Louisiana History Collection - Part 1

by Jennifer Blake

  The robe à la Française was of yellow silk embroidered with a pattern of green leaves and vines and edged with lace touched with gold thread. It fastened with hooks to a tightly fitting embroidered basque that ended in a point, falling open over the petticoats. The low neckline was edged also by the lace ruffle of her chemise, and the ruffles edging the sleeves of her chemise fluttered too under the tightly fitted falling sleeves of the gown for a fuller effect. The skirts that swept over the panniers were full and spreading, ending in a train in the back that fell from loose Watteau pleats at the shoulders of the gown.

  Ashanti slipped the last of the hooks into their loops, adjusted the set of the pleats, and stepped back. “You look fit to appear at the court of the Sun King himself, mam’selle.”

  Félicité glanced at herself in the mirror. The whiteness of her hair under its powder gave her a regal, sophisticated appearance, while making her eyes seem darker and more mysterious than usual. One had to endure such trivialities for the sake of fashion. “Does it seem to you, Ashanti, that my bosom is just a little bare?”

  “This gown is a trifle lower in that area than you usually wear. You could wear a neck ruff of lace as a distraction, if you like, or insert a tâtez-y.”

  The last-mentioned item was a pleated frill artfully called a “touch here.” Félicité shook her head, then stepped to the dressing table and took up a square of lace. She twisted it deftly in her hands, then, with a small smile, tucked it into her bodice.

  “Mam’selle, no,” Ashanti breathed.

  “I think yes.” The lace, pleated in the shape of a small fan, was a good imitation of a white cockade, the symbol of Bourbon France.

  “Take it out, mam’selle,” the maid pleaded.

  Félicité hesitated, knowing the foolhardiness of such a gesture full well. At that moment there came a call from beyond the door. “Félicité, we are waiting.”

  “There is no time to find a substitute. More than likely the stupid Spanish will never notice. I must go. My pattens, Ashanti.”

  With her face set in lines of severe disapproval, the maid moved to do her bidding.

  Pattens were wooden clogs that slipped over her shoes to lift her above the ground. The extra height would keep her skirts from trailing in the filth and dirt of the street, during the walk to the house where the soirée was being held. Carriages were the exception rather than the rule in the town. It was no great distance inside the walls of the fortified settlement to any place a person might wish to go; moreover, the wet climate where the streets ran with water more often than not, combined with the soft alluvial soil that made paving stones sink out of sight the moment they were laid, made wheeled vehicles impractical. In truly inclement weather, entertainments were postponed, though Félicité had seen the time when the mud was so deep that pattens were useless and the ladies had taken off shoes and stockings and waded. On arrival they had dipped their feet in a pan of water, dried them, donned stockings and shoes again, and danced the night away.

  The French regime had been a casual one, with great friendliness and camaraderie, with a distinct feeling of being kindred souls in the wilderness fighting to maintain the elegances of life. Many were the homes of rough, split lumber with crystal chandeliers hanging from the rafters and Persian carpets on the puncheons. What did it matter as long as the lusters sparkled, the wine flowed, and the conversation kept one’s wits nimble?

  No doubt all that would be changed now that the Spanish had come. All would be form and formality. It was said that Navarro, one of the Spanish officials who had come with Ulloa and stayed behind when he was expelled, was building a house with a gallery across the entire upper floor; that he had ordered intricately wrought iron as fine as lace in the way of railings for it and rich fabrics to cover the walls. So sheeplike had the French inhabitants become, no doubt before long everyone would be pulling down the half-timbered houses and building galleried mansions for themselves.

  There were flambeaux in metal holders burning on either side of the door of the house where the soirée was being held. Candlelight shone from the windows, and through the openings with their shutters thrown wide could be seen a press of people in their finest clothing. The smell of hot myrtle wax from the candles made of the native shrub vied in the air with the scent of perfume in which most of those gathered had bathed, the use of water for either drinking or cleansing of the person being deadly dangerous. Félicité’s father had always decried the superstition, at least as it touched on personal ablutions, enjoying daily submersion in warm water and vigorous scrubbing with soap. Félicité had naturally gained the same habit, plus a strong wish that more would do the same.

