Louisiana History Collection - Part 1

by Jennifer Blake

  Dawn came too soon. The first slanting rays of bright sunshine found them on the trail. They pressed forward at a breakneck pace. There was time lost in the rain that needed to be made up, but they could not keep up such a scrambling run for long. The rest periods were much too short and not nearly frequent enough. Elise found herself lagging and looked back to see their column stretching out longer and longer. She looked with concern at Madame Doucet hobbling along some distance behind her; she could hear the labored breathing of the older woman even above her own. Someone had to complain, persuade Reynaud to slow down. At one time St. Amant could have been depended on to do that, but now he swung along on his sticks with his face set in grim lines as he stared at the ground.

  Elise turned her face forward. Her mouth tightened and she lengthened her stride. It did not help. She broke into a trot, coming up behind Pascal and easing past him. She could see no sign of Reynaud at first, then around a bend she saw him. She started to call out, but thought better of it. He might not heed her in the mood he seemed to be in. With one hand pressed to the stitch in her side, she redoubled her efforts.

  Had he heard her behind him? Seen her? She could not tell, but she did not seem to be gaining on him at all, though she could not see that he had increased his speed. Her breathing became ragged. Now she was running, ducking limbs, her feet pounding on the spongy ground, her heart jarring with each step. There was a red haze before her eyes and she could feel the wetness of tears flowing back into her hair. The knot at the nape of her neck loosened, uncoiling onto her shoulder. Her skirt caught on a brier and was torn loose at the waist so that she tripped on the hem. She fell to one knee, then was up again, clutching at the torn cloth. Behind her she heard someone call but could not stop, could no longer see the others. There was only one important thing, and that was reaching Reynaud, catching his fleeting form, and stopping him.

  Then suddenly he halted, his back to her. Her footsteps slowed, thudding, jolting until she came to a walk. Her chest heaving, she came even with him at last. She looked up at him, at his face with its faint smile and his gaze fixed somewhere ahead. Her voice a rasp of sound, she said, “What is it?”

  “There. Look.”

  She followed the direction of his nod. Ahead of them lay a house, a veritable manor of two stories with shade trees around it and an alley of pin oaks leading to the door. Beyond were outbuildings, barns, stables, pigeonnier, and slave cabins, and surrounding the whole lay arpent upon arpent of land cleared of trees and broken to the plow. So unexpected was the sight, so different from the endless forest and from the nameless dread that had risen in her mind, that her breath came out in a gasping laugh.

  “But where — where are we?”

  “Home,” he said.

  6

  “YOU ARE PLEASED, Madame Laffont?”

  Elise turned once more before the cheval mirror with its gold-leaf frame. Her hair was dressed in softly rolled curls high on the crown of her head with the front eased into deep waves. Her gown of sea-blue satin, with its scooped neckline, cuffed sleeves to just below the elbow, and full skirt with demitrain, was made lighter in appearance by cream silk gauze ruching at the low neck, gauze undersleeves ending in frills of ruching at the wrist, and an apron of the same material sewn into the waist of the gown. Her waist was made smaller, no great task after the strain of the past week and more, by a boned corset, and her skirt was held out by a petticoat of cream satin quilted over horsehair. By lifting her skirts, she revealed shoes of cream and gold brocade with dainty red heels. The shoes were a bit large, but it scarcely mattered since they were without backs — and considering her blistered heels, that was just as well. At least the place on her foot where the thorn had been removed was scabbed over, nearly healed. She had noticed that Reynaud’s similar wound was the same.

  Due to the efforts with a needle of the woman who stood behind her, however, the fit of the gown was excellent. Elise picked up a fold of the thick, heavy satin skirt in her fingers. It was of the finest grade, far more expensive than anything she had ever owned. Her father had not been wealthy — far from it — and her clothing had been utilitarian, especially after his second wife had been set in place. Vincent Laffont had been vain of his young wife and had seen to it that she dressed to do him credit, but he had seen no point in paying for extra quality. She was used to the flimsier fabrics of the bourgeoisie; the gown she wore was made of stuffs fit for the aristocracy.

