THE CREOLES SERIES

The Exiles

Gilbert Morris

&

Lynn Morris

Copyright © 2003 by Gilbert Morris

All rights reserved. Written permission must be secured from the publisher to use or reproduce any part of this book, except for brief quotations for critical reviews and articles.

Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson, Inc.

Scripture quotations are from the King James Version (KJV).

Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. All characters, plot, and events are the product of the author’s imagination. All characters are fictional, and any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Morris, Gilbert.

The exiles / Gilbert Morris, Lynn Morris.

p. cm.—(The Creoles series)

ISBN 0-7852-7002-7

1. Young women—Fiction. 2. Cuban Americans—Fiction. 3. New Orleans (La.)—Fiction. 4. Creoles—Fiction. 5. Orphans—Fiction. I. Morris, Lynn. II. Title.

PS3563.O8742 E97 2003

813'.54—dc21

2002153546

Printed in the United States of America

1 2 3 4 5 6 — 05 04 03

To Kate Larimore—

Thank you, my dear Kate, for being who you are!

There are some dark things in this old world, but you have cheered my journey with your lovely light!

Contents

The Creole Heritage

PART ONE: 1810-1813: Aimee

Chapter one

Chapter two

Chapter three

Chapter four

PART TWO: 1822-1827: Chantel

Chapter five

Chapter six

Chapter seven

Chapter eight

Chapter nine

Chapter ten

Chapter eleven

Chapter twelve

Chapter thirteen

PART THREE: 1831: Neville

Chapter fourteen

Chapter fifteen

Chapter sixteen

Chapter seventeen

Chapter eighteen

Chapter nineteen

Chapter twenty

Chapter twenty-one

PART FOUR: 1831: Veronique

Chapter twenty-two

Chapter twenty-three

Chapter twenty-four

Chapter twenty-five

Chapter twenty-six

Chapter twenty-seven

Chapter twenty-eight

Chapter twenty-nine

Chapter thirty

About the authors

The Creole Heritage

In the early nineteenth century, the culture of New Orleans was as rich and wildly varied as the citizens’ complexions. Pure Spanish families, descended from the haughty dons, still dwelt in the city, and some pure French families resided there, but many were already mingled with both Spanish and Africans. Acadians—or “Cajuns” as they came to be called—lived outside of the city. This small pocket of Frenchmen had wandered far from their homes, but like many groups in the city, they stubbornly kept much of their eighteenth-century heritage intact and ingrained.

Of course there were many slaves, but there were also the gen de coulur libres, or free men and women of color. Some of these were pure Africans, but most of them were the mulattoes, griffes, quadroons, and octoroons who were the result of French and Spanish blending with slaves. There were Americans, too, though they were strictly confined to the “American district.” And there were Creoles, people of French and Spanish blood who were born outside of their native countries. Creoles born in New Orleans were Louisianians, but they were not considered to be Americans.

All well-born Creole families sent their children to receive a classical education at the Ursuline Convent or the Jesuit schools, and both institutions accepted charity children.

This series of novels traces the history of four young women who were fellow students at the Ursuline Convent School:

• The Exiles: Chantel

• The Immortelles: Damita

• The Alchemy: Simone

• The Tapestry: Leonie

PART ONE

1810-1813

Aimee

Chapter one

HAVANA, CUBA, JULY 3, 1810

Aimee Fontaine looked out of the open carriage and immediately shut her eyes. She turned and threw her arms around her husband and cried, “Cretien, we’ll all be killed!”

He held her tightly and said, “We won’t be killed, darling. It’s not far to the docks, and once we get on board the ship we’ll be safe.”

Opening her eyes, Aimee moved her head back far enough to get a good view of Cretien’s face, and the very sight of it encouraged her. Faults her husband might have, but if Cretien Fontaine was a coward, no one had ever found out about it. His chestnut hair escaped the tall black top hat, and his brown eyes glowed as they always did when he was excited. He showed no fear whatsoever.

“They’ve gone crazy,” she whispered, holding on to Cretien’s arm.

“Revolutionaries are always crazy,” Cretien said. He turned to the driver, saying, “Get in the back with Elise, Robert. I’ll drive.”

“But, sir—”

“Mind what I say!” Cretien’s eyes flashed, and Robert got up awkwardly and fell into the back, where Elise Debon was crouched down, her large eyes frightened. Cretien took the lines and slapped them on the backs of the pair of bays, holding the horses firmly. “They’re crazy fools! They don’t even know what they’re fighting for.”

Others besides Cretien had made that remark concerning the uproar that had shaken Cuba to its very foundation. The countryside was alive with flames where men, apparently driven mad by the revolutionary fervor, had set fire to the homes of innocent people. The government had tottered and collapsed, and now Havana was packed with a mindless mass of humanity.

Darkness had fallen, but men carrying torches held them high, and the flickering red flames cast shadows over cruel faces loose with drink. The air was filled with drunken cries and screams of women who were being attacked regardless of their politics. Gunfire rattled, sounding a deadly punctuation.

“We’ll never be able to get through this crowd, Cretien,” Aimee whispered.

Indeed, it did look impossible, for the street that led to the docks was filled with milling people. Many of them were armed men, but some were the helpless victims of the revolutionaries.

Cretien pulled his hat down firmly, reached low, and pulled the whip from the socket. “Hold on, everybody!” he cried. He slashed the rumps of the horses furiously, and the bays lunged forward against their collars. “Get out of the way! Clear the way!” Cretien yelled. He stood to his feet and whipped at men who reached out to pull him from the carriage.

Once Aimee saw the whip strike a man right across the cheek and leave a bleeding cut. The man fell back with a scream and was seen no more.

Aimee hid her eyes, for the horses ran over anyone in their way, and the wheels bumped over the bodies that had fallen. The carriage careened wildly, and the shouts grew louder. A gunshot sounded clearly close to the carriage. Aimee’s heart seemed to stop, but the marksman had missed.

“We’ll be all right,” Cretien said. He sat back down but kept the horses at a fast clip. “There’s the ship, down there.” A few moments later he pulled the horses up short, and they stood trembling and snorting under the light of the lanterns that hung from posts on the dock. The Empress, one of the new breed of steamships, loomed large and black against the ebony sky. “Robert, you see to the luggage. I’ll take care of the women.”

“Yes, sir!”

Aimee stood, and Cretien lifted her into his arms and set her down firmly on the dock. She clung to him for a moment, but he gave her a quick hug and said, “We’re all right now. Don’t worry. I’ll get you and Elise on board, and then I’ll come back to help Robert with the luggage.”

Aimee gratefully leaned against her husband, but they had not gone three steps toward the gangplank when their way was blocked by a roughly dressed group of men. All had a wolfish look, and their eyes were wild with drink.

“Hold it there!” one of them said. “We’ll take your money.”

“That’s right. He’s an aristocrat.” The speaker, who wore a crimson rag around his forehead, pulled a knife from his belt and laughed drunkenly. “His kind’s gone forever. Give us what you’ve got, and maybe we’ll let you go.”

In one smooth motion, Cretien pulled a pistol from under his coat and aimed at the man bearing the knife. The shot struck the ruffian in the upper arm. The wounded man shouted, “That’s the only shot he’s got! Get him!”

The men moved forward, eyes glittering. Suddenly another shot rang out, and a short, stocky man staggered and grabbed his thigh.

“He got me!” he cried.

Robert, Cretien’s manservant, stepped out and said, “The rest of you had better leave.”

But the three were so drunk they could not think. They all drew knives and, screaming, surged ahead. Cretien reached into the carriage and produced a cane. He pulled a sword from the hollow container, and when one of the men came close he swung the blade in a circular motion. The tip of the sword cut a gash in the chest of the man.

“I’d advise you to leave before you are all dead,” Cretien said tightly.

“Come on, let’s get out of here!” the leader cried. Since three of the four had been wounded, his words were convincing. They all turned and made their way, cursing and holding their wounds.

“Come along, Aimee,” Cretien said at once. His face was pale, and the violence had shaken him, for he was not a man of action. “And you, Elise, I’ll get you on board. Robert, start loading the luggage. I’ll be back to help you.”

Ten minutes later Cretien was greeted by a barrel-shaped man with a clipped white beard and mustache. “I’m Captain Smith. You had trouble on the dock. It’s a good thing you made it. The roughs are out in force.”

“So I noticed.” Cretien glanced at the milling crowd, then turned to face the captain. “Is there any chance they will attack the ship?”

“Not likely! They tried that once, but my men are all armed and fine shots. They won’t try that again!”

“Good! We need to get my wife and her maid to our cabin. It’s been quite an experience.”

“Certainly. I’ll take you myself.” Captain Smith led Cretien and the two women to a steep stairway, and when they reached the lower deck, he led them down a narrow corridor to a door. “This will be yours and your wife’s room, sir. And your servants—we have separate accommodations for them.”

“Thank you, Captain. When will we be in New Orleans?”

“Two days at the most, barring engine trouble. When you get the ladies settled, we’ll have something for you to eat.”

“That would be kind of you, Captain Smith.”

Aimee stepped through the door and took a look around the cabin, lit by a single lantern. It was a small room with two beds, a chest, a portable toilet, and a vanity with a washstand.

“Take care of your mistress, Elise. I’ll go help Robert with the luggage.”

“Come back quickly, will you, Cretien?” Aimee whispered.

“Of course. You rest yourself. I won’t be long.”

As soon as Cretien left, Elise fluttered over Aimee, helping her take off her coat and bonnet. “We’d all have been murdered if it hadn’t been for the master.”

“Yes, Elise, I think we would.” She hesitated, then sat down on the bunk. “He’s a strong man, and I thank God that he is here to take care of us.”

Cretien leaned back in his chair, studied his hand, then pushed some chips forward. “I’ll meet your bet and raise you ten.” He felt good, for he had slept well the previous night, after a good supper provided by Captain Smith. His wife had slept little enough, but there was nothing he could do for that.

Cretien smiled at the uncertainty in his opponent, a slender man with a razor-thin mustache and hooded green eyes. “Well, Monsieur Sedan, what do you say? Would you like a chance to win some of your money back?”

Sedan threw his cards down. “I never play a man when he’s riding on his luck.” He pulled a cheroot from his inner pocket, bit the end off, and lit it. When the tip was glowing he said, “Perhaps tomorrow.”

“We’ll be in New Orleans tomorrow. This may be your last chance.”

But Sedan was not interested. He was obviously a professional gambler, and he got up now and left the table. As Cretien collected his chips, a voice at his side caught his attention.

“You’re a lucky man with cards.”

He turned around to see an attractive woman in a low-cut, pale blue dress. Her hair was yellow and her eyes a deep blue. She had the assurance of a woman who knew the world at least as well as he did, and he stood up at once and nodded. “Lucky in cards, at least. My name is Cretien Fontaine.”

“I’m happy to know you, sir. I’m Nan Strickland.” She looked expectantly at him, and when he showed no recognition she laughed at herself. “I’m an actress, you see, and I always expect to be recognized.”

“May I buy you a drink, Miss Strickland?”

“Certainly.” She sat down and studied him boldly.

The waiter brought them drinks, and Cretien began telling her about his last few days.

“You were caught in the revolution?” she asked, sipping her drink.

“Yes. Things have gone badly in Cuba.”

“You probably lost all your property. I hear that’s what happened to many.”

Cretien smiled. He knew he made a handsome picture as he sat there, with his perfect teeth, thin and aristocratic face, and patrician features. He was graceful and cultured in a French manner, and totally confident in a way that told Nan Strickland he was at ease with women. “Not at all. As a matter of fact, I made a profit. I saw this coming months ago.” He lifted his drink and smiled at her. “Never stay in the middle of a revolution.”

“You are fortunate.”

“Yes, I am.”

“Where will you go?”

“I’ve bought a sugar plantation outside of New Orleans. I’ll be in town a great deal, of course.”

Nan gave him a brilliant smile. She reached into her reticule and brought forth a small card. “My company will be at the Majestic for some time, depending on how well we are received. Give this to the doorman. He’ll give you a good seat.”

She rose and held out her hand, and Cretien stood as well. He bent over to kiss her hand and smelled her perfume. Then he rose to his full height and looked down at her. “I’ll look forward to that.”

Nan Strickland smiled. “Give your wife my best wishes.”

“I’ll certainly do that.”

He watched as the actress walked away. She disappeared through the portal, and he sighed, cashed in his chips, and took his money. Leaving the saloon, he went right to the stateroom. It was later than he had thought, and he would have to make excuses.

When he stepped in, he found Aimee already in the lower bunk and said, “Elise, that’ll be all tonight.”

“Good night, sir. Good night, madame.”

“Good night, Elise. I hope you don’t get seasick again.”

When the door closed, Cretien spoke at once. “I’m sorry to be late.” He began to remove his clothes and noted that she was watching him cautiously. “I didn’t drink too much, my dear. Don’t worry about that.”

For a moment Aimee looked sober, and then she smiled. “Come here and kiss me good night,” she said. She held up her arms, and when he came to her and kissed her, she held him fiercely. “I’ll be glad when we’re off this boat and in our own place.”

Cretien held her tightly. In other circumstances he would have made love to her, but she had been drained by the events of the past two days. And to his shame, the image of Nan Strickland came to his mind. He ignored it and said, “We’ll be in New Orleans tomorrow. We’ll find a good hotel and look the city over. It’s going to be a good life there, my dear.”

For a moment she held him, and then she whispered, “I wish we had a child. I know you’re disappointed that I haven’t been able to give you a son.”

Cretien held her. He knew that this was something that was never far from her heart, and he said quickly, “No, it will be all right. I have you and that’s enough.”

His words brought balm to her spirit, and she whispered, “Good night.”

He settled himself in his own bed and very quickly his breathing became regular. Aimee lay awake for some time, still shaken over the violence of the revolution, but thinking of New Orleans. O God, she prayed, give us a good life there. She finally went to sleep, and her last thought was, It’s not too late. I’m still young enough to have a child if the good God pleases.

Chapter two

The Empress eased up to the dock, meeting it with such a slight bump that Cretien hardly felt it. He turned to Aimee, who was standing beside him, put his arm around her, and said, “Well, my dear, we are here. Our new home.”

Aimee stared out at the busy port and exclaimed, “There are so many ships! I never saw such a busy place!”

The port of New Orleans was indeed busy—one might almost say frantic. Ships and boats and crafts of every kind plied the river, some skimming over the water under full sail, others easing in slowly. The sound of steamboats with their shrill whistles rent the air. The river made a large S-curve, and it seemed that the lengths of the banks were made of nothing but docks.

The masts of the ships, their sails furled, lined the docks. “It looks like a forest of bare trees,” Cretien remarked. Then his eye caught a sight that pleased him. “Look, they’re loading sugar onto that ship, Aimee! Soon it will be our sugar. We’re going to do well here. I feel it in my bones.”

Aimee leaned against him, and when his arm tightened about her, she felt a surge of desire for a life of peace and contentment. Life in Cuba had been difficult, for the scent of revolution had been strong for the past few years. Both she and Cretien had known they would have to leave sooner or later, and she was grateful that they had sold their land and gotten away without losing everything.

The burly first mate was shouting orders to the crew, and as the gangplank was lowered, Cretien said, “Let’s find Robert and Elise and go ashore. I’ll be glad to get off of this boat and get my feet on firm land again.”

Together they turned to go below. Just before they reached the stairs, they encountered an attractive woman with blond hair and blue eyes. She gave Cretien a bold smile of recognition, and he bowed slightly. Aimee said nothing. She was accustomed to women being attracted to her husband; what would be the point of creating a scene?

In their cabin they found that Robert and Elise had collected their things, and in a short time they were leaving the ship.

As they walked down the gangplank into the hubbub of the port, all seemed to be confusion. Passengers were lined up to board the ship. Peddlers were everywhere, calling in a polyglot of languages. Aimee heard English and French, of course, plus Spanish and others that she could not distinguish.

Cretien took charge and engaged a carriage driven by a muscular young man with inky black hair and white teeth stark against his golden tan. He spoke a mixture of French and English that the newcomers found difficult to understand.

“Ah, monsieur, my name is Jacques. Me, I weel take you anywhere to which you go.”

“We want to go to a very good hotel, Jacques,” Cretien said as he offered a hand to aid Aimee into the carriage.

“That would be the St. Charles. I theenk you weel like it there, but it is ver’ expensive.”

“I think I can afford it, Jacques,” Cretien said with a slight smile.

Jacques helped Robert load the trunks, then stepped back up into the carriage. He spoke to the horses, a fine matched set of grays, and at once began talking to the group. He was a curious fellow, wanting to know everything about the new arrivals. “There are many come from Cuba because of the revolution. I hear,” he said, “over three t’ousand. More than two t’ousand of them black people have come already the last two months. Was it bad over there?”

“Yes, very bad.”

“Well, you weel like it here in New Orleans. While you are here I hope you weel avail yourselves of my services.”

“We won’t be here long. I have a sugar plantation to the west.”

That sent Jacques into a lengthy dissertation on the advantages of raising sugar over cotton, but as they moved into the downtown section, the visitors expressed interest in the city. When Cretien mentioned that they had never been there before, Jacques said, “Oh, it is a great city. Plenty to do. Your people, the Creoles, have brought good things to the city. Every one of you people love to go to the theater, no?”

“Yes, that is true. You have a good theater here?”

“Many of them. The best.”

“What street is this?” Aimee asked.

“St. Charles Avenue. You see, this is the Vieux Carré—the good part of town. The other part is where the Kaintocks stay. Very bad.”

“Kaintocks? Who are they?” Cretien asked.

“The men who bring the flat boats with their goods down the river. They are rough men, these Americans. Stay away from them, sir, I would advise you.”

St. Charles Avenue was paved with cobblestones. Most of the other streets had banquettes, or sidewalks, which were simply planks or sometimes a single log pegged into the ground. Wooden drains served as gutters, and in some instances there were open ditches containing garbage and refuse of every description.

“It smells bad,” Robert whispered to Elise.

“Yes, it is terrible. I hope our plantation will not smell this awful.”

Robert, a tall, saturnine man of forty, patted Elise on the shoulder. “The town was made by men. The country was made by God.”

Elise laughed. “You say such funny things.”

Aimee spoke to Jacques. “The streets must be very bad when it rains, those that are not paved.”

“Oh, you would not believe! It is so bad you cannot get anywhere, no!”

They passed a large party, over two hundred people, some carrying lanterns and many disguised with masks. They were a noisy group, banging old kettles and shovels and tongs with clanging metal.

“What is that, Jacques?” Cretien asked.

“Oh, that is a charivari. A wedding. That is a big one.”

Then a cart passed by, bearing a rather strange sight. Aimee asked, “What is that, Jacques?”

“Oh, that is a widow, and that is an effigy of her husband in the coffin and her present husband is there by her side.”

“Is that common?” Cretien asked, staring at the cart. “It seems rather—crude.”

“Me, I don’t know why they do it,” Jacques shrugged. “Maybe the bride wants her new husband to see he can be replaced if he doesn’t behave himself. You’ll see t’ings stranger than that in this place.”

Finally Jacques drew up the carriage and waved his whip. “The St. Charles. The rates are high, two dollars and a half a day, but there is a table for gentlemen that provides dinner from three to five.”

“What about the ladies?”

“Oh, the ladies, too, of course.”

The St. Charles was an enormous building, seeming to stretch for a full block. The lobby had a high ceiling, glowing chandeliers, and paintings on every wall, adding color to the scene.

Cretien moved to the desk, where a small man with a pair of sharp gray eyes said, “Yes, sir. May I serve you?” He spoke in French, and Cretien responded, “I need a room for myself and my wife, and two for my servants.”

“Yes, sir. Will you be staying long?”

“I think not. Just a few days.”

“You will like our hotel, sir. First time in New Orleans?”

“First time in the United States.”

“Ah, I trust you will have a good stay. Are you traveling far?”

“I bought a sugar plantation a few miles west of New Orleans.”

“Then you would be interested in our auction.”

“What sort of auction?”

“Slaves, of course. You will find them under the rotunda. I think it is going on now.”

Curious, Cretien resolved to look into the matter, but he knew that Aimee was tired. “Thank you,” he replied. “I must get my wife settled first.”

Cretien and Aimee followed a hulking servant upstairs, and after he put their luggage inside the room and left, Aimee looked around with pleasure. She was tired but she loved the room.

“It’s so beautiful, Cretien! I’ve never seen such gorgeous wallpaper— and look at the woodwork!”

“I’m glad you like it. Well, suppose we go out and buy ourselves a fine meal to celebrate our first night in Louisiana.”

“That sounds wonderful. I am hungry.”

The two went downstairs and learned that the Bienville, one of the best restaurants in New Orleans, was right down the street. They soon found themselves seated in an ornate dining room, swarmed by a waiter who rapidly gave them a verbal menu of the offerings.

They dined well that night on lobster and a delicious salad. After they had eaten, they returned to the hotel, and just before they went to sleep Aimee put her arms around her husband and drew him close. “We are going to be very happy here, dear.”

Cretien returned her caress. “Yes, we are. We will make a new life for ourselves in this place!”

Cretien arrived at the offices of Oliver Harcourt, where he was greeted by the lawyer whom he had never met in person. The two had done business through the mail, and it was Harcourt who had recommended buying a sugar plantation instead of cotton and had negotiated the purchase.

Harcourt was a tall, dignified man with an aristocratic air. He had silver hair and wore a dark brown suit with a spotless white shirt and a black string tie.

“I think you will find that I got a good buy for you in your plantation, Monsieur Fontaine.”

“I was somewhat hesitant. There are many sugar plantations in Cuba, but I have never engaged in that sort of trade.”

“With the right workers you should have no trouble. You must have a good overseer, and I checked carefully into the man who is there now. His name is Simon Bientot. He knows all about the work and is an amiable sort. I interviewed him myself. And his wife, Marie, would be a good housekeeper, but of course that is up to your wife.”

“I’m very grateful to you for your help, Mr. Harcourt.”

“We’re anxious to see good people coming to our part of the world.” He frowned slightly and shook his head. “Of course, the revolution brought a great deal of the other sort.” Then he smiled and nodded. “But I can see that you are a man of the world who knows good living.”

“I’m glad you think so.”

“There is one matter that I should mention. I assure you I looked at a dozen plantations, and this one was the best. However, it has no house that would be suitable for you and Mrs. Fontaine.”

“What sort of house is there?”

“It is no more than a cottage. I think, sir, you will have to think about building your own house.”

“I would like that very much. I have looked forward to building my own home for some time, and my wife has a box full of ideas about it.”

“Well, when it’s time to begin I can recommend builders. And of course many of the slaves are expert craftsmen. It might pay you to invest in a few of those. Plenty of them are available at fair prices.”

At that moment a knock sounded at the door. Harcourt looked up and said, “Come in.”

A woman entered, carrying a small child. Harcourt looked irritated. “Yes, Mrs. Wells, what is it?”

“I don’t think Neville is well, sir. Shall I take him to the doctor?”

“Yes—yes, take him, Mrs. Wells! You don’t need to ask me everything.”

The woman flushed, then turned and left.

“Your son?”

“Yes, his mother died at his birth. His name is Neville.”

“He looks like a fine boy.”

For a moment Harcourt hesitated, and then he said, “He’s like his mother.” Somehow he made the words sound like an accusation.

Uncomfortable, Cretien quickly said, “I must go now. My wife will be wondering about me. We’ll be leaving to see the plantation early in the morning.”

Cretien left the office and walked the streets for a while. New Orleans was a colorful city with no tall buildings, for the sands of Louisiana would not permit such things. His mind leaped ahead, and, as always, he was excited at the thought of a new project.

He took a turn through the old town where the Americans, the Kaintocks, stayed. He was surprised to see the large number of brothels, saloons, and gambling houses. The streets were crowded with rough looking men, and he thought, I wouldn’t like to be here at night without a pistol. He turned and went back to the hotel, looking forward to seeing the plantation in the morning.

Jacques had made himself available to take the Fontaine party to the plantation. He was ready and waiting early, and after a good breakfast Cretien and Aimee found themselves passing through the wilds of Louisiana. After leaving the city of New Orleans, “wilds” was the proper way to describe the countryside. The land was flat, of course, much as it was in New Orleans, but the pale earth seemed to grow darker and wetter as they rode farther away from the city. The large trees that they did not know were called sugarberries by Jacques, and the Louisiana birds flocked to them for their sweet, reddish fruit. Live oaks were the most spectacular trees. They towered some seventy or eighty feet, and some of the lower limbs spread out to enormous distances, adorned with Spanish moss, which looked like huge birds’ nests. The streams they passed were the color of milk chocolate, almost as if the earth had melted; and once, as they passed by a wide stream, an alligator raised his snout.

Aimee shivered. “What a horrible beast!”

“The Cajuns, they like to hunt the alligator. They use their hides and even eat their meat,” Jacques offered.

“I wouldn’t eat one of those things if I were starving!” Aimee exclaimed.

“Well, I don’t know about that. We’ve eaten snails,” Cretien teased her.

“A snail is better than that thing!”

They stopped once to water the horses at a small stream, and Aimee was pleased by the white birds she saw.

“They are called egrets,” Jacques said. “And look. There is a blue heron. He is a serious-looking fellow, no?”

They watched the heron as he moved slowly, his long legs seeming inadequate for such a large body. Once his head flashed down as quickly as a thought, and he came up with a small fish. He tossed it into the air, caught it expertly, and swallowed it whole. The party watched the bulge as it went downward, and Cretien laughed. “He doesn’t bother chewing, does he?”

The air grew hotter as they made their way, and the humidity was much worse than in Cuba. Aimee fanned herself and pulled her dress away from her neck to let the air circulate. “Is it always this humid?”

“No, the winter here is nice—not as humid. You will like it then.” Jacques turned, his white teeth flashing at her. “Sometimes you don’t know whether you’re in the ocean or on dry land, it is so wet. But you will get used to it.”

As they drew nearer, Jacques pulled up at a shack to ask directions, and an old woman came out. She spoke French, and when Cretien asked her if she knew the way to the plantation, she grinned toothlessly and pointed. Then she came closer and said, “You will live there, sir?”

“Yes, it will be our home.”

“Ah, if you want a juju or a love potion, you come to me. If you have an enemy, I can put a curse on him that he will die screaming.”

“I don’t think we will require that,” Cretien laughed.

“Then perhaps a love potion. You come and see me. I can make any spell you want. You come and see Ma Tante.”

“I don’t need a love potion. I’ve got all the love I need right here.” Cretien smiled and put his arm around Aimee.

Thirty minutes later they pulled off the main road and went down a much narrower lane until Jacques said, “That must be it.”

They had been passing through cane fields, but now they had come out into an open space. A cottage occupied the center of a small ridge overlooking the fields, and several smaller shacks, obviously slave quarters, were off behind it.

“Don’t be disappointed, darling,” Cretien said quickly. “We will build a fine house. Even today we’ll find a location, and I’ll get started at once.”

As the carriage pulled up to the house, a woman came out. She was in her forties, a solid woman with a pleasant face and black hair covered by a kerchief. She smiled and curtsied. “May I help you? My name is Marie Bientot.”

Cretien introduced himself and said, “Is your husband here?”

“No, he is out at the far field, but I will send someone for him.” She turned around and called, “Brutus!”

A huge black man, who was carrying wood from a pile, dropped it and came over. He was an enormous man, muscular, with a rather sullen look.

“Brutus, go fetch my husband at once. Tell him the master’s here.”

Without a word the black man turned and plodded away.

“What a massive fellow. He looks rather villainous,” Cretien murmured.

“He’s not the best of the slaves, but he is strong. Will you come inside the house, sir, and you, madame?”

They got out of the carriage and went inside. “My husband and I live over there.” She waved her hand toward the window. “But I wanted to fix the house up.”

“It’s very nice, Marie,” Aimee said.

“You look around, and I will fix you a lunch. We will have a fine dinner tonight.”

Cretien and Aimee wandered around the house. It was a very modest place, but it was clean and large enough and seemed to be well kept. Then they stepped outside.

“It’s not much, is it?” Cretien frowned. “I thought it would be better than this.”

Aimee turned to him, reached up, and touched his cheek. “It will be very nice when we fix it up. And we’ll be here every day while the house is going up.”

Cretien smiled at her. “You’re a patient woman. Most women would rather stay in town at a fine hotel.”

“No, this will be our home until we build the big house. We will call it Fontaine Maison, for your name will be on it.”

Cretien reached out and took her in his arms. He kissed her and said, “Our name will be on it. We will have a good life here, mon chère!”

Chapter three

A sense of pride came to Aimee Fontaine as she walked out of the house to greet her visitors. She thought of the almost two years that had passed as Fontaine Maison was rising, and she was filled with a strong sense of possession. The house had become her life, for although Cretien was drawn often to the city, where he enjoyed the theater and dining and excitement of cosmopolitan life, Aimee loved the plantation.

She paused for a moment as the carriage pulled up and turned to look at the exterior of the house. The French influence on the structure was strong. She had wanted to make it a miniature Versailles, but not quite that formal.

Fontaine Maison was a raised structure with large columns in the lower story and colonnettes in the upper. It had a typical French roof slanting upward to a peak, and she had designed it with many, many windows so that every room would be bathed in light. The house was surrounded by a white fence that also protected a large garden. In years to come it would be more attractive, but at least the seeds were sown.

Aimee felt a strong love for the place, and at the same time a guilt of sorts. She had prayed that she would not make the house an idol, but it had become a haven for her, and she loved it with all of her heart.

A tall man stepped out of the carriage and turned to help a woman. Aimee at once advanced, saying, “Monsieur Despain, Madame Despain, I welcome you to Fontaine Maison.”

Charles Despain was the mayor of New Orleans, and his wife, Margaret, was one of the social leaders in the city. The Fontaines had visited many times with the Despains in their home.

Despain removed his hat and bent over Aimee’s hand to kiss it. “We are an imposition, I fear.”

“Not at all. Come inside. My husband is not here, and I’m afraid he won’t be back until tomorrow.”

She turned to Margaret, who kissed her. Margaret Despain, an attractive woman in her late forties, had a real affection for Aimee. Hers was one of the true friendships that Aimee had formed since her arrival in Louisiana.

Now Aimee said, “Are you hungry? There is food ready.”

“No, first you must show us the grounds,” Margaret insisted.

When they had seen the outside, Aimee urged them to come in. “It is a little cold for March. Come inside to the fire.”

They entered the house, where they were served cafe au lait and pastries. “Our cook is a Cajun,” said Aimee, “and fixes the most fiery dishes you can imagine. She makes the best gumbo in the world.”

“‘In the world’ means New Orleans. I don’t think gumbo is enjoyed anywhere but Louisiana,” Despain said.

Aimee took them on a tour of the house, and the pair exclaimed many times over the exquisite furnishings.

“It feels so much like a home!” Margaret exclaimed. “Many grand houses seem more like museums, but this house has a comfortable feel about it.”

“I must confess I love it, Margaret. Too much, perhaps. It’s easy to learn to love things instead of God.”

Margaret laughed and put her hand on her husband’s arm. “I think you should preach a little of that doctrine to my husband. He’s stocking up with houses and land and money as if he were going to live forever.”

Despain laughed shortly. He was, indeed, a man who loved things, but he did not like to be reminded of it. “Well, I know I won’t be on this earth forever, but I intend to enjoy the time I have here. Now, show us some more of the house.”

The three ended their tour in the drawing room. It was a large room with deep burgundy rugs on the polished hardwood floors and velvet curtains of the same color pulled to one side at each of the floor-to-ceiling windows. The walls were papered with a flocked gold-and-burgundy paper and were decorated with numerous paintings of landscapes, all with gilded frames.

A large stone fireplace took up almost the whole wall at the far end; the grate and accessories were made of ornate wrought iron, and a large mantel above held tiny porcelain boxes and vases of all shapes and sizes. There were four high-backed chairs of red-and-ivory damask flanking the fireplace, and a large couch of ivory damask took its place among these. More of the same chairs were placed along the walls of the room, with highly polished mahogany tables and glass lanterns at the sides of some. A beautiful piano stood open with an array of music on its stand.

Despain said, “It’s a bit of a shame, isn’t it? I suppose you’ll be spending less time here when you go to your new town house.”

A silence came over the room, and the Despains saw distress in Aimee Fontaine’s eyes.

“A house in New Orleans?” Aimee said, a thickness coming to her throat. Suddenly the room was uncomfortable.

“My dear, you should not have said that!” Mrs. Despain said.

Mr. Despain flushed and stammered an apology. They had lunch and then quickly made their departure. No one spoke again of the house in town. As soon as they were in their carriage, however, and pulling away from Fontaine Maison, Margaret turned to her husband.

“You are a fool, Charles! Why did you have to mention the house?”

“I’m afraid you’re right, but I didn’t know it was a secret.”

“Well, it obviously was! Sometimes I wonder how you ever managed to get elected to any office. You’re the most tactless man who ever lived!”

Despain slumped down in his seat and pulled his hat down over his eyes while his wife continued to rebuke him. Finally he threw his hands up in a gesture of despair. “Well, how am I to know what to say and what not to say? I supposed that Cretien had told her about the house.”

“Well, he obviously hadn’t. He was planning a surprise.” Margaret shook her head. “I’m glad you didn’t mention seeing Cretien having dinner with that actress. What’s her name?”

“Nan Strickland.”

“She’s nothing but a harlot. If I ever hear of you running around with harlots, I’ll see to it that you’re sorry!”

“I’ve got no intention of running around with harlots, and you know it!” Charles protested. “And besides, you don’t know that Fontaine is guilty of anything—except indiscretion. He should know better than to be seen in public with a woman like that.”

“Oh, you mean it’s all right in private?”

“I give up. Have your own way.”

“I’m worried about the Fontaines, Charles. Cretien is gambling a lot, and sometimes he doesn’t go home for days.”

“It never pays to meddle in other people’s marriages. They have to take care of themselves. Let’s talk about something else.”

Cretien came back excited, full of plans for buying the property next door to their plantation. Aimee, on the other hand, was quiet. She ate practically nothing of the excellent dinner, and when they moved into the drawing room, where Robert served them coffee and small cakes, she sat before the fire without saying a word.

Cretien finally sat down and gave her an odd look. “What’s wrong, dear? You’ve hardly said a word.”

“The Despains came by today.”

“Yes, so you told me. I’m sorry I missed them.”

Aimee turned to face him. “Charles told me that you bought a house in New Orleans.” She saw something like guilt sweep across her husband’s face, but he quickly recovered.

“Blast the man! It was meant to be a surprise. A Christmas present for you.”

“A Christmas present? You’re buying me a house for Christmas?”

“Well, yes, and I’ve been dickering for months on the place.”

“But why do we want a house in New Orleans when we have Fontaine Maison?”

Cretien put his arms around his wife and drew her close. “For variety, sweet. I love this place as you do, but there’s so little to do here, especially in the winter. When we go to town we have to live in hotels, but now we can have the best of all worlds. It’s a small house, but so beautiful! Not like this place, of course, but comfortable. We can have guests there. We can go to the theater and then come home. You’ll love it.”

Aimee listened as Cretien spoke. While his plan pleased him, it only made her anxious. She knew that her husband was not suited to the life of the city. He had weaknesses that he would have been shocked to know that she had discerned.

But since the deed was done and impossible to avoid, Aimee made herself smile. “I’m sure I’ll love it, dear.”

Cretien was pleased. He kissed her and waltzed her around the room. “We’ll go tomorrow, Aimee. I can’t wait to show it to you! We’ll be able to move next month.”

Cretien’s eyes danced with excitement. Aimee knew he loved her, but she also knew that he was a selfish man. In her private moments, she had wondered many times if he had married her for her money.

Aimee again forced a smile and said, “I can’t wait to see it, Cretien. I’m sure it will be very beautiful.”

Chapter four

Aimee twisted so much in her chair that Elise exclaimed, “Madame, you are so jumpy! I cannot fix your hair.”

Aimee looked into the mirror and gave a smile of pure joy. “I’m sorry, Elise. I just can’t seem to keep still today.”

“You are very happy, madame. I am glad to see it.”

Indeed, Elise was glad to see her mistress in such good spirits. Thinking back over the past few months, when they had first taken up residence in the town house on Chartres Street in the French Quarter, the maid had noticed that Aimee was not happy. This had been a puzzle to Elise, for to her the city was exciting—not nearly so boring as the Fontaine Plantation had been. She had found many suitors here, but she was aware that her mistress longed for the life in the country. Now she continued to brush Aimee’s hair and said, “Why are you so happy, madame?”

“I just am,” Aimee said. She turned suddenly and said, “Oh, you may pick up my new dress at Monsieur Benet’s shop today, Elise. I don’t have the money for it. Just tell him to put it on our account.”

“Shall I go now?”

“Yes, but it’s cold and wet. Take the carriage.”

“I will not be long.”

As soon as Elise left her bedroom, Aimee rose and walked around the room. She seemed to be overflowing with energy, which was unusual enough, but there was a joy within her this day that she could not contain. Despite the dreary weather, she wanted to sing or run.

She opened a drawer and pulled out her journal from beneath some clothing. She had begun the journal when they had first come to the town house the previous August. Now she looked at the first entry:

August 18, 1812

The house is very nice. It has a fine courtyard and is close to the theater. Right down the street is the Ursuline Convent, and we are very close to Place d’Armes. We can go to the cathedral with no problem each Sunday. I wish I liked it more. Cretien is so excited, but I am already lonesome for the plantation.

She turned the page and saw the entry she had made a week later:

August 25, 1812

I wish I were back at Fontaine Maison!

Their lives had become a series of fashionable balls and masquerades. Almost every night there was a visit to some theatrical performance, where Aimee would join Cretien in one of the boxes with the Creole belles and their chaperones. Below the boxes were rows of seats for ladies. Many evenings they went to the dances, where the young men wore bright colors and boots with fancy stitching. Each carried a colichemarde, a sword cane wide near the hilt and tapering suddenly to a rapierlike blade.

The colichemarde was a popular weapon, and many duels were fought over little or nothing. One of Cretien’s young friends had prepared for a duel at St. Anthony’s Square, just behind the cathedral. There he fought with another young man and fortunately escaped with only a minor wound.

With true Gallic passion, New Orleans incited the pleasure- loving Creoles to entertainment, food, wine, luxury, and display. Page after page of the journal recorded Aimee’s visits to the Theatre d’Orleans with Cretien, and she smiled when she read her opinions.

October 2, 1812

The play was stupid and not well acted, but no one seemed to notice but me. I think the acting here is terrible, perhaps because the municipal council controls almost everything in the theatre. No one can put on a play without submitting a script of it to the mayor, and if he likes it, he fixes the day and the hour for the performance. If he doesn’t, it will not be put on. There’s even a fine for any actor or actress who fails to appear upon the stage at the exact time called for in his or her part. And they passed another act just recently that time between acts must not exceed fifteen minutes. It’s really a foolish sort of life. I enjoy the opera, but it is not something one wants to attend every night. Cretien, however, could go every night and never tire of it.

She turned another page, and this sentence caught her eye:

October 14, 1812

This life is not good for Cretien. It tempts him, and he cannot overcome his weakness.

Aimee stared at the entry, remembering how she had seen Cretien on the street in the company of an attractive woman. He had not seen her, and she had never rebuked him for it. But she had begged him to go back with her to the plantation, and he did—but only for a few days. He then left her there alone and went back to the city for two weeks. When he did come back, grieved and repentant, she had forgiven him. She always did.

Reading the record of the past months dimmed the glow in Aimee’s eyes. But suddenly she laughed with pure joy and began to write:

November 12, 1812

God has given us a miracle. I am with child! I am certain now that God has given us a miracle. We will have a child in May. I will tell Cretien this evening, and God willing, he will be as happy as I.

“You seem upset tonight, darling,” Cretien said later that very day. He was dressing to go out and turned to her when she did not speak at once. When he saw tears in her eyes, he rushed to her side. “What is it? Is something wrong? Have the servants displeased you?”

“No, I am only crying because I’m so happy.”

Cretien was puzzled. “Well, that’s wonderful. I know you’d rather be at the plantation, but I think you would be very lonely there now.”

“I don’t think I am ever going to be lonely again.” Aimee smiled suddenly and reached out. She pulled his head down and kissed him. “We are going to have a child, Cretien.”

Cretien Fontaine stared at his wife. During the first years of their marriage he had been anxious. But as the years had gone by and no child had come, he had concluded that Aimee was barren. Now he tried to assemble his thoughts. “Why, I can’t believe it! Are you certain?”

“Yes, I waited until I was sure before I told you. Now our lives will be so different. We will have a little one to think of.”

Cretien laughed. “That is true. Our lives will be better. We will have a son.”

“Perhaps it may be a girl.”

“No, it will be a boy. I feel it.” He put his arms around Aimee and held her gently, as if holding something very precious. “I am a selfish man,” he whispered, “but I will be a good father. You will see.”

Cretien paced the floor. He had kept a tight reign on himself during Aimee’s pregnancy, spending more time with her than ever before. The idea of having a son had grown more and more pleasing to him. He planned the boy’s childhood, the games he would play with him, his education. They would go to Europe together. They would be friends. He fixed the date in his mind—May 20, 1813—the day his firstborn son came into the world!

Six hours ago the doctor had come, and for most of that time Cretien had paced the floor. Now he heard the door open, and Doctor Franklin stepped out. “Well, your waiting is over. You may come in and see your wife and child.”

Cretien brushed by the doctor. When he saw Aimee lying with her face worn and haggard, he swallowed hard and then rushed to her side. Falling on his knees, he took her free hand and said, “My dear, are you all right?”

“Yes, I am fine.” Her voice was weak, but there was pride in her eyes.

“Here, let me hold my son,” Cretien said.

Doctor Franklin had come in behind him. “Oh, but you have a beautiful daughter, sir.”

Aimee was dazed with the pain of the ordeal, but at the doctor’s words she saw something change in Cretien’s expression. His eyes had been filled with joy, but he suddenly dropped his head as if to cover his emotion. Recovering quickly, he looked up and said, “Here, then. Let me hold my daughter.”

“I know you wanted a son, Cretien, but now God may give us one. He has given us this child.”

“What will you name her?” he said, holding the bundled child rather awkwardly.

“I have been singing in my heart ever since I knew she was coming. We will call her Chantel. She will be our song. Chantel Renee Fontaine.”

“It is a beautiful name, and she is a beautiful child.” Cretien handed the baby back, and now his disappointment was plain on his face. He had never been a man, Aimee knew, who could hide his emotions. She promised herself, We will have a son if God wills it. She held the child closely to her breast and, reaching out, took Cretien’s hand. “She will bring joy into our life.”

“I’m sure she will,” Cretien said. He got to his feet and released her hand. “You will soon feel better. I will take you back to Fontaine Maison.”

“Yes, Cretien. Please take me home.”

PART TWO

1822-1827

Chantel

Chapter five

In November 1822, fall had come to the coast of Louisiana. The trees had shed their leaves and now held their naked arms to the sky, but at the end of the year, it seemed that heaven had decided to bless the land with a mild, springlike warmth. The creek that wound around the western edge of Fontaine Plantation was as rich and brown as the chocolate that nine-year-old Chantel loved to have in the evenings.

As she sat beside the creek attaching a piece of meat to the end of a thin string, a warming breeze came from the east and blew her carroty red hair back from her forehead. Once she looked up and grew very still, as a mother raccoon with five masked cubs came out of the woods and dabbled in the water no more than fifty feet away. She watched as the cubs played like puppies, splashing in the stream while their mother felt carefully for mussels or crawdads. When she captured one she would share it with the cubs, who fell over themselves to reach the delicacy.

For Chantel this was the best that life had to offer. She loved the out-of-doors, the animals, the birds, even the snakes and bugs that abounded in her homeland. Time spent in the house studying dull books was a torment to her, but once outside, the bayou, the streams, and the woods of pine that teemed with life of all sorts became her world.

Eventually the coons moved upstream around a bend, and Chantel lost sight of them. With a sigh she tossed the baited string out into the water. It sank slowly, and she wound the free end of the string around her forefinger, waiting for a bite.

As she sat there her mind was busily engaged and her eyes moved constantly, taking in the snowy white egrets that had lit in the field beyond the stream following the slow-moving cows. One of them suddenly flew up and perched on the neck of one of the larger cows. What is he doing up there? Chantel wondered. He must be picking bugs or something off of her back. She watched carefully and filed the scene in her memory, determined to ask Brutus why the egrets and the cattle got along so well.

Overhead the skies were a dark gray, and a rolling mass of dirty off-white clouds made their way along the western horizon. They looked like huge cotton bolls, and she entertained herself by deciding what they looked like. One, she decided, was a horse, another was like an elephant, and yet another, she decided, like the dragon in one of the picture books she had treasured since she was a small child.

The smells that came to her were no less interesting than the sights. The thick smell of the stream and the fresh scent of pines loaded with turpentine came on the breeze. There was also an odor of burning wood that made her look, but she saw no sign of smoke. The brown stream purled at her feet, making a soft, sibilant sound where it broke over the banks, and she sat there, content.

Suddenly the string in her hand moved slightly, and Chantel reached out with her free hand and gave it a tug. Finding some resistance, she pulled the string in slowly and carefully. Finally, when she saw a large crawdad at the end, she said, “Got you!” She caught the crawdad with two fingers. He wiggled as she pulled him free, but she held him high, laughing.

“You can kick all you want to, Mr. Crawdad, but you’re going to be supper for me! Now, you get in there with your brothers and sisters.” She dropped it into a bucket and glanced in at her catch. The bucket was almost a quarter full, and she could hear the scrapings of tiny feet and faint clickings of claws as they frantically tried to escape. “Sorry, but that’s what God made you for, to be our supper.”

Chantel stood up and stretched. She was wearing a faded dark-blue dress that came to her knees, and an old coat that she had a fondness for. It was two years old, and she had grown so rapidly that the cuffs struck her six inches above her wrists. She wore black stockings, and her black leather shoes were worn and muddy. Beside her on the bank lay a straw hat with a frayed brim.

As she stretched higher, her body seemed no thicker than one of the reeds that grew along the banks of the river. Her feet and hands were very thin and delicate. No one had ever called Chantel Fontaine beautiful, for her mouth was very wide and her prominent cheekbones seemed to give her face a fullness that did not match her body. She had good teeth, but her best feature was her perfect complexion: smooth and very fair.

Baiting her string again, Chantel tossed it out into the water, then tied the free end around the bail of the bucket. She moved up and down the banks looking for signs of turtles and was delighted when a large fish came up, struck at something, and then disappeared about ten feet out from the bank. “I’ll catch you, Mrs. Fish! You wait and see if I don’t. Brutus and I will come back and catch you on a trotline.”

She began to sing a song as she moved up and down the bank. Chantel sang a great deal, giving her name credence, and her voice, though thin, was clear and true.

Chantel saw a long, thin stick on the ground and picked it up. She held it for a moment, then grasped the thicker end and held it out as if it were a sword. She began moving back and forth as if parrying the blows of an opponent, muttering under her breath, “Take that, you villain! Oh, you would, would you? Don’t think you’re going to get away!”

She darted back and forth, turning and wheeling and crying out to her imaginary villainous opponent. Then she suddenly dropped the sword and fell down in a heap. She looked up piteously and held her hand out. “Oh, kind sir, spare me! I am a poor, helpless girl and have no friends!”

Then Chantel was on her feet and became the man, speaking in as deep a voice as possible. She bowed and said, “Do not fear, mademoiselle, I am Captain Fontaine, and I will save you from the villain that would harm you. Here, let me carry you to safety.” She bent over and pretended to pick up a form and moved away.

Her game went on for some time as she played many roles in the drama that was birthed in her head. Chantel spent so much time alone that making up games had become her chief entertainment. There were other children in the area, to be sure, but most of those who lived close enough to her home to visit were either older or younger. So she had become a solitary child, creating imaginary worlds.

Forgotten were the crawdads and the string, which began to pull from one side to another as Chantel moved, speaking lines, peopling the open space beside the stream with unseen companions. She had just finished a speech when a voice from behind startled her.

“What are you doing here, girl?”

Chantel whirled, and her face reddened, for her father stood there watching her. As always, he was finely dressed; today he wore a pair of gray trousers strapped under his feet and a gray cloth coat with a black fur collar. A fur cap on his head covered his chestnut hair. There was censure in his eyes, and he shook his head. “Your mama has been worried about you. Why do you run away without telling us where you’ve gone?”

“I’m—I’m sorry, Papa.” Chantel dropped her head, unable to meet his eyes. She drew a figure in the dirt with the toe of her shoe, then managed to look up. She hated to displease her father, but she saw that his lips were turned down and his brow knit with a frown. “I will not do it again.”

“If you would study your schoolbooks as hard as you play, it would be well.”

Chantel had no answer for that, and he had warned her before about her laziness in the classroom. Desperately she tried to find something to say, but this was not unusual when she tried to speak to her father. At times he was happy and showered her with affection, but this would be followed by long periods when he seemed to forget that he had a daughter. Chantel lived for those times when he would come and pick her up and throw her in the air, and then give her a hug and a kiss, or when he would play games with her in the parlor or read to her the stories from a book.

“Come along. It’s late. You’ll have to tell your mother you’re sorry.”

“Yes, Papa.”

Chantel scrambled to get her crawdads, not forgetting to pull in the one that was on the end of her line. As she tossed it into the bucket, Cretien shook his head, his face cloudy. “You are absolutely filthy, girl! And you’re dressed like the daughter of a slave.”

“I didn’t want to get good clothes dirty when I came for the crawdads, Papa.”

“Fishing for crawdads indeed! You should be learning to draw or do embroidery like a lady.”

Chantel picked up the bucket, her face red. Silently she trudged beside her father, who said not another word to her all the way to the house. Finally he spoke. “Get rid of those things and get cleaned up.”

“Yes, Papa.”

Running around the house with the crawdads thumping in the bucket, Chantel flew into the kitchen and slammed the door behind her. She ran up at once to Clarice Debeau, the cook. “I’ve caught lots of crawdads, Clarice.”

“Look at you!” Clarice said. She was a thickset woman of thirty-five, short and strong, and had a real affection for the daughter of the house. “You’re so dirty!”

“I’m going to wash right now. Could we have étouffée tonight?”

“It’s too late for that. Maybe tomorrow.”

“All right, Clarice.” Chantel spun about and left the kitchen. She ran upstairs to her own room, breaking in like a whirlwind. Chantel loved her room, and for one moment she stood still and let her eyes run over the mahogany canopy bed, with its pink and white lace coverings, the brilliant white curtains held back with pink lace ties, the delicately carved rocking chair holding porcelain dolls in frilly dresses, and the dark burgundy rug in the center of the room. On the other side of the room she took in the small desk with bookcases on both sides filled with colorful leather-bound books that she had not yet read, the shelves with delicate figurines of dancers in all poses, and the pictures of beautiful faraway places on the walls.

She took off her jacket and the worn dress, and going to the washstand she poured water from a flowered pitcher into an enamel basin. She splashed her face quickly and washed her hands, then dried off on a thick towel.

Wheeling, she ran to the large walnut armoire, pulled it open, and yanked out a dress. Quickly she pulled it over her head and then went to the mirror and began trying to do something with her hair. Because it was red, she endured much teasing from other children. Adults always remarked on it, too, and seemed compelled to pat her on the head. More than once she’d had to restrain an impulse to keep from doing something shocking—like spitting on them or slapping their hands away. Determinedly she picked up a brush and comb and tried to get some of the tangles out of it. Her eyes watered as she yanked at it, pulling at her scalp.

The door opened, and Elise came flying in. “You’re late!” she exclaimed. “Here, let me do your hair.”

Willingly Chantel surrendered the brush and comb to the maid and sat there while her hair was put into some sort of shape. “I caught enough crawdads to make étouffée, Elise. You can have some tomorrow.”

“And your father had to go looking for you. He was upset.” Elise took a few more swipes at the hair, tied it up efficiently with a ribbon from the table, and said, “Now, go quickly.”

“Yes, Elise.”

Chantel left her room at a run and dashed down the stairs. Then she slowed to a stop and managed to walk in with some appearance of grace.

The dining room she entered was beautiful indeed. It was a very large room with embossed wallpaper in gold. Each wall, it seemed, had innumerable pictures and mirrors with carved, gilded frames. The ceiling was very high, with heavily carved cornices, and was painted a brilliant white, and there was a beautiful marble fireplace with its mantle holding porcelain figurines of all sorts. A brass and crystal chandelier with etched glass globes hung over the highly polished table, set now with the best of china, crystal, and silver. The delicately carved chairs had seats upholstered in a white fabric with bold red- and pink-colored roses. The floor was covered with a deep crimson carpet, red silk draperies fell over lace curtains at the floor-length windows, and the oversized sideboard displayed crystal and china of different sizes and shapes.

Aimee smiled and said, “Come in and sit down. Clarice has made us a very good dinner.”

“Yes, Mama.” Chantel took her seat and waited until Robert and Clarice came in with the food. It was one of her favorite dishes: chicken creole, with its spicy red gravy, rice, corn bread, and stewed okra with tomatoes.

Aimee said, “My, you’re getting sunburned.”

“Yes, and that’s not good,” Cretien said. He paused with his fork halfway to his mouth and shook his head with disfavor. “A lady should have a nice white complexion. You’re going to be as black as Brutus if you don’t stay out of that sun, child.”

“Oh, I don’t think it’s going to ruin her complexion,” Aimee said quickly.

Cretien argued the point and then, as he saw Chantel eating rapidly, he said sharply, “Don’t gobble your food down! You’re eating like a pig.”

Again Aimee interposed. “She has such a good appetite. Being outside gives it to her, I suppose, and that’s a good thing.”

“Well, she eats enough. I don’t see why she can’t gain weight. She looks like a stick.”

Chantel’s face turned pale at her father’s thoughtless words. Her mirror told her that she was not beautiful, and children called her “bird legs” and other cruel names.

“What did you do all afternoon, dear?” Aimee asked.

“I just went out in the woods. I caught some crawdads. Clarice said we could have étouffée tomorrow.”

“That’s nice. It’s one of my favorite dishes.”

The conversation moved in a more pleasant direction, and eventually Cretien’s mood softened. With a smile he said, “I think our daughter is going to be an actress when she grows up.”

Aimee was surprised. “Why do you say that, dear?”

“Because when I found her, she was acting out a play. Quite well, too. She was doing all the parts. Had a sword fight and a love scene and a dying scene. It was like being at the theater in New Orleans.” He laughed and shook his head. “It was a very good performance, Chantel. I enjoyed it.”

As always, Chantel flushed at her father’s praise. She beamed at him and said, “It was from the play you took us to last month.”

“I’ll have to be careful what kind of plays I take you to see,” Cretien said with a smile. “Some of them are not wholesome. But it was a good sword fight. Maybe I’ll teach you how to use the foils when you get a little older.”

“I’m old enough now, Papa!”

“Well, maybe you are. We’ll see.”

Aimee smiled then and said, “Why don’t you tell her our surprise, dear?”

Cretien gave his wife a swift glance and nodded. He studied Chantel for a moment, then said, “We’re going to have company, Chantel.”

“Who is it?”

“Let me give you a hint. Our visitor will be very small. No bigger than this.” He held up his hands, holding them about eighteen inches apart.

“I know. It’s the puppy I’ve wanted!”

“No, it’s even better than a puppy. Come here.”

At once Chantel was out of her seat and around the heavy table. When Cretien picked her up in his arms, she felt a security and a delight in being noticed. Her father put his lips close to her ear and whispered, “We’re going to have a baby.”

“Oh, Papa, how nice!” She reached up and put her arms around her father’s neck and hugged him. He laughed and unwound her arms, saying, “Go embrace your mother. She’s the one that will be bringing the baby to us.”

Chantel slipped from his lap and ran over to receive her mother’s hug. “When will it come, Mama?”

“Very close to your birthday. Maybe on the same day. Wouldn’t that be something, if we had two birthdays on the same day!”

“We could save money.” Cretien smiled, his eyes sparkling. “I’m hoping you’ll have a little brother. Then we can all three raise him to be a good, strong man.” Echoing his wife’s thought, he added, “It will be close to your birthday when the baby is born. What do you want for your birthday?”

“A horse.”

“Well, you don’t mind asking for the moon!”

“Can I have one, Papa? Please!”

“Yes, you may have a horse.”

“Dear, do you think she’s old enough?”

“Of course she is. She needs to learn to be a horsewoman. Then she can go riding with her father.”

“Papa, will you really get me a horse?”

“Yes. I’ll bring it to your party.”

“Does anyone else know about the baby?”

“No one.”

“Can I go tell Clarice and Elise?”

“Yes, you may.”

As Chantel shot out of the dining room, Aimee said, “That child adores you, Cretien. She just glows when you pay attention to her. Don’t you see it?”

Cretien was well aware of his failings as a father. He looked down at the table and fumbled with his napkin, then looked up and caught her eye. “I know. I’ll try to be more affectionate with her.”

Aimee knew that part of the reason for Cretien’s lack of affection for their daughter was that Chantel was not a beautiful girl. “She’s not pretty now, but she will be someday.”

“Oh, that doesn’t matter,” Cretien protested.

But Aimee bit her tongue, for she had almost said, Yes, it does to you. You like beautiful things. Instead she said, “When will you get the pony?”

“There’s no hurry. I’ll look around for a good one.”

“She’ll love it, Cretien. She treasures anything you give her.” A smile turned the corners of Aimee’s lips upward. “Do you remember the doll you bought for her when she was four? She’s almost worn that thing out. It’s all Marie and I can do to keep it sewn together. She sleeps with it every night.”

Cretien smiled. He was mellow with the thought of having a son to raise and said, “Chantel is a good child. Just not what I expected. She’s so—so boyish.”

“She will outgrow that. Don’t worry.”

“I hope so. I’d hate to see a woman of eighteen running around in a ragged dress catching crawdads.”

Chapter six

The day was dying, and now the sun sent the last few pale rays through the window of Chantel’s room. It illuminated the carpet and touched the mirror on her vanity briefly with its pale light. She looked up from the book before her and caught a glimpse of her own face. As always, her features displeased her, and she looked down quickly and began writing again.

She had begun her journal at her mother’s suggestion, on the same day that her parents had told her of the baby to come.

Her father agreed, saying, “It might help her penmanship a little.”

“Oh, no,” Aimee had protested. “No one sees a young lady’s journal except the young lady herself.”

Strangely enough, as much as she had once disliked some studies, Chantel had found a pleasure in keeping her journal. Perhaps it was because no one ever checked it for spelling or punctuation. She wrote rapidly as her thoughts flowed through her, and never paused to correct anything.

May 2, 1823

Today is the day the baby will be born! I hope it’s a boy because Papa wants one so much. I don’t care whether it’s a boy or a girl. I’d love to have either a baby brother or a baby sister. Whichever it is, I’ll be happy with it!!!

The doctor came early this morning, and Mama is having a bad time. I don’t like to hear it—the cries that come from her room. The doctor is worried, too, although he tries not to show it. I tried to talk to Papa, but he’s too worried to listen to me, so I just stay quiet as a mouse and pray that Mama and the baby will be all right.

It’s been a wonderful time for me, waiting for the baby—until today. Papa has been so happy, and he’s taken me to the theater several times! I love to go with him, but I know he’s ashamed of me because I’m not pretty like other girls. Mama says I will be prettier when I get older, but I don’t think so.

I was hoping the baby would be born on my birthday, but it’s all right that it’s a few days early. My birthday is only eighteen days away, and think what I will have! I will have a new brother or sister, and I’ll have my new horse, which Papa promised me. If it’s a mare, I’ll call her Lady. If it’s a gelding, I’ll call him Pegasus. I’ll never be lonesome again with my new baby brother or sister and my new horse!

Hearing footsteps coming down the hall, Chantel quickly closed the book and ran to the chest against the wall. Opening the drawer, she shoved the journal beneath her clothes, rose, and turned just as her father came in. He stood looking at her, and for one terrible moment Chantel was afraid that her mother had died. She knew that women did die sometimes from having babies, and it had been a fear on her heart almost constantly. “Is— Is Mama all right?”

“Yes, she’s fine—and you have a new baby sister.” Her father’s voice changed when he said “baby sister,” and instantly Chantel knew that he was very disappointed. She wanted to tell him how sorry she was that it wasn’t a boy, but that didn’t seem very fair to the girl who had just been born. She said breathlessly, “Can I see Mama?”

“Yes. Come along.”

Chantel accompanied her father down the hall, and when she stepped into the large master bedroom, she saw her mother in bed with a bundle in her arms. Doctor South was putting something in a black bag, and Marie was cleaning up.

“Come here, dear.”

Chantel went over to stand beside the bed. Her mother’s face was pale and drawn, and her lips looked very thin and white. “Here’s your new baby sister.”

Chantel leaned forward and looked at the little face that peered out of the blanket. She had never seen a newborn baby, and for a moment she felt disappointed. “She’s so red, Mama!”

“All babies are red. You were too. She’s going to be beautiful.”

“I hope so,” Chantel said. She reached out and touched the fine blonde hair on the baby’s head. “What color are her eyes?”

“All babies have blue eyes.”

“Really!”

“Yes, indeed. I’m hoping she’ll have brown eyes like your father.”

“What’s her name, Mama?”

“Veronique.”

Cretien had come to stand on the other side of the bed. He said nothing while Chantel asked questions. Finally Aimee turned to him, and he made himself smile. “She’s a fine child,” he said quietly.

Aimee felt a pang of disappointment. She had prayed so hard for a boy! Now her heart was heavy, because Doctor South had told her that it would be dangerous for her to have other children. She knew that he had informed Cretien of this, and she saw a heaviness and a sadness in his face, despite his attempts to hide it.

“Can I hold her, Mama?” asked Chantel.

“Yes, but be very careful.”

Chantel was very careful indeed as she took the baby, holding her as if she were a very fragile piece of fine glass. She looked down into the face. “We’re going to be the best of friends always and always,” she whispered.

After several minutes Doctor South said, “I think you’d better give your sister back to your mother now, and you scoot on along.”

Chantel carefully placed the baby in her mother’s arms, then leaned over and kissed them both. “I’ll be back when Doctor South says I can.”

As soon as she left the room, Doctor South gave the parents a few instructions, then added, “That’s one of the healthiest babies I’ve ever seen. She’s a fine girl. Congratulations, monsieur.”

“Thank you, doctor, for everything.”

As soon as Doctor South left, Aimee held her hand out, and Cretien took it. “I’m so sorry it’s not a boy.”

Cretien tried to smile, but she saw that he was unhappy. She squeezed his hand and said, “We must adopt a boy.”

His face grew tense. “No,” he said firmly. “Blood is everything! I wouldn’t want a child that wasn’t mine by blood.”

Bending over, he kissed his wife, then reached over and, almost with reluctance, touched the child’s head. “She’s a fine child,” he repeated quietly, then turned and left the room.

In the silence of the room, holding the baby close to her heart, Aimee Fontaine felt one of the most intense moments of sadness she had ever known. She should have been crying out for joy with a new baby healthy in every way, but she knew how Cretien had longed for a son. And now she had failed him. Tears ran down her face, and she made no attempt to wipe them away.

The days seemed to fly by after the birth of Veronique—at least for Chantel. She spent every moment possible with the baby, helping with her all she could. She watched with amazement as her sister nursed and asked her mother a thousand questions concerning babies.

Aimee laughed and waved her hand in the air. “You want to know everything about babies.”

“But they’re so wonderful, Mama!”

“Yes, they are wonderful, indeed, and I’m glad that you love her so much.”

“We’re going to be best friends.”

When she was not holding the baby or watching her being cared for, Chantel was singing to her. She had learned many nursery songs already and could rock the baby and sing for hours without growing tired. This pleased Aimee and astonished Cretien.

“I never thought she would be such a good little mother,” he whispered, watching Chantel as she rocked Veronique. “She’s much older than her years in this way at least.”

Yet time also seemed to move slowly because Chantel was counting the hours until her birthday. Papa had promised her a horse! The delight of her life was when her father would put her on the saddle in front of him and take her for a ride on his big stallion, Caesar. Chantel was constantly at the barn, and whenever a foal was born she could hardly be dragged into the house for the joy of watching the spindly legged but beautiful creatures as they learned to walk.

Finally, as it always must, time went around, and the morning of May 20 arrived. Cretien had left two days earlier on a business trip to New Orleans. Chantel was giving Veronique her bath, at which she had become very good indeed. Carefully she washed the silkened skin, marveling at the tiny wrinkles in the hands and the small fingernails. She sang a song as Aimee sat watching.

Chantel said, “Papa will be back for my birthday, won’t he?”

“I’m sure he will, dear. He wouldn’t forget your birthday.” Aimee smiled and said, “How does it feel to be ten years old?”

Chantel thought for a moment and said, “Just like it did to be nine years old. I thought I would feel older.”

She soaked the baby’s hair, rinsed it carefully, and then tickled her. The baby chortled, which pleased her. Looking up, she said, “When will I be grown, Mama?”

“Not for a long time.”

“I want to be grown up.”

“Don’t wish your life away, my dear.”

“Didn’t you want to be grown up when you were nine years old?” “My goodness! I can’t remember that far back. Here, let me help you get this child dressed.” The two of them dressed the baby and then Chantel said, “I’m going down to help Clarice make the cake. She said I could.”

“All right. Don’t be a bother, though. Remember, the guests will be coming at one o’clock, and you want to be all dressed and ready.”

“I will, Mama. I’ll do my hair just right, and maybe Elise will help me.”

“Just a moment,” Aimee said. A smile touched the corners of her lips as she brought a small package out of her pocket. “I want to give you your present now—a special present just from me.”

Chantel took the small package and unwrapped it quickly. Opening the box within, she pulled out a locket on a gold chain. “Mama, it’s beautiful.”

“It belonged to my mother.” Aimee smiled. “Look inside.”

Chantel opened the locket and stared at the miniature painting. “It’s a picture of you!”

“Yes, and someday you’ll put a picture of yourself in it and give it to your daughter. Do you want to wear it?”

“Oh, yes, Mama!” Chantel could barely stand still, and when the locket was fastened, she threw her arms around her mother. “Thank you so much, Mama! I’ll always love it. May I go show it to Clarice?”

“Yes, run along.”

Running downstairs, Chantel went at once to the kitchen and found the cook in the midst of making the birthday pastry. “Clarice, look at my new locket!”

The locket was duly admired, and Chantel said, “I came to help you make the cake. Hello, Miss Marie.” She talked like a magpie, informing them of the progress of Veronique and her excitement about the horse. “I hope it’s a gray horse. I’ve always liked gray horses,” she said.

Clarice and Marie were amused. “What makes you think you’re going to get a horse to ride?” Marie asked.

“Oh, Marie, you know Papa promised! That’s why he went to New Orleans. I just know.”

“You will break your neck,” Clarice warned. “I do not think it is a good thing.”

“I will not!”

“That’s what horses are good for. To fall off of and break your neck.”

“Oh, Clarice, why do you talk so foolish!”

When Chantel left to get ready for her party, the two women stared after her. Marie said, “She loves her Papa so much.”

“And he cares so little for her!” Clarice snorted.

“Hush! It is not for us to talk about the family.”

“I’ve heard you say it, so I suppose I can too.”

“The master is a strange man. He wanted a boy so much. Perhaps he will have a son next time.”

“And then he will pay all the attention to the son,” Clarice replied, “and our little Chantel will get none. Poor child! She just soaks up his love when he gives any—which isn’t often.”

Marie Bientot was an astute woman. She knew as well as Chantel and everyone else who was intimate with the family that Chantel was a lonely child who loved her father with every fiber of her being. She also knew how self-consumed Cretien Fontaine could be. He was good enough to his wife and not abusive to anyone, but his first consideration was his own comfort.

Marie sighed and shook her head. “I’m glad the baby was a girl and not a boy. Chantel would no longer get any notice at all!”

Chantel found Brutus shoeing a horse and stood watching with fascination. “Doesn’t it hurt the horses when you put those nails in their feet?”

“These ain’t feet, missy. These is hooves. And no, they ain’t got no feelin’ unless you go too deep and hit a nerve—which I ain’t never done.”

Chantel and the large slave were good friends. Brutus was amused by her interest in the workings of the farm, and it was not unusual to see the small girl sitting astride his massive shoulders as they walked through the fields of sugar cane. He taught her how to catch crawdads, took her fishing, and taught her the names of the animals and birds and trees in the countryside.

He listened as she told him about the horse she was to get, and promised to shoe it for her whenever it was time. When she left singing, as usual, Brutus shook his head. “That child is a sight in this world! She purely is,” he muttered. “She sho do love hosses. I hope her papa gets her a good ’un.”

There was no other way to put it: the party was a failure.

Eight children from the surrounding plantations came, but only one, Claude Dumair, was anywhere close to Chantel’s age. The others were either several years younger or several years older. Aimee and Marie had planned the games, and the food was delicious. Chantel opened her presents, forcing herself to smile and politely thank each child who gave her a gift.

Aimee saw that Chantel could not stop looking toward the road, at every moment expecting her father to come riding up on his stallion, leading the horse he had promised her.

As time went on and Cretien did not come, Chantel’s heart began to grow cold. She was glad when the last child left. She turned to her mother. “Papa didn’t come to my party.”

“I’m sure something held him up, dear.”

“He promised to come, and he promised to give me a horse.” The words were spoken in a whisper, and Aimee saw the eyes of her daughter fill up.

“He didn’t come,” she said, turning and running out of the house.

“Chantel!” Aimee called out. “Chantel! Come back!” But the child kept on running.

Aimee Fontaine was a calm and generous and loving woman, but now someone had hurt her child. An anger began to grow in her, and soon it was white hot. She stood there trembling, so angry that she wanted to strike out and beat her fists against something. Instead she took a deep breath, walked stiffly to the rosewood secretary, and sat down. Getting a sheet of paper, she dipped her pen in ink and wrote in large letters without any heading:

Come home at once and bring a horse for your daughter—the one you promised her!

She formed an exclamation point, then blotted the letter, folded it, put it into an envelope, and sealed it with wax. She strode into the kitchen, where she found Robert polishing the silver. “Robert,” she said, holding out the envelope, “take this at once to your master.”

“Why, yes, madame. Shall I wait for an answer?”

“I expect he will be coming back with you.” Polar ice was never colder than Aimee’s tone, and as she turned and left the room, Robert stared after her.

“Never seen her like that before! I can imagine what’s in here,” he said to Elise.

“I hope she told him what a sorry excuse for a father he is,” Elise said. Tears came to her eyes. “I hope she did.”

“Well, I’ll find him. I know all of his spots,” Robert said grimly. He put the envelope into his pocket, put on his coat, and left the house. A few moments later Elise heard the sound of hoofbeats and looked out the window to see Robert driving a large bay gelding at full speed down the road.

Cretien was winning and, as always, this made him feel good. The stakes had gotten high, and as he pulled in the pot, he shook his head. “You gentlemen are not lucky tonight.”

“No, I believe you have all the luck, Cretien.” The speaker was a tall, swarthy man with a sharp-pointed mustache. He looked up suddenly and said, “Isn’t that your man Robert?”

Cretien turned and saw Robert striding across the room. “Why, so it is!” he said.

“Madame Fontaine asked me to give you this, sir,” Robert said to him.

Cretien took the envelope, but his eyes were on Robert’s face. Robert had been with him for a long time, and the two got along well. Now, however, there was a fixed hardness on the face of his manservant.

“Is someone sick?” he asked quickly. “One of the children?”

“No, sir.”

The answer gave no information, and Cretien opened the envelope. He pulled out the single sheet of paper and read the stark message. Licking his lips, he put the letter back into the envelope and carefully put it into his pocket. “I’m cashing in,” he said. “I have to go.”

“Is there some sort of problem, Cretien?”

“I’m afraid so. I’ll give you a chance to get even next time I’m in town.” Robert stood, silently waiting until his employer had collected his winnings, then followed him outside the gambling room.

As soon as they were outside, Cretien turned and said, “Go to the house and pack my things, then meet me in front of the hotel. We’ll be leaving in an hour.”

Robert nodded and left, saying not a word. Cretien watched him go, then turned and broke into a half run. He did not stop until he got to a stable and called out, “I need some help.”

Chantel cried herself to sleep, then slept fitfully. She awoke to the sound of a voice calling her name, and at first she thought it was just another dream. The voice called her name again.

“Chantel, wake up. It’s Papa.”

She came out of sleep and found her father kneeling beside her bed, holding a candle with his right hand.

“Papa, what is it?” she said, groggily struggling to sit up.

“Are you awake?”

“Yes, I’m awake.” Chantel saw her father’s tense face, and fear came to her. “Is something wrong with Mama?”

“No, not at all.”

“Is Veronique all right?”

“She’s fine. Come with me. I have something to show you.”

Chantel stood up barefooted, but suddenly her father blew the candle out and set it down. He picked her up in his arms and went out the door. Chantel blinked against the lights that were burning and saw her mother standing at the foot of the stairs. Again she felt a wash of fear, but her father’s arms held her tight. She reached up and put her arms around his neck and her face against his chest. When they went outside it was dark, but a lantern threw some light on the scene. She saw Robert standing there holding the lantern high.

“Happy birthday, daughter.”

The events of the day rushed back to Chantel, but when Cretien turned around she saw a small horse standing next to Robert.

“Happy birthday,” her father whispered. “She’s all yours. A fine mare.”

In all her life Chantel had never felt as she did at that moment. Gone were the tears and the heartache that had crushed her. She stared at the horse and whispered, “For me, Papa?”

“All yours, little one. Why don’t you go get acquainted with her?”

Chantel felt herself being lowered, and she ran barefooted toward Robert, who was holding the mare with his other hand. She stopped, reached up, and the mare whickered at her and lowered her head carefully. Chantel felt the velvet nose, and tears came into her eyes. She began to cry and could not stop.

“I love you, Lady,” she whispered, and then she turned and ran back up the steps to her father. “I knew you wouldn’t forget, Papa. I knew you wouldn’t!”

Cretien Fontaine felt shame such as he had rarely known. Turning slightly, he saw Aimee standing in the open door. Their eyes met, and as Chantel said again, “I knew you wouldn’t forget!” he looked down. He held the child close, then he kissed her cheek and said hoarsely, “I’ll never be late for your birthday party again, daughter.

I swear it!”

Chapter seven

Grasping the reins of her mare firmly, Chantel sat straight in the saddle, filled with joy. She glanced at her father, who was riding Caesar, and thought, He is the handsomest man in the world.

Cretien turned and smiled at her. “A good morning for a ride, eh?” He saw that her eyes were dancing bright, but now there was the air of a little girl’s eagerness about her that he had learned to recognize. “I wish everyone in the world could get out and ride like this with a fine rider like you.”

Chantel’s face revealed the pleasure that welled up inside. She turned away so that he could not see how happy he had made her. Ahead she saw a tree across the path and said, “Let’s jump it, Papa.”

“Do you think you can do it?”

“You just watch. Come on, Lady.” Chantel leaned forward and spoke encouragingly to the mare, who broke into a swift gallop. When she came to the log, Chantel cried out, and the mare jumped it easily.

Chantel looked back, crying, “I did it, Papa!” She watched as her father took the jump and pulled up beside her.

“That was fine! You’ve become a good rider.” He studied her for a moment and then shook his head. “But you’re going to have to learn to ride sidesaddle sometime.”

“Oh, Papa, that’s no fun! Riding with your leg crooked around an old saddle horn!”

“That may be, but it’s the way ladies ride.”

“I think it’s silly!” Chantel turned to face her father, her brow kneaded. “I want to ride just like you do.”

“Well, we’ll worry about that when you get all grown up. In the meanwhile you’ve gotten to be a fine rider.”

Chantel flashed a smile. “You know, Papa, the last six months have been the best time of my whole life.”

“Is that right? Well, I’m glad to hear it. I hope the rest of your life will be just as good.”

“Papa, do you think I’ll ever be pretty like Mama?”

Cretien hesitated. In truth he was disappointed that his daughter had not inherited Aimee’s beauty. She was entirely different, and he sought words carefully so that he would not hurt her feelings.

“Let me tell you something about beauty, daughter. You have one thing that I admire very much.” He saw her eyes brighten and he smiled. “You have a fine carriage. You’re a tall young lady, and you’re going to be even taller when you grow up. A fine carriage and good bone structure, which you have—nothing can take the place of those.” He turned to look at a small bird pouring out a symphony of song.

He gazed at the bird for a moment and then turned back and said, “I knew a lady once in France. She had the same sort of bone structure that you have, Chantel. And when you studied her face alone she didn’t seem exceptionally attractive. But she carried herself well, and somehow other people began to think she was attractive.”

He thought for a moment about the days that he had spent in Paris, and there was a queer twist in him—a stray current of something out of his far past, half regret and half a pale sentimentality. Shaking himself, he said, “Now, you’re going to be just like that woman. You’re going to think yourself beautiful.”

“But how can I do that?”

“That’s what you must find out for yourself. We, all of us, have to find out things about ourselves, Chantel.”

Chantel thought about his words and then said, “You know, I want to do so many things. Last night when I saw Veronique looking out the window she saw the moon, and she reached out for it. But she didn’t know she could never get it.”

“Reach for the moon, Chantel,” Cretien said strongly. “You may not get it, but you must never give up trying. Some poet or other, I forget who it was, said, ‘Always reach for the stars. Some day you might get one.’ Something like that.”

The two talked as their horses walked side by side, until Cretien said, “I think we’d better get back now. It’s getting a little bit late.”

“Just a little ways further, Papa.”

“No, I have things to do.”

Reluctantly Chantel reined Lady around, and when they started back, she said, “When will you have to leave, Papa?”

“Next week, I think.” He turned and smiled. “I’ll bring you back something from the city. What would you like?”

Instantly Chantel said, “I would like a pistol.”

Her answer brought a burst of laughter from Cretien. He was fascinated by the mind of this daughter of his. “A pistol! What in the world would you do with a pistol?”

“I would protect myself. And if a burglar came in the house, I would shoot him.”

“I think eleven is a little young to be shooting burglars. Wherever do you get such ideas?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I just think of them.”

“I believe you’ve been reading too many romances.”

“But I love the stories, Papa. Don’t you?”

“They’re all right. But you have to remember, Chantel, they’re just stories. Not real life.” He did not speak for a time, and then he said, “I’ll bring you back something from town, but it will be much nicer than a pistol. Maybe a new dress or some shoes.”

“I’ll like whatever you bring, Papa—but someday when I grow up I’ll get myself a pistol and carry it in my reticule. Then I won’t have to be afraid of anyone.”

Cretien turned to study his daughter. He did not understand her in the least, but he shrugged and thought, Maybe a man never understands a child. Especially a female one.

A cold breeze from the north bit at Chantel’s face, but she ignored it. She was wrapped up in heavy clothes and wore gloves that were really intended for more sedate pastimes than trot lining in the river. She sat in the back of the flat-bottom boat, watching as Brutus propelled them along by tugging at a heavy line. Every ten feet or so he would stop and examine a shorter line that was tied to the long one that stretched along the banks. One end was tied at the bank and another to a cypress tree that pushed its way upward out of the murky waters of the river.

“Let me put some bait on, Brutus.”

“No, missy, you’d better let me do dat,” he replied. He turned to smile at her, and the late afternoon sun caught his ebony features. His weight pushed the front of the johnboat down into the water. He reached into the bucket at his feet, pulled out a crawdad, and skillfully hooked the wiggling creature just beneath the top of its shell. He examined it critically, then lowered it into the water, still holding onto the main line.

“You cotch us a good catfish, Mr. Crawdad,” he said.

He was humming a tune, and as he moved along to the next set line, Chantel said, “What’s that song, Brutus?”

“Just a song I know.”

Chantel asked him to sing it again, and the second time she sang it with him.

“You sho is got a good singin’ voice, missy,” Brutus said. He started to speak, then suddenly he halted and turned quickly. “We got somethin’ on the line up ahead there! Feels like a big ’un!”

“Can I help pull it in?”

“No, indeed! These catfish can be mean critters. They got horns on ’em with pizen in ’em. But you kin watch. And then later on you kin have some good, fresh, fried catfish. Hold still now!”

Chantel watched with excitement as Brutus propelled the boat. She saw the line dipping and straining, and, as always, wished she could help.

Brutus kept a tight hold, and once he turned and said, “He shore is a big ’un. Must be big as Jonah’s whale.” He turned back and soon he said, “Gonna have to pull hard to get dis ’un in. You watch now. Don’t let him git close to you when he get in de boat.”

After what seemed like a long struggle, Brutus gave a tug, and a huge catfish came dripping and flopping into the bottom of the boat. He was the biggest catfish Chantel had ever seen, and she saw him swing his head around.

“Watch out for dem horns now! Lemme get ’em off.” Brutus approached the fish carefully, for the dorsal fin and the two side fins both had spikes that could hurt fiercely. He waited his chance, ran his huge hand in the fish’s lip, and gripped down. Chantel saw the mighty mouth close, but Brutus was not paying attention. With a pair of pliers he reached down and snapped off the dorsal fin, the horn, and then the two side fins. “There, dat’ll hold you, I reckon.”

“He’s so big!”

“Biggest one I ever cotched,” he said. “Now, I reckon as how we might as well go home. We got enough fish for one night, and mo’ than I expect. Everybody will have fish at Fontaine Maison tonight.” The fish flopped and thrashed around the bottom of the boat as Brutus dropped the line down. It sank immediately because of the weights he had tied to it. Picking up a paddle, he sent the small craft over the water with powerful strokes.

As always, Chantel chattered like a magpie, speaking about the things she was going to do when she grew up. “You know,” she said, “I think I might be a doctor.”

Brutus broke his strokes for a moment and stared at her. “But dey ain’t no lady doctors dat I knows of.”

“Well, there will be when I get to be one.”

“Don’t see why fo’ you want to be a doctor. It’s a pretty messy job, and you allus havin’ to be around folks in trouble. Why don’t you just be a lady like yo’ mama.”

“I can be that, too.”

Brutus laughed deep in his chest. “You sho got a mess of things you gonna do when you grow up. Looks like it’d take two or three lifetimes to get ’em all in.”

They were almost to the landing when suddenly two large black birds dropped out of the sky and lit on the limb of a cypress.

Brutus stared at them. “Dat’s bad luck right there.”

“What is?”

“Why, dem black birds! Every time dey come you can figure on somethin’ mighty bad happenin’. Maybe I’ll break a leg or somethin’ like that.”

“Oh, don’t be silly, Brutus! They’re just old blackbirds.”

“You think what you want, missy, but last time I seed two birds like dat come down and light, the next day I lost my good knife.”

“Well, it didn’t have anything to do with the blackbirds,” Chantel said defiantly. “Now, I want to watch you clean the fish.”

“Shucks, dat’s a messy job. I don’t know why you want to see dat.” He smiled suddenly at her, his teeth white against his ebony skin. “You more interested in things than any girl I ever seed—or any man either, for that matter.”

He paddled the boat so that the prow drove in on a bank, then stepped out and held it, saying, “You watch out for dat fish. He might bite yo’ foot clean off.”

Chantel laughed, but all the same she carefully avoided the huge catfish. She watched as Brutus tied the boat, then reached out and got the fish by the lip.

“Dis here fish must weigh thirty pounds! We’re gonna have good eatin’ tonight. Come on. I’ll let you watch me clean ’im.” They had started for the house when Brutus paused to look upward. “Dat sky looks mighty bad.”

“It does look like rain,” Chantel agreed.

“It done been rainin’ so much. That river ain’t gonna take much more.” He shrugged and said, “Well, come on. Let’s get dis here fish cleaned.” He cast his eyes up at the rolling black clouds and shook his head sadly.

The rain came down in solid sheets, slanting as though driven by a powerful east wind. Simon Bientot was soaked to the skin. The water dripped off his hat in a miniature waterfall as he trudged along, the ground squishy with each step. As he came up on the front porch and stood under the overhang, he looked back in the direction of the river, lines of worry creasing his forehead. He took off his hat, wiped his face as best he could with a sodden handkerchief, and knocked on the door. It opened almost at once, and Aimee Fontaine stood there. She stepped outside and said, “What is it, Simon?”

“Miz Fontaine, I’m worried about that river. It’s plum out of its banks already.”

“But it’s never flooded here.”

“Yes, ma’am, it did, a long time ago. The old-timers told me that. This whole area was under water. That was before the house was built, of course, just a few shacks here. But it took ’em all away.”

Aimee looked out at what seemed like a world submerged. Already the low places had become small lakes, and the water fell from the sky like a deluge. She was silent for a moment, then said, “I think it will be all right.”

“I reckon we’d better leave, Miz Fontaine.”

“No, we’re not going to do that. It may get up to the house, but we’re on a rise here. It won’t get to us.”

Simon argued. “What about folks in the lower lands? They are almost sure to get water in their houses.”

“You can bring them all here. We’ll take care of them until it stops raining and the water goes down.”

Simon was not satisfied, but he realized that Aimee’s mind was made up. “All right, ma’am, but I’m worried. And I think you should be, too.”

Aimee turned and went back into the house, where she found Chantel rocking Veronique in the nursery.

“I never saw it rain so hard, Mama,” Chantel said.

“I don’t believe I ever have either. And I expect New Orleans will be flooded. It’s so low there.”

“But the water won’t come in here, will it, Mama?”

With all the confidence she could muster Aimee replied, “Of course not. It’ll stop raining, and the water will go down. It goes down very quickly. Now, let’s give Veronique her bath.”

After the bathing was done, Chantel went out and stood on the porch. The sound of water cascading off the house and striking the ground was louder than she had ever heard it. Thunder rolled almost constantly, and the sky was lit up with blinding white flashes. She was frightened by the power of the elements and quickly turned around and went back inside. She closed the door, muting the sound, but still the storm was like a beast prowling around. Chantel went to the nursery to sit beside her mama, who was rocking Veronique.

Simon nodded with relief. “You made the right decision, Miz Fontaine. We’ve got to get out of this place. The water’s almost up to the level of the house.”

“It’s going to ruin our beautiful home.”

“We can work on it after the water goes down, but now let’s get out of here. Everybody else is all ready.”

Aimee had finally acknowledged the inevitable. Ever since Simon’s first warning, the rains had fallen steadily, though for a time they seemed to have stopped. Now the rain was slowing, but all around the big house a sheet of water continued to rise. The slave quarters were already flooded, and there was no other choice.

“Come along, Chantel.”

“Where are we going, Mama?”

“We’re going over to the Bascom Plantation. Mrs. Bascom sent word that we could stay there until the waters go down. Hurry now.”

Chantel gathered her treasures together, including her journal and the doll that her father had given her, and placed them in a canvas sack. She went outside to the barn. Brutus had already saddled Lady, and Chantel stepped into the saddle and tied her sack around the saddle horn.

Brutus held the lines and said, “I tole you bad luck was comin’ when dem two birds came down.” He handed the reins to Chantel and said, “You be keerful now.” Then he turned and hurried back to three wagons that had been loaded with the slaves and their possessions.

Simon Bientot came to greet Aimee as she came out of the house holding Veronique. “You ride with Tallboy. He’s a good, steady driver, ma’am.”

“Is everybody ready?”

“Yes, ma’am. Come along.” Bientot walked with her to the wagon where a tall, thin young man pulled his hat off and nodded. “How do, Miz Fontaine.”

“Hello, Tallboy.” Aimee got into the wagon and settled back with Veronique in her arms, as Tallboy put on his hat and looked to the overseer.

Bientot nodded and climbed into the wagon, saying, “All right, let’s find some dry ground.”

The wagons moved through the floodwaters in a small procession. Chantel touched Lady with her heels, and the mare obediently moved forward. She guided the mare until she was even with her mother and said, “Do you want me to ride with you and help with Veronique?”

“No, I can take care of her. You be careful though.”

“I’m afraid, Mama!”

“It’s all right,” Aimee said and smiled. She extended her hand, and Chantel reached down and took it. “We’ll be fine. You’ll see.”

At that moment something touched Chantel. She held on to her mother’s hand until the wagon dropped into a pothole, and they were separated. Chantel steadied Lady and moved on ahead to ride along with Bientot.

“It’ll be all right, Miss Chantel. You sure you don’t want to ride in the wagon with me?”

“No, I want to ride Lady. The rain has stopped, so I’ll be fine.”

“All right. You stick close to the wagon though.”

The journey was slow, for Bientot was cautious. They followed the line of the road until finally they came clear of the water. Mud was everywhere. “The river’s right up there,” he said to Chantel. “Do you hear it?”

Chantel had already heard the distant rumbling that sounded like far-off thunder.

“It’s out of its banks. I hope the bridge is still in place. If it ain’t, I don’t know what we’ll do.”

Chantel rose in her stirrups from time to time and finally, when they made a turn around a group of cypress trees, she saw the bridge. “It’s still there, Simon!”

“Well, that’s good!” Simon said with relief. He guided the horses until they came to the roaring river. The original banks were completely underwater, and the crest of the flood was striking the top of the bridge itself so that water flowed over it.

“We can’t cross that bridge, Simon, can we?” Chantel stared at the raging torrent with fear.

“We’ve got to,” Bientot said grimly. “Come on. I’ll go across first.” He stood up in the wagon and said, “All right. Come along, everyone. It’ll be fine. You come with me, Chantel.”

“All right.” Chantel guided Lady across the bridge. The water seemed to grab at the mare’s feet as it flowed over the bridge. The muddy torrent was beyond anything she had ever seen, and when she reached the other side she gave a sigh of relief. Simon drove the wagon thirty yards away, then halted and got out. The others were coming, and he said, “It looks like your mama and Tallboy’s waiting till everyone else is across.”

Chantel stood there and could not control the trembling in her limbs. She had climbed down from the mare and was holding the lines, but everything in her strained toward the figure of her mother and sister. “I wish they’d hurry!” she whispered.

The last of the wagons rolled across, and then Chantel saw Tallboy slap the lines on the horses. They started up skittishly and got to the edge of the bridge. They did not want to go, and she heard Tallboy calling to them, “Get on there! You get on there, you hear me, hosses! Cross that bridge!”

Her eyes were fixed on her mother and sister, and she waved at their wagon. “Come on, Mama!” she cried.

Her voice could not reach across, but she saw her mother, who was sitting on the front seat, smile and wave her free hand while holding Veronique with the other. Finally Tallboy forced the horses onto the bridge, but the team fought him all the way.

“Those fool horses! I wish they’d come on,” she heard Bientot say under his breath.

She wished the same thing and watched as Tallboy finally got out of the wagon and went to the head of the team. “He’s going to lead them across, Simon.”

“I wish I’d gone with your mother,” Bientot muttered. “Come on, Tallboy, get those horses moving!”

The bays behaved somewhat better, but not much. Tallboy pulled at them, and finally they started forward. They had reached the center of the bridge when suddenly there was a loud cracking sound, and she saw Tallboy suddenly go to his knees.

“The bridge! It’s breaking!” Bientot shouted. He started for the bridge, but halted abruptly at the edge.

Chantel stared, horrified, as the bridge, with a creaking, groaning noise, suddenly parted in the middle. The force of the water caught it and pushed the center of it out.

“Mama!” Dropping Lady’s reins, she ran forward. Even as she ran, she saw Tallboy swept away by the water—and then she saw the wagon caught by the force of the stream. Her eyes were on her mother, who was holding Veronique tightly. The bridge was swinging parallel with the stream, and suddenly the horses, screaming almost like women, dashed forward. As the wagon hit the water, the current caught it and turned it around. It floated, but was swung from side to side.

The animals tried to swim, but the current rolled them over. There were loud cries from the servants and slaves, and Chantel heard the sound of her own voice screaming. Just a fragment of the bridge was left standing, and as she rushed toward the river, the wagon suddenly rolled over and disappeared.

Chantel would have gone right into the raging water, but she felt arms around her and heard a voice saying, “Nothing we can do, missy. Come on back.”

Chantel fought against Brutus’s strong arms, but Simon Bientot’s voice repeated, “Nothing you can do, Miss Chantel.”

And then Marie was there, and she fell against the woman’s breast crying and calling out her mother’s and sister’s names.

Chantel clung to her father’s hand as they stood in the cemetery. To her it was a natural enough thing that the bodies of the dead would be interred above ground. In this low country, water was sometimes only as much as two feet below the surface; when a grave was dug it would fill up with water faster than the diggers could work.

They stood beside a structure of white marble to which was attached a bronze plate, bright and shiny, with the names of her mother and sister and the date: November 19, 1824.

The priest’s voice came to her in a barely audible hum, but she could make no sense of the words. Ever since the tragedy, she had eaten so little that she had become much too thin. She had bad dreams every night, and even as she stood there she relived the horror, seeing the wagon go down in the muddy waters and take her sister and mother out of her life.

The priest’s voice droned on. Chantel remembered how her father had come home the day after the deaths shouting and striking at the slaves for not saving them. He had cursed Bientot and acted like a wild man. He had refused to believe that they were dead and had organized search parties on both sides of the river. After two days her mother’s body was found—but the body of Veronique was never recovered.

It seemed wrong, somehow, that Veronique’s name was on the mausoleum when her little body was not there. Chantel’s grief rose to a pitch, and she felt suddenly unable to stand. Her father caught her as she slipped, and she buried her face against his chest, her arms around his neck, until the funeral was over.

When they reached the house, she stepped inside. Everything in it spoke of her mother and of her baby sister, too. Chantel turned to her father, whose face was pale and had lines drawn in it she had not seen before. “What will we do without them, Papa?”

“We have to do the best we can, dear.”

“I don’t believe Veronique is dead.”

“You must accept it. We must both accept it and move on.”

The weeks that followed were terrible for both father and daughter. The floodwaters receded, and the river shrank back into its original banks. The cold weather came with December, but when Christmas came there was no attempt by either of them to make any ceremony.

The house was full of memories, and Chantel had nightmares that came tearing at her, bringing her awake, sobbing and almost screaming.

She stayed away from the house a great deal, riding her horse or just walking through the woods.

One day Simon Bientot said to Cretien, “The child is not doing well, is she?”

“No, she’s not. Neither am I, Simon. I didn’t know how much I loved them until I lost them.”

One cold day in January Chantel could not be found. It was not unusual for her to take long walks or rides, but when she and Lady were not back by late afternoon, Cretien grew worried.

Marie said, “Sir, we must start looking for her. Something could have happened.”

Cretien thought a moment. “I believe I know where she is.” He mounted his stallion and rode to the cemetery. As he approached, he saw Lady tied to a tree at the edge. He tied his own horse, then walked to the mausoleum where he found Chantel lying on the cold ground, shivering. Her head was pressed against the cold marble. Cretien’s heart went out to her, and he knelt down by her side. “Come, dear. We must go home.”

Chantel turned, and her face looked even thinner than usual. Her eyes seemed abnormally large, and her face was pale. She reached up and put her arms around his neck.

“We must go on, Chantel, no matter how hard it is.”

Cretien felt her arms tighten, and her face was muffled against his chest. But he heard her whisper, “You’re all I have, Papa.”

Cretien Fontaine could not speak, for his throat was tight. He picked the child up, took her to the horses, and held her on his saddle, leading her pony by the lines back toward the house. As she clung to him, he said, “You’ll always have me, Chantel.”

Chapter eight

Chantel compressed her lips as she wrote steadily in her journal. The hot sun flooded in through the window of her room, revealing millions of tiny motes dancing in the pale light. From far off came the sound of the field hands singing as they did their work, but the sound made no impact on her.

July 14, 1826

Papa finally came home late last night. I heard him and got up, and he looked very tired. I’m glad he’s home. He stays away so much now that I get lonesome.

Leaning back in her chair, Chantel considered the next entry. She had confided secrets to her journal that she would not want anyone to see. It had become a substitute, in a way, for her mother, with whom she always had been able to share.

