"They’re weapons." He took a long drag on his cigar and watched the smoke curl toward the ceiling.
"I know they’re weapons." Her voice chilled. "I’m not entirely stupid, Chase. I’ve heard of Governor Winchester and his rifle. But why have you included them in my order?"
"For the same reason you’ve been persuaded to carry a gun. For the protection of yourself and all the women in this house."
She sat back and regarded him for long moments. "Do you think we’re in any danger?"
Chase watched the way the candlelight turned the ends of her hair to flame. An artist would never be able to do her justice. Her energy, her many moods, her elusive beauty would be impossible to capture on canvas. "I think," he said, weighing his words carefully, "that these are dangerous, chaotic times. You should be prepared for every kind of danger. If it should never come, you can count yourself among the fortunate."
She felt a tiny shiver of apprehension, then dismissed it. She’d been battling her nerves ever since that terrible attack. The best way to deal with it was to go on with her life as normally as possible.
"I hate guns."
Chase smiled then. "I’m not overly fond of them myself. But I find they come in very handy sometimes."
"Have you ever killed a man, Chase?"
He stubbed his cigar in the ash tray and stood. "I’d like my money now, so we can conclude this piece of business."
From the look in his eyes she knew that she had once again crossed over the line of propriety. There would no be more conversation tonight. Why did she have to be so impetuous? Hadn’t Sister Marie Therese often accused her of saying too much? With a sigh she walked to a small cabinet against the far wall and withdrew the money box. Counting out the bills, she handed them to him.
Folding the money, he stuffed it into his pocket and started toward the door.
"Who’s going to teach us how to shoot those things?" Her voice was still deep with anger.
He turned. His tone was equally cold. "Ask Luther. Unless, of course, you’d rather have Nate Blackwell teach you."
"Chase . . ."
"Good night, Miss Montgomery." Without another word, he left.
Chapter Sixteen
It happened again. The entire city of New Orleans was electrified with the news. Eighty-two-year-old Francis Hampstead found a package at his door containing the exact amount needed to pay his back taxes. He, his daughter-in-law, and her two grown daughters had been working the farm since Francis, Junior, had been killed at Fredericksburg. This land was all they had. Hard work was the only thing they knew. The very day they had been prepared to leave their home, to turn their backs on everything they loved, they’d been offered a reprieve.
Little clusters of people stood on street comers and discussed the Archangel of Mercy’s second miracle. Businessmen huddled in shop doorways, speculating on the turn of events. The women in Hannah Elliott’s House of Pleasure, like the women all over town, wondered if this mysterious hero was someone of their acquaintance.
Annalisa didn’t bother wondering. Another piece of the puzzle had just fallen into place. Hadn’t Nate Blackwell been standing just outside the parlor when Jasper Willis had revealed his plans to foreclose on Hampstead House? And hadn’t he left soon afterward? That was all the proof she needed. What, she wondered, had brought him there on that particular night? Did the man have a premonition of what was to come? Or had the Fates brought him there?
"Well, Masters," one of the men joked that evening during their poker game. "Do you still think l’Archange de Miséricorde is just a secret admirer?"
A ripple of laughter filled the room as Chase bit the end of a cigar and bent toward Annalisa, who held a taper to the tip. She was proving to be too beautiful a distraction. He constantly had to remind himself that there were more important things in life than a fragile beauty whose very presence reminded him of crushed rose petals and soft satin sheets.
"Francis Hampstead is in his eighties," another intoned. "Do you figure some rich old widow is hoping this kind gesture will stand her in his good graces?"
Seeing Annalisa’s sudden interest, Chase shrugged and joined in their laughter. "Maybe our Archangel of Mercy is more interested in one of Hampstead’s granddaughters. I understand they’re beauties."
"If you take the time to scrape off a year’s worth of Louisiana mud," someone added.
As more laughter erupted, Annalisa made her way from the parlor. It infuriated her to hear jokes made of the noble Archangel of Mercy. She longed to join him in his mission. She didn’t have enough money saved to make an appreciable difference. But, she thought, pacing the hallway, she did have something no one else had—access to information. She paused in her pacing. She would listen even more carefully; she would ask the right questions. And when she had important information, she would find a way to get it to the one man who could use it for a good cause.
