Creole Hearts

by Toombs, Jane

  "I beg your pardon," the man said. Though he spoke with an accent, his French was understandable. "I'm very sorry this is happening. May I see you to safety?"

  Madelaine looked into bright blue eyes.

  "John Kellogg, at your service, mademoiselle," the man said.

  He was quite handsome, a tall man with red hair and a strong jaw. But an Americain.

  Madelaine pulled away. "Thank you, I can take care of myself."

  Where was Guy? She looked about at the shouting, angry men and knew there'd soon be bloodshed. Then challenges, duels . . .

  No! Something must be done.

  Madelaine tunneled through the men until she reached a wall, climbed the steps to the highest loge and stood on a bench.

  "Listen to me!" she cried, speaking French, for in her agitation she couldn't find English words. Her voice was drowned by the clamor below.

  She put two fingers to her mouth and whistled in the piercing shrill tremolo Guy had taught her when they were children. The noise lessened. Heads turned, looked up. She whistled again.

  "Listen to me," she repeated and now her voice could be heard as the crowd quieted and stared up at her.

  "Americain monsieurs," she said, her words ringing with passion. "Think what you do. Why can't we dance as we choose? We had to be Spaniards for many years but Spain didn't force us to learn the fandango. Now that we've become Americans, why should you make us dance the reel?"

  A murmur of questions floated up to her in English. "What does she say?" "Who is she?"

  A shock of red hair thrust above the other heads and Madelaine realized John Kellogg had climbed on a chair. He translated her words into English, then turned to the musicians who were huddled in their box at the far end of the hall and said in French, "Play a quadrille for the lovely and courageous mademoiselle, s'il vous plait."

  A few moments later the crowd cleared from the dance floor. Men found their partners and formed patterns for a quadrille. Madelaine, still in the loge, climbed down from the bench and looked for Philippe.

  There! She waited for him to look up at her, to make some sign to her but he did not, bending over his partner's hand as she smiled at him. He danced with Annette Louise, who looked charming in a blue muslin dress cut low to show the rounded tops of her generous breasts.

  "She'll look like a fat cow by the time she's twenty five," Madelaine muttered under her breath, then was immediately ashamed of herself. Annette Louise was her friend, after all, and Philippe was only being careful to mislead everyone. That's what he was doing, wasn't it?

  Why did he have to gaze into Annette Louise's eyes so Intently, laugh so uproariously at her every word? Dancing with her was certainly enough.

  "Would you do me the honor, Mademoiselle La Branche?" John Kellogg's voice said from behind her.

  Madelaine whirled about. "You startled me!"

  He bowed. "I'm sorry. I thought you saw me climb the stairs. I'd be honored if you'd dance with me."

  About to give him an indignant, "no," she bit back the word as she again glanced at Philippe with Annette Louise in his arms. She smiled at the red haired Americain. Two could play at Philippe's game.

  John Kellogg was a graceful dancer for such a tall man. Not as quick on his feet as Philippe but then no one was like Philippe. Monsieur Kellogg held her just right, firmly enough to carry her with him but not tightly enough to embarrass her.

  "You discovered my name," she said coolly.

  "When you were scolding us, I heard someone say who you were." He smiled down at her, a charming smile. Madelaine began to like this particular Americain.

  "I've never been so impressed with anyone in my life," he went on. "You're brave as well as being the most beautiful woman in New Orleans."

  "You're very kind," she murmured. "Are you on General Wilkinson's staff?"

  "No. I'm a doctor with the United States Army."

  "Ah, then it's Docteur Kellogg and not Monsieur. I heard you tell your compatriots what I said to them."

  "We're not all barbarians, even though it may seem that way at times. I think every man here felt ashamed when he understood what you told us."

  His hair was such an unusual color, not carroty red but closer to auburn. Really, he was most agreeable for an Americain.

  "You don't seem to be a barbarian, docteur," she said, then, catching sight of Annette Louise's blue dress, lowered her lashes and smiled coquettishly up at the tall Americain.

  Let Philippe make what he would of that!

  Guy was waiting for her when the quadrille ended. When Doctor Kellogg introduced himself, he acknowledged the American stiffly.

