The Creole Princess (35 page)

Lyse didn’t know what to say. Her own father was often thoughtless and impulsive, but he would never do something so cruel as to discard one of his children’s creations.

Fortunately, at that moment the Gonzales houseman stepped through the gate and approached, holding a tray upon which a letter lay. The man bowed, proffering the tray. “Miss Sofía, I thought you might like to see this right away. It’s a letter from the governor’s lady.”

“Really? Oh, how delightful! Thank you, Manuel.” Sofía eagerly broke the letter’s seal and began to read it. After a moment, she
looked up, eyes wide. “Madame Gálvez has invited us to a ball in a week’s time. Lyse! This is terrible!”

Lyse laughed. “Why is being invited to a ball at the governor’s mansion a terrible thing?”

“Why because! Because there is not enough time to have a new dress made! What are we going to do?”

Lyse rolled her eyes. “How very inconsiderate of her ladyship to fail to allow sufficient time for you to add another garment to a wardrobe that would already outfit half the population of Louisiana.”

“Lyse! This is serious! Stop joking!”

“All right. But perhaps I have a solution. Scarlet is quite handy with a needle, you know. Have her take apart two or three of your older dresses and remake them into a new one.”

Sofía’s eyes narrowed. “That could possibly work. In fact, I like it! We should have her get started right away. You can play with that adorable little Bernardo while Scarlet works on my dress.” She jumped to her feet and grabbed Lyse’s hand. “Come on, there is no time to waste!”

Laughing, Lyse allowed herself to be towed into the house, where Sofía proceeded to shout for Scarlet.

Two years ago, never in her wildest dreams would she have pictured herself living in a house where one would be invited as a matter of course to a ball at the home of the governor of an entire colony. Of course, she used to fantasize about dancing with a duke, until she met Rafael Gonzales.

There was no going back to that naive little girl.

Sometimes she wondered if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

17

N
EW
O
RLEANS
O
CTOBER
15, 1778

As she and Sofía descended the stairs to the Gálvez ballroom behind Doña Gonzales and the colonel, Lyse couldn’t help comparing this harvest ball to the one she had attended this time last year at Burelle’s. For one thing, the robe à la français Madame Gálvez had sent for her to wear seemed to have a lot less fabric at strategic points than had her former teaching garb.

She had worried a little when she put the dress on this afternoon, but Sofía had refused to let her look in the mirror until her hair was dressed and jewelry added. “Trust me, Lyse,” Sofía said with a giggle, “you are going to turn heads tonight.”

But then there had been a rush to get in the carriage, and there was no time to preen in front of a mirror. She would have to trust Madame’s exquisite taste. What she had seen of the dress was stunning. Its skirt and petticoat were of a clear green satin, ruched in bands along every edge, with large leaf-shaped appliqués in green satin sewn along the open skirt front—a clever and striking design, to be sure. The bodice, of the same fabric, was edged with delicate blonde lace and ribbon, pleated to mimic the design of the skirt.
She felt elegant and fashionable, almost worthy to attend such a grand affair as a governor’s ball.

Then, suddenly, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the huge mirror placed opposite the staircase. Horrified, she grasped Sofía’s wrist, and almost turned to run back the way she had come.

She would indeed be turning heads. The square-necked bodice, emphasized by the ruched lace, might be the height of Parisian fashion, but it was cut lower than any garment she’d ever worn.

“What’s the matter?” Sofía, already two steps below, looked up at her in concern.

Lyse craned her neck to check the necklines of other women already in the ballroom. Most were even less modest than she and Sofía. “I’m . . . feeling a draft.” She put her gloved hand over her bosom.

Sofía frowned, then suddenly giggled. “You’ll get used to it.”

“No. I won’t. I shouldn’t. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because you’re a prude. And the governor wants you to charm the gentlemen.”

“But Madame didn’t say . . .” She bit her lip. Madame
had
said for her to dance often, laugh a lot, and listen all the time. Governor Galvez wanted as much information as he could get about what people thought, and especially what they knew about British, Indian, and American aggressive activities. Was dressing like a Parisian courtesan part of listening?

She knew her cheeks were on fire. But perhaps that would be assumed to be a result of the excessive warmth in the room from all the lamps and candles. With mirrors everywhere, the whole ballroom seemed to be one big blaze of light and heat and glitter.

Sofía’s eyes softened. “Come, nobody will think you . . . what is your so-useful French word . . .
outré
? Relax and have a good time. You have earned a little fun,
si?
”

Since she could hardly walk home alone, Lyse had no choice. She released Sofía and followed her down the remaining steps into
the ballroom. The Gálvezes stood ready to receive each of the guests as they entered, and Lyse was gratified to be warmly hugged by Madame and kissed on the cheek by the governor. Wouldn’t Grandpére be impressed at the company she was keeping now? She must be careful not to let pride turn her head.

Once they were out of the receiving line, the Gonzaleses were swept into conversation with friends, Lyse along with them. For the first half hour or so, she found herself buzzing like a bumblebee from one conversational cluster to another. She found that several military gentlemen whom she had met here at the Gálvezes’ home remembered her, and she was relieved that they had the good manners to keep their eyes focused on her face and not skimming below her neck. These conversations led to names being scrawled on her dance card, as young men eagerly followed the lead of their elders.

Before long, she found herself enjoying the status of a “belle.” As the word implied, she felt beautiful, desirable, and warmly welcomed into New Orleans society. Friendship with the charming and gregarious Sofía Gonzales didn’t hurt anything, either.

