“Take your hands off her, Gambi,” came a voice quite near, and Gabrielle turned thankfully to Simmons, whose presence she had forgotten under the evil spell of the tall Italian.
“Get out, boy, or I shall have my men feed you to the sharks,” Gambi snapped.
“Not before I inform Lafitte of your actions,” Simmons returned bravely, stepping back a little from the anger in the man’s face.
Gambi hesitated, eyeing the boy and then the young woman, then shrugged and smiled cruelly. “As you wish, my brave young man. It behooves me little to create a scene now amid the general jubilation upon the success of my mission, but there will be another time, better suited to a lasting revenge. I must warn you—insult an Italian, and you had better sleep with your eyes open.” He nodded to Gabrielle and saluted the boy with a sarcastic gesture, then left them alone.
Gabrielle breathed deeply, her eyes looking on Simmons with distress. “Oh, John, Tm sorry. I’m deeply grateful for your intervention, but it seems as though we have both made an enemy of the Italian. He is dangerous.”
Simmons shrugged in pretended bravado. “I’ve heard Lafitte is anxious to rid himself of the foreign scum anyway. Have no fear, ma’am, I’ll inform Mr. Lafitte of the incident right away. I’m sure he will know how to deal with it.”
Gabrielle caught at his arm. “I—I think not, John. Lafitte would be sure to question you further on the whole affair and—it might not be too wise to arouse his curiosity.”
Reluctantly, the boy agreed, shaking his head at feminine logic.
Spring came and went, and summer was upon them. Statehood had been granted to Louisiana, and the celebrations were many and varied. In the city there were fireworks and balls and picnics, and Gabrielle listened to word of them from some of the other women on the island who had attended with various crew members. Lafitte did not like to keep his men too long on the island, away from the gaiety of New Orleans, for he knew they would grow restless and dispirited if allowed to remain idle between voyages.
She learned from Pierre that Marie Villars had been delivered of a daughter in July of that year, 1812.
“And what have you named her?” she asked one evening as Pierre sat at the table, stuffing his round face with gumbo.
“Marie has decided on Rose,” he replied between mouthfuls. And then, chuckling, “And you know, she does look sort of like a little rose—all dark pink and soft.”
“I would so like to see Marie and the new baby,” she sighed to herself.
Lafitte, who had just come in, caught the last of her words and grinned rakishly. “Well, my sweet, if you’re wanting to see New Orleans, I think it can be arranged.”
Gabrielle jumped up from her seat and threw her arms around him. “Oh, Jean! Do you think I could? It’s been a whole year since I’ve been to the city, and I do miss the excitement.”
Lafitte chuckled. “I’ve never met a woman like you, my love. How you’ve stood me and this island for a whole year, I’ll never understand—and not a whimper.”
He gazed at her and his black eyes grew velvety soft. “And I suppose with you growing big with the little bastard in you, I’m not likely to lose you to some handsome American profiteer.” He patted the gentle swell of her belly and Gabrielle blushed self-consciously, shielding her face by the fall of golden curls.
Pierre got up from the table with a crash of his chair and rumbled over to where she stood. “Why, you little imp, here I’ve been crowing about my own young one, and you’ve been sitting there all along with your own little secret.” He put his big arms around her and squeezed her mightily, taking advantage of the occasion to apply a wet kiss on her mouth. “When’s the brat due?”
“The baby is due in January,” Gabrielle replied, correcting him gently. “I’m just four months along and I thought that gave me ample time to inform you later.” She crinkled her nose at him and leaned happily against Lafitte.
“Why, I never thought I’d see the day that my brother, the formidable Jean Lafitte, was to become a father again!” Pierre laughed, slapping his thigh. “It really does beat all.”
“But what about the trip to New Orleans?” Gabrielle asked, her face aglow with excitement. “Oh, Jean, you’re not just teasing me, are you?”
“Would I tease you, spitfire?” he asked, grinning. “We’ll be leaving early in the morning.”