  "You will excuse my sister and myself, doctor?” he said. "We must leave."

  As soon as Guy joined Madelaine in the carriage, he began scolding her. "Making a spectacle of yourself, whatever possessed you?"

  "Someone had to do something," she protested.

  "Not that." His tone softened. "Ah, Madelaine, I was proud of you up there in the loge. A true La Branche, fearless and outspoken. It was a dangerous chance to take, but how can I be angry when you were so brave? No, that's not what I speak of at all. This Doctor Kellogg—I don't want to see you dancing with Americans. They're not like us, will never be like us. Your reputation can't fail to be seriously harmed by any association with one."

  "You work for General Wilkinson."

  "That's business. Besides, I'm a man."

  "I see no harm in Doctor Kellogg. His profession is honorable and I'm sure he is as well."

  "You didn't see how he looked at you. I won't have my sister's name bandied about in the coffee houses. You will not accept any more invitations from this man or from any other American, Madelaine. I mean what I say. In any case, I shan't take you to a public ball again until the city settles down. Next thing you know we'll have army patrols at all our dances to keep the peace. Disgraceful."

  Madelaine said nothing but her jaw was set. I won't promise, she said to herself. Mon Dieu! The Americain was far more courteous than some of Guy's friends when they dance with me. No nonsense about letting his hands wander or pressing against me as if by accident.

  "Your little friend Annette Louise is turning into quite a beauty," Guy said.

  "I don't care to discuss her," Madelaine said coldly.

  "You saw her with Philippe Roulleaux, then. Of course you can't approve. I understand. If they marry you'll lose her friendship, it could be no other way. It's a sad thing to lose a lifelong friend."

  Madelaine gritted her teeth. She mustn't say anything, certainly not the furious words that welled up in her. She wasn't angry with Guy now, but with Philippe. Tears gathered in her eyes. Oh, Philippe, she thought, how can you be so cruel?

  The next day Guy moved them back to La Belle. "I've been gone far too long," he said. "Fortunately the sugar grinding went well, even though I wasn't here to supervise."

  Day after day Madelaine rode to the secret spot where she and Philippe had arranged to meet, but he was never there. She had no way of knowing if she'd missed him by a few minutes or if he'd never come at all.

  He can't love Annette Louise, she assured herself. He loves me. Me!

  At the plantation house she was sulky and restless.

  "Mon Dieu, Madelaine, can you settle to nothing?" Guy asked her. "Where is your embroidery, your fancy work?"

  Upstairs, Odalie took her to task. "You be sickening for something, look like, the way you be acting."

  "I'm perfectly fine," Madelaine snapped.

  "Seem like you ought to smile and be glad your brother be taking a bride soon. She be company."

  Madelaine sighed. "Senalda thinks I'm too impetuous. She plans to change that, I'm sure."

  "Seem like you be better off do you think about getting your own self married."

  Madelaine bit her lip. "I do think about it. The trouble is . . ."

  Her words trailed off. Philippe's name couldn't be shared with anyone at La Belle, not even Odalie, whom she trusted with everyt
hing else.

  Odalie nodded wisely. "That no good."

  "He's not a no good!" Madelaine balled her fists and glared at Odalie, then turned and ran from her room, down the stairs, outside and around the house to the stables.

  "Ancin, have Empress saddled," she ordered.

  Ancin shot a glance at her morning dress and her uncovered hair but said nothing. Instead of directing one of the stable hands, he fetched the saddle himself as Madelaine watched him impatiently.

  Ancin led her mare from the stall and helped her into the saddle, frowning when he saw she wore house slippers instead of riding boots. "You do be careful," he told her.

  "I'm sick and tired of being careful," she said over her shoulder as Empress trotted off.

  The March day was overcast, promising rain. She rode along an avenue between rows of live oaks whose branches were draped with long moss, turned between two of the huge trunked trees and made her way along a path leading toward the bayou. As she neared the water, a blue heron flapped up with a squawk of protest, long legged and ungainly until he was airborne, then a graceful flyer. Something splashed in the bayou water—perhaps the frog the heron had been waiting to spear with his long sharp bill.

