Laurie McBain

by Tears of Gold

  Don Luís stared incredulously at the tall Frenchman, unable to hide his dismay. “I—I do not quite understand you, señor,” he said on a shaky laugh of disbelief.

  Nicholas smiled without humor. “I know it must sound completely insane to you, but are you sure that the woman known as Doña Amaya is really your niece? I suspect that she is an actress masquerading as your long-lost niece. Her real name is Mara O’Flynn.”

  Don Luís swallowed nervously, his dark eyes sliding away from this strange man who seemed to be able to read his very thoughts. ¡Madre de Dios! What was he to do now?

  “I do not know quite what to say to you, except of course that this is absolutely preposterous. To imagine that a strange woman would be pretending to be my niece—well, it is quite impossible, señor, totally inconceivable,” Don Luís bluffed as he raised his chin with offended pride.

  “Don Luís, please, I mean no offense to you personally. I merely question the circumstances under which you have found your niece,” Nicholas tried to explain, realizing he had given great offense. “After all, you have not seen her since she was a small child, is this not so?”

  “Sí, but I could not be mistaken in this. She resembles my own dear sister greatly,” Don Luís reassured him, “and I did meet her in her own home, with her aunt and uncle present. There really can be no mistake, señor. She is Amaya Vaughan, this I swear on my honor. No one in England knew I would be coming to seek out Amaya, so how could such a deception even be thought of? I think you must be mistaken,” Don Luís told him patronizingly, shaking his head in pity.

  Nicholas reached into his pocket and pulled out the golden locket, opening it as he handed it across to Don Luís. “Are you still going to tell me that Mara O’Flynn and Amaya Vaughan are not one and the same?”

  Don Luís stared down at the picture of Mara O’Flynn, the expression in his eyes masked by his lowered lids. “Dios, there is indeed a certain similarity, señor,” Don Luís laughingly admitted, “but I think they cannot be the same person; indeed, how could they be? I do not know who this woman is, or why you should have her picture, but I would swear that they are two different people. Besides, there are things that only Amaya could know, and does know, which would give away an impostor. I am sorry, señor, but you are mistaken.”

  “So you are convinced she is indeed your niece? I am sorry for having troubled you, Don Luís,” Nicholas told him, although he was still puzzled by the likeness and the displays of another personality that this “Amaya” occasionally exhibited.

  “You are a personal friend of this woman?”

  “No, Miss O’Flynn and I have not had the pleasure. But I have…knowledge of her.”

  “Then really, señor, how can you be so positive that this woman is the same one when you admit you have never even met her? To base such an accusation on so flimsy an assumption is indeed rather reckless,” Don Luís criticized. “I must, however, ask that you do not distress my niece with these unfounded charges, for they will only serve to disturb her and to displease your hosts, the Villareales,” Don Luís warned the Frenchman.

  Nicholas’s green eyes narrowed dangerously. “That sounds almost like a threat, Don Luís,” he commented quietly.

  Don Luís threw up his hands in alarm as he amiably denied this. “Certainly not! I merely wished to caution you for your own safety and clear conscience, señor. We Californians pride ourselves on our good manners and honor, and when you question me and Doña Amaya, you cast aspersions on the house of Villareale as well.”

  “I’ll bear that in mind.” Nicholas nodded as he made his way to the door, his broad-shouldered form blocking it for a moment before he disappeared into the dark courtyard beyond.

  Don Luís sank into a chair as the Frenchman disappeared. He looked down at his hands and was surprised to see them shaking—with what? Fear? No, he was not frightened of anything physical this stranger might do; it was just the unexpected suddenness of his dangerous knowledge that had momentarily disconcerted him. Don Luís ran a thin hand through his graying hair as he tried to gather his wits. He did know one thing. That under no condition must the O’Flynns learn of this Frenchman’s recognition of them. They were already becoming restless, and at this hint of danger they would surely bolt and disappear into the hills like any cowardly coyote; of this he was certain.

