The Creole Princess

by Beth White

  Once they were out of the receiving line, the Gonzaleses were swept into conversation with friends, Lyse along with them. For the first half hour or so, she found herself buzzing like a bumblebee from one conversational cluster to another. She found that several military gentlemen whom she had met here at the Gálvezes’ home remembered her, and she was relieved that they had the good manners to keep their eyes focused on her face and not skimming below her neck. These conversations led to names being scrawled on her dance card, as young men eagerly followed the lead of their elders.

  Before long, she found herself enjoying the status of a “belle.” As the word implied, she felt beautiful, desirable, and warmly welcomed into New Orleans society. Friendship with the charming and gregarious Sofía Gonzales didn’t hurt anything, either.

  She completely lost track of the time, until shortly before midnight, she allowed a young American merchant to dance her through the open French doors and out onto the balcony which looked down on the lamplit courtyard fountain. The young man had told her his name—Mr. Thornton, or some such British name, she thought, trying to remember—but her attention splintered when over his shoulder she saw a familiar dark head.

  Rafa was smiling, carrying on a conversation with someone she couldn’t see, but his gaze kept flicking the room.

  “Miss Lanier! I asked if you wanted refreshment—I’d be pleased to fetch it for you.”

  “What?” She looked at her companion and found him regarding her with disappointment and chagrin. Apparently she had been edging back toward the doorway. “Oh—no, thank you—I’ll get it myself.”

  She ducked back inside the ballroom, then stopped. Was she going to run to him the moment he stepped into the room, when he hadn’t taken the trouble to look for her first?

  How long had he been in New Orleans? Surely he would have gone to his family first—or, more likely, his first stop would have been at the Cabildo to debrief with Gálvez.

  But Gálvez was here, so of course he’d come here first, and why would he seek out Lyse, when he had much more important matters to—

  Their eyes met across the room. His smile broadened, crinkling his eyes and melting her knees. She stood very still as he came to her, adroitly sidestepping every person in his path. Her heart beat high in her throat, and she knew she was undone.

  When he reached her, he took her hand and lifted it to his lips. Through the lace of her glove, she felt his warm mouth linger for a moment longer than was truly necessary. Because she wanted to fling her arms around his neck, she snatched her hand away and put it childishly behind her back.

  He grinned at her. “Hello, Miss Lanier. I like your dress.”

  “There is a knife in the usual place.”

  “I do not think one would fit in that little space.”

  Her mouth dropped open. She should have slapped him, but instead she laughed. “I missed you.”

  “Yes, you did. Come here, I have a surprise for you.” He took her hand and drew her in and out among the guests, until they were on the other side of the ballroom, where an open door led to a large anteroom with a billiards table in its center.

  In the doorway, she jerked her hand out of his grasp. There were no women in the room, only Governor Gálvez and another gentleman, whose back was to her as he bent over a ball on the table, cue in hand.

  The governor looked up at her entrance. “Ah. Miss Lanier, I see he found you. Come in.”

  She looked at Rafa for explanation.

  He smiled, gave her a little push into the room.

  The man with his back to her shoved the ball hard across the table toward the wicket at the other end, then straightened and turned in one fluid motion.

  “Simon!” she shrieked and ran for him.

  Rafa watched Lyse reunite with her brother, grateful that there was nothing more than a bullet hole in Simon’s tricorn to indicate the little run-in they’d had with a British patrol boat as they sailed past Manchac. Since they’d taken time to bathe and change clothes before barging in on the party, Lyse need never know about that.

  He wished he could bring her whole family out of Mobile, but there would be time for that later. For the present, he had his work cut out for him, coordinating the various streams of information entering New Orleans and helping Gálvez interpret it for policy purposes.

  The governor rounded the table, cue in hand. “Those two were a great find, Rafael,” he said quietly. “They’re both smart and observant . . . and discreet.”

  “Yes, sir. The family history of rebellion under O’Reilly might have been a negative, except that it left them with no love for the British either.”