  Madelaine took a deep breath of the damp air that hinted of decaying vegetation. Today he'd be there, he had to be there. She longed for his touch, to feel his lips on hers, to experience the wild rush of fire in her body when he held her. She closed her eyes as Empress trotted along the bank of the bayou. Philippe, oh, Philippe, I love you so ...

  She rode through the tupelo trees, beginning to green with spring, around the thick growth of willows and on to where a solitary camphor tree spread out its heavy branches. Past the camphor tree and—but there he was! Madelaine let out her breath and spurred her mare.

  "Philippe!" she cried.

  He turned and took off his hat and she gasped to see red hair glowing in the grey morning. John Kellogg waited for her, not Philippe Roulleaux.

  Madelaine reined in Empress so abruptly the mare reared onto her hind legs. Madelaine controlled her, patting the horse's neck in apology. "What are you doing here?" she demanded of John Kellogg.

  "I've been hoping you'd come this way by chance," he said.

  "I don't believe you."

  He smiled one sidedly. "You'd be right not to. I confess I've been watching you ride this way. I tried to call on you at your plantation house but your brother told me you didn't care to see me again. I wanted to hear it from you."

  She stared at him. "You came to see me?"

  He nodded.

  "Guy forbids me to encourage an Americain," she said bluntly, not forgiving him for being here instead of Philippe.

  "I can hardly help being what I am."

  She saw his wry grin and felt a tug of response. She couldn't resist John Kellogg's smile. "I don't always agree with my brother," she told him.

  "Good. May I help you down?" He dismounted and advanced toward her.

  Madelaine slid from Empress' back before he could reach her.

  "This doesn't mean I'll see you again," she warned, walking away from him to a pond where the flat green leaves of water lilies lay like stepping stones to the far side. "There's swamp all through here," she said. "Quicksand. You took a chance when you came this way."

  "I felt lucky today."

  "Do you have a girl of your own? An Americain girl?"

  He turned from her to gaze at the pond. "Not anymore," he said.

  "But you did once?"

  He nodded, still not glancing her way. "She died of yellow fever," he said. "We meant to marry.”

  "I'm sorry."

  He moved toward her suddenly, grasping her shoulders before she could back away. "I can't stop thinking of you," he said. "I don't mean to frighten you but my heart tells me you're the only woman I can ever love."

  Madelaine stood still, stunned by the intensity of his words, his bright gaze fixing her in place. His hands were warm through the thin muslin of her gown.

  "I—I don't. . ." she began.

  "You don't need to say anything. I had to tell you. I wanted to court you properly, to come calling, but your brother made it clear I wasn't welcome."

  Madelaine stared into his eyes, her breath quickening. Her blood seemed to race in her veins, infusing her with liquid heat as his face came closer and closer until his lips met hers. For a moment she melted into his arms, her entire being responding to his kiss, then she jerked back, horrified. What was she doing?

  She trembled when he released her. "Go away," she cried. "I never want to see you again." Turning on her heel, she ran to Empress, scrambled into the saddle and urged the mare ahead.

  "Wait," he called. "Please . . ."

  "No," she said. "No, never." She kicked the horse's flank and Empress broke into a lope. But though she fled from John Kellogg, she couldn't escape from the memory of how he'd made her feel. How dare he do this to her?

  I hate him, she told herself. It's Philippe I love. Only Philippe.

  Chapter 6

  A week before Shrove Tuesday, before Mardi Gras, the two story white columned stuccoed brick mansion at La Belle was filled to overflowing with friends. In the garconniere, the guest house to the south of the mansion, men were forced to double up. House slaves rushed about serving the guests and putting the final touches to the wedding decorations. Guy and Senalda had been married before the altar of the St. Louis Cathedral, Father Antoine presiding, and now everyone was at the manor house for the wedding reception.

  "La Belle never look so nice, not for long years," Odalie told Madelaine. "Mademoiselle Senalda be a beauty, that be for sure." She shook her head. "Got to be saying Madame to her now, I be forgetting."

