Tainted Lilies

by Becky Lee Weyrich

  Her father and Jean Laffite were talking only a few paces away, but their muffled words seemed to drift to her over a vast distance.

  “He was at the St. Philip Street Theater earlier this evening, Monsieur Vernet.”

  “At the quadroon ball?”

  “Yes. He’s a regular. But tonight he brought his mistress, Lizette.”

  “Not so loud, man, my daughter!”

  “Forgive me. I heard about the engagement… So did Lizette. She was furious… out to find a new protector this very night. Castaigne took her scandalous behavior for as long as he could stand it, then he challenged several gentlemen in a fit of irrational jealousy. You can guess the rest, sir.”

  “Swords under the oaks?”

  “Castaigne had the better of the first two. But the third man did him in.”

  “And who was the third? You, Laffite?”

  “I’ve heard you have no use for me, Monsieur Vernet, and you probably won’t believe me, but I was only passing by. I went to see what aid I could give. But it was too late. Young Castaigne begged me to bring him to this address.”

  A murmur from Nicolette drew the men’s attention.

  “What is it, Nikki?” her father asked gently.

  “He’s gone, Papa. I’m a widow before I was ever a bride,” she answered, still dry-eyed. “I’ll go into mourning immediately.”

  “That’s crazy! For a man you hardly knew? A man you never loved?” The angry questions came from Laffite.

  Nicolette jerked her head to face him, fire in her dark eyes as she challenged, “What business is this of yours?”

  “None,” he admitted. “I’m sorry, mademoiselle. It’s only that you’re so young, so lovely, and I know how marriages are arranged among you Creoles. Little consideration is given to the heart’s desires.” His eyes caressed her for a moment. “Besides, mourning won’t suit you.”

  “Monsieur Laffite and I have had our differences in the past, Nikki, but this time we agree,” Claude Vernet added quickly. “I won’t see you wrapped in black bunting like an old crow to shrivel away for months on account of the foolish indiscretions of a man you hardly knew, much less loved.” He paused and looked pleadingly into her eyes. “I’d rather see you exiled than have you in the center of this scandale.”

  “You mean you’re going to send me away, Papa?”

  He folded her in his protective arms and cried, “Don’t say it like that, ma thin. You’ll break my poor heart. I’d never send you away! I’m allowing you to go. Your mother’s sister, Gabrielle, in Paris will welcome you, Nikki.”

  “Paris! But that’s across the world from here! New Orleans is my home. And besides, you know Maman doesn’t approve of Aunt Gabrielle. She’d never let me go to live with her.”

  “I’ll handle your mother, don’t worry. And you’ll be back soon, I promise, Nikki. I want you to put all this behind you. While you’re away, I’ll make a new engagement contract, and be more selective this time. You’ll come home to be a bride. There won’t be the slightest whisper of gossip.”

  “Your father’s a wise man, Nicolette. Listen to him. Anyone can tell he loves you very much.” Laffite’s words were spoken with a quiet compassion.

  She looked closely for the first time at this man her father had cast in the role of villain for as long as she could remember. His green-gold eyes held a sadness she could only imagine and couldn’t begin to understand. Something in the way he spoke to her stirred sympathetic feelings that she had never known before. Deep inside she knew that here was a man who had experienced true sorrow. She reached a trembling hand out to him and said, “Thank you, Monsieur Laffite. For everything.”

  He bent warm lips to her fingers; then a slight smile softened his grave features. She returned it, feeling a strange quickening within her breast.

  Three hours later, after bidding her parents au revoir, Nicolette climbed into Jean Laffite’s carriage, an unusual arrangement, but necessary since her father was needed at home to calm her hysterical mother. Sukey, her tignoned mulatto maid, who would be her traveling companion and chaperone, sat on the opposite seat, her eyes wide with wonder at the thought of crossing an ocean.

  Day had barely broken. The sky above Saint Louis Cathedral looked like purple velvet threaded with silver and gold.