After Mama and Veronique left us, Papa stayed at home most of the time. But after six months he began going to New Orleans. He didn’t stay long at first, but as time went on he spent more and more time there instead of here at the plantation. I wish he would take me with him! I get so lonesome!

I’ve just finished a geography lesson with Mrs. Pettis. She is so boring! That woman even makes geography dull. We were studying Hawaii, and she told me all about the annual rainfall but not a word about the beautiful dancers and the sea and the natives in their canoes. Why does she always want to talk about the boring things and never about the exciting and beautiful things? Why, I learn more from Brutus than I do from her!

The sound of a barking dog interrupted her, and she got up and went to the window. She had grown, and at the age of thirteen was the tallest of all the girls in her rather small society. Her frame was as slender as ever. She had grown up like a weed, and while other girls of her age were developing womanly features, she thought herself to be as skinny as a rake handle. The thought troubled her, and she went to the mirror and stared. Her face was no more beautiful than it had been when she was ten. Her eyes looked enormous, but they were such an odd color. True, her hair had darkened somewhat and was no longer carroty red, but it was still so thick that she could hardly drag a comb through it. Most of the time it was full of tangles, except when Elise insisted on combing it out.

Going back to the table, Chantel sat down and continued to write. The words came slowly, and for a moment she did not want to put them down. But she had vowed she would tell all in her journal:

I dream about Veronique so often. I dream about Mama, too, and they’re such awful dreams! People don’t like it when I go to their grave so often, so I have to sneak off when no one knows where I’ve gone. It’s strange how I feel about Veronique. I just can’t believe that she’s dead. I know she’s alive—I don’t care what they say!

It did help to say things in her journal, to write down the things that she would not say to anyone else.

Suddenly she heard her father’s voice calling her, and she quickly concealed the diary in the armoire.

“Aren’t you dressed yet?”

“I was just getting ready to dress, Papa.”

She stood there feeling very much alone, for since her father had started going to New Orleans she had felt the sense of distance between them grow. Even when he was home, he did not spend as much time with her as she would like. It had been over two months since he had gone out riding with her.

Cretien broke the silence. “I’ve got something to tell you.”

“Is it bad?”

“No, it’s good. At least I think it is. We’re going to live for a time in New Orleans in the town house.”

“You mean I must leave Fontaine Maison?”

“You’ve always enjoyed going to the town house and seeing the city,” Cretien said. “You like to see new things.”

“But I always knew I was coming back here. I love this place, Papa.”

“Well, you’ll love that place, too. We’ll come back here on visits. I promise.”

Chantel thought quickly, If I’m there, I’ll get to see more of Papa, and that will be so good. “All right, Papa,” she said, brightening. “When will we go?”

“Probably tomorrow. We’ll have to pack a lot of your things. Do you need me to help you?”

“No, I can do it myself. I’m thirteen years old now.”

Cretien smiled. “All right, then. We’ll try to get away by Wednesday. That will give you plenty of time to get packed. Now get dressed. Breakfast is on the table.”

The move to town was a great change for Chantel. She had said good-bye almost tearfully to Brutus and Marie and Clarice. Elise would be coming with them to be her own maid, and she was glad of that.

The first week was exciting, for Papa took her out every night but one, usually to the theater. The Creole life included a great love of drama, and it was possible to go to a different production every night of the week.

Only at night, when she was alone in her room and trying to sleep, did she feel her loss. She not only ached for her mama and Veronique, but she missed her horse and the servants and the outof-doors as well.

She continued to have bad dreams of the death of her mother, but they were not as vivid as they had been.

One day she was in the courtyard playing with the neighbor’s cat when her father stuck his head out the window. “Come and get ready, Chantel. I want you to do an errand with me.”

“All right, Papa.”

Running inside, she climbed the stairs and quickly put on a fresh dress, a coat, and a bonnet. “Where are we going, Papa?” she said.

“I’ve got to see my lawyer. His name is Mr. Harcourt.”

“Can we go to Place d’Armes?”

“Yes, we can. As a matter of fact, his office is just off the square.”

“Do I look all right?”

Cretien gave her a quick glance and nodded. “You look fine. Come along.”

They walked to Place d’Armes, which was close to their house and not worth getting the carriage out for. The streets were crowded and, as always, the plaza was full of activity. Artists had set up their easels and were painting pictures of the cathedral. Others were selling their wares and calling out as the two passed. A juggler was juggling six balls, and Chantel was fascinated. “Give him some money, Papa.”

Cretien laughed, reached into his pocket for a coin, and put it in the box on the ground.

“Could I learn to do that?” Chantel asked.

“I expect you could if you wanted to, but who would want to? There are better things for young ladies to learn.” He looked down at her and studied her for a moment. She was growing every day, it seemed. She’s taller than Aimee right now, but skinny as a rail! I would think at her age she would begin filling out a little bit. Other girls do.

Cretien said none of this aloud but listened as she chattered on about the activities on the square. He turned in at a door and led her up a pair of stairs. To the left were two doors, both of them marked with the sign Harcourt and Son, Attorneys-at-Law.

Opening the door, Cretien waited until Chantel was inside and then closed it behind him. A clerk was sitting behind a desk, and he rose at once. “Well, good afternoon, Mr. Fontaine. I suppose you need to see Mr. Harcourt.”

“Yes. Is he in?”

“He’s not busy at the moment.” The clerk moved over and knocked on the door. When a voice answered, he opened the door and said, “Mr. Fontaine to see you, sir.”

Chantel heard a voice say a rather gruff “Come in,” and she entered with her father. A tall, heavyset man was sitting behind a desk. He rose at once and came over to shake her father’s hand.

“Good to see you, sir. And who is this young lady?”

“My daughter, Chantel.”

“I’m very happy to know you, Miss Chantel.” The big man turned to a young man who was working at a high desk over by a window. “This is my son, Neville.”

Chantel looked at the young man as he came over and shook hands with her father. When he reached out and took her own hand, she saw that he had a nice smile. He was not nearly as tall as his father nor as handsome as hers; still, she liked it when he bent over in a bow and said, “I’m delighted to meet you, Miss Chantel.”

“I have met you before, Neville,” Cretien said.

“I’m afraid I don’t recall, sir.”

“You were only two years old. It was the first time I was ever here.” Cretien turned and said, “So, you’ve taken your boy into the business.”

“Yes, and I must say he’s going to be a fine attorney.” Oliver Harcourt glanced quickly at Chantel and shook his head. “This is going to be a rather dreary business for a young lady.” He turned to his son, saying, “Neville, take Miss Chantel somewhere for something to drink. Perhaps even a bite to eat.”

“That will be my pleasure,” Neville said. He turned and pulled a coat from a rack, put it on, then put on a top hat. “If you’ll come with me, Miss Chantel,” he said, “we’ll see what we can find.”

Chantel was intrigued when he put his arm out just as if she were a grown lady, and she took it at once. They left the offices and were soon on the street. Neville chatted, asking questions and listening carefully as she spoke. Chantel liked this, for many grown people would ask a question and then wouldn’t listen when she answered. She wished he were taller and more handsome, but he couldn’t help what he looked like.

“Would you like some ice cream?”

“It’s a little cold, but I always like ice cream.”

“Well, perhaps something warmer. How about some gumbo?”

“Oh, yes . . . but it won’t be as good as our cook makes at home.”

“Probably not, but I know one place that has very good gumbo. It will be a close second.”

Neville led the young girl to a small cafe where he was greeted by name by a large woman wearing a white apron. She had silver hair and merry brown eyes and remarked, “Ah, you have a lady with you.”

“Yes, this is my very special friend, Miss Chantel Fontaine. Miss Fontaine, may I introduce Madame Charmain.”

“I am happy to know you,” the woman said, beaming. “Come now and sit down.” She winked at Chantel, saying, “You must be careful. This handsome young fellow will get away from you. All the ladies are after him.”

Chantel giggled at that, for Neville Harcourt was not at all handsome. She liked it, though, when he seated her and sat down and let her order for herself. The gumbo was accompanied by a basket of rolls that smelled so good that she bit into one at once.

As they ate, Neville asked her about herself, and she found herself talking far more than she usually did to strangers. She liked this young man very much.

“Are you married, Mr. Neville?”

“No, I’m not.”

“How old are you?”

Neville laughed. “I’m eighteen. And let’s see, I would guess that you’re about sixteen. Is that right?”

Pleased at being taken for older than she was, Chantel said, “No, I’m just thirteen, but I’m going on fourteen.”

“Well, that’s a surprise. Tell me, do you like New Orleans?”

“I like it all right, but I miss my horse.”

“Oh, you have a horse!”

“Papa’s having her brought to New Orleans, and he’s going to keep her in a stable. Then I can go riding. Do you have a horse?”

“As a matter of fact, I do. Perhaps we could go riding together sometime.”

“Oh, that would be nice!”

The two ate the spicy gumbo and the rolls and then drank hot chocolate. They sat for a while talking, sipping the tasty drinks, and finally Chantel grew silent.

“What are you thinking about, Miss Chantel?”

“I was just wondering about my mother and my sister.” The memory came sweeping back through Chantel, and she forgot for the moment where she was. She could almost hear her mother’s laughter and see her face. Without thinking she said impulsively, “Where do you think people go when they die, Mr. Neville?”

“You mean good people?”

“Oh, yes, good people like my mother.”

“I think people who love God go straight to heaven.”

The words warmed Chantel. “I asked our priest, and he said that they go to purgatory, and they have to suffer there for a long time until they can get out. But I don’t believe that.”

“Well, I’m afraid I don’t believe it, either. As a matter of fact I was reading in the Bible last night about a man who died and went to heaven that same day.”

Chantel looked up. She had a line of chocolate across her lips and dabbed at it with her handkerchief. “Really! That’s in the Bible?”

“Yes, it is.”

“I’d like to read it, but we don’t have a Bible.”

“Don’t have a Bible? Well, come along.”

Neville paid for the food and waited for her. Once again he put his arm out, and she took it, feeling very grown up as she walked along the streets of Place d’Armes.

Neville led her to a bookstore and went inside. He was evidently a frequent guest, for he was greeted by name by the proprietor, a short, swarthy man with bushy black hair and a ferocious beard to match.

“We’re looking for a Bible.”

“Well, you know where they are, Mr. Harcourt,” the proprietor said. “Let me know if I can help you.”

Harcourt led Chantel to a shelf and studied the books for a moment. “This looks like it might be very nice.” He pulled out a book and opened it. “Can you read this print all right?”

Chantel took it and studied it. The cover was black and rather thick, but when she opened it, she saw that the print was large and plain. “Yes, it’s very easy to read.”

“Very well then. This will do.”

He took the book to the proprietor, paid for it, and the two left. “Let’s sit down on that bench over there. We can watch the people, and I’ll let you read the story that I mentioned.”

They sat down on the bench, and Neville said, “Let me see. Yes, here it is. It happened at the time Jesus died. You know about that, don’t you?”

“Oh, yes, He died on a cross. I have a silver cross that I wear sometimes, but I’m not wearing it today.”

“I’m sure it’s very pretty. Now, read right here.” He handed her the book, put his finger on a line, and nodded.

Chantel read aloud about Jesus being crucified.

And when they were come to the place, which is called Calvary, there they crucified him, and the malefactors, one on the right hand, and the other on the left.

Then said Jesus, Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do.

Then when she got to verse thirty-nine Neville interrupted her. “This is what you really need to pay attention to,” he said.

She read:

And one of the malefactors which were hanged railed on him, saying, If thou be Christ, save thyself and us.

But the other answering rebuked him, saying, Dost not thou fear God, seeing thou art in the same condemnation?

And we indeed justly; for we receive the due reward of our deeds: but this man hath done nothing amiss.

And he said unto Jesus, Lord, remember me when thou comest into thy kingdom.

And Jesus said unto him, Verily I say unto thee, To day shalt thou be with me in paradise.

Chantel could not take her eyes off the page for a time. She turned and said, “And the thief went to heaven that day?”

“That’s what Jesus said. He went to paradise, and that is heaven, isn’t it?”

Suddenly Chantel saw that the young man’s eyes were misty. “Why are you crying?” she said.

Neville pulled a handkerchief out and wiped his eyes. “Oh, sometimes I get moved when I think about Jesus dying for me.”

Chantel stared at him. She had never seen a grown man cry. Women cried, but not men, and it troubled her. “I’m sorry it made you feel bad,” she said.

“It didn’t make me feel bad, Chantel. It made me feel good. Come along. We’ll go back to the store. I’ll get a pen, and I’ll put your name and the date in the front of this Bible. It’ll be something to remember the first time we met.”

When they returned to the office, Chantel found her father ready to go. He smiled and said, “Was she a great deal of trouble, Mr. Harcourt?”

“No trouble at all. We had a fine time, didn’t we, Miss Chantel?”

“Yes, we did. Mr. Neville has a horse, and when we get Lady here he’s going to ride with me.”

“That is most kind of you, sir,” Fontaine said.

As Chantel and her father left the office, she almost told him of the gift, but something stopped her. Unsure of how her father would react, she decided to keep it a secret.

Two weeks after her meeting with Neville, Chantel was riding Lady in the park. Robert had brought the mare from the plantation, and Chantel enjoyed a ride several days a week. Now she put Lady into a gallop, pulling her up to where Robert was waiting.

“Did you have a good ride?” he asked.

“Oh, yes.”

She turned the mare over to a groom, patted her, and said, “I’ll be back soon, Lady.”

On the way home in the carriage Chantel saw three beautiful young ladies in the back of an open carriage.

“They’re so pretty. Who are they?”

Robert had been watching the women also. His tone was neutral. “They’re quadroons.”

“What are quadroons?”

Robert cleared his throat and said, “I don’t think I can discuss it with you, Miss Chantel.”

Later, when she was alone with Elise, Chantel asked her maid about the quadroons.

“Oh, you don’t know about them! Well, they’re young women with some Negro blood in them.”

“Really? But they were white as I am!”

“Well, some of them are, and they’re very beautiful. They have a quadroon ball here, where the young men go to look them over. If they like them, they sometimes take them into their houses as mistresses.”

Chantel listened breathlessly. She could not believe that such beautiful young women would become mistresses, but Elise insisted it was true.

That night her father was out, and Chantel stayed awake reading. She had planned to read a new novel, but instead she took out the Bible that Neville Harcourt had given her. She was fascinated by the Gospels—mostly by the figure of Jesus. Before this time Chantel had thought of Him only as a statue with a painted face that she saw in church, but the words of the Scripture leaped out at her. She had not dreamed that anything true could be so exciting. It was better than one of her romances.

As she finally closed the Bible and hid it along with her journal, she wondered why she felt guilty about it. She had asked her father once if he had ever read the Bible, and he said, “No, that’s for the priest. Ordinary folks can’t understand it.”

She thought about this one night a couple of weeks later as she drifted off to sleep. Her father’s statement puzzled her, for while it was true that much of the Bible seemed difficult, she could understand the stories about Jesus. She had found also that reading the Bible just before she went to sleep seemed to give her a more restful night. She could not understand this, but as she lay there thinking about Jesus healing the lepers, healing the blind, or talking to a woman at a well, He seemed very real to her.

Chapter nine

Chantel found that living in the French Quarter had its advantages. It was true enough that she missed many things about her home at Fontaine Maison, but she only dwelt on these thoughts in bed at night, unable to sleep. She was still troubled from time to time with nightmares of her mother’s death, and more than once her father, awakened by her cries, came in to soothe her.

Living here, she saw much more of her father, and Elise had become a close companion. There were few young people for her to associate with, but on the whole she had adjusted very well.

As she looked out the window to the street below on a fine August morning, Chantel felt happy. She waved at Robert, who was working in the flower bed, and called to him, “Good morning, Robert!”

“Good morning, Miss Chantel. A fine day.”

Chantel drew back and started across the room to her desk. Her room was beautifully done, but she sometimes felt uncomfortable in it. Everything was so new and fragile. On the light blue walls hung pictures in delicately carved wood frames. The dark blue carpet on the floor repeated a pattern of lighter blue and white flowers, and the mantel of a small marble fireplace held white china figurines of ballet dancers in various poses. There were roses and vines carved into the bed’s headboard, and the armoire, desk, bureau, and washstand all matched. A thick comforter and fluffy pillows of white with light blue trim covered the bed, and light, airy curtains of the same material covered the windows.

Chantel stood before the full-length oval mirror and studied herself critically. She was still growing like a stalk of sugarcane! She had grown even since coming to New Orleans, and more than once Elise had rebuked her for stooping over. “You’re going to be a fine, tall woman. Be proud of it. Why would you want to be a short, dumpy thing? No, you will stand tall and be proud!”

But looking in the mirror, Chantel was unhappy. She was wearing only a pair of drawers and a vest and could not see any signs of the womanly curves that other girls her age had begun to manifest. Her hair continued to grow darker, which pleased her, but she wished for the thousandth time that she had inherited her mother’s good looks.

Now she held up her hand with her fingers outspread and frowned. “I’ve got fingers like a gorilla.” Then suddenly she laughed. “You’ve never even seen a gorilla, you foolish thing!” She turned from the mirror and began dressing. She put on a light green dress that matched her eyes and a pair of white stockings, then slipped her feet into new black shoes that still pinched a little bit. She gave her hair a few quick swipes, tied it with a ribbon, and left her bedroom.

As she entered the dining room, she found her father sitting there sipping his coffee. He looked up and said, “Good morning, sleepyhead.”

“Good morning, Papa.”

“I trust you slept well?”

In truth Chantel had not, for she had been troubled with dreams, but she knew her father did not like to hear this. “Very well, Papa. And you?” She sat down and began to eat.

“It’s almost time for you to begin school,” her father remarked casually.

“Papa, do I have to go to that convent?”

Cretien had told her earlier that she would be attending the Ursuline Convent a few blocks from their house. Chantel had begged to simply have a tutor, but her father had been firm. “You must learn the things that a lady has to know,” he had said in a tone that brooked no argument.

“I’m sure you’ll like it there. There will be girls your own age, and you need to be with young people.”

“Yes, Papa.”

A moment later Cretien said, “Would you like to go to the theater tonight?”

“Oh, yes!”

“I thought you might. We will go to The Majestic. They’re doing a musical that has a great deal of good singing and playing.”

“Oh, that will be wonderful!”

For a moment Cretien hesitated, then he said, “We will not be alone. I have asked a lady to accompany us.”

“A lady, Papa?”

“Yes. Her name is Emmeline Collette Culver. I think you will like her very much.”

Something stirred within Chantel, but she said only, “Is she an old lady, Papa?”

“Oh, no. She’s not at all old. She’s very pretty. You will like her.”

All day long Chantel was in a state of excitement, and she almost drove Elise crazy deciding what to wear. When she was alone Chantel cared little for dress, but when she was going out with her father she let Elise dress her in the very finest fashion and fix her hair carefully.

For this event Elise selected a high-waisted dress of white silk with delicate garlands of flowers in light pink, yellow, and blue. The gown had long, narrow sleeves that ended in white lace at the cuffs. The high neckline and the long skirt were edged with white lace, and she had a spencer jacket of dark blue velvet to wear over the dress.

Chantel stood in her underwear waiting for Elise to put on the dress. She turned to her with a worried expression. “Elise, why aren’t I filling out like other girls do?”

“That’s the way it is sometimes,” Elise said, looking critically at the dress. “Yes, this one will do. You look very nice in it.”

“Am I going to look like a stick all my life?”

Elise heard the troubled tone and at once put her arm around the girl. “Of course not, mon chère. You are going to be a beautiful woman—tall and well-shaped, and very pretty indeed.”

“No, I’m not. I’m going to be an old stick with an ugly face!”

“Do not be ridiculous. When I was your age I was the same way.” She smiled, remembering. “I did not start becoming a woman until I was nearly fourteen, and I cried myself to sleep every night.” Seeing that Chantel wasn’t convinced, she said, “You just wait. A year from now it will be all different.”

The words comforted Chantel. Elise had become her confidante and told her of the changes that would come in her body as she passed into womanhood. Her mother had hinted about such things, but it all seemed to be very mysterious. She returned Elise’s hug and said, “Thank you for being so nice.”

“There, there. Of course I’m nice. I get paid for that.”

“No, you don’t. You get paid for doing my hair and helping me with my dress. You’re nice just because you’re nice.”

Elise laughed, and a light danced in her eyes. “I am glad you think so. Now, let us ready you for your engagement with your father.”

“A lady is going with us tonight. Her name is Miss Culver.”

“Ah, yes, I know.”

“You do?” Chantel demanded.

“Why—yes, I have met her. She is a very nice lady.”

“How did you meet her?”

“Oh, I don’t remember. I think at a dinner your father gave while you were still at the plantation.”

Chantel sensed the evasiveness in Elise’s reply—unusual in this straightforward woman who had few unspoken thoughts. It troubled her, but she asked no more. “When I come back,” she said, “I will tell you all about the play.”

Downstairs Chantel found her father ready to go. She wanted him to praise her appearance, but he merely said, “Come, we’re late.” Then he added as an afterthought, “You look very nice. Elise does a fine job.”

“Thank you, Papa.”

Robert drove them in the larger closed carriage to a section of the city that Chantel had not seen. Her father left her in the carriage, where she waited impatiently. Then he came out with a lady.

He helped her in, then got in and sat down beside her. “Chantel, I would like for you to meet Miss Emmeline Collette Culver. Miss Culver, this is my daughter, Chantel.”

“I’m so happy to meet you, Chantel.”

Chantel had not known what to expect, but she was surprised by the beauty of the woman who smiled at her. Miss Culver was a small woman, but she was exquisitely formed, and her face was attractive indeed. She had dark hair and dark eyes and seemed genuinely glad to meet her.

“I was so glad I could go with you and your father. Do you like the theater?”

“Oh, yes, Miss Culver!”

The conversation went well, and she could tell that her father was pleased at her behavior toward the woman.

The rest of the evening was fun for Chantel. She loved the play and laughed and actually sang along with some of the choruses under her breath. Miss Culver, who was sitting across from her father, said, “She is named right, Cretien. She is a real songbird.”

“Oh, yes, she sings constantly. I believe she’s going to grow up and be an opera star.”

“That would be wonderful,” Miss Culver said with a smile.

After the performance Chantel talked excitedly. She had been rather shy at first, but Miss Culver drew her out. When the carriage stopped, she leaned forward and said, “We must do this many times, Chantel.”

“Yes, please. I enjoyed meeting you, Miss Culver.”

Chantel sat there until her father returned, and when he got into the carriage and settled back, he asked, “How did you like our guest?”

“She’s very pretty.”

“Yes, she is.”

“Have you known her a long time, Papa?”

Cretien hesitated briefly, then said, “Why, yes, for quite some time.” He changed the subject. “Well, you begin school next Monday. I will be expecting fine reports.”

“I will do the very best I can, Papa.”

“I’m sure you will, my dear.”

When they got inside their house, Cretien bent over and kissed her cheek. “Go to bed now. It’s late for you.”

“Good night, Papa. I had such a good time, but I always have a good time with you.”

Chantel went quickly to her room and at once withdrew her journal. She sat down and wrote of the evening at great length.

Miss Culver is very pretty, and I like her. Papa has known her a long time, and I hope she liked me.

For a time she stared at the entry and then was aware of a strange sensation. She had liked Miss Culver well enough, but deep inside she also resented her being there. She added:

She’s very nice, but I would rather have Papa all to myself.

Closing the journal, she put it into its hiding place and then went to bed. She did not dream of her mother that night, but of being an opera singer on a stage.

“So this is your daughter, Monsieur Fontaine.”

“Yes, Sister Martha, and I hope she will prove to be a fine student.”

Sister Martha was a tall, angular woman with a pair of sharp gray eyes. She wore the black habit of a nun and examined Chantel closely. “I’m sure you’ll do your best to please your father and me and your other instructors, won’t you, Chantel?”

“Oh, yes, Sister Martha.”

“Fine! You will be living in with us for a time. I suppose your father has told you.”

The words struck Chantel hard, and she twisted her head quickly to look at her father.

“Sister Martha and I decided it would be better for you to stay at the convent for a time. Later on you may come back home.”

“But, Papa—”

“I meant to tell you about this, but it slipped my mind.”

Chantel instantly knew that this was not true. Her father often put off things that were unpleasant. She had come to the convent hopeful and excited. Now a heaviness settled upon her, and she dropped her head.

Sister Martha saw the girl’s reaction and said quickly, “I’m sure you will enjoy it here. You will have plenty of companions, and though the studies are hard, we will find entertainment for you. And you will see your father very often. Is it not so, monsieur?”

“Why, certainly!” Cretien reached over and put his arm around Chantel. “I will come and get you, and we will go riding in the park. And I will take you out often to the theater.”

Chantel blinked back her tears and tried to smile, for she knew her father did not like to see her sad. “All right, Papa,” she said. “Please come often.”

“Now then. Say good-bye to your father, and I will introduce you to your instructors. Then you will meet some of your fellow students.”

Sister Agnes was a short woman with a round, reddish face and brown eyes. Chantel knew at once that she would be a hard woman to please.

“All right, girls. This is our new scholar, Chantel Renee Fontaine. I will let you introduce yourselves to her. Then we will begin our class.”

Sister Martha had brought Chantel to a classroom where Sister Agnes was teaching a group of fifteen girls. Chantel saw at a glance that some of them were very young, no more than nine or ten. Others seemed older, as much as fifteen, perhaps sixteen.

Sister Agnes examined Chantel with a steely glance, assigned her a seat, and said, “We will now proceed with the lesson. Chantel, you will have to study hard to catch up, for you are beginning late.”

“Yes, Sister Agnes.”

“I permit no laziness in here. You will work hard and do extra work until you are up with the rest of the class. You understand?”

“Yes, I will do my very best.”

“I expect it.” Sister Agnes turned to the board and wrote out an algebraic formula. She turned and began to call out names. “Angelique, you will solve this problem.”

A tall girl of about fifteen, rather pretty but with a sullen expression, went to the board. Her lower lip was stuck out in a pout, and for a time she struggled with the problem. Finally Sister Agnes said, “You are a sluggard, Angelique. Come here.”

Angelique looked frightened, but she came over to stand before the stubby nun. “Put out your hand.” Sister Agnes took out a footlong ruler, and when Angelique held out a trembling hand she struck it sharply twice. Angelique winced and went to her seat with a sharp reprimand.

Several other girls tried the formula, and none of them could solve it. Each received the same punishment. Finally Sister Agnes said, “All right, Laurel, you are our star student in algebra. Come and work the problem.”

A short girl with a round face and rather heavy figure came forward. She did better than the rest, but when she turned, Sister Agnes snorted, “I am disappointed in you, Laurel! Take your seat. You will do twenty extra problems for tomorrow.”

“Yes, Sister Agnes.”

Sister Agnes glared at the group, and finally her eyes lit on Chantel. “Well, have you had any training in algebra?”

“Yes, a little.”

“Come and work this problem then.”

A snicker went around the room as Chantel got up, and she heard the girl named Angelique whisper, “What a beanpole! She’s skinny as a snake.”

Chantel’s face reddened, but she went to the board. Her instructor in mathematics had been one of the priest’s assistants. He was an amiable young man and had quickly discovered that whatever brain cells make a person adept at algebra, Chantel had. He had been delighted with her progress and had gone through advanced problems with her.

Chantel took the chalk and worked the problem rapidly. When she put down the answer, she said, “I think this is right, Sister Agnes.”

Sister Agnes’s eyes grew round. “Well,” she said with surprise, “it is correct! Very good! Very good indeed, Chantel!” Then she turned to the class and for five minutes shamed them for letting a new student show them all up. She said, “Some of you need help. I will expect you, Chantel, to help the slower students—which seems to be everyone.”

“I’ll be glad to do anything I can to help, Sister Agnes.”

Chantel took her seat, and the lessons went on. After the algebra class several of the younger students came up and introduced themselves. A slender, doe-eyed girl named Helen begged for help. “I just can’t get this into my head, Chantel.”

“It’s easy. I’ll help you,” Chantel assured her.

And then they were interrupted by a voice that said, “Well, Stick Legs, are you happy that you’ve embarrassed the rest of us?”

Chantel turned to find Angelique and Laurel standing there. The other girls had drawn back, and Sister Agnes had left the room. Laurel suddenly reached out and struck Chantel in the chest with her fist. “You think you’re so smart! Well, you’d better not be too smart, or you’ll be sorry!”

Angelique reached out and pulled Chantel’s hair. “Don’t be thinking too well of yourself. We’re the oldest students here, and you’ll do exactly as we say. You’ll polish my shoes tonight. You understand me?”

“I will if Sister Agnes tells me to.”

“You’ll do it if I tell you to!” Angelique snapped, her eyes gleaming.

“Why don’t you shut up, Angelique!” Chantel turned to see a girl with hair as black as a raven and eyes to match. Those black eyes were glinting now with anger, and she stepped in front of Angelique and pushed her backward. “You’re not the pope, so stop acting like you’re somebody important!”

Angelique’s face turned red and she shouted, “Get out of my face, Damita!” When Angelique tried to shove the dark-haired girl aside, she instantly received a resounding slap on the cheek. Grabbing her face, she screamed, “I’ll tell Sister Agnes on you!”

“Go on and tell, you little squealer.” Damita turned to Chantel and laughed, her eyes dancing. “You don’t have to do anything Elephant Nose tells you. If she tries to make you polish her shoes, just shove them down her throat. I’ll help you if you like.”

“You stop calling me names!” Angelique shouted.

Damita laughed and suddenly reached out and pulled Angelique’s nose. “I’ll just pull it a little longer!” Angelique let out a scream and struck out at Damita, who dodged the blow easily and struck Angelique in the face. Laurel at once threw herself at Damita, and the smaller girl was knocked backward. Chantel leaped at Laurel and, grabbing a double handful of hair, began to drag her away.

Four more girls joined the battle while the others stood watching, most of them shouting as the fight raged.

Suddenly the door opened and Sister Agnes dashed into the room, shouting, “Stop this! What’s going on?” Her face was flushed and she pulled Chantel away from Laurel, demanding, “We don’t do such things here.”

“She started it, Sister!” Angelique cried. “She just starting hitting us!”

“You are a liar, Angelique!” Damita’s black eyes glowed, and she turned to face the nun, saying, “Angelique and Laurel were the ones who started it.”

“I can’t believe that!”

Damita faced the nun fearlessly. “You never believe the truth about them. They cause all the trouble here, and you’re so afraid of their parents because they’re rich and give lots of money to the school, that you let them get by with it!”

Sister Agnes’ face turned red, then pale. She started to shout at Damita, but then changed her mind. “You are insolent, Damita Madariaga! Your parents will hear of this!”

Damita laughed suddenly. “They will hear of it, because I will tell them. And we both know that my father gives more to this convent than anyone else!”

“That’s enough!” Sister Agnes said, but Damita’s words had a strong effect, for she said with an effort, “Take your seats, all of you.” She stared at Chantel and said, “There was no trouble here until you came. You will be punished—and I will tell the Mother Superior of your doings!”

Chantel waited all day to be called before the Mother Superior, but to her relief, nothing came of it. She went to her classes, and that night before dinner, Damita came to her. She was smiling as she said, “I’ll bet you were scared you’d be called for punishment, weren’t you?”

“Yes, I was.”

“I knew you wouldn’t be,” Damita grinned. “That old Agnes knew she’d get in trouble if I told my father about her.”

“It was nice of you to stand up to Angelique and the others for me.”

“It was fun!” Damita turned and motioned to two girls who were standing off to her right. When they came close, she said, “This is Simone d’Or.”

Simone was a tall, strongly built girl with long blond hair and dark blue eyes. She had a squarish face and a determined chin, an easygoing girl, but with a trace of rebelliousness.

“It was nice of you to come to my defense in class.”

“I’ve been waiting to punch those girls!” Simone said. “Don’t you knuckle under to them!”

“None of us are going to do that,” Damita said. Turning to the fourth girl, she said, “This is Leonie Dousett.” She put her arm around the small girl and laughed. “You’re so meek I was surprised to see you tackle that girl. You’ve got a tiger in you, Leonie!”

Leonie smiled shyly. “I was surprised at myself. It’s the first fight I ever had.” Like Chantel, she had auburn hair. She was small, almost frail, with a timid air about her. She had the sweetest spirit of any of the four. “I never hit anyone in my whole life.”

Damita’s dark eyes were glowing, and she had a way of speaking that underscored her fiery spirit. “Listen, we’re going to cut down Angelique and those crows who hang out with her!”

“Good!” Simone nodded. “I’m sick of them all.”

“Everyone is, but everyone’s scared of them,” Damita said. “Now, I’ve been thinking ever since the fight. We four are going to put a stop to their bullying, and here’s the way we’ll do it—if one of them picks on any girl in this school, the four of us will make her sorry!”

“How will we do that?” Leonie asked.

“I can think of lots of ways,” Damita nodded. “We’ll gang up on her after lights out!”

“But she’ll tell on us!” Leonie protested.

“Good! Then we’ll catch her alone and get her twice as much and cut all her hair off!”

Simone giggled, “I like it! We’ll be sort of a secret club.”

Chantel said, “We’ll be the Four Musketeers—just like in the book! One for all, and all for one!”

The girls began to giggle, and suddenly Chantel was happy. She had felt so alone, but now she had three friends. She put her arm around Damita, saying, “I don’t feel so bad now, Damita.”

“All for one—and one for all, Chantel!” said Assumpta Damita de Salvedo y Madariaga. She did a dance as they moved toward the dining hall. “I hope Angelique tries something pretty soon! I can’t wait for the Four Musketeers to show their might!”

Angelique Fortier had been a tyrant too long to give up her power. She had been humiliated by Damita, but it was the new girl that aroused her hatred. She waited no longer than Chantel’s first night to seek her revenge. She made a plan with Laurel Dutretre, and late that night, she struck.

The two girls crept into the room that Chantel shared with five other girls and fell on Chantel while she was asleep.

Chantel cried as hands dragged her out of her bed.

“Now you’re going to get it!” Laurel declared.

Angelique had a belt and struck Chantel across the legs with it.

Chantel was of a rather placid temperament, but the blow enraged her. She threw herself onto Angelique and grabbed two handfuls of hair. Angelique screamed at the top of her lungs while Laurel began to pummel Chantel.

Suddenly the room filled, and Chantel was freed from the grasp of the two girls. She came to her feet to see Damita, Simone, and Leonie—all in their nightgowns. Damita was carrying a belt, and she said, “I thought you’d try something like this! Hold them down, Musketeers!” The Musketeers surrounded Laurel and Angelique and held them down.

The cries quickly brought Sister Martha into the room, and she snatched the belt from Damita’s grasp. “What in the world are you doing?” she demanded.

Angelique was crying in great blubbery sobs. “They got us in here with lies, Sister!” She clung to the nun, inventing lies at a rapid rate.

“She’s a liar!” Damita said. “She and Laurel came in here to whip Chantel, and we gave them a taste of the their own medicine!”

Sister Martha held up her hand. “I’m going to get to the bottom of this.” She turned to a shorter, younger girl whose face already showed fear. “Who started this, Mary Ann?”

The young girl took one frightened glance at Angelique, who gave her a vicious stare and held up a fist behind Sister Martha’s back.

“It—it was her. The new girl.”

At that moment Chantel knew that her fate was set. She listened as several girls—all frightened of what would happen to them if they implicated Angelique and Laurel—lied boldly to Sister Martha.

The nun turned to Chantel. “I’m disappointed in you, Chantel. Your first night and already in trouble. I’m going to have to punish you severely. You will report to me tomorrow morning before classes. Now, all of you go to bed. If I hear one more word out of any of you, you will all be very sorry.”

Sister Martha left, and the girls all went to bed, but not before Laurel hissed one more comment. “You’re not going to like it here, Stick Legs! We’ll make you wish you had never been born!”

Chantel tried valiantly, but it was useless. Sister Martha believed the testimony of the other girls and said, “You must learn to control your temper, Chantel. I’m restricting you for the next week from all recreational activities. You will have extra work in class. I will not use the rod on you this time since you are new, but the next time you will receive a beating. Do you understand?”

Chantel lifted her head high. “They lied about me. I don’t tell lies, Sister Martha.”

Sister Martha hesitated. There was such fearlessness in the girl that she could not feel easy about her decision. She well knew that some of the older girls bullied the others, but they were sly, and she had been unable to catch them in it. While she could not relent, for discipline must be upheld, inwardly she resolved to keep a closer eye on what was happening inside the dormitory.

Chantel was punished for what took place in her room, but she didn’t care. Damita, Simone, and Leonie encouraged her—and Damita threatened Angelique so fiercely that she and all her clique were intimidated.

After this rather rough introduction to her new life, Chantel found the school bearable. She had been hungry for friends, and now she had three of them! Everyone in the school, including the nuns, recognized that these four were knitted together in some sort of mystic bond.

Sister Martha remarked to Sister Agnes, “I think those four are going to be all right. I’ve been worried for some time about Angelique. She’s a cruel girl—but those four seem to have found a way to deal with her.”

“Yes, they have,” Sister Agnes agreed. “With a belt! I was shocked at first, but the ‘Four Musketeers’—as they call themselves—have actually brought a good thing to the other girls.”

“They’re very strong willed, aren’t they? Except for Leonie, of course.”

“Yes, they are. But it took something like this to stop Angelique and her crowd from persecuting the others.”

Chantel’s life fell into a pattern. She did well in her studies, for she was by far the most advanced student of all the girls. She did especially well in mathematics and in languages, but she did not do as well in the other areas, such as sewing and the domestic sciences.

Many weeks later, Chantel went home for a visit with her father. He had received a recent report from the school about Chantel. “Sister Martha sent me a report of misbehavior. What were you thinking?”

Chantel looked at her father and told the whole story about Damita and Laurel—and about the Four Musketeers. “I’m telling the truth, Papa. All the others are afraid of Angelique and Laurel. They’re horrible girls. They steal from the younger ones and anyone who is weak.” She held her head high. “It is the truth. I swear it.”

Cretien stared at his daughter. He knew that she was an exceedingly truthful girl. Only once that he knew of had she told him a lie, when she was no more than seven or eight. She had come to him the next day in tears confessing her fault, for she had been unable to live with it. Since that time he had never found her to be untruthful in any way.

Now he said, “I am sorry it is that way.”

“May I come home and live with you, Papa?”

Cretien nodded. “Yes, I think that might be best. You will still attend classes, but you will not be subject to those awful girls.”

“Oh, Papa, I’m so happy!”

Cretien held Chantel. He saw the joy in his daughter’s eyes and felt shame. “It will be all right, mon chère. Don’t trouble yourself any more.”

Life became bearable for Chantel once she came home. She knew Sister Martha had been surprised by her father’s decision, but there was nothing the nun could do about it. Every day Chantel had breakfast with her father. Robert or Elise walked with her to the convent, where she stayed until four o’clock. The weekends, of course, were free, and she often rode Lady in the park.

The riding pathways were not crowded one fine day in August when she and Lady were out enjoying the bright weather. When Chantel saw a man riding a bay horse ahead, she determined to pass him. She kicked Lady’s flanks and spoke to her, and the mare broke into a run. As they passed the man, Chantel heard the bay pick up his pace and a voice call her name. Soon the rider pulled up even with her, and she saw with surprise the smiling face of Neville Harcourt.

“Mr. Neville!” she cried and pulled Lady down to a walk. “I’ve looked for you many times, but I’ve never seen you here.”

“I’ve been a little busy lately. It’s so good to see you. You look fine, Chantel. How are things going with your schooling?”

Chantel hesitated, then she remembered with warmth how Neville had taken her out of his father’s office and treated her like an adult. Words tumbled from her lips as she began to tell him all about her experiences at the convent. Finally she stopped and blinked. “I’m talking too much.”

“Not at all. I’m very interested. And I’m very glad you’re living at home again. Tell me all your other problems.”

Chantel giggled. “You don’t want to hear them all.”

“Yes, I do. I’ve thought about you a lot.”

“I hated to disappoint my father. That was the worst thing about all that trouble at school. He really wanted a son, Mr. Neville.”

“I think you can leave the Mister off, Chantel. We’re good friends, aren’t we?”

Chantel smiled warmly and nodded. “Yes, I suppose we are. Anyway, my father always wanted a son, but he only got girls.”

“Well, I can understand his disappointment. But he did get a fine young lady out of it. He ought to be proud of you.”

“I don’t think he is, really.”

“Of course he is.” Neville assured her, and tried to bolster her confidence. “But you’re not the only one who has problems.”

“You have problems? I didn’t think adults had problems like young people.”

Neville laughed. “This is the happiest time of your life. Everything’s downhill from now on, Chantel.” He saw her expression, reached over, and tweaked her hair. “I’m just teasing you. You’ll have a beautiful life.”

“What are your problems, Neville?”

Neville Harcourt was silent for a moment. He studied Chantel’s eager face. “Well, my father is unhappy with me.”

Chantel was amazed. “But why?”

“I’m not really interested in the law. I do the best I can, but I don’t think I’ll ever please him. And he doesn’t like my appearance.”

Immediately Chantel turned her face on him. “Why, you look fine!” she said. She ducked her head and said, “My father’s disappointed in my appearance, too. I’m not beautiful like my mother.”

“But you’re not grown yet. In another year or two you’ll have men following you around the streets of New Orleans begging you to marry them.”

Chantel laughed. “That’s silly!”

“It is not! It’s true.”

“That’s what Elise says. I don’t believe either one of you. They call me ‘Stick Legs’ at school.”

“Don’t pay any attention to them.”

“What’s wrong with the way you look?” Chantel asked. “I think you look very nice.” Actually she had not thought he was handsome at all when she first met him, but she had since changed her mind.

“Well, I’m not a large man, as you can see. As a matter of fact, I expect when you’re grown, you and I will be about the same height. My father wants men to be big like he is.”

“Don’t you pay any attention to him! You look very nice,” she said again.

Indeed, Neville had a pleasant face. He was always neatly dressed, and although he was not as large as her own father or as Mr. Oliver Harcourt, he was well-knit and cut a handsome figure in his riding clothes.

“Well, I suppose we’ve told each other all of our problems.”

As they rode on, Chantel found herself able to talk to Neville quite freely. “I’ve been reading the Bible you gave me a lot.”

“Do you like it?”

“Yes, I do. It’s so exciting. I’ve read all of Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John.”

“What did you think, Chantel?”

Chantel was silent. The Catholic church taught that only priests were qualified to read and interpret the Bible. She did not want to be disloyal to her own beliefs, but, indeed, the New Testament had become one of her favorite pieces of reading. “I love Jesus,” she said softly. “He was so kind, and He helped everybody.”

“I’m glad you see that. I feel the same way.”

“And they were so mean to kill Him. Why did they have to do that, Neville?”

“Well, it’s a little bit complicated.”

“I’m very intelligent. You can explain it to me,” Chantel said firmly.

“You’re not overly modest though. Well, it’s like this, Chantel. All you have to do is look around to see that something’s wrong with the world. There’s evil everywhere, injustice, and people getting hurt. That’s because of sin. When sin came into the world, it didn’t stop with Adam. All of us, his descendants, are affected by it.”

“I know. I confess my sins every week to one of the priests.”

“We all need to confess our sins. Do you remember John the Baptist?”

“Oh, yes, I liked him. Herod killed him. He was a mean king.”

“He certainly was. Do you remember the first thing John the Baptist said when he saw Jesus?”

Chantel thought hard. “He said, ‘Behold the Lamb of God that taketh away the sin of the world.’”

“Exactly right! You have a fine memory. Well, what did he mean by that?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t understand it.”

“As you read the Old Testament you’ll find out that the Jews always sacrificed a lamb, the most perfect lamb they could find. They confessed their sins to the priest, and the priest killed the lamb, and symbolically the sins of the people were on that lamb. The lamb couldn’t really take away sin, although God could, of course. But when Jesus came John said, ‘Here is the real Lamb of God!’ So, when Jesus died, Chantel, all the sins of the world were on Him.”

“I get scared when I read about Him dying.”

“So do I. Perhaps because God had forsaken Him.”

“How could that be?”

“Because the sins of the world were on Him—my sins and yours. All people sin. But now all sinners can be forgiven because Jesus died for our sins.”

Chantel was silent. She was an introspective child with an ability to reason far beyond her years. Finally she said, “Catholics have to do penance. You’re not a Catholic, are you, Neville?”

“No, I’m what you would call a Protestant.”

“Do you have to do penance?”

“Not as you would think of it.”

“When I tell the priest I did something wrong, he makes me say twenty Hail Marys or do without something good that I like.”

“It probably does you good to fast, and prayer is always a good thing. But actually when I sin, I do things quite differently.”

Chantel was fascinated. “What do you do? You don’t go to a priest?”

“As a matter of fact, I do—but not to one that you can see.”

Chantel’s eyes were huge. “You can’t see him? Is he invisible?”

“In a way. The Bible says that Jesus is our High Priest, and that we can go directly to Him and confess our sins. When you go home, look in First John. Not the gospel of John, but the first letter in the back written by the same man who wrote the gospel. Look at the first chapter, verse nine. It says this: ‘If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.’”

Chantel listened carefully and then said, “So, you just pray and ask God, and He forgives you?”

“That’s right. When I was sixteen, I asked Jesus to come into my heart, and He did. And He’s been there ever since. I hope you’ll ask Him into your heart, Chantel.”

All this was strange to her. She looked at him and said, “I don’t understand it, Neville. It’s too complicated.”

“You have a good heart, Chantel. God won’t let you go wrong. I pray for you every day. Did you know that?”

Chantel was shocked. “Do you really?”

“I really do.”

Chantel felt warm. “Thank you, Neville,” she said. “That makes me feel very good.”

The two finished their ride, and Chantel went home. She wanted to tell someone what had happened, but somehow she knew that what she had heard would not sit well with her father, who was a staunch Catholic—in doctrine at least. She did not even tell Elise, who was also a Catholic. Everyone she knew was a Catholic, but Chantel knew she would think long and hard about what Neville had said.

Chantel usually said formal prayers before she got into bed, but this night was different. “God,” she said, “Neville prays for me every night, and I’m praying for him. Make his father like him better.” She hesitated, then said, “And I need to be forgiven. I was so angry with Angelique and Laurel. I really hated them. That was wrong. Jesus never hated anybody, so I ask you to forgive me.” She waited for a moment, expecting perhaps to hear a voice. But hearing none she said, “Amen,” and got into bed.

“I have something to tell you that may be a little difficult for you to understand, Chantel.”

Chantel was sitting at the breakfast table with her father. She had mentioned her ride with Neville but did not reveal the details of their conversation. She looked at her father curiously. “I’m going to have to go back and live at the school?”

“No, indeed, you’re not. This, I think, is very good news if you’ll have it so.”

Chantel could not understand his meaning. “What is it, Papa?”

“Well, you’re going to have a new mother.”

Instantly Chantel seemed to grow cold. She stared at her father, speechless, and finally she said, “Is it Miss Culver?”

“Yes, I have learned to care very much for the lady, and I want to marry her. She could never take the place of your mama, of course, but I hope you will accept her.”

Chantel could not speak, and Cretien saw that she was deeply shocked. He tried to calm her fears, but his words did not seem to register. Finally he said, “I hope you will come to accept Collette. We will never forget your mama or your sister, but life goes on.” He leaned over and kissed her, but when she did not respond, he shrugged and left the room.

For a time Chantel sat there, then she got up and went out in the courtyard. She grasped the black iron bars that fenced the house off from the street. People passed by, but she did not see them. Finally she grew angry.

“Why does Papa have to get married? We don’t need her!” She could not think of anything else to say. She could not even think clearly. She stared up at the sky and said, “God, You’re not fair! I don’t need a mother! Nobody can take my mama’s place. Why would You let this happen?”

She knew she was being foolish, but she couldn’t help it. She stood there gripping the cold iron bars, tears running down her face, and she feared for what would happen in the days to come.

Chapter ten

Chantel squinted at the book before her, holding it so tightly that her fingertips grew white. Her mouth twisted to one side in an angry grimace—and suddenly she lifted the book in one hand and flung it as hard as she could. “I hate poetry!” she shouted.

The book sailed across the room, pages fluttering, and struck a delicate porcelain vase of fresh flowers. The blow sent the vase off the table, and it smashed on the floor, scattering broken glass and white blossoms everywhere.

Chantel stared at the wreckage. Before she could move, the door opened and Elise hurried in, her eyes wide. “Are you all right?” She looked over at the fragments of the vase and the scattered petals. “How in the world?”

For one moment Chantel tried desperately to think of some excuse. Then she sighed. “I threw my book.” She went over and began to pick up pieces of glass. “I didn’t mean to break the vase. I just threw the book before I thought.”

“Here, you’ll cut yourself. Let me clean this up,” Elise said quickly.

The two cleaned up the mess together, carefully looking to be sure there were no shards of glass scattered on the carpet that could cut Chantel’s bare feet.

Then Elise said, “Here, sit down and let me fix your hair.”

Chantel marched over to the chair in front of the dresser and sat glumly staring at her features while Elise began to brush her hair.

Elise spoke lightly enough, but it was obvious that her young mistress was not in a good mood. “What’s the matter? You’re out of sorts this morning.”

“Did Papa come back yet?”

“No, as a matter of fact, I was coming up to give you this. Robert came back this morning and brought it.”

Quickly Chantel took the small envelope, extracted the note, and read her father’s message:

Dear, your mama and I are going to stay with her family in Baton Rouge until Monday. I know you will be a good girl. Be sure and go to Mass Sunday morning with Elise.

Chantel stared at the words, then crumpled the note into a small ball and threw it across the room.

“That’s no way to treat your papa’s note!”

“I don’t care! He’s never home.”

Elise ran the brush through the thick, lustrous hair and tried to speak soothingly. “You must remember he has only been married three months. It’s only to be expected that he and his bride would want to spend a great deal of time together.”

Chantel suddenly rose and said, “I don’t want my hair brushed any more!”

“Well, what do you want? I can never please you these days.”

“I want to go somewhere and get out of this house.”

“All right. Get dressed, and we’ll go shopping over at the square. After all, it’s almost Christmastime. Do you have any money?”

“Yes! I’ve been saving it, and I’m going to spend it all.”

Despite her bad mood, Chantel enjoyed her walk around the plaza. It was a fine morning, warmer than usual for December. She was wearing a fine wool coat that her father had bought her. She remembered how the two of them had shopped all over New Orleans for it and had finally found what she wanted at Holmes Department Store. That had been a good day! But the feel of the coat only reminded her that her father was not with her now.

They passed a store with a sign in the window that Chantel found intriguing: Indian Doctor. She turned to Elise. “Does that mean he’s an Indian—or that his patients are Indians?”

“Oh, who knows? There are so many charlatans in this city I can’t keep them straight.”

Chantel read the advertisement. “Doctor W. K. Lowe, by long intercourse with many different tribes of savages, and much practice, is able to give relief in desperate cases. Can cure scurvy, bilious complaints, fits, fevers, agues, diabetes, ulcers, cancers, and bedsores.”

“I’ll just bet he can,” Elise scoffed. “Come on, Chantel. Don’t ever let yourself fall into the hands of someone like that.”

The plaza was crowded for such an early hour, swarming with colorfully dressed blacks. Many of the women wore tignons, a madras head kerchief. Indians were a common sight, many of them having emigrated from Santo Domingo, and several negro nursemaids pushed perambulators along the streets. An enormous African woman bellowed out at the top of her powerful lungs, “Blackberries— berries very fine!” Another was selling pralines out of a basket, some brown, some pink, some white coconut.

They passed by the Place d’Armes hotel with its low-pitched high roof and arcaded side. All around them snatches of English, French, German, and Spanish made a perfect babble on the air. The market was so crowded with sellers and buyers that it was almost impossible to move about.

“This is a bad time to come,” said Elise.

“I like it,” Chantel said. She led the way down the street, threading her way between the people. Once she passed by a bald-headed gentleman sitting in a rocking chair at the door of the Pharmacie, reading the Abeille de la Nouvelle Orleans. Beside him his grave spouse was sitting reading the Propagateur Catholique. Peering into the dim recesses of the store, Chantel could see rows of shelves laden with bottles of drugs. A strong scent emanated from the shop.

Suddenly Chantel paused in front of a shop and said, “Let’s go in here.” Before Elise could protest, she had stepped inside a shop that advertised guns and knives.

There were several customers inside, all male. One of them was staring down the long barrel of a rifle, and he took his eye off to gawk at the two who entered. He grinned and said to his friend, who was twirling a heavy pistol, “Watch out, Jake, the females are comin’ in.”

A short, balding man with alert gray eyes came over. He was wearing a black suit and a rather colorful neckerchief. “May I help you ladies?”

“I want to look at your pistols.”

The shopkeeper hid a smile, or tried to, and said, “Certainly, miss. What sort did you have in mind?”

“A small one. One that I can hold.”

The shopkeeper motioned to a counter with a glass top. “Here is our collection of smaller guns.” He opened the lid and took out a sample. “How does this one feel?”

Chantel took the small gun, which was like none she had ever seen. “It’s so little,” she said. “It just fits.”

“This one fires only two shots, you see. One over and one under.”

“Who you plannin’ on shootin’, missy?” the man named Jake inquired.

Chantel turned to look at him and said frostily, “I haven’t decided yet.” She turned back to the shopkeeper. “How much is it?”

“That one is fifteen dollars.”

Chantel shook her head. “I don’t have quite that much. I’ll have to get some more from my papa.”

“Your papa will never let you have a gun, Chantel! Now come out of here!”

Chantel ignored Elise, saying, “I’ll be back when I get the rest of the money. I only need six more dollars. You save it for me, you hear?”

“Oui, mademoiselle! I will certainly save it. And what might your name be?”

“I am Chantel Renee Fontaine.”

The shopkeeper glanced toward the men, who were taking all this in, and said, “I will write it down and await your return.”

Chantel waited until they were outside and walking again in the milling crowd. “He was making fun of me, but I’m going to buy that gun.”

“What do you want a gun for?” Elise demanded.

“When I get older I’ll need to protect myself.”

“You will have a husband or your father to do that. Let’s go home now.”

“No, I’m hungry. I want some gumbo.”

The two made their way down the street, and just as they reached a cafe where Chantel had eaten with her father several times, she saw Neville coming down the street.

“Neville!” she said, and ran to meet him. “I’m glad to see you.”

“Why, I’m glad to see you, too. You’re out shopping?”

“Yes. This is Elise.”

“Oh, yes, I remember you,” Elise said. “You came to the house once with your father, Mr. Oliver, did you not?”

“Yes, I did. I’m glad to see you again.”

“We’re going to eat,” Chantel said eagerly. “Do you want to join us?”

“Why, as a matter of fact,” Neville said with a smile, “I was on my way to get a bite myself. This is a fine cafe.” He followed them inside. It was a small shop with only eight tables, all of them filled but two. The proprietor came over and greeted Neville. “Ah, Mr. Harcourt. It’s good to see you again.”

“I have guests today, Nicholas.”

Nicholas beamed and bowed at the waist. “Come this way.” He seated them and said, “What will it be today?”

“I want some gumbo,” said Chantel.

“I think I’ll have shrimp. What about you, Elise?”

But Elise was looking across the room at a young man who was smiling broadly at her. He arose and came over and said, “Good morning, Elise.”

“I’m glad to see you, Charles.”

“I don’t want to interrupt your party, but perhaps you’d care to join me.”

Elise looked flustered, and Chantel came to her rescue. “You may go if you want to. Neville and I will stay here.”

“I suppose that will be all right,” Elise said.

As soon as the two had left and seated themselves across the room, Neville said, “I’ve missed you. I haven’t seen you riding lately.”

“Papa’s been out of town a lot, and I can’t go unless Robert takes me—and Robert usually goes with Papa.”

“So, what have you been doing, besides going to school?”

Chantel stared rebelliously across the table. “I’ve been very bad. This morning I threw a book across the room and broke a very valuable vase.”

Neville pursed his lips, turned his head to one side, and asked, “What made you angry enough to do that?”

“It’s my schoolwork. They’re making me do stupid things.”

“I had the same problem in school. I suppose everyone feels the same way at times. What was it in particular that upset you?”

“My literature class. Sister Jane is making us read poetry, and next Monday morning I’ve got to recite a foolish poem and tell everybody in the class what it means.”

“Well, that doesn’t sound too bad,” Neville remarked.

Chantel continued her lament while they ate.

“What is the poem? Have you memorized it yet?”

“Yes, I have,” Chantel said, enjoying the gumbo. It was delicious, hot and spicy the way she liked it, and she quoted her poem rapidly around mouthfuls of food.

Nuns fret not at their convent’s narrow room:

And hermits are contented with their cells;

And students with their pensive citadels;

Maids at the wheel, the weaver at his loom,

Sit blithe and happy; bees that soar for bloom,

High as the highest peak of Furness-fells,

Will murmur by the hour in foxglove bells:

In truth the prison, into which we doom

Ourselves, no prison is: and hence for me,

In sundry moods, ’twas pastime to be bound

Within the Sonnet’s scanty plot of ground;

Pleased if some Souls “for such their needs must be”

Who have felt the weight of too much liberty,

Should find brief solace there, as I have found.

Chantel scraped the bottom of her bowl and looked up with disgust. “Isn’t that a silly poem?”

“Why did she give you that particular poem to work on?”

“I think because it’s about nuns.”

Neville was looking neat as usual. He had on a dark gray suit, and his shirt was gleaming white. His hair was brushed, and his eyes were warm as he studied the girl. “I don’t think it’s really about nuns,” he remarked.

“Why, what is it about then?”

“You know, Chantel, poems usually say one thing and mean something else.”

Chantel stared at him and then snorted with disgust. “Why don’t they just say what they mean?”

“Because we don’t want things always to mean what they say, and sometimes you can’t say what a thing means.”

“Why can’t I? If you ask me how many apples there are in a barrel, I’d just say ‘six.’ I don’t start making rhymes and talking about them as if they were something else.”

Neville smiled. “Yes, but you can remember other things that you couldn’t find words for. For example, a time that you were so happy that you couldn’t possibly tell anybody so that they’d understand— or perhaps so sad that you couldn’t express it.”

Instantly Chantel’s head dropped. She thought of the time after her mother and her sister died. She had not been able to say to anyone how she felt. “I guess that’s true. But this old poem talks about nuns.”

“Take it a line at a time. ‘Nuns fret not at their convent’s narrow room, and hermits are contented with their cells.’”

Chantel stared at him, astonished. “You know that poem? Do you have it memorized?”

“As a matter of fact, I like it. Now, what do those things have in common?”

“Well, it’s about nuns who are in a room.”

“What kind of a room?”

“A narrow room.”

“Right. And where are hermits?”

“They’re in cells.”

“And what’s a cell like?”

“Well, it’s small.”

“Right. So, we’re talking about small, narrow rooms and small, narrow cells. And the next line talks about students. They also are usually in a confined space.”

“Well, what about maids at the wheel, and the weaver at his loom?”

“Well, when maids work they are confined. They have to sit for hours at their spinning wheels. And the weaver, he’s tied to that loom. He may have to sit there as much as twelve hours a day. But notice the next line. These maids, and these weavers and students and nuns and hermits, how are they sitting there?”

Chantel thought for a moment. “They sit blithe and happy.”

“That’s right. So, even though all of these individuals are in rather confined and sometimes hard circumstances, they’re happy. Now, think about the rest of the poem and tell me what that sort of thing has to do with the rest of the details.”

“Well, let’s see. It says that bees will soar, but they’ll murmur by the hour in foxglove bells.”

“A foxglove is a small flower, Chantel. And a bee will get inside of one. It’ll be not much larger than the bee itself, but the poet Wordsworth says that the bee will murmur by the hour there. So, that’s where the poet is leading us. Now look at the next line: ‘In truth, the prison into which we doom ourselves, no prison is.’”

Chantel listened as Neville talked about the poem, his face glowing. She was fascinated that he found so much pleasure in it, and she found herself caught up in it.

“Actually, although there is a nun in the poem and there is a hermit, it’s really about the sonnet. That’s what this poem is.”

“Sister Jane told us that. It has only fourteen lines.”

“And what does the poet say about the sonnet?”

Chantel thought and then replied, “Why, he says the sonnet’s scanty plot of ground is a pastime.”

“That’s right. He found pleasure in working in a very small area. So, I think the poem talks about being happy and content even though we don’t have the whole world. Maybe we have a very small job or a very small circle of acquaintances. But being big doesn’t mean a thing is good. Can’t you remember some whole weeks, Chantel, that were not nearly as good as one hour?”

“Yes, I can,” Chantel said. “Lots of them. Like when Papa would take me riding. I lived for that. I’d wait for weeks, and then finally he would come. And that was good.”

“Well, life is like that. Perhaps you could point this out to the other students. And at the end of the poem there is a strange expression. Wordsworth speaks of people ‘who have felt the weight of too much liberty.’”

“I don’t understand that. I don’t have enough liberty.”

“I think all of us need some sort of bounds. For example, you are getting to be a grown-up young lady. When a young lady is not married, she can see any number of men. But after she’s married her attentions have to be concentrated on her husband. And that’s a good thing.”

“I should think it would be.” Chantel suddenly laughed. “Why, this was fun, Neville!”

“I think so too.”

“You’ll have to help me with more poems. I don’t have the vaguest idea of what some of them mean.”

“Maybe so. Ask your papa if I can come by some evening and go over some of your work with you.”

“I will. I really will.” She looked over suddenly at Elise and laughed. “Elise tells me about the men who come calling on her. She’s thirty now, but is still so pretty lots of them come. I think she enjoys teasing them.”

“I hope you never do that, Chantel.”

“Me? They’ll never come chasing after me the way they do Elise. I’m not pretty.”

Neville suddenly reached over and took Chantel’s hand. “You’re growing up. You’re going to be a lovely woman some day, and I think you’re pretty right now.”

A warmth suddenly seemed to grow inside of Chantel, and her face grew red. She murmured, “Thank you,” and when he released her hand, she knew that his compliment would stay with her for a long time.

The door opened, and Chantel, who was sitting in a chair, jumped up and ran to her father. She dropped a book on the floor as she went, and when he had kissed her and released her, she bent to pick it up.

“What book is that?” Cretien asked curiously.

“This is a present that Neville gave to me. Papa, listen. He helped me with the poem that Sister Jane assigned me to memorize and teach to the class.” She told him how Neville had explained the poem to her. “He’s so smart about poetry and I’m so dumb,” she concluded. “Can he come by some time and help me some more?”

“I don’t see why not.” Cretien looked at the book and said, “But what book is that?”

“It’s a Bible. Look, he signed it for me. It was the first day, when we went to his father’s office. You remember? And he took me out to buy me something to eat. We went to a bookshop, and he bought it and gave it to me.”

Cretien Fontaine was not overly religious, but what religion he had was tied up completely with the Catholic faith. He shook his head, saying, “If you want to know anything, you should ask the priest. He is qualified to interpret Scripture.”

“Oh, yes, Papa, but it was a present, and Neville signed it.”

“Well, I suppose you may keep it, but I would rather you did not read it.”

It was not a direct command, so Chantel did not argue. She said instead, “Papa, I saw what I wanted for Christmas.”

“Good. What is it?”

“It’s a pistol. I found it in a shop while Elise and I were out at the square.”

Cretien stared at this daughter of his. She was growing up so fast that he could hardly keep up with her. Now he suddenly laughed and said, “No, you may not have a pistol. Certainly not! Now, you pick something else.”

“All right,” Chantel said. But inwardly she thought, When I’m a grown woman I will buy a pistol for myself. “Can we go riding today, Papa? We haven’t been in a long time.”

“No, I have to take Collette to the doctor.”

Chantel looked up quickly. “Is she sick?”

“No, she’s not sick.” Cretien came closer and let his hand drop on the girl’s shoulder. When she turned and looked up at him, he was struck, for the moment, at how much her eyes brought back the memory of his first wife. He could not speak for a moment, then he came around and said quickly, “No, she’s not sick, but she’s going to have a baby.”

He watched the girl’s face and saw doubts flicker in her eyes. “Aren’t you happy about having a brother?” he demanded.

“Yes—but, Papa, it may be a girl.”

“No,” Cretien Fontaine said firmly, “it will be a boy! You will have a brother—and I will have a son.”

Chapter eleven

August brought a terrible heat wave to New Orleans. As Oliver Harcourt sat at the dinner table, sweat poured down his face. Taking out a damp handkerchief, he mopped the perspiration away and then said, “I’m not happy with your attitude, Neville.”

The dinners that Neville shared with his father were not the most pleasant times for either of them. The food, of course, was very good, because Oliver Harcourt would have nothing but the best. The room was attractive and pleasant, with fine pictures on the walls and a rosewood buffet and a snowy white tablecloth with fine china, but there was more to a dinner than a room and a fork.

“What’s wrong, Father?”

Oliver chewed a bite of the thinly-sliced baked ham and said, “You just don’t have enough drive. That’s the main problem. I’ve told you before that the law is not an easy master. When we have a case, we have to fight as a soldier fights against an enemy. Our opponents are our enemies, Neville. You go around trying to be nice even to people like the Barnleys.”

“I feel a little sorry for the Barnleys,” Neville replied. The Barnleys were an older couple, almost helpless, who were being sued by one of their clients. The man was determined to ruin them. Neville had winced when his father had struck out with all of the power of his sharp legal mind at the older couple.

“They made their bed, and now they’ll have to lie in it. And I want you to prepare a brief that will finish them off.”

“I think you could do it better than I could. I don’t really believe in this case.”

“You’re soft like your mother!”

“I think you’re right about that, Father. I’m not much like you. I never have been.”

Oliver Harcourt stared at his son. It was as close to a rebellion as he had ever seen in the young man, and his eyes grew half closed as he studied him. He had never spoken of his disappointment that Neville was, indeed, like his dead wife. She was a gentle soul, but there was no room for gentleness in the courtroom.

Neville looked a great deal like her as well, having rather classic features and being of a relatively small stature. Oliver would have preferred that his son be six-foot-four, as he himself was, and burly as a wrestler.

He had no other children, and all his hopes were tied up with this young man. He had not learned that one sometimes must deal with youth a little differently from the way he dealt with an opposing lawyer in a courtroom. For some time he spoke, driving his point home by smashing his fist into his palm.

Suddenly he remembered something. “By the way, what’s this about your giving a Bible to Mr. Fontaine’s daughter?”

“Why, yes, I did. You remember the day he brought Chantel to our office? You asked me to take her out and buy her something to eat. She was interested in something in the Bible, so I bought her one.”

“Well, it was a fool thing to do! Those people are Catholics. Didn’t you know that?”

“I suppose I knew it.”

“Well, Catholics don’t read the Bible; only priests do. I wish you wouldn’t read it so much yourself.”

Neville suddenly sat up straight and said, “I’m sure you don’t mean that, Father.”

For just a moment Oliver Harcourt was shocked. Neville was usually so pleasant and soft-spoken, but suddenly he had seen something in his son’s eyes that he rarely saw—something close to anger and determination.

“There’s nothing wrong with reading the Bible, son,” he said quickly. “For yourself, I mean—but giving a Bible to a young Catholic girl, especially one of our clients, is different.”

“Did Mr. Fontaine lodge a protest?”

“He mentioned it. The girl’s very impressionable.”

“I’ve been helping her a little with her lessons. I stopped by the house twice. She’s having trouble with her literature class.”

“I’m not sure that’s a good thing. It’s good business to be nice to clients, but you don’t want to get involved with their home lives.”

The two ate silently, and then Oliver said, “I don’t understand you at all. This unhealthy interest you have in religion troubles me.”

“I don’t think it’s unhealthy.”

“Why, going down to the docks and talking to men about God and handing out religious tracts to them! That’s not your place, Neville.”

“Well, whose place is it?”

“The ministers’.”

“Can you imagine our minister doing that?”

“No, I can’t, and I don’t appreciate your doing it either! It doesn’t look good. Now, why can’t you just do your duty? Simply go to church and give money.”

Neville touched his lips with the linen napkin, then put it down. He said carefully, “I think God wants me to do more than that, Father.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve been thinking God might want me to serve Him in a more active way.”

The older man stared at his son. “You don’t mean you’re thinking of entering the ministry?”

“I have thought of it. It’s been on my heart for some time. I couldn’t speak to you of it because I knew you wouldn’t be sympathetic.”

“It’s foolishness, Neville! You have a fine career ahead of you. You can serve God and be a lawyer at the same time. I do.”

Neville resisted the impulse of saying what was on his mind at that moment, and simply replied, “I’ve been thinking of it a great deal. I should have told you before.”

“Well, it’s foolishness, and I won’t have it! It would be the waste of a brilliant career! You’d throw everything out the window for nothing.”

“I wouldn’t call serving God in the ministry ‘nothing,’” Neville said gently.

Oliver Harcourt stared at his son. It was as if he had been walking along and had abruptly run into a wall that wouldn’t give. The light of determination in Neville’s dark blue eyes unsettled him, and he said no more. The memory of this scene, however, rankled the older man.

“Well, you are filling out. Look at you now!”

Elise had just helped Chantel get dressed, and the new dress did indeed reveal that the beanpole was beginning to develop some curves.

Chantel stared at herself. She had been aware of the growth in her body, of putting on weight. She was still tall and thin, but now, at least, she was not a skeleton as she had felt herself to be. She turned to Elise, her eyes wide with hope. “Do you really think I’ll fill out some day?”

“You’ve already started to be a nicely shaped young woman. And your hair is so pretty.”

Chantel reached up and touched her auburn hair, the golden glints caught in the light. She turned then and said quietly, “I don’t know what I’d do without you, Elise. You’ve been such a friend to me.”

Elise was pleased. She loved her young mistress fiercely, and pride came to her as she thought of how the young woman was maturing.

“You’d better go to your father,” she said. “He has a surprise for you.”

“A surprise?”

“Yes. Go see him.”

Chantel finished dressing quickly and left the room. She started to go down the hall when her father stepped out of the bedroom he shared with his wife.

“Papa, good morning.”

Cretien came to her, and there was a smile on his face and a joy that she had rarely seen. “What is it, Papa?”

“The baby came last night.”

“Last night? And you didn’t tell me?”

“You’d already gone to bed, and we had to rush to get the doctor here.”

“Is it a boy or a girl?”

“A fine boy!” Cretien’s eyes glowed, and happiness emanated from him. “And your mama is fine. Come along, but be quiet. She’s asleep and very tired.”

Chantel tiptoed into the room and saw that Collette was asleep. Her face looked pale and wan.

Chantel’s attention went at once to the special bed that her father had built. It was low enough that when she went over and looked inside she could see the red face of the newborn infant.

“He’s beautiful, Papa. May I pick him up?”

“Yes, but be very careful.”

Chantel gently picked up the baby. She cuddled him in her arms and stared down. “He’s beautiful, Papa, just beautiful!”

“He is, isn’t he? A fine boy!”

“What is his name?”

“He will be Perrin Covier Fontaine.”

Chantel held the baby, crooning to it. She looked up, and there were tears in her eyes. “It will make up a little for losing my sister, Papa. I hope we will be very close.”

“Of course you will, Chantel. Brother and sister. You will love him, and he will love you.” Cretien saw the affection in Chantel and was pleased. “You will not be lonely now, for you will have a brother to love.”

“So you have a new baby brother, Chantel?” Damita was lying under a huge live oak tree sucking on an orange. Flanking her were Simone and Chantel. “Well, you can say good-bye to any attention you’ll get from your parents.”

“Oh, I don’t think so!” Chantel answered. “We all love the baby.”

Simone rolled over on her back and stared at the huge limbs of the live oak tree, some of them as big around as full-grown trees. “Damita’s right,” she remarked. “A new baby gets all the attention.”

Chantel didn’t argue, for indeed, she had received little attention from her father since the birth of the baby. Instead, she tried to change the subject. “Where’s Leonie? I haven’t seen her all day.”

“I think she’s ironing her dresses.” Simone yawned. “I’d hate to have to iron my own clothes. Makes me all hot and sweaty.”

Chantel sat up and said, “I think we ought to do something for Leonie.”

“Do what?” Damita asked. She tossed the half-eaten orange to the ground and got to her feet. “You mean help her iron?”

“No, not that.” Chantel knew there would be no volunteers to help Leonie do this tiresome task; she alone among the Four Musketeers was poor. Damita’s father was one of the richest men in New Orleans, and Simone’s family had plenty of money. Leonie was a charity girl, a student that the convent took in from time to time from among the poor. She was an orphan, the daughter of an unmarried French actress who had died giving birth to Leonie. The Ursulines had taken her in, but she had nothing except what was furnished by the convent.

“She doesn’t have any nice clothes, and she never has any sweets or good food to eat to keep in her room,” Chantel said. “We all have so much! I’d like to buy her some new clothes and a few goodies.”

Damita, who always had everything she needed and more, was not prone to noticing what others needed—but she had a generous heart. “That’s a good idea, Chantel. I’ve got some money. How about you, Simone?”

“I’ve got enough to buy her a dress.” Leaping to her feet, she said, “It’ll be fun! Come on, let’s surprise her.”

“I’ll ask Sister Martha for permission to go to town,” Damita said.

Fortunately, school had ended early, and the girls had a half-day holiday. They obtained permission to go into town from Sister Martha with little trouble. Damita didn’t give her the real reason for their visit, but said, “We’d like to buy a few things to give to the poor, Sister.” Sister Martha was pleased, and the girls went at once to find the object of their good works.

They burst into the workroom, and Leonie was taken by storm. “Come on, Leonie,” Damita cried, and took the iron away from the surprised girl. “We’re going to town.”

“But—I need to finish my ironing!”

“You can do that later,” Simone grinned. “We’ve got things to do!”

With Leonie completely mystified, the four left for town. Their first visit was to a dress shop, and when Damita said to the clerk, “This young woman must have a fine new dress! Now, let’s see what you have!” Leonie was taken aback.

“I can’t buy a dress,” she whispered. “I’ve never bought a dress!”

“Well, it’s about time.” Chantel smiled. “You’re going to buy one now, maybe more.”

The three girls had a wonderful time, insisting that Leonie try on a number of dresses. They each liked different dresses—except Leonie, who was too dazed to even speak—but finally they agreed on a blue dress that looked wonderful on Leonie.

“We’ll take it!” Simone said with satisfaction. She walked around Leonie examining the dress, and nodded. “Wrap it up for her.”

“But—it costs so much!” Leonie said, a worried look on her face.

Damita came over and put her arm around Leonie. “Don’t even think about the cost. We’ve got the money and we’re going to buy lots more things.”

All three of the girls were shocked to see tears well up in Leonie’s eyes. She swallowed, tried to speak, but could not. “I—I don’t know what to say,” she finally managed.

“Say—‘Let’s go buy another dress!’” Chantel cried. “We’ve got a lot of shopping to do!”

When the four girls returned to the convent, they were burdened with packages. They had bought some things for the poor, which would satisfy Sister Martha, but the bulk of their plunder was for Leonie. They entered her room giggling and squealing, and asked Leonie to try on everything again. The purchases included two dresses, a heavy coat for winter, a warm fur cap, a pair of gloves, two pairs of shoes, underwear, and stockings. In addition to this was a wealth of sweets of all kinds.

Leonie stood in the middle of the floor, looking at her three friends who were all admiring her—and helping themselves to the sweets. “I—never had any real presents before.”

The three girls grew quiet, for all of them felt somewhat shamed. All three had grown up in prosperous circumstances, and the words of Leonie brought a feeling of guilt to each of them. Damita got up at once and went to Leonie. She put her arms around the small girl and said, “Well, you’ve got some now—and three sisters to look out for you.”

Simone got up, and she also kissed Leonie. “That’s right. We’re the Four Musketeers, aren’t we?”

And then Chantel, whose heart was filled with joy, joined them. “One for all—and all for one,” she said. She hugged Leonie, and a thought came to her. “I want to tell you all something,” she said. “As long as we live, if I can ever do anything for any of you, I’ll do it!”

Damita Madariaga had been pampered her whole life and wasn’t accustomed to serving others, but something in Chantel’s words touched her. “That’s the way it is with me. Come to me if you ever need help.”

“And I feel that way, too,” Simone said. “I’ll never say no to any of you!”

And Leonie, who had nothing—except perhaps the largest heart of the four—whispered, “I don’t see how I could ever do anything for any of you, but I’ll love you all my life!”

The four girls were quiet, touched by what had happened, and then Chantel cried, “All for one—and one for all!” And the other three echoed her words.

Chapter twelve

Chantel looked up as her father spoke, hearing a trace of anger in his voice. They had nearly finished breakfast, and, as was his custom, Cretien was scanning the pages of the morning paper.

“This fellow Jackson, he’s nothing but a rude Kaintock!”

“You mean the man who’s running for president?” Collette asked. She was, as always, beautifully dressed, for she spent a great deal of her time and her husband’s money on clothing. Her dress this day was exceptionally ornate. It was made of light green silk with a fine gold brocade around the off-the-shoulder neckline, the tight bodice, and the hem of the full, floor-length skirt. Its full sleeves billowed out at the shoulder and grew very tight at the elbow, and the skirt was cinched in at the waist by a sash and had six small bows of white silk down the middle.

“That’s the one. Why, he’s had several duels already!”

“Duels over what, Papa?” Chantel asked. She really cared nothing about Jackson, but she always listened to what her father had to say.

“He’ll be president. No doubt of that, and the country will go straight to the dogs. What America needs is a good aristocracy.” Cretien continued to flip through paper. “Well,” he said, “I see they finally outlawed suttee in India.”

“Suttee? What’s that?” Collette asked as she nibbled at a section of grapefruit.

“In India, when a man dies, they put him on a pile of wood and cremate him. The law says his widow has to be burned with him.”

“You mean burned alive? ” Collette demanded. “How awful!”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Cretien grinned and winked across the table at Chantel. “I know a few wives that might justify such a policy.” He laughed then and said, “Not you, of course, my dear.”

“Papa, I read that a man named Burt has invented a new machine.”

“A machine? What kind of a machine?”

“You don’t have to write anymore with a pen. You use this machine, and it prints the words just as they appear in a book.”

“Nothing will ever come of that. It would be too complicated. Like this—” He thumped the paper. “Those crazy Englishmen have invented a steam engine. There’s a story here about something they call a steam locomotive named The Rocket.”

“What does it do, Cretien?” Collette asked.

“They build iron tracks for it, and it runs along them, I understand. Nothing will ever come of that, of course. Horses, that’s the thing.”

Breakfast was almost finished, and Chantel said quickly, “Papa, Neville is going to come to my party today.” She had taken special care with her appearance this morning, for it was her sixteenth birthday.

“How did that happen?” Cretien was not pleased at the attention that Neville Harcourt showed to Chantel. Ever since he had discovered that the young attorney had given his daughter a Bible, he had been suspicious. He shook his head, his displeasure evident on his features. “I hear disturbing things about Neville.”

“What sort of things, Papa?”

“Why, he’s become some sort of a preacher now.”

“A preacher?” Collette looked up with surprise. “But he’s a lawyer.”

“Oh, I don’t think he’s left his law practice. His father’s not doing too well, you know. His health isn’t good. I’d admire the young man if it weren’t for this preaching.”

“Where does he preach? In one of the Protestant churches?”

“I don’t know the details. I just know his father told me that he was furious with Neville, and I don’t blame him.”

Chantel knew that Neville had become a lay preacher of some sort. She, of course, had never heard him preach, and he did not speak of his activity often. But she did not like the fact that her father was displeased and was glad when suddenly their attention was taken by Perrin.

“Want seet roll!”

Perrin, at the age of two, had become a tyrant in the Fontaine household. His parents doted on him, and neither of them could deny him anything. The result was a two-year-old who demanded his own way under every circumstance. Now Perrin, who was seated in a specially built high chair, was frowning at the egg that had been placed in front of him.

“No egg! Want seet roll!”

“Eggs are better for you than sweet rolls, Perrin,” Chantel said. “And they’re good, too.”

But her words did not assuage the child. He began screaming for sweet rolls, and almost at once Cretien called out, “Ann—Ann, bring Perrin some sweet rolls!”

“Yes, sir, right away.” The maid scurried away and soon came back with a plate with two sweet rolls on it. She placed them in front of Perrin, who grabbed one with both hands and began tearing at it as if he were starved.

“Don’t bolt your food, Perrin,” Collette warned. But her words had no more effect on him than they ever had.

Collette urged him to drink his milk, and Perrin gulped it down, almost choking in the process. He was overweight and ate almost constantly only the sweetest and most fattening of foods. Chantel had tried to speak to her parents about her brother, but they were both so happy to have a son that they paid no attention whatsoever.

After breakfast Chantel moved to the drawing room, where she sat for some time reading a book that Neville had given to her. It was called The Last of the Mohicans, and she found it fascinating. Neville had good taste in literature, and knowing her love for the romantic element, usually tried to steer her toward the more acceptable novels. He himself appeared to have read everything. Chantel was sure that he knew more than all of her teachers at school.

As she plunged into her book, more than once she felt tears rise to her eyes. The plight of the Mohican chief moved her greatly. How terrible, to think of an entire tribe perishing.

Suddenly she heard the sound of Perrin’s footsteps, and without warning her book was snatched from her hand. She gave a cry as the boy took a page and tore it out. Leaping forward, she grabbed the book and slapped his hand. “No, Perrin, you mustn’t tear books! That’s a bad boy.”

Collette had followed on Perrin’s heels, and she said angrily, “Don’t you ever strike your brother, Chantel!” She snatched up Perrin, who was crying at the top of his lungs, and cuddled him, saying, “Now, don’t cry, Perrin. Your sister didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Chantel stared at the two and said, “Mama, Perrin has to learn discipline. He can’t destroy people’s property.”

“It’s only a book,” Collette said. “Now here, I want you to go to town for me. Here’s a sample of the thread that I need to finish my project.” Chantel understood that Collette made demands like this to exercise control over her.

“But I need to get ready for my party.”

“You’ll have plenty of time for that. It’s not until four o’clock. Hurry along now.” She turned her attention to Perrin, who was still sulking. “And remember. Never strike your brother again.”

Chantel was glad to get away. She loved Perrin, and at times he could be very sweet. But any child that is given his own way constantly and never rebuked is bound to develop bad character traits, and Chantel worried about him.

Her father could see only that the dream of his life had been fulfilled— he had a son. He was planning Perrin’s future already, even making arrangements for schools when the child was old enough. He had once mentioned that he had picked a university for him to attend in France.

Leaving the house, Chantel hurried to town. It was a warm day in May, and the streets of the city were busy. She went into the shop, found the thread that her mother needed, then decided to go visit Neville’s office, which was only two blocks away.

She made her way along the busy streets, and as she moved, she paid particular attention to the women she passed. She still felt herself too tall and awkward, and she admired women who were small of stature and had pronounced curves. She had developed somewhat, but the long-seeded idea that she was ugly and ungainly was hard to shake off.

When she reached Neville’s office, she found the two clerks working in the outer office. One of them, a short, fair-haired man of some twenty years, smiled at her. “Well, Miss Fontaine, I hope you haven’t come to see Mr. Harcourt. He’s not in the office today.”

“You mean Mr. Neville?”

“Oh, no, Mr. Neville’s here. His father, I meant. He’s not too well.”

“I’m sorry to hear it.”

“I’ll tell Mr. Neville that you’re here.” The clerk knocked on the door, listened for a response, then stuck his head inside to announce her. He turned to her and smiled. “Go right in, Miss Fontaine.”

Chantel entered the office and found Neville rising to greet her with a bright smile. “Well, this is a welcome break in a dreary day.”

“I just came by to remind you of my party, Neville.” Chantel smiled and said, “I want you to dress up and look your very best. You’ll meet all of my friends.”

“I don’t know why you want to invite a Methuselah like me to an event filled with attractive young people.”

“Don’t be silly! You’re only twenty-one.”

“And you are sixteen. Happy birthday, Chantel, and may I say you look quite lovely today.”

Neville’s compliment brought color to Chantel’s cheeks. He was always quick to compliment her, but not so often on her physical appearance. “This isn’t my party dress,” she said quickly.

“Well, you look very nice. Come and sit down. Let’s have some coffee.”

Chantel always enjoyed talking to Neville because he knew so much and was witty. She studied his appearance as he spoke of a case that he had had in court. He’s not very handsome, she thought, but some people think he is.

He was no more than five-foot-ten but was very trim and athletic. His hair was light brown, almost auburn, and had a curl to it. It was crisp, and he kept it cut rather shorter than most men. His eyes were a warm brown, and he had eyelashes that were no doubt the envy of many women. His eyes were his best feature, always alert, and Chantel often wondered if he had any sweethearts. He never spoke of young women, but she knew that he occasionally escorted them to the opera or the theater.

Finally Chantel rose and said, “I must get home. I’ve got a thousand things to do before my party.”

“I’m going to be a little bit late, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, Neville, you promised to be there!”

“I know, but an appointment came up that may run a little long. But I have your present, and I’ll give it to you now. It won’t get lost in a group of other gifts.”

“It would never do that.”

Neville walked to the desk, opened a drawer, and pulled out a small package wrapped in brown paper. He came over and handed it to her. “Happy birthday, Chantel.”

“Oh, thank you, Neville.”

“You don’t know what it is yet.”

“Whatever it is, I’ll love it.”

“Well, I spent too much money then. I should have given you a rock.”

Chantel carefully removed the paper and found a box inside. She opened it, and for a moment stood speechless. “Neville, they’re absolutely beautiful!” She laughed with delight and stared down at the green earrings. “Are they real jade?”

“Of course they’re real. Do you think I’d give you a cheap imitation?” Neville grinned. “They’re almost the color of your eyes. Put them on and give me a preview.”

Chantel put the earrings on with excitement and demanded a mirror, which Neville produced from his drawer. She stared at the earrings and cried, “Oh, they’re absolutely beautiful, and they do match my eyes!” She whirled around and threw her arms around Neville and kissed him on the cheek.

“Here now! We can’t have this. Young ladies don’t rush up and kiss strange men.”

“You’re not a strange man.”

“Well, you’re too old to be kissing fellows—even an old fellow like me.”

But Chantel was utterly taken up with the earrings. She could not stop staring at the small mirror. Finally she said, “It’s all right for me to kiss you, Neville. You’re my big brother. You always have been.” She came over and put her hand on his cheek. Even at sixteen she was almost as tall as he was. She hoped that she would never be any taller. “I’ve got to go now. I’ll see you at the party. Don’t be any later than you can help.”

Neville walked her to the door, and when she had left, he closed it, came back, and went to the window. He watched her figure as long as he could see it among the milling crowd below. Long thoughts ran through him, and he recalled the first time he had met her in this very office. She had been a long-legged, thin, rather homely child with enormous eyes. Now he realized, not for the first time, that the years had done something to her. He stood still for a moment, thinking of how beautiful her eyes were and how the stones set them off. Then he shook himself and turned back to his work.

The party was a success as far as most people were concerned. Eleven people were there, mostly her close friends from the convent. The most noticeable of them was Assumpta Damita de Salvedo y Madariaga. Her dark eyes sparkled, and her black hair shone, revealing her Spanish blood. Not surprisingly, she dominated every group she found herself a part of.

“So, your sweetheart gave you those earrings. They are beautiful. He must love you very much.”

“Oh, no, Damita!” Chantel said, feeling her cheeks turning red. “Just a good friend of mine. He’s actually our family lawyer.”

Damita shook her head. “I’ll never believe that a cold-blooded lawyer gave you such beautiful earrings. Come now.” She winked across at Simone.

“I think she’s hiding something, Simone. She tells you everything. Find out who gave her those earrings.”

Simone smiled. Her blonde hair was swept up on her head, wisps of curls falling around her face. She whispered, “You can tell me after the party’s over. I know you’ve got a secret admirer. No lawyer would give you a beautiful gift like that.”

The fourth member of the quartet, Leonie Dousett, said, “Don’t tease Chantel. You’re embarrassing her.”

Damita laughed. “It’s good for her to be embarrassed. She outdoes us all in our studies, so I have to find some way of getting back at her.”

They were interrupted then by a tall, striking young man, Roger Devorak. His father was a cotton farmer, and Roger’s good looks, along with his family wealth, had many mothers looking to him as a possible husband for their daughters. At seventeen he had already had several rather exciting romances. He came now to stand before the four girls.

“Well, the Four Musketeers again. I’d like to be a fly on the wall in your rooms and hear what you ladies have to say.”

“You would be shocked,” Damita said, smiling boldly. “I wouldn’t have you know what we say for the world.”

“Oh, don’t pay any attention to her, Mr. Devorak,” Leonie said. “You wouldn’t be shocked at all.”

“In that case I’ll have to get the secret out of Miss Chantel.” He stepped forward and took her hand, then bent over and kissed it. “A very happy birthday to you, Miss Fontaine.” He looked very handsome with his shiny black hair and large, lustrous eyes. He held her hand a moment longer than necessary and whispered, “Now that you’re a full-grown sixteen years old and can call yourself a woman, I’ll be calling on you.”

“I don’t believe that,” Chantel said.

“And why not?”

Chantel laughed. “Because you’re working your way down through the young women of New Orleans alphabetically, and you haven’t even gotten through the B’s yet. Those of us who have names beginning with F have to wait our turn.”

Roger laughed with the young women but shook his head. “You accuse me of being a philanderer, but I will show you that it is not true.”

The time went by pleasantly enough, but Chantel was not able to throw herself into the merriment. There was music and several of the better singers entertained the group. There was a cake with candles and opening of presents, but during all of this Chantel was looking constantly at the door. She tried to make herself smile.

When finally the party ended, and just as the last guest left, Neville came rushing up. “I’m sorry to be so late. I couldn’t get away.”

“That’s all right, Neville. Come in,” Chantel said.

“Am I too late for a piece of cake and some punch?”

“No, of course not.” Chantel tried to smile.

Neville was escorted over to the refreshments.

“Let’s go into the parlor, Neville,” she suggested, “while the maids clean up.”

Neville sat down beside her on the sofa and listened to her tell about the party. Always sensitive to Chantel’s moods, he asked her, “What is it, Chantel? You’re disappointed.”

“Oh, no, I’m not.”

“Why, of course you are. I can see it. You’re not a hard person to read. What’s wrong?”

“Oh, my father didn’t come, and I—I thought he’d be here.”

“I’m sure he was held up.”

“I suppose so.” She appreciated the warmth of his hand as he held hers and tried to assure her. “When I was a little girl he missed a party of mine that he had promised to come to. It was a birthday party just like this one. He didn’t come, and I cried myself to sleep. But that night,” she said, “he came and got me out of bed and took me out to the front of the house. And there was a pony. Lady was the first horse I ever had. So maybe he’ll come late, just as he did then.”

“I’m sure he will, Chantel.”

Neville sensed that she was not in a talkative mood and soon rose to say his good-byes. “Suppose we go riding tomorrow. Can you come?”

“Oh, yes, that would be wonderful. I’ll meet you at the park at two o’clock.”

“I’ll see you then.”

He reached out and put his hand on her shoulder. “I’m glad to have you for a friend.”

His kind words brought more moisture to Chantel’s eyes. She blinked the tears away and said, “Thank you, Neville. Your gift was the best of all. I’ll keep these earrings always.”

Cretien stopped abruptly. He had stepped inside the front door and found Collette waiting for him. “I’m sorry to be so late—”

“I’m sure you are!” Collette stepped closer and could smell the liquor on him. “You’re drinking too much.”

As a matter of fact, Cretien had drunk too much, but he defended himself at once. “I only had a little—”

Collette glared at him. “And that perfume I smell on you. Did you only have a little of that woman you were with?”

“That’s no way to talk.”

“I’m supposed to ignore this sort of thing? What if you found that I’d been seeing a man?”

“That’s entirely different!” Cretien said stiffly. “Don’t speak of these matters.”

“You should have been at the party! Chantel was watching the door for you all day and all evening,” she said, adding more venom to her anger.

Cretien blinked.

He had forgotten the party, and now a sense of deep shame came over him. “I’ll make it up to her,” he said lamely.

“You can’t go back and do things over. Now, let’s go to bed.”

The next morning Chantel had just gotten dressed when she heard a knock on her door. “Come in,” she said. When she saw her father standing there, she said nothing, but waited until he came over to stand before her.

“Are you very angry with me, daughter?”

“No, of course not.”

“I wouldn’t blame you a bit, but wait until you hear why I didn’t make it.” He reached into his inner pocket and pulled out a gift. “I had this especially made up for you in Baton Rouge. I had to go over and get it, and it wasn’t ready. By the time I got home it was very late. Happy birthday, daughter.”

Chantel took the small box with fingers not quite steady. When she opened it, she gasped at the diamond ring that caught the light and glittered and flashed with blue fire.

“Papa, it’s so beautiful!”

“I am so sorry I didn’t get here sooner,” Cretien said. “But how about this. Suppose we have another birthday party, just the two of us? We’ll go out and have dinner, then we’ll go to an opera. There’s a new one called William Tell. I know it’s a day late, but I want you to have a good birthday.”

Chantel’s heart seemed to swell. “That—that would be wonderful, Papa.”

Cretien reached out and took her hands. He held them for a moment then said, “This makes two of your parties I’ve missed.”

“No, you didn’t miss this one, Papa. It’s not too late.” She laughed and held her hand up, admiring the ring. “I’ll never take this off, Papa—never.”

Chapter thirteen

The classroom was cold, and Chantel drew her blue wool coat closer around her. This did not help with her feet, however, which were numb. She looked around and saw that the other girls were just as uncomfortable as she was. Indeed, Leonie’s lips seemed to be blue. The coat she had on was thin, and Chantel thought, I’ve got to give Leonie a warmer coat. I can give her my brown one. It’ll be too large for her, but at least she can keep warm.

The droning of Father Laurent’s voice nearly put her to sleep. The class he taught on church doctrine was enough to bore anyone to death. She dreaded it, and so did the other girls. Their academic subjects were sometimes good, sometimes boring, but never as tedious as Father Laurent’s lessons. As far as she knew no one ever paid the slightest attention to what he was saying except to be sure they could pass the examination that would follow.

Two tall windows on the east side of the room admitted the cold winter light of November. Chantel watched the long, slanting rays of pale light as they fell on the faces of her fellow students. She noticed the motes that danced in them and wondered suddenly if God knew the location of every mote. It was the sort of thing that came to Chantel from time to time. She thought of asking Father Laurent, but she knew he would think such a question frivolous.

She rubbed her hands together and paused to admire the diamond ring she wore on the ring finger of her right hand. Every day since her birthday she had taken time to admire it and to think of the second birthday party. She had had a marvelous time with her father. They had gone out to the most expensive restaurant in New Orleans, and while they had eaten her father had amused her with his talk.

Afterwards they went to the opera, and although Chantel did not like opera as well as drama, she was stirred by the music and by the story of William Tell. The scene where he shot the apple off of his son’s head was exciting, and she had found herself grasping her father’s arm with all her strength. He had laughed quietly at her and said, “Don’t worry. I don’t think he’ll hit the boy.”

After the opera they had chocolate and sweets, and Cretien again apologized for missing her party. “I promised you once that I’d never miss another one, but I failed you. Now I promise you again, chère. I’ll never miss another one of your parties.”

“Thank you, Papa. This has been the best birthday I’ve ever had, even if it is a few hours late.”

“Then I’m happy, and I hope you like your gift.”

“Yes, more than anything.”

Chantel was reliving that scene when suddenly she heard her name called and blinked, drawing herself back to the present. Father Laurent, a large man with a reddish face and pale blue eyes, was staring at her. She heard Damita giggling and knew she had been asked a question.

