by Toombs, Jane
A woman darted between the men so suddenly that Guy almost ran his rapier into her.
Madelaine!
"Stop," she cried, "oh, please stop."
As Guy stared at her in shock and disbelief, she screamed and he felt the hot bite of Nicolas' rapier as it slid into his right shoulder.
"Cease!" Gabriel cried. "The fight is over. Interference on the field. He walked between the duellists, Marc by his side.
Blood ran down Guy's arm and onto his hand. He felt his sword handle grow sticky and transferred the weapon to his left hand.
"No," he said, trying to fend Madelaine off as she clutched at him. "No, get away. How dare you come onto a duelling field?"
“We as seconds, agree to declare this duel a draw due to interference,” Marc said. He reached out his hand for Nicolas’ sword.
Gabriel held out his hand and Guy reluctantly surrendered the rapier.
Guy turned to Madelaine. "What possessed you to interfere?" he snapped.
She was crying, tears running down her face as she struggled to pull a lace edged handkerchief from the pocket of her pelisse.
"You're bleeding," she sobbed, bringing the dainty square of cloth up to dab at the bloody hole in Guy's shoulder. "You're hurt."
"Thanks to you," he said grimly, pulling away from her. "Go home."
Gabriel pressed folded white cotton cloth against Guy's wound and Guy allowed him to bind it tightly.
"I couldn't stay home once I heard," Madelaine said.
"I'd like to know who told you."
"No duel is ever a secret," she said. "What does it matter where I heard it? What matters is you. What if you'd been killed? I couldn't bear that, Guy."
"I was in no danger of being killed."
"Nicolas, then. If you killed him in no time Philippe would challenge you over some trifle because of this crazy feud that should have died out years ago. Then he'd die. Or you would. I want it stopped." She put her hands over her face and wept.
"You sister is tender hearted," Nicolas said.
Guy turned his head quickly to see Nicolas standing a few feet away. "You did draw first blood," Nicolas went on. "If you'll accept an apology for my behavior, I'll admit I was drunk and shouldn't have indulged myself. It was ill advised.”
Guy's shoulder throbbed painfully, oozing blood reddened the white bandage. He was in no shape to fight a duel now or in the near future. The wound might take months to heal. Hatred pulsed through him with every heartbeat. If only Madelaine had minded her own business, Nicolas would be lying dead at his feet this very moment.
He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, knowing he had little choice. "Apology accepted," he managed to say, the words choking him.
Nicolas turned on his heel and walked away. Guy stared after him. Nothing would ever wipe the insult from his mind, certainly not an apology. Yet by the duelling code, the incident was closed.
"I’m sorry about your shoulder," Madelaine said. "I hope you won't have to miss many of the parties."
"The parties be damned," he said. "I'll wear a sling."
Nicolas and I will meet again someday at sword's point, he told himself as he let Gabriel help him onto his horse. When that day comes I'll have my vengeance.
Without lighting a lamp, Madelaine crept quietly across the parlor and into the corridor. She inched the outside door open. It was likely that no matter how careful she was, Odalie would know she'd left, but Odalie, who'd raised her since she was five, could be trusted to keep her mouth shut.
Guy was asleep in his room, his shoulder no longer bleeding. He'd not waken, for Dr. Goodreau had given him laudanum. Guy was still angry with her for interfering with the duel this morning but he'd be far more upset if he discovered what she was doing at this moment.
Life was once so simple. Rather dull, maybe, looking back but she hadn't thought it dull at the time. It was only in comparison with now that it seemed dull. For now, ah, she was in love. Love was wonderful, thrilling, more exciting than anything else in the world, but it wouldn't let her rest, it drove her forward with a coachman's whip. She had to disobey Guy.
Madelaine tiptoed across the courtyard and slipped through the small door set in one of the leaves of the tall double gate. She drew her shawl of soft white wool closer against the chill of the December night and stared into the darkness, prepared to duck quickly back inside if she heard a carriage coming. She heard instead the whuffle of a horse and then her name called softly.
