It was as near to an appeal to return to him as she might ever hear, he wasn’t the kind to beg. But neither was she the kind of woman to meekly pack her bags and follow a man.
She raised a brow. “That’s hardly a respectable suggestion.”
“Respectable? When have I ever cared for that?”
It was true, in its way. Carefully, she said, “You are a respected man of business among those you trade with, and there’s nothing to say you won’t wish to appear more so when the Americans come.”
“What have they to do with anything?” There was puzzlement in his eyes as he watched her. She was trying to tell him something, he knew, though what it could be he could not see.
“You … you will be wanting a wife, and I don’t—” Her throat closed on the words, gripping so tight she could not go on. She lowered her head to stare at her hands.
“I know. You don’t want to be married, at least to me.”
“Nor do I care to be your mistress while you wed someone else!”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Wedded or not, you’re the only woman I’ve ever wanted to see at the head of my table or beside me when I wake in the morning. Since you have refused, that’s the end of it. Make your own way, if that’s what you want.”
She could feel the inner force of him battering at her sense of control. It gave her voice a defiant edge. “It is what I want!”
Ryan swore softly, then moved toward the door. The need to turn back, to seize her and carry her off after all, warred within him with grudging appreciation for her stand. He could bend her to his will, but what good was that if he earned her hate?
A muscle clenched in his jaw. His voice grating, he said, “Then I’ll leave you to it.”
The door closed behind him.
Elene took a step after him, then stopped. There were a lot of things she could say, but pride and fear would not let her. Even if she could bring herself to say them, there was no guarantee he would listen. Let him go then.
By the end of the third day, Elene had accepted that Ryan was not coming back. She had also determined once and for all that she could not marry Durant. If there had ever been any doubt, seeing Ryan again had routed it. She would have given Durant her decision, if he had allowed it, but he was busy celebrating the coming transfer with his friends during the afternoons and evenings, and sleeping off the effects in the mornings.
Elene, balked of her object, began to think of the baby. If she was going to be its sole support, she must begin. It was time to make Devota’s perfume, no matter what effort it took. The ribbon ties on the bottles had been ruined when they were emptied, however, and must be replaced. She decided to begin with that small task.
The purchase of the ribbon, no more than enough for four bottles, did not take long. Reluctant to return at once to her quiet room, she walked toward the river. Standing on the levee in the cool wind, she stared at the rippling stretch of eternally flowing water. She thought fleetingly of the many women who, in her situation, had plunged into rivers the world over. Such an easy end held no allure for her. Life was not good, but its promise was greater still than its pain. She thought that for her it would always be that way. She turned homeward.
As she neared the rooming house, Elene saw a praline seller coming toward her. The quadroon woman was singing a catchy tune of praise for the confections she carried in a tray on her hip. There was a swing to her skirts as she walked and a saucy smile on her face beneath her red silk tignon, while wide gold earrings swung against the pale cream of her cheeks. Her pralines were covered by a crisp white cloth to discourage the flies, and when she lifted it their rich, milk-and-sugar smell wafted on the air, mingling with the smells of wood smoke from evening cook fires, the taint of the effluvium from the gutters, and the scent the quadroon wore.
For a wonder, the smells did not make Elene queasy, perhaps because of the freshness of the evening air and her hunger after her walk. She bought a flat, round piece of the candy studded with lumps of pecans. The quadroon gave her a flashing smile from under her lashes along with a soft word of gratitude, then moved away down the street, singing.
Elene nibbled at the edge of the praline as she climbed the stairs to her bedchamber. That small taste did not make her feel ill, as so many things did at that time of the day. When she had removed her bonnet and gloves, she broke off a larger section with a small pecan half embedded in it and placed it in her mouth.
A bitter taste assailed her tongue. She screwed up her face.
The pecan was from wild trees, it must be. Nausea washed over her and perspiration erupted across her brow. She crossed quickly to the bed to drag out the china chamber pot that sat underneath, then spat the mouthful of candy into it. In an uncontrollable rush, the tiny bit of praline she had swallowed earlier, as well as everything she had eaten at lunch, spewed forth. She dropped to her knees, racked by spasms that seemed to go on and on.
