Moon Flower (Gone-to-Texas Trilogy)

by Shirl Henke

  By the time the young physician had been located outside of town where he was collecting medicinal herbs, Deborah had begun to experience hard labor pains and had finally agreed to go upstairs to her room and rest.

  Smiling, the doctor reassured Deborah in his precisely accented English, “Your contractions are only four minutes apart now. It should not take much longer.”

  “I'm glad to hear it, since it's been getting rather uncomfortable the past hour or so,” Deborah replied.

  Obedience came in with a pitcher of spring water and began to bathe Deborah's brow. “A woman works up a bigger sweat birthin' a youngun than a man does bustin' a mustang!”

  “All the men in this world who never worked this hard get to vote and we don't,” Deborah gritted as she felt a particularly hard contraction begin. “I'm entitled to cast my vote for Sam Houston, too!”

  “Yew got yew more important bizness ta take keer of,” Obedience replied.

  And she did. At seven fifteen that evening, September 5, 1836, Adam Samuel Kensington was born, a lusty, squalling seven pounds of black-haired, black-eyed boy. He was the image of the father whose name he could never bear.

  Within the month Adam Manchester received another letter from his daughter, which both gladdened and saddened him.

  Dear Father,

  You are a grandpa. His name is Adam Samuel, named for you and for the first president of the Republic of Texas, who was elected on the day of his birth. We are fine and flourishing. Your namesake weighs seven pounds, has a voracious appetite, and a set of lungs to do any New England whaler proud.

  As he continued reading her description of his grandson, Adam could picture the boy with his jet hair and eyes, chiseled features, and proud Flamenco jaw. He could also read between the lines how much his daughter ached for her absent husband and longed to show him his son. But she was independent and successful, running a business with another widow, making a comfortable living. If only her lonely proud spirit could triumph as well.

  Chapter Eighteen

  When Rafael Flamenco stepped off the small boat at San Felipe, the Brazos River air was sunny and warm with the spring smells of May. It was a welcome relief after the bitterly cold rains of April.

  Amazing. I'm in a foreign country. The Republic of Texas. Worriedly he speculated about the legal ramifications of reclaiming a runaway wife in this wild land. “First, I'd better find her,” he muttered aloud as he scanned the bleak-looking settlement, or what remained of it after Santa Anna's armies burned their way through the abandoned village.

  So much had changed in less than a month. While he had lost precious time on a false trail to Boston, Texas had thrown off the yoke of Santa Anna's dictatorship. But the cost had been dear. The countryside was in chaos. The runaway scrape had left thousands of homeless wanderers on the roads, many returning to find what the Austin Colony settlers had—cabins burned, crops trampled, and livestock run off or confiscated.

  It'll be a miracle if I can find her in all this wreckage. He had tracked the Pettyjohn settlers this far. Now, if only he could find his wife among them.

  The colony, once the cultivated and prosperous showplace of Texas, was now a welter of burned-out homes and doggedly stubborn people. The settlers had returned from exile with renewed determination to begin again. An afternoon of questioning proved fruitless.

  “Pettyjohn family. Nope. Never heerd o' ‘em.”

  “Tall gal with silver hair. Mister, I wish I'd a seen her afore yew!”

  “Everyone's so scattered in the runaway. Some folks crossed the Sabine and never come back. Hard ta say. Sorry.”

  The next morning, Rafael purchased a small, rangy mustang. He rode inland, away from the river. For three days, the disheartening news was the same; but the hospitality of the people amazed him. With barely enough to feed themselves, farmers and stockmen offered him bed and food. Hardly the luxurious fare he was accustomed to, but nonetheless welcome.

  On the fourth day, he stopped in front of a newly constructed cabin. With guarded hopefulness, he doffed his hat and trudged up the dusty path. A tall, gangly youth with light, stringy hair sat whittling on the porch.

  “Good afternoon. I'm Rafael Flamenco from New Orleans,” he said in precise, accented English.

  “Whut kin I do fer yew?” the young man asked in a surly tone.

  “I'm looking for the settlers in the Pettyjohn party who arrived in Texas early in March.”

  “Yeah. Whut ya want with ‘em?”