  “But you did say that the daughter of the commander—Major Redmond is his name, no?—is Lyse’s lifelong friend?”

  “She is. But Daisy’s a rebel sympathizer herself. The odd thing is, sir . . . she’s in love with Simon and doesn’t know he’s Patriot. If she’d known that, she might not have been willing to stay. I expect Simon will want to go after her, as soon as you’ll allow it.”

  The governor shook his head. “If she’s truly Patriot as well, she’s a valuable asset inside the fort. We need to leave her there as long as possible.”

  Rafa glanced at Simon, who was laughing with his sister over some shared inside joke. “Then you’d better convince him she’s safe where she is, or he’ll be going in to get her.”

  Gálvez tapped his lower lip with a finger. “Perhaps you could take the commander another gift of some sort . . . a case of fine cigars, or wine . . . as a pretext for slipping her a letter from her friend. Ask her to write back to Lyse, but give her a code to pass us a few updated statistics. Her observations about staffing, munitions, provisioning—any of that would be helpful to us as we prepare.”

  “That sounds like you’re expecting us to enter the war soon.”

  “Soon . . . maybe. Havana is careful not to give me too many specifics. But between you and me, I expect to hear the confirmation within a year—two at the most.”

  Rafa nodded. Gálvez wasn’t really speaking out of turn, for speculation in the city was rife in just those terms. “The most interesting thing we learned as we came back from Fort Pitt was that the British had instigated a series of Indian uprisings against our forts along the Ohio and Mississippi this summer—with plans to hit New Orleans in the fall. But it seems the whole scheme fell apart. Our man Villebreuve, stationed with the Choctaw, says they—and the Chickasaw and Cherokee as well—are a bit more afraid of the Americans than the British can pay to overcome.”

  “Yes, that sort of activity is what tells me the British won’t give away their colonies so easily. I know his majesty would like us to negotiate peace if we can—but England doesn’t want peace.”

  Rafa leaned against the table, thinking over the implications. War was coming, and it would not be an easy overnight victory. Floridablanca, the Spanish minister of state, had carefully held back commitment to the Americans until Spain was financially and militarily ready. If Gálvez was correct—and he usually was—the time had almost come. Still, the theater of war was widespread over massive territory, and England would not easily concede.

  He knew that Gálvez’s planned strategy was straightforward and simple: march north and take the British forts at Baton Rouge, Manchac, and Natchez to secure the river. Then he would sail to Mobile and capture Fort Charlotte before moving on to siege Pensacola. Surrounding the British on the western and southern fronts would bolster the efforts of French regulars, the Continental Army, and American militia along the eastern seaboard, in the Ohio Valley, and in New England.

  Maintaining the integrity of every asset in place, both in Mobile and Pensacola, as well as here in New Orleans, was critical to the success of that strategy. But he also knew that Simon Lanier had a lot to lose by leaving Daisy Redmond in Mobile.

  With his arm across his sister’s shoulders, Lanier turned. Muscles jumped along his jawline. He had apparently heard some of Rafa’s conversation with Gálvez. “G
overnor, you promised that if I could get that shipment of gold delivered to Fort Pitt, you’d help me find a way to go back into Mobile and bring Miss Redmond out.”

  Gálvez spread his hands. “I did. But I can’t afford to precipitate an unnecessary crisis until we are officially at war. If you can give me another six months to lull them into complacency, I’ll send you in to get her before we attack.”

  Lanier was clearly unhappy.

  “Governor, if I may,” Rafa said, hoping to defuse any reactionary eruption from his hotheaded colleague, “I like your suggestion that I take Miss Redmond a missive from Miss Lanier. Simon and Lyse both know Miss Redmond well enough to craft a message that will be useful and reassuring to her, but still covert enough to escape detection should it fall into the wrong hands.”

