jean believed Philippe. “I don’t know where your wife is, and it may even be too late for you once you do find her,” Jean confided, “but I can tell you that she left Barataria two weeks ago with Captain Stone, one of Jackson’s officers.”
“Captain Stone!” Philippe felt as if someone had just punched him in the stomach. “Are you telling me that they are lovers? That she has been with him since they left here together?”
“Easy, Monsieur St. Cyr,” soothed Lafitte. “Everyone on Barataria is free to choose whomever he or she wishes, but in truth I do not believe that they had become lovers while on my island. What transpired after they left here I cannot say.” Then he turned back to his letters from General Jackson. “I can tell you nothing more and I have pressing matters to attend to,” he said, dismissing Philippe with a shrug of his shoulders.
The next day Philippe was once again seated in General Jackson’s small office. Lieutenant Gray was also present. After giving Jackson Lafitte’s verbal message, and telling him that Gabby was no longer on Barataria but in New Orleans, he was surprised to see a smug smile flash across the lieutenant’s face.
“If I may interrupt, sir,” Lieutenant Gray broke in. “I saw your wife after I left here yesterday. She was in a marketplace disguised as a boy. When she realized that I recognized her she darted off into the crowd.”
“I cannot believe she would go to such lengths to avoid me,” said Philippe, shaking his head in bewilderment. “Did you follow her?”
“Yes, sir,” said the lieutenant. “Two enlisted men and myself gave chase and almost had her cornered when she darted into the street and was knocked down by an oncoming carriage.”
“Mon dieu,” cried Philippe as he jumped from the chair in alarm. “Is she hurt? Where is she now?”
“I… she… I don’t know,” admitted the lieutenant, licking lips that had suddenly gone dry. “The carriage stopped and before I could push through the crowd the man and his driver had her inside and sped off.”
Philippe’s thoughts were in a jumble. Had Gabby been abducted, or had someone befriended her? Aloud he asked, “Did you recognize the man in the carriage?”
“I never saw him before, but he appeared to be a gentleman of means.”
“I thought perhaps it might have been Captain Stone,” Philippe said thoughtfully. “I may as well tell you, my wife and Captain Stone left Barataria together. Has the captain returned from Natchez yet?”
“I knew there was something going on between them,” gloated Lieutenant Gray. He would have continued but Philippe’s icy stare stopped him cold.
“Perhaps your wife is at Captain Stone’s lodgings,” offered General Jackson. “I know he lives not far from here on Rue Royale.”
“ Merci, General, I will go immediately,” said Philippe, making straight for the door.
“One moment,” cut in Jackson with such solemnity that Philippe stopped dead in his tracks. “I did not tell you this sooner because it seemed to have no bearing on your wife’s disappearance but I can see now that it might be of great import to you.”
Philippe’s full attention was on Jackson. “Captain Stone is dead. He and his men were transporting the ammunition and flints he had purchased down river from Natchez on barges when they were attacked by Choctaws who came out from the riverbank in canoes.”
Both Lieutenant Gray and Philippe sucked their breath in sharply. “How do you know this?” asked Philippe.
“Only one survivor lived to tell the tale. He was badly wounded and left for dead but was picked up by a trapper and brought back to the city,” answered Jackson.
“I thought the Indians were friendly,” said Philippe, still stunned by Jackson’s disclosure.
“Mostly they are. But many of them have been recruited by English agents to aid their cause. I suspect that is the case here. Somehow, they learned of Stone’s mission and wanted to stop the delivery of ammunition. The corporal who survived the attack said a white man, probably an English agent, directed the slaughter from the riverbank. Not only have I lost an excellent officer but ten men and the badly needed supplies,” lamented Jackson. The pain and weariness in Jackson’s care-lined face caused Philippe a moment of concern for the tall, gaunt soldier whose bent shoulders bore so much.
“I must find my wife,” declared Philippe earnestly. “With Captain Stone gone she is alone in the city. She is very young and has no experience to cope with the dangers around her. If luck is with me I will find her at Captain Stone’s lodgings on Rue Royale. If not…” His face, too, bore lines of anxiety and worry as he thought of the many unpleasant things that could happen to a woman alone in a city like New Orleans.
Luck had deserted Philippe. Captain Stone’s former landlady at number 52, Rue Royal explained that he had given up his lodgings about two weeks earlier and left no forwarding address. She could not even tell Philippe if he had been alone or had a lady with him. The only thing left was to enlist the aid of his crewmen on the Windward and scour the vieux carre for Captain Stone’s new lodgings.