  The fetid odors that would rise from the open gutters with the sun still lay dormant at this early hour. Only the enticing aromas of black coffee laced with chicory and of fresh-baked bread drifted through the narrow streets of the Vieux Carré from the French Market near the levee.

  When they reached the berth where her father’s ship, the Fleur de Lis, waited for its two extra passengers before casting off downriver to the Gulf, Nicolette felt all the pain and heartache she had been suppressing for hours well up in a sudden rush. She looked through misty eyes back over the city she loved—where she’d been born and had lived all her life. She wasn’t only leaving her parents and friends, she was going away from her beloved New Orleans, an exile, just like her mother’s younger sister.

  When would she stroll the Place d’Armes again? Kneel in the cathedral’s hushed interior for morning mass? Wander among the bright stalls along the levee, making market with Sukey, stopping to indulge her sweet tooth with honeyed rice cakes and pralines?

  Her tears rushed to flood, like the Mississippi after spring rains. Jean Laffite folded his muscled arms around her and drew her to his broad chest. “Cry it out, Nicolette. You’ll feel better for it.”

  Never before had any man but her papa held her this way. Still, the feeling of Laffite’s soothing embrace was welcome. She felt neither shy nor embarrassed, only warm… sheltered. She snuggled close and breathed in his male scents of tobacco, cognac, and musk. When she relaxed against him, Laffite put one finger under her chin and tilted her face up to his.

  “Better now?” he asked huskily.

  She only nodded. She couldn’t trust her voice yet.

  “The ship’s ready to cast off. Think of it this way, ma petite—the sooner you leave, the sooner you’ll return. May I wish you a bon voyage?”

  She nodded again, not understanding his intentions. He smiled down at her, then his lips covered hers in a gentle, caressing kiss. A new kind of warmth tingled through her blood after the initial shock at his actions.

  Her arms stole up around his shoulders underneath his cape and she was keenly aware of her breasts pressed to his hard chest. His mouth lingered over hers and teased the soft inner flesh of her lips. She felt this new sensation in every part of her and sighed.

  She had never been kissed before. She liked the curious headiness of the experience—a mingling of surrender and, at the same time, a tender power over the man. His body changed, reacted to hers. She had thought of this moment for a long time. But never in her wildest imaginings had she guessed that it would transport her to such heights of pleasure.

  Tonight, she realized suddenly, was not the end, but a new beginning. Even if she never saw the man again, she would always remember Jean Laffite… always hold him in a warm and secret place in her heart.

  Chapter One

  “We’re almost home!” Nicolette sang out with her first waking breath. “No more exile! Won’t Papa be surprised at our early arrival?”

  She bounded to the edge of the ship’s bunk and searched out the porthole for any sign of land, all the while humming a French tune she had learned from a devastating suitor in Paris, the one who’d stolen a kiss from her as they strolled beside the Seine.

  She cocked her head, remembering, and mused, “It wasn’t a bad kiss either! But I’m sure my husband’s will be far more delicious!”

  She reached under her pillow, as she had every morning and night since they sailed, and withdrew a well-worn sheet of vellum—the letter from her father that had set Sukey packing, Nicolette dreaming, and Tante Gabrielle muttering oaths under her breath when her niece only smiled indulgently at her sermons on the evils of certain Creole customs.

  Nicolette’s b
right eyes took in the words at a glance. She knew the contents almost by heart.

  New Orleans

  January 1, 1813

  My dearest Nikki,

  If you were here this minute, I would hug and kiss you soundly, and wish you la bonne année, then give you this New Year’s gift in person which I am having to send so many miles to reach you.

  No, ma chère, the package is not lost. What I send to you comes wrapped, not in paper and pretty ribbons, but in love, straight from an adoring father’s heart.

  But before I give you your surprise, let me tell you what we would do this afternoon if I could wish you home this instant. Your maman would wrap up warmly in the beautiful cashmere shawl you sent. You would don one of the lovely Paris gowns you bought recently, (for which the bills have already reached me), and I would call for our carriage to be brought around. Then, with a handsome lady on each arm, a smile on my face, and the ivory-headed cane you sent me, I would direct the driver to Bourbon Street. There the three of us would make a grand tour of a certain gracious townhouse under construction and nearing completion.