  Gálvez nodded. “All right. The three of you meet tomorrow morning for that purpose. Rafael, when you’re satisfied with your letter, bring it to me. Meanwhile, Pollock and I will see what we can do about this new request for supplies you brought from Governor Henry. There are enough Americans here in New Orleans, posing as merchants, that the city is secure for now. But I’m hoping Havana will see fit to send reinforcements before long.” He rubbed his forehead as if it ached. “That’s all for now. Go mingle and listen—and for heaven’s sake, act like you’re having a good time.”

  Lyse laughed and hugged her brother. “I am, now that Simon is here.”

  Rafa wished she’d said that about him. Patience was not his greatest strength—but perhaps he was learning it, a little, the hard way.

  Daylight slipped through the curtains the morning after the Gálvez ball, and Rafa awoke, aware that something about the house was different. He rose and dressed, then slipped down the stairs to prowl for sustenance in the ample larder off the ground-floor kitchen.

  The Gonzales family had moved from Havana to New Orleans in the summer of 1769, when Rafa was thirteen years of age. He’d enjoyed a rather idyllic coming-of-age, tutored at home with his brothers and learning the alleys and bayous of the city, until he was sixteen, when his father the colonel decided to ship him off to the Spanish Royal Academy of Naval Engineers. Upon his graduation in 1776, he’d come home to be a sore disappointment to El Papá. When Rafa applied to Governor Unzaga for employment as an officer, the general had, at least in Papá’s opinion, lost his mind and instead introduced Rafa to the Irish merchant Oliver Pollock.

  What Colonel Gonzales could not know was that Rafa did indeed go on the governor’s payroll, on a detachment of such a delicate nature that no one outside the governor’s closest staff would be privy to his comings and goings. His very first assignment had been a rather daring foray up the Mississippi River with a shipment of gunpowder that eventually made its way to General Washington, who was then quartered in Pennsylvania. Shortly after Rafa returned to New Orleans, Unzaga was replaced as governor by the even more cunning and resourceful Gálvez, who saw no reason to interrupt the creative partnership of Pollock and Rippardá.

  Rafa had truly enjoyed the clandestine, rollicking nature of his role in Spanish espionage, but he found himself increasingly looking forward to those times when he could sleep in his own bed, wake up to his mama’s bollos and café con leche, and irritate his sister Sofía. As he padded down the stairs, yawning, the tie-strings of his shirt hanging open at his chest, he wondered if Sofi was awake. She might like to go for a ride before breakfast, if she hadn’t got lazy from staying up late at balls and soirées every other night during the social season.

  Grinning, he turned to run back up the stairs—and then stopped halfway up as he remembered what was different today. Lyse was upstairs, asleep in the room next to Sofi.

  His brain began an unplanned perambulation through the process of Lyse preparing for bed, dropping the naughty green dress Madame Gálvez had provided, brushing her hair . . . and then he realized where this particular journey would lead him.

  You are an imbecile, he told himself sternly and set about distracting himself by listing, one with every step up the stairs, expressions of the Goldbach conjecture, until his brain was well and truly full of much more than red lips, golden skin, and topaz eyes.

  He scratched at Sofía’s door. “Sofi! Wake up and fix me breakfast! I’m hungry!” When a rising moan came from inside the room, he laughed. “Come on, I’ll take you riding afterward. Hurry—get dressed!”

  “Go away!”

  “Sofi . . .”

  “Take Lyse—she actually likes to get up early.”

  Rafa glanced at the closed door next to Sofía’s room, desperately shutting down his active imagination. He should probably wake her up anyway. They would need to get started on the coded letter to Daisy.

  “Rafa? What are you doing?”

  He nearly jumped out of his skin. Lyse was at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at him. She wore a simple, very modest yellow dress, and her hair was pinned up askew, as if she’d done it herself without a mirror. How had he missed her approach?

  Snatching at his sangfroid, he began to descend the stairs. “Good morning, little cousin! I see you are not so lazy as my sister, and I congratulate you. Would you like to join me for breakfast and then a ride about the square?”