  “One of the women in the party is my wife, Deborah Flamenco, although I doubt she's using that name. A tall woman with violet eyes. Her hair is thick and silver colored. She's very beautiful.” Rafael held his breath as the boy dropped his stick and sheathed his knife, then stood up.

  ”Yer wife, ya say? Hell, she told us she was a widder woman. I'm Thad Pettyjohn and she wuz with my pa's party. Why'd she run away from yew?”

  Thinking the boy was protecting Deborah, Rafael chose his words carefully. “We had a lover's quarrel back in New Orleans. She's pregnant and not herself.”

  Thad's sallow skin reddened. Carrying this Frenchy's brat was she, and to think he would have married her! Now, her rich husband wanted to make up and take her back. Well, ‘Lady Deborah,’ we'll jist see ‘bout thet, he thought vengefully. “I'm powerful sorry she ain't here now, mister. She decided not ta stay with us. Guess th' work wuz too hard here.”

  Watching the shiftless youth who had sat whittling, Rafael was given to wonder about that. “Where did she go?”

  “She met up with another woman, real prim 'n proper old lady, spinster schoolmarm from back east named Marshall, yeah, Rose Marshall. The two o' them headed northeast. She had kin somewheres ‘round Nacogdoches, I think. ‘Course, whut with th' war 'n all, lots o' folks kinda moved ‘round a lot. I ‘spect they cud be anywheres. Texas is a big place.” Watching the handsome Frenchy's face turn bleak, Thad Pettyjohn felt a surge of exhilaration. Yep, let her rot in Texas, her 'n thet fat, loud mouthed old cow Obedience Jones!

  * * * *

  Lord, Jules, fan faster. I am burning up. This is the hottest August I can remember,” Lily said to her houseboy as he waved a large plumed fan.

  It was oppressively sultry and quiet in the late afternoon. Melanie had just returned to St. Louis with her aunt and grandmother, for which Lily was grateful; but she was unhappy to be alone. Bored. I'm bored and I miss Rafael so desperately.

  After that dreadful confrontation with his wife, Lily had felt triumphantly assured of her place in Rafael's life. Of course, Melanie had cried and carried on, confused about the white “lady”. When the child was a bit older she would explain to her; or better yet, she'd have her maman do it. Rafael had returned the next night, only to cosset the child. He had virtually ignored Lily once he found out Melanie had overheard the angry exchange between the adults. What he had told his daughter, Lily had no idea nor did she care; but she did care that he had been preoccupied in the following weeks.

  Once more jealous fears had invaded her mind as she imagined Rafael turning her out to humor his pregnant wife. He had visited her twice in the following month, making love to her fiercely and roughly, seeming to use her without enjoyment. That had never been his way before, and she hated the Yankee for it.

  Then a note had arrived saying he would be gone for four to six weeks. Her servants brought her word that he had traveled to Boston in search of his runaway wife, only to return in April, alone. Within a week he left again, this time headed to Texas.

  Lily had waited and seethed for the first two months. By July, her fury had turned to fear. Texas was a savage wilderness full of deadly snakes and mountain lions, deserts and flash floods, not to mention all sorts of dangerous criminals. What if he were killed? All over that crazy, silver-haired bitch!

  Finally, last week she had received word that he was back in Louisiana. He had returned empty-handed again. Good riddance, she had thought, but still he did not come to see her. Then this afternoon, he had se
nt a message saying he would visit her tomorrow. The hours had been endless ever since.

  Bathed and perfumed, dressed in her best red silk peignoir, Lily ran a brush over her hair one last time, as the front door opened and closed. It was Rafael, early for a change. Nervously, she stood up, feeling a sudden foreboding. Something terrible was about to happen. Forcing her most seductive smile, she walked to the bedroom door and caught her first glimpse of him as he poured a brandy at the bar. He looks haggard, she thought.

  Rafael's face had been darkened by the merciless Texas sun and his hair was long and shaggy. He had not even bothered to have it trimmed! The expression in his eyes stopped her headlong rush to throw herself into his arms. “Cheri, you grieve for her,” she said quietly as she walked over and placed her hand on his linen coat.