She completely lost track of the time, until shortly before midnight, she allowed a young American merchant to dance her through the open French doors and out onto the balcony which looked down on the lamplit courtyard fountain. The young man had told her his name—Mr. Thornton, or some such British name, she thought, trying to remember—but her attention splintered when over his shoulder she saw a familiar dark head.

Rafa was smiling, carrying on a conversation with someone she couldn’t see, but his gaze kept flicking the room.

“Miss Lanier! I asked if you wanted refreshment—I’d be pleased to fetch it for you.”

“What?” She looked at her companion and found him regarding her with disappointment and chagrin. Apparently she had been edging back toward the doorway. “Oh—no, thank you—I’ll get it myself.”

She ducked back inside the ballroom, then stopped. Was she going to run to him the moment he stepped into the room, when he hadn’t taken the trouble to look for her first?

How long had he been in New Orleans? Surely he would have gone to his family first—or, more likely, his first stop would have been at the Cabildo to debrief with Gálvez.

But Gálvez was here, so of course he’d come here first, and why would he seek out Lyse, when he had much more important matters to—

Their eyes met across the room. His smile broadened, crinkling his eyes and melting her knees. She stood very still as he came to her, adroitly sidestepping every person in his path. Her heart beat high in her throat, and she knew she was undone.

When he reached her, he took her hand and lifted it to his lips. Through the lace of her glove, she felt his warm mouth linger for a moment longer than was truly necessary. Because she wanted to fling her arms around his neck, she snatched her hand away and put it childishly behind her back.

He grinned at her. “Hello, Miss Lanier. I like your dress.”

“There is a knife in the usual place.”

“I do not think one would fit in that little space.”

Her mouth dropped open. She should have slapped him, but instead she laughed. “I missed you.”

“Yes, you did. Come here, I have a surprise for you.” He took her hand and drew her in and out among the guests, until they were on the other side of the ballroom, where an open door led to a large anteroom with a billiards table in its center.

In the doorway, she jerked her hand out of his grasp. There were no women in the room, only Governor Gálvez and another gentleman, whose back was to her as he bent over a ball on the table, cue in hand.

The governor looked up at her entrance. “Ah. Miss Lanier, I see he found you. Come in.”

She looked at Rafa for explanation.

He smiled, gave her a little push into the room.

The man with his back to her shoved the ball hard across the table toward the wicket at the other end, then straightened and turned in one fluid motion.

“Simon!” she shrieked and ran for him.

Rafa watched Lyse reunite with her brother, grateful that there was nothing more than a bullet hole in Simon’s tricorn to indicate the little run-in they’d had with a British patrol boat as they sailed past Manchac. Since they’d taken time to bathe and change clothes before barging in on the party, Lyse need never know about that.

He wished he could bring her whole family out of Mobile, but there would be time for that later. For the present, he had his work cut out for him, coordinating the various streams of information entering New Orleans and helping Gálvez interpret it for policy purposes.

The governor rounded the table, cue in hand. “Those two were a great find, Rafael,” he said quietly. “They’re both smart and observant . . . and discreet.”

“Yes, sir. The family history of rebellion under O’Reilly might have been a negative, except that it left them with no love for the British either.”

“But you did say that the daughter of the commander—Major Redmond is his name, no?—is Lyse’s lifelong friend?”

“She is. But Daisy’s a rebel sympathizer herself. The odd thing is, sir . . . she’s in love with Simon and doesn’t know he’s Patriot. If she’d known that, she might not have been willing to stay. I expect Simon will want to go after her, as soon as you’ll allow it.”

The governor shook his head. “If she’s truly Patriot as well, she’s a valuable asset inside the fort. We need to leave her there as long as possible.”

Rafa glanced at Simon, who was laughing with his sister over some shared inside joke. “Then you’d better convince him she’s safe where she is, or he’ll be going in to get her.”

Gálvez tapped his lower lip with a finger. “Perhaps you could take the commander another gift of some sort . . . a case of fine cigars, or wine . . . as a pretext for slipping her a letter from her friend. Ask her to write back to Lyse, but give her a code to pass us a few updated statistics. Her observations about staffing, munitions, provisioning—any of that would be helpful to us as we prepare.”

“That sounds like you’re expecting us to enter the war soon.”

“Soon . . . maybe. Havana is careful not to give me too many specifics. But between you and me, I expect to hear the confirmation within a year—two at the most.”

Rafa nodded. Gálvez wasn’t really speaking out of turn, for speculation in the city was rife in just those terms. “The most interesting thing we learned as we came back from Fort Pitt was that the British had instigated a series of Indian uprisings against our forts along the Ohio and Mississippi this summer—with plans to hit New Orleans in the fall. But it seems the whole scheme fell apart. Our man Villebreuve, stationed with the Choctaw, says they—and the Chickasaw and Cherokee as well—are a bit more afraid of the Americans than the British can pay to overcome.”

“Yes, that sort of activity is what tells me the British won’t give away their colonies so easily. I know his majesty would like us to negotiate peace if we can—but England doesn’t want peace.”

Rafa leaned against the table, thinking over the implications. War was coming, and it would not be an easy overnight victory. Floridablanca, the Spanish minister of state, had carefully held back commitment to the Americans until Spain was financially and militarily ready. If Gálvez was correct—and he usually was—the time had almost come. Still, the theater of war was widespread over massive territory, and England would not easily concede.

He knew that Gálvez’s planned strategy was straightforward
and simple: march north and take the British forts at Baton Rouge, Manchac, and Natchez to secure the river. Then he would sail to Mobile and capture Fort Charlotte before moving on to siege Pensacola. Surrounding the British on the western and southern fronts would bolster the efforts of French regulars, the Continental Army, and American militia along the eastern seaboard, in the Ohio Valley, and in New England.