"Madelaine."
She saw him, a dim figure in the starlight, coming across the street. She hurried to meet him.
"Philippe," she breathed.
He held her close for a moment, then led her back to where his carriage waited, helped her inside. As soon as he was seated beside her she flung herself into his arms. He kissed her, his lips so warm against hers that a fire spread down into her loins. She pressed herself against him and heard him groan.
"Ah, Madelaine, I love you so."
"We must do something soon. Guy . . ."
"Imagine your brother's fury were I to come to him tomorrow saying, “So sorry about my brother running a rapier into your shoulder, may I have Madelaine's hand in marriage?"
She smiled, then sighed. "If you hadn't told me about the duel, Guy would have killed Nicolas."
She felt Philippe stiffen. "My brother isn't a novice swordsman to be so easily disposed of," he said. "The duel might well have ended with Guy dead on the field."
Madelaine drew away. "I was there. I tell you Guy had the edge."
"Wasn't I watching, too, well concealed in the trees?"
"I didn't see you."
"I saw everything." Philippe grasped her hands. "I thought for a moment they both would run you through. You took a terrible risk dashing between them as you did."
She relaxed against him and he stroked her hair.
"I will have you, Madelaine. We'll marry. Even if I must challenge your brother to make you my wife."
"No! You must never do that. I won't be the cause of a duel between the two men I love best in the world. We must find another way."
As they kissed, his hand touched her breast, sending shivers of desire through her body. "Oh, Philippe," she murmured, "my sweet, dear love." She knew she must stay a maiden and yet she was aflame with wanting him to make her his and no other's forever, in the way of men and women.
"I missed you at the ball tonight," he said.
She pulled away a little. "I imagine you danced with all the prettiest girls."
"Annette Louise mostly. She missed you, too."
Madelaine pressed her lips together. "I'll wager she did. Ha!"
"But she's your friend."
"Not when you dance with her." Madelaine struck his chest lightly with her fist. "I hate not being there to see you and yet I hate being at a ball and not being able to dance with you."
"Once you wouldn't have danced with me even if we were the last two people on earth," he said.
"Just think, if you hadn't rescued me last summer," she told him. “I'd still believe a Roulleaux carried some strange and dangerous evil."
"You were frightened enough of me then," he said. "You didn't know which was worse—your mare mired in quicksand or the devil himself come to help."
Madelaine laughed. "Who could stay afraid of a man completely covered with mud? You were a sight."
"As I recall, you weren't exactly spotless yourself," he said. "I fell in love with you right then and there when you dared me to jump in the bayou with you to wash the mud off our clothes. I've never met anyone like you in my life, Madelaine. I'll never give you up. Only death will separate us."
She shivered. "Don't say that. Too many Roulleauxes and La Branches have died already. And all over a cow in the beginning, wasn't it?"
"A sheep, Guy told me."
"Roulleaux tradition says it was a cow." He laughed. "See, we shall never agree. What a stormy marriage we have to look forward to."
"No, no, it will be ma
rvelous. Wonderful." She nestled close to him.
He bent his head to kiss her, then held. Carriage wheels rattled on the rutted dirt, the clop of horses' hooves. Neither spoke until the carriage was past and the sounds fading away.
"Be damned to this skulking about!" Philippe exclaimed. "I'll wait until your brother's arm heals, no longer, then I'll go to him and ask for you."
She clutched at his shoulder. "No, no, there'll be a duel, no, you mustn't ask Guy. Promise me."
"Do you think I can't fight him? Is that your worry?"
She drew away. "What kind of marriage would we have if you killed him? I love my brother. He can't help the way he feels. Doesn't your brother feel the same? If Guy should kill you . . ." She flung herself at him. "Oh, I'd die."
"I can't promise," he said, "but I'll try to think of another way."
She melted into his embrace. Long moments later she pulled back with a sigh. "I must go in. But one question. I want to know, Philippe, do you have a—a placee?"
"Madelaine!" His voice was shocked. "Women don't ask such things."
"Well, do you? I know most men have them. Guy does."
