Louisiana History Collection - Part 1

by Jennifer Blake

  With set face, the manservant bowed and went quietly from the room to do as he was bid. At the far end of the street, the Spanish soldiers had appeared, stepping through alternating bands of deep shadow and bright, slanting wedges of sunlight falling between the houses. They advanced with relentless precision, a wall of red now fading, now washed with blinding color. The dust raised by their measured tread rose to hang like a pall in the air above them.

  “Valcour, I beg of you, don’t do this.”

  “A most affecting plea; I wonder how I resist it,” he mused, contemplating the Fragonard scene depicted on his fan.

  “By consulting nothing except your own whims!” she said bitterly.

  “Unjust. You will enjoy the spectacle. Come, admit it.”

  She gave a quick shake of her head. “Only think of the consequences.”

  “Too late, ma chère.”

  Dom had arrived with a pot of rough earthenware stenciled with a floral design, its malodorous contents sloshing halfway to the rim. At the same time, the first of the soldiers, their faces red and beaded with perspiration from their exercise in the stiflingly hot summer afternoon, compounded by dress uniforms heavy with gold braid, were beginning to pass below. An officer on horseback rode at their head, his glittering epaulets catching the dying rays of the sun, the ramrod straightness of his seat in the saddle holding all the assurance of a conqueror.

  “Valcour,” she tried again.

  Her brother ignored the protest, making a flicking motion with his fingers toward the railing in a wordless command.

  Dom shifted uneasily, his skin taking on an ashen hue. Félicité looked from the Negro servant to his master. “But consider. Dom will be blamed. They will never believe it was not meant as an insult, that he only happened to be emptying the chamber pots at this time of day, on this occasion. They may flog him, put him in the stocks, or worse.”

  “How distressing,” Valcour said with a mock shudder. “But I fear you are right. The Spanish are known for their severity in matters of this sort, are they not? Still, it must be done. Now, Dom.”

  “You can’t mean it,” Félicité began.

  “Dom?”

  The soft note in Valcour’s voice held an unmistakable undercurrent of menace, one the servants of the house had long been accustomed to obeying without question. The manservant’s face tightened, then with a hopeless look in his eyes he lifted the earthen-ware pot and flung the liquid over the railing into the street.

  “Faugh!” Valcour exclaimed, jerking a scented handkerchief from his sleeve and waving it in the air against the smell. “You nearly splashed me.”

  From below came angry cries, followed by a hubbub of shuffling feet and shouted orders. Félicité spared no more than a glance for what was happening with the column of soldiers before coming to Dom’s defense. “He would most certainly have been recognized if he had stood closer to the edge to throw.”

  “What difference would that make?” Valcour demanded, still waving his handkerchief.

  He stopped abruptly, a cold smile lighting his eyes as the sound of pounding came at the entrance to the house on the lower floor. Félicité had time to do no more than set her ratafia down on the table beside her brother’s empty cognac glass before footsteps were heard on the stairs. As she turned to stand beside Valcour, Marie led a detail of scarlet-clad soldiers into the room that connected to the balcony. At their head was an officer, the man who had been on horseback at the forefront of the column.

  She stood still, clenching her hands into fists among the folds of her skirts, while Dom did his best to melt into the gathering shadows of the portieres that framed the doorway. Valcour trod forward with his handkerchief held in a graceful, arrested gesture that might have been taken for surprise. “I protest,” he drawled. “What is the meaning of this intrusion?”

  The officer sketched a bow, dividing it between Félicité and Valcour in a manner so perfunctory as to be an affront. “I am investigating an insult to the troops of his majesty King Carlos of Spain, which just issued from this house. In his name, I demand an instant and complete explanation.”

  Valcour glanced at his insignia. “And your name, mon colonel?”

  “Lieutenant Colonel Morgan McCormack.” The reply was hard and uncompromising.

  Valcour sent Félicité a small smile before turning back to the other man. “That explains it, then.”