Nearly a week was to pass before First Mate Mercier happened upon the Patalba Apartments and found that a Captain Stone and his wife occupied rooms on the second floor. But, according to the landlady, the captain had been gone for three weeks and his wife for two, although the rooms were paid for until the end of the month. Philippe hurried to the Rue Chartres address to question the landlady himself but learned nothing new. He did manage to persuade her to let him inside the rooms, and although he found a small amount of woman’s clothing, there was nothing to suggest Gabby had ever been there. He thanked the woman with a general su
m of money and returned to the Windward, his emotions in a turmoil.
Evidently Gabby had broken her wedding vows and lived openly as the wife of Captain Stone! It galled Philippe to think that she had willingly lain in another man’s arms, responding to him with her own special kind of sweet ardor, freely giving what should have been his alone. That image, etched on his brain, was enough to drive him crazy. What if she carried her lover’s child? He clenched his fists until his knuckles grew white. Once he found her did he love her enough to forgive her? he wondered, yet knowing in his heart the answer.
Long into the night Philippe paced his cabin trying to sort out his feelings. No matter what Gabby had done he still wanted her. Everything that had happened, even her refusal to return to him, was of his own making. He should have known from the start that she was not like Cecily. He realized now that he had dealt too harshly with her; he had been stern and arrogant, and yet, damnit, he had acted like a jealous fool instead of a loving husband with a lovely, young bride whose only fault was that she was too spirited for his liking. If he found her, could he become the kind of husband she deserved without allowing his jealous, overbearing nature to destroy her? How would he feel when he held her in his arms knowing another man had possessed her sweet body, known her wild passion? He smashed his fist into the bulkhead and cursed loudly as pain radiated clear up into his shoulder. Finally he went to bed with nothing settled in his mind except the knowledge that he would leave no stone unturned until he found his wife. He was certain that one day she would return to the rooms on Rue Chartres and he would be there waiting when she did.
Gabby had been at Gaspar house for nearly two weeks and in all that time she had not ventured outside the house or gardens within the neat little courtyard. Neither had she heard from Marcel. She had no complaints for she had been well looked after by Pitot and Lizette, but the boredom after the lively comings and goings on Barataria with Marie as a companion was nearly more than she could stand. She had exhausted the meager supply of books and both Pitot and Lizette proved decidedly taciturn. As time elapsed she began to fear that Rob would return from his mission and find her gone after she had promised she would be there waiting for him. Nearly a month had passed since he had left for Natchez and she knew she must let him know she was safe. She thought about sending Pitot with a note but decided she didn’t trust him enough for that. In the end she donned her carefully preserved boy’s clothing and slipped out of the house unnoticed. If Rob was not at their rooms, she would leave a message and hurry back before she was missed. When Rob returned he would know where to find her.
The streets were crowded as usual and no one paid much attention to the slim lad who kept his eyes trained on the sidewalk as he passed. Gabby reached the Patalba Apartments without mishap and hurried up the iron stairs. When she fished the key from her pocket and opened the door she was disappointed to find the rooms deserted with no sign that Rob had returned. His clothing and gear were still missing and the apartment damp and dusty. Chills of foreboding prickled the nape of her neck as she sensed rather than felt something threatening in the empty rooms. She hurried to the desk to pen a note to Rob, all the while averting her eyes from the bed where once they had found happiness in each other. A faint noise alerted her and she looked up just as the door opened.
“Rob!” Gabby cried joyfully, expecting to see Rob’s wide, boyish grin.
“Hello, Gabrielle,” said Philippe softly. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
“Philippe! You! How… how did you know where to find me?” Seeing him so unexpectedly had left her thoroughly shaken.
“I learned that Captain Stone and his ‘wife’ had taken these rooms,” he replied, stumbling over the word wife.
Gabby flinched but held her ground. “I suppose you have already spoken to Lieutenant Gray?”
“ Oui, and Jean Lafitte, when I went to Barataria.”
“You went to Barataria?” gasped Gabby in amazement, wondering what Jean thought when Philippe St. Cyr came looking for his wayward wife.
“ Oui. But I was too late. Lafitte told me you had already left with Captain Stone.”
Gabby lifted her chin defiantly but said nothing to defend her actions.
“Do you love this captain so much that you would forsake your marriage vows?” asked Philippe bitterly.
“Rob is the kindest, gentlest man I have ever known,” Gabby declared hotly. “What have you shown me except cruelty and unprincipled arrogance?”
“I asked you if you loved him, Gabby,” persisted Philippe, gentling his voice.
“I don’t know, Philippe,” she answered honestly, averting his eyes. His granite gaze seemed to pierce her very soul. “But Rob loves me and wants me to be his wife.”
“Impossible! You are my wife!”
“Divorce is not unheard of. Difficult, yes, but not impossible,” she shot back.
“Gabby,” began Philippe in a voice Gabby had never heard him use before, “say no more. There is something you should know.”