  She glanced at her father with a slight wrinkling of her nose as she paused just inside the doorway to allow Ashanti, who had, of course, accompanied her, to divest her of her pattens.

  Monsieur Lafargue only shook his head, his lips curving in a smile before he handed his chapeau bras to Valcour’s manservant and nodded a dismissal so that their attendants could go in search of the refreshment and music provided for them in the rear of the house. He had lost weight in the last weeks, Félicité thought. His powdered wig concealed his thinning hair with its gradually increasing gray streaks, but it brought the grayish cast of his skin into relief. He did not trouble himself overly much with his appearance. His satin coat, once sky-blue, had turned lavender in the creases and was longer than the current mode. In addition, his perpetual stoop, caused by his forever being crouched over a book, did not help the once fine fit. For no good reason, Félicité, watching him, felt the ache of tears in her throat. If anything should happen to him, she did not know what she would do.

  With her father on one side and Valcour, resplendent in silver brocade and sparkling paste buttons, on the other, Félicité swept forward to join the throng. Immediately she was drawn into the chatter, the exchange of greetings, the inspecting of the toilettes of the other women, and having her own inspected. A few of the older men and women sat on chairs on one wall, but most moved freely about, doing their best to drown out the music being provided by a string quartet in one corner. There was no dancing as yet; that would not have been comme il faut, since the guest of honor had not yet put in an appearance. The canopied armchair at the end of the room provided for O’Reilly’s comfort was unoccupied.

  The event was not long delayed. Abruptly the music stopped. A fanfare of trumpets sounded. A Spanish official stationed near the rear door of the room stepped forward, threw back his shoulders, and announced: “By the will of his most august and Catholic majesty King Carlos III of Spain, Governor-General Don Alejandro O’Reilly!”

  Hard on the words appeared a pair of men in the scarlet uniform of Spain carrying heavy silver maces. Behind them came an armed honor guard in double file. They halted, and between them a man entered the room. As he strode forward the musicians struck up the national anthem of Spain.

  Tall, with an erect military bearing, O’Reilly was dressed in white satin of severe cut decorated with wide, gold-embroidered braid, slashed by his red ribbon of office and covered with glittering orders. His features were strong, with a long nose and firm lips. Though many looked close, there was little warmth to be seen in his blue eyes. His progress was slowed by a decided limp.

  The instant he had gained his chair, the mace bearers moved to position themselves one on either side of the governor-general, while the guards ranged themselves behind him. Immediately afterward, his officers began to file into the room in a river of scarlet uniforms, flowing down one side as the French guests recoiled to the other.

  As the last strains of the anthem died away, silence descended. There was the rustle of clothing as people turned to stare at each other, but no one spoke. The hostess of the gathering stood twisting her hands together in indecision, trying to catch the eye of her husband.

  It was then that O’Reilly spoke, a low-voiced order carried by one of the men near him to the musicians, in the corner. They nodded, then, with verve, struck u
p the anthem of France.

  All over the room people relaxed, allowed themselves to smile, to sigh, to move their lips to the familiar words. It was a grand gesture, was it not? He must be a sympathetic man, this O’Reilly.

  The moment the officers filed into the room, Félicité recognized Lieutenant-Colonel Morgan McCormack. How could one not, when he was so tall, topping even his cold-faced general? He lounged with his broad shoulders propped against the wall, at ease and yet alert, his green gaze moving over the crowd, observant, watchful. Félicité glanced away, noticing Valcour. He was watching O’Reilly, a curl to his thin lips. When she flicked a quick look at the colonel once more, he was staring at her, probing the mass of her powdered hair as if to find a hint of gold to be certain of recognition. Velvet brown and brilliant green, their eyes clashed. It was Félicité who looked away, the color rising beneath the traces of rouge on her cheeks.