  The height, the breadth of shoulder, the russet-brown hair worn unpowdered and tied in a queue, and the green eyes of the officer marked him as being Irish, undoubtedly one of several of O’Reilly’s countrymen said to be serving also as mercenaries in his entourage.

  The colonel ignored the comment. “The explanation, if you please.”

  Raising a thin brow, Valcour said, “We are all eagerness to serve you, and of course the Spanish crown, mon colonel, but first it might be well if my sister and I could be informed as to the nature of this grievous insult?”

  “That must be obvious.” Lieutenant Colonel Morgan McCormack’s face tightened with suppressed anger and the recognition of the irony that laced Valcour’s tone.

  Valcour sniffed, then had recourse to his perfumed handkerchief. “Even so,” he murmured. “It appears, however, that you achieved a miraculous escape from the — deluge?”

  “As you say. The men with me were not so lucky.” The patience of the other man was growing visibly thinner. His command of the French language was excellent, though his accent was less than perfect.

  “Obviously.” Valcour flipped his handkerchief once more, a pained look in his eyes as he surveyed the drawn-up detail.

  “The source of the odor which you find so objectionable came from this house, let me remind you,” the colonel ground out. “Three people were observed on the balcony just prior to the incident, the three of you gathered here. The only question is which of you is the guilty party.”

  “I fear my sister and I must claim ignorance.” Valcour held out his hand to Félicité, and with muscles stiff with reluctance, she moved to his side.

  “You will forgive me, but that hardly seems possible.”

  Valcour frowned. “Are you saying I lie?”

  “I am saying I am determined to find the culprit, no matter who stands in the way.” The hard gaze of the colonel moved beyond Valcour’s shoulder to where Dom stood.

  “For such a small — accident, Colonel McCormack? These things happen every day.”

  “Not to soldiers of the Spanish crown. You know as well as I this was no accident. Will you cooperate, or must I place everyone in this house under arrest while I get to the bottom of it?”

  The maid, Marie, listening beyond the open doorway, clapped her hand over her mouth to stifle a gasp. Valcour stiffened, then shrugged with an airy wave. “To a man of sense and breeding, the answer must be plain. It is the menials who empty the slops.”

  Dom shrank as from a blow, his face twisting and his mouth opening and closing as he tried to speak. The guttural sounds he produced bore no resemblance to words in their pitiful desperation.

  The colonel gave a nod. His face like a mask, he rapped out an order that brought his men to attention with muskets leveled while two of their number prepared to place the manservant under arrest.

  Abruptly, Félicité could bear it no longer. She stepped forward, placing her fingers on the rigid strength of the colonel’s forearm. “No, wait. I cannot let Dom pay for my action. It was I, Colonel McCormack, who — who treated your men to the unexpected shower.”

  The thick brows of the officer snapped together as he stared down at her. “You?”

  It was as if he had only at that moment allowed himself to acknowledge her existence, despite his first formal greeting. His green gaze had seemed to pass over her with stern regard, and yet she had the illogical conviction that he had missed no detail of her appearance. Now he took a more thorough inventory, noting the golden hair that was the legacy of her Norman forebears by way of ancient Viking coastal marauders, the fine
ly molded perfection of her features, her creamy shoulders and slender form covered by the richness of her clothing.

  Félicité flushed under that deliberate, sweeping stare, coloring also for the vulgarity of the crime to which she had laid claim. Still, she refused to lower her dark-brown gaze or to permit the angry confusion she felt to be revealed in her expression.

  “There is no need, chère,” Valcour protested, red spots appearing under the powder on his face as the officer’s attention remained upon her. “No need at all for you to sacrifice your reputation for so worthless a creature as my man Dom. Nothing whatever in this situation demands it.”

  She turned on her brother. “Doesn’t it? When he is no more than a pawn in this game?”

  “But one of so little worth,” he suggested.

  “That isn’t true!”