At last they passed, but the cramping in Elene’s stomach did not. She was frightened at its violence. She was being foolish, she knew; it was just a little sickness. Women had suffered such indignities from the beginning of time. Still, she was afraid. Holding to the bed and the walls, she staggered out into the stair hall and called out for the landlady.
Devota came at once, with the servant girl who had been sent to fetch her trotting wide-eyed behind her. Her maid took one look at Elene as she rolled back and forth on the bed with her hair damp with sweat, and sent the servant to bring hot water and a cup. From a bag she had brought with her, she took dried herbs and white and yellow powders, which she mixed in small pinches in the hot water. Standing over Elene, she bade her drink, then drink again and yet again.
The spasms passed. Elene could straighten her legs, could breathe easier. She did not let go of Devota’s hand, however, until night came and sleep claimed her.
When Elene awoke, it was morning and Devota had gone. A light rain was falling; she could hear its gentle patter on the roof overhead. She lay in bed, staring up into the gauze folds of the mosquito netting around her with her hand on her abdomen. The child inside her, tiny and drifting as yet, was quiet, safe. There had been moments during the afternoon before when she had been afraid for it; she had not known the illness that was a part of pregnancy could be so violent. But once more Devota had worked her magic and all was well.
Magic of another kind had taken place, for suddenly the child was real to her. Until this moment her condition had seemed like an illness or a problem to be solved. She had spoken of the baby to Devota, had thought of the baby, but it had had no more substance in her mind than a small ghost. If she had lost it, she would have been as much relieved as saddened. Now it was her flesh and blood and also a part of Ryan, and therefore an infinitesimal being to be fiercely protected.
It also deserved the chance to know its father.
Elene could feel the apathy that had gripped her sliding away, being replaced by purpose. She had allowed circumstances to overwhelm her for too long, had spent too much time mourning what once was, what might have been. No more. It was time she made up her mind exactly what she wanted and then went after it. If she could not order her own life, how could she ever hope to order that of her child?
Ryan must be told. It had been sheer cowardice not to let him know at once. What he might choose to do about that knowledge was beyond her control, but he should have it. Procrastinating over the perfume, such as buying bits of ribbon for it, must stop. She would have to get on with what must be done.
The deaths by poison were another problem altogether. They nagged at her, and she could not forget them. Still, they were the concern of the authorities and none of hers. She must not allow the shadow they cast to darken her own future. She had, she thought, concentrated upon them as a defense against the necessity of facing her own difficulties. That was something else she must put behind her.
The clatter of a tray outside the door heralded her morning coffee. The young maid opened the door a
nd put her head around it, then seeing Elene awake, pushed inside.
“Bon jour, mam’zelle. You had a nice sleep? Your woman who was here last evening said I must not wake you until far into the morning. Now M’sieur Durant instructs me to tell you that the people are gathering in the Place d’Armes already. He will be going himself in half an hour and wishes to know if you feel like joining him.”
The transfer ceremony, that ceding Louisiana from Spain to France, would be held this noon. Of course she must go. She flung back the sheet. “Yes, I will join M’sieur Durant. Tell him to please wait for me, then lay out my tan poplin and my shawl.”
“But your café, mam’zelle?”
“Leave it there on the table. Quickly now!”
The rain still fell, a steady silver drizzle from a heavy gray sky. The crowd waiting at the Place d’Armes sheltered from it as best they could, standing in the interior portico of the Church of St. Louis and under the arcade of the municipal building known as the cabildo, where the official exchange of government would take place in an upper room, or else huddling under the few trees along the converging streets. Some few ladies held oiled silk parasols over their heads or covered their bonnets with their shawls, while the gentlemen stood with the rain dripping from the narrow brims of their hats. Many of them wore the tricolor of France, a jaunty symbol of loyalty.
