by Beth White
Faro. Mixed with rum and politics, no doubt, and—judging from Niall’s involvement—off-duty soldiers. A combination which Antoine Lanier would be unable to resist.
When she didn’t answer, only sighed, Niall said, “I tried to get him to come out. I told him you and Simon had work down at the quay, that you needed him.” Niall shook his head. “He just said something about ‘all those mouths to feed’ and called for another round.”
“All those mouths” included herself right now—which was why she spent her days either working at the dock or fishing for her supper—but Lyse would not feel guilty for refusing the first offer of marriage to come her way, from a friend of her father’s who already had three children. She was only sixteen, and there would be more. She sneaked a glance at Niall. He would ask her, she was sure, as soon as he got up enough nerve to brave Simon’s contempt. Papa would say yes, relieved to be shed of her.
Niall looked at her again, his face flaming when he met her eyes. He wasn’t handsome, but he was a good boy, and he didn’t seem to mind her complicated, slightly seedy family. If she married him, she would be a British soldier’s wife.
Which would be little better than marrying Bertrand Robicheaux.
Feeling her throat tighten, she snatched for joy. Nobody said life should be easy. Even Daisy, who lived about as charmed a life as anybody she knew, faced her father’s reluctance to let her marry Simon. But God was good, and something would work out.
Lyse smiled and bumped Niall’s shoulder with sisterly gratitude. “It will be all right. You’ll see.”
It seemed God had been listening to her prayers, for nobody they passed gave her and Niall more than a cursory glance as they trudged up from the quay to turn onto the street which ran past the gate to the fort. They stopped at the gatehouse, where Niall exchanged salutes with another young infantryman. “Reporting back to Sergeant Adamson.”
The guard looked happy to have his solitary boredom interrupted. “Who’s this?” He looked at Lyse with mild curiosity.
“M-Monsieur Lanier’s . . . son,” said Niall, tugging at his uniform collar. “Adamson’s request.”
“Oh. Yes. Take him in.” The young guard looked doubtful. “You might need a wagon, though. I doubt he can walk in his condition.”
Lyse’s heart sank. Please, God, let him be sober. Otherwise she’d never get him home. Simon was going to be furious.
It was a prayer without much hope.
Lyse followed Niall past headquarters, hoping that she wouldn’t run into Major Redmond or anybody else she knew. She couldn’t help remembering the day last August when she and Daisy had delivered the message from Don Rafael. It had been a highlight in a bleak season, as British military presence tightened over the port, limiting trade with “suspicious parties,” notably American ships. French vessels were also scrutinized, as gossip said Louis XVI was ready to ally his country with the Continental rebels.
She hadn’t seen the insouciant young Spanish merchant since their tour down the bay on Simon’s bateau. If he had returned to Mobile for trade purposes, he hadn’t sought her out. Which was just as well. She had no time for lazy popinjays.
Niall halted, and she realized with a jerk of awareness that they had stopped outside a barracks whose door stood open to the fresh spring breeze. Smoke curled from the chimney, dissipating into a cloudless cerulean sky, and the smell of fish stew wafted from a kettle over the fire. Lyse’s stomach growled. She hadn’t eaten since a dried apple gobbled at daybreak. The time must be near noon.
“Wait here,” Niall told her. He disappeared inside the barracks, and she heard him address someone within. “Lanier, it’s time to go. Lyse and I are going to take you home.”
There was a groan followed by an unintelligible mumble.
“Sir,” Niall said loudly, “you can’t stay. My sergeant—”
Niall catapulted backward through the door.
Lyse caught him, stumbled back, and nearly fell under his stout body, but she managed to break his fall, letting him roll hard onto his stomach.
He got up spitting dirt. “You crazy old bear! I’m trying to help you!”
Lyse went to the door of the barracks. “Papa! It’s me! What’s the matter with you? Why did you hit Niall?” After the brightness of daylight, the room was stuffy and dim, filled with shapeless forms of furniture, hanks of tobacco, ropes, and tools hanging off the walls, the smoke and smell of the stew strong enough to choke.
Something on the closest bunk shifted, growled like the bear Niall had called him. “Lyse? What you doing here?” Papa’s French was slurred, rough.