  He had succeeded so far in controlling them, but they were very unpredictable, and if they learned certain other facts as well, such as that he was broke and in debt to the equivalent of thousands of English pounds and had no money to pay them, then the situation could become explosive. At least he had no money yet, but as soon as he got possession of the cross and sold it, he would have enough money to pay them off; a pity he even had to do that, but they were the type to cause mischief if double-crossed.

  Yes, Don Luís thought in satisfaction, he would soon again own his birthright. He’d been a fool to gamble his land away, but what else could he have done? He needed the money to pay off other debts; besides, he had not thought to lose. Don Andres had pretended not to want to accept the stakes, but he knew differently, for Don Andres had always coveted the Quintero land. Don Luís sighed in remembered pain and despair as he saw again the race that his horse had failed to win. Don Andres had offered to give back the land, but that had been an insult in itself; to be under an obligation to a Villareale, to accept charity from a man younger than himself—why, it was unthinkable.

  And that was why he had decided to travel to England to bring back his sister’s daughter. Once he had the cross, he could buy back his land and reclaim the honor that had been stolen from him. But he also relished the opportunity the presentation of his niece had given him in causing an upheaval in the Villareale household; for everyone knew that Doña Feliciana had been the expected bride of Don Andres. Most had forgotten the old agreement between Don Pedro and Doña Amaya’s father.

  Don Luís smiled in satisfaction as he thought of Don Andres’s chagrin when Doña Amaya would reject him and return to England. He would not only be humiliated before his friends and family, but he suspected that Don Andres might suffer as well from a heaviness of heart. Mara O’Flynn was a very captivating Amaya, and he had seen the look on Don Andres’s face when she entered a room, his eyes following her every gesture, clinging to her face as she spoke. Sí, had Mara O’Flynn indeed been Amaya Vaughan, her future would have been secure.

  But the O’Flynns’ future was, quite the contrary, anything but secure. It would have simplified matters if he could have told them the truth in the beginning, but he had doubted whether Señor O’Flynn would have felt any sympathy for his loss of his land after having just lost all of his own money. His sentiments would hardly have been charitable; in fact, he had been downright vindictive and insensible of benefits until persuaded otherwise. With the enticement of canceling his debt, as well as being able to earn a considerable sum of money for services rendered, he had induced Señor O’Flynn into acting out the charade. He had deceived the O’Flynns as to his exact circumstances and the true value of the cross, for having been the recipient of the Irishman’s charismatic charm, he would not put it above Señor O’Flynn to try to talk his way into owning the cross. The man was a devil with the honeyed phrase. But so far with the exception of the Frenchman’s interference, all had gone as planned. Soon he would have the cross, and then, of course, he would have to confront the O’Flynns with the truth and trust that they would be content for a while longer. Of course they would; otherwise they would not get paid. Until then, he must keep their suspicions allayed and hope that the Frenchman heeded his advice.

  ***

  Nicholas walked slowly along the corridor, a dissatisfied feeling lingering with him when he thought of his interview with Don Luís. He was still not convinced, despite what the Californian had said, that Amaya Vaughan was not Mara O’Flynn. If only there were some way of proving it beyond all question…But how? Nicholas wondered.

  As he passed the fountain he glanced in its direction,
its soft splashing bringing back forgotten memories of another fountain in another courtyard years ago. As he stood staring introspectively at the fountain, a shadow moved beside it. He made his way toward the fountain, recognizing the arrogant tilt of the head as his eyes adjusted to the shadowy light.

  “Star gazing, mademoiselle?” Nicholas asked.

  Mara jerked her head around. “I would have thought you’d accuse me of crystal gazing and conjuring a spell against you,” Mara retorted, determined not to be mollified by his friendly tone.

  “Now, were we in New Orleans, I might indeed suspect you of such mischief,” Nicholas replied, ignoring her sarcasm as he sought to learn more about this perplexing woman.

  Mara smiled. “If you deal with others in the same manner as you do with me, then I’m not surprised someone might wish you ill luck.”

  Nicholas was quietly thoughtful for a moment before he answered in a voice completely devoid of emotion. “At one time, long ago, I did believe I had been cursed. Someone certainly did wish me ill.”

  “And are you still cursed?” Mara strained her eyes in the darkness trying to read the expression on his face.