The Spanish troops were drawn up in formation to one side of the Place d’Armes where their red uniforms and the white cockades on their bicornes made a brave show. Opposite them, with the flag pole still flying the lions and castles of His Most Catholic Majesty of Spain between them, was a militia made up of the citizens of the town, men of a dozen different nationalities. Many of them, so the talk ran among the crowd, had fought with the Spanish governor Galvez some years before, heroically defending Louisiana against the British in what the Americans called their revolution.
A cannonade boomed out in salute from a ship on the river. Laussat was coming, walking along the levee. Now the colonial prefect could just be seen passing the guardroom of the military barracks, striding amidst perhaps fifty or sixty Frenchmen. A drum roll began, portentous, stirring. An order rang out and the troops in the square, both the Spanish and the militia, snapped to attention. Laussat walked with his head held high and his face impassive, a strong and competent representative of France. The drumroll rumbled louder and louder; then, as Laussat and his escort disappeared inside the cabildo where the Spanish officials waited, it suddenly stopped.
There was little to be heard except the quiet murmuring of those assembled and the spattering of rain. The soldiers in formation stood stiffly enduring. A light wind whipped the flag above them so that it gave a soft snap, and also clattered among the fronds of the palm trees that lifted their dark green crowns beside the church.
Slowly the crowd began to ease out into the Place d’Armes, surrounding the soldiers, gathering under the balcony of the cabildo. Elene and Durant moved with them. There came a hail, and Elene saw Josie waving, making her way in their direction with Morven in tow. They exchanged greetings as they came together, then Josie, turning this way and that, caught sight of the Tusards and Flora Mazent and beckoned to them.
At that moment, Laussat, with the elderly and white-haired Governor Salcedo and the urbane diplomat acting as commissioner, the Marquis de Casa Calvo, appeared on the balcony before them. As at a signal, the Spanish flag began to descend the pole and the French flag was raised. As the tricolor of France reached the top and unfurled in the breeze, a rousing cheer rang out. It frightened the pigeons on the rooftops so they took flight, wheeling in the gray rain, but soon died away. A Spanish officer took the flag of his country and bore it off from the square. The Spanish troop wheeled and marched away at double time behind the officer.
Beside her, Elene felt Durant stiffen. She glanced at him, then followed the direction of his narrow gaze. Not ten paces away, shouldering through the mass of people just behind Flora Mazent, was Ryan.
He came toward her, his broad shoulders cleaving a passage, his advance steady. The planes of his face were carved into hard lines, and his eyes were dark blue, direct and relentless. Alarm touched Elene, then faded to a waiting stillness. She lifted her chin.
Ryan saw that gallant gesture, so well-remembered, and felt his heart compress as if in a vise. He had tried to renounce her, had damned her for a fickle, hard-hearted jade, and sworn he could live just as well without her, but his house felt empty and lifeless since he had found her gone, and his bed was a lonely place. He recalled the glory of her hair, hidden now under her bonnet, spread out over his pillows; could feel in his memory the silken smoothness of her skin and see the rich sheen of satiated desire in her eyes. She had been yielding grace, fresh challenge, and sweet content made whole in female form. More than that, she had been his, and would be again so long as the strength to make it so remained in his body.
He barely nodded to the others, touching his hat brim as he came to a halt in front of Elene. Without preamble, he said, “I hear you have not been well.”
Devota had told him, of course, though surely not the cause. The words of concern, no matter how hardly spoken, were so unexpected that her reply was short and toneless to prevent her voice from shaking. “A minor ailment.”
“No stomach upset can be minor, not among those of us who came from Saint-Domingue, not now.”
Her gaze was clouded as she caught his meaning. The thought had occurred to her, but had been pushed aside by the implications of her pregnancy. Was it possible? Was it?
“Oh, Elene,” Josie said, her eyes huge in her face as she came nearer. She reached to push back Elene’s bonnet that shielded her face. “I should have seen it before. You have the look of Hermine when she was taking arsenic. You really do.”