“I’m sorry, Father Laurent. I didn’t hear.”

Whatever reprimand Father Laurent was about to deliver was never heard, for just then the door opened and Sister Alice came in.

“Father Laurent,” she said. “Chantel is wanted in Sister Martha’s office at once.”

A shock of surprise came to Chantel. She had never been sent for like this, but when someone was called out of class it usually meant trouble. She waited until Father Laurent dismissed her, then rose and left the room. All the way to the office she wondered what she had possibly done that would call for this type of action.

When she entered the office, she found Sister Martha standing beside her desk. “Yes, Sister Martha. What is it?” Chantel asked.

“I’m afraid I have bad news for you, my dear.”

“Bad news, Sister Martha?”

“Yes, it’s—” The nun hesitated, then said, “It’s your father. He’s had an accident. You must go home at once.”

“Is he all right?”

“I don’t know the details, but I think you’d better go right now.”

Chantel stared at the nun with fear running along her nerves. Then she wheeled out of the room. Not even stopping to get her heavy coat, Chantel ran out of the building into the cutting wind, but she paid it no heed.

The distance from the convent to her home was only a few blocks, but she ran so hard she was out of breath when she pushed through the black iron gates and ran up the steps. She opened the door and almost fell inside.

“Chantel!”

Chantel saw Collette, and cried out, “What happened to Papa?”

Collette came over, took Chantel by the shoulders, and looked up into her face. “I’m so sorry, dear,” she said. Her eyes were red and wet. “Your father was riding his stallion, and the horse fell going over a jump.”

“But will he be all right?”

“Chantel—your father is . . .”

“I want to see him!”

“We put him on his bed in the bedroom, but—”

Chantel tore away from Collette’s grasp and ran up the stairs, taking them two or three at a time. She ran down the hall to her father’s room.

There on the bed she saw her father lying in the most awful stillness she had ever seen. Her throat closed up, and the room seemed to tilt. She walked stiffly to the bed and looked down on his pale face, then suddenly fell forward across his chest. She held to him, crying, “Papa—Papa!”

Finally she felt hands raising her up and heard Collette say, “Come away, dear.”

Chantel rose and looked down at her father’s face. Through the tears the features seemed to waver, and a sudden sense of loss came over her.

PART THREE

1831

Neville

Chapter fourteen

Spring brought beautiful weather to New Orleans. The sky overhead, as blue as could be imagined, was broken by fleecy white clouds that drifted slowly by. The date was May 15, 1831, and a warm breeze blew across the crowd gathered for the ceremony. The faculty of the Ursuline Convent was gathered together on a small platform that had been erected in the courtyard. The black robes of the priests and nuns, highlighted by blinding white collars and hats, made a startling contrast to the colorful dresses of the family and friends of the graduates. As Chantel glanced around, she thought, It looks like a tulip garden with all the beautiful colors of the dresses.

Indeed, the women in the predominately Creole gathering had worn their best—gowns of pink, blue, green, and yellow that caught the sparkling sunlight. The air was light, the final speech had been made by the bishop, and now the diplomas were being handed out. Chantel moved forward, listening to the names of her fellow students. Finally she heard her own name called out, then a slight pause and the words “Summa Cum Laude.”

A sound of applause came to her, and she flushed as she reached forward and took the diploma from Sister Martha. The nun smiled at her and whispered, “I’m proud of you, Chantel.”

“Thank you, Sister.” Grasping the diploma as if it were a precious jewel, Chantel turned and flashed a smile at Neville. To her surprise, he kissed his hand and waved it at her.

As she made her way back to her seat, a wave of memory swept over her. She thought of the past months that had come and gone, and sadly wished that her father could be here to share this day. She continued to live at home with Collette and Perrin, but the house had become a torment for her. It was Cretien who had made it a special place for her, and every time she entered the door it was with a pang of grief. She thought of the lonely nights when she had wept herself to sleep, and after all these months her loss seemed to grieve her even more.

She made her way to her seat, glancing once again at Neville. He wasn’t looking at her at that moment, and she saw his profile and thought of how his friendship had helped her endure the recent struggle.

Chantel sat there until the ceremonies finally came to an end. They stood to their feet, graduates and guests alike, and the bishop said a brief prayer. Then the graduates went to their families.

Collette and Elise smiled at her and kissed her, but it was Elise who was the warmest.

“You did the best of all, mon chère!” She beamed and hugged Chantel again so hard that it almost made her lose her breath.

“I’m very proud of you—and your father would be so proud, too,” Collette said. She was wearing a light, summery blue dress and looked very pretty as she stood there. Collette had never been unkind to Chantel directly, but since Cretien’s death she had been preoccupied. It hurt Chantel that her stepmother seemed to grieve so little at the loss of her husband.

Nevertheless, she managed a smile and said, “Thank you, Mama.”’

“Aren’t you going to give me a present, Chantel?”

Chantel laughed and bent over to ruffle Perrin’s hair. He was three and a half years old now and resembled his mother more than his father.

“You’re supposed to give me a present,” Chantel teased.

Perrin scowled at her and then shrugged. “Okay. You can have one of the toys that I’m tired of.”

“That’s not very generous, Perrin,” Collette said. She turned to Chantel. “You’ve worked so hard, dear, but now, perhaps, you can rest a little.”

Elise was still excited over the honor Chantel had won. “You were the very best!” she said. Then she laughed and shook her head. “I thought I’d never get you raised.”

Collette gave Elise a hard look, for it grated on her nerves that a servant was in many respects closer to Chantel than she was.

Chantel started to answer, but at that moment Sister Martha came up and in an unusual gesture put her arm around Chantel and squeezed her. “Well, I’m going to miss you around here.”

“I’ll miss you, too, Sister Martha. But we’ll only be a few blocks away. I’ll come and visit you.”

Sister Martha shook her head and gave a slight laugh. “I doubt that, but it would make me very happy if you would. When our students move away we rarely see them again. Now, what are you going to do with yourself? Get married, I suppose.”

“Oh, no, nothing like that!”

“What? Not ever? Perhaps,” she said, “you’d like to stay on and become a nun.” Her eyes twinkled as she said, “But I don’t think that is your calling.”

At that moment Neville appeared and said, “Good afternoon, Sister Martha. Are you proud of your prize student?”

“I certainly am. But I must say that I occasionally suspected that some of her essays were assisted by another hand.” She stared hard at Neville and said, “I call no names, you understand.”

Neville flushed and said, “Well, I did give her some help from time to time.”

Sister Martha nodded and said, “You would make a good Catholic, Mr. Harcourt.”

“That’s quite a compliment, coming from you, Sister.”

“You must come and see me. I believe I could enlighten you if I just had time enough.”

Neville laughed and said, “I’m afraid of you, Sister. You’re too good an evangelist to suit me, but I appreciate your offer.”

Sister Martha went to speak to the other graduates, and Neville said to Chantel, “I’ve come to take you away to celebrate.”

But at that moment, Chantel was surrounded by a trio who wore the same costume of graduation. “Chantel! You won! I’m so proud of you!”

“Thank you, Leonie.” Chantel took the shy kiss from the girl, then said, “Are you ready to face the world now?”

“Well, I am!” Simone was beaming as she came to exchange hugs with Chantel. “I’m so glad to be out of this place I could scream!”

“The sisters are saying the same about you, Simone.” As usual Assumpta Damita de Salvedo y Madariaga dominated the group. She held up her hand to flaunt an enormous diamond ring that looked like blue ice. “How do you like my graduation present?” She laughed. “Father never thought I’d make it. I wouldn’t have if it hadn’t been for you three!”

“Congratulations to all of you,” Neville smiled. “I’m not sure the world is ready for the Four Musketeers.”

Damita went directly to Neville. “Don’t you have an expression of congratulations for me, Neville?”

Neville looked flustered but gave Damita a quick kiss on the cheek. “Is that the best you can do?” Damita mocked. “Chantel, teach this crude fellow how to express himself!”

“Come along, Neville,” Chantel said, taking his arm. “This brazen woman will eat you alive.” She turned to leave, but then stopped and called back, “Remember, one for all and all for one!”

Antonio’s Restaurant was absolutely gorgeous—at least Chantel thought so. She sat across from Neville, feasting her eyes on her surroundings: enormous ornate mirrors framed in curved, French gold-leaf frames, chandeliers that shed their light in brilliant cascades over the tables adorned with white tablecloths, fine china, and silver flatware polished so highly that she could see her reflection in the flats of the knives.

“This is wonderful, Neville, but isn’t it awfully expensive?”

“Well, I’ve got enough to pay my share. I’m sure you do too.” Neville stared at her without expression and then burst into laughter when he saw her expression. “I was only teasing,” he said. “This is my treat.”

Their waiter came, a tall, thin man with Gallic features, who apparently spoke only French and assumed that his customers did as well.

“May I recommend the shrimp and andouille omelet, sir. It consists of sautéed shrimp and andouille sausage and wild mushrooms folded in a fluffy omelet and touched with a spicy Creole sauce.”

“Does that sound good to you, Chantel?” Neville continued in French.

“No, I would like fish tonight.”

“In that case, mademoiselle, we have fresh fillet of snapper, grilled over an open flame. It is served with sour-cream mashed potatoes and a spicy smoked tomato beurre blanc. It is accompanied by a salad tossed in sherry vinaigrette.”

“Ooh, that sounds good. I’ll have that.”

Neville studied the menu and then ordered oven-roasted duck. “Is that good?” he asked the waiter.

“Certainly, sir. We serve only the finest food here. This is a deboned, crisp, oven-roasted duckling served on a field of peas and hickory-smoked bacon ragout with green onion mushroom rice. And what wine shall I bring?”

“Just coffee, if you please.”

“No wine?”

“No, we’re trying to quit,” Neville said.

Chantel giggled and said, “Water will be fine for me. Thank you very much.”

After the waiter left Chantel said in English, “Neville, you were teasing him.”

“He looks like he needs a little teasing. As a matter of fact, he looks like he has a bad stomachache.”

“Neville, what a thing to say!”

When the food came Chantel threw herself into it.

“I’m eating like a field hand!” she exclaimed. “It’s a good thing I’m so tall.”

“You mean it’s better to be tall and fat than it is to be short and fat?”

“It’s not easy for me to gain weight. I don’t think I’ll ever get fat. Neither will you. My mother was never fat, and your father wasn’t either.”

Neville’s father had died six months earlier of a sudden heart attack, and now she asked rather timidly, “Do you miss your father a great deal, Neville?”

“Oh, we weren’t as close as most fathers and sons—but, yes, I do miss him.”

“I still miss my mother and father dreadfully. I suppose I always will.”

“It gives us something in common. We’re both orphans.”

“I wish you wouldn’t use that word. It makes me sad. But it’s true enough, I suppose, and it does make us closer, doesn’t it? You’re my best friend, Neville,” she said suddenly. “I don’t know how I would have gotten through these last months without you.”

Neville was touched by her words. “We are best friends,” he said. “I want you to know that if there is anything I can do for you, you can always count on me.”

They finished their meal and then chose for dessert deberg cake, a vanilla sponge cake moistened with rum syrup and layered with strawberries and lemon-butter cream and topped with a dark chocolate ganache.

As Chantel ate with great enjoyment, she asked, “When are you going to get married, Neville? You’re getting to be an old man.”

“I guess twenty-three is fairly old to seventeen. But soon you’ll be eighteen, and I think, according to all the laws of such things, you’ll be classified as an old maid.”

“I think it’s better to use the term maiden lady.”

“Well, as long as the thing doesn’t sound bad, I suppose it’s all right.” He sipped his black coffee, then put the cup down and grew serious. “What do you want to do now that your education is complete?”

Chantel folded her hands and leaned forward. “I want to move back to Fontaine Maison. It’s gone downhill since we left there, and I want to build it up again. I always loved it so, Neville.”

Her eyes glowed, and she did not realize what an attractive picture she made. Elise had fixed her hair in a French roll. Her skin, as always, was her best feature—creamy, perfect, and smoother than anything imaginable.

Neville toyed with his coffee cup, then shrugged slightly. “Sometimes it’s hard to go back to old times that we liked so much. Things aren’t the same.”

“But it will be the same for me. I just know it will.”

“Have you talked to your stepmother about this?”

“Yes. She doesn’t care.”

“Well, financially it would be possible. Your father left you a separate trust so that you’ll be independent. At least you will be, in a few days.”

“I’ve been wanting to ask you about that, Neville. Isn’t it unusual for a man to leave a daughter a separate trust?”

“As a matter of fact, it is. Most men are afraid women aren’t to be trusted. One of my clients left his daughter a fortune, but she didn’t get it until she was thirty-five years old. He didn’t think any woman younger than that would be able to handle it.”

“Why do you think my father did this for me?”

Neville squirmed a little in his chair and ran his hand over his hair. “You did it, didn’t you, Neville?” she insisted. “You talked my father into this.”

Neville shifted uncomfortably. “Well, I did use what influence I had with him, but he wasn’t really hard to convince. He loved you very much, Chantel, and he wanted you to have the good things in life. Or what he considered the good things.”

Chantel took Neville’s hand. “That was so sweet of you,” she said. “If you hadn’t done that, I wouldn’t be able to go back to the plantation.” “Well, it belongs to the three of you—but Perrin won’t be a full owner until he’s grown, of course.”

“You’re always looking out for your little sister, aren’t you?”

Neville gave her an odd look and lifted his eyebrows. “You’re not my sister,” he said.

“Well, not really, but I like to think of you as my brother.”

Neville studied her for a moment, then suddenly grinned. There was an impish look in his eye. “I have a graduation present for you.”

“Oh, you shouldn’t have done that! This dinner is present enough.”

“Of course I should.” Reaching into his inner pocket, he pulled out a package. “Congratulations. And please accept this little gift as a token of my admiration.”

It was a small package, no more than five or six inches square and an inch-and-a-half thick. Chantel removed the paper wrapping, then lifted the lid of the box. She gasped and then put her hand over her mouth with shock. “Neville, what a beautiful pistol!”

“It’s the one you wanted when you were just a little girl.”

Staring down at the pistol, she touched it and said, “It’s plated with silver.”

“Yes. It wasn’t very attractive before. I thought a silver-plated derringer might do for more formal occasions.”

“Neville, you’re crazy!” She picked the gun up, and Neville uttered a muffled grunt and leaned forward. “Please don’t wave that thing around in here. I’ll teach you how to load it and shoot it—but not in a restaurant.”

“It’s just what I wanted,” Chantel said. “Thank you so much.”

“Well, I hope you don’t have occasion to use it.”

“I promise to shoot only young men who become too familiar.”

“Good idea. Now, I expect I’d better get you home.”

Chantel took Neville’s hand and stepped out of the carriage. As she walked up to the iron gate that kept the courtyard secure, she fumbled in her reticule and found the key. He took the key and opened the gate, then Chantel turned and said softly, “Neville, this has been so wonderful! I will never forget it.”

“Won’t you?”

“No! You’ve made it a perfect graduation for me.”

Neville was watching her carefully. They were almost the same height, and a shock ran over him as he realized that the young girl he had known was gone forever. The girlish figure had disappeared. Her hair was glossy in the moonlight, her lips stirred with a pleasant expression, and there was a light of laughter in her dancing eyes.

“Chantel, I’m about to break a promise I made to my mother when I was much younger.”

“You shouldn’t do that, Neville.”

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to.”

“What promise did you make her?” Chantel asked.

“I said I’d never kiss a young lady until she was at least eighteen.”

Chantel giggled, expecting that he would kiss her on the cheek and make a joke of it. But Neville leaned forward, put his arms around her, and kissed her full on the lips. Chantel was unable to move, so surprised was she, and then she felt an unexpected pleasure. He had a clean smell about him, and his lips were firm against hers.

She had thought often about being kissed, but now that it had come it had caught her completely off guard. She found herself kissing him back.

Neville drew back, a startled expression in his eyes. He cleared his throat. “Well, you can shoot me with that pistol now.”

“No, I won’t do that.” Chantel put her hand on his arm and whispered, “Good night, Neville. It was a wonderful evening. And thank you for your gift.”

Chantel shut the gate and watched as he walked back to the carriage.

Chapter fifteen

“Why, you’ve grown up! You’re a fine young lady now!” Simon Bientot and his wife had come to greet Chantel, who got out of the carriage and stood before Fontaine Maison. Marie came to embrace her, and Simon shook her hand.

“You’re all grown up!” Marie echoed, admiration glowing in her eyes.

“Well, I hope I won’t grow up any more. I’m too tall now.”

“Nonsense. You are just right,” Simon said stoutly.

“I’m five-feet-ten. Most men aren’t much taller than that.”

Chantel had reached a separate peace over her height. For a time she had tried to stoop over to make herself appear shorter, but Elise had kept at her until she finally straightened up, and now she had a fine carriage. She wore a gray traveling dress that outlined her figure well, and the fading rays of the sun caught the golden glints in her auburn hair.

“Let me get your bags, and you go in, Miss Chantel,” Simon said.

“All right, Simon, but tomorrow I want to see everything.”

When she stepped inside an eerie feeling came to her. It was as if she had stepped back in time, for just the appearance of the foyer took her back to her earliest memories. She knew that Marie was standing beside her, and Elise, who had accompanied her, was waiting, but for one moment she could almost hear her father’s voice calling her name. Quickly she shook her shoulders and said, “I’m anxious to see my room. I’ve missed it so much.”

“I haven’t changed a thing,” Marie said quickly. “I just cleaned it and aired it out.”

Chantel stepped into her room, and the sense of the past was even stronger than it had been in the foyer. The very wallpaper, patterned with tiny pink dancing horses, made her catch her breath. Her father had let her pick it out herself, and she had loved it with all her heart. Her bookcase was filled with books from childhood and some later ones. The four-poster bed was turned back and looked inviting. She moved around the room and shook her head. “I have thought of this room so often. I’m so glad to be back home.”

“You can change your clothes, and then we will have a good dinner.”

“Thank you, Marie. I am hungry.”

Elise came forward and began unpacking. She was somewhat subdued, for she had not wanted to leave the excitement of New Orleans life for the rural scene. Chantel went over to her and gave her a hug. “You and Charles will like it around here, Elise.” Chantel had grown fond of the man Elise had married months earlier—Charles Watkins.

“Charles will like the hunting, but there’s so little to do!”

“Yes, there is. We’ll be busy getting this place together and making it like new again.”

After Elise left to go unpack her own clothes, Chantel pulled her diary out of her reticule. She sat down and noticed that the same pen that she had used as a child was still on the table. She also saw that someone had thoughtfully refilled the inkwell. She smiled as she dipped the pen into it and began writing:

June 15, 1831

I am home again! Elise is sad because she hates to leave New Orleans, but I am so glad to be here! To be able to ride over my own fields and see the workers and live the life I want to live!

It’s all possible only because of Neville, and I’m so thankful to him . . . I made him promise to come and see me, and I think he will. But I can’t wait until tomorrow. Simon’s going to take me over all the plantation, and I’m going to make a list of everything that needs to be done to the house. It’s so good to be home!

She dusted the writing with sand, blew it off, and tucked the journal under her clothes in the lower drawer of the armoire, just as she had done when she was a little girl.

Rising early, Chantel put on her riding dress and went down to a fine breakfast. Clarice Debeau was there, broader and seemingly shorter than when Chantel was a child, but still the same Clarice. Her voice was loud enough to break china, or so Simon declared. But the cook had a genuine affection for Chantel and after hugging her, she then sat her on a stool while she made breakfast—fluffy eggs, crisply fried ham, and biscuits that melted in the mouth. Chantel ate in the kitchen instead of going to the dining room, listening as Marie and Clarice brought her up-to-date on the latest gossip.

When she was finished, she went over the first-floor plan with Marie.

“I want to do so much. Some of the paper needs to be replaced, and the furniture needs to be refinished. And I want to enlarge the kitchen and put in a larger stove.”

Marie smiled at the exuberance of the young woman. “You’ll be too busy going to balls and having parties for all of that.”

“No, I won’t. I came back to make this the finest plantation in Louisiana, and I’m going to do it, too. You just wait and see, Marie!”

Chantel wandered over the rest of the house alone, coming at last to the room that had belonged to Veronique. She opened the door and stepped inside. The curtains were drawn, and it was dark. She stood for a moment until her eyes grew adjusted to the gloom, and then she went over and opened the curtains, letting the light in.

She turned and saw the small bed that had belonged to her infant sister. Brutus had made it out of black walnut, and it still had the rich gloss and sheen of fine wood. Chantel ran her hand along the bed, then reached down and touched the pillow, which was covered with a fine linen pillowcase. How often she had come to this room and held her sister close. Dear little Veronique, with the strawberry blonde hair and striking violet eyes.

Chantel found herself missing her sister as she had not for a long time. Finally she tore herself away and left, closing the door. She would keep the room exactly as it was, as long as she was alive to see to it.

“He’s a fine-looking animal, monsieur,” Chantel said. She walked around the steel-gray stallion, noting the perfectly arched back and strong hindquarters. She ran her hand over the muscles of the chest, and when the stallion turned to her, she reached up and held her palm out. He touched it with his velvety nose, and Chantel laughed. “He likes me already.”

Simon had brought Chantel to Fremont’s stables only a week after she had returned to Fontaine Plantation. She expressed her desire to Fremont clearly. “I want the best you have, monsieur.”

“I think this is too much horse for you, mademoiselle.” Fremont was a short, barrel-shaped man with steady brown eyes, and he had a reputation for breeding the best horses in the area.

He looked at Simon and gave his head a shake as if to say, Help me here. She doesn’t need this horse.

Simon attempted to put in a word. “Miss Chantel, this is a man’s horse. You need—”

It was the worst thing he could have possibly said.

Chantel gave him an indignant look. “I can ride him!” She turned to Fremont and said, “I’ll try him out.”

Fremont started to protest, but when he saw her determination he sighed, “It is your responsibility, mademoiselle.”

“Of course. Now, have him saddled.”

Simon offered a hand to help Chantel up. She took her seat, held the lines, and touched the withers of the gray. “What’s his name?” she asked.

“We call him Bravo.”

“Come on, Bravo,” Chantel said. She was an excellent rider, but the strength of the horse was somewhat intimidating. She held the lines firmly, but she knew that with his strength, he could pull them out of her hands if he chose. Nevertheless, he seemed eager to run. She brought him to a trot, then a gallop, and finally a dead run.

Simon stood watching her and shaking his head. “I can do nothing with her,” he said.

“Well, she’s a fine rider. Maybe she can handle him.”

“She has a great deal of determination. I found that out when she was just a child.”

“You go ahead in the buggy, Simon. I’ll ride Bravo home.”

“But we need to go by the store and pick up a few things.”

“You can do that. I have an errand I want to go on.”

“All right, but be careful of that horse. You don’t know him yet. He may have a trick or two in him.”

“Nonsense. He’s a perfect gentleman.” Chantel leaned over, patted the smooth hide of the horse, and then laughed as he nodded his head up and down. “You see? He agrees with me. Come, Bravo. Let’s go.”

Chantel pulled up at the cemetery and slipped out of the saddle. She had taken her things out of the buggy and put them in the black leather saddlebags. Now she tied the horse firmly to a thick sapling at the edge of the cemetery and patted him. “You wait right here. I won’t be long, Bravo.” She smiled as he lowered his head and studied her, then expelled his breath with a slobbering sound. “I’ll give you an apple when we get home. You’ll like it.”

Moving through the cemetery grounds gave Chantel the same feeling she had sensed when entering the house. It brought back the past in a vivid fashion indeed. She recalled her mother’s funeral and saw herself as a young girl standing beside her father as the two of them watched her mother’s body being put into the vault.

And then her thoughts shifted, advancing until she saw herself again standing beside Collette and Perrin as her father’s body was placed beside that of his wife. She remembered wondering what Collette thought about such an arrangement, for the vault had been made for just two inhabitants.

Now it was almost dusk, and already the swallows that lived in the old church were turning in acrobatic flight above the cemetery. Several bats suddenly seemed to erupt from the steeple and made black marks against the darkening sky. Chantel did not like them; bats always gave her a strange feeling. Tearing her eyes away, she moved over to stand before the vault. She stood for a long time, and finally she knelt and placed her hands on the cold granite. She prayed for the souls of her father and her sister and her mother.

It disturbed her still to think of purgatory. She had stubbornly resisted all efforts to implant such a doctrine in her head. Sister Martha had once remarked, “Well, if she has no heresy worse than this in her life, it will be well.”

Chantel had often come here as an adolescent and knelt at this very place, often staying away until a servant was sent to fetch her. Now there was no one to tell her what to do or when to return, and she felt the loneliness of her life more than she had in a long time.

She knelt there, lost in thought, then suddenly she heard the sound of footsteps. Before she could rise, a hand gripped her arm, and she found herself pulled to her feet. She turned quickly and found herself facing a rough-looking man, large and with a terrible scar across his broad cheek. He had thickset features and wore a cotton cap pulled halfway down over his ears. He wore a shirt with the sleeves torn off, and his arms were thick and muscular.

“Well, what do we have here? What a beauty, Ned.”

A second man, this one smaller and thinner framed with hazel eyes, said, “What do you got, Jackie? Well, now, ain’t she a pretty one!”

The burly man glanced around. “Let’s take a walk over in them woods, pretty. I’ll show you what a real man’s like.”

Terror flooded through Chantel. She opened her mouth to scream, but her voice was cut off by a rough hand over her face. She smelled the stench of the man, unwashed and feral. He pulled her toward the woods, and when she tried to fight, he simply picked her up off the ground as he would a child. She kicked at him, but he merely laughed. “I like a woman with spunk. You see what’s in them bags on that horse, Ned, while me and my sweetheart have a little fun.”

“I get my turn then, right?”

“Right you are.”

The two men laughed and made crude jokes, and Chantel knew fear as she had never known it before in her life. She suddenly managed to wrench her head away from his hand and screamed out, “Help! Somebody help me!”

“That won’t do, sweetheart. There ain’t nobody to hear except maybe a priest, and he’d better not stick his head out of that church.”

Chantel fought with all of her strength, but to no avail. She wished that she could die rather than be attacked by such a brute.

“All right, you, let that woman go!”

Chantel heard the words and felt her captor’s grip loosen. The smaller man, named Ned, was running toward them, and now she turned frantically to see who had spoken.

A tall man wearing brown trousers, half boots, and a dark blue coat stood before her. His voice was strong as he said, “Turn the woman loose and be on your way!”

“Well, Ned, we’ve got us a hero here. Wot do yer think of that?”

“I think we’ll just see what he’s got in his purse,” Ned said. He moved to one side, and as he did, pulled a wicked looking knife from his belt. He grinned and said, “Come now, bucko. Hand over your purse, and maybe I won’t cut your bloomin’ throat.”

Chantel saw the tall man spread his hands out, holding them to one side in a strange manner. When Ned made a slash at him, his hand shot out, and he struck him a blow that sent him reeling backward. Stooping over, the newcomer picked up a small branch that formed a sort of club. He did not speak again, but when Ned came at him, he parried the thrust in an expert fashion, then brought the improvised weapon down on his wrist. Ned let out a squeal, and the knife dropped.

Chantel staggered backward. The big man surged forward, releasing her arm. He also had a knife and began slashing her rescuer. She heard him cry out, “Gotcha that time!” and saw that Ned had recovered his knife and that they had surrounded their opponent from each side. Armed with only a club, he would have no chance.

A sudden thought came to her. She whirled and saw Bravo tied only a few yards away. Quick as a flash she ran to him. He sidled away, but she said, “Be still, Bravo.” She lifted the flap of the saddlebag, pulled out her reticule, and reached into it for her pistol. She grasped it and ran back. She could plainly see blood running down her rescuer’s arm. “Stop!” she cried.

The man named Jackie turned and said, “Wot’s that?”

“Both of you get away from him, or I’ll shoot you!”

Jackie laughed brutally. “With that little pop gun?” He came toward her, and Chantel lifted the pistol. She aimed at him and pulled the trigger.

He reached and grabbed his shoulder. Chantel could see the scarlet blood gushing out, and she said, “You get away! And you, too!” She aimed the weapon at the smaller man, and when he stared at her, she said, “I’ll shoot you if you don’t.”

“Come on, Ned,” the big man said. “I’m bleedin’ to death! You got to do something.”

“All right. Come on, Jackie.”

The two left at a half run, and Chantel turned to see her rescuer suddenly drop to one knee. She ran forward and said, “Are you hurt?”

He turned his face to her. “They cut me pretty bad.”

His arm, she saw, was bleeding freely. She said, “Here, sit down.” When he was sitting, she pulled his shirt out, tore a strip off, wound it around the cut, and tied it. “We’ll have to get you to a doctor.”

“I don’t think I can walk too far.”

“Get on the horse. I’ll get up behind you. It isn’t far to my house.”

It took both of them to get him into the saddle. Thankfully Bravo did not budge, but stood like a rock.

She pulled herself on behind him and spoke. “Come on, Bravo. Home, boy!”

“I think he’s going to be all right,” Marie said. She straightened up and looked at her handiwork.

“He looks pale to me,” Simon said.

“He’s lost a lot of blood. You’d better go for the doctor, Simon.”

“Right. I’ll get him here as soon as I can.”

Chantel had watched as Marie had bound up the wounds of the man. He had a long, deep cut on his left arm, another not so deep on his chest, and one along his ribs on his right side. The arm had been the bloodiest, and Marie had insisted on sewing it up. She had been the doctor of sorts at Fontaine Maison for years and had grown adept at such things.

Chantel stood looking down at the pale face of the man. His eyes were closed, and she thought, He’s got to be all right. He had dark brown hair and a handsome, tapered face. His body was trim and fit. “Are you sure he’ll be all right, Marie?”

“Yes, but he’s lost much blood and will be weak for a time.”

“I’ll take care of him. You and I, we’ll see to it, won’t we, Marie?”

Marie Bientot looked at the young mistress and lifted one eyebrow. “Of course, chéri. We will take care of him. He saved your life, didn’t he?”

“Yes, he did.” Chantel laid her hand on the man’s forehead and moved a lock of hair back. She stared at him in a dazed fashion.

“And then I guess I saved his.”

Chapter sixteen

Doctor Leo Compare resembled an actor more than he did a physician. Of Creole blood, he had glossy black hair with a pronounced curl, eyes so dark they seemed like ebony, and a smooth, olive complexion. He was happily married with four children, though he was only twenty-five years old, and half of the young women of the parish had feigned illness just to get a call from the good doctor.

Now as Doctor Compare straightened up, he turned his head to one side and looked at Chantel, who stood on the other side of the bed. “This is a tough one, Mademoiselle Fontaine. If he had lost another pint of blood, I think he would be in his tomb.”

Chantel had watched as the doctor removed the stitches from the arm of Yves Gaspard. She had spent considerable time with her patient during the three days since he had rescued her, and now she smiled. “He’s going to have a scar on that arm.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Gaspard said quickly. “At first I was afraid it would affect my hand. It’s my painting hand, you see. I could do without the left but not the right.”

Gaspard was a handsome man, well over six feet tall and lithely built. He had dark brown hair that lay neatly along the back of his head, long enough to touch his shoulders. His eyes, a light brown, were well-shaped. His face was wedge-shaped and his mouth wide. He had a thin, dark mustache that he had kept trimmed rather awkwardly with his left hand for the past few days, but otherwise he was smooth shaven.

He turned to the doctor and smiled. “My hostess saved my life, Doctor Compare.” He shook his head in wonder. “I heard a legend once of some tribe in South America. They had a custom. If someone saved the life of another, that person belonged to his savior.”

“Oh, I’m not a savior! Don’t be foolish. And it was you who saved my life first.”

Doctor Compare turned and packed his supplies in his bag. He studied the two for a moment, then nodded. “You are well enough to do whatever you please. Just be sure you don’t put extra strain on that arm.”

“But a little painting will not hurt, no?”

“No, not a little. Be sure you feed him well, mademoiselle. When one loses that much blood, it takes a while to build the strength up again.”

“I’ll certainly do that. Thank you for coming, Doctor Compare.”

When Compare left the room, Chantel said, “Why don’t you come into the dining room, and we’ll have breakfast together.”

“That would be good. This is a lovely room, but I need to get around.” Gaspard stood up, and for a moment seemed to sway. At once Chantel stepped forward and took his arm. “Are you all right, Mr. Gaspard?”

“Just a little dizzy. I think the good physician is right. I do not believe I will try any strenuous exercise.” He smiled down at her, and she realized, not for the first time, how much he resembled her father.

Gaspard was a much taller man, but the eyes were the same shape, as were the lips. And when Yves Gaspard smiled, it was the smile of her father all over again. Something about the curvature of the mouth, the set of the lips, was exactly the same.

“Come along,” she said. “Lean on me.”

“I hate to be dependent.”

“This is different. I’ve been very worried about you.”

Gaspard had his arm over her shoulder and held it there lightly. He was wearing the clothes he was wearing when he came to Chantel’s rescue—a pair of light gray trousers and a maroon-colored shirt open at the throat, with long, full sleeves. The right sleeve concealed the wound that the doctor had bandaged. He wore shoes of glossy black leather.

When the two entered the dining room, Marie Bientot met them. “Sit down,” she said. “Breakfast is ready.”

Chantel moved to her place, and the tall man sat down across from her. As he did, he said, “I appreciate your sending your servant out to get my painting things. I was most worried about them.”

Indeed, upon regaining consciousness that had been Gaspard’s first request. He had been painting in the cemetery when he heard Chantel’s cry for help. “I would not have liked to have lost them.”

“I’ve got them in a spare room any time you’re ready,” Chantel said. “I love the painting you were working on.”

“It is not finished.”

“No, but I see what it’s going to be.”

The painting was little more than a sketch, but already the strong lines were clear. Its subject was one of the large statues of an angel that had always intrigued Chantel.

“Why did you decide to paint an angel?” she asked.

“I am very interested in angels.”

“Really? Why is that?”

“I can’t say, but I believe in them strongly. I believe everyone has his own angel. I think there’s a verse in the Bible that says something like that. In any case, it pleases me to think that there is a strong, mighty angel looking over my shoulder, always ready to help me when I get into trouble. As a matter of fact”—he smiled and leaned forward—“I think maybe one or two angels were watching over us in that cemetery.”

“What a nice thought!”

“Yes. There’s much evil in the world, but there is much good, too.”

At that point Clarice brought in a huge tray, accompanied by Marie with the silver coffeepot. The two women laid out an excellent meal—poached eggs, fresh bread, butter straight from the dairy, currant jelly, and slices of savory ham. When it was all on the table, Gaspard said, “I have an odd habit of saying thank you to God before every meal.”

“It’s not odd at all,” Chantel replied.

She bowed her head, and Gaspard said with enthusiasm, “Our good God, everything comes from You, so I am thanking You for this wonderful food and for the hospitality that I have found. Bless this house and all that are in it. Amen.”

“Amen,” Chantel said. “You must be a devout believer then.”

“Not at all,” Gaspard said. “Perhaps I shall be one day.”

“You’re not a Christian?”

“I am sad to say that I am not—but I will be one day. I think the Lord is after me, and one day He will catch me.”

Chantel laughed. “What an odd thing to say. You should be pursuing God, not the other way around.”

They ate their breakfast, and more than once Chantel was struck at the strong resemblance she found between Yves Gaspard and her father. She studied him surreptitiously. He was fine looking, although not typical. His hair was longer than most men’s, but she found this attractive. He had traveled much in Europe and over the United States and told stories both humorous and informative.

“Well, where is your home, Monsieur Gaspard?”

“Please, could we not call each other simply Chantel—which is a lovely name indeed!—and Yves?”

“I’d like that very much.”

“Good. My home is in New Orleans.”

“And your family?”

“My parents are living, but I am the only surviving son.” He had been drinking coffee laced with chicory, and now he held the tiny, fragile piece of china in his hand and rolled it slowly around. It looked very small between his fingers.

She noticed that his hands were long and strong looking but not bulky. The kind of hands an artist ought to have, she thought.

“I am a disappointment to them I am afraid, Chantel.”

“Why in the world would you say that?”

“They expected more of me.” He hesitated, and a sadness seemed to cross his face. “My family was prominent at one time. It still is socially, I suppose, but my father had unfortunate business reverses, so that all we have left now of what was once a sizable fortune is a fine house, old and rapidly going downhill for lack of means to repair it and keep it up.”

“Well, that is sad. But your painting—surely they’re not disappointed that you’re an artist.”

“I’m afraid they are.” Yves sipped the coffee, and his smile was somewhat sardonic. “You have heard tales of starving young artists, I suppose. Well, you’re looking at one now, Chantel.”

“You haven’t sold any paintings?”

“Very few. It is a very competitive world, the world of art. People buy according to name, not according to beauty. When one has a name, it is very simple. No matter what you paint people will buy it. But for those of us who are on the outside it is difficult.”

“But I’m sure you’re a great painter.”

“That makes two of us who think so.”

“But really. I can tell from that one painting you have talent.”

“Talent is not the most important thing in art.”

Chantel stared at him with surprise. “It isn’t?”

“Oh, no, indeed! Shall I tell you what is the most important thing in the life of an artist? I think of any artist—painter, sculptor, singer.”

“Yes,” Chantel said, leaning forward. “What is it?”

“It is—timing. You see, if I paint a beautiful picture, and I take it to a show and exhibit it, if it so happens that a wealthy man or woman goes by and sees it and likes it and buys it, they buy it because they’re there. If they were not there, it would not be bought. When this happens often enough, time after time, the artist becomes famous. No, Chantel, it is not talent that counts the most. Talent is important, but you know who I think of as the greatest artist who ever lived?”

“Rembrandt?”

“Naturally you would think so, but I think not. It was probably someone who had far more talent than Rembrandt, but he was trapped in a place where he could never develop his talent. The timing was wrong. He was born in the wrong place at the wrong time. A farmer, perhaps, and his hands grew rough with handling a plow and grubbing with a shovel, so he never painted. But he would have been greater than Rembrandt if he had had Rembrandt’s chances.”

“I’m sure your work will sell. I will buy your angel painting myself when it’s finished.”

“Good.” Yves smiled, and his dark eyes flashed. “I will charge you five times what it is worth.”

After breakfast they went out to sit on the porch, and he admired what he could see of the plantation. “I love the country. It’s so beautiful here. But I’ll try to get out of your way as soon as possible.”

“Nonsense. You must stay until you are fully recovered. And you must finish the picture of the angel. Then I will buy it.”

“Well, I don’t know what you think about this fellow, but I do not think he is good for Chantel.”

Marie and Simon were sitting in their kitchen finishing up their evening meal. Simon stared at his wife, then took a long pull at his glass of wine. He licked his lips and set the glass down. “He seems to be a good enough fellow.”

“He’s been here a week, and he is strong enough to go,” Marie said firmly. “But he doesn’t.”

“What’s wrong with him?”

“I think Chantel is smitten with him. He’s fine looking and has good manners, but he has no money.”

“He’s fine looking, no doubt of that. As to his talent, I know nothing of such things.”

“If he were good, he would be making money. Chantel told me herself—although she didn’t mean to—that he is poor and his family has nothing.”

Simon leaned back in his chair, balancing on the two legs, and studied his wife. “You worry too much.”

“You men, you have no sense whatsoever! Don’t you know she’s a beautiful young girl with a fortune? And what is he? Poof! He is a nobody! A pauper. A painter who drinks too much.”

“How do you know he drinks too much?”

Marie sniffed and stared at him with disgust. “All painters drink too much! Artists, they are not good people. They are immoral.”

Simon laughed and reached across the table and captured her hand. He held it tightly, though she tried to pull it away. “And how many artists have you known?”

“I have read about them, and everyone knows that they are immoral.”

“I do not know it.”

“You know nothing about men and women!”

Simon squeezed his wife’s hand and grinned at her. “I knew enough to get me a fine wife.”

Marie frowned, then suddenly her face broke into laughter. “You always know how to get around me, but I am right. You will see.”

“She’s a young girl. Naturally she likes to be admired.”

“She should marry someone like Francis Taubin.”

“Why, he’s the dullest man I’ve ever met!”

“But he has a good plantation and lots of money. Romance is very fine out in the moonlight, but when the bills come due, what good is it?”

“Perhaps Gaspard will be going soon.”

“I hope so. It would be better for Chantel if he did.”

At the moment when the Bientots were speaking, Chantel and Yves were at the river. He liked to paint at sunset, and now the last colors were fading. Chantel watched with admiration. She had never found a man so interesting.

The breeze was warm, and from time to time the surface of the water echoed with the splash of a fish. Chantel watched as a turtle crawled out on a log and stretched his head out as if seeking food. She watched him until finally he went into the water with a kerplunk!

“It’s getting late. You can’t see to paint.”

“I know, but it’s going well. Funny about painting. One day you’re doing well, and the next day you can’t start again. You’ve lost it.”

“It’s going to be a good painting, isn’t it?”

“Who knows? You paint a bad painting the same way you paint a good painting.”

Chantel came over to stand beside him. He had started a picture of the bayou and had centered on a great blue heron. The bird, of course, was not there now, but he had been drawn in, and he would come last, Yves had said. But he had caught something of the late afternoon in a Louisiana bayou. The sky overhead was just beginning to grow dark, and the huge cypress trees lifted themselves out of the water, dangling bundles of Spanish moss like huge birds’ nests. “It’s a good painting,” she said. “You got it just right.” She watched the even strokes of his brush and finally said, “I may want to buy this one, too.”

Yves turned and smiled. “I’ll just stay here and paint pictures of the bayou, and you can buy them all.”

Chantel smiled back at him. It pleased her that she had to look up. It made her feel small and fragile—a rare thing for her. “I wish we could do that.”

He began to clean his brushes, and as he was gathering them all together, she said, “Why have you never married, Yves?”

“I’m too romantic.”

“Too romantic! But that’s a good thing.”

“Well, my parents wanted an arranged marriage. In fact, they tried that several times. One of their choices was a very beautiful woman. Well, not beautiful, but pretty enough. But she hadn’t a brain in her head. I can’t talk about bonnets all my life.”

“No, I suppose not.” She saw he was finished, and she turned to take one last look at the river. “I hate this river,” she said quietly.

“Hate it? Why, I think it’s beautiful.”

“Well, I suppose it is, but—” She broke off and then turned and walked away from him. She folded her arms and looked down at the ground.

She was surprised when he came up behind her and turned her around. “What’s the matter?”

She hesitated but something kept her going. “It’s my mother and my sister. They drowned in this river.”

Yves looked at her for a moment, then drew her over to a huge cypress that had fallen. “Sit down,” he said. Sitting down next to her, he put his arm around her and said, “Now, tell me about it.”

Chantel did not like to talk about her loss, but she found the weight of his arm comforting and his silence also. He did not interrupt until she had told the whole story.

He whispered huskily, “I’m so sorry, little one.”

“Little one?” She turned and looked at him, her eyes glistening with tears. “No one ever called me that. I’m too tall.”

“No, you’re not too tall.” He pulled her up and said, “You’re just as high as my heart.”

Chantel could not speak for a moment, then she finally whispered, “What a sweet thing to say.”

“I probably read it in a poem. But it’s true enough. Don’t worry about your height. You will marry, and you will have a husband and children, and they will fill your life.”

“I doubt that I’ll ever marry.”

“Yes, you must marry. I hate to see a woman wasted.” He leaned down suddenly and kissed her, just a light kiss, but it was on the lips. It shocked her and at the same time gave her a sense of security and comfort. “Just stay away from starving artists like me.”

“If I do marry, it will be because I love a man. Money doesn’t matter.”

Yves suddenly laughed and then shook his head. “I must talk to your stepmother—or this lawyer friend you have mentioned. You’re too innocent to be left alone.”

“I am not!”

“Yes, you are. There are selfish men who would love to find a girl like you with beauty and money.” He reached out and put his hand on her cheek. It felt warm and strong, and she covered it with her own. “But I will help you, mon chère. Bring all your sweethearts to me, and I will tell you if they are worthy or not.” He laughed and then shook his head. “Come. I’m hungry. Let’s go home and get something to eat.”

As they made their way home, Chantel could not help replaying the scene in her mind. You’re just as high as my heart. No one had ever said anything poetic or beautiful to her before. Even if he did get it from a poem, she thought as they made their way homeward, it was a beautiful thing to say.

Chapter seventeen

Neville had been laboring over a particularly knotty case, struggling with the stacks of paper spread out on his desk. He stared at the date on his calendar—August 5—then ran his hand through his hair. Finally, in desperation, he grabbed it and seemed to try to lift himself out of his chair. “Blasted idiots! Why do they have to take this thing to court?” he muttered.

Finally an interruption came when Jenkins, his clerk, stuck his head in the door. “Miss Fontaine to see you when you have time, sir.”

“Why, send her in at once,” Neville said. His face brightened, and getting up from his desk, he walked around it. He greeted Chantel warmly, and when she put her hands out, he took them and held them. “Thank heaven you’ve come,” he said. “I’m about to go crazy.”

“I’m so glad to see you, Neville.”

“When did you get into town?”

“Just last night. It was very late, but I’ve come to take you out to lunch.”

“Good! I’m starved.”

“I have a friend I want you to meet.”

“Oh, who is that?”

“Come along, and I will tell you on the way.”

Neville left the office, and as soon as they were outside and in the carriage, he got the full story of Yves Gaspard.

“Do you know him, Neville?”

“No, I don’t. I’ve heard of the Gaspard family, but I’ve never met any of them.”

“He is a wonderful artist.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I bought two of his paintings that he did right on the plantation.” Neville listened as she spoke with animation, her eyes glowing. Cautiously he tried to find out more about the man that had so stirred her, but soon they were at the Royale Restaurant, and she said, “We’re supposed to meet Yves here.”

When they entered they were greeted by a waiter, and when Chantel asked if anyone had reserved a table, he nodded. “Yes, Monsieur Gaspard, I believe. He said you would be coming. Would you step this way, please.”

Neville followed Chantel, and when the two got to a table along the wall, a tall man stood up, and Chantel introduced them. “Yves, this is my best friend and my attorney, Neville Harcourt. Neville, I’d like for you to meet Yves Gaspard.”

The two men made a half bow and then shook hands. Yves said, “I’ve heard so much about you, Mr. Harcourt. You’ve been a good friend, indeed, to Chantel.”

“We’ve known each other a long time.”

The three of them sat down, and Yves looked around saying, “I’ve eaten at this place several times. The food is exquisite.”

The three of them ordered, and after the waiter left Neville said, “I understand you’re a painter.”

“Well, the jury is still out on that. I think I am, but the world has not beaten a path to my door.”

“I’d like to see your work sometime.”

“Naturally I would be proud to show it to you. I have a studio at our family home.”

Chantel wanted the two men to like each other, but she soon discovered that Neville was up to something. Without appearing to do so, he was eliciting information about Yves. He’s acting like Yves is a criminal under suspicion. I wanted them to meet as friends.

Finally she said, “Really, I think both of us owe Neville a debt. The pistol that I shot that man with was a gift from him.”

Yves grinned, his teeth very white against his olive complexion. “Very fortunate for both of us that you did. Yet a rather strange gift to give a lady.”

“Oh, I’d always wanted one,” Chantel said quickly. “And Neville got it for my graduation.”

“Are you still carrying it?” Neville asked.

“Yes, I have it right here, but I don’t think I’ll need it in the restaurant.”

The meal was pleasant enough, but when they were through, Yves rose and said, “I have an appointment. It’s been good to meet you, sir.”

“And you, too, monsieur.”

Yves turned to Chantel and said, “I’ll pick you up early. Perhaps we can have something to eat after the opera.”

“That will be wonderful, Yves.”

Chantel watched the tall form of Yves as he left—and noticed that an attractive woman seated near the door also turned her gaze on him. “Do you like him, Neville?”

“He seems a very nice fellow, and he did you a great service. I have to like him for that.” Neville toyed with his spoon and then said, “I take it he hasn’t been very successful in his profession?”

“Not yet, but there’s time.”

Neville put the spoon down, then folded his arms and stared at Chantel. “You like him, don’t you?”

“Very much! And not just because he saved my life.”

Neville shook his head slightly. “I’ve got to warn you about men, Chantel. You’re attractive, and you have money.”

“Oh, so men would want to marry me only because I have money?”

“Not only because of that, but—”

“Well, you don’t have to worry. Yves warned me about the same thing.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yes. He said to bring any suitors I have to him, and he will tell me if they’re fortune hunters.” She laughed and shook her head. “He told me to be careful of him because he is a starving artist, and if he got hungry enough, he might even stoop to fortune hunting himself.”

What a clever fellow! Neville thought. He saw that Chantel was infatuated with the man, and it did not surprise him. She had led a sheltered life, and Gaspard was a romantic man if nothing else. He had good looks, charm, and wit, and the very idea of his being an artist must appeal to any impressionable young girl.

“Well, I will make you the same offer. I’d like to look over any prospective suitors you have.”

“Why, certainly,” she said and gave him a teasing look. “Don’t worry, Neville. I’ll have any man who wants to marry me ask your permission, just as if you were my father.”

Somehow this did not sit well with Neville, but he nodded. “I think that would be very wise.” He managed a smile and said, “You’re engaged tonight. What about tomorrow night?”

“I’ll see if I’m free and send you a note.”

Neville knew this meant she would see if Gaspard had anything planned. He covered his disappointment and said, “That will be fine.”

A month had passed since Chantel had come to New Orleans. She had at first intended to go right back to the plantation, but somehow this plan failed to materialize. Almost every night she was at the theater, at the opera, at an exhibition—and almost always with Yves Gaspard.

Neville was troubled, although he never let it show to Chantel. Three times that month she had gone out with him, but one of those times Gaspard had been with them, so it had not been what Neville had wished. He was more worried than he liked to express.

One afternoon in the early days of September he came to the Fontaine home and was greeted by Collette. She seated him and offered him tea, and then said, “Chantel has gone back to the plantation.”

At Neville’s look of surprise, she continued, “You didn’t know? I thought she must have told you.”

“No, she didn’t say a word.”

Neville felt a deep disappointment, but he wanted to know more. “What made her decide to go back?”

“I think it was more Yves’s decision. He wants to paint scenes around the plantation, particularly in the bayou. And Chantel, of course, loves the place.”

“You thought it appropriate for her to go on a trip with a man?”

Collette shook her head. “I’m afraid she’s falling in love with him, Neville. They’ve been inseparable for the past month.”

“Yes, I know. I’m worried about it.”

Collette shrugged. “His family is respectable. His mother came from the Defoe family, quite prominent. They were into shipping.”

“But I understand they don’t have any money now.”

“That’s true enough.” She cocked her head to one side and said, “This bothers you, doesn’t it, Neville?”

“Yes, it does. I feel responsible for Chantel.”

“She could do worse. Yves seems like a good enough man, from what I understand.”

“I don’t think it’s a good thing for Chantel,” Neville replied. “She’s young and impressionable, and she hasn’t gotten over the death of her father yet.”

“No, I don’t think she has. Perhaps she never will. She’s that kind of girl. But I can’t forbid her to see him. She’s independent.” She smiled archly and said, “You saw to that when you talked Cretien into giving her a trust fund.”

“Yes, I suppose I did.” Neville rose and said, “Well, I must be going. Thank you for the tea.”

“I’ll be writing to Chantel. Shall I give her any word from you?”

“Just my good wishes. Good day, madame.”

For two days Neville was unusually sharp at the office. His clerks learned to avoid him, and one of them said, “I don’t know what’s eating on him, but he’s not himself. He’s gotten to be as mean as a cottonmouth!”

Indeed, Neville was troubled, and he knew that it centered on Chantel Fontaine. His own feelings for her were confused. At times he thought of her as a child, but he remembered the kiss he had taken and how, when he had held her briefly in his arms, it had not been a child but a mature woman who kissed him back. He knew many sad cases of women who had rushed into marriage precipitously with men who were selfish, and although he could not make this charge with any certainty against Gaspard, he could not get the matter out of his mind.

The next Thursday he was having a conference with a man by the prosaic name of Smith whose family was prominent in society. When the business was done, Neville gathered the papers together and said, “I met a man recently named Yves Gaspard. Do you know the family?”

“Oh, certainly. As a matter of fact, I’ve met the young man. He’s some kind of an artist fellow, isn’t he?”

“I believe so. How do you know him?”

“I had some business once with the family. His father, Giles, married Jeanne Defoe when she was what was called a ‘maiden lady.’” He smiled and shook his head. “She was in her late thirties, and her parents thought she would never marry.”

“Was it a good marriage?”

“In some ways, I suppose, but Giles Gaspard was a very poor businessman. He made terrible investments and ran through the money that she brought to their marriage. They live now in an old mansion in the Garden District. They keep up the front somehow. You see them at balls now and then.”

“What about the son?”

“Well, he has promise, I suppose. He couldn’t make up his mind about a profession. He tried law, I think, and that didn’t suit him. Now he’s painting pictures.”

“And he never married. That seems odd.”

“Well, he’s tried to marry into money, more than once, I think. Of course the parents are behind that. He almost made a match with the Littleton girl, but her parents shipped her off to Europe to get her away from him.”

“I have a personal reason for asking, Mr. Smith. Is there anything you can tell me about Yves Gaspard, I’d like to know?”

Mr. Smith shrugged his shoulders mildly. “I understand the man has led a pretty wild life—but you know artists.” He smiled in condescension. “No morals whatsoever.”

After Smith left the office, Neville sat for a long time staring out his window. An idea began to take shape in his mind, and finally he called to his clerk. “Charles!” When the clerk came in, Neville said, “I’m going to take some time off. Arrange my schedule so that I can be gone for a week at least.”

“Yes, sir. It will be a little difficult. You need a partner.”

Neville shrugged. “Maybe you’ll grow up one day, and I can take you into the firm. Work on this right away, will you. I’m anxious to get away for a while.”

Chapter eighteen

“If you don’t stop turning about, Miss Chantel, I’ll never get you dressed!”

Chantel, who had been twisting around with excitement, forced herself to stand still as Elise held a dress in front of her. She was wearing ankle-length pantalets and a white muslin petticoat over steel hoops fitted with tapes. She held her arms out, saying, “All right, I’m ready!” As Elise worked the dress on, Chantel held her breath until it slipped into place. Then as Elise fastened the back, she stood looking at it.

The dress was made of blue-green silk overlaid with blue lace flounces. On the chair beside her lay a sheer blue stole, a pair of white kid gloves, and an ivory and silk fan. She stood for a moment staring at herself and then tugged at the dress. “Elise,” she whispered, “it’s too—it’s too low!”

“It’s not too low! You’ve got a good form and beautiful skin. Now stop pulling at it!”

Elise fastened a corsage of green leaves and blue-green blossoms at her bosom and fitted a smaller one in her hair, which was fixed in long rolls that framed her face.

“Turn around now and let me see you.”

Chantel obeyed, and the dress swirled outward. “I used to hate these hoop skirts, but I must admit the style is graceful, isn’t it?”

“It is, and it shows off your small waist, too. Now, sit down and let me finish you off.”

Ten minutes later Elise pronounced her mistress ready for the ball, just as the door opened and Bertha, one of the maids, put her head in. “Your mister is here, Miss Chantel.”

“Oh, I’ve got to go!” Chantel murmured. She went to the door and sailed down the stairs, where she found Yves waiting for her. He was wearing a yellow silk vest, high-button coat, and a pair of tan trousers from under which peeked shiny brown boots. Most men wore high collars and bows, but he had a bright green scarf knotted around his neck. It brought out the color of his eyes.

He stepped forward and said, “You look beautiful, Chantel!”

“You do, too—I mean, you look very nice.”

“Are you ready?”

“Yes.” Chantel turned to Marie, who was watching with disapproval in her eyes. “We’ll be in late tonight.”

“Very well.” Marie sniffed and turned away.

“It would appear Marie doesn’t like me,” Yves said as he handed her into the carriage.

“Oh, she’s that way about anybody I like.”

When they were inside, Yves mounted the seat, took the lines from Brutus, and spoke to the horses. They moved forward briskly, and he turned to look at her more closely. “You’ll be the prettiest girl at the ball.”

Chantel wanted to say, And you’ll be the most handsome man, but that did not seem proper. “I doubt that,” she said. “Just the tallest.”

The ball was a complete success. All of Chantel’s friends were green with envy, she could tell, for Yves was, indeed, the best looking man there. He towered over most of the others, and it gave her the greatest of pleasure to look up at him as they waltzed.

She protested however. “You really should dance with some of the other ladies.”

“Why should I do that when I have you?”

“Because I really must dance with some of the other gentlemen.”

“But why would you want to do that when we’re the best company for each other in the room?”

Nevertheless, Chantel did make sure that she danced with several other young men, and when she did, Yves had no trouble finding partners. But no matter whom she was dancing with, she found herself watching him.

Once, toward the end of the ball, he brought her refreshments and leaned close to her. She could smell his shaving lotion—a deliciously masculine odor.

“You’d better be careful of that fellow, Beecham,” he said.

“Leon Beecham? Why, he’s an old friend.”

“No, he’s not. You know I’m commissioned to steer you away from unsuitable matches. Beecham has a look in his eye that I don’t like. I refuse to let you dance with him anymore.”

“Don’t be foolish. He’s perfectly harmless,” Chantel said. But it gave her pleasure that Yves would show such a protective manner.

“Well, the lights are still on even if it is after midnight. I expect Marie is waiting to cut a switch to me.”

Chantel laughed at Yves’s words. “I knew they’d be up. Marie and Elise at least.”

Leaping out of the carriage, Yves helped her down and then took her to the door.

“I wish you could come in, but it’s very late.”

“I wish I could, too. It’s been a marvelous evening.”

“Oh, it’s been great fun! Come in for a cup of coffee, anyway.”

The two ascended the steps, leaving Brutus to unhitch the team. As soon as they entered the door, Chantel stopped in surprise, for Neville Harcourt stood in the foyer watching her.

“Why—Neville!”

“Good evening, Chantel—or I guess good morning would be more appropriate.”

Chantel was embarrassed, and was glad when Yves said, “Why, it’s good to see you again, Harcourt. Have you been here long?”

“I got here about nine o’clock.”

“If I had known you were coming, I would have made you come earlier, and you could have gone to the ball with us,” Chantel said.

She stood for a moment, waiting for Neville to tell her why he had come, but he said nothing, and she could feel a mounting tension that made her nervous.

“Marie, did you fix a room for Mr. Harcourt?”

“Yes, he’s in the green room.”

Yves was watching Neville closely. Abruptly he said, “Well, I’m danced out. I’ll see you in the morning. Good night, Harcourt.” He turned to Chantel, saying, “Good night, Chantel. It was fun.”

As soon as he left, Neville said, “I came down to see the place and what you’re doing to it.”

Chantel began talking rapidly.

“I’m sure you’ll like the improvements I’ve made. I’ll show you everything tomorrow. And I do need to talk to you about some of the finances.”

“And Gaspard. What has he been doing with himself?”

“Oh—he’s doing some painting.”

This sounded false in her own lips for, indeed, Yves had done practically no painting. He had made some efforts at first, but as the days had passed, they had spent them riding and visiting and simply enjoying each other’s company.

“I see.” Neville hesitated, then said, “Well, I’ll see you tomorrow. Good night, Chantel.”

Chantel said in a small voice, “Good night, Neville. I’m—I’m glad you came.”

She went to her room, and as Elise helped her to undress and get ready for bed, she mechanically answered her questions about the ball. But she was thinking, I wonder why Neville really came. She pushed the question away, and when she had her nightgown on, she said good night to Elise and got into the large four-poster bed. Elise arranged the mosquito netting, and for a long time Chantel lay there listening to the frogs that bellowed forth a rough symphony from the pond. She finally went to sleep, but it was a troubled sleep, unlike that which she usually enjoyed.

Chantel spent considerable time with Neville for the next two days. He was indeed interested in the plantation and spent an equal amount of time with Simon, going over the accounts of the operation. Chantel appreciated his interest, but somehow there was still a tension in the air. She knew it was primarily between Neville and Yves. Not that there were any hard words or signs of ill feeling, but, nevertheless, it was there. It’s just that they don’t have much in common, she told herself.

Once she and Yves went riding and paused beside a field of sugarcane. The green stalks were waving in the breeze, and he turned to her abruptly and said, “You and Harcourt have been friends for a long time.”

“Oh, yes. He’s been the best friend I’ve ever had.” Chantel saw a smile touch Yves’s broad mouth. “What are you smiling at?” she demanded.

“It’s more than that.”

“What’s more than that?”

“It’s more than friendship. He’s interested in you.”

Chantel felt her cheeks suddenly warm. “Don’t be ridiculous. He’s not interested in me like that. I’m like a child to him, and besides that we’re so different.”

“Yes, you are. But I’m not sure he appreciates that.”

“Don’t you like him at all, Yves?”

“Why, I have no strong feeling about him.” Yves rested his hand on the saddle in front of him and watched her for a moment. “But I think I can see when a man is interested in a woman. You’re right when you say he is different. He has an analytical mind. Not much romance about him, I’d say.”

“Well, not really. He’s had to work hard all of his life, and the law is not very romantic, I suppose.”

“Well, you told me to warn you about fortune hunters, and he’s certainly not that. I assume he has money.”

“Yes, he’s very well off, I think. But anyway, you’re wrong about him.”

Yves shook his head, smiled again, and then touched his heels to his horse. “Come along,” he said. “We’ll race to those pines over there.”

The next day, right after breakfast, Yves said, “I’ve got to get back to New Orleans, if I could borrow one of your horses.”

“Well, of course, but must you leave?”

“Yes, I have business there.”

Later on Chantel walked out to the stable with him. He swung into the saddle easily and then leaned down and took her hand. He lifted it to his lips and kissed it. “Good-bye for a while.”

“Do you really have to go, Yves?”

“Yes, your friend wants me out of the way so he can talk about legal matters—and other things.”

“Yves, you’re so foolish!”

“We’ll see. I’ll write you from New Orleans, and I’ll come back when I can. Will you be coming to town soon?”

“Perhaps. I’ll write you back, and we’ll see.”

Walking back to the house, Chantel felt a disappointment. She had grown accustomed to her talks with Yves. He was teaching her about art, and she felt that she was growing in a way. She also knew in her heart that she was falling in love with him, and it was a wonderful feeling. She had had so little contact with men and none at all with anyone like Yves.

When she walked inside, she found Neville in the study.

“Is he gone?”

“Yes. He just left.”

Neville put down the pen and flexed his fingers. “I can’t say I’m sorry. I think he’s been monopolizing you.” He laughed suddenly and said, “And that’s what I came down to do.”

“What would you like to do, Neville?”

“Well, today, anything you like. Tomorrow I have an engagement.”

“An engagement? But tomorrow’s Sunday.”

“I know. I’ve been asked to preach at a church close by. The Methodist church with the tall spire on it.”

Chantel stared at him. “How did that happen?”

“The pastor there is a good friend of mine. When he comes to New Orleans, we usually meet. He’s a fine man, but he had to be out of the pulpit tomorrow so he asked me to fill in for him.”

Chantel knew that Neville spoke at churches sometimes, but she had forgotten. “I wish I could hear you, but we’re not allowed to go to other churches.”

“I can’t understand that.” Neville shrugged. “I’d feel perfectly free to go to a Catholic church if you invited me.”

“You never told me that.”

“Well, I’m telling you now. After all, we’re all Christians no matter what the sign says out in front of the church.”

Chantel flushed. She knew that her own priest would never permit her to go to a Protestant church, and she changed the subject abruptly.

They had a good day riding over the plantation. Chantel kept a close eye on Neville, waiting for him to hold her hand or try to kiss her, but he just wanted to know about sugar production and new methods and storage barns. He talked about enlargements to the house, and she was vaguely disappointed.

I told Yves there was nothing to his crazy idea. Neville would never be interested in me. He knew me too well when I was nothing but a child.

That night Chantel tossed and turned restlessly. Slowly an idea began to take shape within her mind. She had always had this sort of imagination, where an idea would come much like a single grain of corn and then begin to grow and swell until finally it was a full-fledged scheme. At first the thought seemed ridiculous, but as she lay there listening to the symphony of frogs, it came together so perfectly that finally she said aloud, “I’ll do it!” A mixture of fear and excitement came to her, and she nodded firmly. “Yes, I’ll do it!”

The service had evidently already started as Chantel moved up the steps of the small white church with the steeple. She could hear the singing of the people, and for just one moment she took counsel of her fears.

I must be crazy! It will never work—someone is sure to recognize me.

Still, she stood there wearing the black satin dress with the black hat and the veil that covered her face almost down to the chin. The idea of disguising herself and coming to hear Neville preach had seemed wild and fantastical at first, but as she stood there she determined not to listen to her fears. She had no idea what to expect inside the doors. Still, she could not see any wrong in it. Neville’s admission that he would be glad to go to her church came to her, and she thought, If he can come to my church, I can go to his!

Lifting her head, she stepped forward, and as she moved toward the door, a man wearing a white linen suit nodded pleasantly to her. “Good morning, ma’am. We’re glad to have you visiting with us.” He hesitated, then said, “I’m sorry about your loss.”

Chantel murmured, “Thank you.” He opened the door, and she stepped inside. Another man came toward her at once and said, “There’s a seat halfway to the front, ma’am. You can hear everything from there.”

“Thank you.” Chantel followed him down the aisle and sat down. She was aware that people were looking at her, and she kept her head down. Only when she was seated did she look around.

The church was not large, but the ceilings were high. She was fascinated by the stained glass windows that portrayed what she supposed were biblical scenes. The pews were made of some sort of hardwood, polished to a high sheen, and the floors were hard pine glistening clean.

The people who sat in the pews were singing out of books, and she had never heard the song before. A book was lying on the bench, and a man handed it to her and said, “It’s page twenty-nine, ma’am.”

Turning to the page, she began to follow along. The words struck her in a way she could not explain:

Alas! and did my Savior bleed

And did my Sovereign die

Would He devote that sacred head

For such a worm as I?

Was it for crimes that I have done

He groaned upon the tree?

Amazing pity! grace unknown!

And love beyond degree!

Well might the sun in darkness hide,

And shut his glories in,

When Christ the mighty Maker died

For man, the creature’s sin.

But drops of grief can ne’er repay

The debt of love I owe:

Here, Lord, I give myself away

’Tis all that I can do.

The words did something to Chantel. She had never heard a hymn like this, and she began to think of Jesus in a way that she had never thought before.

The congregation sang several more songs, and then an offering was taken. Finally the choir sang a special song, and by this time Chantel was very uncomfortable. She could not explain why. Just being in a church other than her own seemed wrong—and yet there was joy and excitement on the faces of the worshippers.

She was also struck by the informality of the service. Her own service in the Catholic church, of course, was highly formal, choreographed almost with the precision of a minuet. Very rarely was her heart touched in such a service. But here, somehow, the spirit of God was very real.

Finally she saw Neville stand and come to take his place behind the pulpit. He had a Bible in his hand and looked out over the congregation calmly. There was an ease and assurance about him, and he told the congregation that he was glad to be there and worship with them.

Then he said, “I can speak of nothing other this morning than Jesus and His amazing power to take us all to be in heaven with Him. Turn in your Bible to the twenty-third chapter of Luke to the story of the death of our Lord Jesus. We will read from the Scripture beginning with the thirty-ninth verse:

And one of the malefactors which were hanged railed on him, saying, If thou be Christ, save thyself and us.

But the other answering rebuked him, saying, Dost not thou fear God, seeing thou art in the same condemnation?

And we indeed justly; for we receive the due reward of our deeds: but this man hath done nothing amiss.

And he said unto Jesus, Lord, remember me when thou comest into thy kingdom.

And Jesus said unto him, Verily I say unto thee, To day shalt thou be with me in paradise.

Chantel had read this story more than once since Neville had shown it to her so long ago. It never failed to move her. She followed the sermon closely, forgetting her fears and her nervousness.

Neville was a fine speaker. She had known that he must be, since lawyers had to plead cases in court, but somehow preaching brought out a new dimension that she had not seen in him before. The last part of his sermon was clear. “I will remark in closing that this poor, dying thief went directly to be with Jesus. There was no intermediate state. Despite what some may believe, there was no purgatory. There was no more suffering for sins, for Jesus had suffered for sins.”

Despite Sister Martha’s best efforts, Chantel had resisted the idea of her mother and her sister and lately her father going from this life to a place where they would be tormented for an indeterminate time. Now Neville had reassured her again, saying that the instant one died, that moment they were in the arms of the Lord Jesus—all pain gone, no more tears, no more sorrow.

Neville stepped out of the pulpit and held his Bible high, extending his other hand toward the congregation. Chantel found herself trembling as she listened to his words. “What did Jesus mean when he said, ‘It is finished’? Why, He meant that He has finished your salvation. Look to Him and be saved. That is all you must do. He is the only salvation. This morning just one look, just one cry, ‘Be merciful to me,’ and forever your place in heaven is reserved. As we stand and sing, I’m going to ask you to come forward this morning if you want Christ to wash away all your sins and make your place forever reserved in heaven.”

The congregation stood, but Chantel found that her legs were weak, so weak they would hardly hold her. She held the book in her hand, but she could not see it, for her eyes were bleared with tears. She saw people going forward, and when they reached the front, they knelt for prayer. Chantel desperately wanted to get away, and the instant the service was dismissed, she went to her buggy, got in, and drove off.

As she left the church behind, her heart was beating fast. She could not understand what had moved her so. She knew one thing—that she did not know Jesus the way that Neville spoke of. And this frightened her so badly she could hardly drive the team.

Chapter nineteen

Chantel had been so disturbed by her visit to the Methodist church that she did not sleep well. The next morning she got up before dawn, put on one of her oldest dresses, and went down early to breakfast. She was surprised to see Neville sitting in the kitchen, eating a biscuit and talking to Clarice.

“Well, good morning,” Neville said, turning to her. “You’re up early.”

“So are you. Why did you get up this early, Neville?”

“Oh, I like to get up before daylight and just get ready for the day.

I’ll prowl around the house at home. I call it the cobwebby hours of the morning.”

“You sit down, and I’ll cook you some eggs,” Clarice said. “Do you want bacon or ham or sausage?”

Chantel sat down, but she ate little. From time to time she glanced at Neville, who seemed at ease speaking to Clarice about a trip he had made to New York. She listened with interest as she moved about the kitchen doing her work.

As soon as Chantel had finished the meal, she said, “I’ve got to go over the plantation today. It’s time to matalay the cane.”

“Matalay? What’s that?”

“Come along, and I’ll show you.”

The two left the big house and went by the slave quarters. Neville knew very little about the actual work on a sugar plantation, and he was interested in every detail. They found Simon, the overseer, getting the workers ready to cut the cane.

Chantel explained, “They’re going to lay all this cane out on the ground and cover it with a layer of dirt. It will sprout pretty soon, and we’ll get next year’s seed cane to grow the new crop.”

Next the two moved toward the sugarhouse, a large, open structure consisting mainly of a roof with a huge chimney that was already sending billows of black smoke into the sky. When they moved inside, Neville was interested in the massive rollers powered by a steam engine. As the workers shoved the cane into the rollers, it forced the juice out into vats. These vats were then heated until the water content evaporated. What was left was unrefined sugar.

“We pack this sugar into wooden barrels to be shipped to market.”

“It’s a noisy place, isn’t it?” Neville said, shouting over the roar of the engines.

“Yes, and it’s dangerous, too. Someone’s always getting hurt from that steam—and broken rollers can injure the men who work on the machines.”

As the day wore on, they made several visits to different parts of the field and then would return to see what was going on in the sugarhouse. The noise of the machinery often reached deafening levels, and the operation gave off a sweetish odor that wafted over the entire plantation.

Chantel pointed out the dark patch in the bottom of the vats, left over from the raw brown sugar.

“That’s molasses,” she said. “You’ve had it on biscuits, I suppose.”

“Yes, but I didn’t really know where it came from.”

At noon all the workers stopped to eat lunches they had brought in small cloth bags. A water boy went around taking fresh water to them.

While they ate, Chantel and Neville sat under a large oak tree heavily laden with Spanish moss. She didn’t talk much, and Neville himself felt under a strain. As he studied her, he tried to sort out his feelings for Chantel. He knew he had a love for her, but what kind of a love? He could remember the first affection he had felt when she was only a child and lonely from the loss of her mother and her sister. Then, as she had grown up, he had helped her with her lessons, still with the affection of a grown man for a child.

But he knew something had changed. Even in her old dress she made a winsome sight as she sat there under the tree, her legs drawn up under her. There was still something childlike about her, an innocence that he found most appealing. But since the night he had kissed her and held her, he no longer thought of her as a child. Now as they sat there, he thought again of Yves Gaspard, and the thought worried him.

He tried to engage Chantel in conversation, and she responded, but he knew she was troubled. Finally he asked her, “What’s the matter? You seem a little out of sorts today.”

“Oh, nothing.”

“Come now, Chantel. I can tell when something’s wrong.”

Chantel wanted to ask him to tell her more about heaven and what he really felt about his religion. She knew that it was a very personal thing with him, that his whole heart was in it. She longed for such a feeling herself, but did not know how to ask. So she put him off, and the moment passed.

Evening came, and the slaves were down in their quarters. From their rocking chairs on the front porch, Neville and Chantel could hear the sound of their singing. They listened for a while to the mixture of their songs with that of the crickets and the frogs.

“I like it at night like this, sitting here and just listening to the singing,” Chantel said. She had bathed and changed clothes, and Neville smelled the fresh cleanness and the slight fragrance of lilacs that she always wore. She was looking out over the grounds, and her profile was turned to him. He admired the clean lines of her jaw and the firm roundness of her neck. Her hair was down, and he knew that she had washed it, for he could also smell the sweet freshness of the soap she had used.

Neville Harcourt was not a man of impulse. He had developed an analytical mind, a necessary piece of equipment for the practice of law. But there was another level to him, as there is to every man, which goes beyond reason and explanation. He had been trying to reason with himself about his feelings for Chantel Fontaine for days now, and had arrived nowhere. The more he tried to approach it as a fine point of law or a mathematical problem that could finally be solved, the more confused he became. Now as he sat beside her, Neville suddenly realized that he would never be able to figure out his feelings as he could analyze a case before a judge or a jury. He gave up on analysis. Instead, he reached out and touched Chantel’s arm. When she turned to him, her eyes were open wide with surprise. He knew that there was only one way. He had to speak what was in his heart.

“Chantel, I want to ask you something.”

Chantel knew he had been troubled, for he had said little, and she wanted to help if she could. “What is it, Neville? Is there something I can do?”

“Yes, I think there’s something you must do.”

Chantel put her hand over his as he clasped her forearm. “You’ve been so kind to me. Anything that I can, you know I would do.”

Neville Harcourt felt suddenly like a man on a high perch with a body of water down below, trying to make up his mind whether to dive or not. If he did not dive, he would be safe. If he did launch himself out, there would be no turning back. He might be badly hurt if he did not hit the water right.

Finally he said, “Chantel, I want you to think of me as a man—” He hesitated slightly and then said, “As a man you might marry.”

Chantel had not been expecting his request. She stared at him, conscious that her heart was beating faster. Her head swarmed as she thought of all the years that he had been so kind to her, but she knew her answer was going to hurt him. She had more admiration for this man than any she had ever known, except her own father, and now she understood for the first time what it meant to be a young, attractive woman who men would come to.

Finally Chantel moved her arm so that his hand fell away. “Why, Neville,” she stammered, “I—I’ve never thought of you that way. And I’m sure we’re more like brother and sister.”

“Perhaps so when you were a child, but you’re not a child now.”

Frantically Chantel tried to think of some way to ease the shock of the blow, and she grasped onto something that had been on the edge of her consciousness.

“I’m not in love with you, Neville, and I don’t think you’re really in love with me. But even if that were true, we could never marry.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m a Catholic and you’re a Protestant. You know better than I how those two would mix.”

Neville, of course, had gone over and over this, and he had no ready answer for her. He said quietly, “I know that’s a problem, but if two people love each other, they will find a way to make things work.”

“Would you become a Catholic?”

“No,” Neville had to admit, “I never could.”

“Well, I’ve been a Catholic all my life. You can’t expect me to change either. This is too big a gap, Neville.” She said gently, “You’re such a fine man. You’ve been my best friend, and you’ve helped me in so many ways. But there are too many differences, and, really, I don’t love you. Not—not in that way, Neville.”

A numbness came over Neville, then he felt the pain of rejection. He tried to speak and could not for a time. Finally he turned to her and said, “I’m not taking this as the final answer.”

“Oh, but you must, Neville! You really must.”

And then out of his pain, Neville felt a sense of something very much like anger. It was not anger exactly, but more like fear, not for himself but for Chantel. He knew he had to speak, and he knew that what he said would not be well received. But he was not a man to shirk his duty.

“I must say this to you, Chantel. Yves Gaspard is not the man for you.”

Instantly Chantel stood up. “I wouldn’t think you’d do that, Neville—attack a man when he’s not here.”

“I would say exactly the same thing if he were standing right beside you.” Neville stood up and caught her by the shoulder. “You don’t really love him. I know you don’t.”

“You don’t know anything of the sort. Let me go!” Chantel turned and left the porch, walking almost blindly. Tears had come to her eyes, for she knew that she had lost something this night. Why did he have to say such a thing? Now we can never truly be friends again.

A hundred thoughts raced through her mind, and she ran to her room and threw herself across the bed.

Back on the porch Neville simply stood, bitterness and hurt contending within him.

Chapter twenty

Chantel listened and took in the paintings arranged on the wall of the large room. She had come to the exhibition at Yves’s invitation.

“You must come!” he had urged her as soon as she returned to New Orleans. “I may even sell some paintings, and it doesn’t hurt to have an attractive woman standing there looking at them. It’ll draw men as honey draws flies.”

Chantel had been glad for the distraction. She had been ill at ease ever since Neville had asked her to marry him. He left early the next morning, and for two weeks she had gone about the work of the plantation, trying to bury herself in the activities of restoring the house. But work had not been able to accomplish very much. She could not help going over the scene again and again in her mind. She was naturally tenderhearted and knew that she had given him a severe blow, but there was nothing she could do about it.

She returned to New Orleans to the town house, and at once Yves had welcomed her back and drawn her into the busy world of life in the city. Now she stood at the exhibit listening to him talk about his paintings. Yves wore a colorful costume, which he was able to carry off. He had cream-colored trousers, glistening black boots, and a white shirt with an emerald green neckerchief knotted around his neck. His dark hair glistened and his white teeth flashed as he spoke.

“This fellow here, his name is Martin. He is not a good painter, but he is a good salesman. I wish that I were.”

“I’m sure you’ll be able to sell some paintings. They’re so good. Especially those of the bayou at Fontaine.”

Yves nodded. “I hope you’re right. I would like—” Yves did not finish what he was going to say, and the expression that crossed his face caused Chantel to turn to see what had attracted his attention. She saw a petite but well-shaped woman in a striking blue dress that fitted her form admirably. She was smiling as she approached.

“Dominique,” said Yves, “I’m surprised to see you.”

“It’s good to see you, Yves.”

“May I present Mademoiselle Chantel Fontaine? Chantel, this is Madame Dominique Sagan.”

“I’m glad to meet you,” Chantel said, nodding. The woman was striking. There was a boldness about her looks, and she exuded an aura of sensuality that even an inexperienced young woman like Chantel could feel.

“I came looking for you,” Dominique said.

“I hope you will buy all my paintings,” Yves replied, his eyes fixed on the woman. Suddenly he was aware that Chantel was studying him carefully. “Dominique and I are very old friends,” he said.

“Yes, we are. Before I was married, we were very close friends indeed.”

The words were innocent enough, but something in the woman’s tone caught at Chantel. She listened as the two spoke, and knew she was being left out of the conversation. Then Yves was interrupted by a man who came up and said, “Gaspard, I’d like to talk about buying one of your paintings.”

“Certainement!” Yves said instantly. As he turned to follow the man, he said, “I’ll be back as soon as I gouge this fellow for all he’s worth.”

As soon as Yves was gone, Dominique Sagan turned her attention on the younger woman. “You have known Yves for a long time?”

“No, not very long.” For some reason Chantel did not want to speak of Yves with this woman.

“Poor Yves, he will never be successful.”

“Why do you say that?” Chantel said, hurt by the remark.

“Oh, Yves has talent—but he lacks determination. I’m sure you’ve noticed it if you’ve known him for long.”

Until that moment Chantel had never admitted this, nor would she allow herself to think of it. But suddenly she recognized that Yves was not a hard worker. He talked about painting a great deal. Indeed, nothing pleased him more than talking about it, but day after day had passed without his touching his brushes at all. He worked spasmodically, sometimes for almost a whole day without stopping. Then he would leave his work and not go back for many days.

“But if he has talent—”

“Ah, my dear Miss Fontaine, talent is very common. It is determination and tenacity that matter.”

Chantel suddenly remembered that Yves himself had said something like this to her. But now she was on the defensive. “But if he had a chance, don’t you think he could succeed?”

“Perhaps with enough hard work he could, but who is to support him while he’s learning to apply himself?”

Chantel did not answer, and suddenly the woman smiled and said almost gently, “You don’t know about us? About Yves and me.”

Chantel did not want to hear what Dominique Sagan was about to say.

“We were very much in love once. He was younger, and I helped him. I had very little money, but I worked so that he could paint.” Dominique saw the question that formed itself on Chantel’s lips but refused to be spoken. She answered it almost off-handedly. “Yes, we were lovers.”

Chantel had never met a woman who would confess such a thing so lightly. She tried to think of some response but nothing would come.

“Why didn’t you marry?” she finally asked.

“Because we had nothing. And besides that, his family didn’t approve. They wanted him to marry a woman from a wealthy family.”

Chantel could not think clearly. She looked across the room to where Yves was talking to his prospective buyer and thought how happy she had been in his presence. She had suspected he had known other women, but now the proof of it was right before her.

“Why are you telling me this?” she said, giving Dominique a direct look.

“Because I think it is always best to know the truth. I knew the truth about Yves. I know it now, but I think you do not.”

“I don’t want to hear any more of this!”

“I’m sorry if I’ve offended you. I meant well.”

“Do you want to marry him now? You’re obviously very prosperous.”

“After we separated,” Dominique said, “I married a much older man. For his money, of course.”

Once again Chantel was shocked. She knew that such matches were made, but she had never heard anyone confess to it.

“My dear, you’re young and very romantic. Be careful.”

Dominique turned and left, leaving Chantel in shock and dismay. She stood there, wondering if she should leave, but as she struggled, Yves suddenly returned.

“Well, he bought the painting. We’ll have to go out and celebrate.” He broke off suddenly, saying, “What’s the matter?”

“Oh, nothing.”

But Yves knew at once what had happened. “I suppose Dominique told you about us.”

“Yes, she did.”

“I wanted to marry her, but I had no money.”

“Was it you who broke off the affair?”

“I think both of us knew that we could never marry.” He hesitated, then shook his head. “I cared very much for her once, but, as I say, it was a long time ago.”

For Chantel the charm of the day was gone. “I must go home now,” she said.

“What about our celebration?”

“I’m not feeling much like celebrating, Yves.”

He reached out and took her hands and held them for a moment. “I know this is hard for you, Chantel,” he said gently. “You’ve led a sheltered life, and I’ve had a hard one. Part of it I could not help. A man cannot help being born poor. Some of it I’m not proud of, but men can change. And you have become very precious to me.”

Chantel would have welcomed those words an hour earlier, but now she could not help but think of Dominique Sagan. A jealousy that she had not known before lay in her, and now it began to manifest itself. “Do you still love her, Yves?”

“When two people really love each other, I don’t think you ever lose all of it,” he said carefully. “But she is married now, and that’s the end of it.” He watched her face and saw that the light had gone out of it. “I’m sorry that you’re hurt.”

Chantel met his eyes. “I would rather not go out tonight. Some other time.”

Yves had been losing steadily for the past hour. He had lost all the money he had gained from the sale of his painting and had signed a note for two hundred dollars.

A voice said, “Could I speak to you privately, Monsieur Gaspard?”

He looked up and found Neville Harcourt standing beside the card table. Ordinarily Yves would have complied with Harcourt’s request, but now he had a good hand and was anxious to try to recoup his losses. He knew Neville did not like him, and he felt little affection for the lawyer.

“This is good enough. Say what you have to say.”

“It’s a private matter.”

Yves studied his hand and tried to concentrate, but Neville pressed him. “It’s rather important.”

“I know what it is. You’re jealous of Chantel.”

Neville suddenly straightened up. “If you were a gentleman, you wouldn’t mention her name in a place like this.”

“Go away, little man! You have lost. Chantel cares for me, not you.”

“You’re a scoundrel, Gaspard, and a liar!”

Yves Gaspard had a temper that was a fiery, deadly thing—though he had been careful to keep it hidden from Chantel. He threw the cards down and turned with his face flaming. “No man calls me a liar!” He suddenly reached out and slapped Neville’s face. It was not a hard slap, but it left the print of his fingers there. “There. That gives you the right to choose the weapons for our meeting.”

The room had grown quiet, every man at the table staring at Neville, awaiting his reply. No self-respecting man would take a slap from another man, not in Creole society. The dueling code was strict, and according to every man’s thinking Neville had but one choice.

Neville shook his head. “I don’t believe in this stupid dueling business. I’ve delegated all fighting to my dogs. Stay away from the lady! You hear me?”

He turned and walked out, and Yves suddenly laughed. “He’s a coward. I wouldn’t dirty my hands on him.” He sat down at the cards and won the hand, and within an hour had gained back his losses and won some extra besides. He thought, When Chantel hears of this, she won’t think so much of him.

The next day Yves found out exactly how tough Chantel could be. He went to her and told her of his encounter with Neville, embellishing the affair and ridiculing Neville for being a coward.

Chantel listened without saying a word. Her first feeling was that she was embarrassed for Neville, for she was well aware that among men duels were the common way of settling matters, but she said nothing of that. Instead she looked at Yves and asked quietly, “Did you use my name in that place?”

“Why—only after he gave me provocation.”

“What provocation could cause you to bring up my name among men like that?”

Yves saw that he had made a tactical error and at once came to take her hand. “You are right. I should not have done that. I am very sorry, Chantel.”

“I’m disappointed in you, Yves. I thought better of you.”

Yves began to elaborate on his apology, but she said firmly, “I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

Yves wanted to press his case, but he suddenly found that this soft, gentle woman had some steel in her. He saw in her eyes that further apologies were useless, and he bowed slightly. “I’ll come back. You will forgive me. You’re too generous to do otherwise.”

Chantel said, “Good day, Yves.“ She waited until he was gone, and then the shock of it hit her. She was disappointed in Neville but more so in Yves. She had no desire to see either of them, yet staying at home seemed intolerable. She needed to get out where she could think.

She put on her cloak and hat and walked toward the plaza. As usual it was filled with merrymakers and visitors from outside the city. She stopped and watched a juggler and put a coin in his hat. Another man had a trained dog that could do marvelous things. It took her mind off of Yves and Neville’s encounter for a moment, and she gave another coin and patted the dog, which licked her hand gratefully.

For over an hour she wandered, occupying herself with watching those who strolled by. New Orleans was the most cosmopolitan city in the United States. One could see almost any nationality if he sat long enough, and she forced herself to take note.

She turned to go home when suddenly a huge crowd seemed to appear out of nowhere. It was a wedding party, and the parade gave evidence of a wealthy family. Chantel stood well back from the curb, peering around people who lined the street. As the procession passed, the crowd of onlookers shifted, and through an opening in the crowd she saw something that caused her to freeze. Across the way stood a Cajun family, obviously from the country, judging by their rough dress. Although the father and mother were dark and stocky, the girl with them had strawberry blonde hair and violet eyes!

She appeared to be no more than nine or ten. She wore no hat and just a simple dress, but when she turned to face the street, Chantel had a clear look at her. And the sight ran through her like a jolt of electricity. The girl was the image of her dead mother.

Chantel had imagined her sister as a growing child thousands of times, refusing deep in her heart to believe that Veronique was dead. Now here was a child with the impossible violet eyes and the exact strawberry blonde hair and the same bone structure as her own mother!

It must be Veronique, by some miracle of God!

At once Chantel tried to cross the street, but at that moment the crowd surged to make way for another parade. The people cheered as the street filled with a marching band.

Chantel struggled, saying, “Please let me through!” A woman pushed her back, saying, “You can’t have my place. Stay where you are.”

Chantel moved to her right, but the crowd was dense, and she could not make her way through. Finally she reached the street and tried to get through the parade, but she was nearly run down by a horse. A tall man grasped her and yanked her out of the way. “Are you crazy, woman?” he demanded. “You’re going to get killed!”

“Let me go!”

“You’ll have to wait until the parade’s over.”

“Let go of my arm!” Chantel cried. When he released her with a look of disgust, she ran back down the street until she found a gap. She walked rapidly in front of the crowd, searching for the trio.

But there was no sight of them. In desperation she walked back and forth, pushing her way, but it was hopeless.

The parade passed and the crowd dissolved, more or less. Chantel continued to search for the small figure that had imprinted itself upon her mind. Veronique. It has to be you! It has to be!

Finally, however, she saw that it was hopeless. She turned slowly homeward, but a new resolve had birthed itself in her.

I know that was Veronique. She didn’t die in the flood. She was found by these people, and now I must find her.

She was filled with hope and at the same time despair, for she had no idea where to look. She uttered a prayer, without realizing she was speaking aloud, and people turned to stare at her.

“Oh, God,” she cried, “let me find my sister!”

Chapter twenty-one

Chantel slept very little the night after she saw the young girl on the streets of New Orleans. She tossed and turned and finally got up. She put on her robe and went to the balcony, where she stood looking out over the now-empty streets. The sounds of the city were still there, but she could only think of the child with the violet eyes.

It has to be Veronique! No one else could have violet eyes and hair like that and look so much like Mama!

For a long time she stood on the balcony, and finally she knew that, whatever else she did with her life, she would have to find her sister. For many years she had felt a sense of loneliness, and since her father had died this had grown even worse. Her heart cried out for a family, and there was none but Perrin, whom she felt quite sure would never be close. But now there was hope.

From somewhere far away came the sound of music—the faint, thin, reedy sound of a piano. She did not know the tune, but it was a haunting melody that she could barely hear. Finally it faded away, and still Chantel stood there. She found herself tensing her muscles, yearning to do something. What she wanted was action, but what action could she take?

In the silence Chantel bowed her head and began to pray. “Oh, God, I can’t pray as I should. I don’t know You as I want to, but I ask You to help me find this girl. If it is my sister, we need each other. Help me, for I am desperate, O God!”

The Mass brought Chantel little sense of peace. She had been praying with all of her heart, but it seemed that the heavens were made of steel and that her prayers could not go through.

Now as the Mass droned on, Chantel was aware of it in a very mechanical way. But her heart was still crying out. Finally the priest stood up and gave the homily.

Usually this was a very dry, brief sermonette of sorts, in which the congregation were enjoined to do good deeds. But Chantel turned her attention to the priest, Father Mohr. He was a tall, thin man with ascetic features and a dry voice that seemed to rustle as he spoke. He emphasized nothing really, and his homilies usually had a soporific effect on his hearers. But Chantel was desperate for wisdom or guidance of some kind, and she listened as the priest read a Scripture from the book of Genesis. It was rather confusing to Chantel, for she was not familiar with this story.

“This Scripture speaks of Abraham, the man of God, who had grown old. He wanted a bride for his son, but the land in which he lived was filled with idolatry. So he called his servant and sent him back to his own home country to find his son a bride among his own people.

“The servant went back, but when he reached his destination, he was in a quandary. How could he find exactly the right girl to be a bride for the son of his master, Abraham? He did a very peculiar thing, and one that I would not ordinarily recommend. He devised a circumstance and asked God to work in the middle of it. First, he took his camels to a well one evening where the women came to draw water. Then he began to pray. Let me read it for you from the book of Genesis:

And let it come to pass, that the damsel to whom I shall say, Let down thy pitcher, I pray thee, that I may drink; and she shall say, Drink, and I will give thy camels drink also: let the same be she that thou hast appointed for thy servant Isaac; and thereby shall I know that thou hast shewed kindness unto my master.

Chantel had never heard of anything like this, and she listened as the priest said, “Many times we want to find the will of God, and we cannot. Here this servant of Abraham made a very dangerous experiment. He set up a condition for God. My children, I would not advise you to try this. It is true that in this instance once it proved to be the right thing to do, for the young woman did come, and she said exactly the words that Abraham’s servant had requested. And so the servant found the will of God, but in a most unusual way. But I warn you that though God did answer the prayer of Abraham’s servant, He did so to fulfill His redemptive plan. This is not an instruction for believers today; we should not try to force God to work in our lives in this way.” Chantel thought hard on this. When she got home, she found her Bible. Not knowing where the story was, she had to read almost the entire book of Genesis before she found it.

Chantel read the story several times, then, feeling rather foolish, she got down on her knees, folded her hands, and put her forehead against them.

“God, I need someone to help me find my sister. And I pray that you will send someone.” She hesitated, then said, “I hope you won’t be angry with me, O God, but you did this once for one man. I ask you, let the next person who comes to me and says, ‘I will help you’ be the person to help me find Veronique.”

This was a different kind of praying for her. Always before she had prayed “Our Father” or “Hail Mary” or the traditional written prayers. She was shocked to discover how difficult it was to speak directly to God. It gave her an odd sense of the vastness of God and the smallness of her own being.

After she had prayed the prayer she felt even more foolish. She got to her feet, looked around the room uncertainly, then shook her head. “It can’t be,” she said aloud. “I will have to do it for myself.”

Four days passed, and every day Chantel did little but think of Veronique. She dressed each morning and searched the French Quarter, where she walked the streets hopeful of catching another glimpse of the girl she believed to be her sister. She also thought about the prayer she had prayed. At times she felt it was the most foolish thing she had ever done. She even scolded herself, saying, “You can’t back God into a corner and force Him to do something. He’s God and you’re nothing.”

Still, the thoughts would not leave her mind, and she found herself praying every day, “Lord, send someone, and let him say ‘I will help you.’”

As the days went by, she kept expecting a stranger to come up and say the words to her, but nothing happened.

Finally, on Friday evening, Chantel was sitting in the parlor. Her heart was heavy. She tried to pray, but there was no answer.

A sound came to her, and she turned as the door opened. “It’s Mr. Neville,” Elise said. “Do you want to see him?”

“Yes. Show him in, Elise.”

Chantel rose, and as Neville entered the room, she searched his face nervously for signs of anger. She saw none, however, for he smiled and came over to her at once.

He put his hand out, and before she could speak, he said, “I know I’ve troubled you with my offer, Chantel. But I came to say that I want to be your friend. If that’s all I can be, I’ll be satisfied.” He lifted her hand and kissed it. “I want you to be happy. That’s my fondest hope.” He hesitated, then said, “I will help you with anything I can.”

Suddenly Chantel’s eyes filled with tears. He had said the very words! I will help you. She held onto his hand and whispered, “Oh, Neville, I’m so glad you’ve come. Come and sit down. I have something to tell you!”

PART FOUR

1831

Veronique

Chapter twenty-two

As Chantel looked at him with pleading in her eyes, Neville felt a great pity for her begin to form in his spirit. Her eyes were wide, and there was a tremulous quality in her lips that spoke of the turmoil taking place in her soul. She whispered, “I’m so glad I’ve got you to talk to, Neville. There’s nobody else.”

Reaching out, Neville took her hands in his and felt the unsteadiness of them. “Don’t be disturbed, mon chère. Come and sit down. You must tell me everything.” Leading her to the couch placed against the wall, he pulled her down beside him. She did not try to free her hand. “Now, tell me all. We have plenty of time.”

