by Beth White
“Come with me. I will drive you back to the market and talk to you about my beautiful mama and my sister Sofía.”
To choose a gift for Don Rafael’s strict mama, as well as the much-beloved Sofía, who also shared the name of Lyse’s French-Canadian great-great-grandmére, was a difficult responsibility.
In Gerard’s Emporium she had found an imported satinwood tea caddy with ebony line stringing, sandalwood marquetry inlay, and polished brass hinges and hasps. Even Daisy didn’t own anything so fine. It would take most of the Spanish coin given her by Don Rafael, but she knew Madame de Rippardá would adore it.
If someone gave it to Lyse, she would adore it.
But now she stood at the dry goods counter, reverently handling an ell of fragile Alençon lace. There were women of the city who still wore dresses trimmed with this beautiful stuff, though she personally knew very few of them. Perhaps the French and Spanish ladies in New Orleans were accustomed to dressing more extravagantly than here in this British military outpost. Since hostilities had broken out between England and the thirteen northernmost colonies, life in loyalist East and West Florida had become increasingly frugal. British merchant ships were often waylaid by American privateers and prevented from sailing into the ports of Pensacola, Mobile, and Baton Rouge. Prices had soared until only the very wealthy could afford luxuries like dress material, lace . . . and tea caddies.
Reaching into her pocket to touch the velvet bag of gold coins Don Rafael had given her—what an honor that he had trusted her with such riches!—she glanced over her shoulder at the tea caddy, displayed grandly inside a glass-fronted cabinet at the front of the store. She wished he would come back and help her decide.
She turned as the little bell at the top of the door tinkled. Her cousin Scarlet, carrying an armload of packages and a parasol, backed through the door. Closing the parasol, she held the door open as her mistress entered with the ceremony of a Parisian duchess.
Madame Dussouy, ugh. All of Lyse’s pleasure in gift-buying evaporated like rain on hot brick. She would like to have snatched a whispered word with Scarlet, but she was still dressed in Simon’s clothes and would inevitably draw the matron’s sniping.
Madame Dussouy looked around, mouth pursed like a dried lemon. “Monsieur Gerard? Where are you? I need assistance, if you please!” She began to search the shelves as if Monsieur Gerard might have hidden himself under a rug or behind a clock.
Hoping the imperious society dame would be well occupied with ordering about the owner of the Emporium, Lyse hurried to greet Scarlet with a hug. “My cousin! What a good surprise!” She stood back, searching Scarlet’s sweet face. Relieved to find no fresh bruises or scratches, she squeezed her hands. “You look well.”
Scarlet glanced over Lyse’s shoulder to where Madame was now fingering the same laces Lyse had just been looking at.
“I am,” Scarlet whispered. “But we can’t talk long. If she sees me talking to you, I’ll pay for it when we get home.”
“It is so wrong! We have the same grandmother—” Lyse broke off the useless words, words that always came when she thought of Scarlet being abused for nothing more than talking with her cousin.
Scarlet shook her head, a sad smile on her full lips. “What’s done can’t be undone.” She looked around again, always on guard. “So tell me what you’re doing in here. I know you don’t have any money.”
Lyse couldn’t help the bubble of excitement that lightened her voice. “But I do! Look at this.” She withdrew the little pouch of coins from her pocket, opened the drawstring, and held it so Scarlet could peer inside.
Scarlet’s big brown eyes flashed up to stare at Lyse. “Is that—?”
“Yes, Spanish gold.” Lyse hefted the bag so that the heavy coins jangled against one another. “Do you remember the Spanish don I told you about? The one who visited Mobile last August?”
“Yes. Is he back?” Scarlet sucked in a breath. “He gave that to you? Lyse, what have you done?”
“Yes, Lyse, what have you done?” Madame Dussouy pushed between the two girls and snatched the velvet bag.
Startled, horrified, Lyse grabbed for it and missed. “Give that back to me! It belongs to—”
“I’m sure it doesn’t belong to you!” Madame poured the shining coins into her hand. A handsome woman of some forty years, as always impeccably dressed and coifed, she fixed Lyse with her steely blue eyes. “Who did you steal this from? Monsieur Gerard!” she called without taking her eyes off Lyse. “Come here and see what I found.”