The look of Hermine. That pale translucence of the skin. Arsenic. If she died, then so would her baby. Elene swayed on her feet.
Concern leaped into Ryan’s eyes. He moved with the swift agility of well-oiled muscles, brushing Durant aside as he would a pesky mosquito. With one hard arm at her back and the other under her knees, he caught her up.
“No, no,” she protested. “It was only a moment of giddiness. I had no dinner, and no breakfast.”
Durant reached to clamp a hand on Ryan’s arm with anger smoldering in his face. “No, is right. The woman you hold is my fiancée. Put her down.”
Ryan swung from him. “I believe we have gone through this once before on the Sea Spirit. And settled it.”
“Maybe. This is different.”
Durant snatched at Elene’s arm, his fingers biting into her wrist as if he would tear her from the man who held her. Elene pulled against his hold, trying to prevent herself from becoming a part of a tug-of-war between the two men. With one part of her mind she registered the avid faces of the onlookers, the heads turning to watch. For the rest, she was only aware of the hard, secure clasp of Ryan’s arms around her, and the mortification of her intense pleasure in it.
“Stop this,” she cried. “Stop it, both of you! Put me down at once.”
Instead, Durant grasped her shoulder, thrusting his arm between Elene and the man who held her in his determination to wrestle her from his arms. He glared at Ryan over Elene’s form. Through set teeth he demanded, “Give her to me!”
Ryan gave a derisive laugh edged with recklessness. Stepping back, he lifted one long leg, placed his foot against Durant’s abdomen, and shoved.
Durant’s hold on Elene was wrenched free. He went staggering back with arms flung wide, careening into the crowd, landing flat on his back. He thrust himself up on one elbow. There was a white ring around his mouth and rage in his eyes as he stared at Ryan through narrowed eyes. “For this,” he said thickly, “you will meet me again. I demand satisfaction.”
“No,” Elene whispered, and heard her shock echoed in the gasps that ran through the people gathered around them. Vaguely she was aware of Josie’s moan and Flora’s thin scream.
Ryan p
aid not the slightest heed. His gaze raked the man on the ground. “A meeting you will have, but whether you will be satisfied is another matter.”
“I am easily suited. All I require is your life.” There was venom in the words as Durant pushed himself erect and straightened his sleeves.
“Try and take it.” Ryan looked toward Morven. “You will act as second for me?”
“That I will. Have you another choice?” As Ryan gave him a name, he inclined his head. “Never fear. We will arrange it.”
Ryan gave a nod, then turned on his heel and began to push through those gathered around them, striding without effort. The crowd parted, leaving a long, open lane. Ryan marched along it with Elene clasped against him. In the street near the edge of the open square, Devota and Benedict appeared and fell in behind them.
At that moment in the Place d’Armes, a cheer arose as Laussat emerged from the cabildo. Cannons boomed and muskets were fired in salute. As the echoes died, the new governor of Louisiana began to speak. His voice faded with distance as Ryan left the square behind.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Elene asked in breathless demand. “People are staring.”
Ryan’s voice vibrated deep in his chest as he answered. “I’m taking what I want. After all, I’m Bayard the privateer; what can you expect?”
There was an odd singing in her veins. Her chest felt tight and tears burned the back of her nose. His shoulder and chest against which she lay were rock hard. The male vitality of him surrounded her, sapping her strength. “I’m perfectly capable of walking. Put me down this minute!”
“Not until I have you where you should be.”
A shiver ran along her nerves. Her voice tight, she said, “This is intolerable.”
“Is it now? Too bad, because it’s going to get worse.”
Around them the rain still fell, misting their faces so that droplets clung to brows and lashes and glittered like diamonds on their mouths. It dripped from Ryan’s hat brim, landing on Elene’s shoulder, and spattered in the street to gather in noisome, muddy puddles. Through it loomed Ryan’s house, silent and stalwart in the gloom.
Louisiana History Collection - Part 2 Page 71