Words tumbled from Chantel’s lips, and Neville listened intently. She spoke first of the time when her mother and sister were lost in the flood. He could tell that that day was still as clear as crystal in her mind, for she gave precise details. She even recalled that the dress she had been wearing was blue.

“But I never believed them when they said that Veronique was dead, Neville—never!”

“I suppose that’s natural enough, since her body was never found.”

“It was more than that—although, of course, that had something to do with it. Something in me would not admit that I had lost my sister. Everyone tried to tell me otherwise, my father the most of all. He didn’t want me to have false hopes. But I knew deep in my heart that she was alive.”

Neville listened as she spoke of her grief and her loneliness. She had a fear of being alone that was almost pathological. Finally she told him about her experience in the Quarter where she saw the young girl.

“There couldn’t be two girls of that age with strawberry blonde hair and violet eyes. Neville, I’ve never seen anybody else with violet eyes. Have you?”

“No, not that I can think of. And she looked to be the right age?”

“It’s hard to say with young girls, but I know it’s Veronique. But I couldn’t reach her. You know how the streets are when the parades take place. I tried to push my way through, but people grew angry and wouldn’t open a way. By the time I was able to pass through the middle of the parade, they were gone.”

“What sort of people did they appear to be?”

“Very rural people. Veronique was wearing a plain dress with rough-looking shoes. And the man and the woman that were with her—oh, Neville, they couldn’t have been her parents. She was so fair and her hair so light, and they were very dark.”

“Olive complexion?”

“Yes. Their hair was black and their eyes were dark. I remember once my mother told me that dark eyes always predominate.”

“That’s usually true,” Neville admitted. “If the father and mother are both dark, the chances of a child having light hair or violet eyes are very slim.”

“And the child had very fine features, Neville, so like my mother! These people have rounded features, both of them. Their faces were wide, and they were thick-bodied and short. This girl’s figure was like mine when I was that age—tall and very thin.”

Neville felt Chantel’s hands squeeze his own, and he returned the pressure.

“Neville, I don’t know much about the Lord. Not like you do.”

Neville blinked with surprised, for it was the first admission that Chantel had ever made that there was something missing in her own spiritual life. He remained silent as her words poured out.

“I know that God is almighty, and He does great things. And I know the story of Abraham’s servant who went to find a bride for his son, Isaac. If God could bring that young woman to that well at the exact time that the servant arrived, He could bring my sister to New Orleans at the exact time that I would be there. Couldn’t He, Neville?”

“Of course He could. Anything is possible with God.”

“Do you believe what I’m telling you, or do you think I’ve lost my mind? I know that’s what everyone else would say.”

Neville hesitated. He did not want to raise false hopes, and yet when he saw the hope and fierce desire in Chantel’s eyes, he knew he had to encourage her. “Of course it’s possible, and we must find out. And I will help you.”

“Oh, Neville, thank you!” Chantel threw her arms around Neville’s neck and clung to him, and he held her for a brief moment.

“Now then,” he said. “We must see what is to be done.”

“What can we do? How can we possibly find her?”

“Well, there is one thing that we must do, and that is ask God to help us. Without His help, I do not think it will be possible. We don’t know the names of these people. We don’t know where they’re from. We know nothing about them.”

“Yes, let’s pray together. I know God will hear your prayer.”

“He’ll hear our prayer. Scripture says that if any two of you will agree on anything, it will be done.”

“The Bible says that?”

“Yes, it does. So, I want us to pray right now that God will help us in our search.” He saw Chantel bow her head; then he bowed his own and prayed aloud, “Father, we are helpless in this matter. There is no way humanly speaking that we can find the one we seek. But, Lord, You know everything. You know the exact location of every human being on the face of the earth. You know the secret thoughts of each one of us. We’re not asking anything impossible, for with You, O Lord, nothing is impossible. I pray in the name of Jesus that You will open the door that will help us to find this young woman. Amen.”

“Amen,” Chantel whispered. When she looked up, her eyes were brimming with tears. She could not speak for a moment. She brushed them away, then fumbled for a handkerchief. Finally she turned her face toward Neville and asked, “What will you do now?”

“I’ll have to become a private detective. In fact, I may have to hire one. I must go now.” He rose to his feet, and Chantel went with him to the door.

“Good-bye, dear Neville. God go with you.”

Neville touched her hand, then turned and left. As he walked toward his horse, his mind was swiftly organizing all the facts. For a moment he was daunted, for he knew how slim the chances were of finding anyone as obscure as the people Chantel had described. But he straightened his shoulders and said under his breath, “Lord, it’s up to You now!”

Collette sat still, her eyes fixed on Chantel’s face, listening with growing astonishment to the story her stepdaughter had to tell. She said nothing until Chantel said, “. . . and, Mama, Neville is going to help me. He may even hire a private detective to help find those people.”

“Chantel, I wish you hadn’t gone to strangers with a story like this.” Collette’s voice was sharp. “Do you realize what you’ve done? If he goes out and hires a private detective, the word will get out that we’re looking for a girl who died ten years ago.”

“But, Mama—”

“I know what you’re going to say. You’ve never accepted Veronique’s death, and I always thought it was bad for you. I think it’s tragic that her body wasn’t recovered. If it had been, this would never have happened. You see, my dear, that’s one value of a funeral. When you see a body lying in state in a coffin, and you see that coffin put into a grave or mausoleum, there’s a finality about it, and your mind can accept it. But when someone simply disappears, it’s very difficult to really believe that they’re lost. I don’t think what’s happened to you is at all unusual.”

“But, Mama, weren’t you listening to me? Her face was exactly like my mama’s face, and she was built exactly like me. And she looked nothing at all like those people she was with.”

“You’re not thinking clearly, Chantel. I realize those circumstances are unusual, but they’re not unheard of. Children don’t always resemble their parents. My own father was only five-feet-eight-inches tall, but my youngest brother was six-feet-two, and he looked nothing at all like any of us. He did, however, look like my great-grandfather, who was the same height. Perhaps this young girl resembles someone back in her family. A grandmother, or an aunt.”

Collette’s words had a chilling effect on Chantel, but only for a moment. She shook her head, and pressed her lips together. “I know she’s my sister.”

“I know you want to think that, but think also of this. If she were your sister, and we found her, what problems would come of it!”

“Problems? What do you mean? How could it be a problem to find her?”

“She’s ten years old. She’s been raised by a poor, ignorant family. She knows nothing else. I doubt that she can read or write. My dear, even if you could find this child, you would be doing her no favor to try to bring her into your life. Can’t you see that?”

“No, I can’t, Mama. We could give her a good life.”

“You are mistaken, Chantel. Her character is formed by this time. She would never be able to adjust to such a different way. And besides this very real problem, have you considered that you would have to share your inheritance with her? Do you realize that? And Perrin would be the loser.”

At that moment Chantel realized why her stepmother did not want this girl to be found. The truth brought such pain that she could not speak for a moment. She did realize, however, that further talk with Collette was useless.

She simply said, “I’m sorry you feel that way, Mama, but I must do this.” She got up and left, and as she closed the door to the study it felt as though she was closing the door on something more than just a room.

As Chantel spoke to Yves she was very calm, for after her interview with her stepmother two days ago, she had forced herself to think clearly. She had spoken with Neville only once since then, and that very briefly. He had simply come by to say that he had engaged a firm to help him in his search.

“They are not very hopeful,” he had said. “But you and I know that there’s more to this than they realize. God is on our side.”

The words burned into Chantel and gave her hope. She spent a great deal of time praying, sometimes in her room actually on her knees. But whether she was eating or working or going about her business in a usual way, the thought of her sister was never out of her mind, and she prayed quick, silent prayers. It amazed her that she could pray at all. She found herself calling out to God as if He were in the same room with her—which she knew Neville would insist was really the case.

When she told Yves her tale, he ran his hand through his thick hair and shook his head. “I never heard of such a thing, Chantel!”

“You don’t believe me then.”

“No—no, I didn’t say that! There are stranger things in this world,” Yves protested quickly. “I am just surprised, as I’m sure you were.”

“Indeed. But as I said, I have never believed that my sister was dead.”

“And so what is to be done?”

“Neville has promised to help. He has hired some private detectives.”

“And I will help also, Chantel. I don’t know how to go about it, but I will go look for your sister.”

“That’s so sweet of you, Yves. I doubt if you will find her by walking the streets. Neville said we must find the family.”

“Well, perhaps the detectives will be able to do that.” For a moment Yves seemed at a loss for words, then he said, “I have been thinking of the thing that happened between your friend and myself.”

Chantel looked up quickly, searching Yves’s face, and she saw that he was embarrassed. “And what do you think, Yves?”

“I think I made a fool of myself,” he admitted. “He was right to rebuke me for using your name in that place. I have felt so badly about it, Chantel, and I hope you will forgive me.”

“Of course I do.”

“That’s like you,” Yves said. He shook his head and said, “I’ve been ashamed of that, and I will ask his pardon when I see him. In public if he desires.”

“He won’t ask that.”

Yves gave her a careful look. “You’re very sure of that, aren’t you?”

“I know him very well, I think.”

“It’s a good thing to know people a long time like that. I’ve moved around so much I haven’t had time to make that kind of relationship.”

A thought came to Chantel, and she said, “What about the woman I met—Dominique?”

Yves blinked with surprise. “She was something out of my past. That day in the gallery was the first time I’d seen her for a very long time.”

“You haven’t seen her since?”

“No. Her husband is old, as I think I told you, and very ill. I understand he requires constant care.”

“You haven’t forgotten her, have you, Yves? I can hear echoes walking around in your voice when you speak of her.”

“It’s too late for that,” Yves said. Then he shrugged his shoulders. “Just tell me what you want me to do, and I will do it. I know many people in the Quarter. I have friends among the Cajuns. I will go ask them. They will remember such a striking girl.”

“That would be good of you, Yves.” Chantel gave him her hand as she rose.

He bent over, kissed it, and shook his head. “Strange thing—a very strange thing indeed.”

Neville looked up as Robert Martin entered his office. He got to his feet, an eager light in his eyes. “Have you found out something, Martin?”

“I’m not sure.”

Martin was a small, nondescript individual. He dressed neatly enough, but his clothes were not stylish. He could have passed for a bank clerk, a tailor, a salesman—practically anything—and one would never notice him in a crowd. Everything about him seemed neutral— his eyes, his hair, and his features were all without any striking difference from hundreds or even thousands of others. Once Martin had told Neville that this was a great advantage in his profession, for he was able to move about without attracting any attention.

“I know you’re anxious, so I came at once.”

“And what have you found?”

“A lead that will probably come to nothing.” Martin shrugged his thin shoulders. “But it’s all we have at the time. To make a long story short, I’ve found a man in prison who says he has seen the girl. He’s a Cajun and has traveled a great deal. He wants money for telling you where she is.”

“Well, did you give it to him?”

“Why, no, sir! Not without your permission.”

“Well, give it to him.”

“It may be expensive. He wants a hundred pounds.”

“Offer him less, but pay it if he won’t come through.”

“All right. I’ll—”

“No, wait. I’ll come with you. Let me get the cash.”

“Well, Lord help you, sir! You can’t give that kind of money to a criminal for what may be nothing.”

Neville ignored the detective’s words. “Let me go alone. He may talk more freely to me.”

“I expect that’s right. He’s suspicious of any police. But I warn you. You may be throwing your money away.”

“I’ll worry about that. You’ve done well, Martin.”

Lamont was a tall, lean man with a sallow face and suspicious-looking dark eyes. “Yes, I have seen this girl three times.”

“Where did you see her?”

“Ah, if I tell you that, then you will have no need to give me money, will you, sir?”

“Tell me again what she looks like.”

“She is very thin and has very odd-color hair like I never see before. It is red but not red. More blonde. But her eyes! I never forget those eyes. Strange. Not blue but like a little violet out in the bayou. You see such a flower?”

“Yes.” A thrill ran through Neville, for the description was exactly what he had hoped for. “All right. I’ll give you fifty pounds.”

“No, I need one hundred pounds. I will take no less.”

Neville studied the eyes of the prisoner and saw an insolence there. He knew he had no other choice. “All right. One hundred pounds.”

“I know you brought it with you. You are very anxious.”

Neville pulled the money from his pocket. It was in an envelope, and he handed it over. “There it is. Count it.” He waited until the man had done so, then said, “Now, where did you see the girl?”

“Do you know the country west of Baton Rouge?”

“Not very well.”

“It is not a good country, some of it, but there is a man who lives there named Simon Tubberville. I was in business with him once, and we see each other from time to time. I meet his wife one time, and I see this girl. He brought them to Baton Rouge. He would not let me come to his house. He did not want me there because he did not trust me. Imagine that! Not trusting poor old Lamont!”

I wouldn’t trust him with a dollar, Neville thought, somewhat ironically. “Where does he live?”

“That I cannot say. He lives in the Bayou Teche, and I tell you that is one bad place.”

“You don’t know how to get to their house?”

“No. I tell you about the girl. I swear it on my mother’s grave, and I know Simon Tubberville is her father. But that is all I know.”

“Well, tell me about that country.”

“Very bad people live there. Simon Tubberville is not a good man, just as I’m not a good man. You are a good man. I can tell that.”

“Never mind all that. Tell me about the bayou.”

Neville listened as Lamont told of the size of the bayou and its lack of trails. And those trails that did lead through it often were underwater.

“You only go deep into the bayou in a boat, but some have gone in who never came out, if you get my meaning. People there are very close. They do not like outsiders.”

“All right. I’ll find him.” Neville stopped and said, “I am sorry for your predicament. I know God could help you.”

Lamont stared at him. “No, God gave up on me a long time ago. Good-bye now.”

When the door to the town house opened, Neville stepped in and found Yves there with Chantel. It was the first time the two had met since their difficulties, and Yves came forward at once.

“I must ask your pardon. I was totally wrong in that affair we had, and I apologize. If you will go with me to the men that heard it, I will apologize before them.”

“That’s not necessary,” Neville said quickly.

Yves laughed. “Chantel said that is what you would say.”

Chantel was glad that the two men had come to this point, but she was anxious. “What have you found out, Neville?”

She drew him into the parlor, where he took a cup of hot chocolate. As he sipped it, he told them what he had discovered.

Chantel was excited, but Yves frowned.

“That’s bad country. That criminal told you exactly right. Men have gone into Bayou Teche and never come out again. They are a bunch of cutthroats and robbers.”

“Nevertheless, I’m going there.”

Yves said at once, “Then I will go with you. I know many people in the Baton Rouge area, even some on the outer edges of Bayou Teche.”

“All right, we’ll go together,” agreed Neville. “Chantel, we’ll get word to you as soon as—”

“I’m going with you. No one would know Veronique except me.”

Both men tried to dissuade Chantel, but she kept the argument short. “She’s my sister, and I’m going with you. That’s all there is to it.”

“Stubborn as a bulldog.” Yves laughed. “All right. When do we leave?”

“First thing in the morning,” Neville said. “We’ll pick you up before dawn, Chantel.”

After the two men left, Chantel was too excited to sleep. She walked the floor, and finally in a gesture of exultation, she lifted her hands above her head and cried, “Thank you, God! Thank you, God! Thank you, God!”

Elise came in. “Did you call for me?”

“No.” Chantel smiled sweetly. “I wasn’t talking to you.”

Chapter twenty-three

Elise protested against Chantel’s making the trip with two gentlemen, but she gave up when sharply rebuked. Chantel would not be stopped.

She was dressed and her bag packed when Neville arrived very early in the morning. She had slept little, and when she settled down beside Neville in the carriage, she said, “What about Yves?”

“We’ll pick him up, and then we’ll be on our way. Have you had breakfast?”

“No, but I’m not hungry.”

“We need to eat. It’s going to be a hard trip.”

Yves was waiting, holding a bag. He climbed into the backseat of the carriage, and Neville drove to a small restaurant that he knew opened very early. When they had finished a quick breakfast, none of them saying a great deal, Yves said, “I hope your horses are good.”

“I think you’ll find them adequate,” Neville said with a slight grin. He was proud of his horses, for they were indeed a prize—a matched set of bays. They were just the right team for such a quick day’s journey. “It’s fifty miles to Baton Rouge, more or less, and the roads aren’t good. But I think these two can do it.”

“What are their names?” Chantel asked curiously.

“Castor and Pollux.”

“What strange names. What do they mean?”

“Do you know anything about the constellations of the stars?”

“No, almost nothing.”

“Well, if it’s clear tonight, I’ll show you a constellation called the Twins. It’s two figures that seem to be holding hands, and the heads of each are almost the brightest stars in the sky some nights. One’s called Castor and one’s called Pollux. Mariners use them a lot in their navigation.”

“We’ll have to navigate to Baton Rouge if the roads are bad, and we’re bound to be axle-deep in mud with all this rain,” Yves said.

His words were fulfilled, for the roads were terrible. Heavy rains had fallen, and they passed by more than one heavy-loaded wagon mired down in the mud. But Castor and Pollux more than justified Neville’s boast. They were not the fastest animals, but they were strong and capable of a full day’s journey, even under such poor conditions.

At noon they stopped and had a quick meal at an inn, then after an hour’s rest for the team, they continued. The rain started to fall when they were an hour out of Baton Rouge, and by the time they pulled into the port city, Chantel was tired, wet, and miserable.

Yves had been watching her closely and said, “We’ll stay here tonight. Get a good room, a good meal, and a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow we’ll go on to Bayou Teche and see what we can do.”

The Majestic Hotel was somewhat less than its name implied, but the room Chantel had was very nice. She was able to have a hot bath and afterwards came down to find Neville waiting for her. He was alone and said quickly, “Yves went to see a fellow he knows who may be of some help in our search.”

“I’m starving,” Chantel said.

“I can’t vouch for the food here, but we’ll hope for the best.”

The meal was good. They had crawfish étouffée and filet of snapper and cups of gumbo. When they were finished with the meal, they rose.

Chantel said, “I don’t think I can sleep, although I’m very tired.”

“Let’s sit out on the porch for a while. You’ll get sleepy soon.”

It was strangely warm for October. They found chairs out on the wide porch and were all alone. The lights of Baton Rouge were faint and dim, for it was a small place compared with New Orleans.

They sat there for a time, and finally Chantel said, “Neville, will you tell me something?”

“If I can.”

“Tell me how you came to know God so well.”

“Well, it’s not a very dramatic story, I’m afraid. I know some men who tell about their conversion, and it’s almost terrible how they ran from God, and God had to practically destroy them before they would bow their heads to him.”

“How old were you when you found God?”

“I was sixteen.”

Chantel smiled. “I’ll bet you were one of those very good boys. One that the other boys hated because their mothers would say, ‘Why can’t you be good like Neville?’”

“Oh, I wasn’t all that good,” Neville laughed. Chantel’s mind amused him. She had an active imagination, and he had thought more than once she would be a great writer if she would put her hand to it. “I had a few youthful sins.”

“Tell me about them!”

“No, I certainly will not.”

“Pooh, I want to hear!”

“All right. You tell me about your youthful sins.”

Chantel laughed, a good sound in the night air. She pulled her coat closer around her and said, “All right. We’ll tell those only to God.”

“That’s a good idea. Actually I didn’t get into some of the gross sins that other young men my age got into, and I don’t know why. I never had a mother, but I always thought of her in heaven. And since I never seemed to please my father, I wanted desperately to please the Lord. I think I stayed out of trouble in the hope that I could someday see my mother in eternity.”

“That’s practically what happened to me! After Mama died, I thought about God all the time, and I wanted to know she was in heaven.”

Neville smiled at her. “We talked about that the very first time we met. Do you remember?”

“Of course I do. And I also heard you preach about it one time.”

Neville was astonished. “How could that be?”

“The time you came and preached at the Methodist church. I put on a black dress and disguised myself as a widow with a dark, heavy veil.”

“I remember that! I was coming to speak with you after the sermon, but you vanished. I had no idea it was you, of course.”

“Yes. I was ashamed. But I remember your sermon so well.”

“Well, that’s a compliment. Some people can’t remember what I say the next day.”

“But how did you find God? Were you in a church?”

“No. I was all by myself. As a matter of fact, I was in the middle of a busy street. I had been thinking about my mother, longing to see her in eternity, and I’d been reading the Scripture. And, of course, I’d heard preaching on the new birth for a long time.”

“The new birth?”

“Yes. Do you remember in the third chapter of John the story of the man called Nicodemus?”

“I do remember. I thought it was very strange that this man came to see Jesus by night.”

“Yes, he might have been ashamed because Jesus was known as the friend of sinners. Respectable Jews would have nothing to do with known sinners. That’s why Jesus disturbed them so greatly, Chantel. He talked with them, laid His hands on them, prayed for them. The so-called respectable religious leaders found that offensive.”

Chantel turned to face Neville, her eyes luminous by the light of the flickering lantern overhead. “But that is what I found so wonderful about Him. The love that He had for everyone.”

“Yes. That’s what I felt, too, and still do. But I do not understand when He told Nicodemus, ‘You must be born again.’”

“Perhaps we’ll never understand all of it, but the Bible clearly teaches that we have very bad hearts. The book of Romans says, ‘All have sinned and come short of the glory of God.’ We haven’t all sinned alike,” he added quickly. “Some have sinned more hideously than others, but that doesn’t excuse us. What is necessary is that we understand that we all need God.”

“Oh, yes, I believe that!”

“I’d read the Bible before, and a verse had come into my heart that said, ‘Whosoever shall call upon the name of the Lord shall be saved.’ That verse stuck in my memory. I thought about it night and day, but I didn’t know what it meant. I thought I had already called on God. I carried that with me in my head almost like an echo.

“One day I was walking along a busy street thinking about this, people everywhere, all around me, talking and laughing and shouting. And then the verse came again. ‘Whosoever shall call upon the name of the Lord shall be saved.’ And at that moment, Chantel, I was pretty desperate. And I didn’t call out loud, although I think my lips moved. I just said, ‘God, I need You, and I’m calling on You. Your word promises that if I call, I’ll be saved. So I’m calling right now, and I’m asking You in the name of Jesus and by His blood to save me.’”

“And what happened?”

“Well, this sounds odd, but nothing much really happened. The crowd was still there. I didn’t feel any different. There were no flashes of lightning. I went on about my work that day, and I thought a few times about what I had done, but it didn’t seem to be any different. But that night when I went to bed, I went to sleep almost at once, and then I had a dream that I was in some place that I had never seen. It was beautiful place, although I can’t describe it. I never could remember the details, and then I heard a voice that said, ‘Neville, you have called on Me, and you are now in the family of God. You have been saved from your sins.’ And then I woke up, and I felt so strange. I got out of bed. I walked the floor. I knew it was only a dream, but it was so real, Chantel! And I determined right then that I was going to believe what I had done was real—and I did.”

“But did you ever feel anything?”

“Oh, yes, many times. As I began to pray and study and draw near to God, I felt a peace that I had never known. And then, after a time, joy began to fill me. Just a little at first. But then finally one day, I knew I wanted more of God, so I called on Him again and asked Him simply to fill me with His spirit so that I could worship Him. And this time He answered my prayer right away. I began to praise God, and as I worshipped Him, great joy came to me.”

“And is it still there?”

“The knowledge that I’m saved is always there, but sometimes I feel depressed. Even then I know what happened is the most real thing in my life, and I know Jesus is in my heart.”

Chantel fell utterly silent, and Neville did not speak. Finally he said, “Are you troubled, Chantel?”

“I—I have nothing like that in my heart. I have always been in church, but I do not know God like you do.”

Neville hesitated and then said, “Would you like to?”

“Oh, more than anything in the world, but I don’t know how. It sounds too simple.”

“As a matter of fact, the Bible says that it is simple. If it were a complex matter that only a genius could understand, I’d be lost and going to hell. But all you need to do, Chantel, is believe that Jesus is the Son of God and He died for your sins. Just ask Him to cleanse those sins and take Him into your heart.”

Again Chantel was silent, and finally Neville said, “Would you like to have Jesus in your heart?” She did not answer, and he saw that she was trembling. “I don’t believe we can push anyone into the kingdom, but you remember this. I was converted when I was not in a church, and no minister or priest was talking to me—and you can find Him the same way.”

Chantel found it difficult to speak. She was frightened, somehow, of his words. Quickly she rose and said, “I think I should go to bed.”

“I think that’s a good idea,” Neville said. “Come. I’ll walk with you to your room.”

They entered the hotel and walked together until they came to her room. She unlocked her door, then turned to him, and he saw that she was deeply troubled.

“Don’t be afraid of Jesus, Chantel,” Neville said. “He means only good for you.”

“Good night, Neville.”

Chantel turned and shut the door. She leaned back against it and knew that she was greatly moved. She wondered at herself and at her response to Neville’s words. Finally she prepared for bed, and when she closed her eyes and pulled the covers up, she found herself thinking of Jesus as the Savior, the Christ. She almost cried out as Neville had for Him to come into her heart. Finally she tried to sleep, but the words kept coming back: Whosoever shall call upon the name of the Lord shall be saved—and the strange Scripture that she could not forget—You must be born again.

Finally she trembled, and fear rose in her, but along with that fear a great desire came. She got out of bed, knelt beside it, and prayed, “Oh, God, I am so confused. You know me, and You know that I really want You. So, I’m going to do what Neville did. I’m going to call on You.”

And there on her knees in that hotel room, Chantel Fontaine called on God with all her heart. She never could remember the exact words she said, but for a long time she cried out for God in desperation.

Finally she grew cold. She got back into the bed, and she felt totally exhausted. But somehow she felt satisfaction. I’ve called on God, and I’ve asked Him to save me. That’s all Neville did. She snuggled down into the bed, pulled the covers closer and said, “I’m trusting You, Jesus, to be in my heart.” Then almost at once she fell asleep.

The next morning Chantel awoke, and the first thing she thought of was, I called on the Lord, and I’m going to believe that I will have the same spirit Neville has. I’m going to believe I will know God better every day. All of her training had been that the more prayers that one said, the better it was. She had her rosary with her, but she did not reach for it. Instead she simply knelt and said, “Lord, I’m believing that You are faithful and that You have saved me, and I thank You for that in Jesus’ name.”

She got up and began to sing as she got ready to go downstairs. She found herself thinking of her sister, and somehow faith rose stronger in her, and she said, “God, I know You’re going to hear our prayers.”

When she got downstairs, she found Neville and Yves already in the restaurant. When their food came, she began to eat hungrily, and she listened as Yves spoke of what he had discovered. “I found a man whose name is Broussard—Michael Broussard. He says we’re crazy for wanting to go into Bayou Teche and find Simon Tubberville.”

“But he’ll go with us and show us the place?” Neville demanded.

“He’ll go part of the way.” Yves shook his head. “This fellow Tubberville, he’s got a terrible reputation. He’s been in jail more than once, and Broussard says he’s a killer. He got into a fight here in a saloon, and kicked a man to death with his boots.”

What a horrible man for my sister to be with! Chantel thought. But though the knowledge of such a terrible man frightened her, there was no other option. “When can we go?” she asked.

“Right away,” Yves said. “Broussard’s waiting for us. I hope you have some money. I had to promise him plenty of it, Neville.”

“I’ve got the money. Let’s go.”

“How will we actually do this, Neville? I mean—what if he won’t let her go?”

“I don’t think we can make much of a plan. I hope money will settle it, but if not—we’ll do whatever we have to do.”

Chapter twenty-four

“This is Michael Broussard. He expects to be paid ten pounds for taking us into the swamp,” Yves said.

Broussard was small and very thin but with a wiry strength that was obvious in his bared forearms. He wore a pair of dark blue wool trousers, a gray sweater over a white shirt, and a wool cap perched on the very back of his head. His eyes were quick as a squirrel’s as he glanced around.

Neville was inclined to offer only part of the fee, but he knew it was no time to bargain. He took out his wallet, extracted some notes, and handed them over. Broussard stuck them carelessly in the pocket of his trousers and said, “I have to have the money up front, you see, because, well, you may not come back soon.”

“You mean we may not come back at all?” Neville asked, lifting his eyebrows.

“That could happen. Personally, I think you are crazy to go in there. Simon Tubberville is not a man who welcomes company. One of his own daughters run off some time ago.”

“Do you know why?” Chantel asked.

“I reckon the old man was too rough on her.”

“We have to go,” Neville replied, “so do the best you can for us.”

“Very well. We go now.”

By the time they reached the edge of the bayou, the sun was already climbing high in the sky. The road leading west out of Baton Rouge was even worse than the one coming from New Orleans. At times it was nothing but a two-lane track of mud. Broussard led the way on horseback, and once the carriage became so mired that it was all the men and the horses could do to get it free.

The weather was turning colder, and a bitter wind sprang up out of the north. The earth was gray and brown with deadness, and the gloomy overcast seemed to dampen Chantel’s spirit. After leaving the main road, they followed Broussard until they were traveling on what seemed to be no more than a path. It was barely possible to get the carriage through.

Finally Broussard pulled up his horse and pointed. “There is my place. We can put the horses in the barn.”

The house was no more than a shack, and half a dozen children scrambled out to greet Broussard. He dismounted and hugged them. Then, as Chantel got out of the buggy, he said, “This is my wife, Hannah. Come, if you want to go inside. I will put the horses up.”

Hannah Broussard was a surprisingly cheerful woman, not pretty, but with a vivacious air. She fed them a lunch of fresh bread and blue crabs cooked in a way Chantel had never seen before.

Neville insisted on paying for it, and when the meal was over, he looked toward Broussard, saying, “Can we go now?”

“It will be late, but I think it best. I will take care of your horses while you’re gone.”

He led the way out to the edge of the swamp, where three small, fragile-looking boats were tied up. “We will have to take all three boats, for I am not waiting in that swamp for you. You can bring my boats back here—if you come back at all.”

“Cheerful fellow, isn’t he?” Yves whispered to Chantel as they approached the boats. He touched one with the toe of his boot and shook his head. “I hope they float.”

As Chantel got in, she realized how small the boats were. “What are these things called?” she asked Broussard.

“We call this boat a pirogue.”

Chantel got into one of the small boats with Broussard. The two men each got in another, and they all shoved off. Broussard balanced himself, standing up and using a pole to propel along. The other two men struggled awkwardly.

“This is a sorry way to get from one place to another,” Yves said under his breath.

“But the only way. We’ll just have to learn,” Neville said.

They traveled until the sun had passed the meridian. It was a world that Chantel did not know. Cypress trees rose on either side of them, blocking out the feeble sun so that it was twilight under the canopy. From time to time she sensed things alive in the swamp around, but her eyes were not quick enough to catch them. Once a horrible scream came to her, and she started. “What was that?” she asked Broussard.

“A panther. He will not hurt you here, mademoiselle, but do not get caught out alone after dark on dry land.”

Finally Broussard pulled his boat onto what appeared to be dry land, as dry as anything could be in this world. He pulled the prow up and held out his hands. “This is where you must walk,” he said.

Chantel took his hand and stepped out, and they waited until the men had pulled their boats in.

“Me, I go home. Here, I have drawn this map for you. I am not good at drawing.”

The three travelers bent over the map. It was indeed poorly drawn, but Broussard pointed out landmarks. “You will see a big cypress that has grown in two, like a ‘V,’ you know?” He held his forefinger and his middle finger spread wide apart. “Last time I was there, there were big birds nesting in the top, but maybe not now. The road divides there. You take the left turn. Be sure you take the left or you miss them.”

Yves and Neville went over the map several times, asking questions and adding to it as Broussard remembered other things. Finally Broussard said, “I will wait here for you until dark. If you don’t come back, I will go on. But I will leave these two boats. You bring them back to my house. Right?”

It occurred to Neville that Broussard might take the boats before they returned. He reached into his billfold again and withdrew some notes. “You can hold this for a deposit,” he said. “If we don’t come back, the boats are paid for.”

Broussard nodded. “If you must go, you be quick and careful.

Tubberville has a quick anger, and he sometimes shoots to scare people off. Not to kill. Just to turn them back.”

Yves touched the pistol at his waist and said, “I hope it doesn’t come to that.”

“You will not see him to shoot at him. He is invisible in the swamp. You go now. And may the good God go with you.”

The three turned and began their trek down the path. It was hard to follow, as if it were traveled infrequently. Yves went first, followed by Chantel, while Neville brought up the rear. They stopped from time to time to consult the map, and more than once they heard splashing in the swamp.

“I hope those alligators don’t come out after us. They’re vicious beasts,” Yves muttered.

The trail wound in a circular fashion, and once they heard a panther scream faintly and far away. More than once it seemed they were completely lost, but always the map mentioned some landmark that got them back on track.

Suddenly Yves halted. “Look, there’s a cabin up there.”

The other two hurried forward to stand beside him, where they could see the outline of a cabin on the border of a fingerling of water. Out beyond it there was the white of egrets, and smoke was curling up out of the chimney.

“Somebody’s there,” Yves muttered. “Do we just go right in?”

“I think we have to,” Chantel said.

“What do we tell them?” Yves demanded. “You can’t just barge in there and say, ‘We’ve come to take your daughter.’”

“That’s right,” Neville said. “We’d better think about it.”

“How about this. Let’s tell them I’m a painter and I’m interested in finding a place to paint in the swamps.”

“I don’t know. If you start out by lying to them, it may get us in trouble,” Neville said.

“It’s true enough,” Yves replied. “I could get some great paintings out here.”

“Let’s just see how it develops.”

Chantel was fraught with uncertainty as they moved forward. What would they say to whoever was in the cabin? All the descriptions they had had of Simon Tubberville were of a man who would be dangerous to cross. She did not like the idea of deceiving him, but as Yves said, what could they say to the people?

The three had gotten only halfway across the clearing when a woman stepped out. She had a rifle in her hand and raised it, finger on the trigger, although not pointed directly at them.

“Hello,” Yves called out quickly. “My name is Yves Gaspard. My friends and I are a little bit confused.”

The woman lowered the rifle. She was short and heavily built, with eyes that were dark with suspicion. “Who are you and what do you want?” she said.

They moved closer, all of them keeping an eye on the rifle. Yves boldly said, “I am a painter, madame. I am looking for a place in the swamp to paint things such as the birds and the animals and the setting.”

As Yves was keeping the woman’s attention, a movement caught Chantel’s eyes. She turned her head only slightly and then, without preamble, the girl that she had seen in the streets of New Orleans stepped out. It was the same girl, no doubt about that! Chantel studied her carefully, and her heart suddenly filled as she saw the features so much like her own mother’s. The child’s hair was dirty and entangled, but it was the same strawberry blonde color, and there was no mistaking those eyes. She heard Neville clear his throat and turned to see him watching her. She nodded slightly but did not know what to do.

Neville said, “I wonder if you could feed us? We would be glad to pay.” He reached into his pocket, pulled some gold coins out, and jangled them.

The woman stared at him and said, “It will not be much.”

“Anything will be fine with us,” Neville said. “We’re very hungry.”

The woman moved inside the house. It was filled with the smell of cooking food. The girl followed them in, and the woman said, “Get something for them to eat from, Jeanne.”

“Yes, Mama.”

The three visitors sat down, all of them watching the girl rather furtively. This was the object of their quest, but how were they to get her out of this place?

The food came, and when it was put before them, the men began to eat. Chantel took a bite or two, but could not have told what she was eating. Her attention was all on the girl who was standing up, watching them out of her strange violet eyes.

“Your name is Jeanne?”

She nodded.

The woman had stepped outside for something, and Chantel said, “I am glad to meet you. My name is Chantel.”

The girl was shy as a wild rabbit. She lowered her head and could not speak.

“Do you go out of the bayou very often, Jeanne?” Chantel asked.

“To Baton Rouge—and once to New Orleans. That was not long ago.”

Chantel longed to go to the girl and take her in her arms and cry out her true name. She sat there trying desperately to think of a plan, but nothing came to her.

The woman entered the room abruptly. “You have to go now,” she said. “My husband does not like people coming here, and it will be dark soon.”

“That’s right,” Yves said quickly, getting to his feet.

Chantel rose and went outside the cabin. She turned at the door and saw that the girl was watching her, her enormous violet eyes dominating her face. The impulse to cry her name was almost unbearable, but she clamped her lips together and turned. Neville followed her, and the three moved down toward the trail. They had not gone more than a dozen steps when a harsh voice halted them dead in their tracks.

“What are you doing here? What’s your business?”

The man that Chantel had seen in New Orleans stood off to one side of the path. He had a rifle in his hands and a pistol stuck into his belt. His eyes were fierce, and his face was half concealed behind a grisly beard. Although he was rather short, he was obviously tremendously strong, and his countenance was forbidding.

Yves started to say, “We were looking through the bayou for—”

Chantel interrupted him. “We want to talk to you, sir, about the girl who is living with you.”

Instantly the man turned toward her. “My daughter?”

Chantel hesitated, and then she said simply, “I do not think she is your daughter. I think she is my sister.”

The man’s face grew crimson. He lifted the rifle and aimed it straight at Chantel. “Get out of here! If you come back, I will kill you! She is my daughter! Do you hear?”

“Come along, Chantel.” Neville’s voice was tense, and he gripped Chantel’s arm and practically pulled her away. When they got to the place where the path disappeared into the thickness of the huge cypress trees, Chantel turned. She saw Tubberville standing there glaring at them fiercely, and beyond him she saw Veronique standing in the doorway, her eyes filled with fear.

There was nothing to be done. She stumbled down the path, and Neville held her arm, saying, “It’s all right. We found her. God will make a way to bring her out of here.”

Chantel turned her head, and Yves said urgently, “God will have to do it. That’s a rough fellow there. Come along. We’ve barely got time to get back to the boats before dark.”

They hurried through the falling gloom, and when they knew they were safe and the boats within reach, Yves spoke to Neville. “You’re a lawyer. Is there any way to get that girl from him legally?”

“It would be hard. I think they probably found her and took her for their own, but there’s no proof or evidence. A court of law always gives preference to the parents, and that’s what they’re going to claim they are.”

Yves dropped his head and studied the ground for a moment. Then he said, “Then you’ll have to kill Tubberville. He will never let her go. You saw that, didn’t you?”

Chantel listened, and her heart cried out for an answer. But as they all climbed into the boats, she was filled with doubt and uncertainty. Silently she prayed, Oh, God, we need a miracle!

Chapter twenty-five

From somewhere far off came a hoarse bellow. Yves straightened up and demanded, “What’s that?”

“Just a bull gator.” Chantel had heard the sound so often in the bayou bordering Fontaine Maison that she was not disturbed. She slapped at a mosquito making a meal on her arm and looked over at Neville. He was sitting on the porch of the Broussards’ small cabin, leaning back against the pillar that held the roof up. “Isn’t there anything we can do legally, Neville?”

“I don’t think so.” Neville had been quiet all the way back from the Tubberville house and had suggested they go back to Baton Rouge. Chantel had absolutely refused, so the three of them had taken another meal from Mrs. Broussard and now were sitting outside, where the smells of the bayou were rich and thick.

Yves said, “But if the girl is not their daughter, how can they keep her?”

“As I’ve said, we don’t have any evidence, Yves. Not a shred. The Tubbervilles aren’t about to admit that they found the girl.”

Chantel got up and walked over to the edge of the porch. She leaned wearily against the support, which was made of hewn cypress, and peered into the bayou in the direction of the Tubberville cabin. A bitterness rose in her, and she said with desperation, “But we’ve got to do something! We can’t leave my sister there.”

A silence followed her proclamation, and then Yves said, “We could kidnap her.”

“What!” Neville swiveled around and stared at Yves. “Are you crazy? We’d all wind up in jail.”

“This thing is not right. I don’t care what the law says,” Yves said defiantly. “I say we go back and hide in the woods, and when we see the fellow leave, we go in and take the girl. We get away and dare him to come and get her. He doesn’t know our names. How would he find us?”

“We can’t do it, Yves,” Chantel said.

“Why can’t we? You want your sister back. I don’t see any other way to get her.”

“There has to be a way!” Chantel exclaimed. Turning to Neville, she said, “I don’t know anything about the law, but in a case like this there must be something.”

“Louisiana is under the Napoleonic law. It’s the only state that is,” Neville said. “It’s a strange sort of code, and lawyers coming in go crazy at first. But I’m telling you that there’s nothing in it that will allow us to go in and take a child away from a family. Imagine what would happen if you had a child and someone came in and took him away.”

“But this is different. She’s my sister.”

“I think you’re right, but how can we prove it? If I went to a judge with this kind of story to get a court order, why, he’d laugh me out of his office.”

From inside the house, they could hear the laughter and chatter of the Broussards’ six small children. Neville had been quiet, searching his mind desperately to find a solution, but he knew the law well enough to realize that the door of legal methods was closed. “We’ll just have to pray that God will open up a door.”

Yves laughed shortly. “I know what that means.”

“What does it mean?” Chantel said quickly.

“It means Neville has given up. Doesn’t it, Neville?”

“Not at all. Well, perhaps, it means I’ve given up on any human solutions. But God can do all things.”

“I agree with that, of course, but God helps those who help themselves.”

“I don’t think that’s quite right.”

“It’s in the Bible, isn’t it?”

“No, I don’t think so. I believe it’s in Aesop’s Fables.”

Chantel said, “But I can see what Yves is saying. Surely God expects us to do something.”

“I am sure He does at times, but I don’t think that He wants us to break the law to get your sister back. I do believe that if we ask Him, He will show us a way.”

Yves suddenly stood up. “I’m tired,” he said. “It’s bed for me.”

“Good night,” Chantel said. She waited until he had gone into the cabin. The Broussards had fixed beds for the men in the loft. Chantel would sleep on the floor in the main room of the cabin.

Neville waited for Chantel to speak, and when she did not, he said, “I’m sorry I haven’t been more help.”

“Oh, don’t say that, Neville! I wouldn’t have gotten this far if it weren’t for you.” She hesitated and then said, “I want to tell you what happened to me.” She quickly related her experience of calling on God, and when she finished, she said, “I don’t know what happened to me in my spirit or in my heart, but I know that I feel so different. I know God has spoken to me. I just don’t know what it all means.”

“I think it means God has come into your heart. I think you were converted.”

“I don’t know that word.”

“It’s simply another way of saying that you’re not under the bondage of sin anymore. You asked God to forgive you in the name of Jesus, and He did.”

“I hope so. I need God’s forgiveness.”

“We all do.” He smiled at her, saying, “I’m so happy for you!”

The two sat until the sounds within the cabin grew quiet. The door opened, and Broussard stepped outside. “Your bed is ready, miss. It’s not much, but it’s the best we have.”

“Thank you, Mr. Broussard.”

The inside of the cabin was murky, but Broussard said, “We leave this lamp on to give you a little light. Good night.” He left to go to the rear of the house.

Before Neville went to the loft, he reached out and put his hands on Chantel’s shoulders. Turning her to face him, he said, “God is able. We’ll get her back for you.”

“Do you really believe that, Neville?”

“Yes, I do.” He leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek, then without another word turned and moved up to the loft.

Lying down on the quilts that Mrs. Broussard had provided, Chantel touched the place where Neville had kissed her. “Good night,” she whispered and then tried to sleep.

“Wake up, Chantel.”

Chantel came awake instantly. She had slept no more than three hours, for she could not help going over and over in her mind ways to get her Veronique back. Now she sat up abruptly and saw Neville standing over her. “What is it?” she said.

Neville held out a piece of paper. “It’s Yves. He’s gone to get Veronique.”

“What!”

“Read the note.” Neville’s face was grim.

I have gone to get your sister. Don’t worry about me. I can do this. Yves.

“Oh, Neville, it’s not right!”

“It’s not right and it’s dangerous,” Neville said grimly.

“What can we do?”

“I guess all we can do is wait. You and I can’t go thrashing around in that swamp.”

Suddenly fear came to Chantel. “I know he’s doing this for me, but I’m afraid.”

They did wait, but not willingly. Mrs. Broussard cooked a breakfast for them of ham and eggs and biscuits, but Chantel could not eat more than a few bites. The coffee she served was so strong it was bitter.

Chantel turned to Michael Broussard and said, “We’ve got to go out and find him.”

“No, you must not do,” Broussard said quickly. “It is too dangerous. The bayou itself has dangers, and Simon Tubberville is no man to fool with.”

“I think I should go,” Neville said, “but you must wait here, Chantel.”

“No, we’ll both go.”

Both Broussard and his wife argued against the mission, but in the end they were forced to relent. The two left the cabin, got into one of the pirogues, and both of them paddled, sending the small craft skimming across the waters. Dawn was coming up now, and finding the way was not difficult, for they had noted carefully the landmarks that they had followed the day before. Chantel’s arms grew tired and her back ached, but she did not even consider resting.

“Listen!” Neville said. “Did you hear something?”

“No, I don’t think so. What did it sound like?”

“Like a shot—but maybe I was mistaken.”

They paddled steadily and had almost reached the landing when Neville said, “Look, there’s a boat over there.”

Chantel looked, and her heart lurched. She whispered, “Let’s go. It’s the one that Yves took.” She turned the prow of the pirogue around, and as they approached, she stood up.

“Be careful. These things turn over easily.”

“Neville, it’s Yves! He’s lying in the bottom of the boat.”

Neville maneuvered the small craft around, and as soon as it was possible, he grabbed the edge of the craft, and Chantel stepped inside.

Yves was lying facedown in the bottom of the boat. He was wearing a thin white shirt, and when Chantel turned him over, she saw that his breast was stained with blood. “Yves!” she cried and reached down to touch his face.

“Is he dead?”

“No, he’s breathing. But, oh, there’s blood everywhere!”

“We’ve got to get out of here. Look, let me get in that boat, and I’ll paddle him. You take this one.”

The exchange was made, and soon Chantel was following the boat in front of her. Neville called back to her, “I think he’s going to be all right, but he’s lost a lot of blood.”

“We’ve got to get help, Neville!”

“I know. We’ll get him to the Broussards’. Then we can clean him up and see how badly he’s hurt.”

They paddled so hard that both of them were exhausted, but when they reached the landing at Broussards’ cabin, their host was there to help. “I saw you coming,” he said as he pulled the boat in. “Is he dead?”

“No, but he’s badly wounded.”

“We’ll get him inside. My wife, she is good with hurts like this.”

Yves was a large man, and Broussard and Neville were not. They struggled and finally got him inside the house.

As they laid him back, Yves opened his eyes and saw Chantel. He coughed and made a grimace of pain. “Well,” he whispered, “that wasn’t such a good idea.”

“Oh, Yves, I wish you hadn’t gone!”

“So do I,” Yves sighed, and his face was pale as old ivory. He did not speak again, but after Hannah Broussard had removed the shirt and cleaned the wound, she said, “It is not so bad. See how high the wound is? It missed the lung, but he has lost a lot of blood. He’s very weak.”

“We’d better take him to the hospital in Baton Rouge,” Neville said.

“If you think so, Neville.” Chantel leaned against him and felt his arm go around her. She closed her eyes and found herself feeling faint, but then she shook her head. She looked again at Yves’s face and whispered, “He was trying to do it for me, but he shouldn’t have.”

Chantel’s brow furrowed, and she said, “Are you sure you feel well enough to make the trip to New Orleans, Yves?”

“Yes, I’m fine. Just weak.”

The two of them were in Yves’s hospital room in Baton Rouge. He was dressed, and his bag was on the bed. During the entire four days he had been here, Chantel had come every day, and with relief had seen him lose his pallor. But now she was worried. “Why don’t you just wait here?”

“There’s nothing I can do here.”

At that moment the door opened, and Neville came through. His clothes had been wrinkled when they had left the swamp, but now he was impeccably dressed again. “The mail coach is here, Yves,” he said. “But I don’t think you ought to try this trip. You’re still weak.”

“No, I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me.” Yves stared at Neville and said, “I know you think I’m an irreligious dog, but when I went down from that shot, something happened.”

“What was it?”

“They say just before you die your whole life flashes in front of you. I always thought that was ridiculous. But something like that happened. Of course, I didn’t lose consciousness right away, but as I lay there in that boat bleeding my life out, I thought what a mess I’d made of everything.” Yves smiled suddenly and shook his head. “You would have been proud of me, Neville. I called on God. It’s the first time I tried to talk to Him in a long time.”

“I’m glad you did,” Neville said warmly.

“I think I would have died if you hadn’t got there and stopped the bleeding. So, who knows? Maybe I’ll be in your congregation pretty soon.”

Chantel said quickly, “Just stay here a few more days and get stronger.”

“No, I must go. Before I leave I want to warn you about something.”

“Warn me about what?”

“About a fortune hunter. His name is—” He stopped abruptly and laughed when he saw the two of them hanging on his words. “His name is Yves Gaspard. He’s a fine-looking fellow, but don’t have anything to do with him.”

“That’s not true,” Chantel said.

“Not now, but I know myself pretty well. If this hadn’t happened, I would have tried to marry you. And it would have been a terrible thing for you.” He reached out and put his hand on Chantel’s cheek and said in a totally serious voice, “You deserve better than me.” Leaning forward, he kissed her on the cheek. Then he said, “I’m ready. You’ll be hearing from me.”

Neville picked up the bag and walked outside. He watched Yves carefully and saw that the wound still pained him. He put down the bag and helped Yves into the coach. Then, taking the bag, he handed it to the driver, who stored it on the top. He turned back and saw that Yves was putting his hand out. Neville shook it and said, “Thanks for what you tried to do, Yves.”

“It’s up to you now, Neville—you and God.”

Neville watched the coach leave, then turned to find Chantel watching from the porch.

“Well, he’s gone,” she said. “You know, he’s a pretty brave fellow.”

“Yes, he is. Well, follow me.”

“What are we going to do now?”

“We may have to press charges. I don’t like it, but it may be the only way to get Veronique.” He turned to her, adding, “But God is up to something, and I want to be in on it!”

Chapter twenty-six

The sun had risen by the time Chantel opened her eyes. She sat up and winced, for her muscles were still somewhat sore from the effort of paddling the pirogue. She had slept better the previous night than she had expected and now realized that it was a Sunday morning. Her thoughts went back to that other life she had had on Fontaine Maison, and she realized that she would have been dressing to go to Mass.

She got out of bed and stared around the hotel room for a moment. It was not ornate in the least, but the bed had been comfortable. Quickly she bathed as completely as she could at the basin, then dressed and fixed her hair. She opened the door and stepped outside to find Neville exiting from his own room. “Good morning,” she said.

“Well, good morning. I thought you might sleep late.”

“No, but I did sleep better.”

“So did I. Come along. We’ll have breakfast.”

“What are you going to do then?”

“Why, I’m going to church.”

“May I go with you?”

Neville’s eyes opened wide with surprise. “If you like.”

Chantel laughed at his reaction. “I know. I told you once that Catholics couldn’t go to other services, but I’m going this time.”

“I think that’s a fine thing. We’ll eat breakfast; then we’ll hear a good sermon.”

The church was not large, but it was filled to capacity. Chantel’s heart beat a little faster as she thought of what her priest might say if he knew what she was doing—but somehow things had changed for her. She felt a freedom she had not known existed as she accompanied Neville down the aisle and took a seat with him. He pressed his shoulder against hers, and she turned to him and said, “I think this is a very good thing to do.”

“It’s always good to go to the house of God.”

The singing was not what Chantel was accustomed to, but she followed the words in the book and tried to sing along. Neville, of course, knew all the words and seemed to find great joy in joining in.

But it was the sermon that really got Chantel’s attention. The minister was a man of forty, tall and with a pair of piercing blue eyes. When he announced his text, Neville opened his Bible and found it, so that she was able to follow along. He began reading at Psalm 78, which was a record of the dealings of God with Israel in the wilderness.

And they tempted God in their heart by asking meat for their lust. Yea, they spake against God; they said, Can God furnish a table in the wilderness?

The minister lifted his eyes and said, “That is my subject this morning. Can God furnish a table in the wilderness?”

Chantel listened as he spoke of the difficulties of Israel as they wandered. “They were out in a howling wilderness, and in those days, there were no stores. There was no place to buy food. I imagine mothers with their children were worried, and fathers could not imagine what they would do to feed their families in that terrible, barren place. So they made their big mistake. They failed God, and when Moses asked them to trust God, they taunted him, saying, ‘Can God furnish a table in the wilderness?’”

Chantel listened intently as the minister laid out the difficulties, impossibilities really, and she thought, How very like my situation. But probably everyone in this building has hard things that they are facing.

“You know the story. God did indeed furnish a table in the wilderness. The Scripture tells us that He rained bread down upon them, and He sent quail for meat. And I say to you this morning, if you are facing an impossible situation, remember it’s impossible only for you, for nothing shall be impossible with God.”

Chantel heard little of the rest of the message, for those words seemed to have been driven into her heart—God can furnish a table in the wilderness.

And as they left the church and walked back toward the hotel, she said, “I enjoyed the service.”

“It was a fine sermon,” Neville agreed.

“What did he mean about fasting and praying when we want something very much?”

“You remember our conversation with Yves when he said, ‘Can’t we do something?’”

“Yes, I remember.”

“Well, I didn’t have a very good answer,” Neville said ruefully. “There is something we can always do when we’re faced with a problem we can’t handle. The Bible says we have to fast and to pray.”

“Then that’s what I think we should do, Neville.”

Neville said at once, “I believe you’re right. We’ll go to our rooms, you to yours, I to mine, and we’ll begin to pray.”

“And we won’t eat until God gives us an answer?”

“We’ll pray until God either answers us or gives us a word that we’ve fasted and prayed enough.”

Chantel felt the pressure of the bed against her forehead. She had prayed until she had thought she could not possibly pray another moment. She had prayed standing, kneeling, sitting, walking around the room. She had wept, she had even cried aloud once— but nothing seemed to have happened.

Now she felt physically exhausted—and also besieged with doubts.

This will never work. I feel so—so stupid! God knows what we need. Why do I have to keep on praying?

She had prayed all day Sunday and all Sunday night, and now the sun was coming up. Her mouth was dry, and she felt the pangs of hunger. She could hear people moving around the hotel and knew that they were going down to breakfast.

How long can I keep this up? And why should I keep it up? It isn’t doing any good.

Neville had warned her before they had parted that thoughts like these would come. “It’s not a glamorous, exciting thing, praying through like this. Your body gets tired, but your mind gets even more tired. Most people can’t keep it up. But remember, Jesus prayed in the wilderness for forty days without eating.”

Now Chantel shifted her position again on her aching knees. Suddenly she held up her hands and cried, “Oh, God, I don’t know how to pray! I’ve said everything I know. Do with me what you will, only save my sister.”

Then even as she knelt there, Chantel felt her mind begin to clear. It was as if a fog had been in it, and now a fresh wind blew it away. A feeling of completion came to her. Somehow she knew that God had heard!

As she quietly waited, a memory came to her very sharply, as clearly as if she were going through the experience again. It had to do with Michael Broussard and something he had said. She had paid little heed at the time, but now as she knelt there, suddenly she knew that this was the answer she had been seeking. She got to her feet slowly and whispered, “Thank you, God.”

Then she walked to the door. Going out into the hall, she knocked at Neville’s room. When he opened the door, she did not even give him time to speak. “I think God has given me something, Neville,” she said, “but you must decide.”

“Come in and tell me,” Neville said. He pulled her inside and shut the door.

“It’s a little thing, but do you remember when we asked Broussard about Tubberville? He told us something that I hardly even took in because I was so worried about Veronique. He said that Tubberville had a daughter who had run away from home.”

“I remember that. What about it?”

“If we can find her, she will know that Veronique is not her real sister.”

Neville blinked with astonishment. “Of course,” he said. “I’m so dense! She could give us the proof we need.”

“Can we find her?”

“Yes, we can find her. It’s something definite.” He smiled suddenly and said, “Fasting and prayer seemed to have worked.”

A great joy came to Chantel, and she whispered, “It’s the first time I ever really heard from God about something. Come, we’ve got to get started. We must find her quickly!”

Chapter twenty-seven

Michael Broussard had not been surprised to see the couple return. “I thought you would come back,” he said. “How is Monsieur Gaspard?”

“He’s very well. Well enough to go back to New Orleans,” Chantel said. The two had reached the Broussard cabin at midday and had talked most of the way about how to find Tubberville’s daughter. Now Chantel said, “You told us, Michael, that Simon Tubberville had a daughter who ran away.”

“Yes, that is true.”

“We need to find her,” Chantel said. “Does she live around here?”

“No, she ran away with a man, but I think she would not want her father to find her even now. She was an unhappy girl. I think anyone living in that house would be unhappy.”

The words gave Chantel pain, and she said, “If we could just find her, I think we could get my sister back.”

Broussard shrugged. “I will ask around. Someone will know.”

“Can you find out as quickly as possible?” Neville said.

“I will do my best, monsieur.”

Neville and Chantel were impatient, but there was nothing else to do. Broussard had left at once, riding out on his gelding, and they had decided that they would not go back to Baton Rouge but simply wait, no matter how long it took.

Finally they went for a walk. November had come, and a chill was in the air. The sun overhead was white and threw rays that did not contain much warmth. They reached the edge of the bayou, and for a time they simply stood looking out.

A great blue heron was fishing down the way. He moved slowly, almost imperceptibly, then suddenly his beak shot down and he came up with a small fish. He tossed it into the air, caught it expertly, and swallowed it headfirst.

Neville turned to Chantel. “I haven’t told you what I want to do with my life.”

“Are you going to leave the law and become a minister? I know you’ve talked about it.”

“Not right away. I want to start a work down on the waterfront in New Orleans. I don’t know if you’ve ever been there, but it’s filled with derelicts, men and women who have reached the very bottom. They’re without hope, and no one seems to care about them.”

“How can you help them, Neville?”

“Well, for one thing, see that those who are starving get something to eat and a place to sleep, at least for a night or two. And then, of course, I want to lead as many as I can to know the Lord Jesus as Savior.” He went on for some time speaking of the rescue mission that he wanted to start.

“I’d like to help, Neville. I can’t do much, but I can give money.”

“That’s a kind heart speaking. I’m sure if you saw some of those poor men and pitiful women, you’d know that this is a good thing to do.”

“I do know it, and I think it’s wonderful that you want to do such a thing.”

“I’ll keep on with my law practice, and my income can build the place. I’ve been talking to some business associates, and many have said that they’d like to help.”

“I want to come and see it when you get started. You’ll be preaching, won’t you?”

“Unless we can get someone better.”

Chantel listened as he spoke, and finally she turned her head. “Listen, I hear someone coming.”

“It’s Broussard!” Neville exclaimed. “Let’s see what he’s learned.”

Broussard came off his horse, smiling broadly.

“You found out something, didn’t you, Michael?” Chantel cried.

“Yes. I found the name of the man Joanna Tubberville ran away with. His name is Romain Billaud.”

“Good work!” Neville said warmly. “Did anyone know where they live?”

“His family were fishermen. They lived in St. Charles. That’s all I could find out.”

“That’s enough. Thank you, Michael,” Neville said. “Come on, Chantel. The door is open.”

St. Charles was a rather dreary village, and both Chantel and Neville were tired from their journey. “The horses are about done in,” he said. “I think we’re going to have to rest them up no matter what we find here.”

“Oh, I hope the woman is here. She could help so much.”

“She may not want to speak,” Neville warned. “Cajuns are very private people—very clannish. They don’t display their troubles for outsiders. But we’ll see.”

He stepped out of the wagon and spoke to a man who was leaning back in a chair against the outer wall of a storefront. “Excuse me, sir. I’m looking for the Billaud family. Do you know them?”

“I reckon I do.” The man was a rangy individual dressed in a heavy brown coat with a broad-brimmed hat pulled down almost over his eyes. “You know the family?”

“We’ve never met them, but we have business with them.”

“Well, you may not have heard, but Frank Billaud died last year. His wife still lives here though.”

“Can you tell me how to get to her house?”

“I can.”

Neville listened carefully to the directions, said thank you, and got back in the buggy. “At least we found the right family.”

They found the house with no trouble, and both of them got out and walked up to the front door. It was a plain white house, not large but with two stories, and was well cared for. When he knocked on the door, a tall woman opened it and waited for them to speak.

“Mrs. Billaud?”

“I am Mrs. Billaud.”

“My name is Neville Harcourt, and this is Miss Chantel Fontaine. I wonder if we might speak with you.”

The woman hesitated, then she nodded and said, “Come in.”

When the pair entered, she led them to a drawing room where there was a fire throwing out warmth. “What can I do for you?”

“I am an attorney from New Orleans, Mrs. Billaud. We need very much to find the woman who was Joanna Tubberville.”

“That is my daughter-in-law.”

Relief flooded Chantel, and she said quickly, “We need to find her very badly.”

“Why would you want my daughter-in-law?”

Neville understood her apprehension and said, “There’s no problem with Joanna or with your son, Mrs. Billaud. We simply need some information from her about her family.”

Mrs. Billaud said, “I’m afraid I can’t give out information to strangers.”

“May I at least tell you why we need to find her?” Chantel asked.

Mrs. Billaud looked at the young woman, and something changed in her face. “I suppose it will do no harm for me to listen. Sit down.” She took a chair herself, sitting stiffly upright.

Chantel at once plunged into the story of how she had lost her mother and her sister. She felt that this was the time for the truth, and she related everything that had happened. “So you see, Mrs. Billaud, I’m convinced that the girl who is living with Simon Tubberville is really my sister, and I need her back. She’s all the family I have.”

Something about Chantel’s voice and features must have moved Mrs. Billaud, for she said, “I never heard of such a thing, but I would put nothing past Simon Tubberville!” Her face grew tense. “He’s a vicious man. When Romain wanted to marry his daughter, I felt he was making a mistake. But we were wrong about Joanna.” Her face eased, and she said, “She has been a good wife to my son.”

“Could you tell us where they are? Do they live here in St. Charles?”

“No, Romain lives in Alexandria. He owns a general store there and has two fine children.”

“We need to see your daughter-in-law and get the truth about how this girl came to her family.”

“I think that is a good thing to do. That is no place for a child— especially a young girl.”

“I think something may be done if Joanna could help us.”

Mrs. Billaud went to a desk against the wall, where she wrote a note and put it into an envelope. “Give this to her,” she said. “I think you’ll find she’ll be as helpful as she can.”

“Thank you so much, Mrs. Billaud.”

As the two left the house, Chantel said, “Can we leave today?”

“I’ll have to change these horses. Perhaps there’s a stable we can rent from while these two rest up. Yes, I think we need to press on as quickly as we can.”

Alexandria was a much larger town than St. Charles, but finding the object of their quest was not difficult.

“I’ve been praying that this would be the end of our search,” Chantel said as they pulled up in front of the store.

“So have I. Let’s go in.”

It was a rather large general store packed with merchandise of all sorts, from animal traps to bolts of cloth to groceries of many kinds. A woman stood behind the counter, and when they approached, she smiled and said, “May I help you?”

“We’re looking for Mr. Billaud.”

“That’s my husband, but he’s out of town on a business trip. Could I help you?”

“I have a letter here, Mrs. Billaud, from your mother-in-law.”

“From my mother-in-law? Is she all right?”

“Oh, she’s fine!” Chantel said. “She thought the note might introduce us to you.”

Joanna Billaud opened the envelope, read the letter, and said, “We can speak privately in the room behind the store.” She lifted her voice and said, “Claude, watch the store while I’m gone.”

Chantel and Neville followed her down the aisle and then into a small room containing a desk, a safe, and several chairs.

“Would you care to sit down?”

“Thank you very much,” Chantel said. “I’ll tell you the same story I told your mother-in-law.” She launched into her story, and Joanna Billaud listened. Her face changed when Chantel mentioned the little child who had disappeared, but she said nothing. Chantel left nothing out, telling how one of their number had been wounded in an attempt to get the child back.

“And so you see, Mrs. Billaud, I’m convinced that the child known as Jeanne Tubberville is really my sister, Veronique Fontaine. I want to take her out of that place and give her a home. I can provide for her very well and give her love and affection.”

Chantel came to the end. For a moment she feared that the woman would not be willing to help, for Joanna’s face had grown hard.

She sat there silently, but finally she said, “So you would take the child into your home and treat her as your own?”

“She’s all the family I have. I just want to help her.”

The woman looked directly at Chantel and examined her carefully, as though she were trying to memorize her features. Finally she said slowly, “I remember the day my father brought the girl home.”

“Then she’s not Simon’s daughter! I knew it!”

“No, she is not his daughter. And you are right. Just one look tells you she’s not like the rest of the family. Her hair and her eyes are different. Everything about her is different.”

“What did your father say about her?” Neville asked.

“He said that a man had died and the mother was sick and had other children. He said she asked him to take the child as his own.

I never believed that, but no one ever questioned my father. Not in that house.”

At once Neville expelled a sigh, and his eyes met those of Chantel. He turned again and said, “Would you testify to this, Mrs. Billaud?”

It was as if the woman did not hear him. She sat there staring blindly across the room, and finally she whispered, “My father, he is not—a good man.” She seemed to struggle with painful memories that were coming back, then she turned to face them. “I had to run away because it was not safe for me to be there.”

She turned to Chantel and said, “I love the girl Jeanne. Get her away from that place.” Then she turned and nodded. “Yes, Mr. Harcourt, I will take an oath before God in court that Jeanne is not of Tubberville blood.”

The sun had come out in full strength now, and heated the earth as Neville and Chantel drove along the rutted road. The rain had softened it, and the mud was splattered over the guard and had even gotten on their clothes. But it did not matter.

Neville had taken Mrs. Billaud to the local judge, and she had told her story. It had been set down, and she had signed it. Now he patted his pocket and said, “With this paper and Mrs. Billaud’s testimony we’re going to be all right.”

“She was very worried about Veronique, and I am, too. Oh, we must get her out of there at once.”

The buggy jolted along, and Neville turned to face her. “We will get her out,” he said. “God is on our side.”

Chapter twenty-eight

He looks more like a gambler on a riverboat than a sheriff, Chantel thought as she studied Sheriff Louis Prewitt. Neville had discovered that Sheriff Prewitt had jurisdiction over the area where the Tubbervilles lived, and the two of them came to his office and presented their case to him. Prewitt sat back in his chair, fondling the gold chain that hung across his colorful vest, and studied the pair. He was a short man, no more than five-foot-five, but he wore high-heeled boots to compensate. His white ruffled shirt was almost glaring, and a string tie decorated the area under his chin. From time to time, as Prewitt moved his hands, four diamond rings glittered. He had innocent-looking blue eyes, and overall Chantel was disappointed in his appearance. She had expected a strong looking man over six feet tall.

Prewitt brought his chair down and laid his delicate looking hand on the paper that Neville had brought to him. “And what you say these papers they mean?”

“That you have the authority to get Miss Fontaine’s sister from the home of Simon Tubberville.”

“And what I gonna do with her?”

“The papers explain that you may turn her over to us. There will be a trial to determine the parenthood of the girl.”

Prewitt scratched his cheek gently. He had an olive complexion and a thin mustache that he touched from time to time as if to reassure himself that it was still there. He studied the pair before him, then turned to the tall, hulking man who stood with his back to the wall listening to all of this. “What you think, Odo? You think Tubberville give up this child if we say please?”

The deputy was at least six-foot-three and massively built. He appeared to have some Indian blood in him. He said stolidly, “I theenk we will maybe shoot him first. He will nevair give up nothing, him!”

Prewitt stroked his mustache fondly, then looked up at Chantel. “Why I should maybe get killed or get Odo here killed trying to get this girl?”

Neville said quickly, “Because you’re a noble man, and I have a feeling that Tubberville isn’t one of your favorites.”

The words touched a nerve in the sheriff. “He is not, no!” Reaching down, he stood up, walked around the desk, and pulled up his right pant leg. “You see thees scar? Tubberville give him to me. He shoot me two years ago, and I promise I shoot him back someday.” He said, “Odo, go get Jean Baptiste and Sonny. Tell them to bring plenty guns and bullets.”

The big deputy moved out the door, making no noise whatsoever, and Sheriff Prewitt said, “You staying at the hotel. I’ll send someone after you when we get back.”

“I’m going with you,” Chantel said.

“No, that is not good,” the sheriff said at once. “He is a dangerous man.”

“That’s right,” Neville said. “You mustn’t come, Chantel, but I’ll go.”

The argument was rather long and lasted until Odo got back with the two other deputies.

“I’m going with you, and that’s all there is to it! The girl will be very frightened, and she’ll need a woman to comfort her. Who better than her own sister?”

The sheriff laughed. “I like your spunk. I say you go.”

“Sheriff, you can’t do that,” Neville said.

“Yes, you come, too, lawyer mon. I geev you a shotgun. Don’t worry if you kill this fellow. He’s long overdue to die, him!”

As soon as the prow of the boat touched the land, Chantel stepped out and held it steady while Neville joined her. He moved awkwardly, for he had an enormous shotgun, and his pockets were stuffed with shells. He held the weapon gingerly and shook his head. “You don’t need to be along for this, Chantel. You stay here at the boats.”

“I don’t want to seem stubborn, but—”

Prewitt interrupted her. “Come, we go quickly. You, Miss Fontaine, and you, lawyer mon, you stay with me.” He turned to the three deputies and said, “Odo, you go and get on the other side. You go ahead of us. And you too, Sonny. You get on the east side of the house. And, Jean, you get on the other side. You surround him, no?”

The three deputies nodded, then trotted away like hound dogs on a scent. They disappeared almost miraculously into the tall trees and the undergrowth. Prewitt gave them a few minutes, waiting for a time and seeming to sniff the air. Finally he turned and said, “You two stay behind me a way. Thees ees one mean fellow.”

He carried a rifle in his hand and looked completely out of place in his fancy boots and colorful vest. He was smiling and humming under his breath, and from time to time he broke out into a song just barely loud enough for them to hear.

The party moved silently—except for Prewitt’s soft singing—and when they got within sight of the cabin, Prewitt held his hand up. “You stay here,” he said.

He moved forward slowly, and they saw his head turn from side to side and point to point. When he was some forty yards away from the cabin, he called out, “Tubberville—Simon Tubberville, come out here—and let me see some empty hands or you be sorry!”

Silence followed his call. Chantel looked on both sides of the cabin but saw no signs of the deputies. She was sure, however, that they were there.

Slowly the door opened, and Mrs. Tubberville came out. She had no rifle in her hands this time. Immediately behind her came the girl she called Jeanne.

“Mrs. Tubberville, where’s your husband?”

“He’s not here.”

“Just stay right there.” Prewitt moved forward, studied the pair closely, then stepped into the cabin. The woman and the girl did not move but stood staring across the open space at Chantel and Neville. Prewitt came back out quickly and stood in front of the woman. “Where is Simon?”

“Hunting.”

Prewitt laid his gun flat on the ground, reached into his pocket, and pulled out an envelope. He took out a paper and said, “You read this.”

“I can’t read.”

“Well, I will read it to you.” He started reading the paper, and suddenly Chantel moved forward. The sheriff stopped reading and looked at her. “What is it?” he said.

“Let me talk to the girl.”

“All right. You stay where you are, Mrs. Tubberville. Girl, you go with this lady.”

Jeanne looked like a frightened, stricken deer.

“Come along, Jeanne. I have something to tell you.”

The girl hesitated, looking at her mother, but the woman simply shrugged. She was defeated looking, with lines of suffering on her face. Her eyes were dull, and this scene, it seemed to Chantel, was just one of a series of sorrows in her life.

Chantel motioned to the girl and said, “Don’t be afraid, Jeanne.”

“Why does the man have a gun? Is he going to hurt my mama?”

“No, but I have something to tell you.” She hesitated and wondered if the speech she had rehearsed would work. “When I was about your age, Jeanne, I lived with my parents and my little sister on a plantation outside of New Orleans.”

Jeanne kept her eyes fixed on Chantel as the story poured forth. Finally Chantel told her about the flood and said, “My mother’s body was found in the river—but my sister was never found.”

As gently as she could she said, “I do not believe the Tubbervilles are your real parents. I think you are my sister.”

The girl’s lips tightened, and she seemed to shrink. “Why do you think that?”

“Because you look exactly like our mother, and your hair and your eyes are not the same as your parents. When you were a little baby your hair was that color, and your eyes were violet as they are now.”

“What do you want?” the girl whispered. She seemed unable to take her eyes from Chantel’s face, and she shivered as if a cold blast had struck her.

“I want you to come and live with me. You’re all the family I have. I want to tell you all about your mother and your father—our parents. I’ll show you where you were born. You’ll have your own room. I love you, dear sister, and I want you to come home with me.”

A fit of trembling seized the girl, and tears began to gather in her eyes. Chantel put her arm around the girl. “Are you happy here, dear?”

A struggle seemed to take place within the girl. Fear was there, but also a longing. “No, I’m—I’m afraid.”

Chantel said, “You must come with me, Veronique. That’s your name. And I promise you that you will never be hurt. I know you’re afraid, and I know you and I don’t know each other, but I’ll take you to our home, and you’ll be safe. I’ll take care of you always.”

Veronique looked over her shoulder toward the yard, and she whispered, “My papa. He will not let me go. He will hurt anyone who tries to take anything that’s his.”

“Sheriff Prewitt will take us out of here. Your father won’t know where you are. He can never hurt you. Will you come?”

Veronique nodded, and Chantel took a deep breath. “Come now, sister. It’s time for you to leave. Get your things.”

She led Veronique to the front and said, “Mrs. Tubberville, you’ve heard the sheriff. I’m taking my sister with me. Let her get her things, and we will go.”

The girl did not do as Chantel said, but went to the woman and held out her hand tentatively. Mrs. Tubberville stared at it, then reached out and took it. They stood that way as if frozen for a time, and then the woman said, “It is better for you to go, Jeanne. This is no good place for you.”

“You are not my mother?”

“No. Now go before your papa gets back.”

Veronique pulled her hand away and went quickly into the house. Chantel came over to the woman and said, “I’m sorry. I know you love her, but she shouldn’t be here.”

The woman did not answer for a time. Then she lifted her eyes, and Chantel saw the pure misery that was in them. “Take her quickly. Take care of her.”

“I will. I promise you I will.”

The door opened and closed, and Veronique stood there with a sack in her hands. She went over to the woman she had called mother all her life, and the woman suddenly reached out and embraced her. Chantel heard her whisper hoarsely, “Think of me sometimes.” Then she released her and turned her back to them. She stood stiffly as if she could not bear to watch.

Prewitt said, “Your husband I will arrest. He will be charged with kidnapping.” He put his fingers into his lips and blew a shrill blast. Almost at once the three deputies materialized, and the party moved away.

As they moved down the path, Veronique held tightly to Chantel’s hand. She looked back once, and Chantel followed her glance. The woman was watching them. She did not move or lift a hand in farewell.

Tears were flowing down the child’s face, and Chantel’s heart went out to her. I’ll take this grief away from her. Before God, I will.

The three deputies and Prewitt went first, and they were almost to the boat out in the clearing when a shot rang out. The deputy named Sonny fell to the ground and lay perfectly still. The other two deputies and Prewitt whirled and began a furious fire on the wood. Prewitt was shouting, “He’s over there! Move around to your left! You people lie down!”

Bullets whistled around Chantel, and suddenly Neville was there, grabbing her and the child. He pulled them to the ground and shielded them with his body. Then, lying down, he leveled the shotgun, and a tremendous booming sound filled the space.

Chantel held her sister tightly, but she watched as Prewitt suddenly got up and ran directly at the spot from which the fire seemed to be coming. He seemed to have no fear whatsoever, and he was shouting and cursing as he ran. He emptied his rifle, pulled out a revolver, and fired three times. Chantel heard him yell, “I got heem that time!” He emptied the revolver, then suddenly turned and came back. He was limping badly, and Chantel saw him stop and pull up his pant leg. “Why, that devil got me in the other leg!”

“Is it bad?” Odo said.

“No, just a nick.” Prewitt walked over to Sonny and bent over him. Prewitt did not move for a moment, and finally he stood up. “He is dead.”

Jean Baptiste came to look down at the fallen man. He whispered, “He is my cousin. I will kill Simon for this!”

Chantel stared at the dead man, sick with the violence that had unfolded. She tried to speak, but found that speech was more than she could manage.

Prewitt was tying a handkerchief around his bloody leg. “I think maybe you will. Now, Odo, take these people back to town. You get Nick and his dogs out here—and send word to Sheriff Blevins to block off the bayou. Round up all the men you can. We throw a ring around this swamp. He will never get out. We catch him this time.”

He turned to Neville and Chantel. “Get that child out of here. This is no place for her.” The two deputies began to reload their weapons as Neville urged Chantel and Veronique into the boat. He shoved it off, and Chantel joined him as they paddled away.

Neville saw the girl trembling and said, “Don’t worry, little one. You’re safe now.”

Chantel broke her rhythm long enough to turn and reach her hand out. “Don’t worry. There’s nothing to fear. You and I, we are sisters. I will take care of you always.”

Chapter twenty-nine

As soon as they reached the landing at the Broussards’ cabin, Odo mounted his horse and rode off at a furious pace. Neville said quickly, “Let’s go back to the hotel.”

The Broussards came out with curious looks at the girl but asked no questions. Chantel went to Michael Broussard and held her hand out. When he took it, she said, “I’ll always be grateful to you, Michael, for the help you’ve given me in finding my sister.”

“I’m glad it turned out happily for you,” Broussard said simply.

Chantel turned and took Veronique’s hand. The girl seemed to be stunned, unable to speak. “Come along and get in the buggy. You can ride between Neville and me.”

Neville kept the horses at a fast pace. He and Chantel spoke quietly, mostly to break the silence. Chantel kept her arm around her sister. From time to time the girl would look at her, but she was silent all the way back. Chantel wanted to heap assurances on her, but she knew that things would be difficult for a time. When they reached the hotel, the three of them went inside. The room clerk remembered them. “Ah, Mr. Harcourt. You’re staying with us again.”

“Yes, I need three rooms.”

Chantel spoke up quickly. “Oh, my sister and I can share a room, Neville. Will that be all right, Veronique?”

The trembling girl nodded.

“Come along,” Chantel said as the clerk handed her a key. “I know we’re all tired.”

“You two get a good night’s sleep, and we’ll meet for breakfast,” Neville said. He knelt down in front of Veronique, and she flinched slightly. “You sleep well tonight, Veronique. You and I will get better acquainted soon. There’ll be lots of good things we can do when we get home. Good night.”

Chantel was glad that Neville had taken the time to speak to her sister and to show her attention. She led Veronique up the stairs, and when they entered the room, she put the sack she had brought with her on the bed. “Why don’t you put your bag over there by the wall? Then you and I can wash up. We may have to get some fresh water.”

Without a word, Veronique put the bag down, and then Chantel said, “Are you hungry?”

“No.” Veronique spoke in a whisper, and her frightened expression brought a quick sympathy to Chantel.

“I am. I think I’ll get us something to eat if the restaurant’s still open. I’ll bring it up here, and we’ll have a little picnic. Why don’t you wash in the stand over there? Come, I’ll show you.”

Veronique seemed to warm up to the loving attention from her sister. She followed Chantel to the stand and watched her pour the basin full of water. “See, there’s soap and a washcloth and a towel. Did you bring a nightgown?”

Veronique finally spoke. “Don’t have one, me.”

Chantel had noted that Veronique had the peculiar speech habit of the Cajun people, of adding “me” after a sentence instead of beginning with “I.”

“I’ve got a spare. It’ll be too big for you, of course, but when I was your age, I used to love to wear grown-up clothes. Here, let me get it.” She opened her suitcase, pulled out a flannel gown, and said, “You wash and get into this, and then I’ll be back with something to eat.”

Going downstairs, she found that the kitchen was not yet closed, and she had the cook fix her two plates of hot food. She stopped by the desk and asked them to bring up some fresh water, then went back to her room, where she found Veronique wearing her nightgown and sitting stiffly in a chair.

“Well, you’re all clean and have a nice, fresh gown on. Look, let’s use this dresser as a table. This food smells good.”

Veronique got up and pulled her chair closer. Without appearing to do so, Chantel noted that the child held her fork clutched in an awkward way. She bent over close to her plate and stuffed the food into her mouth as if she were afraid someone would take it from her. The juice ran down her chin and she wiped it with her sleeve. As she ate, she kept glancing fearfully at Chantel. She did not eat much, and she said nothing, but Chantel kept up a running conversation. She hardly knew what she said, and it mattered little, for all Veronique needed was the sound of a voice.

Halfway through the meal a servant brought water, and after they had finished their meal, Chantel undressed and washed herself as well as she could. She slipped into her other nightgown and said, “Now, we ought to sleep well tonight. “

She watched as Veronique moved to the bed and went to her side. She took the child in her arms and hugged her, saying, “I’m so glad I found you, little sister! I’ve always longed for you!” She felt the tension in Veronique’s body at first, but gradually the child relaxed. Chantel kissed her on the cheek, saying, “You look so much like Mama!”

“Do I really?”

“Yes, indeed.” Chantel ran her hand over Veronique’s wealth of light hair, saying, “Her hair was exactly the color of yours—and your face is oval like hers. I’ll show you her portrait when we get home and you’ll see.”

Chantel tucked the child into the bed, smiled, and said, “I’ll see you in the morning, sister.” She turned the lamp’s wick down, and when she got into the other side of the bed she saw that the silvery moonlight was coming in through the window. She lay still for a while, hoping that Veronique would say something, but she did not. She could hear the girl’s rapid breathing and knew she was not asleep, but decided to lie quietly without saying any more.

Soon she fell asleep herself, for she was exhausted. Sometime in the night she heard a cry that startled her. She sat up and saw that Veronique had buried her head in her pillow and was sobbing.

“What is it, dear?”

“I had a bad dream.”

Chantel’s heart went out to her sister. She had had her share of bad dreams, and now she reached out and pulled Veronique into her arms. She held her while the girl sobbed, soothing her, stroking her hair, and making meaningless sounds of comfort. Finally the sobbing ceased, and an idea came to Chantel.

“Now, that’s better. But I want to show you something.” She moved out of the bed, lit the lamp, and got something from her suitcase. She sat down on the bed and pulled Veronique into the circle of her arms. “Look. I want you to see this.”

“What is it?”

“It’s a locket. You see, it opens and there’s a picture inside.”

Veronique grew interested. She took the gold locket and with Chantel’s guidance opened it up. She looked at the picture. “Who is this?”

“This is your mother. Isn’t she beautiful?”

Veronique stared at the picture, hypnotized. She was still so long that Chantel said, “You look very much like her.”

“Do I really?”

“Yes, you do. She had very nice teeth, so even and white, just like yours. I want you to have this locket. When you get lonely, you can open it up and see your mother.”

Veronique turned suddenly. Her face was only inches away from Chantel’s. She whispered, “It’s mine? I can keep it?”

“For always and always. And someday when you have a little girl, you can give it to her.”

Veronique suddenly threw her arms around Chantel and clung to her. She did not speak, but Chantel knew that a bond had been formed. Under her breath, she thanked God that she had brought the locket.

During the trip from Baton Rouge to New Orleans, Neville went out of his way to keep Veronique entertained. He had told Chantel that they must keep her mind off of the past and on the future.

On one long, level stretch he asked her, “Do you know how to drive?”

Veronique shook her head, but Neville handed her the lines and said, “There, you are now a driver.” He winked over Veronique’s head at Chantel and said, “We’re in good hands now.”

Veronique’s eyes lit up, and when they stopped to water the horses, she got out of the wagon to stretch her legs along with the other two.

Chantel whispered to Neville, “That was a sweet thing to do.”

“How do you think she’s doing, Chantel?”

“She had nightmares last night, but I gave her my locket with our mother’s picture in it. She’s wearing it now.”

“I’ve seen her take it out and look at it several times.”

Chantel watched Veronique as she stood in front of the horses, reaching up to touch their noses. “She’s a sweet girl, but she’s had an awful life.”

“She’ll be all right now that she’s with you.”

Chantel suddenly reached out and touched Neville’s arm. “What would I have done without you?”

Neville stood very still, and suddenly Chantel blushed and moved her hand. “How long do you think it will take us to get to New Orleans?”

“Not long,” he said. He called to Veronique, lifted her up into the seat, then helped Chantel up. Climbing up into his own seat, he slapped the lines on the horses and got them to a sprightly trot. “Now, see if you can handle these, sweetheart.”

The trip back to New Orleans had been trying, but Chantel didn’t mind. She spent the hours getting acquainted with Veronique. The youngster was very quiet at first, but as Chantel told her stories about her own life then about things the two of them would do together, she became more talkative. Neville was a help with this, for he was gifted with young people, and kept Veronique entertained with humorous stories from his own life.

Finally they arrived at the town house, and as Neville helped Chantel down, he said, “I’m going to leave you here. I’ve got a lot of work to do. We’re going to have to make sure that things go well legally.”

“Will you come back and tell me as soon as you find out?”

“Yes, of course.” Turning, he stooped down to say to Veronique, “Don’t forget me now. When I come back, we can go downtown and see some of the sights. Would you like that?”

“Yes, please.”

“Good. You take care of your sister now. She’s a big girl, but she’s apt to get into trouble.” He was rewarded by a slight smile on Veronique’s face.

When he had left, Chantel said, “Come inside. I want you to meet my stepmother and our brother.”

“A real brother?”

“Well, he’s what you call a half-brother. His father is our father, but his mother is different. Come along.”

They entered the house, and as soon as the servant shut the door, Collette came to stand before them. “Chantel,” she said, “where have you been?”

“I have a lot of things to tell you, Mama, but first I want you to meet Veronique. Veronique, this is Madame Fontaine.” She had not known exactly how to introduce her. The idea of introducing a third mother would confuse the child even more. Now she saw the shock run across Collette’s face and felt Veronique stiffen beside her.

“Come inside. Will you want a special room for the child?”

“Oh, no, we can share my room.”

Collette said, “Well, you take her there, then come back and we’ll talk.”

“Yes, that would be best.”

Collette watched as the two went up, and her lips grew together in a tight line. She shook her head and murmured, “What foolishness!” then turned and walked rapidly away.

“I don’t think that lady likes me, Chantel,” Veronique said when the two were inside the room.

Chantel had seen the same dislike, but she said, “Of course she does. Now, don’t you worry about anything. I’ll tell you what. I’ll go down and see her for a few moments, and when I come back, you and I will go out and see some of New Orleans. Maybe we’ll go by Neville’s office and see him there, and we can all go out and eat somewhere. Would you like that?”

“Yes. But will you be gone long?”

Chantel sensed her fear. “You just look out the window there. And I have some books you might like to look through.”

“Can’t read, me.”

“Well, you can look at the pictures then.” She gave Veronique several books with pictures in them and went downstairs, where she found Collette in the study.

Collette was abrupt. “You should not have brought that child here. She’s a stranger.”

Chantel instinctively knew that the situation was hopeless, so she did not waste time arguing. She simply said, “She’s my sister, Collette.”

The use of her first name was not lost on her stepmother. Collette drew herself up but said nothing.

“We’ll be leaving tomorrow to go to the plantation,” Chantel said, “so she won’t be in your way. Now, I must go. I don’t like to leave her alone.”

She turned and went back with a heavy heart. She had hoped for better things from Collette, but it didn’t really matter. A fierce sense of possession came over her. She’s my sister. I don’t care what Collette says. And I’ll protect her.

She did not want to leave the girl in the house, so they went out at once. They did go by Neville’s office, but he was not there. They spent the afternoon shopping and stayed out late enough so that they would not have to encounter Collette.

They had just gotten home when Neville suddenly appeared, asking for her. Veronique was already in bed looking at picture books, so Chantel drew him into the library.

“How is Veronique?” he asked quickly.

“Oh, she’s frightened at all the changes. But she’s young and very quick.” Chantel smiled warmly. “I can teach her, Neville. She’s going to be fine.”

Neville nodded, but then his face grew serious.

Neville was relieved to hear that Veronique was adjusting so well and felt it was the Lord’s doing. He then paused and said, “I’ve got something to tell you. It may change things.”

“Oh, Neville, don’t tell me we’re going to have trouble getting her.”

“No, we won’t have that trouble,” he said grimly. He shook his head and said, “Simon Tubberville was killed resisting arrest.”

“Oh, how awful!”

“He wouldn’t have it any other way. I got a telegram from Sheriff Prewitt. He talked to the man’s wife, and there’ll be no challenge over Veronique.”

“Whatever will I tell her?”

“I think eventually you should tell her the truth, but maybe not yet. She’s had too many shocks.”

“I’m not sure. She worries about her father coming after her.”

“Well, then perhaps you had better tell her.”

“Yes, but I will wait to do it when we are at the plantation.”

Neville looked at her questioningly.

“I won’t be staying in this house. Collette was not happy when I brought her home.”

“She wouldn’t be. Your father left his estate to be divided among his ‘lawful lineal descendants,’ so Veronique will get one-third of the amount. She doesn’t like to see Perrin’s assets reduced from a half to a third.”

“I didn’t think she would be that small.” Chantel shook her head sadly. “He could have my share.”

“No. Your father left it as he wanted. When will you be leaving?”

“Tomorrow.”

“I’ll stay here and get all the legal matters straight.”

As he rose to leave, Chantel called his name. “Neville—”

When he turned, she came to him and put her hand out. “I seem to be thanking you a lot, but this would have been impossible without you.”

“I’m glad we found her,” Neville said simply. He held her hand in his, and for one moment something came into his eyes. Chantel was not experienced with men, but she knew that he wanted to kiss her. She did not move—then suddenly he nodded and left. A strange sense of disappointment came to her.

Chapter thirty

Marie Bientot set the heavy pot on the stove, took the lid off, and examined the contents critically. “I hope this gumbo will be as good as it was last time.”

Clarice, who was chopping up vegetables, looked up and said, “Why would it not be good? I always make good gumbo.”

“Yes, you do.” Marie came over and sat down beside Clarice. “Where has the child gone today?”

“She is out riding with Miss Chantel.” Clarice finished slicing the carrots into thin coins, wiped the knife on her apron, and smiled. “That child, she has brought a new life to this place.”

“Yes. It is amazing how she has changed in a little less than a month. When she first came, I thought she was the saddest looking girl I ever saw.”

Marie shook her head, but smiled. “She ate like a little savage, remember?”

“Yes, but she’s learned very quickly.”

“Yes, and she should have! Miss Chantel has spent almost every moment with her. The hours those two have spent shopping!” Marie smiled at the thought, then added, “The child has good taste in clothes.”

“She’s learning to read so quickly. Have you noticed how often she laughs now? She didn’t smile for a long time when she first came.”

“Well, who wouldn’t be sad? Being yanked up from the only home she knew.”

“It wasn’t much of a home, from what I hear. Does she ever speak of it to you?”

“Never. And Miss Chantel says she only mentions the woman she called her mother. She had Miss Chantel write her a letter, but there is no answer yet.”

Marie picked up a carrot slice and ate it. “It is amazing how much she looks like her own mother. She will be just like her when she is grown.”

“It is a wonderful thing for the child that she was found.”

“It’s a wonderful thing for both of them. You know, Chantel never really believed that child was dead. I think the good God must have put it in her heart to have faith that she would be found.”

Chantel was riding Bravo, and she had assigned Lady, her first horse, to Veronique. Lady was getting somewhat old and Chantel’s weight was too much for her, but Chantel loved the horse still. When she gave the horse to Veronique, she said, “Papa gave the horse to me, and now he gives her to you because I give her to you.”

The girl knew little about riding, but she fell in love with the horse, and the two sisters rode over the plantation daily. One afternoon they traveled down the road that led to New Orleans. They came to a river spanned by a bridge, and Chantel pulled up Bravo abruptly. He snorted and threw himself sideways, insulted at her rough treatment.

“What’s wrong, Chantel?” Veronique said. “Don’t we want to cross the bridge?”

“I—I don’t really like to cross it.”

Veronique touched Lady, and the mare moved forward obediently so that she was even with the big stallion.

For a moment Chantel hesitated, and then she said, “This is where our mother died, Veronique. I was on the other side, and she was crossing the bridge holding you in her arms. I saw the bridge break, and the carriage went into the river, and you were carried away in the flood. Ever since that day I’ve hated to cross this bridge.”

Veronique stared at the river, which was now placid and slow moving. She reached out suddenly and took Chantel’s arm. “But we’re together now, aren’t we?”

“Yes, we are, my sister.” Chantel made herself smile. And truly, the river did not seem so ominous and formidable. She had dreamed about it many times, but now somehow she felt that time was over. “Come, we’d better go home.”

They rode homeward in silence until Veronique asked, “Doesn’t Mr. Neville ever come to see you?”

“Sometimes.”

“But he hasn’t been here since I came but one time, and then he didn’t stay long. All he did was let you sign some papers, and then he went away.”

“I think he’s been very busy.”

“I like him a lot. I wish he’d come back.”

“I’m sure he will.”

Veronique was not the only one who had noticed Neville’s absence. It had been a month and, as her sister said, he had come only the one time. And even then he had behaved strangely. Chantel had been so happy to see him, but he had smiled only briefly and refused to stay the night.

“I wish he’d come back. We could go riding in the buggy, and he could let me drive again.”

Chantel said abruptly, “There is a ball at the Taylors’ next week. We’re invited.”

“Me too?”

“Yes, of course you, too! I’ll write Neville and ask him to take us.”

“But can’t dance, me!”

“You will by the time the ball comes. I’ll teach you. We’ll get new dresses, and we’ll be the prettiest girls at the whole ball.”

“And Neville. Do you think he’ll come?”

“I hope so. I’ll write him today.”

As they made their way homeward, Chantel thought, not for the first time, of how much she missed him. And with a start she realized she had thought only briefly of Yves. He came into my life like a whirlwind, and I was carried away with him. He was not the man for me. I see that now.

“Does Mr. Neville have a sweetheart?”

“Why—I don’t know.” The idea of Neville having a sweetheart was very disturbing. Chantel had taken him for granted, but now the question that Veronique had so innocently asked would not leave her. As soon as she got home, she wrote the note and had Brutus take it to be posted. Then she found Veronique and said, “Come along. We’re going to teach you to dance.”

Veronique had been staring out the window, waiting for Neville to arrive. She finally turned to Chantel and asked, “Are you sure he’s going to come?”

“Yes, I’ve told you three times already. He said he’d be here.”

“But it’s late, and I thought he would come early for us.”

Chantel had received only a brief note from Neville saying that he would be glad to take them to the ball, and he had signed it: Sincerely, Neville. The note was strangely unsatisfying, but there was nothing for it but to go on.

The sisters had bought new dresses, and Elise fussed over them and helped them fix their hair. The dresses were made from light green silk. Chantel’s was sleeveless with a dropped neckline, tight bodice, and a long, flowing skirt with two rows of white lace at the bottom. Veronique’s had a high neckline, a tight bodice decorated with tiny white bows down the front, three-quarter length sleeves ending with white lace at the elbows, and a long, full skirt with a large white bow trailing down the back.

“You look beautiful, Veronique,” Chantel said.

“It’s the prettiest dress I ever saw!” Veronique did indeed look pretty. She had gained some weight, and the dress had been carefully tailored for her. Now her violet eyes were beaming with excitement. “I wish Neville would come.”

Five minutes later Marie opened the door. “Mr. Neville is here. Oh, you two look lovely!”

“Thank you, Marie. Let’s go, Veronique.”

Neville was wearing evening dress and looked very distinguished. He came forward at once and took Veronique’s hands. “My word! I have never seen such a lovely young lady.”

“Do you like my new dress?”

“Very much. As a matter of fact, I claim the first dance with you. And maybe all the rest of them.”

Chantel waited for him to turn to her, and when he stood, he smiled briefly and said, “You look very nice, Chantel.”

Chantel felt again a vague sense of disappointment. “Thank you,” she said rather stiffly. “I’m glad you could come.”

Neville hesitated, then gave a half bow. “I expect we’d better be going.”

