Sydnee knew it had begun. The gangs were back.
“Is it at all possible that relatives are taking them in?” Sydnee asked Locke, late one night when they met at her town house to discuss the turn of events.
“Most of the forms say the deceased have no children.”
“All the forms say that?”
“Yes, most of them. Now that I think about it that seems unusual.”
“Is it possible you have a clerk or a nurse who is changing the paperwork now that the gangs are back and ready for business?”
Locke collapsed down into a chair and gasped. “I’m ashamed to say that I didn’t think of that.”
“You have not had a spare minute,” she countered.
“Well,” Locke said uncertainly. “I can change worker’s access to the paperwork.”
Sydnee sighed. “They would just find another way. We need to get up north and see for ourselves who is selling these children.”
“And follow the trail of money.”
“Indeed,” said Sydnee.
It was difficult for Dr. Locke to get away, but it was imperative he go. The hospital did not like it, but if he waited until the fever season subsided, all the orphans would be whisked away and already sold up north. They would have to wait another year and by that time more children would be kidnapped. It was a difficult decision, but he took a leave of absence from the hospital.
Sydnee received a letter from Giselle’s husband, Gerard Bazile, shortly after they decided to journey north. He had been to St. Louis recently and witnessed one of the orphan sales. He said it was similar to the selling of slaves, and they occurred frequently on Sunday afternoons. The children were displayed in the same atriums of hotels where they auctioned off slaves. The thugs were not allowed to sell the orphans, but they could demand recompense for food and transportation which was greatly inflated. They allowed customers to check their teeth, their bones, and the whites of their eyes. His observation was that the major market, particularly in St. Louis, was for older children who were purchased to help with the wagon trains going west or taken for farming, and the remainder of the youngsters, he suspected, were dumped back onto the street or in houses of ill repute. He admitted that a few people did seem sincerely interested in the adoption of children into their families but most were more interested in low cost labor. Monsieur Bazile added that these orphan sales were nothing new. They had been going on for years in his hometown of Nashville.
Sydnee sighed. They had to act quickly. When Dr. Locke told her that he booked their passage on a steamboat to St. Louis, she was relieved. She was not certain how they were going to ensnare these predators, but she would not stop until they were exposed.
* * *
A few days before they left for St. Louis, Fletcher had been seeing Renata Olmos. She was one of the few residents of Louisiana with money who did not leave every summer. She had contracted yellow fever as a child, and her risk of recurrence was slight.
Locke hoped to take the memory of her Creole heat and passion along with him as he traveled to the North Country. He wanted desperately to eliminate these thoughts of Sydnee, but the obsession with her continued to disrupt his life. During the day, work seemed to keep him occupied, but at night when he tried to sleep, his mind wandered back to Sydnee, her large almond-shaped eyes, her quiet voice, and her lithe figure. He tried working longer hours, hoping to fall into bed too exhausted to think of her, but he only succeeded in sleeping less. Occasionally, he took women to supper to distract himself, but this was not successful either.
One evening when he met D’anton for drinks and cigars, he found himself asking questions about Sydnee’s relationship with Tristan, but D’anton would only tell him that Sydnee loved Tristan dearly.
These were words Locke did not want to hear. D’anton laughed at him and accused him of being another victim of Sydnee’s charms, but this was an accusation Locke resented and denied vehemently.
Ironically it was Renata Olmos who offered the most information about Sydnee Sauveterre, and Fletcher had not even asked for it. The night before he left for St. Louis he dined alone with Renata at an intimate little establishment on Jackson Square. After supper, they sat at a café table outside the restaurant to watch people promenade. Fletcher was smoking, and Renata was sipping on crème de cassis.
The conversation started with his trip. “So you are actually going north with that creature?” Renata said in her thick Spanish accent, wrinkling her nose.
“It is business regarding the orphanage,” he said wearily. He was too tired to argue with her and slumped back in his chair, trying to ignore her.
“Everyone is so infatuated with this base woman,” she said. “You know nothing of her origins, do you?”