  If you have not guessed by now, my sweet Nikki, this is to be your wedding gift. I have also written to Monsieur Jacob Desmalter in Paris, Napoleon’s own cabinetmaker, with a letter of credit, directing him to allow you to choose whatever you like to furnish your new home.

  But a wedding gift and a New Year’s gift cannot be one and the same.

  Here is your real surprise, ma fleur. The contract has been struck for your engagement. The gentleman partner is of the highest calibre socially, financially, and personally. I have known him in business for several years. There will be no repeat performance of the last disaster, I promise you.

  Who is he? you are demanding. Oui, ma petite?

  A few hints are all I plan to divulge. He has met you and the two of you conversed quite pleasantly on one occasion that I know of. He swears he lost his heart and soul to you on your first meeting. He is older than you, but not too old. Your maman declares him a handsome man. (Actually, she used the word, “elegant,” but I think that goes a bit too far!) Suffice it to say, we find the gentleman son-in-law material of the first order. Already preparations are underway for your wedding.

  The Fleur de Lis sails out of Le Havre in early April, so we will expect you home no later than the first of May. Captain D’Orsay will contact you in Paris with the exact sailing schedule. Hurry home to us, Nikki!

  Our warmest wishes to Gabrielle, and love and kisses from your maman and your adoring papa,

  Claude Vernet

  “Who could it be?” Nicolette wracked her brain for the millionth, unsuccessful time. “Oh, well, I’ll know soon enough.”

  She draped a peacock satin dressing gown over her bare shoulders, thinking what a grand surprise it would be for her parents that Aunt Gabrielle had decided to come with her, and began brushing her waist-length hair with long, even strokes.

  Her thoughts centered for a time on her aunt, asleep in the next cabin. Why had she reacted so violently when Papa’s exciting letter arrived? Nicolette had read the entire missive to her, sure that her aunt would share her delight at the prospect of a proper marriage to an upstanding Creole gentleman. But instead, Gabrielle DelaCroix’s porcelain-lovely features had gone ash-pale, her sable eyes flashing a warning fire of anger.

  “So!” she had said, her voice icy to brittleness. “You’re to be sacrificed on the same antiquated, Creole altar in the Cathedral of Saint Louis as all the others. Of course, the blood offering will come later, beneath the marriage canopy under the very roof of your adoring papa! Barbarians… all of them! There are other ways, Nicolette, and I’m returning with you to New Orleans to put a stop to this madness! But let’s keep my visit our secret.”

  The words her regal aunt had mumbled to herself as she swept out of the parlor were unfamiliar to Nicolette, though she thought she had heard one or two of them before, back in New Orleans. A burly French seaman had uttered them as he was loading heavy hogsheads of molasses onto a wagon on the levee. Odd that her aristocratic aunt should know that ruffian’s jargon.

  She brushed these bothersome thoughts from her mind as she brushed the night tangles from her hair and smiled into the mirror. The reflection there bore little resemblance to the young girl who had left New Orleans almost two years before. She stared at a woman, full of body, ripe now and ready for the more sensuous side of life.

  “We’re so close,” she sighed, drawing in a deep breath, “that I can almost smell the marshes along the Mississippi. Nothing can stop us now! My life is set!”

  Nicolette frowned suddenly, and made a sign with two fingers to ward off any bad luck that might be summoned by her high spirits and confident words. Hadn’t she thought the same thoughts, said almost the same words, the night of the engagement party?

  “And look what happened then!” she reminded the face in her mirror.

  But her charm against the evil eye came too late. Even as she made the sign, the boom of thunder reached her ears. A cannonball roared across the calm waters of the Gulf of Mexico to smash through the deck of her father’s ship with such force that Nicolette was thrown to the floor, stunned when her head collided with an edge of her brass-bound trunk.