  The French anthem came to an end. O’Reilly, signaling for the general dancing to start, made his apologies. “You must excuse me from commencing the festivities, if you please,” he said, his voice carrying effortlessly to every corner of the large room as he gestured briefly toward one of his limbs. “My infirmity makes me an unlovely sight upon the floor. I would prefer to wait until I can become lost among the crowd. Pray do not stand on ceremony, but enjoy yourselves.”

  It seemed to Félicité that as the governor-general finished speaking he looked with particular significance toward his officers. There was a stirring along the scarlet line, and one by one the men detached themselves and moved across the width that separated the two groups. The faces of a few mirrored eagerness, others embarrassed reluctance, while still others appeared grimly determined. None, however, hung back.

  Tension was suddenly a palpable thing in the room. The musicians faltered into a minuet. Young French girls, with Spanish officers bowing before them, cast agonized glances at their mothers. A few of these matrons gave slow nods, and a number turned their backs, pulling their female offspring away to safety, though some had the presence of mind to claim a prior promise while commanding with imperious glances the instant attendance of older sons, nephews, or the sons of bosom friends. Slowly the floor filled, though the proportion of red uniforms was not large.

  A man with a thin mustache and dancing black eyes came bearing down upon Félicité. He was, she thought, one of the soldiers who had stood in the street to serenade her. It was difficult to be certain, of course, since she had only had a brief glimpse of him through the louvers of the shutters.

  There was no necessity to make her excuses or insult the man. Valcour took her hand and, holding it high over the wide width of her panniers, led her out onto the floor beneath the nose of the crestfallen officer.

  They bowed and postured through the graceful minuet, with Félicité’s skirts sweeping the crude rubbed boards of the floor and their faces set in the prescribed expressions of polite boredom. From the corner of her eye as she pointed one satin slipper, Félicité caught the movement of a messenger between O’Reilly and the musicians. When the minuet came to an end, the string quartet, without pausing, began a stately pavane, the dance of the Spanish court.

  A second pavane followed the first. Félicité and Valcour joined Monsieur Lafargue at the refreshment table, where a wine punch was being ladled out by a liveried servant.

  “You and Valcour make a handsome couple, ma chère,” the older man said, saluting them with his glass. “Easily the most accomplished on the floor.”

  “La, that is no great compliment,” Valcour said with an airy gesture, “when clumsy Spanish officers in their jackboots are the competition.” From the pocket of his coat he took a snuffbox shaped like a coffin, with a skull and crossbones enameled in black and silver on the lid. His movements precise, he flipped open the lid with one hand, took a small pinch, and lifted it to his nostrils. On a long, slow breath, he put the box away, took out his handkerchief, and only then gave a quiet sneeze into its snowy, perfumed, lace-edged folds.

  It was at that moment a man Félicité recognized as Braud, the court printer of documents, spoke to her father in a low voice, drawing him off to one side. After a moment, Monsieur Lafargue turned to beckon to Valcour. A feeling of disquiet assailed Félicité. It was well known that Braud was involved in the activities of the revolution. It had been he who had printed the broadsides handed out on street corners and the placards that had gone up everywhere stating the aims of the rebels. He had also inked the documents entitled Decree of the Council, circulated the year before in October of 1768, and the Memorial of the Inhabitants of Louisiana on the Event of October 1768, both of which had put forth the grievances of the population and the means the conspirators meant to use to redress them. If Braud wished to speak to her father, it must be concerning the business of the conspiracy.

  “Mademoiselle, we meet again.”

  Félicité whirled to face Lieutenant Colonel Morgan McCormack. She had not seen his approach in her concern for what was happening with her father, and she was caught off guard. That he realized her dilemma and knew she had until now sought to avoid contact with the Spanish officers was obvious from the mockery that glinted in the depths of his green eyes. Under the circumstances, there was no point in being gracious.

  “Not,” Félicité said plainly, “by my design.”