Fletcher was suddenly interested. “I know that she is a distant cousin of Saint-Yveses’.”
Renata shrugged. “That may be, but her youth was spent in a backwoods shack on the Natchez Trace, ignorant and barefoot.”
“Where did you hear this?” Fletcher asked, sitting up.
“One of my darkies told me. She was raised by an old slave who practiced Voodoo.”
Locke thought back to the folk remedy Sydnee suggested years ago for the girl on the paddle wheeler.
Renata adjusted her dress around her knees and looked at Fletcher out of the corner of her eye. She was feeling smug. She was succeeding in enlightening him about her rival. “Everyone is so impressed with how she made herself such a great lady, but she has done nothing more than imitate that concubine, Ninon Picard.”
Fletcher’s eyes narrowed and he said, “Mademoiselle Sauveterre told me that Saint-Yves trusts her enough to allow her to travel north with me. I find that unusual. What is her relationship with him?”
This was the very question Renata wanted to hear. “Oh,” she shrugged. “They are madly in love. No one can ever come between them, and Saint-Yves is aware of that fact. They have been lovers since they were children. They say she taught him everything, if you understand my meaning.”
If Renata hoped to steal Locke’s thoughts away from Sydnee that night, she failed miserably. He took her home early and walked the streets instead. There was so much he had to consider.
* * *
Fletcher and Sydnee left the next morning on The Mississippi Empress, a stern-wheeler of moderate size, but as luxurious as any of the grand steamboats in the company’s fleet. Sydnee’s room was smaller than her last voyage, but just as inviting. It had a light pink stripe wallpaper, white shutters on the windows and a light green spread on the bed. She sat down on the divan and looked around. She would never get used to the beauty of these graceful vessels with their elegant interiors and breathtaking vistas of the river.
After a light lunch of figs and cheese, Sydnee went out onto the deck to read under her parasol and appreciate the cool breeze that the riverboat created as it moved through the water. She enjoyed watching the river traffic go by, even though there was less this time of year because the river was more perilous. Nevertheless there was an endless parade of flat boats bulging with cargo, canoes, rafts and other paddle wheelers. She thought back to her first trip, years ago with Maxime when she traveled in the lower deck with the slaves and poor people. It was a world of difference between her voyage today and that experience so long ago.
Late in the afternoon, Fletcher came out on deck to smoke and noticed Sydnee. Sauntering over, he sat down. He had a book too.
“What are you reading?” he asked.
“La Fausse Maîtresse,” she said, flipping the book over so he could see the cover.
“Balzac,” he read out loud. “I was trying to read La Vendetta in French but without much success. Do you ever read English literature?”
“I do,” Sydnee replied.
“This is by a chap named Charles Dickens,” he said, handing her his book. “He writes about the suffering of the poor, particularly children. You would like it.’
“I liked Oliver Twist. Is this his latest?
”
“Yes, Nicholas Nickleby. It is an exposé of the English school system.” He paused a moment and looked out over the river. Puffing on his cigar, he said, “If I can make a fraction of the impact this man has made on society, I would be satisfied.”
The rest of the afternoon they read side by side, commenting on their books or pointing out interesting things on the river. It was peaceful sitting there, watching the water fowl and the shoreline.
“This must be such a change for you after England,” Sydnee observed.
He nodded. “It is.”
“I know you inherited your uncle’s property in Natchez, but why have you not sold it and gone back home? Land there is at a premium.”
“I did intend to sell it. I was only going to stay here one summer and then return to England.”
“But you stayed. Why?” she asked.
“The same reason you stay, Mademoiselle Sydnee.”
She wondered what he meant, and then looked away, chuckling. “Because we have nowhere else to go?”
He smiled and nodded, looking back out at the river. “Odd, isn’t it? Home has a way of finding us. We don’t find home.”
* * *
The first few days flew by quickly for Sydnee and Fletcher. They were each busy with new friends they made on board the paddle wheeler. More conservative passengers avoided Sydnee, knowing her reputation as an inamorata, but the majority of them did not care, finding her a charming enigma.