Chantel accompanied him to the carriage. He lifted Veronique in and then gave her his hand. Chantel gave it an extra pressure, but he simply released her and went to take his own seat. Chantel could not understand his attitude. He had been so excited when they had found Veronique, and now it was as if he were a stranger. She bit her lip and wished that she had not thought of asking him to come for the ball.

The Taylors’ ballroom was not as large as some, but there were at least twenty couples there. There was also a group of young people somewhere close to Veronique’s age, and she was overcome with shyness when she was introduced to them.

The room itself was beautifully decorated, and five musicians began at once to play the music for the first dance. Neville came and said, “I believe this is our dance, Miss Fontaine.”

Veronique giggled and said, “I’m not very good.”

“Well, I’m an excellent dancer. I’ll teach you what you don’t know.”

Chantel watched as the two went around the floor. Veronique concentrated on her steps, but soon Neville said something that made her giggle. He’s so good with her, Chantel thought. He can make her smile so easily.

At that moment she was asked to dance, and for the rest of the evening she had many partners. But to her anguish, Neville danced several times with Veronique but did not come to her.

At one point she managed to encounter him at the refreshment table.

“Veronique seems very happy, Chantel. Does she ever talk about her old life?”

“Not much anymore. Once, after she had been here about a week, she talked for a long time about it. It almost broke my heart.”

“Well, she’s a beautiful child. She’s going to be a beautiful woman.”

The conversation floundered. Neville was watching Veronique, and Chantel felt awkward and ill at ease. Finally she cleared her throat and said, “Neville, you haven’t been to visit us lately.”

Neville gave her a strange look. “I’ve—been rather busy.”

At that instant a thought that had been dancing around Chantel’s mind since Veronique suggested it found expression as clearly as if it were carved in bronze. He’s found a sweetheart! She looked away blindly, not seeing the dancers. He could at least tell me if he’s found someone he likes.

At that moment young Donald Mayfield came and pulled her out to the dance floor. She danced with him and others, but was dully aware that Neville was not even watching her.

The dance ended fairly early, and on the way home Veronique talked more than she ever had. “It was such fun! I hope there’s another ball soon. You’ll come back if there is, won’t you, Neville?”

“I don’t know. I hope so, Veronique. You’re a fine dancer, but you don’t want to be dancing with an old man like me.”

Chantel had expected that Neville would stay all night with them, and when they returned home, the servants were waiting. She said, “We might have a little snack. You have something, don’t you, Marie?”

“Oh, yes, there is plenty.”

“I’m not really very hungry,” Neville said. “And I’m a little tired. I think I’ll turn in. Would you excuse me?”

“Certainly. Good night,” Chantel said stiffly. “Are you hungry, Veronique?”

“Yes, I could eat anything.”

“I’ll go with you then.”

She stayed until Veronique had eaten and then walked to her room, kissed her, and said, “You were beautiful tonight, and your dancing was wonderful.”

“I like dancing with Neville, don’t you?”

“I—” She broke off, because the hurt of his refusal to dance with her was more painful than she had dreamed it could be. “Good night,” she said. She bent over and kissed the smooth cheek, then went to her room.

Chantel stood in the middle of the room for a moment, then sat down before the dresser and stared at her face in the mirror. She could think of nothing but Neville’s strange attitude. Have I done something to offend him? I don’t know what it could be.

She walked the floor for a time and then washed her face. After she had dried it off, she walked over to the window. A movement caught her eye, and she leaned forward and peered out into the darkness. By the faint light of the lantern, she caught sight of Neville walking along the brick walkway that led out to the gardens. His head was down, and he disappeared into the shadows.

At once she grabbed up her coat, slipped it on, and left her room. She ran quickly down the stairs and out the front door and ran down the walk. The moon was full overhead, a huge silver disk.

“Neville!” she called out, and then halted. She had come on a sudden impulse, and now that he turned and came to stand before her, she had not the vaguest idea what to say.

“I—I saw you walking. I was wondering if there’s any trouble. Something you haven’t told me.”

“No, not really. I just wanted some fresh air.”

His words sounded lame to her, and she said, “Let me walk with you.”

“Fine. It’s a little cold. People will think we’re crazy walking in December in the middle of the night.”

Chantel walked beside him and could not think of one thing to say. She finally asked how his work was going.

“All right.”

“And the mission. Have you started it yet?”

“I’ve been spending a lot of time there. I rented an old building that needed a lot of repairs.”

“So that’s why you haven’t been to see me.”

There was enough of a pause that Chantel knew he was struggling for an answer. “Well, of course, it’s been a little hard to get away.”

The silence continued, and finally he said, “I saw Yves a few days ago.”

“Is he all right?”

“Oh, completely recovered. I don’t know how you’ll take this,” he said. “Dominique’s husband died.” He seemed to be fumbling for words, and finally he said, “I think they’re seeing each other.”

“Really? I’m not too surprised. I didn’t think he ever got over her.”

“I’m sorry. I know you had feelings for him. I hated to tell you.”

“Why, Neville, I may have felt something for him once, but it could never have come to anything. I knew that.”

Neville stared at her, and she saw consternation in his eyes. “Do you mean that, Chantel?”

“Why, yes. Did you think it was something else?”

“I thought you were in love with him. He is a romantic fellow. The kind of man I always wanted to be. Dashing and romantic.”

“Neville! You don’t need to be like Yves. You need to be exactly what you are.”

Her words seemed to surprise Neville, and finally Chantel realized that she had to know the truth. “I want to ask you something, Neville.”

“Why, go ahead.”

“Have you found a sweetheart?”

“What?”

“You’re seeing a woman, aren’t you? Someone you care for.”

Neville stared at her in shock. “What makes you think that?”

“Because you haven’t been to see me. You were once in love with me, or said you were—but now you’ve found somebody else.” Chantel found these words hard to say, and she turned her head away.

“Wait a minute!” She felt his hand on her arm, and when she turned around, he took a deep breath. “I don’t want to be hurt again, Chantel. No man likes rejection. But I will tell you once more, I still love you. I always will. But I’m not the kind of man you want. Despite what you say, I know you want a big man who’ll sweep you off your feet. If not Yves, somebody like him.”

When she didn’t speak, he added, “You do remember, Chantel, that you told me you could never think of me as a lover—that we were too much like brother and sister?”

“I—I did say that, but I’ve changed.”

Neville’s face lightened with hope, but he asked cautiously, “How have you changed?”

“I was swept away by Yves,” Chantel replied, realizing even at that moment what had happened. “Perhaps because he looked like my father, but I was in love with love. I would have been miserable married to him.”

She reached up and put her hand on Neville’s chest. “I could never have been happy with him, Neville. When I think about the man I could spend my life with, I want someone who is steady and true and never changes.” Even as she spoke these words, Chantel knew that she was, in effect, saying good-bye to the image that she had had of her father, for he did not have these qualities.

Her lips trembled, and she said, “I think of your patience and your kindness and how you put up with all my moods, and—” She could not finish, for he had put his arms around her and drawn her close.

As he kissed her, the heat of something rash and yet eternal touched them both. She knew at that moment that she had the power to stir him, and even more startling she knew he could stir her more than she had thought possible. She had always thought of love as something that came upon a woman like the striking of a bell, clear and complete, a roundness with no uncertainty to it. And she realized that he had been there for her all along, but she had been too foolish to recognize it.

Finally he lifted his head and said, “I love you, Chantel, but I’ll be serving God in a mission and working in a law office. That’s not a glamorous life.”

“If it’s your life, it will be mine.” She put her hand on his cheek and said, “Neville, do you love me then?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Then will you come courting me?”

“What!” Neville said with surprise.

“I—I think I love you, but I want you to take me places. I want other girls to see you with me and to know that you love me. And will you write me letters?”

“Letters? What kind of letters?”

“Love letters. And maybe a poem. I know you love poetry.”

“I can’t write poetry, Chantel!”

“Yes, you can,” she said firmly. She smiled then and said, “It doesn’t have to be a good poem, just a poem.”

“All right. I’ll write you a poem.” He held her tightly and was stirred by her touch. “And I’ll get a guitar. I’ll learn to play, and I’ll sing love songs under your window. My singing will be so bad that all the servants will laugh.”

Chantel felt suddenly that she had come home. “I won’t laugh,” she said. She reached up, pulled his head down, and kissed him. Chantel put her head on his chest, then, while he held her tightly, she whispered in his ear, “We’re going to have a beautiful courtship, Neville.”

Neville held Chantel tightly, then laughed, saying, “You know, I feel like Job.”

“Like Job? The man in the Bible who suffered so much?”

“Yes, he did suffer, but in the end, God made it up to him—for all of it.” He had lost everything as the Lord tested him, even his children, but after all this tragedy, God gave Job seven sons and three daughters.” Neville kissed her, and his face was glowing with joy.

“And you are like the daughters of Job, sweetheart!”

“How am I like them?” she whispered.

“The Bible says, ‘And in all the land were no women found so fair as the daughters of Job.’” He placed his hand on her cheek, and his voice was filled with emotion as he said, “That’s how I have thought of you for a long time, Chantel—in all the world there is no woman so fair!”

The two clung together under the silvery moon, silhouetted in white light and filled with joy and hope.

About the authors

Dr. Gilbert Morris is a retired English professor. He is the author of more than 170 novels, many of them bestsellers and several of them award winners. He has been married for fifty-three years to Johnnie, and they have three children. His daughter, Lynn Morris, has coauthored many books with her father, including the Cheney Duval, M.D. series.

Look for the next book in

The Creole Series,

The Immortelles.

The

Immortelles

THE CREOLES SERIES

The

Immortelles

Gilbert Morris

&

Lynn Morris

Copyright © 2003 by Gilbert Morris

All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by WestBow Press, a division of Thomas Nelson, Inc.

Scripture quotations are from the King James Version.

Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. All characters, plot, and events are the product of the author’s imagination. All characters are fictional, and any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

ISBN 0-7852-6806-5

Printed in the United States of America

03 04 05 06 07 PHX 5 4 3 2 1

I dedicate this book to my children—

Lynn, Stacy, and Alan.

All so different—but all so loved.

Contents

The Creole Heritage

PART ONE: MAY–NOVEMBER 1831 Damita

Chapter one

Chapter two

Chapter three

Chapter four

Chapter five

Chapter six

PART TWO: SPRING 1832 Charissa

Chapter seven

Chapter eight

Chapter nine

Chapter ten

Chapter eleven

Chapter twelve

PART THREE: 1834–1835 Jeff

Chapter thirteen

Chapter fourteen

Chapter fifteen

Chapter sixteen

Chapter seventeen

Chapter eighteen

PART FOUR: 1835–1836 Yancy

Chapter nineteen

Chapter twenty

Chapter twenty-one

Chapter twenty-two

Chapter twenty-three

Chapter twenty-four

A bout the authors

The Creole Heritage

In the early nineteenth century, the culture of New Orleans was as rich and wildly varied as the citizens’ complexions. Pure Spanish families, descended from haughty dons, still dwelt in the city, and some pure French families resided there, but many were already mingled with both Spaniards and Africans. Acadians—or “Cajuns,” as they came to be called—lived outside of the city. This small pocket of Frenchmen had wandered far from home, but, like many groups in New Orleans, they stubbornly kept much of their eighteenth-century heritage intact and ingrained.

Of course, there were many slaves, but there were also the gen de couleur libres, or free men and women of color. Some of these were pure Africans, but most of them were the mulattoes, griffes, quadroons, and octoroons who were the result of French and Spanish blending with slaves. There were Americans, too, though they were strictly confined to the “American district.” And there were Creoles, people of French and Spanish blood who were born outside of their native countries. Creoles born in New Orleans were Louisianians, but they were not considered Americans.

All well-born Creole families sent their children to receive a classical education at the Ursuline Convent or the Jesuit schools, and both institutions accepted charity children.

This series of novels traces the history of four young women who were fellow students at the Ursuline Convent School:

• The Exiles: Chantel

• The Immortelles: Damita

• The Alchemy: Simone

• The Tapestry: Leonie

PART ONE

• MAY–NOVEMBER 1831 •

Damita

Chapter one

NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA, MAY 1831

“One thing I’m sure of: I’ll never be a nun!”

Assumpta Damita de Salvedo y Madariaga stared at herself in the mirror she kept hidden behind a wall hanging. The sisters felt that mirrors led to vanity and forbade them in the rooms of the students at the Ursuline Convent. Sister Agnes, the sternest of them all, had said at least a thousand times, “It is the beauty on the inside, not vain painting on the outside, that makes a person.”

Damita studied her features: large, well-shaped, dark eyes, a wealth of glossy, jet-black hair, a complexion like a healthy baby’s—rosy and smoother than silk. The chin showed firm determination, and full lips hinted at a willful disposition.

Damita turned around and shook her head, muttering, “A girl might as well not have a figure if she has to wear this hideous dress!” The dress was, indeed, a model of economy. The pupils at the Ursuline Convent were mostly young ladies from wealthy families, but the strict rules at the convent permitted wearing only the plainest of sober, dark dresses. Despite this, at the age of seventeen, Damita could see that the ugly dress clearly outlined her figure, and she laughed aloud. I’m going out to buy a new dress, she thought, a bright, elegant one. I’ll wear it back from the shop and give the sisters a shock.

The thought pleased her, and she pirouetted around the room, a wicked light dancing in her eyes. She had not been a model pupil at the convent, but her father had prestige enough, and had given money enough to the sisters’ work, that Damita had never been a candidate for expulsion.

Damita looked around her and thought with satisfaction, Another two weeks, and I’ll never have to look at this old room again. Indeed, graduation was coming on May fifteenth, and Damita had longed for emancipation from the place for years. Her spirit was not conducive to discipline, and her educational process had been hard both on her and on the Ursuline sisters.

The door opened, and a young woman entered, wearing the same style of dress Damita wore. She scolded Damita, “You’re going to be late for chapel. We’ve got to hurry!”

“I’m not going to chapel, Chantel, and neither are you.”

Chantel Fontaine stared at Damita. The two had been best friends for years, but Chantel had learned to be cautious about joining Damita’s schemes. “We’ve got to go to chapel!” she exclaimed. Anxiety showed in her green eyes, in a pretty face framed by auburn hair. She asked with trepidation, “What are you going to do?”

“I’m going down to get a new dress.”

“You can’t do that!”

“Yes, I can, and you’re going with me. What can they do to us—throw us out? You know we’re only going through the motions anyhow. In two weeks, we’ll be out of here. Let’s go.”

Chantel began to protest, but the force of her friend overwhelmed her. Indeed, Damita Madariaga overwhelmed most people. She was domineering, and once she made up her mind, no one could stop her. Her eyes were sparkling as she grabbed her reticule with one hand and Chantel’s hand with the other. “I can’t stand another one of those boring chapels.”

Chantel, despite her protest, was caught up in Damita’s excitement. The two tiptoed out of the room and down the long corridor, and then stepped outside into the garden. They could hear the singing beginning in the convent, and Chantel made one more effort to dissuade Damita.“They’ll tell our parents. They might even expel us. You know how Sister Agnes is.”

“They can’t do anything to us. The school year is nearly over. Come on, now! It’ll be fun. You can help me pick out my new dress.”

As always, Damita grew excited as she dragged Chantel into the city of New Orleans. The air in the city was heavy with the ultrasweet odor of molasses and the pungency of mixed spices. Wisps of cotton floated off the bales piled on the levy. The Port of New Orleans competed with New York as the nation’s biggest, and the land along the river was always packed with people—the population had doubled in the past decade. The mighty Mississippi made them rich. Merchandise from a hundred river ports arrived there, and the saying went “Kick a barrel of flour in Minneapolis, and it will roll to the gulf.”

The sight of vessels of all sizes, shapes, and colors, crowded in from everywhere, awed the two girls. The most impressive were the steam packets, white and arrogant, at their landing along Canal Street. Oceangoing ships, gray sails furled, were giving up their sailors, who were attired in the garbs of a dozen nations, on the gangplanks. Much closer to the American sector, flatboats, keelboats, and small river crafts huddled together; floating stores that the Kaintocks presided over, regardless of their place of origin.

The two girls passed through the stacks of tobacco, hemp, animal skins, salted meats, kegs of pork, barrels full of pickled food, rum, tar, coffee with its unmistakable rich scent, and—always—cotton. The bales, some of them spoiled, towered on the open wharves.

The city was crowded as the two girls made their way through the French Quarter. They had become accustomed to the din. Stevedores scurried with their loads, and men ran to clear the ships. Tin-roof shanties lined the passageways with stores that sold sailors’ trinkets. Grogshops were everywhere, and new arrivals from the ships waited in long lines. Damita and Chantel passed an oyster stand, where a native forked his delectable wares from their shells. A blind man played a fiddle, and children juggled for pennies. Dark-faced Spaniards sold flowers, and black women waddled by, bearing coffeepots in their baskets, ready to pour a cup for any who wished.

“There’s the shop I want. I saw that dress in the window the day before yesterday,” Damita said. “I’ve got to have it.”

Chantel had no choice but to follow, and they entered the shop. A woman stepped forward and asked, “May I help you ladies?” She was a tall woman, obviously of Creole blood, and she waited expectantly.

“I want to try on that dress in the window.”

“Oh, that is an exquisite dress! A little expensive, I’m afraid.”

Damita gave the woman an arrogant look. “I’ll try it on, and if it fits, I’ll buy it.”

“Certainement, mademoiselle.”

At the woman’s direction, Damita and Chantel walked back to a small fitting room. When the owner brought the dress, Chantel gasped. “It’s so—it’s so bright!”

The dress was indeed bright: an emerald green sheen with sequins around the neck, the sleeves, and the hem. As the store owner assisted Damita in putting on the dress, she exclaimed to Damita, “It might have been made for you! It’s a beautiful fit!”

Damita turned around and around, admiring herself. “What do you think, Chantel?”

“It’s a lovely dress, and it does just fit you.”

Damita studied herself in a mirror. The dress had a low-cut, square neckline with an inset of a gray, shimmering material encircling the neck and the tight-fitting sleeves that ended at the wrists in a small ruffle. Its empire waist let the fabric drape loosely to the floor, where embroidered and brocaded trim formed the hem.

“I have other dresses, if you would care to try them on.”

“No, I’ll take this one, and I’ll wear it. Wrap up my other dress, if you please.”

The dressmaker stared at her. “You have not asked the price.”

“My father will pay for it. Send the bill to him.”

“And who is your father?”

“Alfredo Madariaga.”

“Oh, you are Señor Madariaga’s daughter!” A pleased smile spread over the woman’s face. “You have made a wise choice. Are you certain you want to wear it now?”

“Yes, I am.”

Ten minutes later, the two girls emerged. Chantel’s face wore a worried expression. “Won’t your papa be shocked at the price of the dress?”

“He promised I could have a new dress for my birthday, and he said I could pick it out. I’m just saving him the trouble of going shopping with me. Chantel, he promised me something else too.”

“What is that?”

“He said I could have a maid of my very own.” Damita laughed at Chantel’s shocked expression. “Well, I need one. Monica can’t take care of Mother and me both, can she? So, Papa said I could have one.”

“Are you going to hire someone?”

“No, we’re going to buy one. That will be good economy in the long run. We’ll buy a young girl, one who will bring a high price when we decide to sell her.”

Chantel bit her lower lip thoughtfully, and then commented, “I never liked the idea of buying human beings.”

Damita stared at her friend. “What are you talking about?”

“It just doesn’t seem right, Damita, for one human being to own another one.”

“Of course it’s all right! They’re not like we are, Chantel. They’re inferior.”

This was, of course, the standard position of Southerners and some Northerners, too, at the time. Some in the country were beginning to protest. The Abolition movement was picking up steam, but, in New Orleans, an abolitionist would not last very long!

At Chantel’s silence, Damita said, “Come on. Let’s go get something to eat.”

“All right, but I didn’t bring much money.”

“I’ve got plenty.”

The two girls stepped quickly up the street. Damita was well aware of the glances she drew as they made their progress along the crowded walkways. She enjoyed the women’s glares. Many of them, she knew, envied her beauty and her figure. This amused her, and she met their glances with a self-satisfied smile.

She was also aware of the men, both young and old, who turned to watch her stroll by. Damita de Salvedo y Madariaga was accustomed to the admiration of men. In some respects, she had led a sheltered life, being confined in the convent classrooms, but she had also been able to participate in the social life of New Orleans. The Creole gentry had a world of its own there, and she had found it exciting to flirt with the dashing young men who sought her out eagerly at the balls and parties that took place regularly in the city.

Damita suddenly stopped. “There’s the auction!”

Chantel stopped and looked at the red-brick building to her right. Men were coming and going, but she saw no women. “I’ve never been in there,” she said nervously.

“Neither have I, but I’m going now.”

“Damita, we can’t go in there! Women never go unescorted into a place like that.”

“Well, I’m going. Papa said I could have a maid, and I want to see what’s available. Come along.”

Against her better judgment, Chantel accompanied Damita up the steps and entered through the door. She murmured, “I don’t like this, Damita.”

“We won’t stay long. I just want to look over what they have for sale.”

The main room of the auction was a large, spacious area with a high ceiling. Cigar smoke created a purple haze, and a hum of talk sounded as the prospective buyers mingled. They studied the black people who were up on a slightly raised platform.

Damita ran her eyes around the room, and for one moment, she was almost tempted to fall in with Chantel’s mood. It was somehow a place that deadened the spirit. Despite the loud talk and laughter of the buyers, the black men, women, and young people who lined the platform along the wall gave her a start. She was accustomed to slaves, of course; her father owned many who operated the family’s cotton plantation just outside of New Orleans. There were house slaves also, but Damita was used to them. Something was different about those who stood against the wall.

“Miss Madariaga, what a pleasure to see you.”

Damita turned to face Lewis Depard, a slender young man dressed in the latest fashion. Bright brown eyes shone from a friendly, olive-complected face. He bowed and said, “I don’t believe you’ve met my friend Philip Moreau. Philip, may I introduce you to Miss Damita Madariaga.”

“I am happy to know you,” Moreau said with a smile. He was a larger man than Lewis, somewhat overweight, and well-dressed.

“This is my friend, Miss Fontaine.”

“A pleasure, Miss Fontaine,” the young man greeted her.

“Have you fought any duels today, Lewis?” Damita asked, arching her eyebrows.

“Not yet, but the day is young.”

“Mr. Depard is a famous duelist, Chantel,” Damita said. “If a man wears a coat that doesn’t suit him, he challenges him.”

“Oh, come now! It’s not that bad, Miss Madariaga.” Lewis Depard had indeed fought in two duels and had won both of them easily. He was an expert swordsman, as well as an expert shot with dueling pistols. Dueling was so common among the young Creole gentlemen of New Orleans that it had become something of a fine art. Men fought duels over the most inconsequential of affairs.

“Are you here to make a purchase, Miss Madariaga?” Lewis asked curiously.

“My father promised me a maid for my graduation. I thought I’d look over the wares.”

“There doesn’t seem to be much along that line,” Depard said, shrugging. “Except for a few strong-looking young slaves, this group happens to be pretty well picked over. Look, the auctioneer is starting the action. His name is Saul Lebeaux. He’s made a fortune selling slaves.”

Damita turned and watched with the others. The auctioneer, a short, muscular man wearing a dark brown suit, had stepped up beside an elderly dark woman. He said, “Now, then, we have a fine specimen here. This is Irene. She’s a clever house servant and an excellent cook.” He winked and added, “She does have one fault: she’s always pretending to be sick. Nothing wrong with her, I assure you. She’s healthy.”

“She doesn’t look well at all, does she?” Chantel whispered.

“But the man says she’s faking.”

“I don’t think so. She looks sick to me.”

Damita watched as several prospective buyers approached. One of them put his hand under the old woman’s chin and raised her head.

“Open your mouth,” he said, then looked inside. “Not many teeth left.”

“No,” another buyer said. “Nothing but skin and bones.”

Lebeaux tried to work up some interest. “Gentlemen, who’ll bid a hundred?”

“Why, she’ll be in the ground in a week.”

“No, I tell you, she’s fooling you. Just full of humbug. You give her a touch or two of the cowhide, and you can get plenty of work out of her.” Despite all his efforts, the auctioneer could arouse no bids, and finally a voice said, “Let’s get on with some of the better stock, Saul.”

The auctioneer shrugged and moved along to a large and powerful-looking black man. “Now, here is just what you’re looking for.” He poked the man in the ribs with the stick he carried and said, “Look at those muscles. Why, he can work eighteen hours a day in the fields.”

Damita listened, and her eyes went to the face of the black man. He appeared to be in his mid-thirties. He was black as a human being could be, and she saw that his eyes were dull. An air of hopelessness hung about him. He sold for $450, and his purchaser led him away.

“Do we have to stay, Damita?” Chantel whispered.

Damita hesitated. At that instant, a woman holding a baby was brought forward, and the auctioneer began his pitch. “We’ve got a fine house slave here, and a picaninny. Two for the price of one.”

“I’ll bid on the woman but not the picaninny,” a voice called.

The auctioneer argued, but a burly man with a shock of coarse, black hair finally bought the woman. He stepped up to pay the fee and take possession forward. He ordered the woman, “Get rid of that baby. You won’t be needing her to pick cotton.”

Damita and Chantel watched as the woman clung to the baby and shook her head, but the auctioneer pulled the child from her arms. “Go along, now,” he said.

The woman cried out something in a language that was not French and not English. She reached for the baby, but her new owner grabbed her by the arm and said roughly, “None of that! You’ll have plenty to do without taking care of a baby.” He led the woman away crying, and the auctioneer handed the baby to one of his helpers.

“That’s awful!” Chantel whispered.

Damita had not liked the scene herself. “I don’t see why he couldn’t have let the slave take the baby.” She started to say more, but, at that moment, the auctioneer said, “I’ve got something very special for you gentlemen.” He called, “Bring that girl out, Al.”

Damita turned to see, emerging from the door, a young woman being pushed forward by a white man. The girl was apparently in her teens and looked as different from the rest of the slaves as was possible. As Al brought her to the front, a buzz of talk sounded, and Lewis exclaimed, “By heaven, there’s a different sort of property!”

Despite the plain dress she wore, the young woman was a beauty in every way. She had raven-black hair, and her skin was smooth and of a faint olive tint. She kept her eyes down, for the most part, but when she lifted them, Chantel saw they were a pale green, large, and striking.

“She’ll fetch a pretty penny,” Lewis whispered to his friend. “I wouldn’t mind owning her myself.”

The auctioneer let the audience peer at the woman for a moment, then said, “This is a prize, gentlemen. Only sixteen years old. Make a perfect house servant. She’s healthy, and she’ll dress out fine. Come, look her over.”

Damita watched as a number of men moved closer. One at a time, they squeezed the girl’s arms and looked at her teeth.

“That’s shameful,” Chantel hissed.

Damita was staring at the girl. She was an impulsive young woman, and in that instant, she made up her mind. “That’s the girl I want for my maid.”

“You can’t mean it!” Chantel exclaimed.

“She’s pretty enough. I can dress her up. And she looks strong and healthy. I’m going to bid on her.”

“You can’t do that!”

Damita loved a challenge, and when the bidding started, she did not speak until the price rose to eight hundred dollars. Then Lebeaux cried, “Come along, gentlemen! Any more bids?” He waited expectantly and said, “If there are no more bids—”

“Nine hundred dollars!”

Every man’s eyes turned to Damita. Lewis’s face showed shock. “Miss Madariaga, you can’t mean that!”

The auctioneer also was nonplussed. It was uncommon for a woman even to attend the auction. But he was there for profit. “The bid is nine hundred dollars. Do I hear another?”

A hum filled the room, and the bidding rose to twelve hundred dollars. Damita calmly raised it to thirteen.

One of the men asked, “Lebeaux, how do you know she’s got the money to pay for that girl?”

The auctioneer swallowed hard. He was in a difficult position. He needed to make the money, but indeed, no young girl like this had ever bid on a slave. “May I ask how you intend to pay for this, mademoiselle?”

“My father is Señor Alfredo Madariaga. He will pay the money.”

The auctioneer obviously knew Damita’s father. Still he said, “Your father is not here.”

“No, but he’s buying me a maid, and that’s the one I want.”

For a moment the auctioneer wavered, then nodded. He tried to get the bid raised, but no one was willing, for it was clear that the young woman was going to pay whatever was necessary. “Mademoiselle, your bid is accepted. Come forward and take your property!”

Lewis stayed close beside Damita while she looked the slave girl over carefully. “Your father’s very generous,” he commented.

A man slid some papers over a small table to Damita.

“He always has been,” Damita said. She signed the papers, turned to the young woman, and asked, “What’s your name, girl?”

The woman stood straight as an arrow. She faced Damita and said in an even tone, “My name is Charissa Desjardin.”

“That’s some name. We’ll just call you Rissa. You belong to me now. If you do as you’re told, you’ll be well treated.” Damita waited for the girl to answer. When she only stood silently, Damita added, “If you misbehave, you’ll be whipped.”

A light blazed in the girl’s green eyes. “I’ve been whipped before!” she said defiantly.

“I believe you’ve got a rebellious servant on your hands,” Lewis said. “She may require a touch of the stick.”

“Get your things,” Damita said.

The girl said in the same tone, “I don’t have any things.”

“Come with me, then.”

“I hope she turns out well,” Lewis said.

“Thank you, I’m sure she will. Come along, Rissa.”

Damita turned and left the auction, aware that every eye was upon her. As soon as she stepped outside, she turned to Chantel and said, “I’m going to take my new maid home. Do you want to go with me?”

“No, I think I’d better go back.” Chantel had had enough adventure for one afternoon.

“All right. If the sisters ask about me, tell them I won’t be back for the rest of the day. I’ll be there tomorrow.”

Chantel left hurriedly, and Damita turned to the girl, who still stood without speaking, and said, “Rissa, I won’t put up with sullen behavior.” She waited for the girl to say something. When she got no response, she said, “Answer me when I speak to you.”

The words came reluctantly. “Yes, ma’am.”

Damita looked into the eyes of the young woman and shook her head. “This is a bad beginning, but we’ll do better, I’m sure. You just have to learn some manners, and I’ll teach you. Come along.” As they walked toward the Madariaga home, she was already thinking about how to approach her father. He was lenient and had spoiled her, but she had taken a big step. She began to feel nervous. She wondered if she had done the right thing.

It will be all right, she reassured herself. I’ll smooth it over somehow.

Chapter two

Charissa walked quickly down the street, holding a basket in her right hand and a wrapped parcel in the other. The afternoon sunlight of New Orleans illuminated the houses on both sides. Smooth plaster covered most of them, and the Madariaga house had been painted a warm peach shade. It was one of a line of similar structures rising directly from the banquettes, as dwellers of the city called the sidewalks. Other homes were blue, some a faint purple, each fitted to the desire and artistic temperament of the owner.

She paused a moment before the house, thinking of the two weeks that had passed since she had come to live there. One of her memories was of the argument between Alfredo Madariaga and his daughter on the day she had arrived. Damita had ordered Charissa to wait in the kitchen, but she could hear the master of the house, his voice rising in anger, and had felt certain she would be taken back to the auction and sold again.

As she stood remembering that day, she thought,Well, this is better than it might have been at some other place. I just have to put up with that selfish, demanding girl. She glanced up now at the facade of the house, three stories dominated by three tall galleries, and she admired the delicate ironwork that sketched a lacelike outline of leaves and flowers on the stucco. Waist-high railings and scrolled panels of filigree marked the balcony, and on the second level, dozens of containers held geraniums, wax flowers, ferns; on the first one, a big birdcage contained a brilliantly colored, screeching parrot.

With a sigh, Charissa, wearing a simple brown dress and her long hair pinned up in a coil, passed through a large patio with a gate big enough to admit the carriage that was kept in the rear. Charissa turned to enter the door, but someone grasped her from behind so suddenly that she dropped the basket and the parcel, hearing something crack in one. She fought fiercely, but the arms were strong, and she heard a rough voice saying, “Stop fightin’! You know you like it, girl.”

Charissa managed to free one of her arms, but even as the man she knew to be Garr Odom, the carriage driver, tried to grab it back, she pulled a long pin from her hair. Without a moment’s hesitation, she stabbed the hairy arm that went around her breast and was rewarded by a loud screech. She was free. Turning quickly, she held up the pin like a dagger and glared at the big man, saying, “You keep your hands off me, Odom, or I’ll put your eye out.”

“You she-devil!” Garr Odom was not tall, but he was broad and strong. His hazel eyes burned, and the battle had loosed his long hair from its tie. He held his hand over the wound, his mouth twisted in a murderous expression. “You stabbed me!” he gasped.

“Yes, I stabbed you, and I’ll do worse if you don’t keep your hands off of me!”

“Well, ain’t you somethin’ now! You’ve had a man’s hands on you before.”

“I won’t have yours. You heard what I said. If you ever touch me again, I’ll make you regret it.” She leaned forward and swiped the pin in front of Odom’s face.

“Hey, watch out!” he yelled—the pin had passed within a few inches of his eyes. He stumbled backward and then glared at Charissa, muttering, “You won’t always have that hat pin.” He turned and stomped away, disappearing through the carriage gate.

Charissa took a deep breath, standing still until the fear dissipated. It was not the first time that Garr Odom had tried to attack her. He had come once to her bedroom, and only her threats to scream and raise the house had prevented his assault. Charissa replaced the hat pin, then reached down and picked up the basket, replacing the vegetables that had rolled out of it. She saw that liquid was dripping from the parcel. She picked it up as well as she could and stepped quickly through the door. She hurried through the corridor to the kitchen at the very back of the house. A heavyset woman with skin the color of ebony was standing over a stove, and she turned at once to ask, “Where you been so long? Miss Damita’s havin’ a fit.”

“It took me a long time to get all the things you wanted, Ernestine.” Charissa put the basket and paper bag on a counter and said, “I dropped this bag. I broke whatever’s in it.”

“You busted it!” Ernestine, who had been with the Madariaga family for years, heaved her bulky body over to where Charissa stood. She was almost as broad as she was tall. She began pulling items out of the sack. “How’d you smash this?” she asked, holding up pieces of a broken bottle.

“Garr grabbed me from behind.”

“He botherin’ you again? Why don’t you tell the master about him?”

“It wouldn’t do any good,” Charissa said coldly.

Ernestine stopped removing items from the sack and turned to Charissa. Her eyes were compassionate. “That man is no good. He may be a good carriage driver, but he ain’t no good in no other ways. Did he hurt you?”

Charissa laughed. “No, but I hurt him.” She pulled the pin out of her hair. “I used this like a sword and ran it right into his arm. I’m surprised you didn’t hear him holler.”

Ernestine Brown grinned broadly and chuckled deep in her chest. “That’s good! You know how to take care of yourself. But you’d better get on up now. Miss Damita’s plumb fit to be tied. I told her I had to send you to the market. She got mad and raved at me. She say you don’t work for nobody but her.”

“She doesn’t care a pin for anybody in this world.”

“Oh, she’s spoiled and selfish, but I reckon she’s got a good heart.”

Charissa glared at Ernestine. “A good heart? She hasn’t done anything but mistreat me since I got here. She slapped me in the face just two days ago, when I couldn’t find her hat quick enough to suit her.”

Ernestine put her big arm around the girl. “You could be lots worse off, honey. Out in the plantation I’ve seen Claude Napier, the manager, whip men and women both until their backs was cut all to pieces. You just be glad he ain’t been turned loose on you yet.”

“I’d run away if he ever did that to me.”

“And then they’d catch you. Ain’t nobody can get out of bein’ what she is.”

Charissa stared at the big woman, who had proven to be her closest friend in the household. “Don’t you ever wonder what it would be like to be free, Ernestine?”

“There ain’t no sense thinkin’ about what can’t happen,” Ernestine said. “You just make the best of what you got. We got plenty to eat. We got warm clothes. We don’t have to go out in the fields. The master and Miss Elena, they ain’t cruel folks at all.”

“Damita is.”

“She’s young. She’ll outgrow that by the time she has a few knocks herself.”

“She has everything,” Charissa said bitterly. “Why is it some people in this world have everything, and some of us have nothing?”

“I don’t know, but that’s the way it’s always been, and that’s the way it’s always gonna be. Now you go on up, and don’t give Miss Damita any of your sass. No matter what she says, you just smile and say, ‘Yes, ma’am.’”

“I’ll do what she says, but she can’t make me like it. I’ll come back and help you cook when she gets through with me.”

“She ain’t likely to get through with you today. She’s gettin’ ready for that graduation of hers. Go on, and you be sweet like me.”

Charissa could never resist Ernestine. She hugged her and said, “All right. I’ll be sweet like you—to you, but never to Damita.”

Juanita Mendez sat on the balcony, watching the passersby below her. She had seen Charissa come down the street and enter the gate, and now she commented, “That new slave you bought for Damita is a rebellious girl.”

“Yes, she is,” Elena Madariaga agreed, turning to her husband. She was a small woman, shapely, and at the age of forty-five, she still had traces of her youthful beauty. “You spoil Damita, Alfredo. You shouldn’t have paid that much for another maid. We could have gotten by with Monica. She’s already paid for, and she can wait on both of us.”

Alfredo was a trim man of fifty-one. As he sat with his chair tilted back, looking at his wife and his sister, he shrugged. “I promised her a maid, and the girl will probably be a good investment. Always a good market for beautiful young mulattoes.”

“Mulatto! What are you talking about?” Juanita exclaimed. “She’s no more mulatto than I am.” A mulatto was a person half-black and half-white. “She’s not even a quadroon. She looks like an octoroon to me.” These two terms were well known to refer to the mixture of black and white blood—quadroon being one-quarter black and an octoroon only one-eighth black.

“So much the better for a sale. You know how the young bucks like the Creole girls, with their lighter skin.”

“I know it very well, but Rissa will never be one of those,” Elena said.

“She may be, if we have to sell her. I expect her mother was mostly white. The town’s full of octoroon Creole girls, and most of them wind up as mistresses to wealthy white men.”

Indeed, men in New Orleans often maintained two families. The white one society accepted, the dark one no one did. Many men divided their time between the two households, rearing two sets of children. The white wives had no choice but to accept the situation, and almost everyone attended the sumptuous quadroon balls, where tawny-skinned women displayed their charms in what amounted to a bazaar for prospective men of wealth. Among the well-to-do Creoles, the marriage of convenience was common, but often the couple had not even met, and when a young man did not get a beauty, he was quick to go to the quadroon balls and find himself a mistress.

“The girl could pass for white easily enough,” Alfredo remarked. “We won’t have any trouble selling her.”

The two women stared at Alfredo; the subject was usually taboo. But Elena was not finished and repeated harshly, “You spoil Damita terribly. Her husband’s going to have an awful time with her.”

As a matter of fact, Alfredo Madariaga was himself still somewhat angry over Damita’s buying the slave without his permission. “I’m going to whip that girl,” he said loudly.

Both women smiled at each other grimly. They were well aware that he had never struck Damita in his life and never would. “Well,” Juanita said, “I think you’d better sell the girl quickly. She’s not a good maid.”

“No,” Elena agreed. “She’s headstrong.”

“So is Damita,” Alfredo murmured. A gloomy look crossed his face, and he shook his head. “I may have to sell Charissa and some others from the plantation as well. I’ve got a payment coming due on the loan, and the crop was terrible this year. The drought nearly ruined us.”

Neither his wife nor his sister paid much attention to this statement. It was a common enough plaint from Alfredo. Most of the plantation owners lived on credit, and no one considered owing money a sin in any way.

Changing the subject, Juanita said, “I want you to let Damita go with me when I make my visit to Savannah.”

“I don’t have any objection. Does she want to go?”

“I haven’t asked her about it yet, but the trip isn’t until November. I think she’d enjoy it. Besides, there may be some suitable young men there for her.”

“That’s very important,” Elena said with a nod.

“Indeed it is.” For once, Alfredo agreed with his wife and sister. “She needs to marry someone with a bank full of money. Somebody who could help pay these debts off.”

“She’s a beautiful girl, and she won’t have any trouble marrying,” Juanita said. She had other nieces in Savannah, but she had made a pet out of Damita. “It’s essential that she not only marry money but that she marry someone socially acceptable.”

“What do you expect her to do—marry a monkey?” Alfredo laughed. “Of course he’ll be acceptable.”

“I don’t know. Young girls are willful these days,” Elena said. “When Fannie Metlous married that awful American, it nearly killed her parents.”

“It certainly did,” Juanita agreed. “He was like all of the other Kaintocks: little more than a beast.”

The white men who came down to New Orleans from the west, mostly on the Mississippi, were known as Kaintocks. They had reputations for fighting and drinking and were coarse to the genteel members of New Orleans.

“Damita’s got more sense than that,” her father said firmly.

“Yes, she has,” Juanita said quickly. “I’d better go see if she’s dressed. We don’t want to be late for the graduation.”

Damita stepped out of the brass tub and stood while Charissa dried her off with large, fluffy towels. This was an everyday ceremony and one that took up a great deal of Charissa’s energy. She had to heat the water in the kitchen, then bring it up, two heavy pails at a time, to fill the tub. It was one of the tasks she hated, and now, as she dried Damita off and powdered her, she thought, She’s never paid me a single compliment. Not once has she said a simple thank-you.

“Hurry up, Rissa, I’m going to be late.”

Charissa had learned never to respond to such useless comments. She was working as quickly as she could, and it did no good to protest. All she would get was a sharp word or sometimes, even a slap. She helped Damita into her undergarments, then slipped the snow-white dress, the color all the girls were wearing for graduation, over her head. She buttoned it up, and Damita said sharply, “Go down and get me some wine. Make sure it’s been cooled.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Charissa muttered, turned, and went downstairs. She found the wine, poured a glass, and carried it carefully back up the stairs. Entering the room, she walked over to where Damita was standing before the mirror. “Here’s the—”

She had no time to finish the sentence. Damita suddenly turned, and her hand struck the glass that Charissa was holding out to her. The dark red liquid splashed onto Damita’s bosom, and for one moment, she just stood with a shocked look on her face.

Charissa’s heart sank when she saw the hideous red blot. She had no time to speak, however, because Damita screamed, “You’ve ruined my dress!”

“It wasn’t my fault. You’re the one who hit the glass!”

“Don’t you talk back to me! It was your fault!”

Ordinarily, Charissa would have had sense enough to keep quiet and let Damita have her fit, but she could not always control her quick temper. She responded loudly, “You’re the clumsy one, not me! You knocked the glass right out of my hand and spilled the wine all over yourself!”

Damita’s face turned pale. She slapped Charissa and said, “You come with me. I’m going to break you of this habit of talking back!” She whirled and stormed out of the room.

Charissa followed her mistress through the hall, down the stairs, and out the side door. As soon as she stepped outside, Damita saw Garr Odom, leaning against the iron gate. “Garr,” she said, “come here.”

“Yes, ma’am. What is it?”

“I want you to take this girl and whip her.”

A chill ran through Charissa. Garr’s brutal face broke into a smile. “You mean really whip her with a stick?”

“Yes, and make sure you’re harsh. She’s a clumsy, insolent girl, and I want her broken. You hear me?”

“Yes, Miss Damita. I’ll do what you say.”

Damita glanced at Charissa and said with satisfaction, “A beating is just what you need.” She turned and rushed into the house without another word.

Charissa stared at Garr Odom.

“Well, well,” he said. He grabbed her by the arm. “You come on back. You and me got a little business.” He was a strong man, and although Charissa struggled, she had no chance against him as he dragged her back and entered the darkness of the barn.

The faculty of the Ursuline Convent had gathered on a small platform erected in the courtyard. The black robes of the priest and the nuns, highlighted by blinding white collars and hats, and the graduates in their white dresses made a startling contrast to the colorful and stylish dress of the family and friends.

The date was May 15, 1831, and as Damita moved forward in the line, she felt a fierce sense of exultation. She heard Chantel’s name called out, followed by the words “summa cum laude.” She felt no jealousy for the applause because Chantel was, by far, the best scholar in the class. She reached out and accepted her diploma from Sister Agnes, who did not smile. “You never thought I’d get it, did you, Sister?” Damita whispered. The nun gasped and Damita giggled, then turned and flashed a smile at her family.

She strode back to her seat, thinking, This is the last day I’ll have to spend in this place. She watched as her classmates received their diplomas, and when the ceremonies came to an end, she stood to her feet with all the others while the bishop said a brief prayer. As soon as he spoke the amen, the graduates broke ranks and joined their families.

Damita’s father was waiting for her, and when he put his arms out, she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him soundly on the cheek. He smiled at her and said, “I’m proud of you, daughter. There were times I thought you’d never make it.”

Damita smiled and said, “I don’t think I could have, if it had gone on another day. But now I feel as if I’ve been let out of prison.” She turned and embraced her mother and aunt, then walked over to Chantel. The two girls hugged, and Damita said, “You’re the best in the class!”

Chantel smiled. “You could have been, if you had tried.”

“I can’t waste my time learning useless things. Have you asked your parents if you could make the trip to Savannah with us in November?”

“We’re going to be out of the country. I can’t go.”

“That’s too bad. You’re going to miss seeing a lot of good-looking men, from what I hear.”

They mingled for the last time with their other classmates, especially with Simone d’Or, with her long, blond hair and dark-blue eyes, and Leonie Dousett, who was smaller than the other girls and the poorest of them all. She was a charity student, and perhaps this was the reason she was the humblest of the four.

“We’re the Four Musketeers, and we’ve got to stay in touch,” Damita said. “I’ll tell you what. Let’s get together early this week and go to a party.”

“What party?” Simone asked.

“I don’t know, but there’s bound to be one somewhere.”

Simone commented, “That’s not the dress you bought to graduate in.”

“No, that stupid maid of mine spilled wine all over it, but she won’t do it again. I had her punished.”

“She didn’t do it on purpose, did she?” Leonie asked quietly.

“I have no doubt she did. She never did like me. I’ve been as nice as I can be, but she’s a stubborn, rebellious girl. We may have to sell her. It would do her good to go out in the cotton fields and put in some time there. Maybe she’d appreciate me then.”

At that moment Juanita appeared and said, “Come along, dear, it’s time to go.”

The girls embraced, and each felt the poignancy of the moment. They had spent many years together at the convent, and now each girl knew that a new life lay before her. They made their promises to stay together and to keep in touch, but knowing how things change, all four of them felt that this was the end of something.

Damita chattered all the way to the house, filled with excitement. As soon as the family entered the front door, Charles Devere, the butler, appeared and said, “I must speak to you, sir, if you don’t mind.”

“Why, what is it, Charles?”

“I’d better tell you alone.”

The two men left, and Elena looked at her daughter. “What was that all about, do you suppose?”

“Oh, some problem with the household, I suppose. You know Charles. He’s a worrier.”

Damita went to her room and started to change out of the white dress, but a loud knock on the door sounded and she said, “Come in.”

Her father stepped inside, and Damita saw that he was upset. “What is it, Papa? What’s wrong? Somebody sick?”

“Damita, come with me.” Her father’s tone was cold, and the look in his eye chilled her. She had seen him angry at others, but never had he looked at her with this expression. “What is it, Papa?” she asked again.

Alfredo turned and walked out of the room. Damita followed, and he led her up the staircase to the third floor, where the servants’ rooms were. He opened one door, stepped inside, and Damita followed him. She stopped dead still. “This is Rissa’s room.”

“I know whose room it is. Come in here.”

Again his voice was cold, and fear grabbed Damita. She stepped inside and saw that Rissa was in bed, but she was lying facedown. Her black hair had come down loosely, and her arms lay outside the sheet covering the rest of her body.

“What’s wrong?” Damita whispered.

“This is wrong.” Her father reached out and lifted the sheet. For a moment, Damita could not speak. Charissa’s back was crisscrossed with welts, all of them blue, and some of them oozing blood.

“Did you order this done, daughter?”

“I . . . I told Garr to punish her, but I didn’t mean this.”

“You’re a fool to let that man beat this girl! Don’t you know his reputation?”

Indeed, Garr was known as a cruel man, and that was why her father took him out of overseer’s work and restricted him to the barn and carriages. But in her fury at having her dress soiled, Damita had forgotten that. “I didn’t intend this.”

“I could shoot that man! In addition to being barbaric, he was just stupid to mark up a valuable girl like this. And you should have known better.”

Damita could not bear to look at the lacerated back. She saw Charissa glaring up at her and met her eyes. Hatred flared in them. Damita could not speak anymore and turned away, sickened by the sight.

“I’ll have to send for Dr. Morton. Ernestine has done what she could and given her something that will ease the pain.” Turning to the figure on the bed, he said, “I’m sorry this happened, Rissa.”

The beaten girl made no sound, and Alfredo left the sheet off of her back. He stepped outside the door, saying roughly, “Come out of there, Damita.”

As soon as they were outside, he grabbed her arm and led her down the hall, where he stopped and faced her. “You’re a fool, Damita, and inhumane besides! I know you’re not kind to underlings. You never have been, but I never expected anything like this. I’m so ashamed of you, I can’t speak.”

Her father whirled and left the hall, and Damita began to tremble. Tears came to her eyes, and she pulled her handkerchief out of her reticule and held it over her face. She stood there for what seemed like a long time, then turned and looked at the door. I’ve got to go back and tell her I’m sorry.

She walked to Charissa’s room and entered. The young woman had not moved. Damita could not face those eyes that seemed to bore into her, nor could she bear the look of the bloody back. “I’m—I didn’t mean for this to happen,” she whispered.

Charissa merely responded, her voice like steel, “Yes, you did.”

Damita turned and fled the room. She ran down the two flights of stairs and found her mother in the hall near the kitchen. Elena said, “Your father’s told me what happened.”

“It wasn’t my fault. I didn’t tell him to beat her that savagely.”

Elena knew her daughter very well, and she put her hands on her shoulders. “You must learn to be kind, Damita,” she said. She turned and walked away, leaving Damita alone in the hallway.

Chapter three

Although it was only slightly past nine o’clock in the morning, the streets of the French Market were already crowded. Damita and Charissa had to thread their way through the throngs of customers who, like them, had come to buy food and supplies. A babble of languages broke the morning air: English, French, German, and Spanish. The streets were lined with shops of all sorts, but selling was not confined to them; many individuals stood next to their wares and advertised loudly. A black woman with a large bowl on her head called out, “Fine fritters!” Damita stopped and bought two of the rice fritters. “Very hot,” the black woman said, grinning as she took the coin from Damita.

Damita turned and handed one of the calahs to Charissa. “Eat it while it’s hot,” she said, smiling.

“Thank you,” replied Charissa, without expression. She took the calah and bit into it, but she felt little friendliness. It had been four months since the beating had taken place, and during that time the two young women had been wary of each other. Damita had made some effort to reconcile with the slave girl but was ready to give it up as hopeless. Charissa never spoke of it, but her eyes showed a cold bitterness whenever she looked at her mistress.

The two women passed by a woman who cried out, “Blackberries—berries very fine!” Another, called a praline mammy, vended pecan and pink or white coconut pralines from a basket.

Damita paused in front of an Indian woman who sold herb roots. She bought some of the filé, or pounded, dried sassafras leaves, for making gumbo. As she was doing this, Charissa bent over and touched the fat cheek of the woman’s baby, who grinned at her and made her smile.

Damita saw this and said, “That’s a beautiful baby, isn’t it, Rissa?”

She insisted on using the nickname, which rankled the young slave. “Yes, ma’am, very nice.”

As the two made their way through the market, Lewis Depard hailed from across the street. He took off his hat and greeted Damita with a warm smile. “How fortunate to meet you, Damita. You are shopping, I see.”

“Yes. Our cook asked me to pick up some things. How are you, Lewis?”

“Could not be better.” Lewis did indeed look handsome, and he sounded eager as he said, “I was going to call on you later in the day, but we are well met.”

Charissa stood by, listening to the two. It was as if she did not exist. She had noticed that slave owners were able to blot out their human possessions, treating them like furniture. At times she wanted to scream, Look at me! I’m a human being. Don’t ignore me. But this, of course, would not have been wise.

She shrugged her shoulders in the morning heat, and the memory of the brutal beating rose in her mind. The pain was gone, but she still had fine scars left from the wounds of the rod. Alfredo had replaced Garr Odom with an older man named Batist Laurent, and she was grateful to her master for getting rid of him. Alfredo had been kinder than she expected, calling a doctor in to treat her and keeping her from work for two weeks after the beating.

But Charissa could never bring herself to forgive her mistress. She knew Damita only as a thoughtless young girl, who perhaps cared for her own people but had no compassion at all for the poor or especially for slaves. She looked at Damita, whose eyes were bright as she spoke to Lewis Depard. She’ll probably marry someone like him. She can marry anyone she wants to.

The couple began to walk, and Charissa followed. Lewis said, “I was coming over to ask if you would go to the Quadroon Ball with me tomorrow night.”

“I’m not sure Mama would let me go.”

“Oh, I think she would, if you asked right.” Lewis smiled, his white teeth flashing against his olive skin. “I notice you get pretty much you want. It might be wiser to get permission from your father. You wind him around your little finger—as you do every man you meet.”

“What a frightful thing to say!”

“No offense. I think it’s charming. Will you go?”

“I will if Papa says so. I’ll send you word.”

“Good. You’ll enjoy it, I’m sure.”

Damita found her father standing at the iron railing of the balcony, looking at the sidewalk. He seemed preoccupied, and she hesitated for a moment, making her plan. She knew that she could get almost anything out of him she wished, but going to the Quadroon Ball was not something most young ladies did. She had confidence in her wiles, however, and moving forward, she tucked her arms under his and hugged him from behind. “Papa, what are you doing?”

“Nothing. Just watching the people go by.”

Damita saw that a heaviness hung about her father. It troubled her. “What’s wrong? Don’t you feel well?”

Alfredo turned and looked at her. He tried to smile, but it was a weak effort. “I get a little weary of struggling, daughter.”

“Come. Sit down and tell me about it.” Damita pulled him to a wrought-iron bench, and when he sat, she held his hand in both of hers. “What’s wrong? Is it business?”

“I’m afraid so. The cotton crop was disastrous this year.”

“What happened?”

“It was the drought. Ordinarily, we have too much water in this area, but this growing season, the rains didn’t come. The crops were very poor.” He shook his head and added, “I don’t know how in the world I’m going to arrange to pay off the loans.”

Damita did not know much about business, but she had heard enough from her parents to understand that the plantation was heavily mortgaged. She squeezed his hand, saying, “Why, Papa, they’ll be glad to renew your note.”

“I hope so, but I never get ahead, daughter. Most years we just make enough to pay the interest and a little on the principal. This year, it’s going to be even harder. I’m afraid I’m going to have to sell off some of the slaves.”

Damita knew that many slaves worked out on their plantation. She did not know any of them personally. In fact, those who actually grew the cotton and lived in their own little houses by the fields were completely foreign to her.

“Damita, I may have to sell Charissa.”

“Sell Rissa? Oh, Papa, I hope you don’t do that.”

“I don’t see why. She hasn’t been satisfactory, has she, since—”

He broke off, but Damita knew exactly what he meant. “I think I can do something with her. She’s still resentful over the beating she got, but that will pass in time.” Damita did not believe this, but for some reason, she wanted to hang onto the slave girl. It had become a challenge to her. “I’ll tell you what, Papa. I won’t buy any new clothes, and Mama and I will get together and cut other expenses. Perhaps we could even go live on the plantation and rent this place out.”

“I’d hate to do that. Your mother loves the town house so much. And you’d be bored on the plantation.”

“We’ll do whatever we have to do, but promise me you won’t sell Charissa.”

“I can’t promise that, Damita, but I will say this: It will be a last resort.”

Damita accepted his statement as a guarantee and began to talk about other things. She was always able to cheer her father up, and finally, when she saw he was in a more agreeable mood, she mentioned casually, “Oh, yes, I almost forgot. Lewis Depard wants me to go to a ball with him tonight.”

“Another ball? Don’t you ever get tired of them?”

“Oh, they are a bit boring, but Lewis is entertaining.” She was hoping that her father would not ask which ball, and he did not. He merely said, “All right, daughter. Do you care for Lewis at all?”

“Oh, as I said, he’s entertaining.” Damita shrugged. “But he doesn’t have much depth. I don’t think he ever has a serious thought.”

“I hear he shows a passion for dueling. He’s getting quite a reputation for that. He’s already had several duels, hasn’t he?”

“Yes, he has, but he hasn’t killed anybody. He’s such a good swordsman, he just pinks them in the shoulder and then it’s over.”

“I don’t like this dueling thing. I never have. The best man isn’t always the one who can use a sword—or the pistol—the best.”

Damita agreed with him at once, then kissed him. “Don’t worry, Papa. Everything will be all right.”

The Quadroon Ball was held next to the Theatre d’Orleans. Gambling took place on the first story, and the ballroom was above it. As Damita stepped inside for the first time, what she saw stunned her. The dancing area was without equal in New Orleans. The floor and walls were made of beautifully finished hardwood. Expensive chandeliers decorated the high ceiling. She glanced at the balcony that overhung Orleans Street, and as Lewis took her to the back, she saw a curving stairway leading to a cool, expansive courtyard filled with flowers.

The dance had already started, and although Damita had seen quadroons and mulattoes before, the variety of their skin colors caught her eye. Some of the women had skin the color of a ripe peach, others of soft, brown velvet. Some were ivory, and others were creamy white. She studied them, noting that the eyes of most of the women were brown or ebony, but that some had blue or green eyes. Almost all of them had very wavy hair, most of it reddish or light brown. They also had finely rounded figures and had learned how to carry themselves well. They held their heads high, but their lashes veiled their eyes.

“I never saw so many beautiful young women.”

“It is a sight to behold,” Lewis said with a grin. “But you’re the most beautiful of all.”

“You flatterer! You men can never tell the truth.”

“But I mean it, chérie, you know I do.” He took her arm and said, “Come, you’re the best dancer I know. Let’s give them something to watch.”

Damita was, in fact, an excellent dancer. She loved to dance and showed natural grace. Lewis swung her around the floor, and the elaborate dresses of the women—green, crimson, yellow—made a kaleidoscope of color. The music filled the hall, and the hubbub of voices made a pleasant sound.

After several dances, Lewis said, “It’s time for refreshments.” He led her to where several long tables stood. Behind them, black men wearing white jackets and flashing smiles served liquors of all sorts—champagne, sherry, bourbon—as well as platters full of delicious bits of food. Damita refused the alcoholic drinks, taking instead a glass of punch. Lewis ordered a bourbon.

Lewis’s many friends bombarded him, asking for dances with Damita. He reluctantly surrendered her, warning one young man, “Just one dance, Daniel. Then I must have her back.”

“We shall see about that,” the young man said, grinning. He swung Damita off to the dance floor, and Damita found that, like Lewis, he was charming and talkative, but he held her much too tightly.

Suddenly a voice said, “I believe that I must have this dance with the lady.”

Damita turned quickly and saw a man, at least six feet tall and dressed in the latest fashion, smiling at her. The bluest eyes she had ever seen sparkled from a handsome face framed by auburn hair. She had no time to protest, nor did Daniel, for the man simply took her in his arms and swept her into the dance. “My name is Yancy Devereaux. I would be pleased to know your name.”

“I do not give my name to strangers.”

“What an unfriendly thing to say!” Devereaux had a wide mouth, and his eyes were deep set. He was roughly handsome. His skin was tanned, and Damita was aware of the power in his hands, which were broad and thick.

“If you won’t give me your name, I’ll think New Orleans ladies are proud.”

Damita hardly knew how to respond. The man impressed her; he had a strength that seemed to flow out from him, and she felt like a child in his arms. “You are a Kaintock, aren’t you?”

“Not me. I come from Virginia.”

“We call all Americans ‘Kaintocks.’”

“Well, that’s hardly true, is it?”

Damita felt herself drawn to the man and rebuked herself for it. He’s nothing but a rude American! Probably comes down on the flatboats. But the thought was wrong, and she knew it. She had seen the flatboat men—dirty and muscular, wearing rags, foulmouthed—and this man was none of that. He spoke easily of the ball, and finally the dance ended. “Thank you very much, mademoiselle. I wish—”

A voice cut in, saying, “You are insolent, sir!”

Both Devereaux and Damita turned to see Lewis standing next to them. He had been drinking, and his face was flushed. His eyes shone with a belligerent light. “I must ask you not to dance with Señorita Madariaga again.”

“I assume you are her husband,” Devereaux said with a smile.

“That is none of your business.” Lewis’s eyes were flashing, and he stepped closer. “You will now leave this hall. I will not permit you to stay.”

“Does the hall belong to you?”

“I will not argue. You have insulted Señorita Madariaga, and you will either leave or you must answer for it. But before you leave, you will apologize for intruding upon her.”

Devereaux seemed amused, Damita noticed. He was a much larger man than Lewis Depard. Quickly, she said, “Please, sir, do as he says. It may be dangerous if you stay.”

Devereaux turned to face her. “Dangerous? In what way?”

“Mr. Depard is an excellent swordsman. He has proven himself several times. He is also a skilled pistol shot.”

“Really! I’m fascinated to hear it, but I refuse to leave.” He turned to face Lewis. “Now what?”

“In that case, sir, I must ask you to come with me, and we’ll settle this as gentlemen—although you are not a gentleman, I see.”

“I expect I’m not, according to your definition. So, you’re challenging me.”

“Yes. Do you accept?”

“Certainly. And as the challenged party, I choose the weapon.”

“Exactly. You can have sword or pistol.”

Devereaux looked up for a moment at the ceiling, then looked back down and met Depard’s eyes, saying, “Neither. I choose broadaxes.”

Everyone had stopped to watch the scene. New Orleans loved its drama, and a murmur went up at the American’s words. “Broadaxes!” Depard exclaimed in a high voice. “What are you talking about?”

“I expect you’re better with a sword or a pistol than I am, but I’m probably better with an ax than you are. So, we’ll get two axes and flail away at each other until one of us is dead. Will that satisfy?”

Lewis Depard turned pale. “You mock me, sir.”

“I certainly do, and I mock this whole stupid idea of duels.” He turned to Damita and said, “Thank you, Miss Madariaga, for the dance.” Turning to Lewis, he said, “I’m staying at the Majestic Hotel. If you care to accept my terms, we will get axes and attack each other until the blood flows freely. Good evening, sir.”

Daniel said to Lewis, “Never mind it. He’s nothing but a boor.”

“Certainly,” Damita agreed. “You can’t expect honor from a Kaintock!”

Chapter four

“I wish the weather hadn’t turned so cold,” Damita groaned. “I’m sure we’ll freeze to death on that old boat. I know it doesn’t have any heat.”

Juanita Mendez looked up from putting Damita’s undergarments in a small gray valise. She shook her head with displeasure, saying, “You complain about everything, Damita. Why don’t you concentrate on the bright side of things?”

Damita was standing at the window. She looked out at the gray skies, and then at the ground below. “We should have gone to Savannah before winter got here.”

Indeed, winter had proven to be harsh along the river. It was the middle of November, and people walked the streets bundled up beyond recognition. New Orleans seemed to be a different place when this happened: most of the frivolity, singing, and joy was frozen along with the ground and the trees. Damita turned and put her arm around her aunt. “I’m sorry, ma tante. I won’t complain anymore. Here, I’ll finish my packing, and you go see to yours.”

“I packed last night. I’m all ready.” Straightening up, Juanita gave Damita a questioning glance. “I wish that Rissa hadn’t gotten ill. We could have used her on this trip.”

“Yes, it is inconvenient, but I’m sure she didn’t do it on purpose. I’m just relieved it isn’t something serious.” Rissa had been perfectly well until two days earlier, when she developed a sore throat and a high fever. As always in New Orleans, everyone was watching her carefully to be sure that she did not have cholera or yellow fever. The doctor had pronounced it some sort of throat infection.

“Actually, I don’t think she’s too sad at not going, ma tante,” Damita admitted. “I’ve tried my best to be nice to her, but she just won’t receive any kindness. Still, I’m going up to tell her good-bye.”

“All right. Then send Batist up to get our suitcases. It’s almost time to leave.”

Leaving her room, Damita climbed the stairs up to the third floor. Stopping before the door of Charissa’s room, she knocked once and then pushed it open. She was sitting in a chair beside the single window. The light came in, breaking over the slave girl’s face, revealing a wan countenance. She was wearing a robe that had once belonged to Damita, and she did not speak.

“Are you feeling any better, Rissa?”

“I’m all right.”

“I’m sorry you became ill.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

The wall that Rissa had built up between the two of them frustrated Damita. She still felt bad about the whipping that had scarred Rissa’s back. Though she had been kinder, she had no success in befriending her servant. She concluded that she was wasting her time.

“You should have an easy time while you get well. We won’t be back for a month. So, I will see you then. Good-bye.”

She waited for Rissa to speak, and finally, the girl nodded almost imperceptibly and said, “Good-bye, Miss Damita.” Then the words came grudgingly: “Have a safe trip.”

“Thank you. I will.” Turning, Damita walked outside and closed the door behind her. As soon as she stepped into the hall, she shook her head angrily. I don’t know what else to do. She’ll never forgive me for what happened. She descended the stairs and found her parents waiting in the foyer. “I’ve come to ask Batist to get our suitcases.”

“He’s already gone upstairs,” Alfredo said.

“Are you all packed?” asked Elena.

“Oh, yes. We’re all ready. It’s a beastly morning to start a trip, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is,” Alfredo agreed. “I wish you’d gone earlier. The weather’s not good at all. This is no time for a sea voyage.”

“Now, Papa, we’ll be fine. Don’t worry about us.”

Fifteen minutes later, the bags were on the carriage, and the four of them were inside. Batist climbed up to the driver’s seat and spoke to the horses. They pulled the vehicle forward, and Damita looked out to see Monica, her mother’s maid, shut the iron gates. The woman waved. Damita returned the wave and settled back in the carriage.

“I wish we were already there,” Juanita said. “Long journeys can be so tiresome.”

“I hope you brought plenty of warm clothes along,” Elena fretted. “I know that those ships are as cold as can be. What’s the name of the ship again, dear?”

“The Orestes. A good ship,” answered Alfredo.

“I thought we might get to go on one of those steamships, Papa.”

“No, I know the captain of this one. We’ve done a lot of business together. Captain Williams is a fine fellow and a good seaman. I don’t trust those newfangled steamships. They’re always blowing up.”

They chatted all the way to the dock. Then Alfredo said, “I’ll see that your luggage is taken on board. We have a little time before the ship sails.” The group stepped down from the carriage.

Despite the frigid air and her numb fingers, Damita was excited. She had never been on an oceangoing ship before and was eager to start her trip to Savannah. She had slept little the previous night, and now she followed the men her father engaged to transport their luggage. They had brought one large trunk and two smaller ones, in addition to the small night cases that both women carried. As they crossed the gangplank, Damita looked up at the tall masts that seemed to touch the sky. The sails were all furled, but she saw ropes everywhere. She could not imagine having to keep track of which was which.

When the group reached the deck, Alfredo inquired about the women’s stateroom. A short but strong-looking Asian man smiled and nodded. “This way, please. I will show you.” He led the party downstairs and then through a corridor. The hall was dim, lit by only two flickering lanterns, and when he opened the door, he stepped inside, carrying one of them. There was no window, and he lit a lamp that was mounted on the wall. “Very nice cabin,” he said.

“It’s so small!” Damita exclaimed.

The four of them had trouble crowding in, and Juanita looked at the bunk beds, the small table, and shook her head. “We won’t have room to turn around when our luggage gets in here.”

“Best you leave your big luggage in the hold,” the steward said. “I will bring your small luggage here. Better hurry. The ship is due to leave in fifteen minutes.”

“This is a miserable room, but you won’t be in it long,” Alfredo said reassuringly. “Come along. Let’s go see if we can find Captain Williams.”

They left Batist to put the smaller luggage inside and see to the storing of the trunks and went topside. They found Captain Williams, a robust, red-faced individual with direct gray eyes and windblown white hair. He greeted them all fulsomely and said, “So, Señor, you’re sending these ladies to Savannah?”

“Yes, Captain. I want you to take particularly good care of them.”

“I’ll be sure to do that.” He started to speak, then ran to the side of the ship and said, “No more! Don’t bring any more cargo on this ship! You hear me?” He came back, shaking his head, and said, “The Orestes is a good ship until she gets heavy laden—then she wallows like an old lady. I’ve already got too much on now. It works the men hard to keep the sails trimmed when she’s loaded like this.”

“Captain, the weather looks bad,” Elena said. “Do you think it will get better as you travel?”

“I wish I could say so, Señora Madariaga, but I fear it’s not going to improve much.”

“Do you think we’ll meet a storm?” Damita asked with alarm.

The captain grinned, and his eyes were twinkling. “Ma’am, there’s always danger of a storm at sea, but I trust we will be in Savannah before we have any really bad weather. We should make it without trouble. I wouldn’t try it if I thought it was dangerous.” A sailor called for his attention. “Excuse me,” the captain said. “I hope you two ladies will have dinner at my table tonight. I will see you then.” He rushed off, shouting directions to the crew. The sailors, agile as monkeys, began climbing up the masts.

“They’ll be setting sail soon,” Alfredo said. “We’d best say good-bye.”

Damita embraced both her parents and kissed them. Her aunt did the same.

“You take good care of Damita, won’t you, my dear sister?”

“Yes, I will, Alfredo. And I will give all the family your best wishes when we get to Savannah.”

The Madariaga family crossed the gangplank, and almost instantly, the captain began issuing orders through a large trumpet-shaped object that amplified his voice. The lower sails fell into place, the wind caught them, and the ship began to move. Damita felt slightly afraid as she stood at the rail. She waved at her parents, and they waved back.

“I wish we were setting out in better weather,” Juanita said.

“So do I, but we’ll soon be there. You say they have a fine house?”

“Oh, yes. You’ll have a good time—you’ll meet lots of young people. I’m sure they’ll be having balls.” She looked up at the sky and shook her head and said, “I hope I won’t be sick, but I fear that I will.”

As soon as the ship left the harbor, Juanita began to feel nauseous, and she ate almost nothing at the captain’s table. Halfway through the meal, she turned pale and whispered, “I feel so ill. I must go to our cabin, Damita.”

Damita had barely managed to get Juanita undressed and into the lower bunk before the older woman began retching. The ship was rolling as ships do, creaking and swaying, and the cabin seemed to close in upon them.

The night passed, but no one slept well. Juanita suffered frequent bouts of seasickness, and Damita could only nap fitfully. Though she brought her aunt water, Juanita was too sick to swallow it. It was a miserable night.

The next morning, her aunt dropped off into a comalike sleep, and Damita dressed and left the cabin. She felt dirty and droopy from lack of sleep. Since they had dined in the captain’s quarters the night before, Damita had no idea where the dining area was. She asked a sailor, who led her to it. “Right in there, ma’am,” he said.

Damita entered and found the same white-clad Asian who had welcomed them on board. “My name is Wong, Miss.” He shook his head apologetically and said, “I am afraid you will either have to wait or share a table.”

Damita was very hungry. “I don’t mind eating with other passengers.”

“Very good. This way, please.”

As Wong led her through the dining room, she saw that there was indeed little room. The tables were full. Damita smelled coffee and frying meat. Wong paused beside a table where two men and one woman were sitting and said, “Excuse me, please. This is Miss Madariaga. Miss, will you take this chair?”

As Damita sat down, a young man no more than twenty, she thought, with glowing cheeks freshly shaved and warm brown eyes, bowed slightly. “I am Robert McCain, and this is my wife, Esther.”

Damita smiled and said, “I am happy to know you.”

“And this is Mr. Yancy Devereaux.”

Damita had been aware only of a large man wearing a gray suit. She turned quickly, and her eyes widened when she recognized Devereaux. He said smoothly, “Miss Madariaga and I have met before. It’s good to see you, ma’am.”

Damita felt blood rush to her cheeks and knew it showed. She could only say, “How do you do, sir?”

Wong asked, “Would you have coffee or tea?”

“Coffee, please.”

Wong left. Damita sat, keeping her eyes on her lap. Devereaux spoke and made her look up. “I didn’t expect to see you again.”

“Nor I you, sir.”

Devereaux nodded at the couple across from him. “Miss Madariaga and I met at one of the balls in New Orleans.”

“Is that right?” Robert said. “Do you live in New Orleans, then, Miss Madariaga?”

“Yes, my family is there. I’ve always lived in New Orleans.” Damita turned toward the petite young woman at Robert’s side. She had large, expressive brown eyes and a happy glow about her. “You’re going to Savannah, Mrs. McCain?”

“Oh, yes. I’m so excited. I’ve never been on a ship before.”

“Neither have I. We don’t have the best weather for traveling, though.”

“That won’t bother these two,” Devereaux said. “They’re on their honeymoon.”

A rich color rose in Esther McCain’s face, and she laughed. “Yes, we are. We were married just two days ago.”

“And I’m out to make the best husband the world ever saw,” McCain said, beaming. He reached over and laid his hand on his wife’s. “I must say, married life is the thing. You ought to try it, Yancy.”

“Not everyone has your good fortune, Robert.”

The three chatted with such familiarity that Damita could not help but ask, “Have you known each other for a long time?”

“Oh, no,” Esther said. “We just met Yancy yesterday. We boarded the boat at the same time.”

“You make friends quickly on ships,” Yancy explained. “I trust that by the time we get to Savannah, we’ll all be warm friends, Miss Madariaga.”

Damita knew he was teasing her. She glared at him and said coldly, “I think that is unlikely, sir. In my opinion, friendship needs a good foundation. It takes a long time to make friendships really work.”

“Do you think so? I’m of a different opinion. Some people I’ve known for twenty years and can’t bear, and others, the first time I lay eyes on them, I say, ‘Now, there’s a chap who is going to be a good friend to me.’”

“You’re that kind of fellow, Yancy,” Robert McCain said with a laugh. “What do you do for a living? Are you some kind of a confidence man or card shark?”

“Robert, don’t say such things!” Esther protested.

Yancy chuckled, saying, “No, nothing quite that romantic, I’m afraid. I’ve been a farmer most of my life.”

“A farmer! You don’t look like one. Farmers don’t usually dress so well.”

“I don’t either, when I’m grubbing in the earth. You’d hardly know me then, with dirt up to my eyebrows! But I sold my plantation in Shreveport six months ago. Since then, I’ve been learning how to become a gentleman. It’s difficult. Old habits die hard.”

Damita met his gaze. His vivid blue eyes seemed to dance with some sort of humor. She understood that he was daring her to speak of their first meeting, and she took up the challenge. “At least you have learned to dance. That’s one step forward. Fine manners usually take a little longer than learning to dance does.”

“Perhaps you’ll be able to help me on this voyage—you and Mrs. McCain. I’d like to achieve some of the polished manners I observed in some of those young men in New Orleans, at the ball we attended.”

Damita knew that her face was reddening. He was mocking her about Lewis Depard! She answered sharply, “I don’t think I’m qualified to give lessons in manners.”

“If I didn’t believe you to be an honest man, I’d think you were mocking us all,” McCain commented. “Your manners are finer than most—than mine, certainly.”

“I doubt that.”

“Why are you going to Savannah, if I may ask?” Esther queried. “Do you have family there?”

“No, I’m thinking of buying half-interest in a ship.”

“You’re also a sailor?” McCain asked, his eyebrows lifting.

“No, not really, and I’m too old to start. You really need to go to sea when you’re twelve years old, I understand. But a good friend, who is a sailor, offered to split ownership of his schooner. He tells me we can get rich, making the run from the Bahamas to the coast.”

“What sort of cargo?” McCain asked.

“Slaves are the most profitable ones, and my partner is inclined to that—but I’m not in favor of selling human beings. I’ve got him convinced that we can do well shipping cotton to England.”

Esther McCain looked distressed, and Damita saw that she found the subject unpleasant. She turned to Yancy, saying, “You’re opposed to slavery?”

“Yes, I am. I used them on my plantation, and it disgusted me. I was glad to get out of it.”

“I think there’s going to be trouble over slavery, sooner or later. The feeling in the North is strong against it,” McCain said.

“You’re probably right. So I’ll have to make my money quickly and get out.”

When Wong brought Damita’s meal, she ate hungrily. The food was delicious, and she felt refreshed. McCain and his wife excused themselves, and as soon as they left, Yancy said, “This is awkward for you, I’m afraid.”

“Yes, it is.”

For a moment he did not speak. Then he said, “Miss Madariaga, I would like very much to apologize to you.”

Of all the things that Damita had assumed about Yancy Devereaux, one was that he was not a man to apologize. She saw a hardness about him; he seemed a man unlikely to admit wrong or make himself vulnerable. She looked up with surprise and met his eyes. “Apologize, sir?”

“Yes, I was quite a boor at that ball. I suppose I did offend in some way. I wasn’t joking about learning some manners. You don’t learn manners planting seeds and harvesting crops, and that’s what I’ve done for most of my life—first in Virginia and later in Shreveport. So, without meaning to, I know I broke some sort of rule that your friend called me to account for. I behaved badly to him and to you. I hope you’ll forgive me.”

Damita searched his face for some sort of mockery in his expression, but she found instead a guilelessness. She answered, “Of course. I’m sorry it happened.”

“And if you notice that I make any more impolite moves, I hope you’ll feel free to correct me.”

“I wouldn’t feel qualified to do that, Mr. Devereaux.”

“Are you traveling alone?”

“No, my aunt is with me. We’re going to Savannah to see her family. She’s a widow, but she has a son and two grandchildren there.”

Devereaux nodded, then changed the subject. “I’m afraid we’re going to have some bad weather—at least so the captain says.”

“I hope not. My aunt’s already terribly seasick.”

“Maybe it will clear off,” he said lightly. “I hope so.”

Damita rose, and he stood with her. “We Americans sometimes have fallings-out, and when we make it up, we shake hands. Is that impolite?”

“Why, no, I think not.” Damita put out her hand, and his large one swallowed it.

“All is forgiven, then?” he asked.

“Yes. Now, I must go to my aunt. Good day, sir.”

“Good day to you, Miss Madariaga.”

On the third day of sailing, a calm came over the sea. The wind died down, and the Orestes, although its every sail was unfurled, barely moved through the water. The captain was anxious, and the sudden weather change bewildered Damita and Juanita. Damita asked one of the sailors if such things happened often, and he replied, “Pretty often, ma’am. Don’t worry. The wind will pick up soon.”

Juanita felt increasingly better, and that same evening, she went to the dining room. Robert McCain spotted them and strode to their table. “Please, Miss Madariaga, would you and your companion join my wife and myself?”

“That would be fine! This is my aunt, Juanita Mendez.”

“Señora Mendez, I’m so happy to meet you.”

“Good to meet you, sir.”

Somehow Damita was not too surprised to see Devereaux seated with the McCains. She watched as Robert introduced Juanita to Yancy and to Esther. When they were all seated, she turned to her aunt and said, “Mr. and Mrs. McCain are newlyweds.”

Juanita smiled broader. “Is that so? My congratulations to you. May you have a long and happy married life.” She looked at Yancy and asked, “Are you married, sir?”

“No, ma’am, I’m not,” he replied. “I haven’t had that good fortune yet.”

“Mr. Devereaux was a planter, ma tante, but he’s going to buy part-ownership in a schooner.”

Devereaux nodded, then turned to Robert. “What do you do? You never said.”

“I’m a lawyer.”

“Yes, and a good one, too,” Esther said, smiling. She squeezed his hand. “The best lawyer in Alabama.”

“You’ll have to forgive my wife. She overestimates my talent.”

After the meal, Juanita and Damita strolled back to their cabin. Juanita sat down on the lower bunk. “That man, Devereaux—he’s quite attractive. You met him at the ball, I understand?”

“Oh, just briefly.”

“I don’t want to preach, but that’s exactly the sort of man you don’t need to be connected with, Damita.”

Damita laughed and sat down beside her aunt. She put her arm around her and said, “Connected with him? Don’t be foolish. He’s simply a passenger.”

“He’s handsome, though, don’t you think?”

“Oh, I suppose he’s good-looking enough, but he’s a Kaintock. I’d never marry an American. You know that.”

Her assurances seemed to make Juanita feel better. “That’s good to hear. He’s not our kind. But young girls are impressionable. You be careful.”

“Oh, I will, ma tante. Don’t worry.”

The Orestes traveled few sea miles for the next two days, but on Thursday, when Damita woke, she felt the ship moving and exclaimed, “I think the winds have come!”

“I know they have,” Juanita said with a moan. “I grew sick as soon as the ship started rocking. I’m not going to breakfast this morning.”

“I’ll bring you some hot tea, and perhaps a soft-boiled egg.”

“I don’t think I could keep it down.”

“You must try, ma tante.”

Damita walked alone to the dining room. She noticed Esther McCain by herself at a table, and the young wife waved her over. Esther said, “The men are meeting with the captain in the front of the ship. I think they’re worried about the weather. Will you join me?”

“Yes. Afterward, I’ll have to take my aunt something. She’s not a good sailor, I’m afraid.”

In their lively conversation, Damita learned a great deal about Esther McCain—mainly that she was completely in love with her husband.

Esther admitted as much when she said, “I feel sinful, loving Robert as much as I do.”

“Sinful! There’s nothing sinful about loving your husband.”

Esther smiled and shook her head. “I’m ashamed to tell you this, Damita, but I almost worship him.”

Her words amused Damita. “Well, you have become an idolater, then.”

“I almost have, but I know that I must love God first and Robert second. But I do love him as much as a woman ever loved a man.”

Damita had never talked with a young bride like Esther, and she was interested. She inquired, “Do you mind if I ask you a very personal question?”

“Why, of course not. Anything.”

Damita colored slightly. “I don’t know anything at all about being a wife, I mean about—” She broke off and sought the proper words. “I mean, about, well, the intimacies of married life.”

Esther McCain put her hand over Damita’s. “I didn’t know a thing about it, either,” she admitted. “I was scared to death on our wedding night, but it was all right. It will be all right for you, too, if you marry a good man. Robert was so gentle. He knew I was afraid, and he spent, I think, more time talking to me and telling me he loved me than any man ever did.”

Damita felt the young bride’s contentment. She sighed and said, “I’m so glad you’re happy, Esther.”

“We’re going to have a wonderful life, Damita. We’re not going to get old the way other people do. We’re going to stay fresh and young. Robert has promised me that. Even when we’re gray-haired, he’s going to write me love letters, and I’m going to write them to him, too. We’re going to have children, and I’m so excited about the days and years to come.” She asked Damita, “Have you ever been in love?”

“No, I never have.”

“Then you must pray that God will give you a man as good as Robert.”

Damita felt a warm glow in her face. “I never met a woman who loved her husband the way you love yours. I hope the same thing happens to me.”

The sea grew rougher all day, and word came that the ship’s staff would serve no evening meal in the dining room because of the vessel’s pitching. Instead, stewards would bring sandwiches to the passengers’ cabins.

Juanita could only cling to the bunk silently; she could not eat at all. Damita ate just half a sandwich. She was frightened. The ship not only nose-dived and then rose up slowly, it also wallowed from side to side. She had no more appetite than her aunt did. She finally jumped down from the top bunk and told Juanita, “I’m going to see what it’s like up on deck.”

“Be careful, Damita. Don’t get near the rail.”

“I’ll be all right. You lie still, ma tante.”

As she climbed the stairs to the deck, Damita felt as if a hand were closing around her heart. The sky was black, and although most of the sails had been furled, the wind was whipping through those that still gave the ship forward motion. The sailors had rigged ropes to hold on to while moving from place to place, and Damita clung to one just a few feet from the staircase. She stood watching as the prow went down and slowly rose again.

“Pretty rough weather, Miss Damita.”

Startled, Damita turned to see Yancy Devereaux, who had come up from another set of stairs. She nodded and said, “This is terrible.”

“I’m hoping it’ll get better.”

“Have you talked to the captain?”

“Yes, but he says the glass is still falling.”

“The glass? What does that mean?”

“It’s an instrument that tells what the weather is, more or less. He’s afraid it could get even worse.”

Damita’s hopes sank. She had never had occasion to fear much in her life, but now she felt helpless. She said as much to Yancy. “I wish I hadn’t come on this voyage.”

“I’ve had the same thought.” He was not wearing a hat, and the wind blew his auburn hair over his forehead. He ran his hand through it and shook his head. “We may have to turn back and get to a port to wait this storm out.”

The two studied the waves that seemed to rise higher than the ship. They lifted the Orestes, then the bottom seemed to drop out. “My poor aunt,” Damita moaned. “She can’t stand much of this.”

“I think we’ll just have to stand it.”

A thought came to Damita. “Not a very good honeymoon trip for the McCains.”

“No, it’s not.”

Her eyes still on the white waves that seemed to reach out for the ship and slap it with a huge hand, Damita asked, “Do you suppose that they’ll love each other as much in a year as they do now?”

“I hope so. They’re good people.”

“She told me a lot. It’s almost frightening, how much she loves her husband.”

“Frightening? I think it’s a good thing. You know, I heard about some geese that fly in from Canada. They mate for life, and if one of them dies, the mate stays with its partner and mourns.” Yancy shook his head faintly. Light spray showed on his face. He wiped it and said, “I wish human beings were that faithful.”

“They can be. My mother and my father are.”

“Are they? That’s good news.”

“What about your parents?”

“My father died when I was two. My mother died when I was fourteen.”

“She never married again?”

“No. She loved my dad until the day she died. I always liked that about my mother.”

The ship suddenly rose up, throwing Damita off balance. She cried out and fell against Devereaux. He held her and kept her from falling.

Damita heard the screaming of the wind through the sails, but she was more aware of the fact that Devereaux was pressing her tightly against him, and that his arms had closed about her. She had known for a long time that a lone man’s attention always moved like a compass to a single woman. She knew that she was attractive, and at that instant, as their eyes met, she knew that even with her storm-swept appearance, he studied her with a hungry glance.

Then he lowered his head, and she felt his lips on hers. She could have turned aside—she knew that—but she did not. Whether it was curiosity or passion, she didn’t know, but she made no attempt to avoid him. His arms tightened around her. There was something demanding about his kiss, and though he was rough, he was also tender. He held her, she thought, as a man held something he was afraid he might lose.

For a moment they stood in an embrace, something besides the storm whirling rashly between them. And then she put her hand against his chest and pushed away. She was angry, not at him as much as at herself. She had responded to his advance, and she was embarrassed. “You keep your hands off me!” she shouted through the wind.

Yancy studied her face and shook his head. “Damita, you’re living in a little box. You’re afraid to reach out and touch life.”

“You—you leave me alone! You’re nothing but a rude Kaintock!” She whirled away, and clinging to the sides of the cabin, she stumbled toward the stairs. She felt her way through the dim corridor to her door, went inside, and checked her aunt’s bunk. Damita was relieved that Juanita seemed to be asleep.

She quickly traded her damp clothes for the warmest nightgown and heaviest socks she could find, climbed silently to the top bunk, and slipped under the covers. She felt the ship continue to thrash, but again and again, her mind turned to Yancy’s caresses. She knew she would not forget that scene, not for a long time. She thought furiously. He dragged me down with him. It wasn’t my fault! She settled on that. I’ll be glad when we get to Savannah so I won’t have to look at him ever again.

Chapter five

A sudden lurch of the ship awoke Damita and almost rolled her off of the bunk. She managed to catch hold of a bedpost to save herself from falling to the cabin floor.

“Damita! Damita!”

“I’m coming, ma tante. It’s all right.” Damita lowered herself from the top bunk and knelt beside the lower bunk. The lamp had been trimmed until it cast only a faint yellow corona over the cabin, and her aunt’s eyes were wide with fear, her lips trembling. Damita said softly, “Don’t be frightened, Aunt. It’s all right.”

“No, we’re going to die!” Juanita cried out. She struggled to get up, but her illness had made her so weak that she fell back helplessly. “We’re going to die,” she whispered and closed her eyes.

“No, don’t say that. We’ll be all right.” Damita held her aunt’s hand while trying to maintain her balance, kneeling on the floor. The ship, which had been tilted in one direction, slowly rose, but it did not stop when the floor was level but continued to roll. Damita was pressed against the side of her aunt’s bunk. Farther over it went, and she thought frantically, It’s going to roll over! We’ll all drown!

The ship recovered and shifted back to a more even keel, but at the same time the nose of the ship went down, and Damita felt it would never rise again. Desperation rose in her, and she said, “I’m going to find out what’s wrong.”

“No, don’t leave me, Damita!”

“I have to go, ma tante,” she said as she thought, If the ship goes down, we’ll need to get to the lifeboats. We’ll need life preservers. She spoke gently to her aunt. “I’ll go be sure that things are all right. You lie still.”

Her aunt lay silently, her face pale as paper, and Damita put on a dress, a heavy coat, then stockings and shoes. The room tilted again, and she had to hold on to the top bunk to keep her balance. She assured her aunt, “I’ll be back. Don’t worry.”

Juanita did not answer but shook her head in a gesture of hopelessness. Damita wanted to go to her, but the ship was pitching now like a wild thing. She stumbled outside the cabin and into the hallway, in which just one lamp was burning. Damita heard cries from inside some of the rooms. The passageway tilted and threw her against the wall, and she struggled to stay upright as she made her way through the corridor. She finally reached the end of the passageway, and holding on to the railing, she climbed the stairs. As soon as she reached the deck, she heard the wind wailing. The early morning hour should have brought plenty of daylight, but dark clouds covered the sky, causing a dusky twilight. She could see that the force of the violent wind had torn some of the sails. They fluttered, pale banners caught in the storm.

Damita saw sailors moving around the deck, holding on to the ropes they’d tied for safety. She walked out to talk to one of them, but when she looked up, her heart seemed to stop. Coming toward the ship was a monstrous wave. It seemed to be taller than the top of the mast, and Damita could not move.

A voice called her name. As she turned, a hand gripped her arm. “Damita, what are you doing up here?”

Recognizing Yancy Devereaux, she cried, “What’s going to happen?”

Devereaux did not answer but shook his head. He was also watching the wave, but just before it struck he grabbed her and held her tight, pulling her down to the deck.

The sea picked up the ship and tossed it into the air, and Damita was on her back. Over Yancy’s shoulder she could see the mountainous wave break. It snapped off two of the masts and continued to roll the ship.

“We’re going over!” Yancy shouted in her ear. “Hang on to me. Don’t turn loose. Can you swim?”

“No!”

Afterward, Damita was never able to remember the sequence of events that took place. She knew only that another massive wave broke over the ship, and then there was a whirling in her head. She realized that the ship had turned upside down, and then she felt water envelope her. She fought Yancy’s hold but had the presence of mind to hold her breath. Under the water, she could not hear the shrieking of the wind, but she heard the breaking noises of the ship as it disintegrated. Her lungs began to burn, and fear was a physical thing that filled her completely. She was vaguely aware of Yancy’s grip.

When Damita could stand the burning in her lungs no longer, she expelled the air and then automatically breathed in cold water. It brought a pain she had not imagined possible. Noise and cold and water—and then her head was out. She began coughing violently, and a voice cried, “Hold on!”

While only half-conscious, Damita grabbed Yancy. The waves lifted them high and then slapped her in the face so that more water went into her nose, and she coughed and gagged. Yancy turned her so that her back was to him, and his arm was around her chest. She clung to it and tried to cry out, but the water and wind covered every other sound.

Damita grew feeble and conscious only of the roar of the wind and the force of the water that seemed to beat at her like a club. She cried out, “ma tante!” but then could just struggle weakly to keep her head above the water.

Something hard struck her leg, and she felt Yancy’s arm tighten. Her eyes were full of saltwater, and she could see nothing. She felt herself being pulled, and the back of her legs dragged across something rough, and then she was thrown down so that the back of her head struck a hard, wooden surface. The blow ignited a thousand pinpoints of light in her mind. She rolled over.

“All right, don’t fight it anymore.”

Hearing Yancy’s voice, Damita opened her eyes. At first, all she could see was the leaden gray and black of the sky and the waves that surrounded her, still frothy white and lashing the air. She felt a wooden plank beneath her.

Damita lifted her head. She looked around wearily. Yancy was lying beside her, one arm over her back. The murky light limited her vision, but she could see that whatever they were floating on was some sort of wooden surface some ten feet or more square. It rose and fell violently with the waves, and once she started to slide off, but Yancy’s hands caught her and pulled her back. “We’re not far from shore,” he yelled. “If we can fight out this storm, it’ll carry us in.”

Damita’s mind cleared then, and she saw that Yancy’s hair was plastered to his skull, his eyes were half shut, and his lips were a white line. “Where’s the ship, Yancy?”

“She went down at once.”

Damita could not speak. The passage of time meant nothing, and she had no way of telling how long they clung to their precarious island, bobbing up and down and spinning at the mercy of the waves. Once Yancy yelled, “If this thing doesn’t turn over, we’re all right. I can hear the breakers.”

Damita’s hands ached from the pressure of holding on to the board. She could see something far off that looked dimly like a dark line of coast. “Is that the shore?”

“Yes. When we hit, this thing will probably turn over. If it does, don’t fight me. I’ll pull you in.”

“All right.” Damita was too exhausted to suggest any other plan. The only firm object in the universe to the young woman at that moment was Yancy’s arm around her, like iron pressing her down, holding her steady. She laid her cheek against the rough surface of the board and waited. The roar became louder, and they seemed to move faster.

“Here it comes.”

Damita grew tense, and then she felt the plank begin to turn. “Let go!” Yancy yelled. She released her grasp, and he plucked her up and pulled her off to one side. As the board turned over, it struck her left foot, but she had no time to think of that pain, for her head had gone underwater again. She held her breath as best she could. She remembered that Yancy had said not to fight, and it took all of her strength to keep from grabbing at him. He turned her around as if she were a child, his arm went around her chest, and just as she could hold her breath no longer, they both rose above the surface. He did not speak, but she could feel his powerful strokes.

Finally, he yelled, “My feet hit bottom. We’re all right.” He stood up, his chest above the waves.

Damita’s feet touched sand, and she cried out, “I feel it!” She waded out as he half-carried her. The wind tore at them as it raced across the beach. Damita trembled from the cold.

Yancy leaned forward and said in her ear, “We’ve got to get out of this wind. Let’s make for those trees.”

The two pressed against the wind and hurried across the beach to a line of trees. As soon as they stepped inside their comforting cover, the wind seemed to mitigate, but Damita was shaking so violently she could hardly stand. Yancy held her and said, “Come on. We’ll try to find some shelter. There must be something.”

The two stumbled along through the trees, Yancy’s left arm supporting Damita. She would have fallen more than once, but he pulled her up, saying, “Come on. We can make it. You’re doing fine.”

Fatigue came then like a blow, and Damita did not think she could lift her feet another step, but Yancy kept pulling her forward. He finally stopped. “Look, here’s a road. There’s got to be something down it. Come on.” The sound of the crashing breakers grew fainter. A hundred yards later, Yancy said, “Look, there’s something there.”

Damita could see only the vague shadow of a tall vertical object. “What is that?”

“It’s an old chimney. There was a house here, but it’s burned.” Then he cried out, “A barn! We can at least get out of the wind.”

Damita felt new strength. The barn was small, but at least it had a roof. When they had reached it, Yancy opened the door and looked inside. It was practically pitch black. A couple of small holes in the walls of the old structure admitted only faint, grayish light. Yancy said, “Stand here a minute. Let me feel my way around.”

Shaking as she never had in her life, Damita waited. She rubbed her arms together, but her fingers were numb with the cold. The coat she wore was, of course, soaked, and she felt encased in an icy embrace.

“Here, we’re in luck.”

“What is it?”

“There’s a lot of old hay here, and we can get under it. It’ll help some. First, take off your clothes and wring them out. They’ll never dry out like that.”

“Take off my clothes?”

“Yes. I’m going to do the same.” Yancy walked a few steps away, faced the opposite wall, and began removing his shirt.