  “How could I not be pleased?” she answered. “Though I am still not sure I should accept such lovely things, nor do I understand how Rey — M’sieu Chavalier was able to produce them on short notice.”

  “He will tell you, I’m sure,” replied the woman who served as Reynaud’s housekeeper, his cousin Madeleine. The words were polite but without warmth. “If you would care to wait in the salon, it is just through the door.”

  How very odd it seemed; this luxurious toilette; the Frenchwoman of indeterminate age, rail-thin form, and imperious bearing; the rich comfort of the house. Elise could not become used to any of it, though she had been in residence at Reynaud’s home for the best part of two days and a night. The first afternoon and night she had slept, as they all had in their exhaustion. It had been midmorning when she awoke in this room with its floor of polished cypress covered with thick woven carpets in rose, cream, and sea blue; its cream-plastered walls and hangings of rose silk drawn back at the windows with tassels; its elegant bed and armoire of carved wood; its dressing table and tall mirror and mantel candelabra of crystal and gilt. She had taken breakfast in bed, sipping rich, sweet chocolate and eating flaky croissants. Then had come a hot bath with real milled soap from Paris scented with roses, followed by the surprise of a trio of gowns and a change of underclothing brought in by Madeleine. The time since had been taken up with fittings, with rubbing scented cream into her hands and face, and with the drying, brushing, and arranging of her hair.

  “I will do that,” Elise answered. Reynaud’s relative had unbent not at all in the time they had spent together. It was as though she used politeness to conceal her disapproval. She seemed to think that Elise was encroaching, a danger of some kind to her cousin. The tone the woman used in speaking of Reynaud was reverential, her attitude protective. It might have been annoying to be cast in the role of a siren if Elise had not known her sojourn in the half-breed’s home would be brief; as it was she was bemused by the idea of Reynaud standing in need of protection from anyone.

  The house was built solid, four-square, as they had seen as they approached it. The facade was simple, the usual logs and bousillage, though plastered over so finely it might have been white marble. It had wide steps leading up to the main rooms on the second floor, a front door that was inset deep inside a loggia to protect it from the rainy climate, and rounded casements for the shuttered windows that repeated the Italianate arches and columns of the loggia. One of the most amazing things was the glazing of thick glass that filled the window openings.

  Inside were wide, well-proportioned rooms, each leading into the great salon that bisected the house from front to back, acting as a hallway. The furnishings had the classic beauty that is the hallmark of taste allied to wealth, though the crystal chandelier, the gold-leaf mirror, the velvet-cushioned settee and chain, and the jewel-colored wall tapestries in the salon gave an added richness to that reception room.

  When Elise entered it was empty. She moved down the long room, enjoying the soft sighing of her skirts around her, pausing now and then to stare up at the tapestries with their idyllic scenes captured in embroidered threads. Candles of myrtle wax burned in the chandelier, in one candelabra set on the fireplace mantel at the end of the room near an ornate clock of ormolu, and in another on what appeared to be a narrow table near the rear windows. As she neared, however, Elise saw that what she had thought to be a table was not one at all but a Flemish harpsichord.

  A small chair stood before it. Elise drew it out and sat down, smiling a little to herself as she ran he
r fingers over the keyboard. She had been taught the rudiments of playing and a few simple pieces. When she had been a girl just entering her teen years, it had been a great joy to make music on the instrument. Slowly, with stiff fingers, she began to search out a melody.

  Reynaud heard the music before he stepped into the room. His gray gaze went at once to the tableau in front of the windows. The candlelight was caught in golden radiance in the waves of Elise’s hair. It shimmered on the width of her high cheekbones, touched the delicate lobes of her ears, and played on the sweet and generous curves of her mouth. Her hands and arms were models of grace, and the skirts that settled around her made a pool of lambent color.