  He made no move to touch her and her heart skipped a beat. Reaching up, she pulled his head down for a light, experimental kiss. “I am so glad you have returned to me, my darling.”

  When he gently pulled away from her and took another drink of the brandy, her heart sank. Holding her breath, she waited for him to speak, her soul awash in misery.

  Rafael could see love and fear—and yes, jealousy and anger—burning in her beautiful gold eyes. He felt a sharp stab of guilt and pity, oddly mixed, as he took her hand and ushered her to the sofa. “We have a great many things to talk about, Lily. You are right. I grieve for Deborah. I love her. These past months since she left have shown me how deep my feelings are. Far more, I'm afraid, than I ever allowed myself to admit. I've been a fool, a provincial Creole who wanted her to fit into my world, live by my rules. I gave no thought to her hurts or…” he shrugged with a sad little smile, “to her rights.”

  “Rights? What rights have you denied her—she has your name, your family wealth and position, everything any white lady could ever ask,” Lily argued, an edge of bitterness in her voice.

  Rafael sighed. “Everything but what I gave her my oath to do. Forsake all others and be faithful to her.”

  Lily's eyes widened in disbelief. “But no man does that! Oh, some give up their mistresses or hide them. Some visit brothels discreetly, but all men are the same. What could a wife expect when she is fat and ugly in pregnancy? Or after birthing?”

  “If a woman is great with her husband's child, he should love her all the more. As to the other, it's only for a month or so. I think I could endure such abstinence. In fact, for nearly five months now, I've not been with a woman.”

  Lily could scarcely believe any of the incredible things he was saying. “Sacred blood! That Texas sun must have baked your brains, Rafael.”

  For the first time he laughed, seeming a bit more like her old Rafael. “Oh, Lily, maybe it did! Or, it beat some sense into my thick skull; I don't know which. I only know my life's been changed. I'm returning to Texas.”

  “But, for how long?” she added with dread in her voice.

  “I don't ever plan to return,” he replied grimly, remembering his furious, bitter argument with his father. “I came back only to settle things with my family and to take care of you and Melanie. I've made a settlement with my attorney, Louis Ducet. You own this house and will have a monthly income for as long as you live. Melanie will have the finest education France can offer her when she's old enough, and a sizable dowry. I'll keep in touch with her always, Lily.

  “You are young and beautiful. Find a good man to marry you. There are educated Free Men of Color who could offer you much, businessmen, physicians.”

  “No, no, I love you, Rafael!” Sobbing, she flung herself into his arms.

  He held her and crooned soothing words softly, calming her hysterical outburst. “Oh, Lily, after all we've been through together, perhaps I've been the most unfair of all to you. Forgive me, love. I do care for you, but I cannot go on as we were. I must make a new life in Texas and you must make one here—or, if you wish, you could go to France.”

  “I don't want to live anywhere without you,” she hiccupped.

  “Lily, Lily,” he sighed. He had known this was going to be difficult, but it was even worse than he'd imagined.

  She snuggled in his arms, pressing her breasts against his chest, stroking her sleek little hands down his arms and working them up beneath his jacket.

  As if reading her thoughts, he gave a mirthless chuckle and restrained her busy fingers. “No, Lily, it won't work. I'm leaving for good within a week. Nothing you can do will change my mind.”

  She sat very still for a moment, letting the finality of his words sink in. Then she looked up into his face, her eyes lustrous with tears. “If I am never to see you again, Rafael, this one last time, please, make love to me.”

  The wistfulness in her voice reached out to him and he understood what she meant. He had used Lily ever since he had married Deborah, refusing to face his love for his wife. Lily had been his counterbalance, a distraction, a crutch. She deserved better. Perhaps all the women on Rampart Street did. He could not change what was past, but he could make love to her in the old way for one last bittersweet night.

  “For our youth, sweetheart, for old times,” he breathed as he kissed her gently, reclining back against the sofa and drawing her with him…

  Rafael left the small white house early the next morning. “At least the city place will be deserted with my parents at Lake Pontchartrain,” he muttered as he mounted up and headed south. Upon arriving, he sprinted up the stairs and opened the door. The dark interior was inviting in its cool stillness. He stepped inside and stiffened when he heard Claude's mocking voice.