Damita hesitated only an instant, then she pulled off the coat and quickly stripped down to her undergarments. She wrung out her dress, but the coat was too heavy. She put on her clothes, so cold and clammy that she shuddered beneath them.

“Are you dressed?”

“Yes.”

“Here, come over here.”

“I couldn’t wring the water out of this coat.”

“Let me try.” Yancy did his best with the sopping garment. “Here, lie down.” Damita felt her way past him, and when her feet crunched on the old hay underfoot, she lay down, and he joined her. “Pull all the straw you can over yourself.” Damita grabbed handfuls and threw them over her legs and torso. The smell was rank and chaff got into Damita’s nose and made her sneeze. “We’ll put your coat over the top of the straw,” Yancy said.

“I’ve got to get warm,” she whispered. “I’m so cold.”

Yancy put his arms around her and drew her to him. They were face-to-face, and Damita felt a faint heat in his body. Terror was still in her, and as his arms went around her, she put her arms around his neck greedily to absorb some of his warmth. She felt him reaching back, pulling more straw over them, and finally she felt the first small indications of her body temperature rising.

“I didn’t think we were going to make it,” she whispered.

“Neither did I.” The two of them listened to the wind as it whistled through the cracks of the barn. Both of them were thinking of the ship.

As Damita’s shaking began to subside, Yancy said, “You’re getting better. We’re going to live.”

“Do you think anyone else is alive?” she whispered.

Yancy answered, “I doubt it, Damita. She went down too quick. It’s a miracle that we lived.”

Tears filled Damita’s eyes, and she put her forehead against his chest and began to weep. Memories of Juanita’s thousand kindnesses flew through her mind. She could not bear to think of the body down in the cold darkness of the sea. Her own body shook—not from cold, but from her sobs. Yancy held her without speaking. Once he whispered, “I’m sorry about your aunt, but it was quick.”

She stopped crying, and she lay in his arms, trying to regain something that she had lost. He held her without speaking. She felt the warmth of his breath on her face, and she savored the closeness of his body. But then she began to realize that this was a man she was holding, and who was holding her. She felt his hand on her back begin to stroke her, and she lifted her head. He leaned forward and pressed his lips to hers. As he kissed her, she felt a soft, wild, half-giving and half-refusing in her own body. Everything for that moment was unreal: the sinking of the ship, the desperate fight to stay alive, the wind howling outside their cocoon. But his warmth was real, and the touch of his lips on hers was real. She felt that his caress kept loneliness and fear away.

Her mind would not function. It seemed to have become incapable of thought. Yancy’s growing passion made a turbulent eddy around them both, and then she knew that he was not alone in his desires. She returned his kiss with a fierceness that shocked her.

At that moment she was helpless and open to his strength. She longed for love and assurance and security and hope, and they all seemed to lie within his arms.

Suddenly, Yancy jerked away and took a deep breath. He slid himself away from her. His withdrawal stunned Damita. “What’s the matter?” She tried to pull him back.

He caught her hands in his and did not answer for a moment. When he did, his voice was hoarse. “This is a bad time for you, Damita. You’re not yourself.”

Damita could not believe what was happening. She had offered herself to him, and now he was refusing her. She whispered, “Don’t you want me?”

“Not like this.” He moved away from her slightly. “You’d hate me, and you’d hate yourself, too, when this was over.” He turned away and said roughly, “Try to sleep. It’ll be light soon, and we can walk out of this place.”

Damita felt devastated. He had rejected her, and the thought ran bitterly through her mind.

And then, shame came, burning like a fire in her conscience. She turned over quickly, curling up, her eyes tightly shut. As she lay in the darkness, she could hear his breathing and knew that he was not asleep. She knew she would remember this moment all of her life. She would remember that she had cheapened herself to a man who had pulled away from her. A flash of violent emotion coursed through her—the closest thing to hatred that she had ever felt. Something inside murmured that what he had done was right and she was wrong, but it was only a faint voice. And she writhed silently in shame.

Chapter six

“Do you feel up to walking?”

Damita rose and brushed the straw from her dress and hair. She had slept fitfully and found upon waking that she was still angry at Yancy Devereaux. The memory came flashing back, of how she had clung to him and how he had turned away from her, and it left a bitter taste in her mouth and in her spirit. “Yes,” she said in a steady voice. “I’m all right.”

As Damita stood, Yancy handed her her coat and said, “You’d better wear this. It’s still damp, but it’ll cut the wind.” She took the coat and slipped into it. When they stepped outside, he glanced at the sky. “We’ll try this road. Surely we’ll find something.”

“All right.”

Yancy started to speak, then, seeing the adamant look in her eyes, he said merely, “Let’s go. There are fresh wagon tracks along here. We ought to find a house somewhere.”

Ten minutes later, they rounded a bend in the road, and Yancy said, “Look, there’s a place.”

Damita followed his pointing finger and saw a house built up on a slight hill. Smoke was rising from the chimney, and she felt a wave of relief. “Someone is there,” she said.

“Yes. Come on.”

The house they approached was two-storied, unpainted, and weathered to a silver gray. A pasture lay beyond it, with several cows and two horses. A large, whitish dog arose from the porch and slowly approached with his head down, baring his teeth. “It’s all right, boy,” Yancy said.

Even as he spoke, the door opened and a man stepped out. “Be quiet, Rex,” he said and looked the couple. He was a tall, lanky individual wearing overalls and a gray sweater. His hair was tousled, black and gray, and his skin was tan and leathery-looking. “Hello,” he said. “You folks lost?”

Yancy answered, “We were on the ship Orestes. She went down last night.”

“Went down? You mean sank?”

“Yes. Could you get us in out of the weather? The lady is exhausted.”

“My name’s Moore—Caleb Moore. Come on inside.” The man turned and opened the door, calling, “Esther!” A woman appeared in the doorway, and her eyes widened. She was wearing a white apron over a blue dress and seemed to be about the same age as her husband, somewhere in her fifties. “My stars! What in the world?”

“These folks were in a shipwreck.”

“Come on in. It’s a wonder you’re not frozen.”

Damita walked inside the large kitchen, and a stove that threw off waves of heat drew her immediately. She walked over to it, held her hands out, and then, inexplicably, began to tremble again.

“Here, you can’t wear those wet clothes. Come along with me. What’s your name?”

“Damita Madariaga.”

“Miss Madariaga, you come along to my bedroom. My clothes won’t fit you very well, but you can get dried out. Caleb, you get this man some of your dry clothes.”

“Sure.” Caleb Moore stepped into a bedroom and came out with an armload of underwear, socks, shirts, and a pair of pants. “You can wear these. What’d you say your name was?”

“Yancy Devereaux.” The men shook hands, then Yancy slipped off his damp, dirty clothes and into the clean ones his host offered. The older man pulled a sweater from the back of a chair and held it out. “You might want this for a time.”

“Thanks, Mr. Moore.”

“Caleb’s all right. I’d better get out there and see if anybody else made it.”

“I’ll go with you pretty soon. I doubt if we’ll find anybody alive. There’ll be bodies coming in.”

Shock appeared on Moore’s face. “How many were on the ship?”

“A little more than two hundred.”

“Got to be some of them left alive. You two made it.”

“I doubt it. It was a miracle that we got here. A large board broke off the ship, and we managed to get on top of it, and it brought us in to shore. If we had been farther out, we wouldn’t have made it. What’s the closest town?”

“St. Augustine. It’s about fifteen miles from here.”

At that point, Esther Moore appeared and went to the stove. “You folks need something to eat.”

“Coffee would be good.”

“It’s on the stove. Caleb, you pour. I’ll just whip up some ham and bacon and eggs, and we’ve got biscuits left over. It’s not fancy.”

“It’s just what I need, Mrs. Moore.”

As Esther rattled dishes and broke eggs, Caleb fired questions at Yancy. The weary young man felt drained but obligated to answer. Damita emerged from another bedroom, wearing a faded, ill-fitting dress. Her hair was still wet, and she was drying it with a towel.

“You come and sit right over here, Miss,” Caleb said. “My wife’s the best cook in Florida.”

Indeed, Esther was an excellent cook, at least as far as breakfast was concerned. Both Yancy and Damita ate quickly and then took seconds. Afterward, Damita was stirring her coffee when Yancy said, “Caleb and I are going to the beach to see if there are any more survivors. Why don’t you lie down awhile?”

“I’m all right,” Damita said shortly. She looked up and started to say something about her aunt but knew such talk was useless. She sipped the coffee, and the two men left. Esther Moore filled her own coffee cup and sat beside her.

“A terrible thing. Did you have friends on the ship?”

“My aunt.”

“Oh, my dear—I’m so sorry.” She reached over and put her work-worn hand on Damita’s and said, “Maybe she made it ashore.”

“I don’t think anyone did. I believe Yancy and I were the only ones.”

“Was it a big ship?”

“There were more than two hundred people on board.”

“Lord help us!” Esther Moore cried, her eyes widening. “Listen, as soon as Caleb comes back, we’ll get you in to St. Augustine. You can catch a ship back from there, or perhaps go overland. The ship would be the quickest.”

“I hate to be a bother.”

“Don’t be foolish. What are people for, except to help in time of trouble?”

The two women sat quietly then, and Esther tactfully did not mention the wreck anymore. She put Damita’s and Yancy’s clothes by the stove, and they soon dried out. Esther ironed Damita’s dress, and the young woman put it back on. The coat was still hanging in front of the stove when the two men came back.

“Did you find anyone, Caleb?” His face was dark. “Not alive,” he said. “We’ll have to go into St. Augustine and report this.”

“I know. You go hitch up the wagon. I’ll go with you. Where do your people live, Miss Damita?”

“In New Orleans.”

Esther said, “You are welcome to stay with us, but I know you are anxious to get home. There’s nearly always a ship leaving St. Augustine for New Orleans. You can get a hotel there until one leaves.”

Caleb studied her face, started to say something but then changed his mind. “I’ll go get the team hitched up. The weather’s clearing off.”

Damita and Yancy stood in front of the Royal Hotel and said their good-byes to the Moores. She and Yancy had gone to the courthouse to give notice of what had happened, and then the Moores had driven them to the hotel. The two couples shook hands, then Damita suddenly moved forward a step and hugged Esther. She had never embraced a woman in Esther Moore’s class before, but gratitude was rich in her. “I can’t thank you enough for helping us.”

“You get on home now, and let your people baby you and take care of you. We’ll be praying for you, me and Caleb. And I’m sorry about your aunt.” The Moores climbed up on their wagon, Caleb snapped the reins, and they ambled out of town.

Now Yancy and Damita stood in front of the hotel, and Damita said, “I don’t have any money. It was all in my stateroom.”

Yancy smiled briefly. “I carry my cash in my money belt, so we still have some.” He patted his side and said, “It got a little damp, but it’s all right.”

“My father will recompense you for anything you spend.”

Yancy looked at her. “Come along. We’ll go register.”

The two walked into the lobby of the hotel, and the clerk smiled at them. “Yes, sir. May I help you?”

“We need two rooms, one for this lady and one for myself.”

“Yes, sir, we have two. Please register right here.” The clerk was a short man with fair skin and sky-blue eyes. When they finished signing in, he smiled and asked, “Will you be staying long?”

“I hope not,” Yancy said. “We need to get a ship out of here. This lady needs to catch one bound for New Orleans. Do you know of any?”

“No, sir, I don’t, but you can go down to the docks and find out very easily.”

“I’ll do that.” Yancy took the keys and nodded, then the two turned and walked up the stairs.

Yancy opened the door to room 206 and handed Damita the key. “You lie down and get some rest. I’ll go find out about a ship. When I get back, we’ll have something to eat.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Damita.” He hesitated and said, “I know it’s been rough, but it’s not over yet.”

“What do you mean?”

“Sometimes the past haunts a person. Didn’t you know that?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I mean, you don’t always have time to think about how difficult things are, but later, you look back and wonder how you lived through them.”

Damita’s life had been so carefree up to that point, the idea of the past’s haunting her was foreign. But as Yancy spoke, she recognized that she would always remember the horror of the wreck, and other things as well.

“Try to get some sleep,” he said and walked back down the stairs.

Damita awoke with a start at the gentle knock on her door. She sat up and looked around, remembering where she was. “Who is it?” she called.

“It’s me, Yancy. Do you want to go eat?”

Realizing she was hungry, she got up and said, “Yes. I’ll meet you in the lobby in fifteen minutes.” Quickly she dressed and did the best she could with her hair. She had no brush, no comb, no cosmetics, nothing but the water-damaged clothes she was wearing. Leaving her room and descending the stairs, she walked into the hotel restaurant she had seen when they registered. As she approached Yancy at a table, he arose and drew back a chair for her. “I thought we’d have something to eat, and then maybe go buy you something to wear and other things you’ll need.”

“That’s thoughtful of you,” she said, thawing a little. “Did you find out about a ship?”

“There’s one leaving tomorrow. Not much of a ship, but at least it’s going to New Orleans.”

“Could you get tickets on it?”

“They don’t ordinarily take passengers, but the captain said that he’d make an exception after I explained what had happened. They’re on the last leg of a journey—they’ve been down in Venezuela.”

The waiter came, and the two ordered steaks. When the food arrived, the meat was tender and tasted wonderful to Damita. She ate the entire steak, and Yancy grinned, saying, “You’re starved to death. You’re going to get fat if you eat like that.”

“No, I don’t think so.” She said, “I’m sorry I have to depend on you, but my father will pay you when we get back.”

“I’m not going back.”

Damita stared at him. “You’re not going back? Why?”

“Nothing to go back to New Orleans for. I’m headed to Savannah.”

“Oh, I see.” Damita felt lost for a moment, then she made the best of it. “You can give me your address, and I can have him send you the money.”

“To perdition with the money! Who cares about it?” Yancy said roughly. He picked up his coffee, sipped it, and said, “I thought hard times drew people together, Damita. That was a horrible experience. We were hanging on to each other, and we were all we had. I’ll never forget it, but evidently, you don’t want to think about it.”

Damita studied his face. He had not shaved, and his whiskers had a reddish glint. His face looked thinner even in the short time since the shipwreck, but his eyes were blue as cornflowers and intense as anything she had ever seen. She remembered how she had clung to him and returned his caresses. Her face flushed, and she knew she could not hide her thoughts from him.

“Look, Damita, we barely survived a disaster. You had lost a beloved relative. We were cold and alone, and the only thing we had on earth was each other. When something like that happens, your defenses are down. It can happen to anyone.” He reached over and put his hand on her wrist. “Don’t be ashamed of being human, Damita.”

Her first impulse was to give him the same kind of warmth and confidence that he was showing toward her. But she could not forget that he was the one who had broken away from their embrace. Damita, who had always prided herself upon her ability to stand, had nearly fallen. It was Yancy, the rough Kaintock with no manners, who had shown strength. This galled her anew. If she had been the one who had drawn back, she could have borne it. But she had not, and both of them knew it. She tightened her lips and gave him a level look. “You saved my life, Yancy, and for that, I’ll always be thankful.”

Yancy saw that she was hardened against him and removed his hand. He studied her for a moment and then shook his head. “You’ve got too much pride. One day, if you’re lucky, you’ll lose it. And then, you’ll have to admit that you’re human just like the rest of us. If that ever happens, you’ll be a real woman with real pride. The ship leaves in the morning at nine o’clock. I’ll be in the lobby, waiting to take you there. Good night.”

Damita watched, shocked, as Yancy stood and walked out of the restaurant. He disappeared around the corner, and she felt deflated, and that she had somehow demeaned herself. Her mind returned to the time that she had lain in his arms and shame came. I’m no better than the women at those balls who give themselves to men for money, she thought. I’m the same as they are. Her hands clenched. She rose and went to her room, and when she had shut the door, she lay down on the bed and tried to blot everything out of her mind.

The ship was terrible. It was filthy and smelly, and the sailors leered at her. Even the captain was drunk.

Yancy had brought Damita on board and introduced her to Captain Passen, who had not shaved recently and had a rank odor about him. He had grinned and said, “You’re all right, lady. My first mate will give you his cabin for the trip.”

“Thank you, Captain, and thank the mate for me.”

“We’ll be settin’ sail in half an hour. You better get your good-byes said. Don’t worry, little lady. We don’t get many passengers, but we’ll have time to get acquainted.”

Damita turned toward Yancy, and they moved a few steps away from the captain, aware of the eyes of the crew. The two of them had hardly spoken all morning. She looked down at her hands, unable to meet his eyes.

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

“Nothing. Nothing’s wrong.”

“Are you afraid?”

Damita lifted her head and nodded. “Yes, I’m afraid of these men.”

Yancy studied her for a moment, then shrugged. “I’m in no big hurry. I’ll pay my passage and take you back to your parents.”

“I . . . I thank you for that, Yancy,” she said a bit stiffly.

“No bother,” he said without expression and left her to go make arrangements with the captain.

The first mate’s cabin stank of stale flesh, alcohol, and tobacco smoke. As soon as Damita saw it, she knew she would not be able to sleep on the bed because the covers were so soiled. Yancy arranged to get fresh bedding for her.

The first day she spent almost entirely in her cabin. On deck, the men had whispered loudly enough for her to hear crude remarks that brought color to her face.

Yancy left her alone. On the second day of the voyage, Damita left her cabin and saw him standing in the prow of the ship. She took a deep breath and walked over. He nodded, saying, “We’ll be in New Orleans by late afternoon.”

“That will be good.”

“It’s been an unpleasant voyage.”

“It hasn’t been all bad, and I thank you for coming with me.” He did not answer, and she leaned against the rail. “I can’t stop thinking about my aunt. She was so good to me,” she said, describing some of her aunt’s qualities.

Yancy said quietly, “It’s hard to lose someone like that. I’m sorry.”

The silence continued, and Damita said, “I can’t put the McCains out of my mind.”

“I’ve thought about them a lot too.”

“Esther was so happy. She had her future completely planned out. Now it’s all over.”

Yancy studied Damita’s face. He knew she was a girl with great vitality and imagination, and he saw now her will and the pride in the corners of her eyes. He was also aware of the clean-running, physical lines of her body. He well understood the reserve that had come between them since that day in the barn, and he realized it would always be there. “They were happy for a while,” he answered.

“But such a short while. What was it? Only five or six days.”

“I think it was longer than that. He courted her for more than a year. That was a happy time for them.”

“But still, Yancy, it’s so short.”

Something was in his eyes that she could not read. He shrugged. “We don’t have any guarantees.”

His answer was enigmatic. He himself was a man she could not understand, and abruptly she asked him, “When we thought we were going to die, were you afraid?”

“Of course I was.”

“I’m surprised. You don’t seem to be afraid of anything.”

“You’re wrong about that, Damita.”

Damita studied him even more carefully. “What are you afraid of, Yancy?”

“Growing old. Getting helpless. Being alone with no one to care.” He hesitated, then added, “What comes after death.”

Damita suddenly realized that she was afraid of those things, too. She said as much, and he nodded.

“I think most people are, but my mother wasn’t.”

“Your mother?”

“After my father died, life was hard. We had no money, but she was a happy woman. She had a joy inside her I’ve never seen in anyone else. She went about the house singing songs about Jesus. I’ll never forget that. And when she came to death,” he added, “it was as if she were going on a vacation. She couldn’t wait to get on ‘the other side,’ as she called it.”

“That’s wonderful.”

“You know, Damita, I’ve met a few atheists. Some of them were pretty smart men, but my mother’s the answer I have for them. I saw God in my mother.”

Somehow Yancy’s simple words touched Damita. “What was her name?” she asked.

“Her name was Kate. I wrote a poem about her once—the only poem I ever wrote.”

“You wrote a poem?”

Yancy looked embarrassed. “Yep, I did.”

“I’d like to read it.”

“I don’t have it written down.”

“But you know it.”

“Oh, yes, I know it.”

“Would you say it for me, please?”

Yancy was taken aback. “I’ve never said it for anybody.”

“I’d like to hear it.”

The wind was not strong, but it blew Yancy’s auburn hair over his face. He looked embarrassed but said, “All right.” He stared at the sea and said:

When she was thirty-three Kate Devereaux slipped

Away from earth, and I was there to see

Her debut into immortality.

Death for her—a fine wine to be sipped

Before her voyage on a darkling sea.

So deep she lay in downy feather bed,

Beneath the handmade quilt I saw no form,

But lightly swelled the patterns cuneiform

Of orange circles squared in turkey-red—

Primly gay, her deathbed uniform!

First light, Kate willed away her best:

Husband, children, home, to God’s defense.

And then her heart, in spritely cadence,

Drummed, then slowed—then settled down to rest.

So well she endured her going hence.

“That’s . . . that’s beautiful.”

Yancy saw that Damita had tears in her eyes. “Why, it’s nothing to cry about,” he said gently.

She could not answer but dashed the tears away. “I think your mother must have been a wonderful woman.” The poem had moved her, and Yancy Devereaux had become even more of an enigma. How could a man like this write words like that?

One thing turned out well: Word of the ship’s going down had not yet reached Damita’s parents. When she had appeared at the door with Yancy at her side, Alfredo and Elena had stared at them in shock. She explained quickly what had happened, and they expressed grief and sadness over the loss of Juanita, mingled with rejoicing that Damita had survived.

Alfredo had almost swamped Yancy with his thankfulness. When Damita had told him how he saved her, Alfredo hugged the young man, something neither his wife nor his daughter had ever seen him do. Elena also had taken Yancy’s hand and kissed it in the Latin manner. This had embarrassed Yancy.

“You must stay with us for a time. You must give me a chance to show my gratitude,” Alfredo had said. And at his and his wife’s insistence, Yancy had agreed to stay for a few days, at least until he could find a ship to Savannah.

In the days that followed, Damita felt an almost crippling discomfort when she was near Yancy. She had insisted that her father give him a reward, which Alfredo tried to do, but Yancy firmly refused it.

No ship was headed for Savannah for five days, and during those days, Damita saw a great deal of the tall visitor she had brought into their lives. She saw how quickly her mother and father accepted him. They told her separately they were shocked that an American could be so nice. Elena said, “Why, with a little training in manners, he could pass for one of us.”

Damita smiled. “I doubt he would like to do that, Mother.”

Damita also noticed how well Yancy got along with the servants. Within a day’s time, he knew each one of them by name and most of their histories. He had become a favorite of Ernestine, the cook, and also of Dolores Aznar, the housekeeper.

Damita noticed more than once that Charissa seemed to be taken with Yancy. She once saw them sitting together in the kitchen, cracking pecans, and when she entered, Yancy said, “We’re going to make some pralines. Charissa’s going to show me how.”

“I’m sure she makes very good ones.”

“We have a lot in common, Charissa and I. We’ve both picked lots of cotton, haven’t we, Charissa?”

“Yes, we have,” Charissa said, smiling at him. “I’ve picked enough to last me a lifetime.”

“So have I. I’d rather make pralines with a pretty girl anytime.”

Something about the scene had disturbed Damita. She could not put her finger on it, but she filed it away in her mind.

On the day before he was to leave, Yancy visited the garden market with Charissa. He helped her carry the packages back, and the two deposited the groceries in the kitchen with Ernestine. Then they went outside to the courtyard, where Charissa asked him to tell her what life was like where he grew up in Virginia.

The two of them stood beside a wall, and Yancy began to describe bear hunting to her. Charissa’s eyes glowed as he talked.

“One time, my friend Ed and I were hunting bear, and we hadn’t had any luck tracking one at all. Then suddenly, one came roaring out of nowhere. He reached out just like this, and he grabbed me, and I knew I was a goner.”

To illustrate his point, Yancy put his arms around Charissa. “He had big, long, white teeth, and I just knew he was going to bite my head off.”

“What are you doing?”

Yancy turned and saw that Damita had come out into the courtyard. He stepped back and smiled. “Why, I was just telling Charissa—”

“I could see what you were doing. Mr. Devereaux, I would appreciate it if you would not trouble the female servants.”

“He was just telling me a story,” Charissa said.

“You keep out of this, Rissa.”

“My name is Charissa.”

“You be quiet, or I’ll have you whipped!”

“You’ve done it before, haven’t you?” Charissa stared at her mistress for a moment, then turned and walked away, her back stiff.

Yancy glared at Damita. “You had that girl beaten?”

“That’s none of your business.”

Yancy’s smile had disappeared. “That’s your way, isn’t it? Somebody doesn’t do what you like, you have them punished! If you don’t own them, then you take it out in other ways. You’re nothing but a spoiled brat, Damita! Other people who went down on that ship were more fit to live than you are.” He walked briskly out of the courtyard and back into the house.

Damita stood silently. She began to tremble and turned to go talk to Charissa, but she knew that would be useless. She looked at the door into which Yancy had disappeared. It’s all his fault, she thought angrily. Everything he does hurts me somehow. I’ll never have anything to do with another Kaintock as long as I live!

PART TWO

• SPRING 1832 •

Charissa

Chapter seven

From the surgical viewing area, Dr. Aaron Goldman watched the operation that took place below him with avid interest. He was a small man with coal-black hair despite his sixty years, and he exuded a certain elegance. All of the other doctors who had gathered to watch the operation wore black, but Goldman gave the Prince Albert coat he wore a special sort of dignity. He ran his hand over his hair, then shook his head in wonder. Turning to the man who sat beside him, he said, “Dr. Pryor, that is what I call a fine piece of work.”

John Pryor was much younger. He was also much larger. As the two stood up to leave, he towered over Goldman. He took one more look at the patient being wheeled out and at the surgeon walking toward the door of the operating room. “I’ve never seen a better man with a knife,” he admitted. Pryor was a broad, tall man with blunt features, red hair, and direct brown eyes. He wore a beard and now he stroked it thoughtfully. “He’s very young to be so good.”

“Yes, he’s only twenty-six. Come along. Let’s be on our way,” Goldman said. “I want to find out how his father’s doing.”

“You know the family, then?”

“Yes, his father is Irving Whitman. I’ve known him since we were young men in medical school together.” He turned, and the two men joined the others filing out of the balcony that circled the operating room. They made their way into the hall, and as they turned toward the stairs, Pryor asked, “What sort of training did he have, Dr. Goldman?”

“His father is one of the finest physicians I’ve ever known—a skillful surgeon and all-around physician. His wife died years ago, and they never had any children. Irving missed her terribly. We were afraid, for a while, that he might take his own life, his loss so devastated him. I don’t know how he ran across him, but he adopted this boy and named him Jefferson. The two were inseparable, and I suppose Jeff just soaked up everything his father taught him. He’s a bright young man with a brilliant future.”

“Will he stay here in the hospital?”

“I suppose he will. His father is very closely tied to this place. Oh, there he is. Come on, I want you to meet him.”

Pryor hurried along with Aaron Goldman, who walked fast for a man his age. As they approached the young physician, Pryor studied him and thought, Well, he’ll never take any prizes for beauty. He waited as Goldman approached first, and the young surgeon turned to greet him. Jefferson’s eyes lit up with pleasure as he shook hands with the older man. Jefferson had coarse black hair and expressive brown eyes and was quite tall: six feet, three inches, Pryor guessed. There was nothing fine about the tall, lanky body, or the face itself. Whitman’s face was craggy, with deep-set eyes, high cheekbones, and hollow cheeks. He was very lean, but when he was introduced and Pryor took his hand, he felt the strength of the young man’s grasp.

“How’s your father, Jefferson?”

“Not much improved, I’m afraid, Dr. Goldman. He has his good days and his bad ones.”

“I was hoping he’d gotten better. Does he go out at all?” Goldman asked.

“Yes, sir. On his better days, I take him riding in the carriage. Sometimes we walk a little, if the weather’s fine. Last week was good for him, but now he’s very weak.”

“Give him my best wishes, and tell him I’ll be by to see him later this week, to beat him at chess again.”

A smile spread across Whitman’s face. “I don’t think you’ve beaten him in fifty years—at least, so he tells it.”

“I let him win just to make him feel better,” Goldman said, his eyes sparkling. “Say, that was a fine job you did in there.”

“Thank you, Dr. Goldman. I’ll look forward to your visit.”

Whitman departed, and John Pryor murmured, “He doesn’t look like a doctor, does he?”

“No, he looks more like an outdoorsman, which he is, as a matter of fact. He loves hunting and fishing and goes every chance he gets.”

“He’s an amazing surgeon, if what I saw was any sample, and I suppose he has a good thing here with his father’s influence.”

Goldman shook his head and said firmly, “Jefferson Whitman’s made his own way. His father may have had some input in getting him into this hospital, but the rest he did on his own. He’s a fine young fellow.”

Spring of 1832 brought St. Louis the mildest of warm, soft breezes. As Jefferson Whitman guided the mare to a stop beside the tall three-story brownstone, he waved at Marcus Stoner, the free black man who was kneeling in the garden that stretched beside the house. “Hello, Marcus,” he called out. “What are you planting now?”

“Just a few pretty flowers. You gonna like ’em when they come up, Dr. Jeff.”

The black man, short and stocky, stood and followed the buggy around to the large hitching area in the back. To the right was a carriage house, and behind was a half-acre field, green with grass.

“Let me unhitch for you, Dr. Jeff.”

“You might as well turn Penny out into the pasture. I won’t be going anywhere the rest of the day.”

“Yes, sah. Did you have a good day, Doctor?”

“Very fine. Did my father sit on the porch today?”

“Not today, sah. Mrs. Shultz, she say he’s not doin’ well. I was hopin’ this warm weather would be good for him.”

“So was I.”

Marcus said with a grin, “He’s got a good doctor takin’ care of him. You give him my best wishes and tell him I’m prayin’ for him, and my prayers don’t never fail.”

“I’ll tell him, Marcus.”

Jeff picked up his medical bag and walked in the back door. He found Olga Shultz, the housekeeper, and Ellie Middleton, the maid, preparing the evening meal. “Hello, ladies,” he said. “Something good for supper tonight?”

“Yah. Vat you expect? I cook something bad?”

Mrs. Shultz was forty-eight and had been in America since she was fifteen, but she still had her German accent. She was a heavy woman, blonde and blue-eyed, with a perfect complexion. A widow, she was totally devoted to Irving Whitman; he had shown kindness to her as an immigrant, unable to speak a word of English and new to the country. Olga nudged the maid at her side and said, “Why you just stand there, Ellie? Take the doctor’s bag up to his room.”

“Oh, yes, I’ll take it, Dr. Jeff!” Ellie was twenty years old, a thin woman with brown hair and pale blue eyes. She obviously adored Jefferson Whitman, which at first had amused Olga Shultz; now she was impatient with the girl.

“Oh, don’t bother. I’ll take it myself, Ellie,” Jeff said.

“Oh, no, sir, let me do it!” Ellie reached out, and when his hand touched hers as they passed the bag, she blushed, swallowed hard, and ran out of the room.

“That is a foolish girl. She thinks she’s in loff with you.”

“She just can’t resist my good looks. No woman can.” Jeff looked down at the housekeeper with fondness. “How’s Father been today?”

“Not gute. I couldn’t get him to eat his lunch, but he’ll eat tonight. I made him a gute German meal.” She reached out and poked the tall man’s ribs. “And you, you never put on a pound. You’re skinny as a rail.”

“Not because I don’t get good cooking. I’ll go visit Father, and then I think I’ll lie down before supper.”

“Don’t you be fooling vid dot Ellie! She’s got no sense at all.”

Jefferson grinned broadly. “I can’t promise a thing, Olga. I’m a wicked, wicked man.” He laughed and turned down a short hall that opened into a large foyer. He walked to the bedroom that they had provided on the first floor for convenience’s sake. He knocked on the door, and hearing his father’s voice, he stepped inside. He saw that his father was pale and wan, but he showed no reaction. Smiling, he said, “I hear you’ve been misbehaving. Olga says you wouldn’t eat your lunch.”

“That woman wants to stuff me like a pig. Sit down. Tell me about what’s been going on. I’m surprised the hospital is still open without me there to see to it.”

Jeff pulled a chair close to the bed, sat, and began to speak of the activities of the day. Without seeming to, he studied his father carefully. At the age of sixty-four, Irving Whitman had been a strong man up until a year ago. The illness had baffled most of the doctors. Whatever it was had drained his strength and the color from his face. He had always been a handsome man, with silver hair and unusual green eyes, but now he looked frail.

Jeff told him about his various doctoring activities, including the finite details of each one. When he finished speaking of the last surgery, he mentioned, “I saw Dr. Goldman today. He says he’s coming out to see you this week.”

“He’s too busy for that.”

“I don’t think so. I never knew Dr. Goldman to promise a single thing he didn’t carry out.” Jeff felt a pang in his heart. Irving was all the family he knew, and his father’s illness pained him. He forced a smile and said, “I’ll going to go clean up a little bit. Olga tells me she’s made a fine meal. Do you feel like going to the table?”

“Certainly.”

Jeff was fairly sure that his father did not feel like it, but it was good that he made the effort. “All right. We’ll have a contest and see who can eat the most.”

“This is fine cooking, Olga,” Jeff said. He had eaten a great portion of the meal, which included tender pork chops, carrots and broccoli from the garden, and new potatoes, white and steaming as they burst out of their jackets. The freshly baked éclairs that served as dessert seemed to melt in his mouth.

Mrs. Shultz beamed but saw that Irving had eaten almost nothing. She opened her mouth to protest when she caught Jeff ’s eye. He shook his head, and she swallowed her scoldings.

“Let’s go sit on the porch and watch the fireflies,” Jeff suggested.

“I think I’d rather lie down.”

Jeff recognized fatigue in his father’s face. “Of course,” he said. “I’ll tell you what—let me read to you. You always like that.”

“All right, but I don’t want any adventure stories tonight.”

“You can choose.”

Fifteen minutes later, Irving Whitman was propped up in his bed, his hands folded, and Jeff was roaming the bookcases. “Nothing here but science and medical books.”

“Read from this.”

Jeff turned and walked over and took the worn, black Bible that his father indicated on the table beside him. “Fine,” he said. “Would you like something from the Gospels?”

“No, I want you to read the Song of Solomon.”

Surprise showed in the younger man’s eyes. “The Song of Solomon?”

“Yes.”

Jeff shrugged, sat down, and opened the Bible. The book was ragged, its thin pages creased and yellowed with age. He remarked, “We need to get you a new Bible. This one’s worn out.”

“No, I like that one. It’s like an old friend.”

“I wish mine were as worn as yours.” Jeff found the book and began to read. “The song of songs which is Solomon’s. Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth: for thy love is better than wine.” He looked up and said, “This really is an odd book! I never know what to do with it, Father. Some of the lines in it are embarrassing.”

Irving smiled. “I heard a pastor say once that this is the hardest book for unspiritual people to read.”

“I guess that’s me.”

“Go ahead and just read it.”

Jeff continued through the first chapter to verse thirteen:

A bundle of myrrh is my well-beloved unto me; he shall lie all night betwixt my breasts. My beloved is unto me as a cluster of campfire in the vineyards of Engedi. Behold, thou art fair, my love; behold, thou art fair; thou hast doves’ eyes. Behold, thou art fair, my beloved, yea, pleasant: also our bed is green. The beams of our house are cedar, and our rafters of fir.

Jeff looked up, a puzzled light in his brown eyes. “I must confess, Father, I don’t know what this book is doing in the Bible.”

“It’s always been one of my favorites.”

“But why?”

“It’s a book about love, Jeff,” the old man said. “Everybody’s interested in love, I suppose.”

“But this is so—strange. Listen to this: ‘He brought me to the banqueting house, and his banner over me was love. Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples: for I am sick of love. His left hand is under my head, and his right hand doth embrace me.’” Jeff shook his head. “This is a pretty graphic love scene.”

“Yes, it is. The whole book, on the surface, is about the love of a man and a woman. It’s taking a look at the physical side of the marriage relationship.”

“But why is it in the Bible?”

“I think God uses this book as He uses others: to show us His love for man. After all, Jeff, the highest form of love on earth is probably between a husband and a wife. The apostle Paul said that the two become one flesh. I don’t know of any other relationship that creates such a complete union. Yes, I think it’s a picture of Christ and His church, expressed in terms of a human marriage. You remember that Paul said that the church is the bride of Christ. And in the Old Testament, Israel was the wife of Jehovah.”

“It’s so sensual.”

“So is marriage, Jeff. That’s part of the love between men and women. There are other parts. When the sensual passes away, there’s still love there, but for a time, physical love is part of marriage. And God honors it. Only worldly people and those with impure minds find something shameful about the marriage bed.”

Jeff continued reading, pausing from time to time to let his father speak of what the verses meant to him. He knew his father was a truly devout Christian, but they didn’t often read the Bible together. This night, Irving seemed unusually talkative.

When Jeff finished the book, Irving looked tired, but a light still shone in his eyes as he looked at his son. “One day, you’ll get married, Jeff, and I hope you find the woman that God’s created just for you.”

Jeff smiled. “You’re very romantic. You believe that marriages are made in heaven.”

“I believe that God made Isabelle for me, and me for her.”

“You loved her very much.”

“Perhaps too much. Jeff, find a woman and love her as this book sets it out. Let her be the fairest thing in this world to you.”

Jeff saw tears in his father’s eyes, and this shocked him. He sat quietly until his father said, “I think I’ll sleep now, son. Thanks for reading to me.”

Jeff removed some of his father’s pillows, then took his hand. He held it in both of his. It felt as thin and feeble as the bones of a young bird. “I’ll remember what you said about finding the right woman. Good night, sir.”

“Good night, Jeff.”

Jeff turned the lamp down very low and left the room. In the hall, he met Olga, who asked, “Is he all right?”

“He’s not as well as I’d like. He was in an odd mood tonight. He talked about his wife.”

“Vat did he say?”

“He talked about how much he loved her, and how he wants me to find a woman I can love that way.”

“He is such a good man. I pray every night and every morning, too, und all day that Gott vill get him up from dot bed.”

“So do I, Olga.” He put his arm around the woman, hugged her, and said, “Good night.”

Jeff went to his own bedroom then, undressed, and got into bed. He was tired to the bone; he had started his day at five o’clock, and now it was after midnight. Yet he lay unable to sleep, thinking about the evening with his father. Finally he realized, Something is troubling him. But I don’t know what it is. As he pondered what it could be, sleep overtook him.

For the next two days, Jeff worked hard and rode home as quickly as he could, in case his father wanted to talk some more, but Irving kept conversations short. Jeff grew more and more convinced that something was disturbing his father, but he respected the old man’s privacy and would not ask him outright.

On Thursday night, Irving ate very little and went to sleep early in the evening. Jeff was in the library next door to his father’s bedroom, reading, when he heard Irving’s bell ring. He jumped to his feet and met the housekeeper in the hall, coming from the kitchen. “I’ll see to him, Olga.”

He entered Irving’s room and saw that the bed was rumpled, as if his father had been thrashing around. Irving looked up at him with desperate eyes.

“What is it, sir? Are you in pain?”

“Not physically.”

Jeff hesitated, then said, “You didn’t bring me up to be nosy, but I wish you’d tell me what it is.” For a moment, he thought that he had stepped over the line: His father stared at him almost harshly. He began to apologize, but Irving interrupted him.

“Sit down, Jeff. I must talk to you.”

Jeff pulled a chair close to his father’s bed and leaned forward, his hands clasped together.

The words came from the older man slowly. “You’re right. I am troubled. I have tried to keep this thing to myself, but I can’t do it any longer, son.”

Jeff had no idea what was coming. He said, “Tell me, Father. If it’s something I can fix, I’ll do it.”

The gaslight burned steadily, throwing shadows on the face of Irving Whitman. His cheeks were thin, his lips pale. He closed his eyes for a time, and when he opened them to meet those of his son, they showed torment. “I have something to confess to you, Jeff. It may be that you will despise me after you’ve heard what I have to say.”

“That won’t happen!”

“Perhaps it should. I committed a terrible sin, Jeff.”

“I can’t believe that, sir.”

Irving began to tremble, and he lowered his head. Finally he said, “It was five years after my wife died, Jeff. God knows I loved her more than life, and after I lost her, I nearly lost my mind. I was so lonely, Jeff. I really had no one until I adopted you, and you were only a child.”

Jeff did not move. He had never seen his father in this mood. He waited, scarcely daring to breathe.

“There was a young woman, a slave on the plantation. She was a beautiful quadroon. Her name was Bethany. I . . . I don’t know how it happened. I had never had any affairs, but without going into details I had a . . . relationship with her. She had no choice, of course. I think she really cared for me.”

Irving broke off then and found it difficult to speak. “I cared for her, too. I can’t explain how I could so turn aside from everything that I knew was right. I wasn’t a Christian at the time, but I knew what I did was wrong. Then I found out she was pregnant, and I was scared to death.”

Jeff did not move a muscle, nor did the shock that he felt show in his face. He waited and finally, when his father seemed unable to continue, he whispered, “What did you do?”

“What could I do? She was a black woman in the eyes of the society I grew up in. I went around for weeks in agony not knowing what to do. When I found out she was carrying my child, I panicked. I . . . I sold her to a neighboring planter named Franklin Demarr.”

“You’re not the first man to fall into temptation,” Jeff said quietly.

“Don’t make excuses for me! I was absolutely miserable, and I took the easy way out. I buried myself in work, but I never could forget Bethany, for I knew that I had wronged her terribly. I tried to make up for what I had done by being a good man, but I could never put it away.” Suddenly, he turned and faced Jeff. “How can I face God with this on my soul, Jeff?”

Jeff swallowed hard. “You’ve asked God to forgive you, haven’t you?”

“Yes, and God did save me. And I thank Him for it, and for the blood of Jesus. But Jeff, I owe this woman and this child something.”

“You want me to help you with this, don’t you, Father?”

“Yes. I want you to find Bethany and the child, and I want you to purchase them. I want you to buy them out of slavery and bring them here so we can give them a better life. Will you do this?”

Jeff took his father’s hands. He saw the tears in his father’s eyes and felt some in his own. “Yes. I’ll leave right away, and I will do exactly as you say. I’ll find the woman and the child, and I’ll do whatever I can to help them.”

Chapter eight

Jeff stepped off the train, half-choked by the cinders that poured out of the engine. His bag in hand, he immediately looked around for a carriage. Independence, Missouri, had only a small train station, and he soon spotted two carriages along the curb. He walked toward the man standing by the first one and asked, “Can you take me into town?”

“Yes, sir.” The speaker was ruddy-faced, wearing a pair of brown trousers and a flamboyant yellow shirt. He grabbed Jeff ’s bag, tossed it in the back carelessly, and then hopped to the seat. “Where can I take you, sir?”

“I’m looking for a man named Franklin Demarr. I understand he lives at 611 Elm Street.”

“You just sit back, and I’ll have you there in no time, sir.”

Jeff held on as the driver wheeled the horses around abruptly, throwing him to one side. Jeff was tired after his long train ride, but he had dozed a little during the night. He pulled out his watch and saw that the time was shortly after ten o’clock; today was the twentieth of April. Jeff leaned back, wondering how he would approach Franklin Demarr. It was, after all, a delicate situation. He had thought about it since he left home and concluded, I can’t tell him the whole truth. I hope he’ll be understanding.

Ten minutes later, the carriage pulled up in front of a tall two-story frame house. “This the place?”

“I suppose so.” Jeff got out and asked, “Would you mind waiting for me? I’ll be glad to pay you for your time.”

“Yes, sir.”

Jeff ascended the steep steps and knocked on the door. He waited apprehensively, and when it opened, he found himself facing a middle-aged woman with kind gray eyes.

“Yes, what is it?”

“I’m Dr. Jefferson Whitman, ma’am. I’m looking for Mr. Franklin Demarr.”

“He’s my father-in-law. Is he expecting you?”

“No, ma’am, but I do need to see him.”

“Come in. I’ll see what he says.”

Jeff stepped inside the spacious foyer, and the woman disappeared down a hall. A few moments later, she returned and said, “He said he will see you. He’s in the last room down the hall.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

When Jeff found the door and was admitted, he faced a silver-haired man, who rose from a desk, walked over, and said, “Yes? Your name is Whitman?”

“Yes. I’m sorry to intrude, sir, but—”

“I knew some Whitmans when I was younger.”

“They were my father’s parents, I suppose. My father’s name is Irving Whitman.”

“Why, yes, I know your family well. And I remember Irving was a doctor.”

“That’s right, sir. Irving is my father.”

“Come in and sit down.” Demarr pointed to a sofa and and offered Jeff some tea. When Jeff declined, the older man leaned back and said, “Can’t imagine why in the world you’d be looking for me. I haven’t thought of Whitman in oh, fifteen years. Is he still alive?”

“Yes, sir, but he is very ill.”

“I’m sorry to hear this. I heard good things of him. I have a sister who lives in St. Louis. She says he’s practicing there.”

“Yes, sir, and so am I.”

Jeff answered some questions about the Whitman plantation, and when the conversation began to falter, he said, “This is going to sound strange, but I’m looking for the records on a slave my father sold to you quite a few years ago.”

“A slave?”

“Yes. Her name was Bethany. I don’t know any last name. I don’t think there was one.”

“Why would you want to find a record on a sale that old?”

“My father asked me to do it. I can’t give you his reasons.”

Franklin studied Jeff, then shrugged his shoulders. “Well, I have the books right here. We sold the plantation years ago, but I kept all the records. Don’t know why.” He rose and walked over to a bookcase, ran his finger over some volumes, and pulled down a ledger. He brought it back to the desk, opened it up, and began to scan its contents. “Here it is. One mulatto, Bethany, purchased from Whitman.”

“You sold your plantation. Then I suppose you sold off all your slaves. Would you have a record there of who bought this woman?”

“It’s right here. Sold: one mulatto with her daughter to a plantation owner named Donald Barton.”

“Is there an address there for Mr. Barton?”

“He has an office in Memphis. I don’t know where it is, but it shouldn’t be hard to find.”

“Thank you very much, Mr. Demarr.”

“Tell your father I remember him.”

“I’ll tell him. You’ve been a great help, sir.”

Jeff ’s trip to Memphis was hard and dull. He had to change trains twice from Independence, and by the time he reached Memphis, he was exhausted. He had no trouble, however, finding Donald Barton, who was a prominent businessman in real estate.

Jeff arrived too late that day to call on the man in his office, but first thing the next morning, he walked in the door and met a tall, distinguished-looking man who smiled winningly. “Mr. Barton?”

“Yes, sir. I am Donald Barton.”

“I’m Dr. Jefferson Whitman.”

“Sit down, Doctor. Are you a resident here?”

“No, I’m from St. Louis.”

“If you’re thinking of settling, I can help you with a business address or with a residential property.”

“I’m afraid not, Mr. Barton. I’m actually searching for two slaves you purchased four years ago.”

“Oh?” Barton dropped his smile. “What is your interest, sir?”

“I’m trying to trace the two at the request of my father.”

“What were their names? I sold my plantation, and I know that most of the slaves are now gone.”

Jeff told him Bethany’s name, and Barton said, “Oh, yes, I remember her and her daughter, Charissa, well. Fine-looking stock. But I sold them off to Leroy Hampton.”

“Does he live in this area?”

“Oh, no, he has a large plantation outside of Baton Rouge.”

Jeff rose. “Thank you very much.”

“You sure I can’t show you some property?”

Jeff smiled. “No, thank you. I’ll be leaving.”

He went directly to check on a packet. He was tired of trains and was glad to find that a fast packet was leaving the next day at eleven o’clock. He reserved a stateroom, then returned to his hotel for the night.

When Jeff left the packet at Baton Rouge, he had no idea where to find Hampton, so he visited the courthouse. It took a little persuasion, but he used what charm he had and discovered from the clerk, who seemed familiar with most of the population, that Leroy Hampton had died. The clerk did manage to give Jeff some useful information: “His wife’s running the place now. You’d have to see her. You can find her easily enough.”

“How do I get there?”

“If you hire a carriage, tell the driver to take you out the old Military Road for three miles. When you get there, ask anybody, and they’ll tell you where the Hampton place is.”

“Thank you very much.”

“You’re welcome, sir.”

Jeff quickly found a carriage. The driver urged the bays to a fast pace. They passed through the center of Baton Rouge and then the outskirts. Three miles later, the driver hailed a pedestrian, asking, “Can you tell me where the Hamptons live?”

“Right over there. That big white house with the blue shutters.”

The driver thanked him. When he pulled up in front of the house, Jeff got out, asking him to wait. He climbed the steps to the porch and knocked on the door. There was long pause before it opened. Then a thin, narrow-faced woman with suspicious eyes appeared and asked, “What is it?”

“My name is Dr. Jefferson Whitman. I’m looking for Mrs. Hampton.”

“That’s me. What do you want?”

“I’m looking for some information, Mrs. Hampton. Could you give me a few minutes?” The woman hesitated, and it seemed as though she was going to shut the door. But then she shrugged and said, “Come in.”

Jeff stepped inside, and she led him into a drawing room. The room smelled musty, and the windows were all closed, even though the day was hot. Jeff stated his business. “I’m looking for a slave woman and her daughter. Her name is Bethany, and her daughter’s name is Charissa. Donald Barton said that your husband purchased them a while back.”

The woman stared at him. “Why do you want to find out about them?”

Jeff saw the hardness of the woman’s glance and said, “I had it in my mind to purchase the pair.” Since this really was his intention, he felt as if he was telling her the truth, if not the whole story.

“You’re too late.”

“Too late?” Jeff said. “What do you mean?”

“The woman’s dead. She died some time ago.”

Jeff felt the heavy weight of disappointment. “All this for nothing. The girl, is she here?”

“No. I sold her. It’s hard times. I had to cut back.”

“Would you mind telling me whom you sold her to?”

“Yes, I would. I know men like you. She’s a good-lookin’ wench, and I know your purpose. You don’t intend to put her pickin’ cotton.”

“You’re entirely mistaken, Mrs. Hampton.”

“I know you want the girl for evil purposes. I won’t help you. Now, please leave!”

Jeff had no choice but to do as she said. He heard the door slam behind him as he climbed into the carriage. The driver waited for directions, and Jeff finally said, “Take me to a hotel.”

“Yes, sir. Any particular one?”

“No. Just a respectable place. A room for the night.”

“Yes, sir.”

Jeff toyed with the food on his plate. He had taken the room, cleaned up, and spent the day wondering what to do next. He was sure there were ways to find the records of sale, but he was not sure how to go about it.

A voice jarred him out of his thoughts: “Do you mind if I join you? It looks like the tables are all taken.”

Jeff looked up and saw a broad-shouldered, middle-aged man. “Not at all. Have a seat.”

“My name’s Vince Shoulders.”

“Dr. Jefferson Whitman.”

“A doctor, eh? I don’t believe we’ve met. Do you practice here?”

“No, I’m just here on business.”

Shoulders sat down, and when the waiter came over, he ordered steak and potatoes. He was a talkative individual, cheerful, and apparently quite a successful man. His clothes were fancy and he wore an ornate gold ring. “You came on business, you say? Successful, I hope.”

“No, as a matter of fact, it wasn’t.”

“Sorry to hear that. Deals do fall through. Were you here to buy land? Maybe I can help. I’m a planter myself. I know most places around here.”

“Nothing like that, Mr. Shoulders. I came trying to trace two slaves, but I haven’t been able to get any information.”

“Who’d they belong to?”

“Leroy Hampton.”

“Oh, yes, Leroy. The poor fellow had a hard time of it at the last. He had something wrong with his belly. Went down to nothing. That wife of his wasn’t much help, either. She is about the gloomiest woman I ever saw.”

“You know the family?”

“Oh, yes. My place is right down the road from theirs.”

“Mrs. Hampton wasn’t willing to give me any information.”

“She’s batty, a crazy old woman. Don’t know what’s wrong with her. I don’t know any of the particular slaves, but I can tell you where they are.”

Jeff straightened up, his eyes lit with eagerness. “You can?”

“Yep. She sold the whole bunch to a fellow in New Orleans who runs an auction. His name is Saul Lebeaux. I sold him two of my hands at the same time.”

“Wonder where I could find him.”

“Like I said, he runs an auction in New Orleans, but if you’re thinkin’ of goin’ there, I wouldn’t, if I were you.”

“Why not, Mr. Shoulders?”

“Yellow fever is bad there. Besides, that’s a wicked town. Some of these days, God’s going to send fire and brimstone on it, just like He did on Sodom and Gomorrah.”

“I’ll have to take a chance.”

“Watch yourself. There are all kinds of temptations in that town.” He broke into a grin and said, “I go over myself to get tempted every once in a while.”

Jeff finished his meal and and shook hands with Shoulders. “Thank you, sir. You’ve been a great help to me.”

He lay awake that night for a long time, thinking of his father, and hoping that he would find some trace of the girl called Charissa from Saul Lebeaux.

Chapter nine

The waters of the Mississippi were a rich brown, almost like chocolate, Jeff thought as he stood on the deck of the steamship Myra Belle. The paddles drove the vessel through the water at a fast clip, churning up a frothy wake. Jeff found something hypnotic about the water’s motion, and despite the noise of the turning paddles, he actually forgot his misson for a moment.

Then he turned and made his way toward the bow, where a crowd had gathered. The region they were approaching was more liquid than solid, it seemed. On both sides of the channel, bayous were filled with strange-looking trees, cypress, he supposed, that bore on their branches what looked like shredded bird’s nests. He had asked one of the crew about them and learned that the gray clumps and strands were Spanish moss.

As they passed through the channel, Jeff was fascinated by the long-legged herons that walked solemnly in the shallow water, occasionally bending to spear a fish. The noise of the ship’s passage stirred white birds that Jeff did not recognize. In their flight, they mingled with the seagulls that constantly rent the air with their raucous cries.

Restlessly, Jeff moved along the railing and thought of his father. Ever since he had learned the secret that had plagued the man he respected above all others, he felt more uneasy than he could ever remember feeling before. Until then, his life had been fairly easy, and never had he doubted the honor and the integrity of Irving Whitman. Now he felt torn in two by the quest he had undertaken. As the brown waters parted for the Myra Belle, he thought over and over about what sort of future might lie ahead, not so much for himself, but for his father. What if I find the girl and bring her back? What place would she have? I haven’t seen much of slavery, but I know it’s harsh. How will Father explain her presence to others? The thoughts troubled him, and he shook his head to clear them away.

The steamboat let out a shrill, clarion call, and the whistle startled the flight of the white birds that fluttered upward, making an irregular pattern against the sky. The sun was hot, for April along the Gulf Coast had a humidity and a power that he had not known in the milder climate of St. Louis.

He stood at the bow, and the crew began to scurry along the decks. “Is that New Orleans up ahead?” he asked one of them.

“That’s it, sir. We’ll dock within fifteen minutes.”

More vessels appeared on the river. Many of them were outgoing, and Jeff watched steamships and those equipped only with sails pass by. Some were side-wheelers that kicked up the brown waters of the Mississippi as they pushed their way steadily toward the gulf. Once he was startled to see what he thought was a log suddenly break into life. He straightened up and narrowed his eyes, then realized that it was an alligator. He watched as the beast, which was at least ten feet long, made its way under the water, with just its snout and eyes peeking above the surface. Jeff kept his eyes on the alligator until the Myra Belle passed it and wondered what such a creature’s attack would be like.

He turned his attention to the crowded harbor. The Myra Belle nosed into the dock, and the sailors let down the long loading walkway next to a stack of cotton bales. The captain and his mate bellowed orders, and Jeff returned to his cabin. He threw his belongings into the suitcase, then joined the passengers who were departing. He asked a carriage driver if he could recommend a hotel.

“I know them all, sir. How much would you like to spend?”

Jeff answered, “I want one close to wherever the slave auction is.”

“Why, that would be the St. Louis Hotel,” the driver replied. He was a swarthy, muscular individual with his shirt sleeves cut short, exposing massive corded arms. “A fine place but a mite expensive.”

“That’ll be fine. Take me there.”

Jeff drew the razor down his face, wiped the foam off on a towel, and studied himself in the mirror. I look tired and washed out, he thought, but that’s only natural. He splashed water on his face and then picked up a comb. He was not a man who gave a great deal of thought to personal appearance, but he liked to be clean. Finished with his grooming, he went downstairs. He’d had no trouble getting a room, and now he was struck by the lack of activity in the hotel. The lobby was almost empty. He asked the desk clerk, “Can you tell me how to get to the auction?”

“Yes, sir,” answered the man, who was dressed in finery. His shirt was gleaming white and his coat a rich brown fabric. “You’ll find it on Royal Street. Go down that way for three blocks,” he instructed, pointing. “It’s right next to the Creole Hotel. Anyone can point it out to you.”

Jeff hesitated a moment. “There’s not much going on in the city, is there?”

The clerk’s eyes grew hooded. He lowered his voice as if whispering a secret: “It’s because of the yellow fever epidemic. Ordinarily, this time of year the hotel would be full, but the sickness is everywhere. Bronze John is bad this year.”

“Bronze John?”

“That’s what some call yellow fever.”

“I’ve heard your people have struggled with that here, off and on.”

“It’s not as severe yet as it was four years ago. I lost my parents in that one. You’d think the doctors could do something, but they really can’t.”

“Is the city correcting the sanitary conditions?”

The clerk shrugged. “There’s not a lot they can do, I guess. You’ve never been here before?”

“Never have.”

“The city’s lower than sea level. It’s built in something like a saucer, and the rainwater collects in the gutters, and it ponds around the houses. And sometimes it gets like a swamp.”

“Isn’t there any underground drainage, sewers, things like that?”

“No. Nothing.” The clerk seemed discouraged and passed his hand across his face, as if brushing away something troublesome. “You’ll see what happens if you’re here long enough. The water stays where it falls, gets stagnant, and makes kind of a green scum. It looks like velvet, but it stinks. Of course, the city’s slops and garbage and dead animals don’t help much.”

Jeff wanted to ask, Why do you live here, if it’s so bad? but he refrained. People sometimes lived where they had to. He thanked the clerk and headed out to find Saul Lebeaux. He was intrigued by the architecture along the streets. He noted the two-story buildings, which were everywhere, supported by rows of iron posts that fit into a curb. The delicate ironwork on the galleries made a fine weaving shaped like leaves and flowers. All of the upper galleries had waist-high railings, and he saw people sitting in many of them. It made a graceful sight, with the scrolled panels of filigree that topped most of the homes. The sunlight was filtering onto the geraniums, wax flowers, ferns, and here and there a big birdcage that decorated the galleries.

As he watched for the Creole Hotel, he passed a black woman carrying a bucket, her head swathed in a white turban. Right behind her were a pair of dandies, and the two were eyeing a beautiful young woman across the street with her apparent escort. The couple was dressed at the height of fashion, and the man carried a long cane. Jeff had heard that many of these canes concealed swords, which the hot-blooded Creoles drew on the least provocation.

He passed the Creole Hotel to find a short flight of steps leading to a formal doorway. Men were coming and going, and he asked one of them, “Is this where the auction is held?”

“Yes, sir. This is the place.”

Jeff stepped inside and took in the large room at a glance. There was no activity, it seemed, although a few prospective buyers were wandering around, smoking long, thin cigars. The sound of their talk filled the place. Jeff saw a man come from a door in the back and approached him, saying, “I’m looking for Mr. Lebeaux.”

The man said, “You have some stock to sell?”

“No, it’s another matter.”

“Go in the back. He’s in his office,” he said, gesturing toward the door.

Jeff nodded his thanks, found the office, and entered. “I’m looking for Mr. Saul Lebeaux,” he said to the man who was standing at the window. He was a swarthy man, with jet-black hair plastered against his skull and a fine black mustache, carefully trimmed. He was wearing a white suit and a black string tie, and the purple smoke from his cigar curled lazily into the air. “That’s me,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

Jeff expected to be asked to sit down, but Lebeaux was not hospitable. “I am Dr. Jefferson Whitman,” he said. “I’m from St. Louis.”

Interest quickened in the dark man’s face. “You’ve come, perhaps, to buy?”

“No, Mr. Lebeaux, I’m not a prospective customer.” He saw Lebeaux’s interest dissipate and said quickly, “I’m trying to find a young woman you purchased from Mrs. Leroy Hampton in Baton Rouge.”

“I did make a buy there. You interested in one of them?”

“The name I have is Charissa. It’s the only name I know. She would be, I believe, about sixteen.”

Lebeaux’s eyes were fixed steadily on him. “What is your interest, doctor?”

“It’s personal.”

Lebeaux’s mouth twisted into a grin. There was something evil in his expression.

Jeff ignored it. “Could you give me any information about the girl?”

“You know her, do you?”

“No, I’ve never seen her in my life, but another party has sent me to find out her whereabouts.”

“I might remember—for a price. A memory works better when it’s primed by cash.”

Lebeaux repulsed Jeff, but he knew he had little choice. “Fifty dollars,” he said flatly.

“Give it to me.”

Jeff reached into his pocket, pulled out a leather wallet, and extracted some bills. He handed them to Lebeaux, who stuffed them into the pocket of his shirt. “The girl’s the property of Alfredo Madariaga.”

“Does he live here in town?”

“He has a place in town but a larger plantation just north of the city. It’s a prominent family, but I’ll tell you, you’re probably wasting your time if you want to buy the girl.”

“Why do you say that?”

Lebeaux puffed on the cigar and said, “They’re proud. A little brash, I think. The girl was supposed to be a maid for the daughter in the family, so I doubt they’ll sell her. That’s all I know.”

Jeff nodded curtly and said, “Thank you, sir,” turned, and left the auction house. The encounter had left a bad taste in his mouth, and he walked slowly along the street, wondering what his next move should be. He felt ill-suited for his mission. He had spent much of his life in classrooms, then in examining and operating rooms at the hospital. Yet he knew this was an undeniable request. His father needed Jeff to find the girl and help her, to rest his conscience. A thought snapped into his mind. It came with as much finality as a key turning in a lock. I’ll find Debakky. He’ll be able to advise me.

The one person he knew in the entire city of New Orleans was Dr. Elmo Debakky. Jeff ’s mind had been so filled with his quest, he had completely forgotten about his old friend. Although Debakky was two years older than he, the two had been close during their medical training in St. Louis and stayed in contact afterward. Jeff remembered the address and asked a coachman to take him to it.

The driver agreed, and Jeff got in the cab. The driver picked up the lines and spoke to the horses. He drove along several streets, making turns, and once again Jeff marveled at the lack of traffic. “Business isn’t good?” he asked.

“No,” the driver said and cursed fluently in French and English. “The fever’s got everybody scared.”

“What about you? Aren’t you scared?”

“Me? No! If a man’s time has come, he will get the fever wherever he is. You can’t run from death.”

The cab drew up to the house, which was set back from the street. It was a large, two-story structure with a steep roof and gables, and the only resemblance it bore to other architecture in the city was the gallery along the upper story. A sign out front said Dr. Elmo Debakky. Getting out, Jeff paid the driver and walked up the steps. When he knocked on the door, an attractive mulatto woman in her late twenties stood before him. “Yes, sir?”

“I am Dr. Jefferson Whitman. I’m a friend of Dr. Debakky’s. I’d like to see him, if he’s in.”

“Yes, he is. Come inside, please. I am Mrs. Bozonnier, the housekeeper.” She shut the door behind him and said, “If you’ll wait, sir, I’ll tell the doctor you’re here.”

“Thank you.” Jeff looked around at the large foyer with expensive-looking pictures on the wall. Doors on each side of the hall before him were open, revealing rich carpets and sunlit rooms. On his right was the library, on the left was apparently a parlor.

“Jeff, what in the world are you doing here?”

Jeff smiled as Elmo Debakky hurried down the hall. Debakky was a cheerful-looking man, short and somewhat heavy. It was not fat but muscle, as Jeff well knew, and when Debakky took his hand, he winced at the iron grip. “Don’t break my hand, Elmo.”

Debakky slapped Jeff on the back. He wore his blond hair rather long and had intense gray eyes set in a round face. He did everything quickly, speech or action, and now he said, “Come into the parlor. Rose, bring us something refreshing to drink.”

“What shall it be, Doctor?”

“You always choose best,” he said, smiling. “Come on, Jeff. By George, I’m glad to see you!” He led his friend into the parlor.

“Elmo, I hope I haven’t caught you at a busy time.”

“As a matter of fact, you have. This yellow fever keeps all the doctors busy. What are you doing in New Orleans? Sit down. How’s your father?”

Jeff answered the rapid-fire questions from a horsehide-covered chair. He had little time to do more than that when the housekeeper came in, carrying a tray.

“I thought tea would be nice,” she said. “Lunch will be ready soon, though.” She looked a question at Jeff.

“Put enough on for two, Rose. Jeff, where are you staying?”

“I took a room in the St. Louis Hotel.”

“You go get your things and come here. I just rattle around in this big old house.” Elmo Debakky’s face was filled with gladness. “Now, help yourself to that tea. Rose here makes the best tea in New Orleans—or anywhere else, for that matter.”

“I’m sure she does.” The two men sipped tea, and Elmo chattered until Jeff finally had to cut in on his friend. “I’ll tell you why I’ve come, Elmo. I’m here to buy a slave.”

“You didn’t have to come all the way to New Orleans for that.”

Jeff shifted uncomfortably. “I’m going to have to confide in you, but it must not go any further.”

Debakky’s eyes grew thoughtful. He chewed on his lower lip and then nodded. “All right. What is it?”

Knowing that he could fully trust his friend, Jeff explained his story, concluding, “So, you see, it’s a touchy situation. Lebeaux tells me a family named Madariaga bought the girl.”

“That would be Alfredo Madariaga,” he said. “I know the family.”

“Lebeaux seemed to think they are proud people.”

“They were, but it’s pretty common talk that the family’s not as prosperous as it once was. There have been some bad cotton crops. If you’re prepared to pay a stiff price, you may be able to purchase the girl.”

“Could you give me a letter of introduction?”

“Glad to. You’ll probably find them in town here, although they may have run away to their plantation to avoid the fever.”

“I’ve got to find her. I’m worried about Father. This thing is preying on his mind.”

“It may take a little negotiating. Look, go to your hotel and get your things.” Elmo reached out and squeezed Jeff ’s arm. “I’ve missed you, old boy. What I’d like to do is persuade you to stay here and go into practice with me, but I know that’s impossible.”

“I appreciate the offer, but I can’t leave my father, and St. Louis is all he knows now.”

“We’ll have a good time while you are here. I’ll have my man take you to get your things after lunch, and then we’ll see about buying this girl.”

Chapter ten

The Madariaga plantation was expansive, Jeff discovered. He had borrowed Elmo’s buggy and driven out of New Orleans, having learned that the family had indeed left town until the yellow fever epidemic passed. The house that rose out of the flatlands was enormous, white with four columns, and on all sides the fields stretched away over the land. Pulling up in front of the house, Jeff met a young black man who inquired, “Shall I put up your horse, sir?”

“No, I don’t think I’ll be here long. You might water him, though.” He fished in his pocket, pulled out a coin, and gave it to the man, whose eyes lit up.

“Yes, suh!” he said and went to lead the buggy away.

As Jeff walked up to the stairs leading to the porch, he rehearsed in his mind what he was going to say. He was not satisfied with it. No matter how he phrased it, his explanation for coming all the way from St. Louis to buy a single slave sounded feeble.

He pounded the big brass knocker on the front door, and almost at once, it swung wide. He found himself facing an older woman wearing a gray dress and a white cap on her head. “Yes, sir?” she said. “May I help you?”

“I would like to see Mr. Madariaga, if possible.”

The woman hesitated, then said, “May I have your name, sir?”

“Dr. Jefferson Whitman.”

“Will you step inside, please? I’ll see if Señor Madariaga is available.”

Jeff obeyed, and the woman disappeared. As he waited, he silently rehearsed his speech again. The woman returned and said, “Come this way, sir.”

Jeff followed the woman down the wide hallway, and then through a door on the left. The woman stepped aside to let him pass, and he found himself inside a spacious room with a beautiful oriental carpet. The walls were a pale gold and reflected the sunlight that came through the tall window at one end. The man who rose to greet him was dressed in a rather formal way, with black trousers, white shirt, and a tie. He had a smooth, olive complexion and light brown eyes, and he nodded courteously, saying, “Dr. Whitman, welcome to my home.”

“Thank you, Mr. Madariaga. I must apologize for coming without an appointment, but I do have a note from a mutual acquaintance, Dr. Debakky.”

Madariaga took the note that Jeff extended, read it quickly, and smiled. “Yes, Dr. Debakky was very helpful to my family once during a sickness. Will you sit down?”

Jeff accepted his invitation and decided that the best approach was to bring his business into the open as soon as possible. “I will not take much of your time, sir. I’ve been commissioned to find a young woman, a slave you purchased recently. I can’t reveal the details, but I would like to buy the young woman, if it’s possible. Her name is Charissa.”

Instantly, Madariaga drew himself up straighter. “Yes,” he said evenly, “I do own such a girl. Could you tell me a little more about the details of your mission?”

Jeff had known that he would have to say something, and he had come up with a story that explained his mission in the vaguest of terms. “The gentleman who sent me felt that he had done an injustice to the mother of Charissa. I believe her name was Bethany. I was sent to purchase both the mother and the daughter, but I discovered that the mother died recently. I’m sure my principal would be willing to pay any reasonable price for the girl.”

Madariaga tapped his fingertips together thoughtfully and then shook his head, a puzzled look in his eyes. “This is all rather strange, sir. I hardly know what to say.”

“I wish I could reveal more, but I can’t.”

“Do you know the girl, may I ask?”

“No, I’ve never seen her.”

“The girl was a gift to my daughter on her graduation. I could not think of selling her unless my daughter agreed.” He hesitated, then said, “She has had trouble with the girl, I must tell you. Charissa is strong-willed. Personally, I would be willing, but you must get my daughter’s consent.”

“Would it be possible to speak with your daughter, sir?”

“Yes. If you will wait here, I will send her to you.” He left the room and turned down the hallway. There he encountered Dolores, his housekeeper, and asked if she knew Damita’s whereabouts.

“She is out in the garden, sir.”

“Go get her, and tell her to come inside.”

“Yes, sir.”

As Dolores stepped outside, Madariaga stood thinking over this turn of events. Dolores returned with Damita at her side.

“Damita, come with me, please.”

“What is it, Papa?” Damita was wearing a pale yellow dress and a bonnet to shield her face from the sun. She pulled it off now, gave it to Dolores, and followed her father down the hall.

He paused halfway to the den and lowered his voice, saying, “There is a man here, a physician from St. Louis. It’s a rather unusual situation. I don’t understand it.”

“What is it?” Damita asked with curiosity. “What does he want?”

“He wants to buy Rissa.”

“Buy Rissa? He’s come all the way from St. Louis for that?” Her eyes narrowed, and she asked, “But why?”

She listened as her father repeated the explanation their visitor had given, then said, “I told him that I would not sell the girl without your permission, but I want you to think carefully, Damita. The girl will never make a proper maid for you. I think you should allow the man to buy her, and we’ll find a more suitable servant.”

Damita looked at her father, then said, “Let me talk to him, Papa, and we will see.”

“He’s in my study. After you’ve talked, come and tell me what you’ve decided.”

Damita entered the study and saw the tall man sitting in a leather-bound armchair. He rose to his feet and bowed slightly, and she said, “I am Damita Madariaga, sir.”

“Dr. Jefferson Whitman, ma’am.”

“I understand that you want to buy my maid.” As she spoke, Damita surveyed the gangly figure of the doctor. Though she had a stubborn prejudice against Americans and called them all “Kaintocks,” this man was a physician. She saw that he was educated and not crude, as many Americans were. Still, her voice had a hard edge when she asked, “Why do you want this particular girl?”

“Miss Madariaga, as I told your father, I have been sent to buy the girl by an individual who feels that he did her mother an injustice. That’s all I can say. I am bound to secrecy.”

“That sounds odd to me,” Damita said, somewhat haughtily. She had seen how men’s eyes followed her maid and wondered if this man had the same intentions. She met his eyes steadily. “I would have to be assured that your interest was not more personal.”

“More personal? I don’t understand.”

“Rissa is a very attractive girl. Men are interested in her.”

“But I’ve never even seen the girl, Miss Madariaga.”

Damita was a fair judge of character, and she saw the surprise in the deep-set eyes of the man before her. He was homely, not handsome in the least, and he seemed to project honesty. Still, he was a Kaintock. She came to a decision. “If you will stay here, I will get the girl.”

“I’m afraid I won’t be able to tell her any more than I’ve told you, Miss Madariaga, but I would like to meet her.”

Damita stepped outside and found the young slave. “There’s a man here to buy you, Rissa.”

“Buy me!” she exclaimed. “What do you mean, Miss Damita?”

“Just what I said. He’s come all the way from St. Louis.” She lowered her voice, then asked, “Did you ever hear of anyone named Jefferson Whitman?”

“No, ma’am, never.”

“He says another man, who owed your mother a favor, sent him. Did she ever mention anybody by that name?”

Charissa was silent. “I’ve never heard the name before.”

“Come along. I want you to see him. He’s an American. A Kaintock, but he’s a doctor. I suppose that makes a difference.”

The two women entered the room, and Jeff was visibly startled when he saw the girl. Her hair was as black as any he had ever seen, but what caught his attention was her eyes. They were light green, exactly the color of his father’s.

Both women saw his eyes widen at the girl. Damita said, “This is Dr. Whitman, Rissa. He’s the man who wants to buy you.”

Charissa studied the tall man. She had learned to read men’s faces, and she examined the doctor’s for signs of lust. Men could not cover their desires from her. Yet she saw none of this in his eyes. “Why do you want to buy me, sir?”

“The truth is, I can’t say much, but the individual who sent me said that he wanted to show a kindness to your mother. He didn’t know she had died. He commissioned me to purchase you and your mother.”

“Who is this man?”

“I’m afraid I can’t say any more than I have.”

Charissa had, long ago, built a wall of defense against men, and now she stood silently for so long that Damita finally asked, “What do you say to this, Rissa?”

“I don’t trust any man,” she said, her voice severe.

Damita smiled. “You may go now, Rissa.”

Rissa left the room, and as soon as the door closed behind her, Damita said, “Dr. Whitman, I think I must disappoint you.”

Jeff stood awkwardly before her. He tried to think of arguments, but none came. The sight of the girl had shocked him; he had not expected her beauty, and the eyes were so much like his father’s that he could not think clearly. “I wish you’d reconsider, Miss Madariaga,” he said.

“I’m afraid I won’t do that. Good day, sir.”

Jeff accepted his dismissal and left without another word.

As soon as he was gone, Damita went to find Rissa, who had gone to the kitchen. “You don’t want that man to buy you?”

“I’d rather stay here,” Charissa replied evenly. “At least here I don’t have to bed down with any man. You have made me safe from that.”

Damita responded, “All right, but I’ll expect to see a little better behavior in you, since I’m doing you this favor. My father wanted to sell you, but I’ll keep you, on the condition you mend your ways.”

“I’ll try.” Charissa forced out the words and bowed her head.

Damita turned and went to find her father, who was waiting for her in her room. “What happened?” he asked.

“I don’t want to sell Rissa, and she doesn’t want to go.”

Alfredo was not particularly interested in Rissa’s desires, and he was plainly disappointed. “Come into the study. We need to talk.”

Surprised, Damita followed her father into the study, and he turned to say, “We’re going to have to cut back.”

“Cut back! But we already have! What do you mean, Papa?”

“The market has been bad. I told you before that the crops have been terrible, and I’ve had some business dealings that soured at the last minute.”

Damita knew that her father was a gambling man, although she never mentioned this to him. Despite their discussion on the balcony those months ago, she had always assumed that he would manage to keep things as they were. Now she saw that he was deeply troubled, and this, in turn, troubled her. “I’d like to keep the girl, Papa.”

“I’ll see what can be done, but I can’t make any promises. The man obviously has money, and as I told you before, it may be necessary to sell Rissa. Not to mention a few of the other slaves.”

“So, Madariaga refused to sell the girl,” Elmo said. “I’m a little surprised, since I know he’s low on cash. Most of these planters are now.”

“I think it was his daughter’s choice. Do you know her?”

“I’ve seen her. Good-looking woman, but proud as Lucifer—but all those Creoles are. What are you going to do, Jeff?”

“I don’t know.” Jeff stood despondently in front of his friend. “If I won’t be in the way, I think I’ll stay for a time. Maybe an idea will come to me. Maybe I’ll offer so much money, they can’t turn it down.”

“That might work. And it’ll be good to have you. As a matter of fact, I wish you’d make the rounds with me.”

“I’ll be glad to do that, Elmo. You look tired.”

“I need an associate. Sure you won’t change your mind, Jeff? We could find a good place for your father here and move your whole staff.”

“I’m afraid that’s impossible, Elmo.”

Elmo sighed. “I thought it would be, but I had to ask.”

For the next two weeks Jeff found himself working as hard as he ever did at the hospital in St. Louis. The yellow fever epidemic had struck a serious blow, and Elmo saw patients from early morning until late evening. Jeff accompanied him and shared the load.

He had written his father several times during his journeys. He broke the news that Bethany was dead, but the girl was alive, and he’d found her. He told his father of the difficulties of purchasing the girl and asked if he wanted him to pursue the sale. Irving’s reply by return mail stated: “Yes, pay any price, and buy the girl.”

Jeff shared the contents of the letter with Elmo, who nodded and said, “You’ll have to do it, Jeff, no matter what it takes.”

On May eighteenth, late in the afternoon, a visitor surprised Señor Madariaga. He looked up from his desk in the study when the housekeeper said, “Mr. Pennington is here to see you, sir.”

“Pennington? Show him in.”

A worried look crossed Alfredo’s face, and he rose to meet the man who entered the door. Asa Pennington was the vice president of the bank where he did business. His appearance at the Madariaga home was unusual, because they had always conversed at the bank. He covered his nervousness well, however, and smiled, saying, “Mr. Pennington, it’s a pleasure to see you.”

Asa Pennington was a small man dressed in plain clothing. He had a thin, pale face and tight lips. Words were money to him, and he spent them as cautiously as he did his own cash. When Alfredo asked him to sit, he replied, “No, sir, I’m in a hurry. I have several calls to make, and I’m afraid I have unpleasant news.”

Alfredo licked his lips nervously. “And that might be what, Mr. Pennington?”

“We’ve carried your loans as long as we can without a payment, Señor Madariaga. We must have money, or I’m afraid we’ll have to take action.”

Alfredo knew then that what he dreaded was occurring. “Sit down, and we will go over the figures.”

Pennington replied, “We can go over them, but the bank must have at least ten thousand dollars at once, or we will have to foreclose on either your town house or this plantation.”

The very idea was repugnant as well as frightening. Alfredo agreed, “Of course, Mr. Pennington, you have always been most generous. The crops have been poor.”

“I know. I have had to make this sort of call to five other gentlemen. But the bank must have some assurance in monetary terms.”

“I will sell off some of my slaves, Mr. Pennington.” Alfredo shook his head and said, “You will have the money by the end of the week.”

Chapter eleven

Elena noticed that her husband had eaten little and said almost nothing during the morning meal. Her eyes shifted to Damita, and Elena thought, She looks so tired. She’s never really gotten over that terrible shipwreck, and I know she misses Juanita.

Alfredo interrupted her thoughts when he said abruptly, “Ladies, come into my study. I have something to say.”

Elena knew then that whatever was troubling her husband would soon come out. She and her daughter rose and followed Alfredo. He turned into his study and stood by the door. When they had entered, he shut the door behind him and walked over to his desk. “I have something to tell you. I’ve tried to keep it from you as much as possible, but that’s impossible now.” Alfredo hesitated.

“What is it?” Elena asked. “What’s wrong? Are you ill?”

“No, I’m not ill. But I’ve never talked to you much about the finances, and I have to now.” Perspiration shone on Alfredo’s forehead. Taking out a handkerchief, he wiped it away, then straightened up. He looked at his wife and daughter and said, “I suppose you know that the crops have been bad. Our income has been cut more than fifty percent, but our expenses haven’t. I know you’ve made some sacrifices, but they haven’t been near enough. I’m afraid we’re going to have to make some—adjustments.”

“Of course,” Elena answered. “We understand.”

“We aren’t in danger of losing anything permanently, are we, Papa?” Damita asked. She had never seen her father this troubled.

“It’s more serious than usual. We’re going to have to sell off some property, and we’re going to have to seriously reduce our living expenses. I’m hoping that we won’t have to sell the house in town.”

“Sell the house!” Elena exclaimed. She loved their peach-colored home and living in the city. The idea of staying twelve months a year on the plantation was repugnant to her. “It’s not that serious, is it?”

“The banker thinks it is. We’ve got to make a payment right away, and a large one. We’ll have to sell some of the slaves.”

Elena went to his side. “I don’t want you to worry about this, dear. We’ll cut back to the bone. There are many things we can do without. We have plenty of clothes, and we can give up our travel until things get better.”

“Of course we can, Papa,” Damita said. She walked to her father and kissed him on the cheek. “We’ll all help with this. And the crop looks wonderful this year. Claude said so.” Claude Napier was the manager of the plantation, and he had commented on the crop to Damita only a week earlier.

“I hated to tell you, but I had to. We’ll talk about the details of it later.” As the ladies turned to leave, he said, “Damita, just a moment, please.”

Damita returned to his side. He said, “One of the slaves that will have to be sold is Rissa.” He saw a stubborn look come to her eyes and said firmly, “I’m sorry, but I’ve got to have cash right away, and this physician from St. Louis is prepared to pay any price. It has to be.”

Damita started to argue, but she saw the set look of her father’s face and knew that it was hopeless. Her anger fell on Jefferson Whitman, who had brought this upon her. She swallowed and said, “Very well, Papa. That’s what we’ll do.”

When Jeff went to the Debakky house for lunch that day, he was surprised when Rose Bozonnier met him, saying, “There’s a gentleman to see you, sir. I had him wait in the study.”

“A gentleman? I wasn’t expecting anyone. Did he give his name?”

“It’s Señor Madariaga.”

Jeff instantly felt a lift of spirits. He could think of only one reason why Madariaga would come to see him. “Thank you, Rose.” He walked down the hall to the study. When Madariaga rose from his chair and bowed slightly, Jeff bowed also. “I’m glad to see you, sir. I hope you haven’t had to wait long.”

“No, of course not, Doctor,” Madariaga answered. He appeared nervous and stroked his mustache with a quick motion. He was not accustomed to giving up his own way, and it had cost him a great deal of pride to come. But he had steeled himself for it and said, “I will be brief, Doctor. Are you still interested in buying the slave girl Charissa?”

“Yes, I am.”

“I have thought on it a great deal and spoken with my daughter. She’s very fond of the girl, and I’m afraid I must ask a high price, perhaps more than you’d wish to pay.”

“Name your price, Señor Madariaga.”

Alfredo cleared his throat, then said, “We’ll have to have five thousand dollars for her.” He knew this was much more than he could get for the girl on the market, and he was prepared to bargain—something he hated to do.

Jeff responded, “If you would care to go to the bank, I will write a draft, and they will cash it for you at once.”

Madariaga was surprised at Jeff ’s unquestioning acceptance of the price, but he felt instantly relieved that it would help toward settling the crisis at the bank. “It’s not necessary for you to go with me, Doctor. If you will just give me the draft, I will take it to the bank myself.”

Jeff retrieved the draft, filled it out, signed it, and handed it to Madariaga.

“Thank you, Doctor. This is quite satisfactory.” Alfredo’s eyes were on the draft, but then he looked up. “You may call for the girl at any time tomorrow.”

“I will be there early, Señor. Will you have something to drink?”

“No, I must be going.” Madariaga hesitated, then put out his hand, something he rarely did and never had done to an American. He felt the strength of the tall doctor’s grip and said, “I can’t imagine your reasons, but they are your own. Good day, sir.”

“Good day, Señor Madariaga.” Jeff felt a surge of happiness as he watched the man leave. He went to the window and watched the man get into his carriage, then motion the driver to leave. I don’t know what changed his mind, but I’m grateful for it. Jeff turned away from the window, and a more somber mood fell on him. Father may be disappointed by this young woman. We have no way of knowing how this will all work out.

Charissa stared at Damita. She had been polishing the silver when Damita entered and said abruptly, “I’ve got some news for you, Rissa, news you won’t like. The American doctor, the one that wanted to buy you? Father has sold you to him.”

For a moment, Charissa could not speak. She had put the matter out of her mind, feeling that she was secure. She saw that Damita was disturbed, even angry. “The master has sold me?”

“I’m afraid so.”

Charissa felt panicked. Although she had no love for Damita, she had found a place of safety. The male servants in the Madariaga household left her alone—with the exception of Garr Odom, whom the master had finally fired. What she feared most was a return to the life she had had before. On the plantation, she had been in constant danger of being raped. Quickly she sought some sort of assurance from her mistress. “Where will I be living?”

“I have no idea. I don’t know anything about this man except that he’s a doctor.” Damita tried to offer some hope. “He seems to be a respectable man.”

Rissa had had some experience with “respectable” men, and her feelings of apprehension showed in her face.

Damita could see the girl’s discomfort. For one moment, she was on the verge of apologizing again for the whipping. She well understood that Charissa had never forgiven her for it, but her pride forbade her to speak. Damita considered what it must be like to be someone’s property: no rights, no say in where she would live or what she would do. Damita had been insulated from the worst aspects of slavery. Now she saw the fear on the girl’s face and awkwardly said, “I wish you well, Rissa.”

“When will I be leaving?”

“Sometime tomorrow. Here, I want you to have this.” Damita handed her four gold coins. “We’ve had our differences, but I wanted to reward you for your service.”

Charissa stared at the coins and then lifted her eyes. “Thank you, Miss Damita,” she whispered.

Damita turned and left the room, leaving Charissa alone with her worst thoughts.

Charissa had slept little; throughout the night, she found herself growing tense as she thought about what lay ahead of her. She said little during the breakfast she ate with the servants of the family, and when the others had left, she began to help Ernestine with the dishes. The old cook was chattering as she always did when Charissa said, “I’m leaving here, Ernestine.”

“You’re leaving! What do you mean, child?”

“I’ve been sold to another family.”

Ernestine saw the dread in the young girl’s eyes and put her arms around her. “I’m so sorry to hear that,” she said. “I truly am. But maybe it’ll be good.”

“No, it won’t. That man, that doctor, he’s the one who bought me. He’s so big and strong, and he can do anything with me he wants to.”

Ernestine hugged the girl with real affection. She felt the tremors in Charissa’s body and said, “God’s gonna take care of you, honey. Don’t you ever doubt it.”

“You expect me to believe in God?”

“I know you don’t, but someday you will.” Ernestine stroked the girl’s smooth black hair and said, “Don’t you remember that story about Joseph in the Bible? Everything went wrong with that man. His own brothers threw him in a pit and sold him for a slave. Then, later on, people lied on him and he went to prison. Everything was a defeat, but when they was all over, he came out of it fine. That’s what I’m askin’ the Lord for you.”

Charissa wiped her eyes. She rarely cried, but her world seemed to be falling apart. She clung to Ernestine and whispered, “I’m afraid!”

Ernestine knew that Charissa had good reason to fear. Masters often used attractive young slaves for immoral purposes. Ernestine prayed silently, “Oh, Lord, help this young girl. She don’t believe in You yet, but You take care of her, and one day she will.”

Charissa was sitting silently in her room when Elena entered. “It’s time for you to go. Dr. Whitman is here for you, Rissa.”

Charissa had said her good-byes to the family and the servants, and now she stood and picked up the bag that contained her few belongings. Elena put her hand on the girl’s shoulder and said, “I’m sorry you won’t be with us, but things will be fine. Dr. Whitman seems like a good man—for an American, of course.”

Charissa could not answer, her heart was so full. She and Elena walked down the three flights of stairs to the first floor. There she saw the tall man, who said, “Good morning, Charissa.”

Charissa merely nodded.

“You have all your things there?”

“Yes, sir.”

“We’ll be going. Good day, Mrs. Madariaga. Give my regards to your husband.”

“Yes, Doctor, I’ll do that. Charissa, you be a good girl now.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Charissa stepped to the door and saw a carriage waiting.

Before Jeff could respond, Charissa climbed up and spoke to the horses. She turned once and looked at the house. It had been a haven to her. She felt loss and loneliness.

Jeff saw that the girl was frightened. Not much chance she would be otherwise, he thought. It’ll take a while, but she’ll come around. “Beautiful day, isn’t it, Charissa?”

“Yes, sir.” The reply was brief, and Charissa did not turn her head.

Jeff tried several more times to make conversation, but the girl answered in monosyllables. He finally pulled up to the house and drove around to the backyard. Charles Menton, the gardener, ran across the yard to take the horses. “You want me to unhitch the team, Doctor?”

“Yes, I suppose so, Charles.” Jeff jumped out and walked around the buggy. Charissa had stepped out and stood next to it. “Charles, this is Charissa.”

“How do you do, Miss Charissa?” Charles said. “It’s fine to meet you.”

The black man seemed friendly, but her guard was up. “Hello.”

“Come on inside. Charles, you might grain those horses.”

“Yes, sir, I’ll do that.”

Jeff strode to the back door, and when he stepped inside, he found the housekeeper waiting. “Hello, Rose. You have another mouth to feed. This is Charissa.”

“Hello, Charissa.”

“She’ll be staying for a few days. Which room would you suggest?”

“The second door on the right when you get upstairs.”

“Come along, Charissa,” Jeff said. “I’ll show it to you.”

Charissa followed without a word. The house was impressive. It was not as fine as the one she had been living in, but it was obviously expensive. As they walked up the stairs, Jeff explained, “This is Dr. Debakky’s home, but he’s working at his office now.”

“You don’t live here, sir?”

“No, I live in St. Louis with my father. We’ll be going there day after tomorrow by ship.”

He opened the door and stood back, and Charissa, unaccustomed to courtesies, did not know what to do. She was trained not to walk before white people, but he said, “Go on in. See if you like it.”

She entered the room, which had a high ceiling and cream-colored wallpaper with dancing figures on it. The carpet under her feet was a deep maroon, and the furniture was gleaming mahogany. Sunlight flowed through two tall windows. Charissa stood at the doorway, holding her possessions, not knowing what to do.

Jeff saw that the girl was apprehensive and said, “You’d better open these windows. It’s going to be warm tonight. It’s getting hot for May.” He then said, “Make yourself at home here, Charissa. Dr. Debakky will be back after a while. I want you to meet him at supper.”

“Dr. Whitman,” Charissa said, “I have to tell you something.”

“Of course. What is it?”

Charissa had to tilt her head back to look up at him, and she studied him for a moment. He was not a handsome man, but his features showed strength. Though she had planned her speech, her voice was flat as she said, “I belong to you now, sir, and I will do any work that you ask me to do.” She paused, and then her eyelids dropped until her eyes were nearly hidden. Her throat was tight, and she had difficulty adding, “I’ll do any work you want, no matter how hard, and I’ll never complain. But if you touch me, I’ll kill you if I can, even if I die for it!”

Her words shocked Jeff. He had no idea what sort of life she had led. He did not speak for a moment, but then he shook his head and said quietly, “I don’t force myself on women, Charissa.”

“I’ve heard that before, sir.”

Jefferson Whitman suddenly felt compassion for the girl. She had no defense, none whatsoever, but was at the mercy of those with greater power. “You haven’t heard it from me, Charissa,” he said quietly. “But I understand your fears. All I ask is that you give me and my father a chance to show you how we feel about things like this. I’ll see you later tonight when Dr. Debakky gets back.”

He turned and left the room, and suddenly Charissa’s knees felt weak. She had planned her declaration and fully expected to be beaten for it. But she had seen nothing like anger in the tall man’s eyes. She went over to one of the windows, opened it, and sat down in the chair opposite it. Leaning forward, she put her head down and placed her palms over her eyes. She was trembling, but she could not pray, because she did not believe in God. Yet just sitting silently, she began to gather her courage. We will see what you are like, Dr. Whitman, you and your father, she thought.

Chapter twelve

When she woke the next morning, Charissa stared around her wildly, not knowing where she was. The large room, the beautifully papered walls, and the exquisite furniture—none of it seemed familiar. Then she sat up and remembered. She recalled how she had been able to take a bath the previous night in hot water the housekeeper brought. She had luxuriated in the large tub, trying each of the fancy soaps that the woman called Rose had provided. Now, as she threw the covers back, she realized she would have to wear her only other dress—a raggedy slave garment. She slipped into it and her shoes, and then looked in the mirror mounted behind a finely finished dresser. She had a comb and brush, well worn, that she had found in a dump, and she brushed her glossy black hair. It had a slight wave to it and fell beneath her shoulders. She tied it with a piece of ribbon and went to look out the window.

Just outside, sparrows were fighting over something, tumbling, and for a moment the scene brought a smile to her lips. If birds can’t even get along, how can human beings? A knock at the door startled her. Turning quickly, she went to the door, opened it, and saw Rose.

The woman was smiling and said, “Why don’t you come down to breakfast, Charissa? It’s all ready.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Charissa stepped outside and followed the woman down the stairs. She asked, “Do you belong to the doctor who owns this house?”

“No, the doctor freed my husband and me. My husband died only last year.”

Charissa had never heard of such a thing. “You mean, he just set you free instead of selling you?”

“That’s right. Dr. Debakky is a fine man. I’ll never cease being grateful to him.”

Charissa followed Rose down the stairs and through the hallway, turning into a room at the back of the house. When she stepped inside, she saw Dr. Whitman seated at a large dining table with another man. Two more places were set across from him, but she did not notice them.

“Come in, Charissa. I hope you slept well.” Both men stood.

Charissa was stunned. “Yes, sir. I did.”

“This is Dr. Debakky. Elmo, this is Charissa Desjardin.”

“I’m glad to know you, Miss Charissa,” Debakky said with a smile. “I hope you’re hungry. Sit down. Dr. Whitman and I have been waiting for you.”

Charissa could not understand what the man meant. Sit down with two white men? She had never done such a thing. Always she had eaten in the kitchen or wherever the slaves were assigned. She blinked and did not move. Rose pulled out her chair. “You sit right down here, Charissa, and I’ll sit beside you.”

Dumbly Charissa sat and stared at the fine china plate and the silver before her. She could not say a word, but Dr. Debakky said, “Why don’t you ask the blessing, Jeff?”

“Sure will. Lord, we thank You for this food. We thank You for every blessing You’ve given us. Bless this house. Bless Miss Rose and Miss Charissa, and bless us as we serve You this day. In Jesus’ name, amen.”

“Here, have some of these eggs, Charissa,” Rose said. “And this ham is very tasty.”

Charissa kept her hands beneath the table as Rose filled her plate. A young girl came in, no older than herself, with a silver tray and coffee urn.

“Mary, give us all some of that good coffee,” Rose said. “Do you like coffee, Charissa?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Charissa was glad when the two men began talking about the yellow fever epidemic. She did not understand most of their terms, and she was terribly self-conscious. She watched Rose covertly and picked up her fork when she did. She found she was ravenous and ate everything on her plate. Then Rose passed her some jelly and freshly baked buns. She ate these, too, and just as she was finishing, Dr. Debakky said, “I hate to leave good company, but I’ve got to start my rounds. Jeff, you’re going to join me later?”

“Yes, I will.”

Debakky said, “Good to have you with us, Miss Charissa. I’ll be seeing you later.”

Rose stood and began to help the girl named Mary clear the dishes. Charissa sat with her eyes down, unsure what she should do next. Finally, she looked up and saw that Whitman was sipping his coffee. When she met his eyes, he said, “We’ll be leaving for St. Louis tomorrow, Charissa. Today I want us to go do a little shopping.”

“Yes, sir.”

She waited, but the doctor said only, “I’m ready if you are.”

“Yes, sir, I’m ready.”