  She was beautiful, truly exquisite. Inside him there rose a fierce need to shield her, to keep her always from hurt, to surround her with joy. But her pride and the guard she had erected around herself against injury prevented it. That knowledge galled him even as he respected it. What a tempting witch she was, sitting there with her arched brows drawn together in concentration. What magic did she possess that made her as desirable fully clothed as hidden behind no more than a veiling of soap and wet cloth? There were facets of her that it might take years to know, some that might never be revealed. She was beginning to prey upon his mind, haunting his dreams with the tender torment of her caresses and the horror in her eyes. That was dangerous, for soon, in a matter of days, he must let her go. There was no other choice.

  He took an abrupt step forward, moving toward her. She looked up without recognition though she ceased to play. Lowering her hands, she got to her feet, shaking out her skirts before she summoned a polite smile and faced the man advancing upon her.

  He was wearing a coat of ice-blue satin braided with silver that came to his knees, hanging open over a waistcoat of silver-embroidered blue silk and gray satin knee breeches. His clocked stockings were gray and his shoes, set with silver buckles, had high heels that gave him extraordinary stature. His wig was full, curling to his shoulders, its whiteness giving a swarthy look to his features. The jabot at his throat was of Malines lace set with a large diamond, and in his hand he carried a snuffbox of silver and cloisonné.

  “I bid you good evening, Madame Laffont.” He reached for her hand, bending his head over it in a bow that was a masterpiece of deference and grace before brushing it with his lips.

  “I fear, sir, that you have the advantage—” Elise began, then stopped, “Reynaud!”

  He straightened, laughter bright in his gray eyes. “My transformation, confess it, is greater than yours. I would have known you anywhere.”

  “Yes,” she said with more frankness than tact. “It is amazing.”

  “But an improvement, I presume?”

  She opened her mouth to answer in the affirmative, then hesitated. He was magnificent as a gentleman of the court, distinctly impressive with his wide shoulders, which needed no padding to ensure the fit of his coat, and his long, well-formed legs displayed in the tight knee breeches that fashion dictated. Yet his facile comments, so courteous and meaningless, grated and he seemed in some strange manner diminished. “I’m not sure.”

  “Now what displeases you?” He flipped open his snuffbox with one hand and took a pinch. His comment was lightly plaintive, but the expression in his eyes was keen.

  “I think I prefer your own hair — even with feathers,” she said, the words abrupt.

  “Then you shall have it.”

  As he swung away from her as if he would go that instant to remove his wig, she reached out to catch his arm. “No, no. You — you are truly the gentleman, very handsome. It’s only that I was surprised.”

  He put away his snuffbox and took a handkerchief from his sleeve to wipe his fingers. Smiling down at her, he said, “So I am very handsome, am I?”

  “As you well know.”

  “But I didn’t know you had noticed.”

  She lifted a brow. “Is this a new form of seduction?”

  “Not at all. They have been practicing it at court for some years.”

  “I don’t like it.”

  His mouth twitched. “You didn’t care for my rough embraces and now you object to my most polished address. Is there no pleasing you?”

  “Apparently not. You should cease trying.”

  “Now what is this?” he said softly. “I seem to have disturbed you. Tell me how and I will remedy it.”

  Tell him how? That was the last thing she would do. Her distress was caused by an almost ungovernable urge to unbutton his waistcoat and strip away his lace-cuffed shirt to see if underneath his chest was still marked with the barbaric artwork of his tattoos.

  Turning from the candlelight to conceal the high color she could feel spotting her cheekbones, she tried for a light answer. “It’s nothing except that everything here is so different from what I expected. Permit me to tell you how beautiful your home is and how grateful I am for your attention to my comfort.”

  “More flattery? I will be undone.”

  “No, I am quite sincere. You have created a miracle here in the wilderness. Tell me how it was done, but first tell me how you were able to supply my needs so well as to clothing and — other female necessities.”

  “There is no mystery to that,” he said, taking her hand and placing it on his arm, leading her to the settee. “Everything was left by a former guest.”