4
Rafa drew the carriage up in front of the Emporium where he had earlier deposited Lyse, tossed the reins to a boy standing about ready to deal with customer equipages, and leapt down onto the brick drive path. What a long and frustrating, but highly invigorating afternoon it had been, negotiating for the repair of his sails and establishing trails of information that Gálvez would undoubtedly find helpful.
In fact, it occurred to him that he might pursue a more long-term arrangement for his employment in Mobile when he next conferred with the governor. In the meantime, it looked like he would be stuck here for at least a week before the sails would be ready and he could complete the delivery of uniforms, powder, and blankets intended for transfer to American operatives waiting in New Orleans.
Doomed to endure the beautiful smiles of Señorita Lyse Lanier—assuming she had not absconded with his gold coins and left him to purchase his own gifts. Smiling at the absurdity, he swung into the Emporium.
He stood looking up at the grand beamed ceiling, soaring to nearly twelve feet above, where dusty afternoon light poured in through open transom windows, illuminating the merchandise displayed on polished wooden glass-fronted shelves and open counters. Finally it dawned on him what was so odd: the empty aisles.
But a definite disturbance roared from the back of the store. Raised voices, both male and female, the clang of a bell, scrape of steel—
Rafa, who never liked to appear in a hurry, took off at a run. He arrived at a door marked “Office” just in time to observe a lady dressed in puce, with a nose like the prow of a ship, raising her hand to strike a tall young Negress who stood protectively in front of someone else. A well-dressed white-haired gentleman with a pair of silver-framed spectacles dangling from a strap around his neck stood by, arms folded, impassively watching the proceedings.
“Pardon me,” Rafa said, “but I’m looking for Señor Gerard.”
The puce lady’s hand connected with the Negro girl’s face, but possibly with less force than intended, as she jerked around to assess Rafa with a pair of the coldest eyes he’d seen outside of a fish tank.
The man with the spectacles, looking relieved at the interruption, stepped to the door. “I am Gerard,” he said. “How may I help you?”
“Well met, señor.” Rafa bowed, trying to see who stood behind the dark-skinned girl, though he suspected he knew. “I am Don Rafael Maria Gonzales de Rippardá, and I have lost a young . . . relation of mine.” He had noticed that the more names one rattled off to new acquaintances, the higher his rank was assumed to be. He sensed the importance of impressing these people.
Suddenly Lyse dodged from behind her friend, took the girl by the shoulders, and kissed her reddened cheek. “Scarlet, you needn’t hide me. I can take care of myself.” She glowered at the blonde woman. “Don Rafael, I’m so glad to see you! Please tell Monsieur Gerard I didn’t steal those coins!”
The puce lady looked down her large, sharp-ended nose. “As you can see, there are no Spaniards here, sir. It seems you are mistaken.”
Rafa smiled broadly, removing his hat and bowing again, as if he had just taken notice of her. “Señora,” he purred, rolling the r with deliberate exoticism, “you must forgive my faulty manners in overlooking your gentle presence. But it is indeed Señorita Lanier I seek—and of course she is not Spanish, for our families are only very distantly related.” He took in Lyse’s high color and dangerously wet eyes. “My dear, has there
been some misunderstanding about the coins? I should not have burdened you with my little errand if I’d known there would be trouble. I am such a bad . . . cousin!”
“There is no misunderstanding, only very much of the stupidity.” Lyse shot a resentful look at the puce woman and slid her arm through that of the young black woman. “I was only showing them to Scarlet, and explaining how you asked me to buy the gifts, but Madame Dussouy refused to believe anyone would trust me with such an important task! And she slapped Scarlet for standing with me. Have you ever heard of such injustice?”
Rafa bit the inside of his cheek. He agreed with Lyse, in fact wanted to kiss her for her brave words, but interfering between a mistress and her slave was a grave social faux pas that Don Rafael would never commit. He endeavored to look bored. “Yes, yes, little prima, but remember we are in a hurry this afternoon. We must collect the gifts and be on our way.” He turned to Gerard as if just remembering. “I believe you have my coins, señor?”