  Sukey, having delivered Gabrielle’s breakfast to her cabin, came through the door with another tray at the moment of impact. She fell atop Nicolette’s still form and the carafe of coffee went flying. The thick, aromatic liquid spilled on the sheet of paper beside Nicolette—causing Claude Vernet’s words to his daughter to run together, melting his hopeful promises away to a grayish-brown blur.

  “Mam’zelle Nicolette!” Sukey sobbed, her arms protectively caressing her charge.

  The hatch cover banged against the bulkhead and male voices intruded. “Get rid of the nigger woman, Hernandez. I’ll take care of the girl!”

  Jean Laffite stretched his powerful body beneath the mosquito baire enveloping his bed. He patted the spot beside him, thinking he might assuage his morning’s passion. The place was still warm, but the woman who had shared his space for the night had gone. He sighed his resignation and put all amorous thoughts from his mind for the time being.

  The sheets felt sticky and clung to his bare skin. No early morning breeze from the Gulf breathed in to cool him. The oppressive humidity was a sure sign that summer was closing fast on Louisiana.

  He felt the hair stand up on his arms and along the back of his neck suddenly and his eyes shot open. This was a lifelong reflex with Laffite, the ability to sense danger before it presented itself. He was staring hard out the window, his heavy brows drawn together in a frown, watching stripes of red bleed into the pearl-gray dawn when it happened. The boom of cannon fire thundered out in the Gulf, rocking his bed and sending gulls squawking and flapping over the island of Grande Terre.

  “Xavier!” he yelled, sitting up and pulling on britches in one fluid motion.

  An undersized servant who looked as if he had been dipped in a pot of India ink, only the whites of his eyes and his large teeth escaping the dousing, appeared at once.

  “Boss, you call me?”

  “Damn right I called! Who’s blasting away out there and at what?”

  Before the valet could answer, Dominique Youx, Laffite’s older brother and chief lieutenant, burst into the room. His bearded face twisted in barely suppressed rage and his barrel chest heaved with indignation.

  “Me and Reyne, we got the Tigre and the Spy ready for sea, Boss.” He threw up his beefy hands then, losing what little control he had mustered before. “Them bastards! Them bloody sons of diseased whores!”

  “Dom, will you tell me what in God’s name is happening?” Laffite was on his feet now, striding through his mansion toward the front entrance, which looked out over the Gulf. “Is Grande Terre under attack? Has the war with the British finally found us? Or Governor Claiborne’s troops from New Orleans? Who? What?”

  Laffite ignored Xavier, who chased after him, trying to give him
a clean linen shirt. Dominique You followed in his brother’s wake, his large feet looking like twin pirogues and his bearded chin as gray as Spanish moss after a hard freeze.

  “See there,” Dom said when they reached the wide veranda. He focused a spyglass on billowing columns of oily smoke rising over the Gulf. “Silas Browne and his crew of vultures took the Sea Raven out scavenging before dawn. They fired on an American ship.”

  “An American ship? Armed or unarmed?”

  “A merchantman, Boss. No guns,” Dominique answered in a grave tone. He paused, a nerve twitching beneath one of the powder bum scars beneath his eye, waiting for the explosion sure to come from Laffite.

  “Those goddamn, filthy bloodsuckers! They know my orders: ‘No attacks on American ships or merchantmen flying any flag but Spain’s.’ Did Vincent Gambi send them out, or is this Browne’s own idea?”

  Dominique gave a Gallic shrug. “Who knows? And what difference will it make? The same will happen to the passengers and crew either way.” You drew his forefinger across his throat with a slitting sound.

  “I’ll be damned if that’s so!” Laffite growled. “Let’s go!”

  Laffite’s boots ate into the sandy soil with great, angry strides as he headed for the beach. The tall privateer, whose features bespoke his mixed French, Spanish, and Jewish heritage, stopped short, breathing hot curses when he reached the shoreline. The American ship lay like a wounded sea bird on the waves, her cannon-mangled sails flapping in the slack breeze like broken wings. Heavy layers of smoke roiled skyward, obscuring the morning sun.