  “A vivid memory of the past is curse enough sometimes, mademoiselle,” Nicholas replied. “Haven’t you found that to be true?”

  Mara shrugged noncommittally, unwilling to let him know he had touched her. “You sound as though you’ve no fond memories of New Orleans. Have you no family there?”

  “None who would claim me, mademoiselle, but you are wrong, for I do have some very fond memories of my birthplace. There is no other city like it in the world, and I have traveled the world over. Even Paris pales in comparison to the Vieux Carré as you walk down the Esplanade, an avenue lined with grand houses of rose-colored brick, all trimmed in wrought-iron grillwork with balconies overlooking the street. And behind the iron gates you would find the seclusion of a courtyard, much like the one we are sitting in now, where a fountain would flow with cool water. Mellow brick would pave the patio. The sweet scent of magnolia and gardenia, and the beauty of roses would beckon you to stay for a few moments of solitude.”

  “But you left, m’sieu?” Mara questioned curiously.

  “Yes, I left New Orleans, Miss Vaughan,” Nicholas answered shortly. “Do you wish to know why?”

  Mara shook her head, not caring for his tone of voice. “Please, it really is none of my business.”

  “You think not? I wonder,” Nicholas said obliquely. “However, I should like you to know, Miss Vaughan. I want you to realize what kind of man you are associating with, and to be aware of exactly what I am capable of doing,” Nicholas explained in a hard voice. Leaning closer he continued softly, “I was accused of murder, mademoiselle.”

  At Mara’s gasp Nicholas laughed harshly. “That frightens you? It should, mademoiselle, but you’re probably wondering why I was not hanged? It was a duel, and although circumstances alter cases, it is still a rather fine point of law whether or not dueling is a crime. When custom prevails, as in Creole society, where honor is everything and must be defended at all costs, then dueling becomes acceptable. In my case, however, the rules did not apply and I was ostracized by my family and friends,” Nicholas said. Then he smiled and added, “Except for one very large, pig-headed Swede.”

  “I don’t think I understand. Why were you different?”

  Nicholas shrugged. “It is no longer important. It happened a long time ago.”

  “In England, duelists used to meet at dawn under the oaks to settle their differences. It sounds a very civilized way of settling an argument.”

  “There is nothing civilized in killing a man, but you are correct about the dueling. In New Orleans the place is called the Dueling Oaks. Usually, the morning following an argument, when the contestants were sober, they would meet beneath the oaks to fight with either pistol or sword. However, if it was a matter of urgency and the morrow was not soon enough, we could always fight in Père Antoine’s garden in the Church of St. Louis. The disagreement was usually over some imagined slight or slur cast upon a name, or most likely over a quadroon one had danced with at the Orleans Ballroom, which was just a few steps from the church. Most convenient, wouldn’t you say?” Nicholas asked. “I wonder if you can possibly imagine how many epitaphs in the cemeteries read, ‘Pour garder intact le nom de la famille’ or ‘Victime de son honneur.’ I think it would surprise you, mademoiselle:’

  “What is a quadroon?” Mara asked.

  “Usually the child of a white father and a mulatto mother.”

  “And you fought in many of these duels over a woman?” Mara wanted to know, intrigued despite herself.

  “I was a very hot-blooded young man, no different from other callow youths who imagine themselves in love with every alluring woman they see. I made many foolish mistakes, with many tragic consequences,” he added softly. “But you wished to hear of New Orleans, Miss Vaughan, not of my past indiscretions.

  “Do you not think we Creoles are to be congratulated for creating such a beautiful city as New Orleans from the swamps? New Orleans is in the delta country, a place of flat marshlands where the tall grasses and clouds are blown by the gentle Gulf breezes. Where bayous, the sleeping water, we call them, with their sluggish currents, are full of lotus blooms floating on foot-wide pads, and cypresses with gray moss trailing into the dark water seem to slip deeper into the clinging mud of the swamps. There is a certain serenity, a peace in the delta that can be very misleading. You can be lulled into carelessness as you listen to the shrill cries of the cicadas or the cooing of doves, or pause to watch a raccoon fishing in a stream. With the scent of honeysuckle and verbena filling your senses, you might wander beyond the willows and sweet gum and the safety of a stream bank covered in wild azalea and dandelions. There are many dangers for the unwary in the bayous, for swimming beneath that murky surface might be any number of evils. Should you step into the water, a cottonmouth—a most disagreeable and poisonous snake of the swamplands—might swim past your bare ankle. Or if you were lucky, you might be warned away by the roar of a bull alligator.