"As it happens, I don't. But you must never ask me again."
"You sound just like Guy sometimes. Why should I pretend to be blind and deaf and dumb?"
He put his hands on her shoulders and gave her a little shake. "You're incorrigible and I love you very much." He kissed her quickly and then she scrambled out of the carriage. When Madelaine crept up the stairs to her bedroom, she found Odalie sitting, waiting.
"I thought you were asleep," Madelaine said.
"How can I be sleeping? Who be in this room if Monsieur Guy take a notion to ask about you?" Odalie had risen as soon as she saw Madelaine and now she faced her, hands on her hips. "You be getting yourself in big trouble, easing out to meet up with a no good."
"Oh, don't scold, Odalie, I haven't done anything wrong." As she looked into the slave's black face, tears swam in her eyes. "It's just that I love him so."
"Do be love that gets all women in trouble," Odalie said, putting her arms around Madelaine. "Don't fret, girl, not a man be worth it."
"He is, oh, he is, Odalie." Madelaine pulled away from her and sat on the bed.
"Then why don't he come see you proper?"
"There are reasons he can't."
"You don't be taking up with a married man?" Odalie's voice was shocked.
Madelaine stared at her, then laughed. "Mon Dieu, what a question to ask me. Of course not."
"I should hope you don't do that. Ladies don't be placees."
Madelaine glanced away. "I think Guy fought that duel over his placee." she said, trying to keep her voice casual in the hope Odalie wouldn't tell her to hush. "Do you know who she is?"
There was a few seconds silence before Odalie answered. "Not to say know. Her maman be a woman you don't want to be knowing. She be voodooienne."
"A voodoo queen? Really?" Madelaine stood up. "What's her name?"
"Her maman's name be Vedette Rusert."
"Do you go to the voodoo dances, Odalie?"
"Don't have them no more, that be the law."
"Pouf, you don't expect me to believe that. Not when I can hear the voodoo drums at night sometimes. No one pays any attention to that law."
"You don't be asking me about voodoo, girl. You don't be having nothing to do with voodoo. Pere Antoine say you go straight to hell for that."
"I don't care what the priest says. I'll wager you've been there and danced yourself."
Odalie frowned.
"Is it true the voodoo queen can make love potions?"
"You hear foolish talk. Time you be thinking about a husband and keeping your own house, like that, not this creeping out to meet no goods and listening to voodoo talk."
"But can they? Does Vedette sell love powders?"
"You don't be needing such things. Mirror tell you how pretty you be."
"Does she sell them?"
"There be nothing a voodoo queen can't do, she want to," Odalie said. "Now hush such talk. You best get to bed."
Madelaine walked to her dressing table and sat on the blue satin bench before the mirror, gazing at the reflection of her flushed face, her tumbled hair. She picked up a brush and Odalie took it from her hand and began brushing Madelaine's long, silky black hair.
Does Philippe really, truly love me? Madelaine asked herself. Does all that laughing and flirting with Annette Louise at the dances mean nothing? Annette Louise is very pretty. Everyone but me would be happy to see them marry.
Still, Philippe says he loves only me.
Does he?
If I had a love potion, if I gave Philippe a love potion, then I'd be certain.
"One more question and then I promise I'll be quiet and go to sleep," Madelaine said. "Tell me where Vedette lives."
Chapter 4
On December 20, Guy, his right arm in a white silk sling, followed Prefet de Laussat in a parade toward the Cabildo. The sun shone and the feel of festivity was in the air despite Creole uneasiness about this transfer.
Pretty girls waved from balconies and the banquettes seemed even more crowded than last month. Creoles stood shoulder to shoulder with free men and women of color, slaves and Kaintocks, the roughly dressed Americain boatmen from up the river.
In the grande salle of the Cabildo, the prefect took the center seat and his staff grouped to either side of him, waiting. Invited guests crowded the room. Guy, to de Laussat's right, knew what was to come, for the little play had been well rehearsed. Nonetheless, when the runner dashed inside and hurried to the commandant, Guy's pulse speeded.