Sydnee enjoyed the voyage. She visited with her new acquaintances, listened to musicians or sampled the dainties which were always being offered on silver trays. The food was delicious and plentiful, and Sydnee was alarmed when she noticed her corset feeling a bit tighter.
Fletcher made acquaintances on the riverboat as well. Two of the gentlemen who boarded in Baton Rouge were physicians, and they passed the time exchanging stories, smoking on deck or playing cards.
Sydnee and Fletcher informed everyone that they were on the trip to explore possible sites for orphanages along the Mississippi. Once in St. Louis, they would change their story and masquerade as a married couple interested in purchasing children to be domestics.
“I imagine there have been a few raised eyebrows that we are traveling together,” said Fletcher one afternoon on deck. “I must apologize for that.”
Sydnee smiled. “Dr. Locke, a woman in my position is used to raising eyebrows. Actually, there is a certain freedom in it. No one expects me to be of very high moral character anyway, so I do what I want.”
He nodded. This was the first time Sydnee ever talked about herself, and it gave him a taste of something he wanted badly with her--intimacy.
Sydnee had been avoiding talking to him. She sensed an undercurrent of tension in him that seemed ready to ignite at any moment. His passion scared her, yet it attracted her at the same time. He was extremely unpredictable, and she knew this could spell trouble. One minute he was friendly and approachable, the next minute he was cynical and surly.
Every evening before bed, Sydnee walked out to the stern of the boat by the paddle wheel. There was something thrilling about the black water splashing off the paddles and the wild shore beyond filled with night creatures. The landscape smelled of fresh mint, the air was clear, and the stars were more brilliant than back in Louisiana where they were blurred with humidity. Sydnee noticed the spirits seemed closest to her when the skies were clear, and their voices were more distinct as if the clouds had been muffling their words. She gazed upward, dazzled by the panorama.
“Tomorrow we will be in St. Louis,” someone said. It was Locke. He was in evening dress, holding a glass of bourbon.
“Yes, I hope we are successful,” she replied.
“It’s nice out here at night,” he said, looking around. “I like listening to the splashing of the paddle wheel. It’s restful, like a waterfall.”
They were quiet for a moment. He tipped back his head, finished off his whisky and set the glass down. Putting his elbows on the railing, he looked at Sydnee with a crooked smile. “Well, since we are going to be masquerading as a married couple tomorrow, I think we should know a little more about each other.”
Sydnee raised her eyebrows. So Fletcher Locke was a bit tipsy tonight and flirting with her.
“What would you like to know, Dr. Locke?”
“Hmm, I have heard you come from humble beginnings. Is that true?”
“It is. I was raised at a stand on The Natchez Trace by my father and his slave, Margarite, who was like a mother to me.”
“Is that where you learned your Voodoo remedies?”
“Yes, and they are very effective. You must learn to keep an open mind about them.”
He shrugged. “I am learning. What are all of these Voodoo deities I hear about?”
“The Hoodoo spirits are blend of Voodoo and Catholic saints. It is a mixture of Christianity and ancient African beliefs. I am not ashamed of my background, Dr. Locke, but I am also prudent who I tell. Many people frown on our ways.”
He nodded and then ran his eyes over her. The moonlight cast a faint glow on her face and reflected the champagne color of her gown.
“Now, it is my turn,” Sydnee said, brushing a wisp of hair away from her face. She smiled and asked shyly, “Why have you never married?”
Fletcher laughed. “Well, you get right to the intimate details, don’t you?” He sighed and shrugged. “No great mystery. I have never had time for a wife. I jumped right over the marrying part and went right to children. And will you remain unmarried and forever faithful to your foppish friend, Saint-Yves?”
The smile dropped from Sydnee’s face, and Fletcher knew that he made a mistake. “I apologize,” he said quickly. “The whisky has loosened my tongue.”