“Nothing you have to say will change my mind about you, or about Rob.”
“He is dead, Gabby. Your Rob is dead.”
There was no way to soften the blow, Philippe reasoned as he watched all the color drain from Gabby’s face. She had to learn the truth. With a cry of alarm Philippe leaped forward to catch her in his strong arms before she hit the floor. He laid her gently on the bed, noticing for the first time the snug fitting trousers she wore and the way her shirt pulled tightly across her swelling breasts.
Gabby slowly threaded her way through the maze of unconsciousness to surface into a world of sadness. Dear, sweet Rob was dead. She would never again see his merry, blue eyes smiling at her with their own brand of laughter. Tears sprang to her eyes as she recalled their last tender moments together.
“Captain Stone was your lover!” Philippe’s voice was accusing, his flinty eyes chilling. “ Mon dieu, Gabby, what has happened to you? Where is the girl who wanted to dedicate her life to le bon dieu?”
“You married her, Philippe, and she was never the same after that,” replied Gabby flatly. “How did Rob die?”
After Philippe told her all he knew concerning Rob’s death Gabby sobbed quietly, feeling more alone than she had ever been in her life.
Moved by her tears, Philippe sat on the bed next to her and smoothed the pale hair from her damp forehead. “I don’t believe you really loved him, Gabby. But all that doesn’t matter now. Can’t you understand? He is dead and I am still your husband.” Gabby grew very still. “Is it too late to start over? You must have felt something for me to have saved my life. I… I care for you, ma chere. And… and I still want you.”
Astonishment followed disbelief across her face. What Philippe was asking was nearly impossible. She would always live in fear. She doubted that Philippe could forget so easily that Rob had been her lover. Even if he did forget, he could never forgive. Neither could she forget Cecily nor forgive him for murdering her.
“Would you strangle me as you did your first wife when the thought of another man possessing me begins to cat into your soul?” Gabby taunted, unable to keep her thoughts to herself.
“Gabby!” Philippe gasped, visibly paling. “Where did you ever get the idea that I strangled Cecily? How could you believe me capable of such a horrible deed?”
“You told me yourself that you killed your wife,” Gabby retorted. “Marcel said that she had been strangled. What else was I to think?”
“Marcel!” Philippe spat, the name bitter on his tongue. “Of course he would twist my words around to suit his own purpose. Mon dieu,” he cursed when he realized what she must have been thinking all this time. “And you thought you would be my next victim?” When she did not reply he knew he had hit upon the truth. The reason Gabby was unwilling to return to him was because she feared for her life. How could he have been so stupid?
“Listen to me, ma chere,” he said earnestly, “I did not kill Cecily with my own hands. I only felt responsib
le for her death, and still do.”
“But… I don’t understand.”
“Please, just listen, then judge for yourself.” Philippe pleaded, his eyes smoky with entreaty. “I met Cecily after I had returned to Martinique from France where I had attended school for ten years. I returned when I received news of my father’s death. Bellefontaine was mine as was the responsibility of running a large sugar plantation. I worked hard for three years, and must have been quite a serious young man for I rarely ever entered into the gay, social life of St. Pierre as did my good friend and neighbor, Marcel Duvall. One day he introduced me to Cecily and my whole life changed overnight.
“On all of Martinique there was no one quite as beautiful as she and I fell in love with her beauty as well as her vitality and restless, fun-loving spirit. She flirted outrageously and seemed to come alive under the barrage of compliments showered upon her by the group of men who seemed always at her beck and call. I pursued her relentlessly and judging from her behavior during the few times we were alone together, I thought she returned my feelings. I proposed and she promptly rejected me, saying she was not ready to settle down, especially to a place as remote as Bellefontaine.
“But I was unwilling to accept that. She was like a sickness in my blood. Marcel warned me that she was not for me but of course he was jealous of my attentions toward her. Finally, in desperation, I approached her father with my offer of marriage. The poor man would have liked nothing better than for his rebellious daughter to marry me and settle down. I was immensely prosperous and considered a good catch for any girl on the island. He worried that Cecily would never find a husband to suit her. Between us we pressured her into marriage… but not before she extracted my promise to live in St. Pierre. I could deny her nothing.” Philippe was on his feet now, nervously pacing back and forth. He paused to gaze out the window, his sightless eyes turned inward.
“Go on, Philippe,” Gabby urged gently.
“We were deliriously happy, or at least I was, even though she turned down a honeymoon voyage aboard the Windward. She claimed that being penned up for so long would bore her to distraction. I was often away from the house, occupied with business having to do with my shipping lines. Cecily was free to do much as she pleased in my absence and I never questioned her. She spent money at such an alarming rate that finally I was forced to speak to her about it and that was our first serious quarrel.
