Louisiana History Collection - Part 1 (16 page)

Tell him how? That was the last thing she would do. Her distress was caused by an almost ungovernable urge to unbutton his waistcoat and strip away his lace-cuffed shirt to see if underneath his chest was still marked with the barbaric artwork of his tattoos.

Turning from the candlelight to conceal the high color she could feel spotting her cheekbones, she tried for a light answer. “It’s nothing except that everything here is so different from what I expected. Permit me to tell you how beautiful your home is and how grateful I am for your attention to my comfort.”

“More flattery? I will be undone.”

“No, I am quite sincere. You have created a miracle here in the wilderness. Tell me how it was done, but first tell me how you were able to supply my needs so well as to clothing and — other female necessities.”

“There is no mystery to that,” he said, taking her hand and placing it on his arm, leading her to the settee. “Everything was left by a former guest.”

“How very lucky for me she was so near my size.” His answer had been immediate, without evasion, but had it not been a trifle glib? She sent him a quick glance from the corner of her eye.

“Indeed. By the same good fortune she had with her a maid, a most superior woman, who was of a size with Madame Doucet. I fear the garments left by this woman are not the equal of those you wear, being in dull colors, but as Madame is in mourning, perhaps she will not mind.”

“There must be a tale that explains why these ladies left behind such fine wearables. So scarce are such in Louisiana that I fear it cannot have been by choice.” Clothing was of such value that it was almost never discarded and often figured largely among items of inheritance, with an inventory taken of every piece down to the last handkerchief.

He sent her a quick look, but was rewarded only with her cool profile as she gazed at a marble figurine on the table beside the settee. “I’m afraid it was not. They were carried off by a fever.”

“Both?” she inquired with limpid curiosity.

“Both. It was a brief illness. I assure you there is no fear of contagion.”

“You reassure me.” He was not telling the truth. She knew it, though she could not think why the charade was necessary. She decided to probe deeper. “Do you often have guests here?”

“Not often.”

“Occasionally then.”

“Yes.”

“Are they often female?”

“Sometimes a wife will accompany her husband.”

“How very brave of them to venture so far.”

“You sound,” he said deliberately, “as if you don’t believe me.”

“Do I?”

“If you are suggesting that the female who left the gown you are wearing behind was
fille de joie
come to while away my hours of boredom, then you are wrong.”

She turned to him with interest. “Now I hadn’t thought of that! Would such a woman venture this far into the wilderness? I would not have expected it, not without ample compensation.”

Reluctant amusement and a certain intrigue shone in his eyes for an instant and were gone. “You don’t think that consorting with me at journey’s end would have sufficed.”

“I doubt it.”

“You might at least have appeared to consider it.”

“I only meant,” she explained kindly, “that a
fille de joie
would expect a monetary reward as well as—”

“Yes?” he asked softly as she paused.

The door opened at that moment to admit Pascal. He strode into the room, slamming the panel behind him. His stride broke as he saw Reynaud and Elise, but this was not, apparently, the first time he had come upon his host in the dress of a gentleman, for he had no trouble in recognizing him. He ducked a crude bow in Elise’s direction, accepted Reynaud’s offer of wine, and began to prowl about the room. There had been no providential death to provide him with fresh clothing, for he appeared to be wearing one of Reynaud’s coats from the way the sleeves hung over his hands and the waist strained in the back. His own waistcoat and breeches, though refurbished, made a sorry contrast to the rich velvet of the coat and the new stockings that encased his legs.

Elise had little thought to spare for the merchant, however, or for the conversation between the man and Reynaud that ensued. She knew that she had been decoyed away from the issue of where the clothes had come from by a discussion of Reynaud’s probable female visitors. Why had he bothered unless the clothes had indeed belonged to his kept mistress? Had he challenged her on that point purely to obscure the truth? It was not a thought that pleased her. She cared not at all if he imported a dozen women to service him, of course she did not, but neither did she relish being led down the garden path. She would like to tear off her gown and fling it in his face, but that might be a spectacle he would enjoy too well. Instead, she sent him a look of such smouldering resentment that he blinked and raised a brow in inquiry.