“I’m taking you home. You can’t stay here.” I can’t either, she thought, uncomfortably aware that she stood in a bachelor dwelling. Her reputation, shaky at best, would collapse if anyone else knew she was here, dressed in her brother’s clothes.
“Can’t go home.” Papa flopped back onto the bunk with an arm across his eyes. “Poor Justine. She hates me.”
This was absurd. When had she turned into her father’s confidante? “No she doesn’t. She just wants you to come home tonight. She misses you.”
“The children need shoes. You need shoes. But I lost yesterday’s shrimp money, and Michel Dussouy’s given his business to the British pigs. I don’t know what to do.”
Lyse gritted her teeth. She loved her handsome papa, but he was the biggest trial on two continents. He hadn’t even the common sense to keep his controversial political comments to himself. No wonder Justine had sent him fishing.
“The weather is getting warm enough so none of us will need shoes for long. Let’s go home, Papa. We’ll pray about it and figure out what to do.”
“There are some things praying won’t fix, little one.” But he sat up, scrubbing his hands over his face. Apparently he had cat eyes, for he gave her a disapproving look. “What are you wearing?”
“I was working with Simon at the dock.” And I wasn’t the one who lost all my money at cards, she wanted to add, but she held her tongue. “A dress isn’t practical.”
“No daughter of mine walks about in male attire.” He rose, swaying, and stumbled toward the door. He brushed Lyse aside and glared at Niall. “You still here?”
“Yes, sir.” Niall stood his ground. “I escorted Lyse. Sergeant Adamson told me to make sure you both made it home.” He gulped. “He said you’re not to come back to town until you’ve paid your taxes.”
“What is he going to do, arrest me?” Papa’s expression folded into belligerence.
“Yes, sir, he will. In fact, he was going to this time, but I—I—” Niall’s face suddenly flamed as he glanced at Lyse. “Come on, let’s just get out of here. It doesn’t matter now.”
“Niall, what did you do?” Lyse clutched his arm.
“Nothing.” Pulling away, Niall shoved his shoulder under Papa’s armpit, taking most of the older man’s weight, and started hauling him across the drill field.
“Niall?”
But Papa was laughing drunkenly. “I remember now. Boy, you’ve thrown your leg over a wild mustang this time.” He looked over his shoulder at Lyse. “Young Niall here convinced his commanding officer not to arrest his betrothed’s papa.”
“Betrothed?” She darted around the two of them, planted her hands on Niall’s chest, and shoved. “Are you as crazy as he is? I’m not marrying you!”
Three or four men came out of the other end of the barracks to stare. “Is that a girl?” asked one of them.
Niall planted his feet wide to keep Papa’s unbalanced weight from pulling him down. “Lyse, be quiet. Come on, we’ve got to get out of here.” He looked around. “I’ll explain when we get to—”
“We don’t need your help!” Wildly she grabbed her father’s other arm and started hauling him toward the gate, Niall supporting him on the other side. She could hear the soldiers behind her laughing. Humiliation stung her eyes and the back of her throat.
They made it to the gatehouse, where the guard let them out with lit
tle more than a yawn. Lyse paused to lean against the stockade, her shoulders aching from the effort of keeping pace with her father’s stumbling gait. He had fallen into a morose stupor. “We’ve got to have a wagon. It’s too far down to the quay.”
They stood there for a forlorn minute, resting as foot traffic proceeded up and down Esplanade. One or two inhabitants on horseback clopped by, followed by a well-dressed man and woman in a carriage.
Niall took off his hat and swiped his sweaty forehead against his sleeve. “I could maybe go to the livery . . .”
She gave him a scornful look. “You can’t afford the livery any more than I can.”
Even more doubtfully, Niall said, “You want me to go for Simon?”
Another carriage approached and came to a halt in front of them. “Buenos días, señorita,” said a cheerful voice. “Perhaps I may be of assistance?”
Lyse squinted against the sun. She knew that voice from somewhere. She shifted, tilted the brim of her hat to block the glare. “Don Rafael? What are you doing here?”