  Madelaine said nothing. Senalda Gabaldon La Branche was a beautiful woman. Among the dark Creoles, her blondeness made a sharp contrast, magnifying her attractiveness. Her eyes were every bit as blue as the spring sky and her figure was stunning.

  I wish I liked her more, Madelaine thought. Can it be my fault? Am I so difficult? Guy tells me I am, but he’s teasing—at least I used to

  believe he was. Senalda seems to hold me off or else treat me like a child. She can’t be very much older than I am. She doesn’t let me get close enough to her to be able to like her.

  "You be a pretty sight in that yellow," Odalie said. "Maybe soon you be smiling instead of looking so cross."

  Obediently, Madelaine turned up the corners of her mouth, but she'd never felt less like smiling. I wish it could have been me, she thought. Philippe and I before the altar at St. Louis' receiving the sacrament that made us man and wife, arm in arm at the reception here at La Belle...

  Yet she didn't begrudge Guy his happiness. Impulsively, she hurried from her bedroom down the stairs, searching for her brother amid the throng of wedding guests. He stood beside a radiant Senalda, smiling and talking to the Lafrenieres. Madelaine eased in on Guy's other side and put her arm through his. When he looked down at her she rose on her toes and kissed his cheek.

  "I'm truly happy for you," she whispered into his ear.

  He put his arm about her, hugging her. “She’s so lovely," he said, his eyes on Senalda. "How can I help but be the happiest man in the world?"

  "Certainly the luckiest," Andre Lafreniere said.

  Guy nodded. He was lucky to have won Senalda as his wife when every young man in New Orleans had wanted her. And tonight— tonight she'd be completely his, they'd be one.

  He was scarcely conscious of Madelaine leaving his side, or of talking to the many who came to offer good wishes. Nothing seemed real except Senalda beside him. His wife.

  Although Guy tried to limit the toasts he drank, he could feel the wine muzz his head by the time he climbed the stairs behind his bride. The candles on the brass and crystal chandelier cast a soft glow over her fair hair so that she almost seemed to be wearing a halo.

  Guy smiled. A saint for a wife wouldn't do, not at all. A memory of Aimee's golden body slipped into his mind and he sh
ook his head, pushing the thought away. Now that Senalda was his, he'd need no placee.

  In the hall below, the last of the guests sang and tinkled bells in a gentle serenade as Guy and Senalda made their way up the staircase.

  There'd be others, he knew, waiting beneath the windows of the bedroom, but since it was March they'd be able to keep the windows shut. He grinned, thinking of all the times he'd been among the ones outside.

  Senalda preceded him through the door to the bedroom and walked so swiftly toward the dressing room at the far end, traditionally the one La Branche wives used, that he hadn't time to take her in his arms as he'd intended to do, to kiss her and tell her how much he loved her.

  Guy shrugged off his disappointment. No doubt she was nervous, not quite certain what to expect of the marriage bed.

  He strode to the dressing room at this end, always the room of the master of La Belle, unbuttoning his waistcoat as he went. He flung off his clothes and draped a satin lined silk robe over his shoulders as he padded barefoot toward the high white and gilt bed with its carved posters and elaborate canopy.

  Senalda wasn't in the bed. He stood beside it, savoring his anticipation, yet impatient, the wine singing in his veins, fueling his desire.

  By the time she emerged from the dressing room, he'd begun to wonder if something was wrong. She walked slowly toward him, her diaphanous white robe drifting behind her.

  "You look like an angel," he said huskily.

  As she came closer he saw that her face was set, her eyes guarded. She turned her gaze away from his naked body.

  "The lamp," she said breathlessly. "Put out the lamp."

  "But I want to see you. You're so lovely . . ."

  "Put out the lamp," she repeated, her voice rising.

  In the darkness she was a dim white figure, like a ghost. He touched her arm and felt her withdrawal.

  "Don't be afraid," he murmured. "I'm your husband, there's nothing to be afraid of."

  He drew her toward him, intoxicated by the gardenia scent she wore, took her into his arms and kissed her. She stood rigid for a minute before she answered the pressure of his lips, relaxing against him.