Dinner was a sumptuous meal compared with the fare that had sustained them during their journey. It was served in lavish style, with damask napery, heavy silver, crystal, and chinaware. There was a footman in well-cut livery behind each chair to see to their individual needs, to offer the succulent meats and rich gravies, to refill the wineglasses, to brush away the crumbs, and to refill the finger bowls with clove-scented water as required.

Marie Doucet sat up straight with a flush of animation on her cheeks. This was her element, this social gathering, and not even the somberness of her gown of gray grisette trimmed with black or her memories could detract entirely from her enjoyment. Watching her, Elise was hopeful that the older woman might regain her equilibrium here away from the reminders of her loss. Hers was not a strong personality, and grief and hardship had come very near to oversetting her reason.

Henri had been placed beside Madame Doucet. How dignified he looked with his hair tied back by a full black ribbon, the down shaved from his face, and an outdated coat, most likely one left from Reynaud’s boyhood, stretched over his bony shoulders. As he caught her eye where she sat on Reynaud’s right at the head of the table, he gave her a quick smile that also held warm admiration. All of their temperaments, it appeared, had benefited from warm beds and good food.

The table was covered with white damask that was overlaid diagonally by another cloth in an oriental pattern with pagodas and blossoms in red and gold. Near the foot of the table, to the right of Reynaud’s cousin Madeleine, St. Amant sat, sipping his wine and tracing the pattern of the cloth with one finger as he waited, with the others, for Madame Doucet to finish spooning up the last of her dessert before beginning on the savories and nuts in front of him. As a small silence fell, he looked up at their host. “A delightful meal, Chavalier. I congratulate you on your cook.”

Reynaud inclined his head. “I will convey your compliments to him. I had him from a planter in the Indies, where he was used to a more discerning palate than mine. He will be pleased that you approve.”

“You are too modest,” St. Amant said. “A cook, like any other human being, does not expend his efforts unless he knows they will be appreciated.”

Reynaud did not comment, but sat waiting, his eyes narrowing slightly as if he expected more.

“Your hospitality has been altogether too generous, even overwhelming. I’m sure I speak for all of us when I say that we are most grateful.”

“I will be repaid if you enjoy your unavoidable stay with me. I have arranged for a hunting expedition, if that should appeal. There are abundant deer around us, or bear, if you prefer. The bayou named for the Duc de Maine is near, practically on the doorstep, if fishing is your pleasure. Or, if you have had enough of forests, there are cards, chess, and the use of my library.”

“What more could we want,” St. Amant said, his tone dry though his shrug was no more than a quick movement of his shoulders, “except to know when we are to leave here.”

“Not an unreasonable request. I wish I could give you a definite answer, but that is impossible. The fact is, I am expecting a visitor, a friend. He may arrive tomorrow or it may be next week. When he has come and gone, then we will leave for the fort.”

“Forgive me, m’sieu, for interrupting,” Madame Doucet said, her hands going out in a fluttering appeal, “but is this visitor to be an Indian?”

Reynaud turned to her. “I beg your pardon, madame?”

“Is he to be an Indian? I — I ask it because … Oh, I know it sounds strange, but I woke at dawn this morning and went to the window. My room looks over the back of the house, you know, and as I stood there I thought I saw an Indian warrior pass into the kitchen building. He was wearing a cloak, one like yours, m’sieu, and though I could not be sure, I thought he was of the Natchez.”

There was a brief silence. With a frown between his eyes, Reynaud sent his cousin a quick glance. The others did not look at each other. When Madame Doucet had made just such a claim previously, no one else had seen the Indian. There had been a feeling then that Reynaud had agreed that the Indian was there and had identified him as a Tensas merely to pacify the older woman, to relieve her mind. It was not to be wondered at, this preoccupation of hers with Indian warriors; still, it made them uneasy.