“Dr. Locke, I accept your apology, but you lack manners. It is apparent that being busy is not the only reason you’re unmarried. Good night.”
Sydnee started to her room, but he stepped in front of her. She ran into him and then stepped back with surprise. He was almost a head taller than her. She could smell the liquor on his breath and feel the warmth of his skin.
“What do they tell you about us?” he demanded.
“Who?” she asked.
“The spirits. Your Hoodoo spirits.”
“This is ridiculous,” she replied, trying to step around him, but he caught her by the arms. His hands felt hot on her skin.
“Ask them about us. They know,” he ordered. “But you won’t like what you hear.”
He reached up and lifted her chin, and kissed her. Slowly he moved his mouth over her lips and then arched her body back so far that her breasts pushed firmly into his chest. Suddenly she felt small, like a rag doll, and a rush of warmth flooded her.
“My God,” he murmured as he ran his mouth down her neck, his whiskers grazing her skin. Sydnee felt the blood pulsing in her ears as she leaned back letting him run his lips over the tops of her breasts.
Suddenly she pushed him away. “Stop,” she said.
He stepped back from her, looking confused.
“You have the wrong idea. I-I am faithful to Monsieur Saint-Yves,” she said.
He frowned. She had been returning his passion. He had felt her heat. Nevertheless, her rejection stung him. He straightened his jacket and said, “Mademoiselle Sauveterre, I would actually have to think about you to have the wrong idea about you.”
Sydnee felt a rush of anger at the insult. She went to her stateroom and slammed the door.
Chapter 27
Sydnee was furious with Locke. The man had not only stolen her peace of mind but her communication with the spirits. She feared listening to them, filled with trepidation about what they may say about him.
Sydnee was not only afraid of her infatuation for Fletcher but of the ramifications of a serious liaison. If she allowed herself to fall in love with this man, any man, she could compromise Tristan’s secret relationship with D’anton. Creoles were tolerant of men having an inamorata, but men loving men
was another story and extremely taboo. Tristan had Isabel for this masquerade, but they needed a home in which to rendezvous. She could not take a chance by allowing anyone else into this world which was balanced so precariously on secrets and trust.
The next morning The Mississippi Empress arrived in St. Louis. Sydnee was packing when there was a knock on her stateroom door. It was Locke. Although he was dressed in crisp, clean clothes, he looked as if he had slept little, with dark rings under his eyes. With a sheepish look, he held out a tussie-mussie of flowers for her.
“I am unfamiliar with the language of flowers,” he said. “But I hope there is a flower in the group that denotes apology.”
Sydnee gave him a crooked smile and took the bouquet of miniature blossoms that he had just purchased from a peddler onshore. “I am sure there is a hyacinth here somewhere. Thank you.”
“Are you ready?” he asked. “I just had our luggage directed to the St. Louis Hotel. I booked adjoining rooms for us there. This way everyone thinks we are married, but we still have separate rooms.”
“I too am prepared,” she said, holding up her left hand. It had a ring on it.
They walked down the landing stage of The Mississippi Empress arm in arm that sunny afternoon as if they were married. The St. Louis landing was alive with activity. It was loud and smelled of fish, wood smoke, and horse dung. Everywhere Sydnee looked, there were peddlers and draymen, slaves, sailors, and river rats.
Laclede’s landing, once a small 18th Century French village, was now the bustling commercial center of the city of St. Louis, Missouri. Cobblestone streets, lined with warehouses and outfitters, all catered in some way to the frantic stampede of westward expansion that swept the country. Prospectors, immigrants, and charlatans pushed through the city, shoulder to shoulder, all in search of a better life west of the Mississippi.
Hawkers sang the praises of their oxen, or recently constructed “prairie schooners”, enticing travelers to come take a look at their “exceptional” merchandise. Swindlers, gamblers, and miscreants lurked on every corner, competing and groveling for any opportunity to fleece the naive. Prostitutes lingered in every doorway, displaying their attributes.
The Grand Masquerade (The Bold Women Series Book 4) Page 29