Gabrielle hugged him ecstatically and hurried from the kitchen to begin her packing.
Once she was gone, Lafitte turned to his older brother thoughtfully. “I hate to admit it, Pierre,” he said softly, “but I’m already feeling the pangs of fatherhood.” He shook his head ruefully. “That girl has wormed her way into my blood, and now, with the child coming, I think I’m completely hooked. God, sometimes I wonder—”
Pierre laughed and slapped his brother on the back. “Jean, Jean, you’re no different from any other man who’s found himself falling in love.”
Lafitte started as though Pierre had delivered a crass insult. “Love hardly fits into my plans,” he retorted, stiffening.
“Ah, brother, I can see you’re fighting yourself,” Pierre returned. “This woman is different. She’s one woman in a million. She’s like the rose that blooms despite its surroundings. She’s worth all of that treasure you keep building up.” Pierre grinned slyly. “And speaking of treasure you can’t tell me you’re saving that up for your old age. I’ve an idea that one of these days you’re just going to call it quits and take your money and your woman to go off to God knows where, where no one will find you.”
“An interesting notion,” Lafitte responded thoughtfully as he paced the room briskly, his hands clenched behind his back. “Of course I realize that Gabrielle is the kind of woman meant for a man like me. She’s worthy of a king—and would I like to be that king?” He faced his brother and his dark eyes narrowed perceptibly. “Power, remember that it is a dangerous thing, Pierre. It can turn a man’s head and make him hunger for more.”
Pierre sat down heavily in a chair and gazed absently into the mouth of the open bottle. He took another long pull and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Just remember, too, that power can ruin you, little brother.”
Chapter Twenty-one
Gabrielle looked about her happily, enjoying the sights and sounds that were New Orleans. The docks had changed little in the year and a half since she’d last seen them. The black men still worked tirelessly unloading the barrels and crates from the long wooden flatboats piloted by lanky, awkward-looking Kentuckians whose bright blue eyes seemed to follow her with considerable interest.
“I’ve already informed Renée to put up a guest room for us,” Lafitte said, bringing a smile to her lips.
“Oh, how good it will be to see her again, and the others too. You’ve not spoken much of them on your trips to New Orleans. How is business?”
He laughed at her and pressed his arm to her side. “Business is very good these days, what with those savages who are continually coming downriver from Natchez and the Trace. Kentuckians and Easterners who have no idea how to make a living down here. Most of them end up as gamblers or hoodlums.
“It’s a shame,” Gabrielle sighed, “that New Orleans can’t attract decent men, or at least those who have money enough to invest in worthwhile causes.”
“Most men who come to New Orleans with money are only interested in their own causes. There are some, of course, who want to help New Orleans—Claiborne, for all his faults, the Bringiers, the Dubourgs, de Marigny, St. Claire—”
“St. Claire—odd, that name reminds me—”
Lafitte looked down at her sharply. “The man who saved you from the fire at Renee’s.”
“Of course, how could I have forgotten,” Gabrielle replied, remembering the incident with a sudden clarity. She couldn’t help blushing at the shadowy memory of that one night and the lover she had never seen, but she was careful to keep her voice indifferent. “So, it seems I was rescued by one of the model citizens of New Orleans.”
“And who is this de Marigny?” Gabrielle questioned, not really interested, but glad the conversation had turned to a different subject.
“Bernard Philippe de Marigny, Duc de Mandeville, one of the notables of New Orleans, spitfire. I’m sure that other circumstances would have found you meeting the Duc de Mandeville at a garden party or, perhaps, at one of the coming-out balls for one of the young ladies of the town.
He is, I’ve heard, quite the ladies’ man. Inherited money, comes from one of the oldest families in Louisiana.”
“How interesting. And is this pillar of society a bachelor?” Gabrielle asked in a teasing voice.
“Unfortunately, sweetheart, such is not the case. He is married to a Spanish lady, one Anna Matilda Morales, who from all accounts is a bad-tempered bitch—and with good cause, I suppose.”