  “It seemed best not to wait on that event.” He inclined his head.

  “I am happy you understand that much.” His hair was powdered for this formal evening, the queue covered by the usual black satin bag. Félicité surprised herself by entertaining the thought that he was better without that stark white contrast to his bronzed, almost swarthy coloring.

  “Regardless, our acquaintance must be pursued, Mademoiselle Lafargue.”

  “I don’t remember giving you my name.”

  “An oversight, I’m sure, one I made it my business to correct.”

  “Why so?” Félicité spread the fan that dangled from a silken cord at her wrist, using it to cool her heated cheeks.

  “For the purpose of furthering our acquaintance.”

  He was not going to allow her to ignore the opening he sought to create. “There can be no point. We are of two different nationalities. Moreover, you serve a master I cannot like!”

  “My master is now yours also, something you would do well to remember.” His voice was quiet with an undertone of steel. Reaching out with a smooth, controlled gesture, he twitched the lace handkerchief, the white cockade of Bourbon France, from the low bodice of her gown. It fluttered from his fingers to the floor, and he bent swiftly to retrieve it, presenting the bit of white lace. “Your handkerchief, mademoiselle. I believe you dropped it.”

  It happened so quickly it was unbelievable. No one else seemed to have noticed. If it were not for the hard impudence that gleamed in Morgan McCormack’s eyes, she might almost have thought it an accident, that he had brushed against her, dislodging the cockade. It would not be wise to create a scene, but the effort it cost her to accept the handkerchief, to speak a few frigid words of gratitude, was a drain on her composure.

  “Where was I?” he went on. “Yes, I was speaking of my reasons for seeking you out. My commanding officer, the representative of Spain in Louisiana, has decreed that there will be pleasant social interchange between his men and the community. It is my duty to carry out his orders.”

  “That is certainly complimentary, colonel!” Félicité snapped her fan shut, and with fingers that trembled with the anger that gripped her, tucked the handkerchief into the elbow-length sleeve of her gown.

  “Is it my compliments you want? I was sure you would disdain them, but it is not always possible to judge these matters.” His grave words were shaded with irony.

  “You deliberately mistake my meaning. That being so, you will not be surprised if I hold myself excused from this conversation.” With a proud tilt to her head, Félicité swept around, preparing to depart.

  He put out a hand to catch her arm. “I think n
ot, Mademoiselle Lafargue.”

  There was something in his voice and in the emerald glitter of his eyes that held her. His touch, the warm firmness of his grasp with its hint of much greater strength than he cared to exert, was oddly disturbing. Her tone as cold as she could make it, she said, “I am not accustomed to being manhandled, Colonel McCormack.”

  “Nor am I accustomed to having ladies turn their backs while I am requesting the honor of their presence on the floor.”

  “Is that what you were doing? Your technique could use improvement.” She looked pointedly at his strong brown fingers still closed around her forearm, but he did not release her.

  “I doubt my technique has any bearing on your answer. Perhaps you would be more reasonable if an inquiry was to be opened into the incident of the chamber pot?”

  His expression did not waver as she stared at him. There could be no doubt that he had the power to do exactly as he said. “You — you would do that, simply because I am unwilling to dance with you?”

  “I am vindictive by nature, it seems. Lamentable, but true.”

  “I don’t believe you.” The words were defiant, as was the look in her eyes, but her tone was not as strong as she would have liked.

  “Shall we put it to the test? Or will you swallow your spleen and admit that taking the floor with me is preferable to a day in the stocks?”

  The prospect of being forced to stand bent over at the waist with her neck and arms clamped rigidly between the wooden boards and her face and posterior unprotected targets for the mud and filth flung by every street urchin was not something Félicité could contemplate with equanimity. The stocks in the Place d’Armes were temptingly close to the levee markets, and missiles of rotted fruit and fish entrails were too often the lot of the unfortunates sentenced to them. There was every likelihood that she could find herself in that position. It would probably be considered a light punishment for the crime she was supposed to have committed.