* * *
"No, Miss Montgomery," Luther said, a little too sharply. "You don’t tuck the rifle under your arm. You rest the butt . . . Pardon me, ma’am." He flushed and wiped his brow. "You rest the stock on your shoulder like this."
While the young man positioned the rifle and showed Annalisa how to aim, he cursed the man who had dropped this chore in his lap. Chase Masters must have known how inept these women would prove to be.
Eulalie fired her 1848 Sharps breech-loading rifle and was knocked backward from the report. Dazed, she fell to the ground. Instantly Luther was by her side, cradling her in his arms.
"You all right?"
The others watched the tender scene with interest.
"Hmmm?" Stunned, she stared at him a minute, then gingerly touched her shoulder. "That hurts. Why didn’t you warn me?"
His voice was contrite. "I was going to if you’d given me time, girl. I didn’t expect you to fire so soon."
With his big hands on either side of her face, he stared down into her dark eyes and wondered again at her remarkable beauty. Glancing around, he realized that everyone was watching them. Pulling her to her feet, he handed her the rifle that had dropped from her hand. He turned to the line of women, holding a variety of rifles at their shoulders, and pointed to a row of oak trees from which hung dozens of gleaming targets. In a clear voice he said, "Some of these rifles will do to you what Eulalie’s just did—knock you backward. You just have to prepare yourselves by digging in your heels. If you anticipate the blow, it won’t seem so staggering." He mopped his brow again, swearing under his breath, then said loudly, "All right, ladies. Take aim." He paused and ignored their clumsy attempts to squint through the guns’ sights. "Fire."
A volley of gunshot rang through the woods as the rifles were fired. Luther watched his students and told himself to be grateful they hadn’t been in the army. The war would never have ended.
Annalisa closed her eyes and fired, then found herself wondering if she’d even come close to the target. Gritting her teeth, she loaded as Luther had taught her and fired a second time. This time she kept her eyes open and was dismayed to see the wrong target fall.
"You hit it," Luther called with excitement. Finally, one of his pupils had managed to hit something.
"I wasn’t aiming for that tree," Annalisa called in disgust.
Disheartened, Luther turned away to give Gabrielle assistance.
"You can’t keep screwing your eyes shut," he scolded as she fired. "How can you see what you’re shooting?"
"I don’t care to see," she said in her most haughty tone. "I do not understand why we must learn to handle such weapons. I know I could never use them to shoot someone."
Beside her, Francine calmly loaded her Winchester rifle, aimed, and fired. The ping as she hit her target caused everyone to turn toward her.
"You hit it," Luther shouted, believing for the first time that it might be possible to teach these women how to defend themselves.
"How did you do that, chérie?" Gabrielle asked.
"Easy. I imagined that the target was one
of the men who attacked and humiliated me. If I’d had a rifle then, not one of them would be alive today."
Annalisa glanced at Francine’s lovely face. Her eyes were hard; her expression determined. She felt a shudder and thought about the man who had attacked her in her office. With renewed vigor, Annalisa lifted her rifle and eyed her target. Clenching her teeth, she pulled the trigger and was rewarded with the clanging of a falling target.
Delia, sweet, gentle Delia, was the surprise of the day. Without a word, she set to work learning to load and shoot the new Winchester. With each shot she stood taller, and her aim grew straighter. Within hours, she became the best marksman of the group.
"Slow down, Delia," Luther said, standing slightly behind her as she fired. "What’s your hurry, girl?"
Lowering her rifle, she glanced toward him, then ducked her head. In a barely audible voice, she said, "I was thinking about my parents and little brothers. I guess I was firing at the ghosts of the men who killed them." Seeing the others watching her, she lifted her chin and added, "I like having a gun. I like the feeling of safety it gives me. And I give you my word. If we ever find ourselves in trouble, I won’t act like a coward. You won’t find me hiding in a bucket in the well. This time, I’ll fight back."
