The Creole Princess

by Beth White

  But Justine had been stuck in the house with sick children for weeks and had grown anxious about her eldest. Luc-Antoine used to visit his mama and grandfather on his Sunday afternoons off, but these visits had abruptly ceased in early October. Daisy agreed to drop by to check on him and notify Justine if Luc-Antoine was ill.

  She followed the sandy shell lane under the shade of a series of grand magnolia trees alternating with dogwood and oaks, the white gravel crunching pleasantly under her shoes. There was a nip of fall in the breeze, and several yards away through the trees, she could hear the slight rush of one of the spring-fed creeks that ran into Dog River. Before long she could see the outbuildings, and then the house itself, mildewed and slightly seedy in its old age. Madame’s family, the Hayots, had owned this bit of property for almost as long as the Laniers had theirs, the two families squabbling over the years with varying degrees of amicability over water rights, childish pranks, and wandering livestock. The rupture in relations created by Antoine jilting Isabelle in so public and disgraceful a manner had only slightly healed when she married the aristocratic but penurious Michel Dussouy. She’d brought him to the ancestral home, where they lived in a second bedroom until the old Comte d’Hayot passed to his eternal reward, leaving Isabelle and her brilliant young husband in charge of a shipping business second in profitability only to the Laniers’.

  Daisy could only shake her head over the French love affair with dynasty. Families like Isabelle’s, whose ancestors had come to the settlement under the command of d’Iberville and his brother Bienville, walked about with their noses firmly stuck in the air, whether they had money, land, or neither. They still called themselves Creole, in that haughty Gallic way that made one feel like the veriest barbarian.

  Well, Lyse’s family being the exception. Old Mr. Chaz was just as proud of his Indian lineage as being the son of Marc-Antoine Lanier, who as a teenager sailed from Canada with Lord Bienville, and he was quick to welcome anyone into his home, be he Briton, Cherokee, or the lowest of slaves.

  So lost in her thoughts was she that Daisy came upon the open-air blacksmith shop without warning, the sound of its roaring fire and the ringing of the hammer on the anvil breaking upon her like the noise of a storm. Cautiously she approached. Cain, stripped to the waist, his back muscles dripping with sweat, labored at some large implement—possibly a plowshare, she thought—swinging the huge hammer high over his shoulder, then slamming it down with nigh superhuman force and an ear-bursting clang.

  She didn’t see Luc-Antoine at first, but a movement from what she’d taken to be a pile of cloths drew her attention, and she realized it was Lyse’s little brother, sitting on a stump with an iron bucket at his feet, ready to douse any stray sparks that might burn down the building. She walked over to him and put her hand on his shoulder.

  Looking up at her, he flinched, but then smiled when he realized she wasn’t his mistress. He dropped the bucket handle and jumped to his feet to fling his sooty arms around her waist. “Daisy! I mean, Miss Redmond!”

  Letting the bundle from Justine fall to the ground, she grabbed Luc-Antoine close. He smelled like a goat, and he was ruining her dress, but she held on for a full minute. Something suspiciously like tears dripped down his dirty face, but when he pulled back, he swiped his shirtsleeve over his face to smear them away.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked. “Hey, Cain, look who’s here!”

  “I’ve been to see your mama,” Daisy said, indicating the bundle on the ground, “and she sent a new shirt for you. She thought you might be growing out of your last one.”

  “He’s growing out of everything, eating Madame Isabelle out of house and home,” said Cain, who had turned around with a grin, letting the hammer fall to his side. “My mama can’t keep him fed.” He looked around and frowned. “Luc, let Miss Daisy have your seat, and I’ll go to the kitchen to get something for us all to drink.”

  “Cain, you don’t have to—” But he was already gone. Daisy watched Luc-Antoine swipe a rag across the stump, then she gingerly sat upon it. “Thank you,” she said politely, smiling at him. “Your mama wants to know why you haven’t been to see her lately. She misses you.”

  Luc-Antoine twisted the rag between his hands. “I’ve been busy.”

  “On your afternoon off?”

  “Yes’m.” He chewed his lip, looked away, then blurted, “I’ve been going to see my papa.”

