What did he mean by that? Did he suspect? Had the things he had said and done been as much playacting as hers had been?
The possibility cooled her ire and left her staring morose and afraid into the dark.
René did not leave the house the next day. He worked at the table in the salon, covering sheet after sheet with his slashing script, the lacquer box sitting open at his feet. The sight of it lacerated Cyrene’s sensibilities; it was a flagrant reminder of the events of the night before and the swift passage of time. The reason René was so intent on his task had nothing to do with the seemingly perpetual wet weather but was, she could guess without too much trouble, the proposed sailing of Le Parham on the following day.
Schemes for getting a look at the documents on the table, each wilder than the last, occupied Cyrene’s mind. There was something in the way René watched her, something in his apparent consciousness at all times of where she was and what she was doing, that prevented her from putting them into action. She sat before the fire, pretending to write a letter in emulation of René’s industry, even penning a few lines to one of the good sisters at the convent of Quimperle. She spent most of her time thinking, however, thinking until she began to fear she would go mad.
Then in late afternoon, as the gray light of dusk was gathering, the messenger came.
Cyrene answered the door to him. He was tall and vaguely military in bearing, though dressed in the striped jersey of a sailor and with a stocking cap on his head. From his shoulder swung a cloth bag from which he took a leather pouch. He had come for the dispatches, if M’sieur Lemonnier had them ready. The captain was making ready to weigh anchor at first light.
René nodded. “A moment only,” he said, and continued writing.
She must do something. Now. At once. But what? Cyrene moved to the settee and picked up her letter and her pen from the nearby table, then put them down again. She looked at René at his writing table with its litter of papers, then glanced at the seaman.
The man was watching her as he stood with his hands behind his back, and a smile of appreciation hovered about his lips. As she caught his gaze, his smile widened and he narrowed one eye in the slightest suggestion of a wink.
The idea came full-blown, simple, but complete in detail. She caught her breath, wondering if she dared, knowing all the while that she had no choice. She returned the seaman’s smile, then holding his gaze for an instant longer than necessary, she picked up her letter once more and turned and went from the room into her bedchamber.
When the door was closed behind her, she moved fast, striding to the armoire and jerking down her cloak. It whirled around her as she crossed the bedchamber and moved into the dressing room, then plunged through it and across the small dining room to the pantry. She hurried down the stairs, moving as silently as possible, folding her letter as she moved.
In the kitchen, Martha looked up. Cyrene clenched her teeth in grim exasperation; she had hoped the woman would be in her room.
“Mam’zelle Cyrene? What is it?”
Cyrene had no need to feign urgency. “Did you catch the spice man? I particularly wanted a bit of cinnamon to dust on my chocolate.”
“I didn’t hear him, mam’zelle. But cinnamon in chocolate? You must be enceinte!”
“No, no,” she said over her shoulder with a forced laugh. “I’ll see if I can catch him.”
She was gone from the kitchen in an instant, closing the door softly behind her, then running from the rear garden and around the end wall of the house toward the street. The seaman would be returning to his ship in the direction of the river. She swung that way at once, keeping close to the house so that she could not be seen from the salon should anyone chance to look out the window. With her head down, she walked quickly away, hoping that René would write just a little longer, a few more sentences, that he would take his time sanding and sealing his pages.
At the first cross street, three houses down, she turned left. Her pace slowed at once. She stepped into the doorway of a milliner’s shop that was closed for the day and, pretending to be searching for something in her pockets, prepared to wait.
It seemed that hours beyond counting passed before the seaman came along the street she had left, though it was only a matter of a few moments. She stood in the shadows, watching his quick, carefree stride. He passed the cross street with barely a glance, continuing on his way along the muddy planking that was laid in front of the houses. Cyrene counted his receding footsteps, letting him get well ahead of her. When he was half a block away, she emerged from the doorway, moving quickly back toward the main street.
The seaman was still in view. The only other people to be seen on such a damp and dreary evening were a laundress balancing a basket of freshly pressed shirts on her head and an elderly gentleman who leaned on his cane with every step. Cyrene picked up her skirts and began to run after the seaman.
“M’sieur!” Her call was light, almost playful, certainly not loud. “M’sieur, wait!”
The seaman swung around, alert, wary, his hand going to the cloth bag at his side. When he saw her, he relaxed and even came back a few steps.
“Well met, mademoiselle,” he said, his teeth flashing in a smile.
“We are not met at all, as you well know,” she said with exaggerated breathlessness. “I have been chasing after you for miles.”
“What a pity! If I had known, I would have allowed you to catch me much sooner.”
She gave him as coquettish a smile as she could manage. “What a rogue you are, to be sure, though a most handsome one! But I only wanted to give you my letter to be added to the others.” She took the folded sheet from her cloak pocket as she spoke, holding it out to him.
“You have M’sieur Lemonnier’s permission?”
“But of course.” She smiled, a dulcet curving of the lips.
“I would think there isn’t much he refuses you. Here, give it to me.”