She followed Jeff out of the house and climbed into the carriage beside him. He spoke to the horses, and as they moved out of the back and down the narrow passageway that led to the street, he said, “Just beginning to learn my way around the city. Have you ever gone shopping here with Miss Damita?”

“Yes, sir, I have.”

“Good. Then you direct me, and we’ll go to the places that have shops that sell clothes. All right?”

Charissa nodded, then said, “You go right down over on Rampart Street. There are some fine shops there.”

“Miss Damita buys a lot of her dresses in there. I don’t think they have clothes for gentlemen.” Charissa had directed Jeff to a line of stores. He pulled up in front of one, and the two had gotten down. Now she stood uncertainly, not knowing if he expected her to accompany him or not. She had assumed that he was buying for himself.

“We’ll try this one right here.” Jeff walked to the door, opened it, and held it for her.

Once again, Charissa did not know how to react. Her face grew warm, and she ducked her head and slipped through the door, murmuring, “Thank you, sir.”

When they were inside, an older woman with silver hair, dark brown eyes, and a friendly face approached. “May I help you, sir?”

“Indeed you might. This young lady needs to be completely outfitted: dresses, undergarments, nightgowns, shoes, hats. At least one very nice outfit suitable for going to church. Day dresses—well, I’ll leave it all to you.”

The clerk’s face did not change. She assumed at once that this tall man had taken the young woman for his mistress. This was a common occurrence in New Orleans, and she had fulfilled requests like this before. “Yes, sir, I will see to it.”

“Charissa, I’ll come back in about an hour. I’ll expect to see you wearing something very nice. Oh, I’ll need some luggage. A small trunk for the new clothes, and perhaps an overnight bag. Where might I find those?”

“Tyrone’s, right across the street, has some very nice things.”

“Thank you very much.”

The next hour was like a dream to Charissa Desjardin. She had never bought anything in her life, never tried on dresses in a shop. The woman, who said her name was Mrs. Williams, was tactful. She took Charissa to a back room to try on fresh undergarments without commenting on the ragged quality of the ones she wore. Charissa, of course, had helped Damita dress and knew what a lady would wear, but never had she imagined wearing such fuss and finery herself. She tried on several dresses and surprised both herself and Mrs. Williams by having very definite tastes, refusing some dresses and liking others immediately.

The hour passed quickly, and Charissa put on one of the new dresses. It was made out of a light-blue cotton percale with a tight-fitting bodice and short, puffy sleeves; white and pink embroidery decorated the front and the hem. A white ribbon tied around the waist. To complete the outfit, she wore a pair of pink satin shoes and a bonnet with white feathers.

Mrs. Williams joined her at the mirror. “You look beautiful, my dear. Dr. Whitman is here.”

Charissa found Whitman waiting near the door. His eyes opened wide, and she saw admiration in them.

“Why, you look very nice, Charissa! You pick that out yourself?”

“She certainly did,” Mrs. Williams said. “She has fine taste, and she’s a perfect size. The dresses fit exquisitely.”

“I brought the luggage, so if we can pack these in there, we’ll be ready to go.”

Mrs. Williams neatly packed the clothing in the small trunk. Then Whitman asked, “How much will it be, Mrs. Williams?”

Mrs. Williams named the price, and Charissa gasped with dismay. She looked at Dr. Whitman, expecting him to protest, but he simply said, “That sounds fair enough.” He took out a leather billfold and paid for the clothes.

Mrs. Williams asked, “What shall I do with your old things?”

“Throw them away,” Dr. Whitman said, then turned to Charissa. “Are you ready?” He picked up the trunk, and she moved quickly to open the door for him. He put the trunk in the carriage, then turned, saying, “You’ll need other things.”

“What, Dr. Whitman?”

“Things that women use. Special soaps, I suppose, or makeup.”

Everything seemed unreal. Without a word, she followed as he strode to another store she had visited with Damita. Dr. Whitman instructed her to select all the items she needed—and not to worry about the prices. He then said, “I’ll be back in a few minutes to pay for them.”

Twenty minutes later, they had purchased everything. “We’ll put all these in the small suitcase,” he said, carrying the packages to the carriage. Once he’d packed the parcels, he turned and held out his hand.

Charissa stared at him, wondering what he wanted. “Yes, sir, what is it?”

“I was just going to help you into the buggy,” Whitman said, surprised. “That’s what gentlemen are supposed to do, isn’t it?”

Charissa flushed. She had seen this courtesy many times, but no one had ever extended it to her. She reached out, her face burning, and felt his big hand close about hers. She stepped up into the buggy, and he released her at once. “Thank you, sir.”

“You’re very welcome.” He climbed into his seat. “Now, it’s time we got a bite to eat. Let’s go home and see what Rose can stir up for us. This shopping is hard work.”

“Dr. Whitman—”

“Yes, what is it?”

“I don’t understand. Why are you doing all this for me?” She knew well enough the history of men who took mulatto and quadroon girls and made them their mistresses. She wanted no misunderstanding. “I appreciate all of it, but I hope you don’t think that I—” She could not say any more but looked at him squarely.

Jeff Whitman shook his head. “Don’t worry. You don’t ever have to worry about me—or my father—bothering you in any way, Charissa. I swear it on my honor. Do you believe me?”

Suddenly, Charissa Desjardin knew that she had met a man who was truthful. His warm brown eyes were mild, and she saw in them honesty and strength. He sat loosely, almost disjointedly, beside her, a taller man than she had never met before.

“Yes, sir, I believe you.”

“Good. Then we won’t have to talk about that anymore. Get up, boys. Let’s get home.”

The engines of the Miranda began to shake, and Charissa was fascinated by the big paddle wheels on each side of the vessel beginning to churn the water. She had never been on a boat before, although she had often watched them making their way up and down the river.

“Come along. We’ll find where we’re going to stay.”

Charissa glanced at Whitman and followed him along the deck. He asked one of the stewards for directions, then led her to a corridor. He quickly located the assigned cabin, opened the door, and stepped back. “This is it, I suppose.”

Charissa stepped in and looked around. It was a small room, but there was a set of bunk beds, one chair, and a small washstand.

He saw her eyes go to the beds and said, “My room ought to be right next door. Why don’t you get settled in? Then, I always like to go up in the front of the boat and watch as we travel. We’ve got a long way to go—all the way to St. Louis.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m anxious for you to get home and meet my father.”

“You have no other family?”

“No, it’s just the two of us.”

“You tell me he’s been ill for a while?”

“Yes, I’m concerned about him.” A frown darkened Jeff Whitman’s face. “He’s been very good to me.”

Charissa wanted to question him further, but he left, saying, “I’m going up to the front. When you’re ready, come on up, and we’ll do some sightseeing.”

They had left the Debakky house that morning, and Dr. Debakky had warmly bid Charissa to come back for a visit. He had shaken hands with her, which gave her quite a shock. Now, as she stood in the small stateroom, she felt a sense of joy. Can it be true that my new master is truly kind and decent? she thought. He’s been so good to me, and he even gave me my own cabin on the ship!

She left the stateroom and found Whitman leaning on the rail of the deck. He talked about steamboats and Charissa, delighted, watched the shore disappear. The ship paddled to the middle of the channel, where the wind blew more strongly. The breeze blew off her small hat, and she grabbed for it. Whitman was quicker than she. He chased it down, snatched it up, and strode back, saying, “I think you have to pin these things on.”

“Yes. I didn’t do a very good job.”

Whitman smiled down at her. “Women have more trouble keeping themselves pulled together than men. Ladies are always having to arrange things.”

“Don’t call me a lady, please, Dr. Whitman. I’m not a lady.”

Whitman’s face grew serious. “You are a lady,” he said. “You’ve had a hard time, Charissa, but things are going to be different now. You’re in a new world.”

“Who sent you to get me? And why does he want to help me? Why did he want to help me and my mother?”

“I can’t tell you that now, Charissa, but I will say this. You shouldn’t worry about the one who sent me. He means nothing but good for you. Please let me ask you one favor.”

“Yes, sir, what is it?”

“Let’s just have a nice trip on the Miranda.We’ll enjoy the scenery. We’ll eat in the fine dining room. We may even get off at a few ports when the boat stops and do a little exploring. But please, don’t ask me any more about why I came looking for you. You’ll know soon enough, I think. Will that be all right?”

“Yes, sir, that will be all right.” The earnestness of Jeff ’s eyes gave Charissa confidence. She looked down and smiled. She did not know what was happening to her, but somehow she felt that it was good.

“Charissa, this is Mrs. Shultz. She’s our housekeeper. Mrs. Shultz, I would like you to meet Miss Charissa Desjardin.”

The older woman smiled and said in her thick, German accent, “Yah, it is gute to have you here.”

“Will you show her to her room?”

“Yes, indeed, sir.”

“How is my father?”

“He’s somewhat better.”

“Thank the Lord for that. Charissa, you go along with Mrs. Shultz.”

“Yes, sir,” Charissa said as she turned and followed the housekeeper.

“Did you haff a good journey?” Mrs. Schultz asked.

“Yes, ma’am. It was very nice. I had never been on a boat before.”

Mrs. Shultz was obviously curious about her, but she asked no more questions. The room to which the housekeeper took Charissa was every bit as beautiful as the one at Dr. Debakky’s. It was a large room with two floor-length windows along the far wall, and a small desk and chair between them. The room had dark green and white wallpaper with illustrations of trees and birds, and wall-to-wall carpet of a light brown color. The furniture was made of shining wood, and a canopy floated over the bed enveloped in dark green velvet curtains.

“Such a lovely room!” she exclaimed to Mrs. Shultz.

“Yah, it is. I vill leave you alone now. Marcus vill bring up your tings.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“You can call me Olga.”

“Yes, Olga.”

As soon as the housekeeper left the room, Charissa studied the furniture more closely. She opened the drawers on the big chest and saw that they were empty. Plenty of room for my new things.

She sat on the bed, then walked to the window and looked outside at the street. A knock sounded at the door, and she moved to open it.

Dr. Whitman greeted her. “I’d like for you to meet my father, if you would.”

“Yes, sir.” Charissa was very interested in this man. She followed Jeff down to the first floor, into a big bedroom, and found, to her surprise, a rather small man. He was wearing a white linen suit and sat in a chair beside the window. He stood slowly, and she saw the signs of illness on his face. Why, he looks nothing like Dr. Whitman!

“This is my father, Dr. Irving Whitman. Father, this is Miss Charissa Desjardin.”

“I am so happy to meet you, my dear.”

The old man bowed to her, and Charissa curtsied as she had seen ladies do. This was indeed a strange new world.

“I’ll leave you two to get acquainted.”

“Thank you, Jeff,” Dr. Whitman said. When the door closed, the old man said, “Please, I haven’t been too well lately, and I need to sit down.” They both took seats in chairs by the window.

Charissa sat nervously. Dr. Irving Whitman was watching her carefully, and he had a strange expression on his face. He asked her about her trip, and while she spoke, she saw that he was staring at her. He was clearly a troubled man. He fidgeted, clasping and unclasping his hands.

“Is something wrong, sir?”

“No . . . no, of course not. It’s just that I was thinking of other things and of someone else.”

Charissa realized that this was the man at whose bidding Jefferson had come. “Please, Dr. Whitman, I don’t understand what’s happening. Did you send your son to find me?”

“Yes, I did.”

“But why? It has something to do with my mother, doesn’t it?”

Irving Whitman sighed heavily and nodded.

“Won’t you please tell me? I need to understand what I’m doing here. It’s all so—it’s all so strange.”

Irving Whitman had imagined this moment for a long time. When he had gotten word from Jeff that Bethany had died, he had felt grieved that he could not make up some of his wrongdoing to her. Then all of his attention had turned to his daughter. He knew that she was, for he saw traces of Bethany, but also some of his own features in her. Finally he said, “I want you to do me a great favor, my dear young lady.”

“Yes, sir. What is it?”

“I want you to listen to everything I have to say without saying a word. Please don’t leave. Don’t speak until I have finished. Then you may say anything you wish.”

Mystified by this, Charissa said, “Yes, sir.” She trembled as the old man began to speak. He rambled at first about his youth, how he grew up, what sort of a man he was, and she could not imagine what was coming. When at last he began to speak of the beautiful young mulatto girl who served in his household, truth began to dawn upon her. Her lips parted, and her eyes widened as he spoke of how he had taken advantage of the young woman.

“I think, my dear, you can guess the rest of it. I behaved badly. I persuaded my father to sell your mother. She left, and I thought that was the end of it. Then, when I sent Jeff to find your mother, of course, he didn’t find her, but he found you.”

The old man’s eyes held pure misery, and he shook his head sadly. “I suppose all of us would like to go back and change things. I don’t know if I would ever have had the strength.” He whispered, “Your mother was a lovely woman in every way. I’m so sorry, my dear. So very sorry.”

Charissa saw that he had finished, and she asked quietly, “But—why am I here?”

“Charissa, I want to try to make up for the wrong I did your mother. You’re my daughter. I know I don’t have too many years left to live, but what time I have, I want to do my best to help you. Can you ever forgive me, do you think?”

Charissa felt numb.

“I know this is a shock for you, and I won’t ask you to speak now. But when you’ve thought it over, if you can find it in your heart to forgive me, you would make an old man very happy. Why don’t you go now, and think this all over?”

“Yes, sir.” Charissa tore her eyes from Irving’s and left the room. Her mind was whirling. Without thinking, she moved toward two French doors that led to a side garden. She stepped outside and stopped. Jefferson Whitman, who had been sitting on a cast-iron bench, stood. She said, “Your father has just told me about . . . about my mother.”

“He’s very grieved, Charissa. He’s an old man and sick, and he’s doing all he can to make up for the wrong he did your mother. I know you’re confused, but in time, I hope that you’ll forgive him.”

Charissa was silent for a minute. Then she turned and looked up into his face. “I’m your half-sister?”

“Not really, Charissa. You see, I’m adopted. Dr. Whitman is not my real father, so we’re not related by blood. But Dr. Whitman wants you to have all the rights of a daughter.”

Charissa found her hands were trembling. Jeff saw and reached out and took them. “I know this is so hard for you.”

“I don’t know what to do. I can see your father is a good man.”

“He’s the best man I’ve ever met. He made a terrible mistake, but he wants to make it right.”

Charissa looked down. His hands were large and strong, and they gave her a sense of comfort. “I don’t think I can do it, sir.”

“Of course you can,” Jefferson smiled. “I’ll help you.”

Charissa studied his eyes. “Will you, sir?”

“Not ‘sir.’ Just Jeff. We’re brother and sister, after a fashion, and I’d like for you to think of me as an older brother. Yes, I’ll help you. You know,” he said with a crooked smile, “I think it would be rather fun, having a younger sister.”

“Fun?”

“Oh, yes,” he said. He released her hand and stood loosely before her, a tall, lanky man with a homely face and a kindly light in his eyes. “When your suitors begin to come, Charissa, I’ll be very stern. I’ll scare them to death and run most of them off. Yes, I’ll be very particular about the man who comes calling on my sister!”

Charissa suddenly thought about the first time she had seen him. “I hated you when you first came.”

“I realized that,” he said dryly. “I believe you would have shot me, if you had had a gun.”

“I thought you were like all the other men who had tried to use me. But you’re different. I don’t think you’d ever hurt anyone.”

Jeff released her hands and put both of his on her shoulders. Ordinarily, she felt tense and afraid when a man did this. But she felt no fear of this man who stood before her. He held her glance for a moment, then said, “You’ve come home, Charissa, and I’ll take care of you.”

Charissa Desjardin knew he meant exactly what he said. After years of fighting and struggling and building walls, she had come to this. She smiled then at the tall young man, a full smile, and said, “I’m glad to be here, Jeff.”

PART THREE

• 1834–1835 •

Jeff

Chapter thirteen

A yellow beam of sunlight shone from the window as Charissa stirred the saucepan. She turned toward it, noting the dust motes dancing, and the sight pleased her. No one could count those tiny things—but if Papa is right, God knows every one of them.

“It’s April the first—April Fool’s Day, the Americans call it.” Olga Shultz had entered, and, coming over to stand beside Charissa, she bent and sniffed the food simmering. “That smells gute,” she commented, “but it should be. I haf been teaching you for two years now how to cook!”

Charissa smiled. When she had first come to live with her father two years earlier, she wasn’t sure she liked the older woman. Olga had a stern manner, and several months had passed before Charissa learned that she was a kindly, generous woman. Now the two were friends.

“The doctor seems happier these days. I think part of it is your doing.” Olga always referred to the older Whitman as “the doctor.” “And that is gute! You know that man lives for you, I tink. Your coming here vas like a medicine to him.”

“It was for me, too, Olga. I’d never known anything like contentment before I came here.” Charissa chewed her lip thoughtfully and shook her head. “Papa isn’t doing as well as I’d like. I’m afraid for him.”

“You just haf to trust the gute Lord, Charissa.”

At that moment, Jeff entered the kitchen and smiled at the two women. “You’re fixing me something good to eat, I trust.” He wore his work suit, and his face was rosy from the razor.

“No, this is for Papa.”

“Are you going to be able to come in and help later on? I need you at the hospital.”

“Yes. I’ll be there as usual.”

Jeff put his arm around Charissa and squeezed her. “You’ve become a fine nurse, but a better sister.”

Olga Shultz, standing off to one side, watched the scene with careful scrutiny. She saw that Jeff was careless as always, quick to give Charissa a hug or a pat—but she saw the look in Charissa’s eyes, and the thought came to her as it had often. She cares more for Jeff than he knows. He knows nothing about vimmen!

“You know, it’s a good thing to have a baby sister.” He touched her cheek. Then he headed for the door, saying, “I’ll see you later at the hospital.”

Olga watched as Charissa stared after Jeff, then heard her mutter between clenched teeth, “I am not your sister!” Then Charissa shook her head. Picking up a bowl, she poured it full of broth and put it on a tray along with a napkin and silverware. “I’ll take this in to Papa.”

When Charissa entered her father’s room, she found him still in bed. His eyes brightened and he said, “I’m lazy this morning.”

“You don’t have to get up. I brought breakfast to you. Here, I’ve come to see that you eat all of this.” She put the tray down so that he could reach it easily and then waited until he said grace, which he always did. Then he took a big bite and almost choked.

“That’s hot!” he said.

“Of course it’s hot. That’s what’s good for you.” Charissa busied herself about the room as he ate and then said, “I’m going to shave you this morning. I’ll go get the hot water.” When she came back with a basin full of steaming water, she put it down, then pulled the shaving mug from the cabinet and expertly worked up a lather. “Are you through?”

“All through.”

She moved the breakfast tray, then leaned over him. She lathered his face quickly and picked up a clean cloth, put it over her left arm, and picked up a razor. “Now, be still. Don’t wiggle.”

Irving Whitman sat quietly, leaning back as the young woman began to move the razor over his face. Her hands were sure, and she shaved him far more efficiently than any male barber ever had. As she worked on him, he studied her face, marveling at how she had changed since she had come to live under his roof. She had been sixteen then, almost seventeen, and now, in a few more days, she would reach her nineteenth birthday. Those two years had brought a miracle, as far he was concerned. She had been an adolescent then, but now she was a woman. Her eyes mirrored a kind of wisdom. And there was a rich store of vitality within Charissa that reminded him of her mother. She had blossomed indeed since coming to live in St. Louis, and not only physically; living without fear, she developed a sweetness and a strong spirit that pleased him greatly.

“There,” she said, wiping off the last of the lather and feeling the smoothness of his cheeks. “If I ever have to make a living, I can become a barber.”

“There are no lady barbers,” Whitman protested.

“There should be. Women are better at it than men.”

Irving laughed softly. “I expect you’re right about that. Sit down and talk to me.”

The two of them spoke quietly together for twenty minutes. One of the high points of Irving’s day was having Charissa simply spend time with him. “Jeff got a letter from Damita yesterday,” he said. “It’s a little strange to me, and I suppose it is to you.”

“It surprises me.”

Indeed, Charissa had watched the development of a relationship of some sort between Jefferson and Damita Madariaga ever since she had been there. She knew it had begun with a simple letter from Jeff telling Damita how well Charissa was doing. Damita had written back, and Jeff had shared the letter, at least the parts that expressed an interest in Charissa. Other letters had followed, and Jeff made two trips to New Orleans, giving for a reason his desire to spend more time with Elmo Debakky.

“What kind of a woman is she, Charissa? Jeff seems more interested in her than he has been in anyone for a long time.”

The question was hard for the young woman to answer. “I can think of her only as a harsh slave owner.”

Whitman saw displeasure written on Charissa’s face. “I suppose that’s inevitable,” he said. He was silent for a moment, and when she did not speak, he said, “What about you? That young Bradford fellow who called on you for a while doesn’t come around anymore.”

“No, he’s engaged to Emily Stratton.”

“You let her take him away from you? I’m surprised at you, Charissa.”

Charissa laughed. “I wasn’t interested in him. He was one of the most boring men I’ve ever met.”

“He was kind, though.”

“Yes, but boring.”

For a time the two were silent, and then Whitman reached over and took the young woman’s hand. “I’d like to see you marry before I go,” he said quietly.

“Please don’t talk like that!” Charissa did not like to hear about the possibility of Irving Whitman’s death, although she knew it could come at any moment. She had become so very fond of, and was so very grateful to, this good man that she could not bear to think of losing him.

“Why, I can’t think why you feel like that, Charissa. It’s a natural thing. I’ll hate to leave you, but at least God has enabled me to do something for you.”

“Something?” She leaned forward and took his hand in both of hers. “You’ve done everything for me.”

“I’m glad you feel that way.” He squeezed her hands and said, “The one thing I’d most like to do for you is to introduce you to the Lord Jesus.” He saw her face change and said quickly, “I know you’ve got some memories that are very dark, but someday, you’re going to find out that Jesus is the best friend you could ever have.”

The two subjects that Charissa could not discuss with Dr. Whitman were his own precarious life and the matter of her feelings toward God. She had watched him, Jeff, and even Olga Shultz, and she saw in them an honest religion, but her early years had hardened her heart. She stood and said, “You need to get up now. I’ll lay your clothes out. Maybe we can go for a walk in the garden. It’s beautiful today.”

“All right, daughter. I think you’re right.”

The young man who lay on the table was not badly injured, but he had suffered a deep gash on his right forearm when he had crashed his buggy. His name, Charissa knew, was Howell Peters, for she had heard one of the doctors speak of him before Jeff had come in to stitch his wound. “Peters is a playboy,” Dr. Simpson had said as Charissa followed him down the hall. “Family’s got all the money in the world, but he’s a wild sort.”

Charissa had helped to prepare the patient, and he was groggy from the laudanum that she had administered to kill some of the pain. He evidently had a tough constitution: the medication knocked most men out. He was a tall young man, well built, with blue eyes and blond hair.

When Charissa had cleansed the wound, Jeff entered. “This will sting some, Mr. Peters.” He prepared to sew the wound.

“Go ahead, Doc. I’ll try not to cry.” He turned then and looked Charissa full in the face. “When a fellow gets hurt, it’s nice to have a handsome nurse.” When she did not answer, he said, “Are you married?”

“No, I’m not.”

“Oh, that’s good. Then I’d like to ask if I can come calling on you.”

“You’ll have to ask my brother.”

Peters winced as the needle bit into his flesh and then grinned. “He must be a sour old fellow, but I’ll chance it. Where will I find him?”

“He’s putting the stitches in your arm, Mr. Peters.”

Peters’s eyes flew open, and he studied Jefferson’s face. Jeff met his gaze steadily, which caused the young man to flush.

Peters could not speak for a moment, but then he grinned. He looked back at Charissa and saw that her eyes were dancing. “Dr. Whitman, I’d like permission to call on your sister.”

Jeff continued sewing but said, “Are you a drinking man?”

“Sir?”

“I asked if you drink.”

Peters swallowed and said, “Yes, of course, in moderation.”

“How are your morals where women are concerned?”

Charissa began to mildly feel sorry for the young man. Jeff peppered him with questions about his behavior and attitudes, and it amused her to see young Peters squirming under the interrogation.

“What’s your pastor’s name? I’ll have to have a word with him before I can give you permission to see my sister.”

Peters stared at him and shook his head. “I don’t have a pastor.”

“Why not?”

“It’s just not in my line.”

Jeff put the last stitch in, clipped it with the scissors, and said, “You can put a dressing on this now, Nurse.” Then he turned and said, “Until you have more stability, I would not feel inclined to grant you permission to call on my sister. Be careful with this arm. Come in and get the stitches out when the nurse tells you.” He left the office, and Peters stared after him.

“Do you think you’d still like to come calling on me?” Charissa smiled as she began to dress the wound.

Peters laughed. He was a good-humored fellow. “I know you are trying to put me off, and you have a rather stern brother, but I will be calling.”

Charissa shook her head. “You’ll feel differently when you recover from that laudanum you’ve taken.” She finished the dressing, gave instructions about changing it and when he should return to have the stitches out. As she left the room and turned down the hall, she ignored Peters, who called out, “You’ll be hearing from me, Nurse.”

She did not have a chance to talk to Jeff privately until later in the afternoon, when they had finished their work and were in the buggy, headed for home. Jeff was silent for a time, and then he asked, “You didn’t want that insolent puppy calling on you, did you, Charissa?”

“Why not? He’s very handsome.”

“I don’t like him.”

Charissa studied Jeff ’s profile. She did not know at what point she had begun to feel herself drawn to him. When she had first come to live with the Whitmans, she had been cautious and lifted a high wall between herself and the young doctor. He had been unfailingly kind and cheerful; he had been instrumental in making her into a different kind of woman. He had hired tutors for her, taught her the social graces, and asked her if she would care to study something about nursing and find a career there. She had eagerly accepted, and the two had worked together closely.

“Why don’t you like him?”

“He’s just not good enough for you.”

Charissa stared at him. “Which of the young men who have asked to call on me have you liked?” She well knew the answer.

Jeff cleared his throat and said, “I just want the very best for you, Charissa. You mean more to me than you can imagine.”

His words were bittersweet. She knew that she loved him, but he had no such idea about her. He was protective of her, always gentle and courteous, and there was a streak of humor in him that popped out at odd moments. He was not handsome, but that didn’t matter.

“You don’t really want him to call, do you?”

“Not really.”

Jeff nodded and heaved a sigh of relief. “That’s good. He’s not the kind of man I’d like to see you with.”

Charissa suddenly asked, “What about you?”

“What do you mean, what about me?”

“Why haven’t you ever married, Jeff? You could have married a dozen times. You’d better take what you can get—you’re not handsome, you know.” This was a familiar course of conversation for the two.

“I never thought I was.”

“No, I give you that, but you’re young, and you have a promising career. You have money. You have your moments, too.” She teased, “Even if you are a homely brute, women like you.”

“I think you’re wrong about that.”

Charissa took a deep breath and said, “I was talking with Papa this morning. He thinks you might care for Damita Madariaga.”

Jeff blushed. “We’ve been writing some.”

“And you went to New Orleans to see her twice.”

“Really I went to see Debakky.”

“Jeff, don’t lie to me. You went to see Damita, didn’t you?”

“I suppose in a way I did. She’s such a beautiful woman, but she could never care for me.”

“No, she couldn’t. She’ll never care for anyone but herself.”

“I wish you could stop feeling bitter toward her. It’s the only harsh thing I see in you, Charissa.”

“You don’t know her the way I do, Jeff. She’s selfish to the bone. She always will be.”

“People can change. But it doesn’t matter. She’d never marry a fellow like me, anyway. Why, suitors line up, begging her father for her hand.”

Charissa was weary of the conversation. She looked at the road, but her thought was, He would marry Damita in a minute if she would have him!

Charissa sat straight up in bed. The knock on her door was insistent. Throwing the covers back, she leaped up and pulled on a robe. When she opened it, she saw Jeff, dressed himself in a bathrobe. One look at his face and she knew everything. “What’s wrong with Papa?”

“He’s had a severe heart attack.”

“Is he—alive?”

“Yes, come along. He’s conscious, and he wants to see you.”

Charissa felt numb as she followed Jeff down the stairs. When she entered the bedroom and saw her father’s pale face, she knew somehow that death had entered the house. She walked over to him, took his hands, kissed his cheek, and asked, “Papa, can you hear me?”

Irving Whitman opened his eyes, and he tried to smile. His voice was very faint, just a whisper. “Daughter?”

“Yes, I’m here.”

“It’s time for me to be going. I’ll see your dear mother again, and I’ll tell her what a fine girl you are and how I loved you.”

Tears gathered in Charissa’s eyes. She held his hand while he went back to sleep. She felt his pulse, and it was beating faintly and erratically. Pulling up a chair on one side, she looked at Jeff, seated on the other side of the bed. Their eyes met, and the young doctor shook his head.

The minutes passed into hours. Irving held on to life, and when the dawn had just begun, he regained consciousness. His voice was even weaker, and he reached over and took Jeff ’s hand and blessed him. “You’ve been a fine son, Jeff. No man ever had better.”

“You’ve been everything to me, Father—everything.” Jeff ’s voice was husky.

Turning to Charissa, the old man saw the tears running down her face and said, “I have to go, and I’m not afraid. Only one thing troubles me.”

“What is it, Papa? Tell me.”

“It troubles me that you don’t know Jesus.”

At that moment Charissa’s eyes were so full she could hardly see, and her throat was thick. “I’ve seen Jesus in you, Papa, and in Jeff.”

“You have? That pleases me.” He was silent, but she felt his hands squeezing hers. “It’s easy to become a child of God, daughter. All you have to do is tell the Lord that you’re a sinner, and ask Him to save you. It would please me greatly if you felt ready to do that.”

Charissa was struggling. She remembered many painful moments, and she knew she had not lived perfectly. But this man who lay dying had given her so much! She lay his hand against her tearstained cheek and sobbed. As she did, she felt the yearning of both men; she saw in Jeff ’s eyes that he was pleading with her.

At that moment, Charissa Desjardin knew she had to make a decision. She had reached a place in her life where she needed help. Her father would be dead. She would be without parents, and besides, she could not ignore the lives that these two men had led. She had found honor and truth in both of them, and each had always stressed that it was the Lord who made him live as he did.

And so, Charissa took a deep breath and lifted her head. She reached across to Jeff, and when he took her hands, she whispered, “Pray for me, both of you.”

She heard Jeff begin to pray, and she closed her eyes. She heard Irving praying also, and she cried out in her spirit, “Oh, God, I don’t know You, but I believe that Jesus died for me, and I have seen You in these men. I ask You to make me a different woman. Give me Your forgiveness.”

The daylight finally came, and Irving lay still in the finality of the last sleep. Jeff laid his father’s hand down and went and knelt beside Charissa’s chair. He put his arm around her and whispered, “I’m so glad that Father knew your trust in Jesus. Glad for his sake and glad for yours.”

“Jeff, I’m so—I don’t know. I’m so alone.”

“No, you have the Lord now, and you’ll always have me.”

“Do I really, Jeff?”

“Always, Charissa. I promise.”

Chapter fourteen

Damita stared at the letter, a frown on her brow. She looked up at her father, who had brought the mail in and was reading one of his own pieces of correspondence. “Papa, I can’t believe what’s in this letter.”

Alfredo Madariaga looked up. He appeared worried and weary. The past two years had put lines on his face. He was a proud man, and financial difficulties had shamed him. “Who is it from?”

“It’s from Jeff Whitman in St. Louis—Dr. Whitman, I suppose I should say.”

“Indeed? Why is he writing you, my dear?”

Damita flushed slightly and said breezily, “Oh, we’ve kept in touch since he went back to St. Louis. He came to see me twice when he was in town for business.” Alfredo had been too absorbed with the family business to notice when Dr. Whitman came by.

“I can’t think you two would have a great deal in common.”

“We don’t—except for Charissa, of course. Charissa was a slave here, but she’s an heiress now, according to this letter.”

“An heiress? How could that be?”

“I told you, Papa, but you forgot. Charissa was the natural daughter of Jeff ’s father, Dr. Irving Whitman.”

“Why, yes, I do remember you told me that.” He smiled. “It would be strange for you to meet her now, wouldn’t it?”

Damita bit her lower lip. “I may have the chance to find out,” she said, looking down at the letter. She hesitated, then said, “I never told you, Papa, but Jeff has become interested in me.”

Alfredo looked surprised. “Interested how?”

“As a suitor.”

“When did this all start?”

“He’s a fine letter writer. He wrote to tell me how Charissa was doing, and I answered his letters.”

“You don’t mean to tell me the man’s fallen in love with you by means of letters!”

“I’m not sure if he’s serious. He’s rather a shy man, but we’ve been writing for two years.”

“I’m surprised at you, Damita,” Madariaga said. He studied her for a moment. “How do you feel about this man? Surely you’re not interested in him!”

Damita looked angry, then shrugged. “The last two years haven’t been much fun, Papa. All the men who were after me when we had money have mysteriously disappeared.”

“They weren’t after your money.”

“You think that if it makes you happy,” Damita said in a strange, tight voice. “But I know better. It’s been quite an education, watching so many men who practically fought over me suddenly discover that I wasn’t such a prize.”

“You’re a beautiful woman, daughter,” Madariaga said quietly.

Damita looked at the letter for a long time, then lifted her head. “That’s evidently not enough for some men.”

“Would you be pleased if Whitman came, seeking your hand? But of course, he has not done so.”

Damita smiled and tapped her chin with her forefinger. “I’ve gotten to know Jeff pretty well over the past two years. He’ll come to see me. You can be sure of that.” She stood and smiled up at her father. “Don’t worry about me, Papa. I’ll not be an old maid on your hands!”

“Charissa, would you come into the study for a moment, please?”

Charissa had been passing the open door of the study when Jeff ’s voice caught her. Entering, she saw that an enormous pile of papers covered the large desk. The young doctor wore an anxious expression on his face, and she asked, “What is it, Jeff?”

“Come over here and sit down.” She did so, and Jeff pulled his chair opposite hers. “You look tired,” he said. “You haven’t been sleeping well since Father died.”

“Oh, I’m all right,” Charissa said. This was not exactly true, for during the six weeks that had passed since the death of her father, she had not been sleeping or eating normally. Though she had tried to conceal it from Jeff, both he and Olga knew that she had taken the death hard. “I suppose I’ll get over the loss of Papa sooner or later, but it’s difficult. You see, Jeff, I never really had anybody except Mama. Now I’ve lost both of them.”

Jeff leaned forward and put his hand over hers. “I know this is especially miserable for you, but it was a good way for him to go. He had lost interest in his professional life since he couldn’t work anymore, and he threw himself into you for the last two years. You did so much for him, Charissa.”

Charissa’s lower lip trembled, and she turned away so that he wouldn’t see. “I miss him every day,” she whispered.

“Just think, though,” Jeff insisted, “he’s with the Lord now.” He studied her face and then said more cheerfully, “And he got what he wanted most of all: to see you become a believer. It made him very happy, just as it does me.”

Charissa forced a smile. “The Lord has been good. My heart was so bitter.” Indeed, during the past few weeks Charissa had marveled at how her life had changed. Shortly after the funeral of her father, she had presented herself for membership at the Baptist church where Jeff belonged and been baptized. Then she began to study the Scripture as intently as she had studied nursing. “I can’t tell you, Jeff, how helpful you’ve been in teaching me this new way of life.”

“It’s always a joy to see someone going into the kingdom, especially a family member—a sister,” he added. He smiled, patted her hand, and then suddenly got up and went to the desk. He shuffled through the massive pile, found a certain sheaf of papers, and returned to his chair. When he sat down, he had an odd smile on his face, and his eyes were dancing. “I have a surprise for you.”

“What sort of surprise?”

“This is Father’s will. It took a little time to get it put together, and I was surprised at the size of his estate. He was a good businessman as well as a good doctor, and he made some wise investments.” He handed her the document, and she looked at it but shook her head.

“I can’t understand any of this.”

“You can understand this.” He turned over a few pages, then put his finger on a number with a dollar sign before it. “This is what he left you.”

Charissa gasped. “But—that’s impossible, Jeff!”

“It’s what’s he wanted you to have.”

“It’s too much. It should all be yours.”

“No, he left me plenty. He wanted you to have this, and he put it into a trust fund so that you’ll get a check every month. That’s this figure here.”

Charissa looked at the monthly figure and whispered, “Why, I could never spend that much money.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Jeff said. “You may have a talent for it. Just think of all the clothes you can buy. You can have a new carriage and a matched set of bays. Rings, bracelets. Whatever you want.”

“Jeff, I don’t really care for those things. You know that.”

“I know you don’t, but you can do lots of good with money, Charissa. You were talking about that mission work in Africa that you wanted to support financially. Look, you can send anything you like now.”

Charissa brightened. “That would be wonderful!”

Jeff passed his hand over his face for a moment and shook his head. “There’s one bad thing about it, though.”

“What’s that, Jeff?”

“You’ve had these young puppies wanting to call on you. They’ll be coming by the dozens, now that you’re an heiress.”

“I don’t think you need to worry about that.”

Jeff said, “I know I don’t. I was only teasing. I know you want a good, sound Christian husband, and God will send one too. Just you wait and see.”

While Jeff talked, Charissa’s mind filled with this change in her life. She thought back to just two years before, when she had been a slave, penniless, afraid, ignored, and now she was an independent woman of property. She was so busy with her thoughts, she did not notice that Jeff, after he had replaced the papers, had come back and was standing over her. When she glanced up, she saw that he was troubled. She had learned to read his moods, and she asked, “What’s the matter, Jeff?”

“You know, Charissa, you have money enough to do anything you want. You could travel. You wouldn’t have to stay here.”

He was avoiding her question, so she asked again, “What’s wrong, Jeff? There’s something you’re not telling me.”

“It’s nothing bad, Charissa. It’s just that, well, I’ve decided—” He stopped, cleared his throat, and ran his fingers through his thick black hair. “I have decided to make a change.”

“What sort of change?”

“I’m going to leave my practice here in St. Louis.”

Instantly Charissa knew what was coming. “You’re going to move to New Orleans, aren’t you?”

“Why, yes. How’d you guess that? I’m going into partnership with Elmo Debakky.”

The partnership was real enough; Charissa understood that. But she also understood that he had another reason for moving to New Orleans. He’s infatuated with Damita. He doesn’t know her. He’s such a fool where women are concerned.

“I wish you’d go with me, Charissa,” Jeff said hurriedly, stumbling over the words. “I know you have some bad memories of that city, but it could be a good move.”

“I don’t think I’d care to do that, Jeff.”

Jeff started to speak again but stopped. He had learned that Charissa Desjardin had an enormous certainty in her, almost a stubbornness at times. He saw that in her now, in the tight line of her lips and the cold expression of her eyes. “I was afraid you’d feel that way,” he said. “But at least think about it, will you?” He hesitated, then said, “I . . . I don’t want us to be apart, Charissa.”

Charissa felt such a heaviness she could barely speak. “I’ll think about it, but I don’t believe I would do such a thing.”

For almost a month after Jeff informed her of his decision to move to New Orleans, Charissa felt troubled. The thought of living apart from him was more painful than she had imagined. She had admitted to herself before this that she cared for him, and she carried hope that one day, he would look at her the way a man looks at a woman he loves. That hope now seemed destroyed. She knew that he would not rearrange his life and move to New Orleans unless he was determined to court Damita.

Two weeks after his announcement, Jeff said, “Charissa, I won’t sell the house if you want to stay here. It’s really as much yours as it is mine, but I keep hoping that you’ll change your mind.”

After that conversation, Charissa began to pray frequently. She knew little about prayer. She had heard a sermon on it, had read in the Gospels and Paul’s writings about the power of prayer, but she had not experienced it herself. Now she prayed passionately, asking God to do something. She did not know exactly what, but she knew that she was about to lose someone she treasured. At times, she cried out for God to change Jeff ’s mind and make him see her as a woman, but this did not happen. She grew despondent, and in the middle of July when Jeff was making his final plans, she grew desperate. She had read of fasting, and for two days she did not eat a bite and prayed almost constantly.

Late that Thursday night, she was on her knees, seeking God, when she suddenly seemed to collapse inwardly. Her face was pressed against the bed where she knelt, and she felt that she had done all she could. She said, “Oh, Father, I don’t know how to pray any more, but I know that the Savior asked that Your will be done. So, that’s what I pray: Let Your will be done.” She stayed on her knees for a time, then rose, walked to the window, and looked out into the darkness. “Your will be done,” she said. “And, Lord, I’m asking You to give me some sign about what I should do. I’m weak. I can’t make this decision. If You want me to go to New Orleans with Jeff, I ask You to send somebody to tell me so.”

As soon as she had prayed this, she shook her head. “That’s a foolish prayer,” she muttered. She crawled into bed and tried to sleep.

Charissa stayed in her room most of the day. She had broken her fast but continued to say the simple prayer, “God, Your will be done.” After supper, she listened as Jeff explained, with some excitement, the great things the practice in New Orleans held for him. She tried to show interest but was glad when he rose to go to his study.

“I wish you were going with me, Charissa,” he said. He went over, and as he often did, he put his hand on her head. He admired her hair, so black and sleek. He held his hand there for a moment and then turned abruptly and left the room.

Charissa went to bed as well, but at ten o’clock she grew thirsty. The pitcher was empty on her washstand, so she took it down to the kitchen. She was filling it up with cool water when Olga came into the room. “You’re up late, Charissa! I thought you had gone to bed.”

“I did, but I got thirsty and didn’t have any water.”

Olga waited until Charissa had filled the pitcher. She said, “You know, I tink all the time about how gute you were for Dr. Irving.”

“He was the one who was good.”

Olga hesitated, then put her arm around Charissa. She had never done this before. Charissa saw that the older woman was worried, and she asked, “What is it, Olga?”

“Oh, nothing. But I haf learned to loff you, too, during the time you’ve been here. I know—” She shook her head. “I know you’re vorried about Jefferson leaving. I don’t meddle in people’s lives, Charissa, but when I vas praying for you tonight in my room, the strangest notion came into my mind.”

Charissa stood still. “What was that, Olga?”

“I feel that God wants you to go to New Orleans.”

Shock ran through Charissa. She could not speak.

“How you must hate it when people tell you what to do.”

“No, no, that’s not so. Olga, let me tell you what I’ve been praying.” Words tumbled out, and she ended by saying, “And so, God has given me exactly what I need.”

“So, you vill go to New Orleans?”

“Yes, I will.”

Mrs. Shultz stepped back then, but she took Charissa’s hand. “Tell me—you loff Jefferson?” When she saw the girl drop her eyes, she said, “Oh, he does not know it. Men are stupid, but I haf seen it. Ve vill pray, you and I, that God vill open his blind eyes and see what a pearl has been hidden here.” She put her hands on Charissa’s cheeks, and her eyes burned with an unusual light. “And when he sees this pearl, he vill sell all he has to get it!”

The next morning, as soon as Jeff walked out of his bedroom, he met Charissa. She was smiling, and her eyes were bright with hope. He asked, “What in the world is it, Charissa?”

“I’ve come to tell you something. I’m going to New Orleans with you, Jefferson.”

“You are? That’s splendid!” He suddenly reached out, put both arms around her, and picked her up off the floor. He swung her around several times until she grew dizzy and then put her down and kissed her on the cheek. “You’ve made me so happy, sister!”

“I am not your sister, Jefferson.”

Jeff was too excited to hear her comment. “We’ll leave as soon as we can find work for the servants. I’ve already got a buyer for the house. Tell you what: Let’s go shopping and buy you some outrageous clothes.”

“And you, too, Jeff.”

“All right. If you say so.” He was almost giddy. He took her hand and said ecstatically, “We’re going to bust New Orleans wide open, sister—” He shook his head and laughed. “I mean Miss Charissa Desjardin.”

“You’re here at last!” Elmo Debakky exclaimed. He had opened the door to find Jeff and Charissa standing outside. He grabbed Jeff by the hand, pulled him in, and then turned to Charissa and took her hand as well. “Welcome to New Orleans.”

Jeff and Charissa had discussed living in Debakky’s house. In truth, it was an enormous house, but Charissa felt it might present problems. Jeff, however, had convinced her, and now Debakky’s delight was evident.

“I’m glad you’re here. I’ve rattled around this old barn so long by myself, it’ll be good to have someone to have fuss with. We might as well have our first one right now.”

“It’s a bit soon, isn’t it, Dr. Debakky?”

“Just Elmo, Charissa, when we’re all alone. Later on, when people are around, we’ll be a little more formal. No, it’s not too soon. I always say, have an argument as quick as you can, and get it out of the away. Then we’ll all kiss and make up.”

“What are we going to argue about?” Jeff smiled. He was pleased to be in New Orleans. He had been in such a turmoil, getting affairs closed up and then making the move, but now that he was there, he was happy to see his friend and felt that he had made the right choice.

“There’s a ball tonight, one of those fancy affairs that I usually hate, but I got a new suit, and I’m going to wear it, and you two are going with me.”

“Oh, I’m sure Charissa’s too tired for that. It’s been a hard trip,” Jeff protested.

“Nonsense. She looks fresh as the morning breeze. If you don’t have a dress, we have time to go buy one.”

“I have a dress, Elmo,” Charissa said, “but I’m not sure I should go.”

“Of course you should go. We’ll break in those new clothes we bought at home,” Jeff said.

“It’s not the same in St. Louis. Nobody knew me there. But I’ve got a past here.”

“Forget the past!” Elmo shouted. He was pacing, rubbing his hands together. “I’m introducing you two to New Orleans tonight.” He punched Jeff on the shoulder and said, “I’ll introduce you as my new partner, the second-best physician in New Orleans.” He turned to Charissa and said, “And I’ll introduce you as Miss Charissa Desjardin, the toast of St. Louis now come to grace the city of New Orleans. It’ll be a ball to remember!”

The mayor of New Orleans sponsored the ball, and he spared no expense. The ballroom itself was a marvel. It was a large, grand room painted a brilliant white, with a high ceiling that featured three huge crystal and gold chandeliers. Enormous white columns encircled the room, and the white, highly glossed marble floor showed tiny, sparkling flecks of gold. On every wall behind the columns were floor-length windows that were covered with dark crimson drapes, and finely upholstered chairs had been set along two of the walls. At the far end of the room, a small orchestra was playing soft, enchanting music, and the rustle of women dancing in their brilliantly colored dresses made an inviting sound.

Damita was having a wonderful time. She was waltzing with Lewis Depard, and the admiration in his eyes was pleasing to her. He had been pursuing her rather steadily for some time, and once, she knew, he had almost mentioned the word marriage. But Lewis Depard had escaped many “permanent arrangements.” As they spun around the floor, Damita was happy that he seemed to be more enamored of her than he was of his usual pursuits, though this did not mean much.

“You look beautiful, Damita.”

“Thank you, Lewis. So do you.”

“Oh, don’t be foolish!”

“You are beautiful. You’re a handsome man. I think when I get married, I want to marry someone just like you.” Damita laughed when she saw the expression freeze on his face. “Don’t worry, Lewis, I’m not pursuing or proposing to you. It would be fun, though, if I could bring a suit of breach of promise. Why don’t you ask me to marry you, and give me that opportunity?” She laughed again at his expression and said, “But wait until there are witnesses.”

“You are a minx, Damita! I never know how to take you. I suppose that’s why I keep coming back for more.”

The two continued their dance, and then Damita exclaimed, “Why, look, it’s Jefferson Whitman! Come along. He wrote me he was coming back to New Orleans, but I didn’t expect to see him here tonight.”

The two left the dance floor, making their way between the dancers, and Jeff stepped forward, his eyes lighting up. As Damita held her hand out, he took it and held it as if he didn’t know what to do with it. “You’re supposed to kiss my hand, Jeff.”

Jeff did so awkwardly. “I guess I’ll have to take lessons in New Orleans manners now that I’m here.”

“It’s wonderful to see you. May I present Lewis Depard?”

“Good to meet you, Mr. Depard.”

“And you, Doctor. So, you’ve moved to New Orleans. There’s always room for another doctor. Maybe you can stop this yellow fever from killing so many people.”

“I don’t claim to have that kind of skill, but I certainly want to do my best.”

Suddenly, Jeff seemed to remember something. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I have someone with me you will remember, Damita.” He turned and said, “Charissa, come here.” She had been standing slightly behind him, watching the scene, and now she advanced.

Damita stared at Charissa. She would never have known her. She had seen her only in the rags of a slave girl, a sixteen-year-old one at that. This woman—this lovely woman—was mature and refined in every sense. She managed to say, “Welcome to New Orleans, Charissa.”

“Are you going to introduce me?” Lewis asked. The beauty of the woman had impressed him, and he smiled with anticipation.

“I’m sorry,” Jeff said. “May I present Miss Charissa Desjardin. This is Mr. Lewis Depard.”

Charissa curtsied, and Depard bowed from the waist in a skilled fashion. “I am happy to welcome you. Is your family in New Orleans?”

“Dr. Whitman is my brother,” she said.

“Oh, I see. In that case, I will ask his permission to dance with you.”

“Of course,” Jeff said. Lewis led Charissa to the dance floor and swung her around gracefully, saying, “Will you be staying with your brother?”

“Yes, I will, Mr. Depard. I work with him, as his nurse.”

“You don’t say! I never had a nurse who looked as pretty as you.”

Charissa moved around the floor lightly, listening as Depard flirted with her. He was so obvious about it, but then most men were. He came after me as soon as he saw me, she thought. I wonder what he would do if I told him I was the former slave of Damita de Salvedo y Madariaga. She’ll tell him soon enough, and then we’ll see.

Damita had watched the two walk away, and then Jeff said, “It’s so good to see you.”

But Damita was staring at Lewis and Charissa. “You didn’t tell me she had grown up to be such an attractive young lady.”

“She is, isn’t she? I hope you’ll be able to forget the old times and treat her as a friend.”

“That will be difficult, Jeff, for both of us.”

Jeff shifted his weight and started running his fingers through his hair, but Charissa had warned him sternly about this and he stopped. “I’m such an awkward fellow, Damita.”

“An awkward doctor?” Damita smiled. “That could be dangerous, if you were cutting someone open.”

“Oh, I don’t mean that way. I mean with women. I just have never learned the knack of dealing with them.”

“I’m surprised at that.”

“You know how we Americans are,” he said, “Pretty rough-hewn.”

Damita glanced once again at the couple on the floor. It was hard for her to concentrate on what Jeff was saying. She could not get over the sight of Charissa Desjardin.

“What I’m saying is—would it be all right if I called on you, Damita?”

Damita was not at all surprised. On his two trips to New Orleans, he had attempted to court her. She had given him little enough encouragement, but he was a stubborn young man. Though his letters had been nothing like love letters, as she looked up at him and saw his eagerness, she smiled. “Of course. We are living in our town house, Jeff. Come to dinner next Wednesday.”

Jeff could hardly keep still in the buggy, but Charissa was quiet. She had danced every dance, because the young men were drawn to her. Lewis had danced with her three times and tried his best to get permission to call on her. She had simply said, “You’ll have to ask my brother.”

Jeff was drumming his fingers on his knees, a sure sign he was excited, and he said, “That young man Lewis, what’s his name—Depard? He’s a wild fellow.”

“Yes. He asked if he could call on me.”

Jeff stopped smiling. “What’d you tell him?”

“I told him he would have to ask you.” She smiled demurely.

“He asked me, as a matter of fact.”

“What’d you tell him?”

“I didn’t have time to tell him much, but he said he’d call on me later and get my permission. You don’t need a man like that.”

“He seems very nice.”

“He’s more or less a rounder. Damita has told me about him.”

“She seems to like him very much.”

“He’s a womanizer,” Jeff said bluntly. “I’ll have to tell him what the limits are.”

Charissa stared at Jeff. “What are the limits, Jefferson?”

“The usual. You know. I can’t have a man who isn’t honorable going out with my sister.”

Charissa shook her head in wonder. “Why don’t you just find a man who meets all of your standards and then bring him to me, instead of the other way around?”

Jeff opened his mouth to answer, then saw that she was kidding. “I’m sorry if I’m too stuffy. It’s just the way I am. You know that.”

“I know that.”

“Damita asked me to have dinner with her family next week. I think you might like to come.”

“Did Miss Madariaga request my presence?”

“No, she didn’t, but I’m sure you’d be welcome.”

Charissa laughed. There was something ludicrous about Jefferson Whitman. For all his skill as a doctor and all his kindness as a brother, he was like a child in some ways.

“Jeff, the Madariagas would be horrified if you brought a former slave to their house to sit down at their table.”

Jeff reacted as if she had struck him in the face. “You must be wrong about that.”

“I’m not wrong. I’m sure you’ll have a fine time. You go and enjoy yourself.”

Chapter fifteen

“You look good enough for me to take you out, Charissa.”

Charissa had entered the foyer of the house. She turned to smile at Debakky, who was looking at her with admiration. “Why don’t you ever ask me out, Elmo?”

“Oh, I’m a confirmed old bachelor. And besides, you wouldn’t go out with a simple fellow like me. You’re moving in high circles now.”

Indeed, for the two months that she and Jeff had been staying with Debakky, they had worked hard at the practice, both of them. But they had also plunged into social life in a way that Charissa would not have thought possible. It had been her confirmed opinion that once Damita had let the word out that she had been a slave, all social activity would end for her. Evidently, Damita had not breathed a word of this, nor had any of the Madariaga family. And Charissa had attended several balls and operas with Lewis Depard and enjoyed herself. She smiled at Elmo and said, “One day a woman will steal your heart.”

“As soon as I find one as rich and beautiful as you, I promise to fall as hard as any callow youth. What is it tonight?”

“Oh, it’s one of those Creole balls.”

“You’re going with Lewis?”

“Yes.”

“What does Dr. Jefferson Whitman say about that?”

“I haven’t told him yet.”

“He won’t like it. He’s very possessive.”

Charissa gave Debakky a strange look. “I know. He’s very possessive of his ‘baby sister.’”

“He loves you a great deal.”

“Yes,” Charissa answered flatly, “I know all about that.”

Debakky was a shrewd man. The pair had not been in his house for a week before he had discovered that Charissa was in love with Jeff. He had watched to see if the young doctor returned her affections, but he saw nothing but the love a man would give his sister.

Jeff entered, resplendent in a suit of new clothes that actually fit him. Debakky had taken him to his own tailor, and Jeff looked well indeed. “You’re going out, Charissa?”

“Lewis is taking me to the Creole Ball.”

Both Debakky and Charissa saw Jeff ’s face change. He looked reproachful and said, “I don’t really care for that fellow. I wish you wouldn’t go out with him.”

Charissa could not restrain herself. “You’ve gone out with Damita Madariaga three times in the last two weeks! I’d rather you didn’t go out with her.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

Jeff merely pursed his lips.

Charissa looked at Elmo with discouragement in her face. “How can you argue with a man who gives you an answer like that?”

As she walked down the hall and into the parlor, Elmo said, “I think you’re fighting a losing battle there, old boy.”

“What does she see in the fellow?”

“Aside from the fact that he’s witty, charming, handsome, and rich, I can’t see a thing to attract a woman.”

“He’s a womanizer.”

“I have no doubt he is. He’s quite a swordsman, too, and a fine pistol shot. I think he spends most of his time getting ready for the duels that he intends to provoke.”

“He’s a fool!”

“New Orleans is full of fools, and so is the world, I suppose. Are you taking Damita tonight?”

“I didn’t know that Lewis Depard would be taking Charissa, or I wouldn’t have agreed to go.”

Debakky started to say something but stopped. He shook his head, looked sadly at Jeff, and turned away without word.

What’s the matter with him? Jeff wondered. He’s a smart man. He should see how wrong it is for Charissa to spend time with Depard. He stood irresolutely for a moment, considering whether to try to persuade Charissa to stay home, but he knew that was hopeless. Instead, he left the house and headed for the ball, thinking, Sometimes I wish we had never come to this place.

As he climbed into the carriage, he thought about how his life had changed in such a short time. Mostly he thought about Damita. She seemed far out of his sphere; handsome young men of wealth courted her constantly. He was intensely jealous of Lewis Depard and said suddenly, “I wish the fellow would fall off a building and break both of his legs! That would stop his dancing and his dueling and his chasing women. Get up, horse!”

Alfredo strolled along the aisles of the cotton exchange, stopping from time to time to speak with the men who were the heart of New Orleans economy. Cotton was king in the South, and in New Orleans more than anywhere else. Most of the cotton grown in the southern United States found its way in the form of huge bales to New Orleans. Much of that went to England, but ships bore it all over the world.

The air was filled with talking, shouting, and laughter as Madariaga moved along. Almost every man, it seemed, smoked cigars, and the air was hazy. Madariaga removed one from his own pocket, bit off the end, lit it, and took a puff. He did not visit this section often, but he had wanted to see the agent about the world market. October was upon them, and the cotton was stacked up in bales on the wharf until it looked like a huge fortress. Madariaga had held on to his, hoping the price would rise, but to his dismay it had fallen. When the world agent reported this, the news had crushed Madariaga. Worry had become almost habitual with him; his debts were large, and everything depended upon the crops. He was one of many aristocrats in the area who rose or fell according to the price of cotton. No one knew exactly how this price was determined, and sometimes Alfredo thought that some small group of men simply decided, on the flip of a coin, what to do with it.

Puffing on his cigar, Alfredo was about to leave when he glanced into one of the offices and stopped abruptly. “Well, upon my soul!” he exclaimed and entered the office. “My dear friend! What are you doing here? I didn’t know you were employed in New Orleans.”

Yancy Devereaux rose from the desk and smiled wryly. “It’s not by choice, sir, I assure you.”

Madariaga asked, “What’s happened? I thought you had bought a ship and gone into business in Savannah.”

“Come in and sit down. It’s a long, sad story.”

Madariaga saw lines of fatigue around the man’s mouth, and he sensed a lackluster spirit in him that he had not seen before.

“I did buy half-interest in a ship with a friend. He was a good man. He was going to be the captain; I would do the work on shore, getting cargoes. Never go into that business, Alfredo.”

“What happened?”

“The ship went down off the coast of Africa, loaded with cotton. A hurricane hit it and we lost all hands. Also lost was every penny I had in the world.”

“Oh, that’s frightful, Yancy! I’m so sorry to hear it. Do you need any help?” Madariaga put his hand in his pocket, but Yancy put up his hand.

“No, I’m all right. I’m not likely to starve.”

Alfredo was relieved; he had little to share. “How long have you been here?”

“Oh, about a month. It’s just a job. I’ve decided to leave New Orleans.”

Madariaga was grieved. He had never ceased to be grateful to Yancy for saving his daughter, and he said, “Perhaps I could introduce you to someone who might help you find a better position.”

“No, but thank you for your offer. I’m going back to Shreveport. I know quite a few people there. I shouldn’t have too much trouble finding something to do.”

The two men talked briefly, and when Alfredo stood to leave, he shook Yancy’s hand. “Why don’t you come out and visit the family? They’d be so glad to see you.”

“I will, if I don’t leave right away.”

“Don’t leave until you come at least once. Our family owes you a great deal.”

Alfredo left the cotton exchange feeling concerned. He thought about Yancy Devereaux all the way home, and when he arrived, he found that Jeff Whitman had arrived to take Damita to a ball. He greeted him absently, then turned to Damita. “I had quite a shock today, daughter.”

“What was it, Papa?”

“At the cotton exchange, I ran into Yancy Devereaux.”

Damita looked shocked herself. “I didn’t know he was in New Orleans.”

“It really troubles me.” He told of Yancy’s misadventures and shook his head. “Our family is in his debt. You wouldn’t be with us, Damita, if it weren’t for him.”

“That’s true enough. I’m so sorry to hear it.”

Jeff listened quietly, standing off to one side, since it seemed to be family business. He watched Alfredo, and he noticed that the older man was rubbing his chest and flexing the fingers on his left hand. This was an alarming sign. “Are you having a problem in your chest, Mr. Madariaga?”

“Oh, probably just indigestion.”

“What about your hand?”

Madariaga held up his hand and made a fist. “Oh, it’s nothing. Just a little numbness in my fingers now and then.” He shook his head and said, “Now, don’t start trying to doctor me. I’m all right.”

Damita looked worried. “You really should let Jeff look you over, Papa.”

“Yes, we’ll have to do that sometime.” He turned to go but said, “I’m worried about Yancy. I’m going to see if I can find something for him to do.”

As soon as her father left, Damita asked, “What do you think is wrong with Papa?”

“Probably nothing. You know how doctors are. We spend all of our time listening to symptoms. Sometimes we begin to see them when they’re not there.”

Damita knew that Jeff was being evasive. “Tell me the truth. I want to know.”

“Probably nothing, but I wish he would come in and let Debakky examine him. He has some very mild symptoms that could mean a heart problem.”

“Is it dangerous?”

“Oh, I’ve seen men who take care of themselves live many years with heart problems. Most of them even live longer than people without heart conditions, because they take better care of themselves.”

“But not always?”

“Not always. Sometimes they go very suddenly.” He reached out and took Damita’s hand, something he rarely did. “I think you should try to persuade him to come into the office. Debakky has a great deal of experience in this sort of thing, much more than I have.”

“I’ll talk to him, Jeff.”

Damita did not enjoy the ball. She was preoccupied with thoughts of her father and his symptoms. When she saw Yancy Devereaux standing against a wall, drinking out of a crystal glass, she was startled. But she walked over, and when he saw her, he put the glass down and smiled.

“Damita, it’s good to see you.”

“It’s good to see you, too. I didn’t know you were in New Orleans until today. Papa told me he saw you at the cotton exchange.”

“Oh, how the mighty are fallen. Did he tell you about my bad luck?”

“Yes. I’m so sorry.”

“Oh, it doesn’t matter. I’ve got my health, and I’ll be able to recoup.”

Damita saw that Yancy was tired, and despite his words, he was not as optimistic as he tried to sound. She recalled their last meeting and asked abruptly, “Do you ever think of when the ship sank?”

“Certainly! How could I forget that?” He considered her expression, then said, “We nearly died. I still can’t see how we survived. As a matter of fact, I’ve had bad dreams about it.”

Damita eyes grew wide. “I have, too.”

“But we did survive. I’ve never been very religious, but I’ve thanked God many times for saving us.”

“I didn’t behave well to you at all the last time we met, Yancy. I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry about. It was a tough time.”

Damita had never forgotten how she had offered herself to him—and how he had spurned her. She looked into his eyes and whispered, “I was very foolish. I’ve never stopped being ashamed of—” She could not finish and dropped her eyes.

“Don’t even think about it, Damita. Under stress, we all behave abnormally.” He saw that she was troubled and asked cheerfully, “Would you like to dance?”

“Very much.”

The two whirled out on the floor, and Damita tried, as tactfully as she could, to find out what Yancy’s prospects were. He shrugged off her questions, saying, “I’ll find something. I always do. Maybe I’ll become a Mississippi riverboat gambler. All you need is a fancy vest, lots of hair oil, and the ability to cheat at cards.”

Damita laughed, but then she shook her head, saying, “My father would like to help you.”

“He said so, but I’m a big boy now, Damita.”

She did not speak for a time. Being near him again turned her thoughts to those few days on the ship, and she said, “I’ve thought so often about the McCains. I can’t get them out of my mind.”

“I think about them, too. You know, as long as we remember them, they’re still here, Damita.”

She looked at him with surprise. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that as long as people think about us, and talk about us, we still exist somehow. I remember them so well. I think they were more in love than any couple I’ve ever seen.”

“I know. She told me one day me how much she loved him. She said she was afraid she idolized him, which bothered her a little. That surprised me. I didn’t know a woman could love a man too much.”

He smiled. “I don’t think one can.”

The dance ended, and the pair walked to the refreshment table. Damita asked, “Did you know that Charissa is in New Orleans?”

“No. What’s she doing here?” He listened as she spoke of the change that had taken place in Charissa’s life. “It’s really quite miraculous,” Damita said. “She’s over there, dancing with Lewis Depard.”

Yancy said, “Who’s the tall fellow there? He looks as if he’d like to break her partner’s back.”

“Dr. Jeff Whitman. In a way, he’s responsible for her, I understand. His adopted father was really Charissa’s father. It’s all rather confused.”

The two were watching, and Yancy said, “That looks like trouble, Damita.”

Jeff had approached Lewis Depard and said something to him. Depard’s face was flushed, and clearly a quarrel was brewing.

“Come on. Lewis challenges everybody. I’ll have to try to stop him.”

Yancy followed Damita and saw that, indeed, both men were angry.

“I resent your words, Dr. Whitman, and I must take exception to them.”

“Take whatever exception you want to, Depard, but you are going to be respectful of my sister.”

“Jeff, he didn’t mean anything,” Charissa protested.

“I think he did,” Depard said. He had been drinking. “I’m afraid I will have to ask for satisfaction.”

“No, Lewis, don’t say that!” Damita said. She took his arm. “Come away. It’s all right.”

“No, it’s not all right. I’ve been insulted!”

Charissa said to Jeff, “If you just tell him you’re sorry, that’s all that is necessary.”

“I won’t say any such fool thing. I’m not sorry.”

Both women urged the men to break off the fight. Yancy watched. He had seen Depard in action before. He took pride in his dueling ability, and Yancy knew that he would not be pacified.

“I’ll have my man call on you, Doctor. Even an American can’t refuse a challenge.”

“Send whomever you want!” Jeff was furious.

Depard bowed and walked away stiffly.

“You can’t fight him, Jeff,” Damita said.

“I’ll have to.”

“He’ll kill you,” Charissa said. “He’s already wounded several men.”

Yancy watched as the two women tried to calm the tall man, but it was hopeless. Jefferson Whitman was a stubborn fellow. If he had any sense, he would simply laugh at the man, as I did once.

As if reading his mind, Damita said, “Yancy, tell him how foolish it is.”

“Who is this?” Jeff demanded.

“Oh, I’m sorry. This is Mr. Yancy Devereaux.”

“You’re the man who saved Damita’s life,” Jeff said, relaxing at once.

“I was able to help her, but let me join my voices with these young ladies’. It would be senseless to fight a man like him. He’s not worth it.”

But all the arguments of the three could not turn Jeff from his plan, and he finally said, “Come along, Charissa, I’ll take you home.”

Damita watched him and Charissa walk away. “Yancy, do something! You know about things like this.”

“All right.” Yancy quickly caught up to the pair and said, “Dr. Whitman, it’s customary in duels to have a second. If you have no one else, I’ve had a little experience.”

“That’s generous of you, sir. I know nothing about duels.”

“Then let me take care of all the preliminaries.”

“Thank you very much.”

As Damita approached, Yancy leaned over and said, “Don’t worry. He’ll be all right.”

“How can you promise that?”

“As I said, I’ve had a little experience in things like this.”

Charissa had begged, pleaded, cajoled, but Jeff was adamant. “I couldn’t let him insult you like that.”

“It wasn’t an insult, Jeff. He’s that way with all the women.”

“Then he needs to learn to have better manners with women.”

“Jeff, I can’t let you do it.”

“I have to.”

“Please! For my sake?” she asked desperately.

Jeff looked at her in surprise. “I couldn’t think of myself as a man if I refused a challenge like this.”

Charissa stared at him and shook her head. “Jeff, you’re being ridiculous.”

“I probably am. Most men are. But I’ll not tolerate his arrogance.”

Damita visited the cotton exchange and found Yancy in his office. He invited her in and closed the door, and she said, “We can’t do a thing with him, Yancy. He’s going to get killed.”

“Damita, I told you: No, he’s not.”

“How can you say that? Haven’t you heard what an expert Lewis is with a sword or a pistol?”

“Yes, I know all about that. I can’t say as I care for all this nonsense, but it’s become a way of life here among you Creoles.”

“I know it, and it’s awful!”

Indeed, New Orleans had produced a band of swaggering hotheads, who went about looking for excuses to fight duels. They had developed provoking fights into a fine art. They spoke constantly of their “honor” and demanded “satisfaction” at every opportunity. Manuals of dueling etiquette had been published, books about how one was to offend or to be offended. Those manuals decreed that a man must deliver insults according to rigid instructions; the insult might be verbal, or it might be just a flick of the glove in the face. Custom also fixed the places for dueling, usually in the outskirts of the city. Duelists and their audiences gathered regularly at a certain grove of trees outside New Orleans to watch the show.

Yancy saw that Damita was still worried, and he asked, “Do you love this man, Damita?”

“I don’t know, Yancy. He’s a good man. A fine doctor.”

“But do you love him?”

“No, I don’t,” she answered, shaking her head. “But I respect him. He’s a gentleman, Yancy, and I don’t want him to die.”

“Listen to me.” He held her by the shoulders. She saw that his face was serious, and a resolved light shone in his eyes. “I’ve offered to be his second. I promise you that nothing will happen. Will you believe that?”

Damita felt the strength of Yancy’s hands. She saw in his face a fierce determination and an honesty that made her whisper, “Yes, if you say so, Yancy, I’ll believe it.”

He smiled and released her and said, “Just leave it to me.”

The October dawn brought chilling winds. Jeff shivered despite his bravado and said to Yancy, “I should have worn a heavier coat. I’m shaking, but it’s not because I’m afraid.”

“Aren’t you?”

“To be truthful, Yancy, I am. I’m scared to death.”

“Remember that the next time. This is foolishness. You can still get out of it by simply offering the man an apology.”

“I won’t do that.”

Yancy sighed. “I knew you wouldn’t. Well, you stay here. I’ll go arrange the pistols. I’m glad it’s pistols instead of swords.”

“Why?”

“It’s much safer. Remember what I told you now: Turn sideways. Gives him less to shoot at.” He marched over and met Lewis’s second, a tall, cadaverous-looking man named French. “I suppose we may place our men.”

“Yes, I think all is well.” He opened up the case he carried and said, “You may choose either one of these.”

“It doesn’t matter. I’d like to load them.”

“Of course,” French said, but his eyes were doubtful. He watched carefully as Devereaux loaded the pistols, putting in the powder, the balls, and the small wads that kept the balls from rolling out. “You have done this before, sir,” French noted.

“More often than I’d like to think about. Is this satisfactory?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll take this one, then, for my man. Are we ready?”

“Yes, I think so.”

Yancy walked back and handed Jeff the pistol. “It’s cocked, ready to fire.”

Jeff nodded as he took the pistol. “What happens now?”

“We’ll meet, and there’ll be talk of a last chance to apologize.”

“I won’t do it,” Jeff said again.

“Of course you won’t. You’re too smart for that. You’d rather die than admit you’re wrong. Come along.”

The two combatants and their seconds met. French said, “An apology would be accepted, sir.”

“You won’t get it!” Jeff said stubbornly.

Lewis smiled. “You would be wise, Doctor. This is not your game.”

“I won’t do it! You were wrong, and I was right to stop you.”

“I suppose we’re ready, then,” Yancy said.

The seconds arranged the men back-to-back, and French said, “Each of you will take ten steps as I count. You will turn and fire as you will. Is that satisfactory, Mr. Devereaux?”

“Perfectly.”

Yancy stepped back alongside French. French’s voice rang out, “Are you ready? Then, one—two—three—”

Yancy watched as the two men paced slowly away from each other. By George, the doctor’s an awkward fellow, but he’s got nerve. I’ll say that for him. For his first time out, he’s holding up well.

“Eight—nine—ten!”

Both men turned, and the shots were instantaneous. Both dropped their arms, and French exclaimed, “Missed! They both missed!”

“That’s all,” Yancy said. He walked forward and motioned the two men together. “Your honor is now satisfied.”

“The doctor may feel that another shot is necessary,” Lewis said.

“I thought you were more acquainted with the dueling code,” Yancy said. “If you want satisfaction, sir, I am here to give it to you, sword or pistol.”

Lewis Depard sucked in his breath, as Yancy suddenly appeared much larger than he remembered. He had never refused and was about to accept when French said, “You are entirely right, Mr. Devereaux. Lewis, be sensible, man! You’re wrong.”

Lewis dropped his eyes. “You’re right. I apologize.”

“Good enough,” Devereaux said. He said to Jeff, “Come along. Let’s get away from here, Doctor.”

As they were walking, Jeff commented, “I understand how I missed, but I thought he was a dead shot.”

“Even dead shots miss sometimes. Try to remember what you learned from this.”

“I will never forget it. I thought I was a dead man.”

At Yancy’s house, Damita was incredulous. “You mean they both shot and both missed?”

“That’s what everybody says.”

“But Lewis never misses.” She stared at Yancy and saw that he was trying not to laugh. “What’s going on?” she demanded. “They could have been killed.”

“No, they couldn’t.”

“What do you mean? Men get killed all the time in these foolish duels.”

“Not when I handle it.”

Damita knew that Devereaux had a sense of humor. “What did you do, Yancy?”

“What did I do? I took some dough, and I rolled it up into little balls about the size that a pistol takes. I cooked them in the oven and then coated them with oil. When I loaded the guns, I palmed the real musket balls, and put toast in. It was a pretty neat piece of work, Damita. Lewis’s second was watching me like a hawk, but I’m a very shifty fellow.”

Damita stared at him, and he broke out laughing. “They shot each other with toast!”

Relief washed through Damita. Without knowing she did it, she reached out and put her hand on his chest. He covered it, she began to smile, and then she began to laugh heartily. “Oh, that’s so funny!”

“You must never tell anybody about this. The fools would try to kill each other again.”

“I won’t. But, Yancy, I didn’t know you were so clever.”

“Oh, I’m a slippery man. One time back in Shreveport—” At that moment a servant entered the room and said, “There’s a man to see you, Miss Madariaga.” She turned and saw Charles Devere, her family’s butler, come in, his face stiff and pale.

“What is it, Charles?” she said.

“It’s your father. He’s ill. You must come home at once.”

“What is it?”

“I think it’s his heart.”

“Is the doctor there?”

“I went for Dr. Debakky and Dr. Whitman. They should be there by now.”

Damita started to follow Charles out of the room, but at the last minute, she turned and said, “Thank you for helping, Yancy.”

“I hope your father’s all right.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, but her eyes were filled with terror.

Chapter sixteen

As soon as Damita stepped inside the house, she met her mother. She was weeping.

“What happened, Mama?”

“Oh, Damita, he just gasped and fell over. I’m so afraid.”

“Where are the doctors?”

“They are both with him. They’ll be out in a few minutes.”

“Come and sit down, Mama.” Damita led her into the parlor and sat beside her on the sofa.

“He had just come in from the city,” Elena said, her voice quavering. “We were in the drawing room, talking about repairs for the house, and he seemed perfectly normal. Suddenly, he grabbed his chest. He had the most awful look on his face, Damita. It was as if someone had shot him! He fell, and I could tell he was in terrible pain.”

“Did he say anything?”

“He whispered to get the doctor, so we put him in bed, and then I sent Charles.”

“But have the doctors said anything? Have they been out?”

“Dr. Whitman said that it looked very serious, but he said there was always hope. Oh, Damita, what would we do without your father?”

Damita suddenly realized the enormity of what was happening. She knew her father was not the wisest of men, but he was always available when she had any needs. He loved his family better than anything on earth. A great emptiness filled her, and the fear tasted like brass in her mouth.

The two tried to comfort each other while they waited for word from the doctors. When they heard the sound of a door closing, they stood up. Jeff Whitman and Elmo Debakky appeared.

“Doctor, what is it? Is he all right?” Elena asked.

Debakky spoke for the two of them. His face was very serious. “I’m afraid we must prepare ourselves for the worst, Señora Madariaga.”

“Oh, no, don’t say that! There’s got to be something you can do!”

“In cases like this, we doctors are almost helpless,” Debakky said. “Dr. Whitman tells me he’s had symptoms recently.”

“Yes, he complained about his chest and numbness, but he wouldn’t see a doctor. You remember, Dr. Whitman.”

“Yes, I do. I wish he had come, but even that might not have helped. We just don’t know.”

Jeff was watching Damita and saw how pale her face was, and suddenly she began to collapse. “Damita!” He helped her over to the couch, and she sat down. “Just lower your head,” he said.

In a minute, Damita straightened up, and her face showed a little more color. “Can I see him, Jeff?”

“It will do no harm. As a matter of fact, I think it would be wise if both of you went to see him.” He looked at Debakky, who nodded.

Damita and her mother entered the room where Alfredo lay. The two doctors stood silently at the doorway. Elena went to one side of the bed and Damita to the other. Damita could hardly speak for the tightness in her throat. Her father was lying absolutely still, his hands crossed over his chest. His face was rigid and pale. She thought for one awful moment that he was dead, but then his eyelids fluttered, and she cried, “Papa! Can you hear me?”

The answer was very faint. “Yes, daughter.”

Elena took his hand. “You must be quiet. You are very ill, Alfredo.”

From where he stood, Jeff could see Damita’s face. He had seen it often express joy and excitement, but now he saw only grief. Poor girl. She’s never had any real problems, and now she’s going to have to learn to cope without her father. He glanced at Debakky and shook his head.

Damita leaned close to her father as he began to whisper, “I regret not—”

“What is it, Papa? Don’t worry about anything. You’ll be all right.”

Alfredo knew better. There was terror in his eyes, and both Elena and Damita could see it. “Don’t worry, Papa. You’ll get well.”

“No, I’m dying. I wish I had served God better than I did.”

“You’ve been such a good man. Always good to us,” Elena whispered.

“But I have not served God as I should.”

The dying man’s voice grew weaker. He took Damita’s hand and said to his wife and daughter, “Serve God.”

The two sobbed. With his last bit of strength, Alfredo Madariaga said, “Elena, I have loved you.” She leaned over and kissed him, and then he turned his eyes on Damita. “Daughter,” he said, “take care of your mother. She needs you.”

Jeff wanted to speak up and pray for the man, but it was too late. He saw a sudden stiffness, and Alfredo’s body arched, then relaxed in a terrible and sudden looseness.

“Papa, don’t die! Don’t leave us!” Damita cried, falling over the body.

Debakky took Elena by the arm and whispered, “He’s gone, my dear Señora Madariaga.”

Jeff pulled the young girl from the bed. “Come, Damita,” he whispered. “There’s nothing more you can do for him.”

Damita turned to him blindly and threw herself against him. He put his arms around her protectively. “Oh, Jeff,” she wept, “we’ve lost him!”

Jeff Whitman could say nothing.

Her father’s death struck Damita harder than she could have imagined. As a matter of fact, she had never given a thought to the death of a member of her family. And when it came, it brought her to a state of nervousness and loss she was powerless to fight.

On a cloudy Thursday afternoon, she went to visit her father’s tomb. She wore a black cloak with a bonnet covered with black crepe. As she passed through the tombs, she was aware that other mourners had come to visit loved ones’ graves. Many of the burial sites were graced with funerary ornaments, some of them flower emblems fashioned of wire, beads, and glass, which were called immortelles.

When Damita reached the grave, she began to arrange the immortelles on the tomb, which was already ornately decorated. Then she leaned against the tomb and pressed her face to the cool marble. She was given easily to tears since the loss of her father, and now she wiped them away and whispered, “Oh, Papa, why did you leave us?” She finally rose and left. The immortelles that adorned the tomb of Alfredo Madariaga caught the late afternoon sun and made a gay appearance, in stark contrast to the tombstones surrounding it.

“Damita, Mr. Pennington is here.”

Damita looked up from where she sat in the parlor. She had been reading, and her mother had entered abruptly. “Mr. Pennington? Who’s he?”

“The man from the bank.”

“Oh, yes, I remember.” Damita stood. “What does he want, Mama?”

“I don’t know, but we’ll have to talk to him.”

“All right. Where is he?”

“In your father’s study.”

The women left the drawing room and walked down the hall. When they entered the study, Mr. Pennington rose quickly to greet them. Both women nodded and noticed that he seemed rather nervous. “Won’t you sit down, Mr. Pennington?” Elena said.

“Thank you, Señora. I believe I will.” Pennington took his seat and cleared his throat.

As she looked at him, Damita remembered that she had seen him when she had gone with her father to the bank. She also remembered that he had come to the house one time, but she didn’t know why. His obvious apprehension made her ask, “Is there something wrong, Mr. Pennington?”

“I’m afraid there is,” Pennington answered. He seemed to struggle to find words.

“What is it, sir? You seem troubled,” Elena asked.

“This is a most distressing errand for me, ladies. Your father and I did business together for many years, and I know that he never burdened you with financial matters.”

“No, he didn’t. He took care of those himself,” Elena said.

Pennington shook his shoulders slightly, then straightened up. He opened a large case he had brought with him. “I’ve brought here quite a few papers. They’re complicated, and I think you might do well to turn all this over to your attorney.”

“What are those papers, Mr. Pennington?” Damita asked.

“These are records of your family’s dealings with our bank. I’m sorry to tell you that they are in very poor condition. Your business affairs, that is.”

Something seemed to close around Damita’s heart then, and she saw that her mother was worried also. “Father mentioned more than once the loans that he had from the bank, but we’ve tried to help by cutting back on expenses. You remember that we sold off some of the slaves.”

“Yes, I have that record here, but I’m afraid that the situation has grown even more critical.”

Elena swallowed hard. “Can you explain it in simple terms, Mr. Pennington?”

Pennington ran his hand over the leather case that held the papers. Looking down, he said, “I’m afraid you are facing bankruptcy.”

“Bankruptcy!” both women exclaimed. “Surely not!” Elena said.

“I’m afraid so. The papers are all here, and as I say, I think you should have your lawyer examine them. I’ve gone over them myself, Señora Madariaga. I realize this is a terrible time to tell you this, but even if your husband had lived, this meeting would have taken place.”

“What does it all mean?” Damita asked in a whisper.

Pennington shook his head. “Your attorney will go over the figures, and he will tell you that this town house and the plantation will have to be sold.”

“No, that can’t be possible!” Damita cried. “Surely some arrangement can be made.”

“I’ve explored every alternative, Miss Madariaga. Your father was an honest man and a good man, and I’ve done the best I could for him. As a matter of fact, for years I’ve tried to get him to further economize, but he was hopeful that cotton prices would rise again. Unfortunately, the price of cotton has plummeted and stayed low, and all of these notes, some of them ten years old, are now due. You understand, it’s not my decision. My board instructs me.”

Elena cried, “But where will we live? What will we live on?”

“I will work with your attorney to try to realize enough money from the sale to set up a fund. It will be very small, but at least it will be something—enough for you to rent a small place and cover the necessities.”

Pennington saw that both women were devastated. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “I will leave these papers with you. Contact your attorney and have him come to the bank, and we will do the best we can for you. I’m so very sorry.” Pennington picked up his hat from a chair and hurried out.

Damita looked at her mother and saw that she was helpless. Her mother had always been totally unaware of anything related to business, but then, so had Damita. Elena was trembling, and Damita put her arms around her and said, “Don’t worry, Mother.”

“But, Damita, what will we do?”

Damita said as strongly as she could, “We will find some way to save the plantation. There must be a way, and you and I will find it.”

The young doctor stirred the food on his plate but didn’t eat it. Charissa startled him when she asked, “What’s wrong with you, Jeff?”

Looking up from across the table, he saw that both Charissa and Elmo were watching him. “I guess I’m off my feed a little.”

“You have been for weeks now,” Elmo said. “Is it physical?”

“Oh, no, I’m healthy as a horse.”

Charissa exchanged glances with Elmo, and she said, “Both of us have been worried about you.”

Jefferson Whitman was not a man who shared his problems easily, but he put his fork down and shoved his plate back. “I’m worried about the Madariagas,” he said.

“What’s their position?” Elmo asked. “I’ve heard that they are financially strapped.”

“It’s worse than that, Elmo. They’re destitute.”

“I can’t understand that,” Charissa marveled. “I always thought they were rich.”

“That’s an illusion with some of these New Orleans folks,” Elmo said. “They own a lot on paper, but as a rule, they owe more than they own. You remember the Baxter family. I thought they were millionaires, but they filed for bankruptcy. Came as quite a shock.”

“That’s what’s happened to the Madariagas,” Jeff said moodily. His eyes were troubled, and he nervously pushed his knife around with his finger. “I’ve been trying to think what I could do to help. I’m going over there again this afternoon.”

“What do they say when you visit them, Jeff?” Charissa asked. He had offered little detail of those visits, but it was at the beginning of these trips that he had begun behaving rather peculiarly.

“They won’t talk about it much, but they’re worried sick. As it is, they stand to lose everything. They have a lawyer who’s fighting it out with the bank, but I can tell they don’t have much hope.” He suddenly stood and said, “I think I’ll go now.”

He left the room without another word, and Elmo glanced at Charissa. “I hope he doesn’t do anything foolish.”

“Foolish? In what way?”

“Jeff ’s infatuated with that woman. I’ve tried to talk him out of it, but he won’t listen. And after all, it is none of my business.”

“I know that.”

Charissa said, “He may well do something foolish, Elmo. He’s more than infatuated—he’s in love with her.”

“You think she loves him?”

Charissa said evenly, “No. I think she loves only herself.”

Damita saw that Jeff was nervous the minute he arrived at the town house. “You seem troubled, Jeff. Is something wrong with your practice?”

“Oh, no, not in the least. It’s going very well, indeed. As a matter of fact,” Jeff said, “I’m worried about you.”

Damita forced a smile, saying, “You’ve been a comfort, Jeff. We found out that some people we thought were friends were not, but you’ve been steadfast.”

“Damita, I don’t have any smoothness or any way with words, so I’ll just say what’s on my mind.”

“Of course, Jeff. What is it?”

“Damita, I want you to marry me.”

Damita had, of course, seen that Jeff cared for her. At one point, his obvious infatuation had amused her. She had even teased her mother about it, saying more than once, “I may marry that Kaintock. Would that make me a Kaintockess?”

Later on, she had realized that he was truly a good man, but now as she faced him, struck by his proposal, she could not answer.

Jeff saw her hesitate and reached out and took her hand. “I know I’m not the kind of man you think of as a husband. My manners aren’t refined. I’m not handsome. I’m not a lot of things that a woman like you would want, but I love you, Damita, and I’ll try my best to make you happy. And I would take care of your family.”

His words moved her. “Jeff,” she said gently, “you do me honor, but I don’t love you. Not in the way a woman should love a husband.”

“I know that,” Jeff answered, “but I think you would come to feel something for me in time.”

At that moment, Damita felt a tremendous compulsion. She had slept little the past weeks, ever since Pennington had first informed them of the impending tragedy. She had racked her brain, trying to think of a way out. How easy it would be just to marry this man and let him take all the worry! She studied his face, and the temptation was stronger than she would have believed possible. But at the same time, something in her would not permit this. She said quietly, “Jeff, you must give me time to think this over, and I want you to think it over, too. A man should never marry a woman who doesn’t love him. I know you think I’d change, and I might, but there are no guarantees.”

Jeff kissed her hand. “All right,” he said. “I won’t change my mind, but I hope you will. I would like nothing better than to take care of you, Damita.”

Chapter seventeen

Charissa left the clinic early. Upon reaching the house, she walked into the kitchen, pulled off her hat, and sat wearily on a tall stool next to a counter. “Rose, could I have a cup of tea, do you think?”

“Of course, Charissa.” Rose put on the kettle on the stove, then asked Charissa about her day at the clinic. Something in Charissa’s tone caught her attention. When the kettle boiled, Rose made the tea, poured it into two china cups, put them in saucers, and sat down beside the young girl. “You look tired,” she said.

“I suppose I am, a little bit.”

“You work too hard. I’m going to tell Dr. Jeff to give you more time off.”

“No, don’t do that, Rose. I enjoy the work.” Picking up the teacup, Charissa sipped, then gasped, saying, “This is hot!”

“Can’t get a cup of tea too hot,” Rose said, smiling. She was an attractive woman with coal-black hair almost as dark as Charissa’s, but she had startling light-blue eyes.

As the women drank their tea, Rose saw that Charissa remained tense. She asked casually, “What do you think about Dr. Jeff ’s asking Miss Madariaga to marry him?”

Charissa grimaced. “I didn’t know you knew.”

“You can’t have secrets in a house, even one with as few servants as this one.” She waited for Charissa to answer her question. When she didn’t, Rose’s face grew serious. “You’re troubled about it, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I am. You have to remember, Rose, I know that woman. I was her slave, and that’s a powerful way to learn about people.”

“Is she really that bad?”

“She had me beaten for something that was her own fault—spilling some wine on her dress. She was only seventeen at the time, but she hasn’t changed.”

“I wonder why Dr. Whitman can’t see that.”

Charissa shook her head, and a wry bitterness filled her voice. “He’s blind where she’s concerned, but I suppose most people are.”

“I think somebody needs to shake him. If his father were alive, perhaps he could do it.”

“I doubt it. Nothing can change the way he sees her.”

“Have you tried to talk to him?”

“I’ve talked to him constantly, but I can’t go up and say, ‘You shouldn’t marry that woman. She’s a witch,’ can I?”

Rose smiled faintly. “I suppose not.”

Charissa finished her tea, then gave Rose an apologetic smile. “I am sorry I’m such poor company.”

“I think we’re all worried about him. I know Dr. Debakky is. I wonder if he’s talked to him.”

“He tried, but it didn’t do any good.” Charissa rose and said, “I think I’ll lie down awhile before dinner.”

“Good. Why don’t you take a hot bath? That’ll relax you.”

“I don’t think so now. Maybe later.”

Charissa left the kitchen and climbed the stairs to her room. She reached the door, and when she put her hand on the knob, she stopped. An idea grasped her mind. She stood straighter. Her eyes narrowed, and her lips drew into a thin line. I can’t talk to Jeff, but I can talk to Señorita Damita Madariaga. She’ll probably have the butler throw me out of the house. It would be just like her. But I’ve got to try.

She whirled, ran down the stairs and out the front door, slamming it behind her.

“Who do you say is here, Charles?”

“Miss Charissa Desjardin.”

Damita stared at the butler in disbelief. “All right,” she said. “Where is she?”

“I put her in the parlor, Miss Damita.”

“Thank you, Charles.”

Damita stood slowly. Thoughts raced through her mind. She walked to the parlor, and when she entered, she saw her former slave standing in the middle of the room. “Hello, Charissa,” she said.

“I’m sorry to trouble you, but I’d like to talk with you.”

“Of course.”

“Would you mind closing the door? It’s a private matter.”

Damita, curious, closed the door. She walked over to her guest and asked, “Would you sit down?”

“No, I don’t think this will take very long.”

“There’s nothing wrong with Jeff, is there?”

“Yes, there’s something wrong with him.”

“You mean he’s sick?”

“No, I don’t mean that.”

Damita thought, The last time we were in this room together, she was a slave, and I owned her. Now no one would ever know that from looking at her. She saw the determination in Charissa’s face and said, “Just say what you have to say.”

“I came to say that you’d make Jeff miserable if you married him.”

Damita was incredulous. “That’s hardly your business, is it?”

“Yes, it is. He’s been very kind to me, as his father was before him. I’d hate to see his life ruined.”

“And you think I would ruin it?”

Charissa smiled slightly. “Do you forget how well I know you, Damita?” It was the first time she had called the woman by her first name. “He’s not like the young men who chase you around to parties and balls. He’s a serious man, and you’d make him very unhappy.”

“He doesn’t seem to think so.”

“He doesn’t know you. As a matter of fact, he doesn’t know anything about women.”

Strangely enough, Damita was not angry at Charissa, and this puzzled her. Ordinarily, if a former servant or slave had spoken to her on such a personal matter, she would have been furious. She marveled at her sense of calm. Suddenly, an idea occurred to her. She leaned forward slightly, and her eyes narrowed. “I see how it is.”

Charissa saw something in Damita’s eyes that made her ask, “What is it you see?”

“I see why you don’t want me to marry him.”

“I’ve told you why. You’d make him unhappy.”

“What you don’t say is that you’re in love with him.”

As soon as Damita said this, a rich color suffused Charissa’s face. Something like guilt washed across the young woman’s countenance, and she had difficulty speaking. Charissa stammered, “That’s . . . that’s not so.”

“I think it is.”

“No, you’re wrong,” Charissa said loudly. “He’s my brother.”

“No, he’s not your brother.”

Charissa had expected anything but this. She would not have been surprised to see Damita fly into a rage, but the young woman showed a composure that was disturbing. The accusation, true as it was, was one that she could not bear to hear Damita speak. “No, it’s not so!” she cried. “You mustn’t say things like that.”

Damita felt a sudden compassion for the girl. “I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s very obvious that you are.”

Charissa whispered, “It would be a tragedy if you married Jeff. Thank you for seeing me.” She strode to the door, opened it, and fled.

Damita watched her go. What a strange thing, she thought. But Jeff would never care for her, except as an object of pity.

She walked over to the window and watched Charissa as she climbed into her carriage. When the carriage disappeared from view, she whispered, “I’m sorry for her, but I’ll do anything to save my family.” She turned from the window, and a resolution that she had made earlier became stronger. There’s got to be some way to solve this financial mess. If I could get the bank to agree to just one year, we sold this house, and we had a good crop, I’ll bet we could at least hang on to the plantation.

She went to her room and put on a traveling dress and a bonnet. On her way to the front door, she told her mother, “I’m going out to the plantation.”

Elena showed surprise. Thinner since her husband’s death, the widow now had new lines of worry in her face. “Why are you going there?”

“I’m going to talk to Napier.”

“What in the world for?”

“I’ve been wanting to talk to him about the plantation. If we rearrange things there so that we’re assured of cutting expenses, and if we get an extension from the bank, I’m hopeful we’ll be able to save the place. Don’t worry, Mother. I’ll probably stay overnight. I’ll be back in the morning.” Kissing Elena, she turned and left the house.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Miss Damita,” said Claude Napier, the overseer of the Madariaga plantation. He was a strong, bulky man with blunt features, small hazel eyes, and a mouth like a catfish, usually twisted in a sneer. He had listened as Damita explained what she wanted, but now he was impatient. “Do you think we haven’t tried all them things before?”

“But this is an emergency, Napier. If we don’t do something, we’ll lose this plantation. Then you’ll be out of a place just as we will.”

Napier looked down at Damita with disdain. “You never gave the plantation a thought until now. In all these years, what do you think I’ve been doing? I’ve been struggling to make it pay, and all the time your father was out gambling money away.”

“Don’t you speak of my father!” Damita snapped, her eyes flashing. “I won’t hear a word about it.”

Napier said, “Have it your own way, but I’m telling you right now that there’s no way to make this place pay enough to get it out of debt.”

“I’ll have to see what I can do myself.”

As she was leaving, Napier called out, “What do you think you can do? You don’t know the first thing about growing cotton.”

This was a forceful truth, but Damita did not turn to answer. She climbed into her carriage and said to the driver, “Take me back to the city, please.”

As the carriage started with a violent jerk, she was thrown back but did not even rebuke the driver. All the way back to the city, her mind worked, trying to find some way of escape. She felt small and helpless and vulnerable, and fear was a coldness that filled her from head to toe.

I may have to marry Jeff. She closed her eyes and tried to think of another way. No ideas came, and she began to wonder what it would be like to be married to the doctor. He’s a good man. He’s not handsome, and he’s certainly not the kind of man I’ve always wanted, but he wouldn’t be a cruel husband. It would be good for Mama to have the security. And he would take care of all of us. With his financial support, we’d be secure for life.

All the way back to New Orleans, Damita thought wildly about her options. She instructed her driver to take her to the wharf. She knew little enough about how business was conducted there, but she knew she could ask Yancy about the price of cotton.

Getting out, she told the driver to wait and walked toward Devereaux’s office. As she stepped inside, she saw Yancy speaking with an attractive young woman with curly brown hair and twinkling blue eyes. He saw Damita and smiled. “Miss Madariaga, I would like for you to meet a good friend of mine from Shreveport. This is Mrs. Lucy Adcock.”

The two women exchanged greetings, and Yancy said, “Mrs. Adcock needs to get to the depot, and I can’t leave the office. Would you possibly be able to show her the way, Miss Damita?”

“Of course, it’d be no trouble at all.”