  “At the fort? How did you get in?” She would have known if anyone had been admitted from the outside.

  “You won’t tell nobody, will you?”

  “Anybody.” She shook her head. “I won’t tell anybody.”

  He looked frightened, but a little proud of himself as well. “There’s a place near the south wall, where the brick’s falling apart. It’s real easy to climb, and it’s hid by a bunch of vines and little sumac trees. The sentries know there’s snakes back there, so they don’t patrol it, hardly ever. All you gotta do is watch for them to go to sleep. There’s another place on the river side too, that’s even worse.”

  She tried not to look dumbfounded. Did her father know about those two places in the fort’s wall that were in such disrepair that a little boy could breech them? “My—my goodness, Luc-Antoine, how very . . . enterprising of you. But you know, that’s not wise. I won’t tell on you, but what if one of the sentries sees you? You could be in serious trouble and, worse—they could take it out on your papa.”

  “I didn’t think of that. I’ll be more careful from now on.”

  She noticed he didn’t promise not to go in again. “I keep an eye on him, you know. You really don’t have to worry.”

  He shook his head. “My maman worries about him drinking. Did you tell her he ain’t drunk no liquor since he’s been in there?”

  Daisy smiled, giving up on correcting his grammar. “Yes. I guess there’s a silver lining for every storm cloud.”

  “Sure. Just like me getting caught out here eating biscuits with Cain and Scarlet. Got me a job and everything.”

  “You need to be in school. Your grammar is atrocious.”

  “Blacksmiths don’t need grammar. They need to be strong and smart. And creative.”

  “If you learned your mathematics, you could be an even better blacksmith.”

  That seemed to shake Luc-Antoine’s confidence a little. “Maybe. But I’ll learn that, once I know everything Cain can teach me.”

  Daisy sighed. “All right. Now tell me all the places you know of where the wall of the fort is weak.” She grinned at him. “I might need to climb out one day.”

  18

  NEW ORLEANS

  FEBRUARY 1779

  Christmas came and went in the Gonzales household, in a flurry of gift-giving, dancing, and singing of carols. The weather was mostly rainy and mild, with intermittent blasts of wind cold enough to freeze puddles and make walking to the market a hazardous adventure.

  Lyse would have enjoyed the festivities, had she not been uncomfortably aware that everyone in the family seemed to expect a betrothal announcement at any moment. She and Rafa had settled into an uneasy friendship. Sometimes she caught an odd expression in his eyes, but whenever she probed, he would make some joke, effectively quashing intimacy. Avoiding the subject of betrothals, they worked on the letter to Daisy; he delivered it safely and brought back a message, the details of which seemed to please the governor so much that they took time to put together another.

  Most days, Rafa immersed himself in business activities that took him to Oliver Pollock’s office or the waterfront—activities which involved much haggling, consumption of ale, and inspecting of goods. Rafa was good at both layers of his job, the overt and the clandestine, and he clearly enjoyed the mental and physical exertion. Often he arrived home in the wee hours of the night, long after the rest of the family had gone to bed, then awakened with the roosters crowing in the market and departed to begin the cycle again.

  One evening toward the middle of February, Lyse, Sofía,
and the elder Gonzaleses had been invited to a Mardi Gras ball at the Chartres Street home of Rafa’s colleague, Oliver Pollock. The carriage stopped, its door opened, and she stepped down to find Rafa waiting to escort her up the stairs to the grand front entrance. She took his arm, gave him a searching look, and said quietly, “You look tired. Or ill. What’s wrong?”

  He gave her an amused glance. “Did anyone not teach you that pointing out bloodshot eyes and gray complexion is not the most tactful way to start a conversation, Miss Lanier?”

  She smiled. “True, but I never have time to talk to you anymore. If I want to know something, I must ask when I get the chance.”

  He glanced around at the crowd of guests ahead of and behind them in the receiving line. “I’m sorry if you’re feeling neglected.”