Slowly Annalisa dropped her rifle and walked to the girl, drawing her arms around her. "Delia, when your family was attacked you were a little girl. You weren’t being cowardly. Your mother knew your only hope was to avoid being found. That’s why she ordered you to hide in the well. Do you know what would have happened to you if you had disobeyed your mother and revealed your hiding place? Those men would have shown you no mercy."
A sob escaped the girl’s lips as she clung for a moment to Annalisa. Then she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and tossed her head. "I know." She sniffed. "I know I had no choice then." A feeble smile touched the corners of her lips. "But I do now. And I’ll never hide from trouble again. Next time, I’ll stand and fight."
"We all will," Francine said, coming to stand beside her. Her own eyes were wet with tears.
Gabrielle glanced at Hattie Lee, who stood, rifle in hand, watching the others. Nodding her head, the regal young woman took a step toward the others. "I will never learn to like handling this weapon." In her emotional state, her Creole dialect thickened. "But you are right, of course, mes amies. We must stand together and be ready to fight any danger.
When Eulalie joined the group, they began hugging each other. Hattie Lee’s rich, honeyed voice ended the tears and brought them back to reality. "Luther, let’s get on with the lesson. We have a lot to learn."
The young man stepped forward and began once more to explain how to load, aim, fire. While the women listened attentively, he found himself hoping he never had to face their wrath. Just hours ago, they had been timid, frightened little mice, afraid even to hold a rifle. Now he watched them, their spines stiff, their eyes narrowed on the targets. Together, these women were a formidable team.
* * *
In no time the excitement about the Archangel of Mercy died down, and the people of New Orleans became engrossed once more in their own lives. Life seemed to move more slowly during the long, hot summer, and even the zeal of the politicians failed to fire the local populace.
Chase traveled more frequently, and when he returned, he often brought with him fine silks from the Orient, bright madras from India, and exotic perfumes from France. For Hattie Lee’s benefit, he often picked up catalogs showing the latest French fashions. And he seemed always willing to pick up something special for the women of the house. All of them openly flirted with him. Although Annalisa resented his roguish charm, she was as attracted as all the others.
As Annalisa examined the latest load of silks, she glanced up to find him watching her. Always, it seemed, when he thought she didn’t notice, he watched her.
"With so many in the country begging, how are you able to come by such fine things, Chase?"
"I have agents in the New York harbor who keep a list of the things I can use. Whenever a merchant ship docks, they check my list and set aside certain items."
"It must cost you a great deal of money."
"I manage to make a little," he said, reaching for a cigar.
"And you probably don’t save a penny, considering how often you lose at poker."
"I get by." He bit the end of the cigar and waited until she leaned toward him with a light. The soft scent of roses drifted over him. While he puffed, he continued watching her eyes. Topaz. "I nearly forgot." As she blew out the taper, he reached into his pocket and withdrew a small package.
"For me?" She stared at his hand a moment, then reached out for it tentatively. Her eyes twinkled mischievously. "Another gun?"
"I won’t make that mistake again." He smiled. "Just a little something that reminded me of you."
He watched the light in her eyes as she tore the wrapping. Inside she beheld a many-faceted stone the size of a goose egg. Translucent amber, it caught the rays of the sun and shot light across the ceiling of her office.
"Oh, Chase. It’s lovely." She lifted a smiling face to him. "What is it called?"
"Topaz. Some call it a yellow sapphire. It’s a precious gem, rarely found in this size." He chuckled. "The dealer wasn’t certain he wanted to part with it. But I told him I had to have it."
"Why?"
He was no longer smiling. He was staring at her in a way that made her blood heat. "Because it reminded me of you. It’s the exact color of your eyes. I wanted you to have it."
Flustered, she turned away, hating the way her cheeks were burning. "Where shall I put it?"
"Why not here on your desk? You can use it as a paperweight." He indicated the mound of new ledgers and papers scattered across her desk.
Setting it down in a pool of sunlight, she felt the heat from the stone as it sent fractured rays of light dancing about the room. She glanced up to see Chase watching her.
"Every day, while I’m working on my accounts, I’ll look at this and think of you." There was a warmth in her tone he’d never heard before. "I love it, Chase. Thank you."