“My goodness, Jean, I didn’t think you cared to read the scandal sheets, but you seem to be well up on much of the comings and goings of society.”
“Oh, Catherine fills my ears with the gossip she learns from her little friends. The child amuses me the way she puts herself forever underfoot to cater to my slightest wish.” He cast a sideways look at her. “You would do well to learn from little Catherine, my dear.”
Gabrielle bristled. “And just who is Catherine?”
Lafitte laughed appreciably. “Catherine is Marie’s younger sister, and just fourteen, so sheathe your claws, my jealous cat. Besides, it does my heart good to be regarded as someone’s hero.”
Gabrielle sniffed disdainfully. This Catherine might only be fourteen, but if she were Marie’s sister, that meant that as a quadroon her mother had taught her very early the facts of life, and very likely the girl was as mature as a twenty-year-old. But then, why should the thought bother her? Gabrielle argued with herself.
As they walked down Royal Street, having declined a carriage on this perfect August afternoon, Gabrielle marveled at all the gambling houses that had sprung up and now lined the street in gay splotches of music and laughter. Her eyes took in the tall, bronze-colored Indians who reeled drunkenly through the streets, clad in nothing but breechclouts and blankets tossed carelessly over their shoulders. Quadroon girls, grimly chaperoned by their mothers, passed by, giggling and looking pretty with brightly striped tignons that wrapped their heads.
As they entered the Place d’Armes, she was delighted by the colorful promenade that formed within the square.
Old gentlemen in costumes of three generations ago with their silly bagwigs, tottered along on their canes, now and then stopping to inhale a pinch of snuff and sneeze obligingly into the crisp, cool air. There was a small procession of young girls, all of whom were dressed alike in dark clothing, walking two by two on their way to church with black-robed nuns fluttering about them like fat pigeons squawking about a covy of quail. The girls moved with downcast eyes past a group of city guards in their sky-blue uniforms, disregarding the catcalls and whistles that the men offered in appreciation. Dragoons lounged about the iron gates of the Cabildo, the formidable building that housed governmental offices—its grim façade caused a momentary shiver to run down Gabrielle’s spine. Mothers clasped their childrens’ hands tightly, the latter prancing and laughing with exuberant good humor. Young gentlemen, looking like overdressed peacocks, preened and strutted close to the entrance of the Church of Saint-Louis, carefully pulling back their coats to display the intricate patterns traced on their splendid vests of varied hues.
As Lafitte passed by the group, an audible hush descended for a moment while the young blades sized up this pirate of the Gulf, this man whom most of them regarded with a kind of hero worship mixed with amusement at his bravado. But who, they wondered, was the lovely young woman with the extraordinary eyes who strolled so gracefully, hand on his arm? A subdued murmuring broke out among them as each vied to catch the beauty’s eye.
Gabrielle, aware of their interest, could not help but smile at the young Creoles, and she noted one young man who was not very tall, but with unusually light blue eyes in his tanned face, disengage himself from the group and walk indolently towards them. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see that very soon he would be forced to introduce himself, and Lafitte would have to acknowledge him.
“M’sieur Lafitte, your servant.” The man bowed and n smile lit up his handsome face framed in dark, curly hair.
Gabrielle noted that, although he had been among the group of dandies, he did not look like a fop but had a careless assurance about him that bespoke wealth and position. With his heavy, sensual lips and humorous eyes, he looked to know his way around women. He had spoken French, and Lafitte answered in the same tongue.
“And your servant, M’sieur de Marigny.” He bowed slightly, and somewhat reluctantly turned to Gabrielle. “My companion, Ma’m’selle de Beauvoir.”
“Ah, a Frenchwoman! Indeed, I was sure of it the moment I laid eyes on you, ma’m’selle. Charmed, I’m sure,” the man returned with a hint of laughter, capturing her hand securely in his.