“Oh! Yes, of course!” Gerard handed over the velvet bag with its heavy jingling contents. “I’ll be happy to wrap up whatever you wish to purchase. Please forgive my—” He caught the puce woman’s steely gaze. “That is, before you go, may I introduce Madame Dussouy, who was sincerely trying to help. I beg you will blame only me for any confusion in the matter.”
“Why, there is nothing to forgive,” Rafa said, with a deep bow to the woman. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Madame.”
She gave a regal nod of her blonde head, the purple feathers stuck in the curls bobbing absurdly. “Don Rafael, I hope you won’t take it amiss if I caution you against allowing this little hoyden to traipse about dressed like a boy! Look at her, flaunting such a great amount of money to anybody and everybody. My slaves are trained to resist temptation, but not everyone is so diligent in discipline.”
Lyse opened her mouth, clearly ready to speak, but Rafa forestalled her with a sly wink. “You are indeed a . . . paragon, madame,” he said, proud of his improving English. “I will keep your advice in mind.” He let his gaze flick over the slave’s face, noting the distinctive almond shape of her eyes and the delicate, narrow chin. Forestalling Lyse’s clear intent to introduce her friend, which would only make a bad situation worse, he clasped her hand and tucked it firmly into his elbow. “Come, prima, show me what you have picked out for Sofía and Mamá.”
The puce woman stopped him by waving a large ostrich-feather fan in his face. “Wait! Don Rafael, before you go—”
Fighting the urge to sneeze, he raised an eyebrow. “Señora?”
The ostrich tucked itself under her arm. “I had a notion that if you aren’t otherwise engaged, you might like to attend a little soirée I am holding this evening. My husband and I are patrons of the arts and have engaged a traveling string quartet that is purported to be quite good. There will be dancing, and my cook is considered the best in the city . . .”
Rafa had planned to spend the evening trolling the drinking establishments along the waterfront for news. But the opportunity to solicit information from the upper classes, especially those with French roots, could hardly be passed up.
He folded himself into another bow, lower than the first. “Señora, you are too kind. I should be most happy to give up my lonely room above the tavern in favor of your gracious offer of entertainment.”
Madame simpered. “Excellent. We are located on the shell road northwest of town. Ask anyone, and you’ll be able to find us.”
“Until this evening, then. Adiós.” Rafa hustled Lyse from the office, overriding her incipient protest, trailed by the profusely apologetic Gerard.
Safely outside the Emporium in his carriage—with an exorbitantly expensive tea caddy and enough lace to decorate the curtains of Versailles in a package stowed under the seat—he gave the horses leave to start.
After a strained moment, Lyse heaved a gusty sigh. “I’m very sorry for the trouble, Don Rafael.”
“Three times, señorita. Three times now have I rescued you from disaster.” He glanced at her, smiled at her dejected expression. “In the fairy tales this is a significant number.”
“It won’t happen again, I promise,” she said, hunching her shoulders.
“Somehow I doubt that.” When she failed to laugh, he sighed. “Who was that dreadful woman, and why was she screeching about hoydens and ragamuffins and slaves?”
“Madame Dussouy, as Monsieur Gerard said. She is married to one of the richest Frenchmen in town. You arrived just in time to keep me from landing in gaol.” The dimple flickered in her cheek. “I am three times grateful, mon cousin.”
“You are three times welcome, mi prima. But if I may be so bold, I have a small favor to ask in return.”
“Anything, m’sieur!”
“I ask only that you accompany me to the señora’s soirée. I fear that if I attend alone, I should be as a goldfish among the, um, matrimonial sharks.”
Her eyes widened. “I could not! I wasn’t invited. I would never be invited!”
“Come, little cousin, you aren’t . . . afraid of the Harpy? Are you?”
“Of course not! Well, only a little.”
“In Spain, the guest of my guest is my guest. Surely the good señora wouldn’t risk offending me by turning you away. You have said you would do anything for me.”
She stared at him, white teeth worrying at her lip. “I have nothing fit to wear.”