  “Yes, I do think we should be congratulated on overcoming such an inhospitable land and making New Orleans one of the most important seaports on the Gulf coast. And one of the most interesting, mademoiselle, for we are a blend of many cultures. And, of course, we are slave territory as well. But my heritage goes back to the time of the revolution in France when New Orleans was looked upon favorably by those who would rather become exiles from the court of Louis XVI than lose their heads. Those French aristocrats brought with them a certain standard of living, a way of life they had enjoyed in Paris and Versailles and were unwilling to give up in the new land. With the grandeur and extravagances of our European ancestors we also inherited an exotic flavor from the French who fled the slave uprisings in Santo Domingo. Unfortunately they brought along with their servants their beliefs in voodoo, an insidious sickness which has gained control over many of the slaves, as well as many superstitious Creoles,” Nicholas said with a contemptuous laugh.

  Mara shivered as a cool breeze touched her shoulders. “And you do not believe?”

  “The mind is a very strange thing, Miss Vaughan, susceptible to suggestions, should you let it be. I prefer to think I am strong-willed enough to resist such temptations. I do not like to think of another person controlling my life, manipulating my emotions. I think you would not like that either,” Nicholas guessed.

  “You are right, Mr. Chantale, for I am always in control of my own destiny,” Mara told him with assured arrogance. “But tell me, what did you do for entertainment in New Orleans?”

  “Do not sound so doubtful, for we are as cosmopolitan a city as London or Paris with our theaters and opera, our nightly bals de societé, select soirees, and leisurely afternoons spent sipping coffee or wine at Vincent’s or some other cafe or coffeehouse along the avenues around the Place d’Armes. And of course the cuisine of New Orleans is unparalleled. At large private parties, when all
the cousins and distant relatives would come to visit, we would dine on turkey, soft-shell crab and oysters, green trout from the bayou, red snapper from the Gulf, ham cooked in champagne, fresh vegetables from the stalls of the French market, and Parisian gateaux, Lafayette cakes, sherbet, and mince pies. All was accompanied by Madeira, claret, or champagne.

  “When the social season was over, we would leave the city and drive to our plantations in the country, riding along the Old River Road beneath the oaks draped in Cherokee roses and gray moss. On one side of the road would be the low, green banks of the Mississippi, while on the other side would be the stately, gracefully columned homes and beautiful gardens of the planters. Odd how one does not appreciate such things until one can no longer gaze upon them,” Nicholas spoke more to himself than to her.

  “You miss it.” Mara was strangely touched by his reminiscences.

  “Miss it?” Nicholas asked sharply, and Mara could almost see him shrug nonchalantly in the dark. “Perhaps, but to feel nostalgic does not necessarily mean one wishes to return to that time or place. New Orleans has its ugly side too, mademoiselle. Just as people do,” he said coldly, brushing aside any compassion she might have offered him.

  “Forgive me for thinking anything so naive of you, m’sieu, for you are obviously a very disciplined man and have no place for emotion in your ordered life,” Mara told him, stung.

  “Oh, but I do have feelings, mademoiselle,” Nicholas reassured her. “I have tried to harden my heart against many of them, but I do not go completely unscathed. I was but a boy when I saw my mother die of the yellow fever when the plague took New Orleans. Whole families perished overnight. The streets were littered with the bodies of the dying or dead, many of the corpses half-devoured by packs of dogs, now starving without their masters. I can remember very vividly the roar of the cannons throughout the night and the stench of the tar and pitch fires burning on the street corners to fumigate the disease. Wagons and wheelbarrows full of corpses were rolled down the deserted streets of New Orleans.