  She shook her head, further dislodging the pile of curly hair. “We don’t eat breakfast here so much. But I have been thinking about how to get a message to Daisy and made some notes. Would you like to see?”

  Of course he would like to see. He walked down the stairs feeling exactly like that stupid fellow Odysseus she had once corrected him about, the one who had himself tied to his ship so he could listen to a woman’s beautiful voice. She was telling him how things were done in his own home? No breakfast? His world was well and truly upside down.

  “Yes, but first I’m hungry.” He took her elbow and towed her toward the kitchen. “Is Simon down here with you?”

  “He has already gone . . . somewhere.” She waved a hand vaguely. “He said you would likely sleep ’til noon, and he would be back then.”

  Affronted, Rafa stopped and frowned down at her. “I do not ever sleep ’til noon. And now the governor will say we are late with the letter, and I have other responsibilities to take care of today that must be postponed.”

  “But I’ve been trying to tell you, the letter is almost ready. I just need you to read my notes, and I shall copy it in my best hand, then you can take it to her.”

  “How can it be ready when I have not even . . . Oh, never mind. I suppose you have not even had Manuel bring coffee.”

  She gave him a perplexed look, then shook her head and pushed him toward a kitchen stool. “Sit there and I will bring you coffee. Steamed milk too, yes?”

  He watched her flit about the kitchen, competently handling the coffee bean grinder, the heavy kettle over the fire, and the milk jug. By the time he had a steaming mug of chicory in hand and a buttered sweet roll on the table, he reached the conclusion that Lyse made quite a useful addition to the family. He should definitely convince her to stay.

  She climbed up on another stool with a second mug and blinked at him over its rim. “Better now?”

  “You are much more cheerful in the morning than your brother.” And prettier. A hank of ebony curls drooped distractingly beside her ear.

  Blushing, she tucked it back. “Daisy and I developed a way of writing to each other, after Simon found my diary and read it aloud one day. Every fourth word is the coded message. We wrote that way for years, just because it was fun.”

  “That’s pretty simplistic. What if her father reads it before giving it to her?”

  “We are two little girls to him. I doubt he will bother reading it, because he would never imagine us bright enough to pass along anything important. But even if he does, we’ve gotten quite good at using words to imply something other than their literal meaning. The number seven, for example, can mean ‘week,’ the number twenty-four is ‘day,’ and so on.”

  Rafa sat up, suddenly wide awake. “That is ingenious. So
in this first letter, you set up a series of useful words she can use to pass us information, which will make the code harder to break if someone gets suspicious later.”

  “I’d already thought of that!” She grinned at him, drawing a paper from her pocket and handing it to him. “Here is my list of what I thought might be helpful, with their code equivalents, but you might have others to add.”

  He studied the list, more and more impressed with her intuition. There were a few things he’d add, but not many. “I’m glad you’re on our side,” he said slowly.

  MOBILE

  LATE OCTOBER 1778

  Everyone thought her papa a lion who ruled Mobile and Fort Charlotte with bared fangs and deafening roar. Daisy could have told anyone who bothered to ask that, with proper handling, one smiling young lady with a backbone of iron could bend the lion to her will.

  It had taken little more than a week of persistent moping, picking at dinner, and staring out of windows to convince Papa to allow her an hour at the market without making poor, beleaguered Corporal Tully accompany her. With that concession granted, Daisy’s jaunts outside the fort got longer and more distant, until twice she had gone all the way to Spring Hill to visit Justine and Charles Lanier.

  Coming back from the second of these trips, carrying a bundle that Justine asked her to take to Luc-Antoine, she turned down the road to the Dussouy mansion. She hadn’t had occasion to visit the French socialite for quite some time. After the onset of hostilities between France and England, the Dussouys had tried to continue entertaining, but British Loyalists were reluctant to associate with anyone of suspect ancestry, and with the blockades restricting trade, former French citizens like the Dussouys had little money to spend on frivolities. Besides, Madame Dussouy’s open persecution of Lyse and her family gave Daisy no incentive to be friendly.