Rafa could see that his little Creole saucepot was not happy to see him. And, indeed, he could hardly have run across her at a more inopportune time. Brigadier-General Bernardo de Gálvez, governor of Spanish Louisiana since New Year’s Day, impatient with former governor Unzaga’s good-hearted but chaotic method of handling diplomatic relations between Britain and her rebelling New England colonies, would court-martial Rafael if anything happened to the cargo waiting at the Dauphine Island port.
But an engagement with pirates encountered off the coast of Dominica had left the main course and mizzen course sails damaged, and they must be repaired before the Diamante could put back to sea and head for New Orleans. And, since information could be as valuable as gold in these days of pre-war, it was incumbent upon Rafa to make good use of the time.
However, as he looked down into Lyse Lanier’s uptilted face, shaded by the wide-brimmed felt monstrosity she probably intended for a hat, he could not bring himself to abandon her to the dubious protection of these two ruffians—a stout young redcoat with a spotty chin and rusty hair dribbling from beneath his tricorn, the older one belligerent and, to all appearances, at least three sheets to the wind.
He saw no reason to answer her question directly. Instead, he wrapped the reins around the horn and jumped lightly to the ground. “As you can see,” he said in English, since the other three had been speaking that language, “I have once more arrived to rescue the damsel in distress. I will not ask why she is dressed like a page boy in a penny opera. Instead I will introduce myself to her escorts and offer the use of my carriage, should it be required. Sirs, I am Don Rafael Maria Gonzales de Rippardá, at your service.”
He bowed with a precise concoction of irony and courtesy, then stood with his beautiful new plumed hat over his heart while expressions of equal parts chagrin, anger, reluctant gratitude, and amusement chased across Lyse’s expressive little kitten face.
The older man lurched away from the girl, the threat in his balled fists significantly mitigated by his unsteady stance. “You dare address my daughter in this familiar way, you Spanish court card?”
Rafa blinked, all but leveled by Señor le Papa’s toxic breath. “I meant no insult, señor. I wish only to help.” He turned to the girl. “Perhaps I misunderstood the difficulty?”
Under the misshapen hat, her clear caramel complexion had bloomed camellia pink. She stepped in front of her papa to look up at Rafa with humiliated golden eyes. “You didn’t misunderstand, monsieur. In fact, you are purely an answer to prayer. My papa is . . . ill. We were—this is my good friend, Niall McLeod.” She glanced over her shoulder at the young redcoat. “We were trying to help Papa walk down to the quay, where my brother is working. Perhaps it wouldn’t be too far out of your way, to take us up in your carriage and drive us that far?”
Rafa, who considered himself a good noticer, absorbed three things all at once. First, the “good friend” McLeod seemed to be prepared to unsheathe his sword and detach Rafa from his head. Second, Papa Bear wasn’t so drunk that he couldn’t inflict quite a bit of damage, should he perceive real or imagined insult to his little girl. Third, said little girl seemed already to be regretting her request for aid.
All of which, due to a perverse twist of his personality—so obstinate that even his imposing madre had been unable to beat it out of him—made Rafa smile and take her hand, bringing it gently to his lips. He stood there studying the small grubby hand with its broken fingernails and silvery scars, which proved she was a woman who worked for every morsel of food that went into her sweet mouth. If he had not been in love before, that little hand flung Cupid’s arrow straight to the center of his heart.
She gave an impatient tug of the grubby hand. “Do I take that to be a yes? Papa, allow Niall to help you up and let us go. We are blocking the street.” She put her hand on Rafa’s shoulder and hopped onto the bench seat of the carriage.
Rafa was left on the ground with McLeod and Señor Lanier, who had little choice but to obey. He turned to help the soldier boost Lanier up beside his daughter, and she slipped her arm securely through his to keep him steady.
“Niall, thank you for your help.” She leaned across her father, holding out a hand to McLeod. “I don’t know what we’d do without you.”
The soldier reddened, taking her hand and squeezing it awkwardly. “Don’t worry about the—you know, what I told my sergeant. It was a stupid thing to do, and I’m sorry.”
“Very stupid, but you meant well.” She smiled kindly as she sat back.