"Americain troops at the city gates, demanding entry," the runner gasped.
The commandant bowed to Prefet de Laussat. 'I've been informed Americain troops demand entry to New Orleans," he said ceremoniously.
De Laussat nodded. "Permit entrance,” he ordered.
Guy edged close to a balcony when the hum from the massed crowd in the square below told him the Americains were near. He looked out and saw, coming into the Place d'Armes, the Americain Igovernor to be, William Charles Cole Claiborne, wearing a bright ceremonial sash and General James Wilkinson, Commander in Chief of the United States Army, in his dress uniform.
Behind them marched lean and bronzed soldiers armed with long barreled rifles. Squirrel rifles, the Americains called them. The Mississippi militia followed.
The troops deployed in a long skirmish line, backs to the river, and Claiborne and Americain Wilkinson entered the Cabildo. Guy hurried back into place as the two men approached de Laussat. Once again articles of transfer were read—in French, then English, this time, instead of Spanish. De Laussat bowed and offered the center chair to Governor Claiborne.
After de Laussat released the Louisianans from their oath of allegiance to the French Republic, everyone descended to the square.
A flourish of drums rat a tatted and the French flag began to flutter down the staff. Guy's throat tightened as he watched an officer step forward, take the flag and wind it about his body. Accompanied by an honor guard of Creoles, the flag draped soldier marched past saluting Americain troops.
A hush fell as the Stars and Stripes began to rise. Part way up it fouled the halyards. Exaltation filled Guy. The Americain flag was ashamed to take the place of the tricolor. Didn't the United States owe her freedom to Lafayette and France, after all?
The problem was solved and the flag reached the top where a brisk breeze from the river snapped it out smartly. The Americains waved their hats and cheered but the Creoles stood silently. Something had been taken from them, there was a change, and things would never be quite the same.
Guy calculated quickly. President Jefferson had bought Louisiana from Napoleon for fifteen million Americain dollars. Fifty thousand people for fifteen million dollars. That made every Louisianan worth three hundred dollars. He shrugged. The land and the port at the mouth of the Mississippi River was what the Americains wanted, not the
Creoles and Cajuns.
He attended the prefet's luncheon at three o'clock. A toast to the United States in Madeira. One to Spain in Malaga. Another in rose champagne to France. All to the roar of the guns. More toasts to government officials, to good feelings, to cotton and sugar. Guy, even with his good head for wine, felt the effect of the liquor and told himself it was because of the blood he'd lost.
His wound didn't give too much trouble as long as he wore the sling but he was awkward with his left hand. It helped little to see Nicolas swagger about as though he'd won the duel.
Tea was served at seven, gambling and dancing followed. Guy skirted the card and dice tables, looking for Senalda.
"Oh, mon pauvre Monsieur La Branche," she said when he found her. Her French was heavily accented but he thought it charming.
"Are you in pain?" she asked.
Senalda was dressed in pink, the color of a hibiscus bloom. Her gown had a high waist, just under her breasts, and the silken material fell in graceful folds to the floor. At her throat hung a pendant of rose amethyst. Her blue eyes were full of concern as she looked at him.
"It's nothing," he said.
"My heart aches to think how you've suffered." She touched her breast with her fingertips and lowered her eyes, blushing.
It belatedly occurred to Guy that she thought the duel had been fought on her account. He swallowed. He could hardly tell her otherwise. He'd be a fool, though, not to take advantage of her error.
"Since my dancing is unavoidably clumsy at the moment," he said, "can I persuade you to sit out a round or two with me? We might promenade in the courtyard."
She smiled, showing even white teeth. Her lips were delectable — the same pink as her gown. He longed to taste them.
He offered her his left arm and they descended the stairs into the courtyard. A marble statue of St. John brooded over a lily pool in a far corner and he steered her in that direction. Paper lanterns on the branches of a magnolia tree cast a soft glow.
"Perhaps I should have put on my cape," Senalda said, letting him lead her past other strollers toward the deeper shadows.