“I will not insult your intelligence by disagreeing,” he said with a grin. “But perhaps your friend, Miss Redmond, would consent to loan you a dress for the occasion.”
“She probably would.” Lyse folded her arms and sat silent for a stubborn moment. “All right. I’ll ask her, and you may collect me at her house. But if Madame tosses you out on your Spanish . . . um, ear—don’t say I didn’t warn you!”
This was a terrible idea.
Don Rafael clearly had no concept of the wasp nest he had stirred into a noisy, stinging disaster, and Lyse had just as obviously lost every scrap of sense she’d ever possessed to have agreed to it.
She could feel every eye following her as the two of them progressed through Madame’s gold-and-green salon, could literally hear the volume of conversation drop to scandalized whispers as hands covered mouths and mouths went to ears. She gripped her escort’s forearm as if it were a rope and she drowning in a surging sea of outrage. Even the fine dark-green Aubusson carpet beneath Daisy’s gilt-painted slippers seemed to drag at her like an undertow.
To be sure, the Dussouys’ rheumy-eyed old butler had offered no resistance to her entrance with Don Rafael, but he would hardly have recognized tomboyish Lyse Lanier in the frilled-up doll Daisy had created that afternoon out of whole cloth. Indeed, she feared to turn her head, lest her hair come tumbling down from its tower of curls pinned to a padded contraption Daisy called a toque. Lyse had refused to wear powder, but the gold-and-cinnamon-colored ribbons threaded here and there were très à la mode.
Daisy had fretted that her only dress long enough for Lyse’s tall frame was years out of date. But in the cinnamon brocaded robe à la française, with its low-cut, fitted bodice and voluminous folds of satin draping from the shoulders to drag behind her like a train, Lyse felt like a veritable princess. And Don Rafael’s eyes had widened comically when she had descended the Redmonds’ stairs, her wide, panniered skirt filling the breadth of the stairway. He had bowed low, then kissed her hand before tucking it into the crook of his elbow.
Now, promenading with him through the finest salon in the city of Mobile, surrounded by people no more finely dressed than herself, she understood for the first time the depth of her family’s poverty.
“My Creole princess is perhaps in need of refreshment?”
At the sound of Don Rafael’s voice, she blinked, startled to realize they had come to a stop in the center of the crowded candlelit room. His expression was quizzical, his dark brown eyes kind.
“Not really.” She wrinkled her nose. “I’m afraid my bum
has twisted sideways.”
His laughter, infectious and uninhibited, rolled over her. “Señorita, if that means what I think it means, that is perhaps one difficulty I cannot help you with.”
Heat bloomed in her face, but a surreptitious glance around told her that people had gone back to their own conversations. She leaned in to whisper, “It’s just that I’m not used to wearing so many . . . appendages, under my dress and on top of my head! Besides the, um, bum problem, there is a ribbon tickling my neck, and I can’t lift my arm to reach it. Please, Don Rafael, I would be so grateful if you would just yank it out.”
“I’ll be happy to oblige, if you promise to leave your wicked little knife in its sheath.” Still chuckling, the Spaniard turned her so that he stood behind her, his hands cupping her shoulders. He leaned down so that his voice rumbled deep in her ear. “But if we are to be cousins, then you must call me Rafa instead of the so-stuffy Don Rafael.” He moved the offending ribbon, tucking it into her curls.
She held her breath as his lips hovered close to her neck. He would not be so improper as to . . .
She jerked around to face him, in the process using her elbow to shift the padded bum under her skirt back into its correct position around her hips. “Thank you, Rafa,” she said, dipping a saucy curtsey. “And you need never fear my knife, so long as you keep your . . . waistcoat out of reach.”
He gave a great sigh and once more offered his arm. “To borrow one of your so-apt French words, touché, cousin Lyse. Touché.” He tilted his head as the music changed from a stately allemande to a lively reel. “Would you care to dance, or would you prefer to tweak the Harpy’s nose and see how long it takes her to recognize you?”
Lyse had almost relaxed into forgetting her terror. The knot under her rib cage suddenly tightened. “I really don’t think—”
But it was too late.