Standing on tiptoe, she brushed her lips across his cheek. It was the first time she had ever volunteered her affection. Taking her arm, he held her when she would have turned away.
Glancing up, she saw a look in his eyes that left her shaken. Chase rarely allowed his feelings to show. But there was an undeniable fire burning in those gray depths.
"And now you won’t have to say you’ve never received a gift."
Her eyes danced. "My first gift. Except the gun."
His lips compressed. "That one didn’t count."
"Why?"
He suddenly grinned, and her heart tumbled. "Because it disappointed you."
"No. Really it didn’t. I’ve learned to take great comfort in the fact that I have my little gun."
"Have you mastered the art of shooting it?"
How long was he going to stand this close and not take her in his arms? The waiting, the wanting, made her ache.
She shrugged. "I practice sometimes, when I’m alone."
"You’ll have to show me what you’ve learned."
"I will. Someday. I promise."
He stared down into her eyes a moment longer, reading her invitation. He needed only to touch, to taste. But the need to have her was becoming too great. Without a word he ran a finger along her cheek and brushed a strand of hair from her temple. Then he let himself out.
When he was gone, she sat down at her desk and stared at the lovely piece of amber quartz. It pleased her to know that while he was out of town, Chase had been reminded of her eyes. She smiled and began humming a little tune as she opened her ledger.
* * *
Lunch was a lighthearted meal, occasionally served in the elegant dining room, but more often taken in the bright, airy kitchen. Most of the women slept until nearly noon, and upon request, a maid delivered coffee and beignets or French rolls to their rooms. They assembled for
lunch dressed in anything from cotton wrappers to silk peignoirs. Many of them wore their hair streaming down their backs, or pulled back with simple ribbons. In the bright light of day, their faces free of makeup and freshly scrubbed, without their finery, they appeared to be what they really were—young women who shared a bond of friendship.
The meal was simple. The cook had made a gumbo, which she ladled from a black kettle. Freshly baked bread cooled on a sideboard, along with slabs of cold meat and cheese. A basket of ripe peaches dripped moisture in the sun.
"This is wonderful, Thelma," Annalisa sighed as she finished her soup and bit into a juicy peach.
"Did you see Lafourcade last night?" Gabrielle asked, helping herself to a second bowl of gumbo. "He preens like a peacock."
The others laughed.
"I was stuck with Willis," Francine sighed. "The man is so pompous. Always talking about money. Sometimes I swear that man thinks everything in that bank belongs to him."
Delia nodded in agreement. "It’s the only thing he really loves."
Lowering her voice, Francine went on, "He’s so sly. Always dreaming up new ways to make more money for the bank. Last night he told me he’s found a buyer for Durier’s Park. Some eastern millionaire will buy the entire six hundred acres for ten cents on the dollar. Can you imagine?"
Annalisa gripped her teacup tightly in both hands, losing the thread of conversation that went on around her. Could it be possible that the Durier family could lose their precious plantation?
Shortly after her arrival in New Orleans, Annalisa had learned about the Durier plantation. Francois Durier, a transplanted Parisian, had brought a cosmopolitan flavor to his lovely plantation. All the roads had been turned into wide boulevards, with rows of stately oak trees offering shade. There were lovely beds of azaleas and camellias, and formal rose gardens with decorative topiary trees and carefully manicured hedges. The mansion, three stories tall, with wide, pillared steps and an elaborate upper balcony, was designed in the Greek Revival style. During his lifetime, it had been a magnificent showplace, filled with the finest furnishings from Europe. Riverboats delivered elegant wallcoverings from Paris, as well as chandeliers, silver and crystal, and marble statues from Italy. It was called Durier’s Park because every year the entire population of New Orleans was invited to a summer picnic, with games and pony rides for the children, and exotic food and refreshment for the adults. After Durier’s death at Richmond, his widow and young son valiantly tried to maintain the estate. With their servants scattered, their crops destroyed, and many of their outbuildings burned, Durier’s Park fell into disrepair. Most of the lovely furnishings and antiques were sold to pay off their mounting debts. When the widow Durier died, her son married and continued to work the land, determined to restore his father’s estate to its former magnificence.
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