“M’sieur de Marigny, I have heard of you,” Gabrielle replied, smiling in her turn and wondering at the luck which would have her meet this influential man so soon after hearing about him from Lafitte.
“Ma’m’selle, m’sieur, I must insist upon sharing a drink with both of you. Do you think it might be possible—unless, of course, you are already engaged for the afternoon?”
Lafitte shook his head. “Many thanks, m’sieur, but I’m afraid that we have already promised ourselves. Perhaps another time.”
Gabrielle was disappointed and realized that de Marigny could probably read her feelings in her face, as the man was watching her intently. But all he said was, “Perhaps.” Then he bowed smartly and sauntered away toward a group of young ladies, escorted by their black servants. An immediate titter went up from the group, and Bernard de Marigny was nearly completely surrounded in another moment.
“What do you think of him?” Lafitte questioned her, half serious, half teasing.
“An interesting man,” Gabrielle returned thoughtfully.
They continued on their way until they had passed beyond the Place d’Armes and found themselves in the French Market. This place was crowded with shoppers and onlookers, people selling everything from meats to flowers. There was a variety of nationalities among the sellers. Greeks, Indians, Spaniards, Italians, and Frenchmen hawked their wares in as many languages, and Gabrielle watched their antics. There was an abundance of fish and shrimp, and a long line of people waited patiently in front of the oyster booths where oysters were sold and served on the half-shell, to be eaten as fast as they were opened. Gabrielle declined to sample one, and Lafitte ate two, amused by her reluctance.
They passed the market and walked down one of the side streets where Lafitte pointed out the Café des Réfugiés, where, he said, refugees from Santo Domingo gathered in the afternoon and young blades congregated in the evening to watch girls perform dances to music on a small stage set up in the courtyard.
“How exciting!” Gabrielle exclaimed. “May we stay and watch?”
Lafitte laughed loudly, causing several people to turn their heads in curious stares. “No, I’m afraid not, spitfire. Only men would dare to patronize the place as just next door is the Hotel de la Marine, which as you know is a favorite rendezvous for pirates and gamblers. I don’t think you would find the entertainment to your liking, ma’m’se
lle.” He leered dangerously at her, then winked.
Gabrielle’s cheeks blushed rosy. Lafitte hailed a cab and they drove to Renée’s establishment, which stood now between two other grand buildings, both of which looked to be gambling dens.
Once inside, Gabrielle began laughing and crying at once. Lafitte quickly excused himself from the embracing and told Gabrielle he would be back later that evening after taking care of some business.
“Oh, Gabrielle, how wonderful to see you again!” Dolly was saying, fondly. “And you’re looking marvelous! My goodness, what is it about that island that brings such a pretty glow to your cheeks?”
“You must come and visit me sometime and find out for yourself,” Gabrielle said affectionately. “I’m afraid you wouldn’t care, though, for some of the men out there.”
“Hmmph, they couldn’t be any worse than these half-civilized pigheads from Kentucky. Those men are insatiable, and, even worse, they’re always falling asleep afterwards, and they snore worse than bears.”
Renée laughed. “Dolly hasn’t changed, has she, Gabrielle? She still complains, but, you know, she had an offer of marriage last year and declined. Actually turned the man down, and he was rich, too! We all called her an idiot!”
Dolly made a face and crossed her arms. “Timothy O’Malley wanted a servant to cook his meals and wash his socks and warm his bed on cold winter mornings. If you call that being a wife, I’ll be a whore ’til the day I die.”
Gabrielle realized with a sudden spear of anguish how much she’d missed these feminine gossips.
“Oh, Dolly, Renée, I’ve missed you so much!” she cried out swiftly and, to her own horror, began to weep in short, retching little sobs that shook her body.
Flabbergasted, Renée took out a clean handkerchief to wipe her eyes.
“F-forgive me, I didn’t mean to act like such a baby,” she sniffed when she had sufficiently recovered herself.
“I think you’re overtired from the journey, especially in your condition,” Renée put in. “Why don’t you take her up to her room, Dolly?”
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