  “I’m not neglected,” she said irritably, “but there are things we need to talk about. There are expectations—not mine, of course, but your sister keeps asking me—” She stopped, wishing she hadn’t started this conversation. It was humiliating. She began to have a glimmer of what Isabelle Dussouy had been through with her father—except in that case, there had been a beautiful woman named Cerise who had created the distraction. To her knowledge, Rafa had no liaisons on the side.

  But what, really, did she know about what he did all day and night? There was an intelligent, brave, warm man inside him . . . somewhere. But she had seen no sign of him for so long, she was beginning to wonder if he was a figment of her imagination.

  “She asks you . . . ?” Rafa’s tone was gentle.

  “Never mind. It’s not important.” She gave him the brilliant, coquettish smile she’d learned from Sofía. “We are here to have a good time and learn all the juicy gossip we can. When we get inside, you must introduce me to someone you want me to pump for information.”

  They had paused just inside the Pollocks’ grand foyer, waiting for their turn to speak to the host and hostess. Rafa looked down at her for a moment, his jaw shifting, his eyes unreadable.

  “Don’t ever say that you are not important to me,” he finally said under his breath. “I know it’s been . . . difficult. My sister must be hectoring the daylights out of you, wanting to know when we will announce our betrothal, but she is just going to have to be patient. The French fleet under the comte d’Estaing is even now gathering in the West Indies. There are events coming that will change the shape of the world as we know it. Events that keep me from—from speaking what I want to. But I have to say—” He suddenly grinned, the old Rafa clearly in evidence. “I’m glad you care. There’s nothing sadder than being away for a period of time and coming back to find that nobody noticed.”

  NEW ORLEANS

  JUNE 1779

  Rafa made two more trips to Mobile, one in March and another in April. Both times he came back with word that Daisy was holding her own—had, in fact, won some degree of freedom from her father. She was teaching again, free to visit Lyse’s family in Spring Hill—the Bay Minette property had been abandoned, since Antoine remained incarcerated in the guardhouse of Fort Charlotte—and she reported that Luc-Antoine, now eight years old, was growing beyond all recognition.

  More importantly, at least in Gálvez’s view, was her documentation that the British were refitting defenses and building infantry in Pensacola, as well as the Mississippi River forts at Manchac and Natchez. Forces in Mobile, however, had been allowed to lapse into a baffling state of disrepair. Daisy had heard her father express his fear that the Americans would attack downriver from the Ohio Valley. She also confirmed information from other sources that British strategy involved a preemptive pincer invasion south from Detroit and up the Mississippi from Pensacola and Jamaica, encircling the rebellious North American colonies.

  Armed with this information, Gálvez had been preparing for Spain’s entry into the war—and he was convinced it was coming soon. In April, Minister of State Floridablanca had issued an ultimatum to Great Britain that she acknowledge the independence of the United States of America and cede Gibraltar and Minorca back to Spain or be willing to suffer the consequences of Spain’s alliance with France. In May, Britain rejected the ultimatum.

  In early June, knowing it was likely only a matter of weeks before Madrid declared war, Gálvez called his staff together—including Rafa, to his utter surprise. He arrived at the Cabildo well before the appointed time and found his father already in Gálvez’s office, in conversation with Major General Girón, chief of staff.

  Rafa’s father bowed to him, stiffly. “Good morning, my son. I do not have time for you now, as I am about to meet with the governor. Perhaps later—”

  “Father, Governor Gálvez wanted to see me too.”

  “What? I do not understand. This is a meeting of officers.”

  Girón clapped Rafa on the shoulder. “The time has come to bring you out of the shadows. Tell your father what you have been up to for the last three years.”

  Fortunately, since Rafa had no idea where to begin, Gálvez arrived, along with two other officers, and the meeting convened.

  Gálvez stood behind his desk, tall, commanding, and remarkably young for one with so much responsibility. “Gentlemen, I expect within a very short time to receive official confirmation of Spain’s declaration of war against England. I intend to be ready to launch our attack when that happens. Troops have already landed in Havana, and they will arrive here shortly. We must be prepared to feed them. Girón and I have decided to send young Rippardá to Béxar, Texas, with authorization to drive two thousand longhorns here.”