Cyrene almost let him take it, then, as his fingers touched it, drew it back. “Oh, but I forgot to seal it in my haste. How vexing! But I will just slip it inside my other letter, if you please. It will only take a moment.”
“Your other letter?”
“They are both to the nuns at Quimperle. Sister Mary will see that Sister Delores gets hers.”
“The letters I carry are communiqués of supreme importance; I really should not allow—”
“But you will, won’t you? Oh, please, there will not be another ship for weeks and — and I am in need of the prayers of the good sisters.”
“Are you now? Lemonnier is your lover?”
She smiled, as if at pleasant memories of a kind she expected him to share, at least in part. “Yes, he is.”
“And does M’sieur ever go away, ever leave you alone?”
“Sometimes. You would, perhaps, like to visit me when he goes?” How far would she go to gain what she wanted? She didn’t know. That was the disturbing thing, more so than the fact that she was considering the possibility.
“I would like it very much.”
“What a pity it is then that you must be leaving Louisiane…”
“Ah, but I will be returning.”
“When will that be?” Smile, she must smile, even as she reached out for the bag of documents.
“A few months only, God willing.”
“Yes, God willing. A sailor’s life is a dangerous one, is it not? Such storms there were when I crossed from France. I spent the entire time on my knees.”
“Praying or being sick?”
She gave a shudder, saying quite untruthfully, but because he seemed to expect it, “Oh, both! Are you never ill?”
She listened to him explain how fine a seaman he was and what he did to remain well even in the wildest storms while she delved into the bag at his side. She did not ask him to remove it from his shoulder, but searched as it hung, forcing him to raise his arm so that it acted as a shield for what she was doing. Her movements quick, she searched for one of the smal
ler missives that had simply been folded in thirds and sealed. There were a few, she knew; she had seen René include them in the box, though she thought they were most likely addressed to his family. Even as she found what she was seeking, she deftly extracted one of the official documents and thrust it under her cloak, clamping it to her body with her arm.
“Here we are,” she said, and held up the smaller letter. Carefully pressing the sides of the stiff sheet so that the ends gaped open without breaking the wax seal, she slid her own folded sheet inside. She returned the letter to the bag and gave it a pat before smiling once more at the seaman. “Now I may be easy in my mind. I thank you with all my heart.”
“It would be more satisfactory if it was with a kiss,” he suggested, his dark eyes hopeful.
“Very well.” She leaned forward to press her lips quickly to his. An odd disappointment flitted across her mind; it was just the pressure of one mouth against another, nothing more. She felt his arms begin to go around her, felt the document under her arm touch his chest. She whirled away from him with a quick laugh, retreating a few steps.
“Don’t go,” he said. “Come with me. I know a tavern where we can have a bottle of wine and a private room.”
“Another time. Lemonnier is waiting for me!” She backed away.
“I will return!”
“I will pray that you do,” she said, and meant it. She did not like to think of harm coming to him because of what she had done. Perhaps the document would not be missed, or if it was, not until it reached France and there had been many other opportunities for tampering with the bag. She liked him; it was not his fault that his kiss did not please her. Turning from him, she went quickly back toward the house.
Cyrene did not stop until she reached the back garden. Night was closing in, and a fine cool mist like fog floated in the air, threatening to become rain once more. A yellow shaft of wavering light fell from the window of the kitchen, coming from a lantern hanging from a beam. Cyrene paused to take out her prize, glancing quickly up at the house, wondering if she had been missed. She could, perhaps, risk a few short minutes more.
She broke the seal and unfolded the thick, heavy sheets. Holding them toward the window, she began to read.
The door from the kitchen swung open. Cyrene lifted her head to stare at René as he stepped outside but made no move to hide the papers she held. Shock possessed her along with an odd feeling of inevitability, so that it seemed not at all surprising that he should discover her there.
“I trust you find it interesting?” he said quietly.
“You’re a spy.” Her voice was blank.
“Not exactly. Shall we go inside to discuss it?”
He reached to take the document from her, then stood back for her to precede him. She moved in a daze into the kitchen and up the pantry stairs, hardly noticing Martha, who turned to watch them. She passed through the dining room and into the salon, then stood waiting in the middle of the floor. René stepped around her, going to the writing table where he dropped the letter onto its surface.
“The messenger was not to blame,” Cyrene said in abrupt revival.
“I am aware. Except in that he was far too susceptible to your charm.”
“He didn’t know I took the letter. He will not be punished?”
“I see no point in it.”
“The letter must be on the ship when it sails, of course.”
“I will take it myself in a short while, as an afterthought.”
She turned away from him, removing her cloak and draping it over the end of the settee. “That is very… generous.”
“The fault is mine, for having you with me in the first place and for not being more vigilant in the second.”
“Then I am relieved of responsibility, rather like a child who will get into trouble if it’s permitted.”
He smiled, a weary curving of his mouth. “More like a prisoner of war whose only duty is to escape.”
“It didn’t have to be that way. You might have… trusted me.”
“That decision was not mine to make.”