  “How very lucky for me she was so near my size.” His answer had been immediate, without evasion, but had it not been a trifle glib? She sent him a quick glance from the corner of her eye.

  “Indeed. By the same good fortune she had with her a maid, a most superior woman, who was of a size with Madame Doucet. I fear the garments left by this woman are not the equal of those you wear, being in dull colors, but as Madame is in mourning, perhaps she will not mind.”

  “There must be a tale that explains why these ladies left behind such fine wearables. So scarce are such in Louisiana that I fear it cannot have been by choice.” Clothing was of such value that it was almost never discarded and often figured largely among items of inheritance, with an inventory taken of every piece down to the last handkerchief.

  He sent her a quick look, but was rewarded only with her cool profile as she gazed at a marble figurine on the table beside the settee. “I’m afraid it was not. They were carried off by a fever.”

  “Both?” she inquired with limpid curiosity.

  “Both. It was a brief illness. I assure you there is no fear of contagion.”

  “You reassure me.” He was not telling the truth. She knew it, though she could not think why the charade was necessary. She decided to probe deeper. “Do you often have guests here?”

  “Not often.”

  “Occasionally then.”

  “Yes.”

  “Are they often female?”

  “Sometimes a wife will accompany her husband.”

  “How very brave of them to venture so far.”

  “You sound,” he said deliberately, “as if you don’t believe me.”

  “Do I?”

  “If you are suggesting that the female who left the gown you are wearing behind was fille de joie come to while away my hours of boredom, then you are wrong.”

  She turned to him with interest. “Now I hadn’t thought of that! Would such a woman venture this far into the wilderness? I would not have expected it, not without ample compensation.”

  Reluctant amusement and a certain intrigue shone in his eyes for an instant and were gone. “You don’t think that consorting with me at journey’s end would have sufficed.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “You might at least have appeared to consider it.”

  “I only meant,” she explained kindly, “that a fille de joie would expect a monetary reward as well as—”

  “Yes?” he asked softly as she paused.

  The door opened at that moment to admit Pascal. He strode into the room, slamming the panel behind him. His stride broke as he saw Reynaud and Elise, but this was not, apparently, t
he first time he had come upon his host in the dress of a gentleman, for he had no trouble in recognizing him. He ducked a crude bow in Elise’s direction, accepted Reynaud’s offer of wine, and began to prowl about the room. There had been no providential death to provide him with fresh clothing, for he appeared to be wearing one of Reynaud’s coats from the way the sleeves hung over his hands and the waist strained in the back. His own waistcoat and breeches, though refurbished, made a sorry contrast to the rich velvet of the coat and the new stockings that encased his legs.

  Elise had little thought to spare for the merchant, however, or for the conversation between the man and Reynaud that ensued. She knew that she had been decoyed away from the issue of where the clothes had come from by a discussion of Reynaud’s probable female visitors. Why had he bothered unless the clothes had indeed belonged to his kept mistress? Had he challenged her on that point purely to obscure the truth? It was not a thought that pleased her. She cared not at all if he imported a dozen women to service him, of course she did not, but neither did she relish being led down the garden path. She would like to tear off her gown and fling it in his face, but that might be a spectacle he would enjoy too well. Instead, she sent him a look of such smouldering resentment that he blinked and raised a brow in inquiry.

  Dinner was a sumptuous meal compared with the fare that had sustained them during their journey. It was served in lavish style, with damask napery, heavy silver, crystal, and chinaware. There was a footman in well-cut livery behind each chair to see to their individual needs, to offer the succulent meats and rich gravies, to refill the wineglasses, to brush away the crumbs, and to refill the finger bowls with clove-scented water as required.

  Marie Doucet sat up straight with a flush of animation on her cheeks. This was her element, this social gathering, and not even the somberness of her gown of gray grisette trimmed with black or her memories could detract entirely from her enjoyment. Watching her, Elise was hopeful that the older woman might regain her equilibrium here away from the reminders of her loss. Hers was not a strong personality, and grief and hardship had come very near to oversetting her reason.