“One of the guards, I don’t doubt,” Madeleine said, her tone offhand.

Reynaud’s face cleared and he sent a wry glance around the table. “Of course, though that may be the wrong term for the men you may see about the place. There are a number of them, some of them of mixed blood like myself, some who have been among the Indians so long they look like savages. They are a rough-and-ready lot: hunters, trappers, traders coming and going at odd hours, but they provide protection for Madeleine in my absence and are a curb against the defection of the African workers.”

“You relieve my mind,” Madame Doucet said with a sigh.

“You might want to watch out for the friend I am to meet here. He was one of these men for some time, though now he is more often gone than not, with his trading.”

“He is half Indian?” the older woman ventured with a return of fear to her eyes.

Reynaud’s smile was reassuring. “He was born in France, but he has lived with the Natchez. He was one of the orphan boys sent to live with them before he was twelve, to learn their language in the early days. We grew up together, he and I, being much of an age, but he left the tribe when he reached his majority.”

Madame Doucet nodded as though satisfied. St. Amant allowed a respectful moment of quiet, then reverted to his original topic. “When we do leave for the fort, how long may we expect the trek to take? I have been trying to calculate it myself, and though I grant you that dead reckoning is not my strong point, I have a feeling we are not so far from Fort Saint Jean Baptiste.”

“The Indian trails can be deceiving. It is still a journey of some distance.”

“Yes.” Pascal grunted, his tone belligerent with the amount of wine he had drunk and his suspicion of what he obviously considered to be an evasion. “But how far?”

St. Amant sent the merchant a quelling look. “I suppose I was thinking of your proximity to the post. Surely it is the nearest French settlement to you?”

“That is correct.”

“It must have been there that you received and unloaded the furnishings for this house after they had traveled upriver from New Orleans.”

“Quite true, though you would be surprised at how little made that trip. The lumber of the house itself was cut and hewn here where it sits. Artisans skilled in carpentry and the making of fine furniture were brought, the best that New Orleans, Biloxi, Mobile — and Mexico City — had to offer; and other laborers also, though much was done by my own people.”

“You astonish me,” St. Amant said politely. “Still there must have been many cartloads of fine goods and the great labor of cutting a road through to the fort?”

“Pack trains, yes, but no carts and so no road,” Reynaud said, then added with a smile, “except, of course, for that which runs along the boundary of my property for my own convenience.”

Elise saw Madeleine lift her head to stare at Reynaud with a sharp look in her eyes before the woman lowered her gaze to her plate once more. Elise had little attention to give this byplay, however, as she saw the point St. Amant was trying to make. If there was a cart road, however narrow, then it should be easy to follow. They could dispense with the services of their guide and host. The prospect was too enticing to abandon. She leaned forward. “Even the harpsichord came on horseback?”

“Pulled behind a Spanish mule on a special conveyance,” Reynaud answered, his composure unruffled. “You are aware that the Spanish mission of Los Adaes is less than thirty miles from Fort Saint Jean Baptiste? That was a stroke of good fortune, for the Spanish have many more horses and mules and I was able to buy what I needed from them — at a price, of course. Trade between the Spanish and French garrisons is brisk, I’m afraid, this far from either center of government.”

“Smuggled goods,” Elise said, thinking of Vincent’s part in that trade prohibited by the French government.

“It is a matter of survival.”

She settled back in her chair, leaving the field to St. Amant. What reason, after all, had Reynaud to conceal from them the existence of a road? The men of their party were hardly congenial and, indeed, barely polite despite the fact that he had tried to save their lives. His bargain with her had sorely tried his patience, netting him more frustration than relief. If he had business at the fort of the Natchitoches country, as he had said, then he could easily make the journey there and back in the time it would take to guide them. In all probability he was as anxious to be rid of them as they were to be gone, only his notions of hospitality, imbued from both the Natchez and his father’s family, prevented him from saying so.