“No, you had to answer to your master,” she said, her eyes dark with disdain. “To think, all that time you spent dancing attendance upon Madame Vaudreuil, all the time she doted on you, you were spying on the poor woman.”
He did not appear at all upset by the charge. “It’s a hazard of the king’s service, one Madame Vaudreuil accepted when the marquis took the office of governor.”
“I don’t suppose it makes a great deal of difference whether you are a lackey to Madame Vaudreuil or to King Louis.”
“It does to me,” he said, his voice hardening. “Louis of France commands my loyalty as a Frenchman; he is my king. He is also a man mewed up in Versailles, eternally beset by people, each with a score to settle, a favor to beg, a place to request, or a wrong to be righted. He knows not who to believe, cannot tell who is friend or foe. This is particularly true of those involved in a regime in a place so far away as Louisiane. Serious charges have been made concerning the habits and behavior of the Marquis and Marquise de Vaudreuil and countercharges offered. They must be settled before the governor can be granted further promotion to what could well become a most sensitive area of the New World.”
“I begin to see. You weren’t exiled from France? There was no public disgrace, no quarrel with La Pompadour?”
“La Pompadour is the king’s eyes and ears, an able lady, not too well versed in government but doing her best to help France without deserting her friends.”
“Of whom you are one?”
“I have that honor.”
Cyrene moved to the settee and dropped down upon it with the silken skirts of the gown she wore spreading around her. She watched René in fascination. It was almost as if she had never seen him before. There was new strength, new dignity in his bearing, as well as greater firmness in his features. It appeared that nothing about him was what it had seemed.
“This is the reason you came to Louisiane, on the service of the king?”
He inclined his head.
“No other reason?”
“If there is, it’s personal.”
To become rich through counterfeit notes could be personal, indeed. “I see. It concerns the Bretons, then?”
His gaze sharpened. “Why should you think so?”
“Why else would you betray them?”
René found himself admiring her, which was not at all the way it should be at this moment. Her swift recovery from what must have been a shock was remarkable; her impulse to protect the man who had aided her no less so. The interrogation she was conducting, almost as if he were on trial instead of the other way around, was as bemusing as it was irritating. Watching her, waiting to see what she would make of what she had discovered, was as marvelous as it was dangerous.
His answer did not come as swiftly as it might. “It was necessary to appear to have a care for Madame Vaudreuil’s interests in order to encourage her confidence and that of her man, Touchet.”
“That is the only reason?”
“Should there be another?”
She shook her head slowly as if in disbelief. “You tried to destroy us, and for so little purpose.”
“It was the chance you took when you broke the law.”
“Is that supposed to make it right, what you did, because we were breaking a stupid law that threatens to bring us to starvation and ruin?”
“I have no need to defend myself in this matter,” he said, his voice soft.
“What of the matter of counterfeiting?”
He felt as if someone had struck him a solid blow to the midriff. He did not flinch but lifted a brow instead. “Counterfeiting?”
“I found the notes in your coat lining.”
“My emergency funds?”
“If you think so, someone has taken you for a fool, and I don’t think you are that.” His lack of reaction was infuriating, but she had learned enough of him not to be misled by it. She rose to her feet
in a single decisive movement. “There is no point in discussing any of this further. The only thing left is for me to go.”
“Go?” he said as if he had never heard the word before.
She picked up her cloak and draped it over her arm, walking toward the door. “I would leave the things I have on with you, for your next woman, but you saw to it that I have nothing here to wear except what you gave me. I’ll return them in the morning.”
“I don’t want them.”
“Nor do I.”
“You’re forgetting something, aren’t you?”
“Am I? Oh, you mean your hold over me? But your presence in Louisiane is clandestine, is it not? I’m sure you would not want Madame Vaudreuil, and even less the governor, to hear of your special attachment to Louis of France. Do you think my threat just might offset yours?”
He took a step after her, his bearing straight and tall. “What if I said I love you and don’t want to lose you?”
“What if? Do you or do you not? I have no use for half measures. Not that it matters. I don’t believe you love anything except your position, your power, your prestige. Your greatest concern at this moment, if the truth were known, is probably what you are going to say to the marquis about the loss of one of the players for his theatrical evening. What a pity. But don’t worry, you’ll think of something. Tell him I betrayed you both.”
Cyrene moved to the door and pulled it open, then, once over the threshold, closed it firmly behind her.
The rain had stopped. The damp night air was cool on Cyrene’s face, though the air was warmer. The chorus of peeper frogs and other small night creatures, silent for the few short weeks of the winter, had begun again. The noise was not loud, as it would be later, but it was a certain sign of the coming spring.
The walk back to the flatboat, which had seemed so long only the day before when she went for needle and thread, took no time at all. There was a glow of light in the window of the gently rocking craft and Gaston to greet her as she crossed the gangplank.
The two of them talked for long hours, then packed a couple of bundles and put them beside the door. The rest of the night for Cyrene was spent lying in her hammock, lulled by the slow swing of the boat on its mooring ropes, resting but not sleeping.
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