  Rafa had been given some odd assignments over the past three years. This one was a little outside his milieu—he understood ships much better than livestock—but he knew better than to argue with Gálvez. “Yes, sir.”

  Apparently his father had no such qualms. “Gálvez, I love my son, but you’re giving this responsibility to a civilian?”

  Amusement lit Gálvez’s eyes. “It’s time you learned, Colonel Gonzales, that your son is much more than a civilian. He has been serving his country without a word of credit or thanks since he returned from the academy, and I am now promoting him to lieutenant as an official member of my staff.”

  “Sir? I don’t understand.” Poor Papa looked bewildered—as indeed Rafa felt. “Are you saying that Rafael has been performing some undercover assignment, gadding about at the behest of that Irish salesman, Pollock?”

  “I’m saying that a great deal of what we know about British strategy and movement is a direct result of your son’s character, courage, and ingenuity. His performance has been a credit to his upbringing and training. You are to be congratulated.”

  Rafa met his father’s eyes and found there a most peculiar expression. It almost looked like pride. Slowly the colonel stood. His hand rose to form a salute.

  Rafa bolted to his feet and returned the salute, then faced Gálvez. “Sir, when do you want me to leave?”

  “Be packed and headed out by daybreak tomorrow. Time is of the essence.” Gálvez handed him a sealed missive. “Here is your requisition for the commander at Béxar. If he asks about payment, tell him that Navarre in Havana will work that out with him later. Oh, and report to the supply officer for a uniform.”

  Rafa nodded, saluted Gálvez, and quit the office, thoughts boiling. Tomorrow. He had less than a day to prepare for the journey—and another two-month separation from Lyse.

  Pollock wasn’t going to like this new assignment either. The Irishman had grown accustomed to depending on Rafa to handle day-to-day errands related to the business when he was in New Orleans, as well as captaining periodic lucrative jaunts into ports along the Gulf of Mexico.

  With Rafa’s responsibilities shifting from espionage to overt military operations, he no longer owed direct obedience to the American agent. But, as a friend, he did owe him an explanation. With that in mind, he directed his steps to Chartres Street. He hoped Pollock would still be at home, so that he could begin his new assignment with a clear conscience. Then he must go home
to pack.

  Surely Lyse would understand his new duties—as a lieutenant! He must begin to think of himself as an officer in the Spanish army.

  He wondered how she would like being a military wife. The thought was amusing. She was such a funny mixture of fearless intellect, whimsy, and tenderness. In fact, he couldn’t wait to tell her about the look on his father’s face when the old man discovered the truth, and share a laugh.

  His pace quickened. He would miss her, but two months would go by quickly.

  Lyse stood in the center of her beautiful bedroom. She could have walked around and touched the accoutrements of a wealth and prestige that separated her from her family more effectively than did the hundred or so miles of coastline between New Orleans and Mobile. Sometimes the excitement and glamour of her life, the sense that she was part of something grand and world-changing, dulled the ache of longing to kiss Rémy’s damp cheek or smooth Genny’s hair. But six beautiful dresses in a mahogany wardrobe couldn’t erase the contents of the letter on the desk under the window.

  She had to do something about it. She would do something. But what?

  She walked toward the desk and stared at the letter as if it were one of the water moccasins that used to crawl under the porch of the Bay Minette cottage. Poison. Evil. Rafa had once called Isabelle Dussouy a she-devil, and the epithet wasn’t far from the truth.

  Lyse had known the danger of leaving Luc-Antoine under the woman’s control, but there had been no alternative at the time. Now . . . now she might be far away, but she had powerful allies, and she had a powerful God who had already done great things for her. Slowly she reached for Daisy’s letter, understanding how Moses must have felt when commanded to pick up the serpent by the tail.

  She closed her eyes for one more desperate prayer, then walked downstairs to the family sitting room, where Sofía and Doña Evangelina had been finishing tea while she went to her room to read her letter in privacy. She had to find Rafa, because she was going to need the governor’s help, and he would be the quickest way in to see the busy official. Her days of daily interaction with the governor’s staff had dwindled to a bi-weekly briefing with Madame Gálvez. But because she didn’t presume upon the acquaintance, she knew he would see her if she asked.