  The colonel broke in then. “Enough. The two of you may resume your quarrel another time. For now, the king’s business takes precedence. Young woman, you must realize—”

  “Lieutenant Colonel McCormack,” Valcour broke in, his tone rising, “I really must ask you not to use that tone of voice toward my sister, especially as she is the most innocent of females.”

  “Meaning?” The word was spoken with dangerous calm.

  “I fear I am the culprit you seek,” Valcour answered, his smile wry as he lifted his shoulders.

  Colonel McCormack flicked a hard glance over the other man. “That hardly seems likely.”

  Valcour bowed. “I extend you my compliments also, mon colonel, and my deepest sympathy in addition. It seems you now have three guilty parties. What are you going to do?”

  “Three of you there undoubtedly are; three guilty persons, no. As you so obligingly pointed out a few minutes ago, m’sieu, it is obvious who the most likely suspect must be. Ladies and gentlemen with the means to hold their fellow men in bondage do not stoop to do their own dirty work. It follows, then, that the servant is the one who acted. It is unlikely he did so of his own choice, a conclusion proved by his appearance of fear. Someone ordered him to act.”

  “How astute of you,” Valcour sneered.

  The colonel inclined his head. “Thank you.”

  “The only question is, which one, since we have both confessed?”

  “I think that you, m’sieu, are a deal too fastidious for such a course, but that you might claim credit to protect your sister. That being the case, the guilty party, as much as it pains me to say it, must indeed be you, mademoiselle.”

  As he finished speaking, the officer looked to Félicité. Though she had admitted the deed, had fully expected to take the punishment for it regardless of the form it might take, to find herself accused in all seriousness of it was galling beyond endurance.

  “Yes,” she cried, “and why not? It may help you to understand how little welcome Spaniards are in New Orleans, to say nothing of O’Reilly and his hired Irish cutthroats!”

  McCormack’s eyes narrowed to an emerald glitter. “As of this day, mademoiselle, you are living in Spanish Louisiana; you are a Spanish citizen, and the uniform you saw fit to desecrate is that of the defenders of your own country. I trust you acted heedlessly, with more patriotism than malice. Bear this in mind, however. A repeat of this offense, or anything like it, will not be tolerated. The fact that you are a female will not protect you from swift and severe penalty.”

  He did not wait for a reply, but turned on the heel of his jackboot and, with a barked order, preceded his men from the room. Félicité stared after him with the heated flush of chagrin and outrage blazing across her cheekbones.

  “Arrogant, overbearing—” she breathed when she could speak.

  “Dangerous,” Valcour supplied.

  “What do you mean?”

  “He has a quick intelligence, and is without conceit.”

  “How can you say so?” Félicité demanded. “His stock was so white it was blinding, and his boots shone like satin.”

  “The effect of pride and self-discipline, not vanity, my dear sister.”

  “If all the Irish with O’Reilly are like him, life will be insupportable!” She swung around in a flurry of skirts to stride out onto the balcony once more.

  “You may be right,” Valcour agreed, though his tone had the sound of preoccupation, and he stood frowning as he pulled his lace-edged handkerchief through his hands.

  In the street below, the soldiers still filed past, now the infantry units in their uniforms of white with blue collars and cuffs.

  “Bella, bella,” came the shout from their ranks as her presence was discovered, alone on the balcony without male guardian or duenna. “Blanco y oro! Señorita of white and gold,” ran the murmur, and more than one face was turned upward toward where she stood.

  Félicité stepped back, but not before she heard the harsh sound of a command that sent every pair of eyes staring straight ahead once more, nor before she saw Lieutenant Colonel Morgan McCormack mount his bay stallion standing under the overhang of the balcony. Setting his officer’s tricorne upon his head, he rode away down the street without looking back.

  2

  “HURRY, ASHANTI!”

  “I do the best I can, mam’selle.”