Lanier scowled down at the young man. “Keep your mouth shut about it, boy.”
“Yes, sir.” McLeod backed away, cowed.
Rafa gave the horse leave to start and glanced at the girl. He could feel the pleasant warmth of her small, curvy body all along his side, wedged as she was between himself and her father. He decided to take the scenic route to the quay.
“One must ask what it was McLeod told his sergeant,” he said after a moment.
“Nothing useful.” Lyse pressed her lips together, then burst into a peal of infectious laughter. “He told the sergeant that he’d just got betrothed! To me!” The laughter bubbled again.
Rafa frowned. “And that is funny because . . .”
“Oh, Don Rafael! You yourself said I look like a little boy!”
“Hmm. So I did.” He couldn’t tell her he’d said that to keep from scooping her up in his arms, so surprised and delighted was he to see her, not thirty minutes after his arrival in Mobile. So he just winked and began to whistle an air from The Gulf of Sirens.
All too soon, they arrived at the quay. Before Rafa could draw the horses to a complete stop, Lyse had dropped her father’s arm and jumped to her feet.
“Papa, Simon’s boat is gone!”
Rafa scanned the quay, which ran the length of the shoreline as far as the eye could see. “Where is everyone?” Activity had ground to a halt, leaving only a few dock workers engaged in lethargic tasks. There was not a British officer or soldier anywhere in sight. Gálvez would be interested in the lackadaisical state of the port.
“Most go home for lunch,” Lanier said. “Some walk down the bayou for fishing, others to the taverns.” He slid down from the carriage seat, listing as his feet hit the boardwalk. “I’m going to lie down in the shade.” Avoiding Lyse’s hand as she reached to steady him, he shambled toward a canvas awning pitched near the end of the nearest pier.
Lyse quickly scooted to the far end of the seat and turned sideways to slide down as her father had done.
“Wait!” Rafa jumped to the ground. “I’ll help you.” He barely made it around the carriage in time to soften her landing. The folds of the oversized coat couldn’t disguise the smallness of her waist under his hands. He held her, looking down into her face, vaguely aware of her irascible papa nearby.
He closed his eyes, counted to ten, and stepped away.
Lyse flung her hands about and glared at the back of
her father’s head. He was already collapsed under the awning, snoring. “Now what am I going to do?”
Rafa was wondering the same thing. He must find a reputable sailmaker with all speed, but he couldn’t abandon the girl.
He cleared his throat. “Señorita. Miss Lyse. I think your papa is not so very ill.”
She turned to look at him, frowning.
“Perhaps if you leave him to . . . sleep it off, he will be improved enough to get himself home. Or perhaps your brother will come back to get him.”
She looked away. “You don’t understand. Justine—Papa’s wife—is worried about him. He’s been gone for three days, and—”
The ragged edge of her voice pierced his heart. “This Justine is not your mother?” She had not mentioned this name during their tour last fall.
“My stepmother. But she’s not much older than me, and there are four little ones . . .” Straightening, she tucked her hands behind her back. “But this is not your concern, and you must forgive my complaining.” She bestowed upon him a tight smile. “Thank you for the kind use of your conveyance. Good day to you, Don Rafael.”
She expected him to drive away and leave her here to deal with her selfish, miscreant father, the surly brother, and a houseful of dependents? He shook his head in disbelief. It was not the Spanish way. It was not the Gonzales way. His mother would beat him about the head.
Still he spoke carefully, for she was very proud. “I understand your reluctance to allow a stranger into your family difficulties. But I have an idea.” He paused, watching her face. She was guarded, naturally, but at least she was listening. “I am in need of some gifts to take back to my family in New Orleans, but I must also complete some business with regard to my ship—and time is of the essence. Perhaps, while your papa regathers his strength in expectation of your brother’s return, you might do me the favor of executing the purchase of those gifts. In return, I could pay you a small commission.”
He could all but see the wheels of her brain turning. Gradually the golden eyes brightened, and her lips curved. “You would pay me to go shopping?” The sound of her laughter was like the bells of the Church of St. Louis. “Monsieur, I think you have been too long in the sun. What kind of gifts?”