  “I imagined you'd go to see Lily. After all the crudities of Texas whores, it must have been exquisite to have a woman of refinement.” He sauntered into the parlor, expecting his son to follow.

  Rafael stood in the door and scowled down at the indolent figure settled in the large velvet chair. “We've said it all, Papa. Why did you come back to the city?”

  “My brokenhearted, lovesick swain who cannot be parted from his wife—you deny you've spent the night with Lily Duvall?” He cocked one elegant brow, waiting.

  “Yes, I spent the night and I also told her I was leaving for good. She understands, something you refuse to do.”

  Claude shot up from the chair. “I am not some high yellow you dismiss from services with a bonus! I am your father! You have a name, a family tradition to honor. You cannot simply turn your back on your duty.” His face was dark with rage. “I left your mother prostrate in tears at the lake. She still cannot believe you'll go through with this insane scheme.”

  “It's hardly insane. Thousands of people have gone to Texas before me. The political situation is stable now, I have a land grant, and adequate money to build a home.”

  “A home! Pah! Your grandfather's unproven tract of wilderness. I only wish he hadn't been so foolish as to leave your inheritance to you directly.”

  “Even if you could cut me off without a cent, I'd leave, Papa,” Rafael said wearily. “I've used most of the money to take care of Lily and Melanie, anyway. I will be a pioneer in Texas.”

  “So, you'll work, grow calluses on your hands, grovel in the dirt like an American?” Claude said with a sneer. “And who is to give me grandchildren? Comfort your mother in her old age?” His eyes burned into Rafael's.

  “You have a daughter, Papa. And her child will be born right here in New Orleans in a few months.”

  Claude's nostrils flared in contempt. “An American child. I'll never accept that riffraff into my home.”

  Something in Rafael snapped, seeing the same provincial disdain his family had always displayed. He turned on Claude with eyes blazing. “At least be grateful your daughter has married a man who's capable of giving her children!”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” Claude asked guardedly.

  “My cousin, Jean Pierre, met me at the dock with some juicy gossip. The family tried to hush it up, of course; but I was so aghast I did some checking and verified it. It seems that Georges Beaurivage's university
companion, Paul Ravat, killed himself in St. Louis. He was prostrate over the death of his lover.”

  “I refuse to listen to such cesspool talk!” Claude's face was white. He had heard rumors before Georges was sent to Paris but had dismissed them. “Your cousin had an impeccable reputation and wanted to marry Lenore.”

  “You mean he was a Beaurivage, from such an illustrious family that his parents threatened him if he didn't marry! My sister could have been tied to that brutal fraud, used as a cover, while he paraded men—even boys—in front of her!” Rafael turned from his father with a sickened look on his face. “And all of us, Jean Pierre, you, Mama, and me—we were all going to see Lenore married to a man who despised her, simply because he was a Creole gentleman, a Beaurivage. Thank God my wife saved her. If it were possible to love Deborah more than I do, I would, just for that!

  “Maybe you can live with what we've done, Papa, but I can't.” He stopped, too weary to go on, as he looked at the set, frozen lines of the older man's face. “You don't believe me, do you? Or, at least you'll pretend not to.” He shrugged, knowing it was useless, yet feeling a profound sense of regret.

  Taking a deep, steadying breath, he felt something else—freedom from the rigid life he had lived in this closed society. I'm free from all the old hates and hurts so long festering here. Texas can offer me a second chance. But Deborah gave me my first one.

  * * * *

  “Rafael, I can hardly believe it's you!” Lenore hugged her brother in amazement, taking in his rough, homespun clothing, shaggy hair, and sun-darkened face.

  “I leave for Texas with the morning tide, Lenore. I wanted to say good-bye first.”

  Her face creased in a puzzled frown. “You sound as if you're going to move there.”

  “I am. Remember the old land grant Grandfather left me as part of my inheritance? Well, it's in northern Texas, in the general area where I lost Deborah's trail. I'm going to use it as a base, build it up as a working ranch while I search for her. I can't stay here.”