  The maidservant settled the knee-length chemise with its deep, lace-edged décolletage about Félicité, smoothed the soft batiste material around the waist, and tightened the strings of the whaleboned stays, pulling them up snug. Gasping for breath, Félicité clung to the footboard of the great cypress bed as the other woman, a tall, magnificent Negress, of the Ashanti tribe, mercilessly closed the small gap that remained in the stays at her back. Dressing in such haste was a trial. Félicité had not dreamed that her father and Valcour would wish to attend the soirée being given tonight, on this third day of Spanish occupation, in honor of the new governor-general, O’Reilly. To give her the news that they would present themselves there within the hour while she was still supervising the removal of the dessert plates from dinner was just like Olivier Lafargue. He had no conception of the time necessary to have her hair put up and powdered in the formal style, to struggle into her largest panniers and heaviest, most elegant robe à la Française, to powder and rouge her face, or apply her patches.

  “Your stockings, mam’selle.”

  Félicité moved to sit down on the side of the bed, allowing Ashanti to slip the tubes of silk up over her legs, fastening the garters above her knees. Over these went her slippers of embroidered satin, the high heels covered in the same material. Next came the panniers, half-circle hoops of wood woven together with leather straps in a basket arrangement, and fastened around the waist with a belt. Over these went the petticoats, stiffened with starch and hemmed with ruffles of lace. The top one was of gold silk with deep lace flounces on the front panel that would show beneath the open panel of her overskirt.

  The heat inside the bedchamber that served also as her dressing room was oppressive. The night coolness hovering beyond the second-floor windows with their shutters set ajar could not dispel the warmth caused by the candies burning on either side of the dressing table where Félicité had sat to have her hair done. As she returned now to the dressing table to attend to her face, Félicité picked up a fan of woven palmetto and plied it vigorously.

  “Take care, mam’selle. You will disarrange your hair.”

  “What do I care, Ashanti? I cannot imagine what possessed Papa to decide to attend this soirée.”

  “To stay away from the party would be to call attention to yourselves,” the maid said, her voice soft.

  “And we must not do that.” Félicité’s tone was weary.

  “It would not be wise.”

  It was a sentiment much repeated in these last few days, especially since the landing of the Spanish troops. It was as if the brief flurry of rebellion had been no more than a game, a childish threat to persuade Louis XV of France to take them back under his wing. Now the game was over and prudence dictated caution. The people were quiet, remaining in their houses for the most par
t. There had been disquieting rumors that O’Reilly had drawn up a list of names of the men who had actively conspired to set up a republican form of government, that he meant to deport all involved after stripping them of their belongings. Other reports had him preparing a stockade on Cat Island in the gulf off the coast near the settlement of Biloxi, where they would be left to the mercy of the sun, sand flies, and salt water. Most scoffed at such tales, preferring to believe in Commandant Aubry’s assurances of clemency, maintaining that a proper show of humility would convince the Spaniards of their resignation to the change of government. Still, everyone was uneasy. Even Félicité’s father had become subdued. There was about him a look of gray defeat she did not like. To see him take the prudent course, being forced to compromise his principles in the face of such overwhelming odds, was enough to make her long to do something reckless.

  “You are pale, mam’selle. Perhaps a touch more rouge?”

  Félicité dipped the hare’s foot into the pot of rose-red powder and stroked it once more across the high ridges of her cheekbones. “They say the Spanish don’t approve of women aiding nature in this way.”

  “That may be, but it hasn’t kept them from wailing like love-starved cats under your window for two nights past.”

  Félicité smiled as she met the eyes of the maid in the mirror where Ashanti stood just behind her at the dressing table. “It’s an old Spanish custom, the gentlemen serenading the ladies they admire. I suppose I should be complimented.”

  “They think so, these soldiers with their twanging guitars.”

  “There was one who sang rather nicely.” Félicité picked up a patch in the shape of a lyre, and after a moment’s consideration, placed it just below the corner of her mouth to emphasize its tender curves.

  “Perfect, mam’selle,” Ashanti said of the patch, then went on, “It was wise of you not to appear in your window. M’sieu Valcour was livid enough without that.”

  A shadow came and went in Félicité’s brown eyes. “Yes. My gown, now.”