“I wouldn’t dream of putting you out.”

“It isn’t far. Yancy, I’d like to see you for a moment when I come back.”

“I’ll be here all day.” He turned and said, “It’s so good to see you. You tell Howard that I appreciate his offer.”

“I hope you’ll take him up on it.”

Yancy shrugged. “Who knows? Take care, Lucy.”

The two women left the office, and Damita said, “My carriage is here. Why don’t we go in that? It’s only a few blocks, but it’s cold today.”

“That would be very nice.”

The two women climbed into the carriage, and Damita gave the instructions. As the carriage moved forward, she asked, “Have you known Yancy for a long time?”

“For quite a while. You see, my husband and I bought his plantation just outside of Shreveport.”

“Oh, I see! Is it a large place?”

“Very large. Yancy never told you about it?”

“No, he never has.”

“It’s really quite a story. Yancy took over the place when he was a very young man. I don’t know how he scraped together enough money to make a down payment. The plantation had gotten rundown, but it had possibilities.” Lucy Adcock shook her head. “We didn’t know him in those early days, but later on, we found out that he had worked night and day, year-round, never taking a vacation. And he made a fine place out of it. I wish you could see it.”

“You and your husband bought it?”

“Yes, we did. Yancy worked like a slave to pay it off, and as soon as it was in the clear, he put it up for sale. It’s beautiful.” Lucy Adcock’s eyes sparkled. “He not only worked on the land, but he made the house a showplace. Howard and I have been so happy there.”

“I didn’t know Yancy was that skilled—running a plantation and restoring a home.”

“Oh, there’s nobody like him!” The woman hesitated, then said, “As a matter of fact, I came to see him about coming back and managing the place for Howard.”

“Managing it?”

“Yes, we heard about his bad fortune. He made little of it, but it hurt him to lose everything he had. So, Howard and I talked about it, and we thought how wonderful it would be if he’d return and just take over. Howard works too hard, but with Yancy there, he and I would have lots of freedom. We could even travel abroad.”

“Do you think Yancy will come?”

“I don’t know. Howard has offered him a most lucrative position, but Yancy has bad memories of all those hard, lean years when he worked like a slave. He did some of the plowing himself. He was more of a slave than any of the black people who worked with him. Those were difficult days for him, but I hope he moves back to Shreveport. Have you known him long?”

Damita answered, “For quite a while. I think it’s wonderful that you made him an offer like that.”

Chapter eighteen

March had come to New Orleans, a warm, early spring that drove out the cold breezes. Damita had ordinarily welcomed the season’s change, but now, with the crisis she woke up thinking about every day, she took no joy in it. She struggled constantly with the question of what to do, and the conversation she had had with Lucy Adcock stayed with her.

Jeff had been insistent, but she had put him off as gently as she could. Now, early one Friday afternoon, she was walking nervously about the house, remembering Jeff ’s visit the night before. He exerted more pressure this time. Moving to the window, Damita thought about how he had urged her, saying, “Damita, I want to take care of you and your family. I think we ought to marry at once.”

Now, looking out blindly at those who passed by on the street below, Damita knew that things could not go on as they had. She had met with Asa Pennington several days prior, and he had admonished her more stringently than ever before. “Something has to be done, my dear young lady. It’s not just the bank, but other creditors.”

Damita had asked him the question that had been on her mind lately. “Suppose we had a good manager for the plantation. Is there any way that the bank could arrange to give us more time?”

Pennington had been rather negative, but Damita had seen something in his eyes that had encouraged her. Turning, she put on her coat and hat and left the house. She had her driver take her to the cotton market, where she found Yancy working on papers in his office. He smiled and stood to his feet. “A welcome relief from these dull things.”

“Yancy, I need to speak to you.”

“Go ahead.”

“Isn’t there someplace we could go, where we won’t be interrupted?”

Yancy looked puzzled. “I suppose so. Nothing very urgent this afternoon. I can close early.” He picked up his coat, put it on, then settled his white hat with the broad brim on his head. “Come along. We should be able to find a quiet corner. Have you ever been to Luigi’s?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“It’s a small place. It’ll be empty this time of the day, but they make good café au lait.”

She accompanied him down the street, and he turned into a small café. A compact man with a broad smile greeted them. “Ah, Mr. Devereaux, you’re early for a meal.”

“Just café au lait for both of us.”

“I will fix it myself.”

“Right over here, Damita.”

There was only one other couple at the other end of the room. The sun shone in, lighting Yancy’s face as he sat down across from her. She studied him carefully. There was a looseness about him, and his face was smooth and tan. His body was angular and strong-looking—the body of a man who made his living with his muscles.

Suddenly she realized she knew very little of this man. He was smiling faintly, but she knew that behind that smile was a hunger and a loneliness and a temper that could sweep a woman away. She knew that his nerves were not easily touched by small things, but as she watched him, she sensed that he was somehow troubled by deeper issues.

After the waiter had brought the coffee, she ignored it and leaned forward, saying, “I’ve been thinking of something ever since I met your friend Mrs. Adcock.”

“She’s a fine lady, and her husband’s a fine man.”

“She told me about your early struggles to make the plantation pay. She said you worked harder than any man should have to.”

Yancy turned his head slightly to one side and studied her. “Why did she tell you about all that?”

“Because she was so anxious for you to come and manage their plantation. Are you going to do it?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“I guess I worked myself too hard when I was building that place up. I still have bad dreams about it. I don’t suppose you have any idea of what it’s like, working until you can’t speak properly, and falling into bed, too tired to eat. Those years took something out of me. If I had it to do over again, I wouldn’t.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Yancy.”

Her words startled him. “Why should you say that? What difference does it make to you?”

“Because I’m going to ask you to do something, and now I know you won’t.”

Yancy picked up his cup, sipped the coffee, then said, “Why don’t you ask me, and let me make up my own mind about what I’m going to do?”

A tiny ray of hope flickered inside Damita. She said quietly, “I want you to come and manage our plantation.”

He was surprised and showed it. “Why would I want to do that?”

“There’s no reason. I know you hate farming. I know it would be hard for you, but it’s the only hope we have. I’ve been down to talk to the banker, Mr. Pennington. I believe that if a good man were there to take over, he would give us one year. It would be a terrible year, about like those early years for you in Shreveport, but I’d give up everything and so would my mother, if we could only hang on to the place.”

Yancy was almost distracted by the beauty he saw in her face, in the rich curve of her lips and the ivory shading of her skin. He put these thoughts out of his mind and studied her more closely. “I know you’ve been having difficulty.”

“It’s more than that. It’s the end of everything for us. We won’t have anything, Yancy.”

“I ran into Dr. Debakky the other day. He told me his partner had asked you to marry him.”

Damita was startled. “He . . . he has.”

“That would be an easy way. Doctors have lots of money. The bank would do anything for him.”

Damita felt thoroughly uncomfortable. She held her head high and said, “I have been tempted, but I just can’t do it.” She hesitated, then asked, “Would you please do one thing for me? Come and look at the plantation, and then look at the figures, before you say no.”

Yancy suddenly smiled. “All right. I can do that, but no guarantees.”

“I understand. Thank you, Yancy.”

When she arrived back home, Damita explained her plan to her mother, and Elena said excitedly, “Oh, if he could only help us, Damita!”

“Don’t say a word to him, Mother. We mustn’t pressure him.”

Four days later, Damita stood outside her father’s study. The door was closed, and she stared at it as if it held some answer for her. Yancy had accompanied her to the plantation. She had introduced him to Claude Napier, who had been boorish as usual, but Yancy had spent two days walking over the grounds and lots of time talking to the slaves. This displeased the overseer, and he said in a surly fashion, “There’s no way to save this place. I done told her that.”

Damita also knew that Yancy had visited Mr. Pennington, although he had not revealed the results of his meeting. Now he had been all day in the study, pausing only long enough to eat a light lunch. Damita had sent it in by one of the maids, for he had demanded to be left alone.

As she stood by the light of the lamp that lit the hallway, she thought, What will I do if he says no? The thought frightened her. She reached out and knocked firmly on the door. When she heard his voice, she entered.

“Hello, Damita.” Yancy was in his shirtsleeves, standing beside the window. She saw nothing in his face that indicated his intentions.

“I couldn’t wait any longer, Yancy. Can you tell me anything?”

Yancy walked over to the desk, which was covered with papers. She could see that he had filled up many pages with figures and notes. “It’s not going to be easy.”

His words renewed Damita’s hope. “You mean you’ll help us?”

“Damita, it would take a miracle, but I’ll try. I’ll try, if that’s what you want.”

“Oh, yes, Yancy! That’s what I want!”

She walked toward him and put out her hand, but he shook his head. “Wait a minute. Let me tell you the rest of it.”

“What is it?”

“If I come, I must have complete authority over all money and everything that goes on at the plantation. You will have to sell this house. You might realize a little money on it. I’ve talked to Mr. Pennington, and he’ll let us have just barely enough to make a crop, but we’ll have to sell off some of the slaves. We’ll work with a small crew. If we get a good cotton crop, he will give us another year. Two good years would do it, but it’s going to be nothing but misery.”

“I don’t care about that.”

“That’s what you say now,” he said. “But you’ve never had to really do without, Damita. This means no new dresses, no new shoes, no running around to the opera every time you take a notion. And the same is true for your mother. It’ll be poor doings.”

“Do you think you can save us, Yancy?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’ll do anything to keep a place for my family.”

Yancy suddenly reached out and pulled her close. Damita did not resist but looked in his face. She saw something in his eyes that reminded her of those moments when she had almost given herself to him, and now she whispered, “What are you doing, Yancy?”

“I know you once had something in your heart for me.”

“Please, don’t put it on that basis. Don’t talk of love.”

“I can’t promise that.”

Damita put her hands on his chest and tried to free herself, but his grip was too strong.

Then Yancy released her and said quietly, “There’s a real woman somewhere in you, and I’m hoping sometime, when things get bad enough, you’ll turn that woman loose.” He laughed and said, “And I hope I’m there when it happens.”

PART FOUR

• 1835–1836 •

Yancy

Chapter nineteen

As Jeff stepped out of the house and walked across the yard to the carriage shed, a movement overhead caught his attention. He looked up to see a flight of swallows divide the air in evanescent shapes, making a kaleidoscopic pattern. He watched them with a sense of delight and longing; since moving to New Orleans, he had spent little time in the out-of-doors he loved. He had promised himself that he would go hunting and fishing, but the workload had been so great that he was never able to do it.

Now, as he stood still, a butterfly fluttered across the flowers that Rose had planted. It was a red admiral, and its wings made a delicate lens for the sunlight to pass through. The butterfly moved like a flake of color glittering in the air. The beauty of the tiny creature created a mood in Jeff Whitman, and he suddenly wished for some simplicity in life. He’d had that once, but now everything, personal and professional, was complicated. He shook his shoulders with an angry motion and hurried to his buggy.

Jimmy Bledsoe, who handled the horses, had hitched up the bay. “Mornin’, Doctor.”

“Good morning, Jimmy. Got ’im all hitched, I see.”

“Yes, sir.” Bledsoe was a small, wiry fellow of eighteen with red hair and blue eyes whom Debakky had hired recently. “You want me to drive you, Dr. Whitman?”

“No, Jimmy, I’m not going far today.” Getting into the buggy, Jeff took the reins from the young man, then commented, “I’d like to be going fishing today.”

“Why don’t we go, sir?” Jimmy asked eagerly. “Nothin’ I’d like better than some good redfish.”

“I’d like to, but too much to do. See you tonight.”

Jeff spoke to the horse, who picked up into a fast pace. He had intended to go straight to the hospital, but he changed his mind and drove instead to the Madariaga house. He found a place for the buggy, tied the horse, patted him on the neck, and walked to the front entrance. As he passed through the iron gate, Jeff could hear voices and the sounds of furniture being moved. Knocking on the door, he waited, and it was opened by Yancy Devereaux.

“Hello, Doctor. Come in.”

“Hello, Devereaux. What’s going on?”

“We’re in the middle of a sale.”

“What are you selling?”

“All of the furniture.”

Jeff stared at Devereaux, who was in his shirtsleeves and evidently had been working; sweat shone on his brow. The April sun was rising and brought heat to the city. “What’s the purpose of that?”

“We’ve got to make some money, Jeff.”

Jeff then saw Damita. She had a displeased look on her face, and he removed his hat, asking, “Selling everything?”

“Well, almost,” Yancy answered for her. He exchanged glances with Damita, who seemed upset. “I guess I’ll get the items in the blue room ready to go.”

“We’re not selling that washstand that belonged to my great-grandmother.”

Yancy looked at her for a moment with a calm expression. “We’ll talk about it later,” he said and left the room.

“What in the world is this? What’s going on?” Jeff said.

“I haven’t had a chance to tell you about it, Jeff.” Damita looked weary and frustrated. She picked up a newspaper and began to fan herself. “I’ve asked Yancy to take over the plantation and try to make a paying proposition out of it.” She explained the details and added, “Yancy says we have to sell all of our belongings here in the town house. I didn’t realize how attached I could get to things, but almost every item in this house has some sentimental value.”

Jeff was shocked at the turn of events. “Is all this really necessary, Damita?”

“Yes, it is. It’s the only way to save the plantation, and Yancy’s the only man who can do it.”

“But I thought he was a clerk of some sort.”

“He is now, but he took an old plantation in Shreveport from nothing to one of the finest places in the county. I’m praying he can do the same thing with this one, but it’s hard. I had to agree to let him make all the decisions.”

“Surely you’re not going to let him sell items that mean something to you!”

Damita gave him a desperate look. “We have to do it. He’s our only hope, Jeff. I get upset with him, but I promised that he could have full control.”

“Damita, if you’d marry me, we could save this house and the plantation, too. I don’t like to sound like a braggart, but my father left me well-off.”

Damita smiled wanly, reached out, and put her hand on his arm. “You don’t know how much I’d like to do that, but I just can’t, Jeff. I don’t love you like that.”

Just then, Yancy came back into the room, followed by Elena, who was in tears. “Yancy, we can’t sell that bed! It’s a family heirloom.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Madariaga, but we’ve got to have cash.”

“How much is the bed? I’ll buy it,” Jeff said impetuously.

“Oh, no, Jeff, you can’t do that,” Damita insisted. She saw his intention. “You can’t buy all of our furniture.”

“Certainly I can!”

Yancy shrugged. “If you pay the top dollar, you can have it.”

“Is there no sentiment in you, Yancy Devereaux?” Elena cried.

Damita walked over to her mother and suggested, “Mama, go out to the plantation. This is too hard on you.”

“That would be a good idea, I think,” Yancy said quickly. “As a matter of fact, why don’t you go with them, Damita? I can take care of this.”

“No, I’m going to stay here and help you.”

“You mean,” Yancy grinned, “you’re going to stay here and argue with me over every piece of furniture.”

Jeff Whitman watched the two and suddenly felt anger, and he knew it was foolish. He had made his offer, and Damita had refused it. He reiterated, “Damita, anything you really want to keep, I’ll buy and store it until you can use it.”

“Thank you, Jeff, but I can’t let you do that.”

Jeff sighed and asked, “When will you be moving to the plantation?”

“Today,” Yancy said. “The new owner of this house is coming tomorrow, and we have to be out of it.”

“After you get settled in, I’ll come out and visit.” Jeff departed, feeling somehow left out. Yancy Devereaux had taken over, and this gave him an uneasy feeling. That fellow has no sensitivity, he thought. I don’t know why Damita would want his help rather than mine.

He drove to the hospital, and when he arrived, he found that Charissa had preceded him. “You’re late,” she said as he entered the surgeon’s room where the doctors kept their street clothes.

“I went by Damita’s. You know what they’re doing?” He changed his coat and explained the Madariagas’ plan. He ended by saying angrily, “That fellow Devereaux—she’s given him full authority.”

“It sounds like a good plan to me. If he’s a skillful overseer, maybe he can save the plantation for them.”

“I don’t like it. It was painful to see them having to sell their furniture like beggars.”

“It may do them some good.”

Jeff turned and faced Charissa, his eyes wide with surprise. “What do you mean by that?”

“They’ve never had any real needs, Jeff. Want tends to mature people. You don’t learn from good times but from bad. Maybe this will make them view others a little differently.”

“You just don’t understand, Charissa. They’re not used to this sort of thing, and it’s unnecessary. Why, if she’d marry me, it would solve all their problems.”

Charissa shook her head. “No, it wouldn’t,” she said quietly and left the room.

Jeff stared after her and tried to understand what she meant. That young woman is an enigma. She just doesn’t understand how it is with me, how much I love Damita.

Damita stepped down from the carriage, and a strange feeling overtook her. She looked over the fine, old home, then ran her eyes across the fields that spread out in every direction. I’ve taken all this for granted for years. It was just here, and now that I might lose it, I realize how much it means to me.

Yancy had tied up the horses, and now he said, “We’ve got a lot of work to do, Damita.”

“I know.”

“I know you think I’m a miser, but we have a long way to go before we make this place into a paying proposition.”

“I know.” She turned and faced him. “I know I’m spoiled, and I’ve never had to work. None of us have. You’ll just have to be patient with us.”

“Patient as Job. By the way, I’m going to have a talk with Napier. I think you ought to be there.”

“He’s an unpleasant man. I’ve tried to talk to him, but I’ve never been able to like him.”

“When I was here, I talked to the slaves, and . . . I might as well be blunt. He’s forced himself on some of the female slaves.”

Damita stared at him. “I didn’t know that.”

“It’s a common thing, but it’s going to stop. He’s also too free with that whip of his. That’s going to stop too. Come along. You want to change clothes, or go as you are?”

“These will be all right.”

The two walked past the main house, past the line of cabins where the slaves lived, and to the shack where Napier lived alone. He was sitting outside and stood as the pair arrived.

“Need to talk with you, Napier.”

Claude stared at him without expression. “What is it?” he growled.

“Things are going to be different around here from now on,” Yancy said. “We need to get it straight. I want you to hear it from Miss Madariaga.”

“Hear what?”

“That I’m in complete charge of this plantation.”

Napier glared at him. “I’ve been the overseer a long time!”

“You still are, but I’m the overseer of the overseer. Isn’t that right, Miss Madariaga?”

“That’s right, Napier. You must obey any orders that Mr. Devereaux gives you.”

“The first order I’ll give you is this, Napier: You will not take advantage any longer of the female slaves. The first time I hear of it, you are off the place.”

Napier shot a glance at Damita but then said truculently, “Who’s been telling you tales?”

“You haven’t been too careful to hide your tracks. I’m not arguing about this. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“Any more orders?” he asked, sneering.

“Lots of them, and here’s another. You’ve beaten some of the slaves. That’s all over.”

“You can’t work field slaves without discipline.”

“I’ll do the disciplining, but if I catch you whipping anyone, we’ll have more than words. Now, what are you doing here? You don’t have enough work to do?”

Damita was standing slightly behind Yancy. She saw the huge muscles in Napier’s arms and shoulders tense, and for a moment she was afraid he would attack his new boss. He was a brute of a man, and she had heard about how he had beaten men senseless.

“If you’ve got anything to say, say it now,” Yancy said coolly. He was facing Napier, standing loosely with his feet slightly spread and his arms at his sides.

“You’ll see quick enough that babying these slaves won’t do,” he answered. “But now I’ve got work to do out in the east field.” He turned and walked toward the stable, and rebellion showed in the set of his straight back and the way he held his head.

“I don’t know why Papa kept him on so long. He’s a cruel man.”

“He’ll have to toe the line or get out. As a matter of fact, I’ve got half a mind to run him off now. It’ll come sooner or later, I think. But there’s something else that we’ve got to talk about.”

“All right, Yancy. What is it?”

“We’ve got to get rid of about half of the slaves. My plan is to keep the best ones, treat them well, and encourage them so that they’ll work hard. When I took a look, I saw a lot of field hands just loafing. Some of them were too old to be in the fields. Slavery’s a bad system, and I see the worst of it here.”

“If that’s what you think, then I’m sure it must be done.”

“I’m going to be busy, so I’m giving you the chore of deciding which ones to sell.”

“Me? Why, I can’t do that! Some of these have been with us for years.”

“I’m sure they have, and you’ve always been interested in their welfare!” Yancy said sharply.

Damita’s eyes flew open at his statement. It was true. She had never given any thought to the welfare of the slaves, and she knew he was thinking about the beating that she arranged for Charissa. “I can’t do it.”

“You’ll have to. I can’t do everything. First, decide which ones we really need. Then go to your rich friends, people you know who will treat them decently. They’ll be glad to do you a favor, won’t they?”

“I’d be like a beggar.”

Yancy grinned. “That’s what you are, Damita. We all are, in one way or another. I don’t think you’ve understood yet how hard this is going to be. It’ll be a miracle if we make it through the next two years, so let’s settle it right now. You’ve agreed to do what I’ve said, and now I’m saying to help me get rid of half of these slaves. Yes or no?”

Damita’s face flushed. She hated to take orders, but as she looked at his face, she understood that he expected her to refuse. Stubbornness rose in her, and she said, “All right, I’ll do it then.”

Yancy was somewhat surprised but nodded with approval. “Try to keep the families together,” he said. “I’ve seen babies taken from women, and men and women who lived as husband and wife torn apart, without a thought. Do your best for them.”

“All right,” Damita said, suddenly resolved to do this thing well. “I will.”

Damita returned home exhausted. The entire month had been trying. She had struggled over her task of thinning out the slaves, and it had been more difficult than she could believe. She had discovered that she knew almost nothing about them or their personal lives, and now that she did, letting some go had been grim business. She had visited all of her friends, asking them to buy the slaves, and the task had been humiliating.

The rigors of the first month at the plantation weighed heavily on Damita. She herself had worked as she had never thought possible. When she wasn’t out trying to get someone to buy the slaves, she was helping Yancy, because he always had something more for her to do. She once had had no idea of the enormity of work necessary to keep a plantation running, but she knew it now!

As she entered, she heard her mother’s voice and called, “Mama, where are you?”

Elena stepped quickly into the foyer, her face anxious. “Damita, I’m so glad you’re home. Yancy’s been looking for you.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“He’s at the blacksmith’s shop,” Elena answered. She looked at her daughter. “I’m worried about you. Are you getting enough rest?”

Damita smiled and said, “Of course I am.” She left the house and walked to where the blacksmith worked. From a distance, she saw Yancy shoeing a horse. She stopped and watched. He was stripped to the waist and sweat glistened all over his body. She had never seen him like this. He was a strong man, and the years he had spent doing hard physical labor showed.

She walked into the shop. “Hello, Yancy.”

Yancy looked up and grinned. “You come to help me shoe horses?” He put the horse’s hoof down, patted him, then picked up his shirt and put it on. “How did it go?”

“I managed to sell them all at last.”

“You’ve done a good job.”

“I’ve hated every minute of it.”

“I can imagine. You’ve got a good heart. Hard-hearted people wouldn’t have thought a minute about it.”

Damita suddenly smiled. “You’re paying me compliments. You must want something.”

“Just a drink of water. Come along, and tell me all about what you’ve been doing.”

The two walked over to the well, and he drew water from the bucket. Both drank from the dipper, and he listened as she described, with some pride, how she had placed the last four slaves that morning.

“Who bought them?”

“I went to Lewis. His family has a very large plantation. He was glad to take them off my hands, and for a good price, too.” She laughed. “I raised the figures you gave me.”

“You’re getting to be a steely businesswoman.”

It was pleasant standing in the sun, and now that the job of selling off the slaves was over, Damita felt relieved. She looked at Yancy and said suddenly, “I hate slavery. I found that out.”

“So do I. You know, Damita, it does something to a person to own a slave. Once you own one, you’re saying that a man or a woman is no more than a horse or a dog. When you ‘own’ another person, you put yourself in that position.”

“I never thought of it like that.”

“I’ve always thought slavery was a horrible mistake. We’ll pay for it someday.”

“Some say that the South will pull away someday and become a separate nation.”

“The North will never let that happen. If you listen to—”

A young black woman suddenly interrupted: “Mr. Yancy, come quick!”

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s Mr. Napier—he’s whippin’ my daddy!”

Yancy’s face darkened, and without a word, he ran toward the barn. Damita followed with the young girl. When they reached the far side, she saw a slave stretched out on the ground and Napier whipping him savagely. She saw the blood and the lash marks on his back, and it sickened her.

As Napier drew back to strike again, Yancy grabbed the whip and ripped it from Napier’s hand. Then he grasped the man’s arm and whirled him around, his voice brittle with anger: “I told you, Napier, never to whip a slave on this place!”

“You keep out of this! This boy was uppity.”

“Get up, Jake,” Yancy said, not taking his eyes off Napier’s face. “You can go now.”

Napier’s fury boiled. “Give me back that whip!”

“Here’s your whip. Now take it, and get off this place.”

Napier took the whip, and his hazel eyes glittered with hatred. “You think you’re somebody, don’t you?”

“I know who you are—you’re nobody. Now get off this place!”

Napier suddenly threw a clumsy blow that caught Yancy in the chest and drove him backward. He cursed and threw the whip back to strike Yancy with it. Damita cried out, “Look out, Yancy!”

But the blow was never delivered. Yancy threw himself forward and struck the big man squarely in the mouth. The big man roared and countered with a punch, and the two men began to exchange blows. Damita could not move. She had never seen such a thing. It was a brutal display; both men were strong and able, and both had obviously been in brawls before. One blow caught Yancy low on the jaw and drove him to the ground, and Napier ran forward, aiming a kick, but Yancy grabbed his foot and twisted it. Napier fell to the ground, and Yancy jumped to his feet. Blood dripped from the faces of both men.

Napier took a direct blow to his temple and started to collapse. Yancy rained blow after blow on the man’s face and body, and finally Napier fell, crying out, “Enough—I’ve had enough!”

Yancy’s shirt was ripped to shreds, and blood poured from a cut over his eye and from his lips. “Get off this place now!” he said.

Napier got to his feet, groaning, and staggered away.

“You’ve got thirty minutes to disappear. If you don’t, I’ll shoot you.”

Damita ran to Yancy and looked up into his face. “You’ve got to get something cold on those cuts.” She quickly led him to the big house and into the kitchen. Fortunately, her mother was not there at the moment, and Damita nervously dipped cloths in cool water and wiped Yancy’s face.

He murmured, “I thought I’d given up all this, but he didn’t leave me any choice.”

Damita was sponging away the blood. “You’ve got a cut over your eyebrow. I don’t know if it should be stitched or not.”

Yancy ran his fingers over it. “No. Just get some plaster and pull it together.”

Damita’s hands were trembling as she worked over his wounds. He had taken some hard blows. His right eye was almost closed already, and his lips were puffy.

“Nothing like a good, rousing beating to make a man realize how small he is.”

“He was a beast! I wish you had shot him.”

“I should have gotten rid of him before this.” He reached up and caught her hand, the one that held the cloth. “You make a pretty good nurse.”

“I . . . I haven’t had much practice.”

Damita stood, his hand holding hers, looking into his battered face. “I wish things like this didn’t have to happen.”

“We’ve all got to eat our peck of dirt, as someone said. You know, if you married Whitman, you wouldn’t have to go through such adventures.”

Damita didn’t answer but pulled her arm loose and dipped the cloth again in water. “Hold this over your eye for a while. Maybe it’ll help.” She gently touched his cheek. Her eyes were tender. “I know you’re not doing this for money, but for us. I didn’t mean for you to get in a fight.”

Yancy grinned, then winced. “I’m too old to cry, and it hurts too much to laugh. We’ve got a long way to go, Damita, but I think we’ll make it.”

“Yes,” Damita answered, studying his battered features, “we’ll make it, but I wish you didn’t have to bleed in the process.”

Chapter twenty

Charissa leaned back in the carriage, listening as Matthew Denton spoke of the sermon that they’d just heard. From time to time, she glanced at him, noting the strong jawline and the healthy glow of his face. He was not handsome but roughly attractive, and as he spoke, she thought of how strange it was that she should be riding along in a carriage—she who had not been a Christian only a year ago—with such a devout man.

“So, I agree with the pastor that there is such a thing as election. I’m not certain that it’s quite as prominent as he seems to make it.”

“What’s your opinion of election and predestination?”

“Well,” Matthew said slowly, “I think God is sovereign. He can do anything He pleases, but I think He chooses certain people such as Paul, for example. The Scripture says that he was a chosen vessel, but the pastor seems to think that Paul had no choice at all, that God simply made him become an apostle. I can’t quite believe that.” He turned to her and smiled warmly. “I think we’ve all got wills of our own.”

Charissa agreed and sat contentedly as the horses clopped along the cobblestone streets. She enjoyed Matthew Denton’s company. He was the son of a prominent businessman, who owned a large hardware store and a plantation just north of the city. Charissa and Matthew had met after church services, and he had driven her home several times.

He was a straightforward young man; he always said what was on the top of his mind. Charissa could tell that he was contemplating something, and she asked, “What are you thinking about, Matthew?”

“I’m thinking about you.”

“That’s flattering.”

“I’m wondering if you’ve ever thought about me as a man you might marry.”

Charissa was stunned. She could see in his large blue eyes that he was serious. “Why, I never thought of it, Matthew.”

“I’m asking you now to think of it. I’ve grown very fond of you, Charissa.”

“But you don’t know anything about me.”

“I know you’re a fine Christian young woman. I know you’re smart, because you’re a nurse. I know we get along real well.”

“But that’s not enough to make a marriage.”

“I’m just asking you to think about it.” He smiled and looked very boyish. “I’d make a good husband. You’d never know meanness from me.”

Charissa took a deep breath and said, “Matthew, I need to tell you something. You may know it already, but if you don’t, you should.”

“Know what, Charissa?”

“I’m a quadroon, Matthew.”

Denton looked at her, lifting his eyebrows. “I never knew that.”

“You need to know also that I was born a slave. For a while, I was the property of New Orleans people. Their name is Madariaga.”

“Alfredo Madariaga?”

“Yes, I was his daughter’s maid for a few years.”

“No, I didn’t know anything about that.” Denton held the lines loosely in his hands as the horses pulled the carriage along at a fast clip. “You don’t look like it. Why, your skin is whiter than mine.”

“I am, though. My mother was a slave. So, you see, that makes a difference.”

“Not to me.”

His guilelessness was both amusing and sad to Charissa. “It would make a difference to your family,” she said.

Denton shook his head. “I don’t think it would, but it doesn’t matter to me.”

Charissa felt affection for the young man, but nothing more. “In any case, I don’t intend to marry for a long time—if ever. I may give my whole life to medicine.”

“That wouldn’t be good. You need to have a husband and a family.”

“I’m not sure that will ever happen to me. Matthew, please, I wish you wouldn’t speak of this again.”

Denton was silent for a moment, then shook his head. “I can’t promise that, Charissa. I’ve grown mighty fond of you.”

“I had an offer of marriage yesterday, Jefferson.”

Charissa was sipping her coffee after breakfast. Debakky had left early, and she and Jeff had lingered over the meal, talking about the work at the hospital. They had spoken for some time about the yellow fever that was relentlessly attacking the city. Charissa had not really intended to tell Jeff of Denton’s words, and now she saw that her news affected him strongly. He sat up straighter, and alarm showed in his eyes.

“An offer of marriage? Who was it from?”

“Matthew Denton.”

“Is he the one whose people own the hardware store?”

“Yes, and a very large plantation somewhere.”

Jeff began to fidget. He picked up the saltshaker and rolled it around in his hand, staring at it. He was clearly troubled.

Charissa was mildly amused. She had not cared for any of the young men who had called on her, yet Jeff put them all through a strict grilling process. Many of them never bothered to call a second time.

“I’ll make it a point to talk to him.”

“Oh, I’m sure he’ll meet all your standards.”

“My standards?”

“Yes. You interrogate all my suitors, wanting to know if they’re worthy of me or not.”

“I’m going to continue to do it!” Jeff said almost stridently. “I have to look out for you, Charissa.”

“I’m sure you’ll find Matthew qualified. He’s going to be one of the deacons in the church. He’s already been chosen. Did you know that?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“He’s very active on the mission board also. He’s always in church. Never misses a service.”

“That’s a good thing.”

“He’s a savvy businessman too. His family’s got money, and he’s a hard worker. Would that meet your standards?”

“Don’t talk as if I were some kind of a judge, Charissa!”

“That’s what you are, Jefferson. You always question those poor young fellows like an ogre.”

“I do not!”

“Yes, you do,” she said calmly. “What if you wanted to court a young woman, and her father grilled you like that?”

“I’d admire him for it,” Jeff said, holding his head up high. “It would be his duty.”

“I think you’ll have a hard time disqualifying Matthew. He’s highly sought after by many young ladies—and by their mothers, I might add.”

“What did he say to you?”

“I don’t think I should reveal any confidence.”

“Did you agree to marry him?”

“Not until after he passes his examination with you.”

Jeff flushed. He realized that she was teasing him, which she often did. “Tell me straight out. Do you care for him?”

“I like him very much, but I don’t want to marry him. Jeff, you’re funny.”

“I don’t mean to be,” he said stiffly. “The truth is, I just want the best for you, Charissa, and—” He hesitated, then smiled. “The truth is, I’d miss you if you were to marry. I’d hate that.”

Charissa was silent for a moment, then asked, “What do you think will happen to us when you marry?”

Jeff stared at her. “Why, we’d go on, just as we are.”

His remark was bittersweet. “You are so naive!” Charissa moaned, shaking her head. “I’m constantly shocked at how much you know about medicine and how little you know about people.”

“What are you talking about? Of course we’d go on as we are.”

“Jefferson, what wife would want a young woman around? I will leave when you marry.”

Jeff considered her statement. He could not think of a thing to say, and Charissa said, “Just give me plenty of warning. That’s all I ask.” She smiled and saw that he was speechless. “For once in your life, you don’t have any answers. Now I know how to handle you when you get rambunctious.”

Later that morning, before they left, Jeff waited in the kitchen for Charissa to finish dressing and join him in the buggy for the ride to the hospital. Rose was working about the kitchen as he drank his coffee, and he told her, “Charissa had an offer of marriage.”

“I’m not surprised at that. I’m just surprised she hasn’t married already. She’s such a beautiful young woman.”

“I don’t think she should marry him.”

“Is he a bad man?”

“Well, no.”

“Is he a good man?”

“From all I hear, he is.”

Rose Bozonnier, the housekeeper, was an astute woman, and she saw that the doctor was troubled. She knew why. She remarked, “She’s going to make a wonderful wife, Dr. Whitman. She’s compassionate, she’s smart, and she’s good-natured. She’s everything that a man could want. Why, she’d make a perfect wife for a doctor.”

“I thought, for a time, that Debakky might be interested in her.”

Rose looked at him with kind eyes. “He’s not the only doctor in the world.”

“She’s met all of my doctor friends. She doesn’t like any of them.”

At that moment, just as Rose opened her mouth to answer, Charissa came in, and Jeff said, “We’ve got to hurry. We’re late. Good-bye, Rose.”

“Good-bye, you two. I’ll have a good supper ready for you tonight.” She watched the pair from the window as they left and muttered, “Jefferson Whitman, open your eyes!”

In September, when the door to the Madariaga plantation house opened, Lewis Depard was surprised to see Yancy Devereaux. “Hello, Yancy,” he said.

“Hello, Lewis. Come visiting?”

“Yes. Is Damita here?”

“She’s here. Come on in.”

Depard took off his hat and put it on the hall tree.

Yancy said, “Damita told me about your taking the last of our hands and giving them a good place. We both appreciate that.”

“Oh, don’t bother yourself. We have so many, four more won’t matter.”

The two were speaking when Damita walked into the foyer. “Lewis, it’s so good to see you,” she said. She offered her hand, which Lewis kissed.

“You look enchanting as always, Señorita.”

“Come into the dining room. We’re having café au lait and a cake that I made myself.”

“You don’t do all the cooking, do you, Damita?”

“Oh, no, but I’m learning. We had to keep a cook, or we all would have starved to death.”

In the dining room, Damita served the coffee and cake. Lewis entertained them with stories of New Orleans, the balls, the latest opera, and Yancy sat back and watched the pair. He liked Lewis Depard, although the fellow was a fop, of sorts. He had no idea what Damita thought of him.

“Someone’s at the door,” Yancy said. “Let me get it. Are you expecting anyone, Damita?”

“No.”

Yancy went to the door and opened it. Jefferson Whitman was there, and suddenly Yancy’s ready sense of humor surfaced. “You’ve come to join the other suitors, have you, Doctor? Come in.”

Jeff entered, took off his hat, and put it on the hall tree, noticing that another was already there. “Other suitors? What do you mean?”

“Come in. We’re just having café au lait.” Yancy led the way, and when he stepped in, he gave Damita a wink. “The doctor’s come to call, Damita.”

Lewis turned to speak to Damita, but then his eyes fell on Jefferson. “Oh,” he said and fell silent. An awkwardness filled the room. The the last time the two had met, they had been dueling. True enough, they had shot each other with toast, but neither of them knew that.

“Jeff, won’t you come in?” Damita asked. She felt as uncomfortable as Lewis, but she saw that Yancy was enjoying himself. She gave him a reproachful look and said to Jeff, “I’m glad you called.”

Lewis stood and walked around the table directly toward Jeff. Damita had a horrified thought that he was going to strike him, but instead Lewis said, “Doctor, I was too hasty at that ball. I want to offer my apologies.”

Jeff was shocked. Everyone knew that Lewis Depard never apologized.

“Of course I accept your apology. And I offer mine.” He put his hand out, and Depard shook it.

“Now, that’s much better than trying to shoot each other,” Yancy said loudly.

Lewis gave him an irritated look and then turned back to Jeff. “I must tell you, Dr. Whitman, that I am very serious about Damita. I intend to marry her.”

“So do I, sir.”

For one instant the electricity in the air seemed to crackle, and then Yancy remarked, “I hope we don’t have another duel. Those things are terribly time-consuming.”

“Yancy,” Damita snapped. “Of course there’s not going to be another duel. Come in and sit down, Jeff. Tell us what’s been happening to you.”

Despite all of her attempts, Damita could not bring the two to accept each other fully. They cast hard glances at one another, and it was obvious that neither of them had any intention of leaving. Finally she said, “I’m sorry, but I have work that must be done today. Errands to run. Would you both excuse me?”

She shook hands with both of them. Lewis said, “I will be back to visit when you have more time, Damita.”

“So will I,” Jeff said loudly.

As the two left, Yancy chuckled, and Damita stared at him coldly. “What are you laughing at, you fool?”

“At the comedy. This is better than a play.”

“I don’t see anything funny about it.”

“You don’t? You’ve lost your sense of humor. I’ll tell you what you could do. You could marry both of them.”

Damita glared at him. “What are you talking about?”

“They make a pretty good pair, if you put them together. I mean, you’ve got Jeff, who’s sober and responsible and rather boring, and you’ve got Lewis, who is foolish and quite a bit of fun. You’d have one husband to be serious with and the other to go to balls and be foolish with.”

“I think you’re the fool, Yancy Devereaux! I never heard such nonsense!” Damita cried. She hurried out of the room, but Yancy ran after her and caught her arm. “Come along. Let’s go look at the crop.” She stopped and said, “I’m upset, Yancy. That was awful, having both of them here at the same time.”

“It’ll work out,” he said cheerfully. “Come on, I want you to see the fields.”

They walked along the rows, and Yancy pointed out things that she had never noticed before: the quality of the cotton, the snowy fullness of the fields. She was silent but interested. She had been around cotton all her life, but never had she watched it grow into a crop, step by step, and she still was shocked at the tremendous amount of labor it had taken. “I never knew how hard it was just to raise cotton.”

“It’s not a business for lazy men, but it’s a fine crop.”

“It is beautiful, isn’t it? Do you think the price will hold up?”

“I hear that it’s good. We’ll hope so.”

Damita reached out and plucked a bowl, then pulled the white fibers apart. “Who would have thought that something so light could bear the weight of saving a family from ruin?”

“We could lose it all, Damita.”

Damita glanced up and saw that Yancy was staring at her in a peculiar fashion. “Don’t talk like that.”

“That’s the way life is. Nothing’s certain in this world.”

“Nothing’s going to happen,” she said quickly. “It can’t.”

“I thought that about the ship I bought into, but it went down. We like to fix things so that they don’t change, but they do.” He resumed walking, and she joined him. “You remember the immortelles, those decorations that you put on graves?”

“Yes.”

“That’s just an attempt to fix things. I don’t think those immortelles are really immortal. They’ll wear out someday, too. You’ve seen them, old and broken. We’re the only thing that’s immortal.”

“You really believe that? You never talk about religion.”

“But I think about it.”

“I remember you told me one time you were afraid of some things, of growing old, of being alone, and you said you were afraid to face God.”

“I’m still afraid of those things, but sometimes I think making peace with God is the easiest thing. Nothing we can do about growing old, but we can do something about God.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean we can honor Him and love Him.”

Damita was silent. She had never heard this sort of talk from Yancy before. She remembered the story about his mother and realized his faith had grown, though it was hard for her to understand what form it took.

Then he said, “But there’s something else I’m afraid of.”

“What’s that?”

“I’m afraid of missing out on what’s important in this life.”

She stopped. “What do you mean?”

“A woman is important to a man—and children are too.”

She saw that he was waiting for her to speak. “Family is important,” she agreed quietly.

“It’s important for a woman to find a man, too, isn’t it?”

“Of course it is.”

Yancy stopped walking and took her hands in his. “You have nice hands,” he said. “Strong, smooth. Some women have ugly hands, but not you.” He paused. “Be sure, Damita, that you desire the man you choose. Forty years in bed with a man you don’t love would be a misery.”

Damita pulled her hand back, her face reddening. “Don’t talk to me like that.”

“All right, I won’t.”

Damita did not know how to take his words. She felt angered that he would speak so inappropriately, and yet she was curious. “Why do you say a thing like that to me? It isn’t nice.”

“Because I know that at one time you felt something for me.”

“That wasn’t love,” she said quickly. “It was . . . it was just wickedness on my part. You knew it—you turned away from me, Yancy.”

“I didn’t want to spoil things,” he said simply. “If I hadn’t felt something for you, I would have accepted your offer immediately.”

Damita could not think how to answer him. He had put his finger on the thing that had troubled her for years. “Don’t confuse me, Yancy!” she cried. She turned quickly and walked away, leaving him to stand alone in the cotton field.

The stalks blew lightly about him, and he watched her go. “You’re already confused, Damita Madariaga.”

Chapter twenty-one

Looking over the rim of his fine china cup, Elmo Debakky studied Charissa for a moment, then remarked, “It’s amazing how men can make fools of themselves, when they really set out to do the job.”

Charissa and Debakky had lingered after breakfast, and now Charissa looked steadily at the physician. “I suppose you’re referring to Jeff.”

“Yes. He and Depard are making fools of themselves, chasing after Damita. They’ve provided a mint of entertainment for the upper crust of New Orleans. People don’t go to the opera anymore; they just gather to watch those two circle around each other.” He sipped his coffee, then shook his head and said more soberly, “I hate to see Jeff chasing that woman.”

“I’m just thankful he and Depard haven’t had another stupid duel.”

“Maybe it’s just a matter of time. I don’t know what makes men behave like that.”

“At least the cotton crop was good this year, so Damita’s safe from losing her plantation.”

“That was good news, all right.” Debakky glanced out the window and shook his head. “What’s the date?”

“December twenty-eighth.”

“It seems as if 1835 just sped by.” He glanced at Charissa. She was wearing the simple gray dress that she always wore to work at the hospital. She seemed subdued. Debakky had learned long ago her secret, that she loved Jefferson Whitman, and had considered shaking Jeff to make him realize what he was missing. But he was not a man to interfere. Now he said, “I’ll tell you what we ought to do. The society of New Orleans is getting up a New Year’s Eve ball. The governor will be there, the mayor, and all the bigwigs. Why don’t you let me take you?”

Charissa glanced up from her coffee and studied the doctor. He was not handsome in the least, but he was intensely masculine and one of the wittiest and smartest men she had ever known. “That would be nice, Elmo,” she said. “I’ll look forward to it.”

Elmo grinned at her. “Why don’t you fall in love with me, Charissa? It would make your life a lot simpler.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, you could stop mooning around about Jeff. The man hasn’t got good sense. He can’t even see you.”

“No, he can’t. He never could.”

“Not your fault. He’s one of the best doctors I’ve ever seen. Too bad he’s not as smart about women as he is about medicine.” He saw that Charissa did not want to discuss it and said, “If you’d just fall in love with me and we got married, you wouldn’t have to worry about anything.”

“I’d have to worry about you.”

“No, you wouldn’t. Tell you what: Just give me a list of all the things you want in a husband.”

Charissa laughed. Elmo always had the ability to lift her out of her mood. “And what would you do with such a list?”

Elmo looked at her with mock surprise. “Why, I’d convince you of how you could get along without all those things.”

Yancy poked the fire and watched the sparks fly in myriad, tiny fragments up the chimney. He kicked a large chunk of firewood with his boot, and Damita said, “One of these days, you’re going to catch yourself on fire. Take your foot out of there. You’ll ruin your boots.”

Yancy put the poker down, turned, and backed up to the fire, soaking in the warmth. “I love fires. I love everything about them—cutting down the trees, splitting the wood.”

“You don’t like carrying out the ashes all that much, I noticed.”

Yancy grinned at her. “You’re right about that. But for every pleasure, there’s always a penalty to go with it.”

“Is that some more of your deep philosophy, Yancy?”

“Oh, yes, I’m going to write a book one day. I’ll call it Yancy Devereaux’s Guide to Perfect Living.”

“That’ll solve a problem for a lot of people,” Damita said. She was sitting in an overstuffed chair directly across from the fire, sewing. Her hands moved nimbly.

Yancy asked, “What’s the nicest dress you have?”

Surprised, Damita looked up. “What are you talking about?”

“Tomorrow’s the fancy New Year’s Eve ball. I’ve decided we’re going.”

Damita shook her head. “I told Jeff and Lewis I wouldn’t go.”

“Don’t you want to go?”

“To tell the truth, I’m a bit tired of their attentions.”

“I thought a woman liked that sort of attention.”

“Oh, Yancy, it’s foolish! I don’t care for either one of them—not for a husband, at least.”

“We’re going to take in that ball. We’ve worked hard, and we deserve a break.”

“I’d rather not.”

“I’m not asking, Damita,” Yancy said. “I’m telling you we’re going to do it. Don’t you remember? When I agreed to come here, you agreed to do everything I commanded.”

Damita was so surprised she poked her finger with the needle. “Ow!” she said and stuck her finger in her mouth. “I didn’t promise to go to balls with you!”

“Yes, you did. You said I could make every decision. My decision is that we need some foolishness.” He pulled up a chair opposite and faced her. “I haven’t mentioned it, but you’ve done a wonderful job of adjusting to this life.”

Damita stared at him. “Why—thank you, Yancy.” She never expected compliments from this man who had suffered so in his own life.

“I know it was hard for you. I was used to tough living, but you weren’t. And you’ve helped keep your mother from being miserable as well.”

“You’re the one who’s had to do all the hard things.”

“No, that’s not so. But let’s not argue about that.”

Damita felt warmth at his praise. Only rarely did he offer it, although she often felt his eyes on her. “All right,” she said. “Do you really want to go to the ball?”

“I think it would be fun. We’ll go late,” he said.

“What in the world for? I always like to go early.”

“Not me,” Yancy grinned. “I like to make a big entrance. Walk in about thirty minutes late, and people notice. You like that kind of attention yourself.”

Damita made a face at him. “You say the most awful things!”

“Put on your prettiest dress. We’ll show these New Orleans folks how it should be done. We’ll be the best-looking couple at the ball.”

“I really would like to go,” Damita said, smiling, and her eyes were bright.

“Good. Then it’s settled.”

Charissa was enjoying the ball, which surprised her. Jeff had been gloomy enough, and she knew that Damita had refused to attend with him. He had finally decided to accompany Debakky and Charissa, and he had asked Charissa for a dance. She had been having a fine time, dancing mostly with Debakky, but she had also observed that Jeff and Lewis had met and simply stared at each other, bowing slightly. After their dance, she stood beside Jeff and saw that he was glaring at the young Creole.

“How does it feel to have New Orleans laughing at you, Jefferson?”

Jeff turned, astonished. “That’s an unkind remark.”

Charissa was sick of Jeff ’s behavior. She had attended the dance for pleasure, and now the alienation between the two men annoyed her. “Jeff, you look absolutely foolish!”

Jeff glared at her. “I haven’t been ungentlemanly.”

“You two are chasing around after Damita like mindless dogs.”

Jeff blinked with surprise and reddened slightly. He looked down at her. “I wish you wouldn’t talk like that.”

“All right. I won’t.”

After their tiff, Jeff tried several times to make conversation, but Charissa answered in monosyllables. Then he asked, “Why didn’t you let that young Matthew Denton bring you?”

“You know we’re not seeing each other anymore. I asked him not to speak of marriage to me again. He’d be miserable with me.”

“Don’t be foolish! Nobody would be miserable with you. You have everything that a man needs.”

“But you don’t need me, do you, Jefferson?”

“Why, of course, I do. You know better than that.” He hated to quarrel.

Charissa heard a commotion and turned to the entrance of the ballroom. Jeff followed her glance and watched as Yancy and Damita entered. “She told me she didn’t want to come tonight!”

“They make a fine-looking couple, don’t they?”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

Damita had spotted Jeff and knew that Depard also was there. “I wish I hadn’t come, Yancy,” she whispered. “Lewis and Jeff will work themselves up into some sort of a disagreement.”

“No, they won’t. I have a plan.”

Damita looked up at Yancy. “What kind of plan?”

“A plan so that you won’t be bothered by Jeff or Lewis or any other fellow. You’ll dance only with me tonight. Come on.”

He pulled her to the floor, and they began to swirl amongst the other dancers. Yancy noticed all the eyes upon them and was pleased. “Everybody’s here, and they’re all looking at us.”

“You have no humility at all, do you?”

Yancy tried to look hurt. “What do we have to be humble about? We’re a handsome couple. By the way, I didn’t tell you: You look beautiful tonight.”

Damita smiled. “So do you. Yancy, how are you going to keep men from asking me to dance?”

“I can’t keep them from asking,” Yancy said with a grin, and humor flashed in his eyes as he added, “I can stop them from dancing with you, though.”

“Men are touchy—you know that, Yancy. Don’t forget that dueling is common around here.”

“That’s not my problem.”

Damita remembered how his first encounter with Lewis Depard had led to the threat of a duel with broadaxes. “Be careful,” she said. “Some of these men won’t take jokes lightly.”

“I’m not responsible for their deficiency of humor. Now, let’s just enjoy the dance.”

They swept around the floor, and as soon as the music came to an end and the couples applauded, a voice said, “I request the pleasure of the next dance, Miss Madariaga.”

Damita and Yancy turned to see a tall man smiling at them.

“Oh, hello, Anthony.”

Anthony Rivera was a wealthy businessman Damita had known for a long time. He was a widower, now in his mid-thirties, and he was reputedly looking for Wife Number Two. She started to agree, as was customary, but Yancy said, “I’m sorry, sir, but that would not be possible.”

Rivera bristled. “And why not, sir?”

“Señora Madariaga asked me to chaperone her daughter. She made me absolutely responsible. I won’t allow the young lady to dance with anyone unless I approve of him.”

Rivera sneered, “You’re a Kaintock, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I am. And I’m proud of it.”

“And you don’t approve of me!” Rivera snapped. “May I ask why not?”

“I don’t like your mustache,” Yancy said. The people around the three had fallen silent and were listening carefully. “I never trust a man who wears one. Sorry.”

A murmur ran through the crowd, and Rivera said, “I’m afraid I must take exception to your remark, sir.”

“That’s your privilege.”

“I will have my man call on you.”

“Not until after the last dance, if you don’t mind.”

Rivera smiled coldly. “After the last dance it will be, then.”

Debakky had made his way through the crowd and listened to all this. “That’s a dangerous fellow, Yancy.”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to be my second, Doctor, if you don’t mind.”

“I think this dueling business is foolish.”

“It is, of course, but will you help me out?”

“I suppose so,” Debakky said seriously. Then his tone lightened, “Perhaps I’ll dance with Miss Madariaga.”

“No, I’m afraid not.”

“Why not?” He teased.

“You’re a physician. I never trust that breed with women.”

Debakky let out a belly laugh. The music started, and he found Charissa and repeated what had happened.

“He’s going to have a duel with that man?”

“I don’t think so. Yancy’s a clever fellow.”

“He’s going to get himself in trouble. You know how touchy these Creoles are.”

The music started, and Yancy put his hand out to Damita. She joined him in the dance and asked, “Have you lost your mind? What do you think you’re doing?”

“Looking out for you, Damita. You can’t be too careful in a place like this. Why, some of these men probably have impure desires in their hearts.”

Ordinarily, Damita would have smiled at this remark, but she was worried. “Anthony is a fine shot. He’s already killed one man in a duel and wounded several others.”

“Don’t ever worry about what’s going to happen tomorrow.”

“I’m worried about what’s going to happen after the last dance. He’ll be waiting for you.”

“Don’t think about that,” Yancy said cheerfully. The two finished that dance, and instantly, another gentleman asked for the next one. His eyes were fixed on Yancy, who looked him over and said, “I’m sorry, sir. I couldn’t possibly let Miss Damita dance with a man who wears foppish attire such as yours.”

Damita gasped, and the man’s face turned scarlet. “Very well then, sir. My man will call.”

“Won’t be necessary. After the last dance, we’ll settle this business. Dr. Debakky will act for me.”

“That will suit me exactly, sir.”

Yancy winked at Damita and said, “Nothing like a little drama to enliven a dance, don’t you think?”

Damita did not know what to think. She knew that Yancy’s antics had become known throughout the ball, so that after every dance several men came by, asking for the next one. Yancy refused them all, and in each case, the disappointed man challenged him. Yancy simply said to each, “See my man, Dr. Debakky, over there. He handles all my dueling business.”

Yancy’s behavior became the talk of the crowd. Everyone’s eyes were on him and Damita, and Jeff exclaimed to Debakky, “He’s crazy! Why, he’s been challenged at least ten times!”

“Don’t worry about it. Yancy’s a clever fellow.”

Jeff turned to Charissa and said, “I always thought Devereaux was a savvy man, but this is suicide.”

Charissa was smiling. “Look around you. Everybody’s laughing. It’s become a joke, which is exactly what he intended, I think.”

“After that last dance, he’d better have a plan,” Jeff said. “He’ll need doctors if he fights all of these men.”

“This is the last dance, Damita,” Yancy said. His eyes were bright, and he smiled. “I’m so glad we came. I’ve never had so much fun at a ball.”

“You have lost your mind, Yancy Devereaux.” Damita was worried. “Some of these men are expert duelists. I know you’re trying to make a game out of it, but that just makes it worse. Anthony Rivera has no sense of humor about these things.”

“He’s the first, is he? I get them all confused. Let’s see, there must be at least fifteen or twenty of them now. You know, it would be great if we could make a little money off of this.”

Damita stared at him as he whirled her around. “What are you talking about?”

“We could sell tickets. Yancy Devereaux’s Famous Dueling Extravaganza! Ten dollars a ticket. Why, all of New Orleans would come out to see me get punctured by these hotheaded young fellows.”

Damita shook her head. “I don’t think it’s funny, Yancy.”

“You’re too serious, Damita. Forget about it. Enjoy this last dance.”

Damita tried to focus on the dance. She studied her partner. He’s really enjoying this, she thought. How could he? Doesn’t he have any nerves at all? “Please, Yancy, let’s leave before it’s over. Let’s get away from here.”

“Why, we couldn’t do that. We’d disappoint all of your admirers.”

“They don’t admire me. They just want to shoot somebody or stick him with a sword.”

“I’ll have to give them a chance.”

The music stopped, the danced ended, and the crowd began to whisper, every eye on Yancy Devereaux and Damita Madariaga.

Yancy said to her, “Come along. I see my foes are gathering around Debakky.”

He offered his arm, and she took it. As they walked over, she noticed Lewis Depard staring at her, disbelief on his face. Jeff was standing back in the crowd with Charissa.

“Dr. Debakky, have you made the arrangements?”

Debakky’s eyes were sparkling. He had a small piece of paper in his left hand. “I think I’ve got them all in order. I believe, Mr. Rivera, you are the first.”

Yancy said, “Suppose we all retire outside, where such business as this is usually conducted. Will that satisfy you, sir?”

“Perfectly,” Rivera said. His face was pale. He knew that Yancy was making light of something important to him. “Laugh while you can, Devereaux.”

Yancy grinned at him, then asked Damita, “Will you wait here, dear? I have a few engagements.”

Damita said, “No, I’m going with you.”

“Why, ladies don’t attend such things, Señorita Madariaga!” Rivera exclaimed.

“Then maybe I’m no lady, but I insist on going. I’m ready, Yancy.”

Almost everyone who had attended the ball crowded outside to watch the spectacle. It took some doing to get a space cleared away for the duelists to carry out their business.

The night was bright and clear, with the stars and a full moon overhead. “Good night for shooting, eh, Señor Rivera?” Yancy asked cheerfully.

Rivera glared at him. “I’m willing to accept your apology.”

“I’m sorry, but your mustache still offends me.”

Laughter rose from the crowd.

“Dr. Debakky, I am acting for Señor Rivera,” said a man named French, who often served as a second in duels. “We’ve chosen our ground, and I have the weapons here, if they would suit you.”

“Let me see,” Debakky said. He stepped forward and examined the leather case that French held open.

“These look very nice,” he said. “What do you think, Yancy?”

Yancy was standing alone, but his eyes were scanning the crowd. He saw Damita watching him, her face pale in the moonlight, and he winked at her. “Just a minute,” Yancy said. “I’m the challenged party. I have the choice of weapons.”

“There’ll be no duels with axes, sir,” French said coldly. “We’ve heard of your frivolousness.”

“No, firearms will be fine with me, but I’ll choose which firearms.”

“What did you have in mind?”

Yancy said, “Wait right here. I have them in my buggy.” He strode to his buggy, which was parked nearby, and threw back a canvas cover.

“What’s he got in there?” Charissa asked Jeff.

“Can’t see. It looks like rifles.”

Yancy brought back not rifles, but shotguns. Holding one in each hand, he said, “You may take your pick of these, sir. Both of them are in working condition, and your man may do the loading himself.” He thrust one of the shotguns at French and another at Debakky, then reached into his pocket. “Here, this ought to do. Double-ought buckshot.”

“What do you mean by this foolishness?” French demanded.

“Why, this is my choice of weapons. What we will do is this: You gentlemen will load the guns. Mr. Rivera and I will stand ten feet away from each other, aim, and at the count of ten, we’ll fire.”

A silence fell over the crowd. Yancy stared at Anthony Rivera. “I’m sure you wouldn’t want to take advantage of a man, sir. You might be a better shot than I am, but with shotguns, accuracy is not a problem.”

“This is foolishness!” Rivera cried out.

“Do you always have to have the advantage? Neither man has it with these. I’m the challenged party. These are the firearms. Let’s get at it.”

Rivera stared at him. “You jest! You wouldn’t dare do a thing like that.”

“Try me,” Yancy said grimly, and the crowd murmured in disbelief.

The pressure was on Anthony Rivera. He could not believe that any man would suggest such a thing. Neither man could possibly survive the encounter. He challenged Yancy again. “You’re bluffing.”

“Try me,” Yancy repeated.

Rivera said huskily, “Give me that shotgun!” French loaded the shotgun, handed it to him, and Debakky did the same for Yancy. Rivera said, “I’m ready.” His voice was defiant, and he moved into position.

Yancy took the shotgun Debakky handed him and moved until he was ten feet away from his opponent. “I’m ready, too.”

“French, start the count,” Rivera said and lifted the shotgun, aiming it at Yancy.

Yancy coolly lifted his own shotgun. “I’m ready,” he said. “You may begin, Mr. French.”

The spectators hushed. Damita was having difficulty breathing. She cried out, “Don’t do it! Don’t do it, Yancy!”

Yancy paid no attention, nor did anyone else. He was taking aim with the shotgun, his eyes locked on his target.

French continued to count, “Three, four, five—”

Anthony Rivera was a man of cool courage. He had engaged in many duels with sword and pistol, but always he had a good chance of surviving. He still could not believe this crazy Kaintock meant what he said, but the cornflower-blue eyes stared at him down the length of the shotgun without blinking.

When the count reached eight, Rivera cried out, “No! Stop!” He found that his hands were trembling. He laid the shotgun down and said to Yancy, “This is murder! It’s not dueling!”

“It’s about as close to it as most duels are.”

Rivera glared at Yancy, then turned and walked away, declaring, “I will have nothing to do with this foolishness. It does not follow the code.”

Yancy called out, “Come again if you change your mind, Anthony.” Then he asked, “Who’s next?”

“I believe Mr. Leslie Thornton is next.”

Leslie Thornton, however, quickly spoke up. He was a short, heavyset young man who immediately said, “I don’t believe that I will engage in a shotgun duel with anybody.”

“Number three. Franklin Towns.”

Debakky continued to call off the names, but the mood of the crowd had changed. Obviously, no man in his right mind was going to stand up to a crazy Kaintock and exchange shotgun blasts from ten feet. Finally the doctor said, “That’s the last. I guess we can all go home now.”

Yancy handed the shotgun to Debakky, who whispered, “What would you have done if somebody had taken you up on it?”

“I’d have run like a rabbit, like any sensible man!”

Damita had been silent all the way home. Yancy drew up at a small creek that overflowed the road. “The horses are probably thirsty. We’ll give them a drink.”

Damita said, “Yancy, I don’t understand you at all. I don’t understand men. You could have been killed.”

“Not much chance of that.”

“Why, one of them might have taken you up on it.”

“I didn’t think so. Not much of a risk, really.”

She said again, “I don’t understand you.”

“I like to have a little mystery about me. It’s provocative to women.”

The moon was round and silver overhead, and as they sat in the buggy, the only sounds they heard were the horses nuzzling in the water and far-off the cry of a bird.

Damita said quietly, “I was afraid.”

“Afraid for me?”

“Why, of course. You could have gotten killed—I don’t care what you say.”

“But you were really afraid for me. I find that hard to believe.”

“Why should you?”

“Why, we have done little but fight since we met.”

“I know. But I owe you so much. You saved my life once, and now you’ve saved my home and my family.” She turned to face him fully. “You’ll never know how much gratitude I have for you.”

He said, “We’re good friends, then?”

“Yes,” she said, smiling. “Very good friends.”

“Don’t you think good friends should express their feelings in a more tangible way? Something more than just words.”

Damita felt the fear and the tension leaving her. She decided to play along with Yancy’s unpredictable sense of humor. “What did you have in mind, sir?”

“Something like this.” Yancy put his arms around her and drew her close. Then he bent his head and kissed her.

Damita returned his kiss. His lips were firm on hers, and his arms pulled her near him with strength. Something timeless brushed them both at that moment, and it somehow frightened Damita. Yet she held the kiss longer than she had intended.

He broke away first and said huskily, “You are all woman, Damita!”

“You make me afraid, Yancy.”

“Afraid of me? You shouldn’t be. You should know that by now.”

“I don’t trust—” She could not finish.

“You don’t trust me, Damita?”

She laughed, reached up, and put her hand on his cheek. “No, I don’t trust myself. Take me home, Yancy.”

He laughed then and turned, speaking to the horses. “Get up, boys. This lady doesn’t trust herself.”

The horses picked up the pace, and Damita sat so close beside Yancy that she could feel the warmth of his body, and from time to time she stole a glance at him. She had never known a man like this. As they moved along under the bright moon, she could not help but wonder how she would handle him in the days to come.

Chapter twenty-two

As Damita Madariaga walked along the path that led from the back of the house to the line of cabins, she was carrying a heavy tray covered by a white cloth, and her arms ached from the weight of it. For some reason she thought of a passage in the Bible about Moses, who held up his hands until they grew weary, and then Aaron had to support them. Wish I had him here to help me, she thought grimly. I’m going to drop this.

The cabins were built in a double line, facing each other, and in the center a woman was boiling clothes in a huge iron pot, poking them with a stick. Damita said as she hurried by, “Hello, Matilda.”

“Hello, Miss. Kin I hep you with that?”

“No, thanks. It’s food for Hetty’s family. Is she any better?”

“No, ma’am, not that I kin tell. But I’m watchin’ her, and I keep checkin’ on the kids.”

Stopping in front of the last whitewashed cabin, Damita stepped through the open door. The window at the side threw a beam of pale sunlight across the floor and on the bed, where a woman lay. Damita put the tray down and glanced at Hetty’s three children, sitting on the floor and watching her with big eyes. The youngest was no more than a year and a half old. “Hello,” she said. “How are you today?” She got no answer, but then, the children rarely spoke to her. She turned and greeted Hetty. “Are you feeling any better?”

“Yes, ma’am, I believe I am.”

“I brought you something for supper tonight. I brought some extra, too, so it should be enough for tomorrow’s meals.”

“Miss Damita, you is powerful good to take care of us like this.”

“I just want to see you get well, Hetty. Can I do anything else for you?”

“We hain’t got no water, ma’am. I’d get it myself, but I’s powerful feeble.”

“I’ll take care of that.”

Damita picked up the bucket, walked down the pathway to where a well with a stone curbing served the slave population, and filled the bucket. Once back inside the cabin, she filled the pitcher and then left the rest in the bucket on the table. “There you are, Hetty.” She stood over the woman. “I’ll come back to check on you tomorrow.”

“Thank you kindly, Miss.”

Outside the cabin, Damita blinked at the fading sunlight. The sun was sinking like a huge ball in the west, and for one moment she watched it, then turned and walked back down toward the house.

As she crossed the grounds, she heard the familiar noises of the plantation. She recognized the sound of an ax biting into a tree, and to her right, men’s voices shouted from an open field. She could not make out the words, but she saw one of the slaves plowing in the field calling out to another one.

The life of the plantation had come to mean a great deal to her since she had thrown herself into its operation. She thought of Hetty and felt a pang. I never would have even known Hetty was sick before. I wouldn’t have bothered to learn her name. The only slaves I knew were those who served in the house. Now, I know the names of every one of them and most of their problems, too.

She walked around the huge chestnut tree that sheltered a group of chickens, which clucked and fluttered at her approach. Damita considered how different life had been since Yancy had come. She no longer took everything for granted. Always before, when meals were put on the table, she never thought about where the eggs came from. Now she took a sense of pride in them; she often gathered them herself, and sometimes she even helped in the kitchen when Ernestine, the rotund cook, taught her the secrets and fine art of cooking.

She entered by the back door and paused for a moment, wondering what they would have for supper. She had made herself responsible for the menu, and she and Ernestine worked on it together. Her mother was not much help with this. She seemed to know nothing about domestic things. But she liked to suggest different meals.

Damita had started down the hall to find her, when Elena approached and said, “Mr. Depard is here, daughter.”

“Where is he, Mother?”

“He’s in the small parlor. He’s been telling me about his journey to Europe.”

When Damita stepped into the parlor, Lewis Depard was sitting on an old wooden chair, looking at a month-old newspaper. He stood and tossed the newspaper aside. “Oh, there you are, Damita.”

“Hello, Lewis. Have you been waiting long?”

“Not long.”

“I had to take some food to one of the slaves. She’s had some kind of sickness.”

Lewis Depard’s face changed slightly. “Do you have to do things like that?”

“I do now. Sit down, Lewis.”

Lewis took his seat and said, “It doesn’t seem right for you to have to work the way you do.”

“It hasn’t hurt me at all. As a matter of fact, I don’t mind it now. I did at first.” She saw that the idea was completely foreign to Lewis. He had never done a day’s work in his life, she supposed, and the idea of personally seeing to a sick slave was beyond his comprehension.

“Hetty’s a good woman and a hard worker, but she’s not able to take care of herself right now,” Damita explained. “Her husband is Big Jake. They have three children. I can never keep their names straight. One of them, I know, is Henry. Another is Mason, and one is Jeb.” She shook her head. “I was talking to Hetty yesterday. I’d never really talked to a slave before about anything personal. She told me how afraid she was that my father would match her with some man she hated. She had always favored Big Jake, and she was so happy when Papa put them together. I started thinking about how little they have in their lives, these slaves. Not much good.”

“I suppose that’s true.”

Damita saw that Lewis was hardly listening to a word. He was usually cheerful and smiling, but today he wore a sober expression. “Why do you look so serious, Lewis?”

“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, Damita, and I’ve come to ask you to marry me.”

“Marry you! Why, Lewis, I’m surprised.”

“Why should you be?” he asked, eyebrows raised. “You know I’ve always intended to ask you.”

“You’ve pursued so many young women. I think sometimes you planned to romance the eligible young women in New Orleans in alphabetical order. You just worked down to me as a matter of course.”

Lewis walked over to the sofa and sat beside her. He took her hand and said, “Don’t be foolish, Damita. You think I have no feelings at all?”

For some reason, Damita could not take him seriously. “I think you have too many feelings, Lewis.”

Lewis reached over, pulled her to him, and kissed her. “I want us to get married. It’s time for me to settle down, and you don’t need to be doing all this work. We can live here, if you please. I’ll take over all the debts.”

Damita pulled away from his grasp. “Yancy’s doing well. We’ll be out of debt next year.”

Lewis frowned. “I know he’s a good manager. Maybe we could keep him on.”

“But I don’t love you, Lewis.”

Lewis paused. “You’re not still interested in that Whitman fellow, are you?”

Damita realized at that instant that Lewis Depard was really a shallow, selfish individual, despite his good looks and his money. He reminds me a whole lot of myself, she thought, as I used to be.

“Lewis, I want us always to be friends, but please don’t speak of this again.”

Lewis sat silent and bewildered. He could not believe she was rejecting him. He had come as a matter of form, thinking all he had to do was say the words, but now his pride was hurt. “Well,” he said, getting up, “I think you’ll change your mind.”

“I won’t change my mind. Please don’t mention this again.”

“All right,” Lewis said, his face flushed. “I won’t. Good-bye, Damita.”

“Good-bye, Lewis. Thank you for the honor you’ve done me.”

Lewis stared at her, then whirled and walked out of the parlor. Damita heard the door slam and went to the window to watch him go. He mounted his big stallion, struck him with a whip, and shot off at full-speed.

“There goes my big chance,” Damita said, feeling more amused than anything else. “Go on, Lewis. Chase all the other young women—but leave me alone.” She turned to leave, but Elena entered. “Lewis left?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t he stay for supper?”

“I guess he wasn’t hungry, Mama.” Then she gave her mother a slight smile. “He came to ask me to marry him.”

Elena straightened up with astonishment. “He did! That’s fine!”

“It’s fine because I’m not having him.”

Elena Madariaga was not adapted to the hard way of life that her family now had to endure. Her brow wrinkled, and she said hurriedly, “Damita, you must think about that. Why, he could give you everything.”

“No, he couldn’t, Mama.”

“Certainly he could! He has enough money to buy a place in town and to make this place pay.”

“That’s not everything, Mama.”

Elena studied her daughter’s eyes, then shook her head. “You’ve always had a romantic streak in you, but I’m worried about the future.”

“We’ll be all right. Yancy will see us through.”

Elena sat down. This had come as a blow to her.

“It’ll be all right, Mama,” Damita said and sat down beside her. She put her arm around her mother and hugged her. “Yancy won’t let us down.”

Elena tried to smile. “I always thought you were more interested in Dr. Whitman, but he hasn’t been out for a while. Have you quarreled with him?”

“No, but I expect he’s very busy. The yellow fever’s spread again in New Orleans.”

“Mercy, I hope it doesn’t get out here. That’s one blessing of living outside of the city. We’re safe in the country.”

“I don’t think that’s exactly true. The Wilsons’ cook is down with what they think is yellow fever. They’re only three miles from here.”

“Don’t talk like that! I can’t bear to think about that awful sickness.”

“All right. I’ve got to go see about getting supper started. What would you like, Mama? Ernestine will teach me how to fix it for you.”

“I’m so tired, you could scrape it off with a stick,” Elmo Debakky moaned. He and Jeff Whitman had entered the house and now stood inside the foyer. They had both been working long hours to care for the yellow fever victims. The number of dead had risen throughout May, and it was still rising. Both of the men were depressed; they had lost fifty-nine patients that week. “There’s starting to be a panic over this epidemic,” Jeff said wearily. “People are leaving the city as fast as they can. I suppose they’re wise.”

Indeed, the population of New Orleans was leaving by the hundreds, on cart, wagon, horseback—any way they could flee. The very poor had to walk, leading their children by the hands and carrying what they could in their free arms. The streets were strangely quiet, for the cake sellers, the knife sharpeners, the fish peddlers stayed at home, frightened or sick. Slowly, the business of New Orleans was grinding to a halt, and even the bars, which were usually full to capacity at this time of the year, were deserted.

The two men filed into the kitchen, where Rose met them. “I fixed you something to eat,” she said.

“I’m not hungry,” Jeff said.

“Sit down and eat,” Debakky said firmly. “You have to keep your strength up.”

Jeff sat with Debakky and ate, but his thoughts were focused on how insidious the yellow fever was. It came on so gradually: just a little headache or just a slight chill. Then the body temperature began to rise, and very soon a fever struck. The patient’s eyes grew bloodshot, and he suffered tremendous thirst. Often a victim experienced a false recovery, followed by an even worse bout with the sickness. The victim’s face grew dark, blood oozed from his lips, gums, and nose, and he vomited a dark substance: the “black vomit” that was proof of the disease.

Rose hovered over the two men, urging them to eat more. “What can you do for these poor people?” she asked.

Debakky shook his head and said, “People are trying all sorts of crazy remedies. Some of them drink lime water.”

“That’s right. Some have even swallowed sulfur, and others put onions in their shoes,” Jeff murmured. “All useless, of course.”

“I’ve heard that some are being bled. Does that help any?”

“Of course not!” Debakky exclaimed. “It makes it worse.”

Jeff said, “I suppose Charissa has gone to bed.”

“Why, no, she hasn’t come home yet.”

Both men looked at Rose, surprised. “Hasn’t come home?” Jeff repeated. “She left the hospital at four o’clock. I made her go home to take a rest.”

“Why, I haven’t seen her, Dr. Whitman.”

“I suspect she’s gone to help at the church,” Jeff said heavily. “Quite a few of our members are down with this thing.”

“She can’t go on like this,” Rose said. “She’s a strong young woman, but she’s pushing herself too hard.”

Jeff did not even hear Rose. He sipped his tea, lost in his thoughts, then noticed Debakky rising to go to his room. Jeff bid him good night, stood, and walked into the parlor. He sat down in a plush leather chair and leaned his head back, weariness and ache in his bones. He didn’t intend to, but he dropped off to sleep.

He awakened with a start. He realized someone was coming through the front door. Scrambling to the foyer, he met Charissa. “Where have you been?”

“I stopped by the church, and Pastor Harris told me about the Johnson family. They’re all down and have no one to help. I felt I should go.”

“Is it yellow fever?”

“I’m afraid so—one of the children and Mrs. Johnson. Poor Mr. Johnson, he’s worried sick.”

Jeff listened as she described the situation and said, “I’ll go by tomorrow and see what I can do. Come along. I’ll bet you haven’t eaten a bite.”

“No, I meant to stop, but I didn’t have time.”

“Rose has gone to bed, but I’ll scare up something.” He took her arm, and they walked down the hall together. “You sit down there,” he said when they entered the kitchen. He began to rattle around, gathering pots and pans, and Charissa smiled at him. The fine doctor was helpless in the kitchen, but he wanted to do it.

Once he had concocted a meal, he brought it to Charissa, sitting down across from her. She looked depleted, and he shook his head. “This is terrible, Charissa.”

“We’ll make it, Jefferson.”

For a time he was silent, and when he spoke, his words surprised her. “I think I made a mistake in coming to New Orleans. We should have stayed in St. Louis.”

“Why, are you unhappy here?”

Jeff shifted uneasily and ran his fingers through his thick hair. “I guess unsettled is a better word. Do you like it here, Charissa?”

“Not really. I always liked it better in St. Louis.”

“I’ll tell you what,” he said, and his eyes brightened. “When this epidemic quiets down, let’s go on a vacation.”

“A vacation! Where?”

“How about England? I’ve never been there, and I’ve always wanted to go.”

Charissa was astonished. He had been so caught up in his pursuit of Damita that he never thought about things such as vacations or traveling. But now he was plainly discouraged, and she felt compassion for him. At the same time, she felt a spark of hope. If he got away from Damita, perhaps he could think clearly. She’d make the worst wife in the world for him, but he can’t see that.

“That would be very nice.”

Jeff smiled. “Good! We’ll talk about it later. Now, you go to bed. You’re exhausted.”

Two days later, Charissa returned early from the hospital. Rose met her at the door and said, “We have a visitor. It’s Miss Madariaga. She’s here to see Dr. Whitman.”

“Did you tell her that he wouldn’t be back tonight?”

“No, I didn’t. I didn’t know it.”

“Thank you, Rose. I’ll talk to her.”

As soon as she entered the parlor, Charissa saw Damita sitting stiffly on the sofa. Something was wrong, Charissa knew, and when Damita rose, she asked, “What’s happened?”

“It’s Mama. She’s very sick, and Yancy is, too.” She bit her lip and added, “And three of the slaves. I’m afraid it’s the fever. Is Jeff coming?”

“No, I’m sorry, he’s not. He had to go see some patients over at Metairie. He said he wouldn’t be back for two days. There’s quite an epidemic there.”

Damita seemed to shrink. “Is Dr. Debakky here?”

“No, he’s working overtime at the hospital.”

Damita whispered, “I’m so afraid.”

“The doctors are all so hard-pressed with this thing,” Charissa said quietly. “He’ll come when he returns.” She saw that Damita was pale and her hands were trembling. “If you’d like, I’ll come and see what I can do. We’ll leave word for Jefferson.”

Damita stared at her, her eyes wide. “After what I did to you? Why would you do that?”

Charissa disliked Damita but knew that this was something she must fight. “It’s what God’s called me to do, to help the sick.”

“You must hate me, Charissa!”

“I did once, but God is taking that away, a little at a time. Let me get my things together, and we’ll go at once.”

Chapter twenty-three

As soon as Jeff stepped inside the door, Rose greeted him anxiously. “Dr. Whitman, Miss Madariaga was here.”

Jeff had taken off his hat and was about to hang it up. He stopped and turned. “When was this?”

“It was the day before yesterday. There wasn’t any way to get word to you.”

“What’s wrong, Rose?”

“It’s the yellow fever. Her mother and the gentleman who manages the plantation are down with it. And several of the slaves, I think.”

“I wish I’d known that. Will you tell Miss Charissa that I’ve left for the Madariaga plantation?”

“Oh, she’s already gone, Dr. Whitman.”

“Gone where?”

“She went back with Miss Madariaga to help with the nursing.”

Jeff put his hat on and said, “I’ll have to go right now.”

“Doctor, take something to eat.”

“I’ll get something there. Thank you, Rose. If anyone asks, you tell them where I am.”

Rose followed him outside and watched him call out to the groom, “Hold it, Jimmy! Don’t unhitch those horses.”

Damita had been dozing slightly in a rocking chair, but a sudden noise awoke her. She straightened up and leaned forward to look at the figure on the bed. Yancy Devereaux’s face was a waxen, yellowish color, and perspiration flowed from him. She laid her hand on his forehead. Fever’s up again.

She dipped a cloth in the basin on the table and began to bathe his face. She thought about calling Charissa, but there was really nothing that a nurse could do. Nothing a doctor can do either, she thought grimly. A single sheet covered the powerful body. He had lost weight, she knew. She thought of how, at times, the chills shook him so violently that she was afraid, and she wanted to hold him on the bed to keep him from falling.

As she bathed his face, she heard him whispering. Pausing, she leaned down and put her ear close to his lips, but she could not make out the words.

Though Yancy remained seriously ill, Elena had made progress; she had not improved, but she had not worsened either. Damita had helped Charissa take care of the slaves as well as she could, and now, as she continued to bathe Yancy’s face, she thought how strange it was that Charissa had come. She felt a strong sense of shame as she realized how unselfish her former servant had been. She had said to Charissa once, “It must be terrible for you, being in this city where you were a slave.” Charissa had simply smiled and said, “I don’t let memories tell me how to feel. If you do that, you’re at the mercy of the past.”

Her words had remained with Damita, and she recognized that she was guilty of such things. Looking down, she thought of how often she had remembered the shipwreck and how she had almost given herself to Yancy Devereaux.

Just then Yancy began to toss and turn, trying to throw off the cover. His eyes fluttered, and he spoke, but he was in a delirium.

Without warning a terrible fear came to Damita. She was not a young woman given to fears, but as she looked at the drawn face of Yancy and thought of her mother, the thought seemed to explode somewhere inside her: They could both die—mother and Yancy!

Chilled to the bone by the thought, Damita struggled to push the fear away, but it became stronger. I’d have no one, not anybody! I’d be all alone! She had never contemplated such a fate, for she’d always had her parents for support, but the very thought of being alone in the world was unbearable, and she clenched her hands together and closed her eyes. Please, God—don’t let them die!

The prayer rose to her lips, but even as she tried to pray, she suddenly became aware that the fear of losing her mother and Yancy was not her only danger. I might die, too—I nearly died when the ship went down, and if I had, I would have been lost forever!

Damita groped her way to the chair and sat down, collapsed actually. She was suddenly weak. She had always taken religion more or less for granted, had trusted in the fact that she had been sprinkled as a child, had been fairly faithful to observe the habits taught by her church—but as she sat in the semidarkness of the room, she knew that all this was nothing!

How long Damita sat in the chair and struggled with her fears, she could never remember. Gradually, she thought of people she had known who had spoken of Jesus as a friend. She had never understood this, had doubted if it could be.

Now she suddenly knew that the form of religion was not good enough. A longing was born in her, and as it grew, she knew that she had to have God in her life. She had only a faint concept of how to find God, but she knew that somehow Jesus was the key.

God, I don’t know how to pray—I’m afraid, and I’ve led a selfish life. But I want to change! How I want you, God!

She began to sob and said, “Jesus, help me! You’re the one who died for sins—forgive me.”

The struggle went on for what seemed like a long time—but it came to an end. Damita ceased to sob, and a sense of rest came to her. She never knew how to describe that feeling, but it was there.

Finally, she looked up and whispered, “Lord, I don’t know how to serve You, but I’m going to try with all my heart to love You—and to love others!”

Damita was exhausted, but as she stood over Yancy, she saw his eyes seem to clear, and she whispered, “Yancy, can you hear me?”

A long silence, then “Yes. What are you doing here?” His lips seemed to be almost paralyzed. She instantly rose, filled a glass with water, and held his head up while he drank. “You must drink all of this you can.”

Yancy gulped the water, some of it running out of the corners of his mouth and down onto the pillow. When he turned aside, she put the glass down and saw that he was looking at her.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he muttered.

“How do you feel?”

“Get away from here, Damita, before you get this thing.”

“I can’t go.”

Yancy’s eyes were again cloudy with the fever, but he understood her well enough. He licked his lips and moved restlessly. “How are the others?”

“Holding their own. Mother’s still sick, but the slaves are coming out of it.”

“I don’t think I’ll make it.”

“Don’t talk like that,” Damita said. She put her hand on his forehead, pushing his hair back. “You’re going to be fine. There are no new cases on the plantation.”

He lay looking up at her, and she could not tell what he was thinking. She began to speak then of Charissa. “That woman shames me. I didn’t know how selfish I was until she left her home to help us.”

“Good woman.”

“I’m going to try to get your fever down, Yancy. I’ll be right back.”

Damita had found that laying cold cloths over his body reduced the fever. She went out to the springhouse and brought in a bucket of water that she kept there. It was the coolest water to be had, but she wished for some ice. In Yancy’s sickroom, she put the bucket down, dipped a large, thick towel in it, then pulled the sheet back and laid it over his chest. “That feels good,” he whispered. “I hope I don’t have any more of those chills.”

Damita continued to replace the towel, which quickly grew hot from Yancy’s fever. She heard a door open and close and turned to see Whitman enter the room. “Jeff,” she said, “I’m so glad you came.”

“Hello, Damita.” He walked over and picked up Yancy’s wrist and felt his pulse. “How are you feeling?”

“Rotten.”

“You’re able to complain. That’s a good sign.” He gave Yancy a quick examination and said, “What is this, the fourth day of it?”

“That’s right,” Damita said quickly.

“That’s a favorable sign.”

“Is it really, Jeff?”

“Of course.” He looked at her and said, “You look exhausted, Damita.”

“Make her go to bed, Doc,” Yancy said hoarsely. “She’s worn herself out, taking care of me.”

“That’s good advice, Damita. I’ll be here now. You go rest.”

Suddenly, weariness fell upon Damita almost like a blow. “All right,” she said. She stood up and smiled weakly. “I’m glad you’re here, Jeff,” she said, then turned and left the room.

The doctor said to Yancy, “I know you feel pretty bad, but I think you’re going to make it. I’ll do the best I can.”

“I’d appreciate it if you’d save my life. I saved yours once.”

Jeff stared at him. “What do you mean, you saved my life?”

Yancy smiled a thin smile. As bad as he felt, he had a spark of humor in his eyes. “You remember that duel you had with Depard?”

“Of course.”

“You weren’t in any danger. I changed the musket balls for pieces of toast.”

“What are you talking about?” Jeff demanded, thinking this was a hallucination. He listened as Yancy told him about forming the balls and painting them.

“Don’t ever tell Depard. He’d want to do it all again.”

Jeff laughed. “I was a fool then, a bigger fool than I am now, I guess. I’ve learned a few things.” He looked down at Yancy and said, “I’ll be here. Try to sleep.”

“All right, Doc. You’re the boss.”

The time passed slowly for Damita. Jeff stayed for two days, then had to go back to the city, promising to return. The routine continued unbroken, and Damita was pleased to find that she was strong enough to handle each day as it came. She knew that Charissa was surprised, too, and once the two were taking a late supper when Charissa said, “You’re tougher than I thought.”

“I’m tougher than I thought,” Damita said, pleased at the compliment. She looked Charissa in the eye and said, “I still can’t get over how you left everything to come help us.”

“It’s my job, Damita.”

Damita studied Charissa, marveling that even though she was exhausted, she still had an exotic beauty. Her thoughts turned to Jeff Whitman, and without meaning to, she said, “I’ve thought so much about you and Jeff.”

Charissa stared at her. “What about us?” she said cautiously.

“It’s very obvious that you care for him. Of course, he doesn’t know that, does he?”

“No, he doesn’t. He’s in love with you.”

“No, he’s not.”

Charissa started. “What do you mean by that?”

“He’s infatuated. I’ve seen enough of it to know. I told him months ago that we’d never marry. I thought of him, for a time, only selfishly. I was afraid for the future. I was afraid I’d be poor. I couldn’t imagine what would happen to our family.” She looked up, and misery was in her eyes. “How you must have hated me for that. Nothing but a fortune seeker!”

Charissa said quietly, “It didn’t endear you to me, Damita.”

“Well, no more of that.”

“It wouldn’t make any difference, at least as far as I’m concerned.”

“What do you mean?”

“He never thinks of me as a man thinks of a woman he might love. I’m always his sister. How tired I get of his saying that. He thinks it pleases me. He’s not very sensitive, is he?”

“He’s dumb as a post about women,” Damita said bluntly. “But you’d be good for him. You’re everything he needs in a wife. I’ll tell him that.”

“No, don’t, please.”

“I guess I couldn’t. But I see a goodness in you, and I hope he does, too, one day.”

Yancy woke with a start. He felt strange. He lay flat on his back, wondering what this sensation was. It finally came to him. “I feel good,” he said aloud. He threw the cover back and sat up. He saw that the sheets were dry—he had slept all night without breaking into a sweat. My heaven, I feel good! He stood up, swayed, and then sat back down so abruptly he nearly fell over backward. Whoa, he thought. I’m not all that strong. But I’m getting out of this bed.

Carefully, he stood again and took small, cautious steps to where his clothes were folded across a chair. He dressed, sitting down, and when he had pulled his boots on, he stood and went over to the window. It was a beautiful day. Just feels good to be alive. Thanksgiving rose in him, and he found himself saying, “Lord, I’m not much for praying, but I want to thank You for pulling me through this.”

He smiled to himself. Maybe I’m getting religion in a big way, he thought. But then he added, “Do the best You can for me, Lord. I’ll not forget this.” He slowly left the bedroom and walked downstairs, holding on to the banister. When he turned into the kitchen, he saw Charissa standing at the window, looking out. She turned, and her eyes widened when she saw him.

“Yancy, what are you doing up?”

“Couldn’t stand that bed. I didn’t have any fever at all last night—but I’m weak as a kitten.”

“Here, sit down. What you need is some good food. How about something light? How does scrambled eggs and toast, and maybe some hot tea and milk, sound?”

“I could eat a bear, I think.”

“You can’t have bear.”

Charissa cooked a quick breakfast, then sat down and watched Yancy eat with gusto. She reached over once and held his wrist, testing his pulse. “Slow and steady,” she said with a smile.

“Where is Damita?”

“I don’t think she’s awake yet. She was up most of the night with her mother.”

“I can’t get over,” Yancy said thoughtfully, “how much she’s changed.”

“Yes, she has changed more than I would have dreamed possible. I believed she was selfish to the bone and would die that way, but she’s not now. You’ve done that for her, Yancy.”

“Me? I haven’t done anything.”

“I think you have. You saved her life this time, just as surely as you did when you pulled her out of that shipwreck.”

Yancy sipped his tea. “Don’t quite see that,” he said.

“Don’t you remember how afraid she was when her father died? She didn’t have anyone to cling to. Her mother’s helpless,” Charissa said, shrugging, “in business matters, at least. But then you came along and took over and gave her hope. I’ve seen it in her since when you came.”

Yancy changed the subject to the plantation’s upcoming crop, and the two chatted for a few minutes. Then Charissa smiled wearily and said, “I’m about worn out myself. I think I’ll go lie down.”

“You’ve both worked too hard,” Yancy said.

Charissa stood, turned, and suddenly began to sway.

“What’s wrong?” he asked with alarm.

Charissa turned around, and he saw that her lips were pressed tightly together. “Just a dizzy spell,” she whispered.

Yancy looked more closely at her. “You don’t look well.”

“Oh, I’ll be all right. I’m just tired. I’ll go lie down awhile.”

Yancy had walked slowly to the porch and sat down in a cane-bottom chair. It was such a pleasure, simply to watch life from some vantage point other than a bed. He heard footsteps, and Damita stepped outside. She looked astonished.

“You shouldn’t be up, Yancy!”

“Yes, I should,” he answered, smiling. “I didn’t have any fever last night, and I feel great. Just weak yet.”

“I’m glad to hear it! Where’s Charissa?”

“She was worn out. She didn’t look too good to me. She went to lie down.”

Damita sat down beside him. “She’s worked herself almost sick.”

Yancy was silent for a time, then said, “Damita.” When she turned to face him, he said, “I guess this is when I tell you how grateful I am for all you’ve done for me.”

Damita flushed slightly. “Why, Yancy, that was nothing.”

“No, it wasn’t.” He laughed shortly. “When I got out of bed, you know what I did first? I began to thank the Lord for pulling me through.”

“Oh, I’ve done the same thing. Mama’s doing fine, too.”

He put his hand out, and when she put hers in it with a look of surprise, he squeezed it. “In any case, I owe you.”

“No, it was my turn.”

“What do you mean by that, Damita?”

“I mean it’s a little down payment for what you did in pulling me out of the wreck—and for saving our plantation.”

Yancy held her hand firmly. “So, we’re even now?”

Damita hand was relaxed in his grasp. He looked so good—his face was ruddy, his eyes were clear, the yellow tinge had gone. He had been so sick, and now she saw the returnings of strength. “I don’t think people ever even up for things like that.”

“I reckon you’re right, but when I was sick and you were always at my bedside, I remember thinking, even when I was too ill to speak, how glad I was you were there—that you hadn’t left me.”

“That’s what I felt when the ship went down. We were clinging to that board, and your arm was around me, and I was scared out of my wits. But you held me so tightly, and I knew you wouldn’t let me go.”

Yancy did not speak. Damita put her free hand over his. “Thank you, Yancy, for not letting go of me at that terrible time.”

Yancy studied her eyes, then said, “I couldn’t bear the thought of losing you, and I still can’t. I don’t know how to say this any better, but I love you, Damita. I always will.”

Damita remembered something a friend of hers had said once: “It’s funny. Sometimes a fellow bends over to tie his shoe, and when he straightens up, the whole world has changed.” She knew at that moment exactly what he meant; when Yancy spoke those simple words of love, she realized that the truth had been with her all the time, for a long time, and now she knew what it was. She stood and pulled him to his feet. He looked at her with surprise, and she lifted her arms and put them around his neck. “Yes, you must never let me go. I’ve been selfish all my life, Yancy, and I still am.”

“No, you’re not selfish.”

“Yes, I am,” she said, and her eyes were bright, her lips trembling. “I want you in the most selfish way you can imagine.” She pulled his head down and kissed him on the lips, his arms went around her, and she buried her face against his chest. “I love you, Yancy. I’ve been the biggest fool in the world, and I suppose I will be again, but you’ll have to take me as I am.”

Yancy stood in wonder, amazed at the woman in his arms. He laid his cheek against the top of her head and whispered, “Don’t worry. I’ll hold you so tightly you’ll never be able to get away, Damita.”

Chapter twenty-four

As soon as Jeff opened the door and saw Damita, he recogized strain in her face. “Is something wrong?”

“It’s Charissa, Jeff. She’s very sick.”

Jeff ’s looked as if she had struck him. “Sick?” he asked hoarsely. “Is it the fever?”

“I . . . I don’t know, but I think you’d better come.”

“All right. I will.”

“Jeff, wait. I know this is no time to speak of this, but let me tell you one more thing.”

Jeff stared at her, his mind occupied only with Charissa. “What is it?” he asked impatiently.

“I wanted you to know that Yancy and I are going to be married.”

Jeff stared at her. “I guessed that might happen, Damita.”

Damita shook her head. “You and I have both been confused, but now the important thing is Charissa.”

“I’ll follow you back. Let me get my horse,” he said.

Charissa felt a hand on her forehead and stirred slightly. Her head ached, and a cough seemed to tear her in two. A voice asked, “Charissa, can you hear me?”

Charissa pulled herself out of the sleep that had wrapped itself around her. For a moment, a face was blurred before her, then it cleared, and she whispered, “Jefferson?”

“Yes, it’s me.”

“How long have you been here?”

“I came as soon as I heard.”

Charissa began to cough, and he held her hands until it subsided. “That sounds terrible.”

“I feel terrible.”

“I can give you some good news. You don’t have yellow fever. You’ve got some kind of congestion and infection.”

Charissa fully awoke then and licked her lips. Jeff gave her water, then sat down beside her.

“How did you know I was sick?”

“Damita came and got me.”

“You can’t stay here. There are too many sick people.”

“Yes, I can,” he said, almost roughly. He reached out, took her wrist, and felt her pulse, then put his hand on her forehead.

Charissa lay quietly, watching him. He said nothing, but she saw his concern.

Abruptly he said, “Charissa, Damita’s going to marry Yancy.”

“Oh, Jeff, I’m so sorry.”

He looked at her strangely, then forced a grin. “Don’t be sorry. I could never have made her happy, and she couldn’t have made me happy, either.”

“I know you feel bad about it, though.” She coughed again, but then she smiled and said, “You know, it’s good to have a brother to take care of me.”

Jeff stared at her sternly. “I am not your brother, Charissa.”

Charissa looked at him with surprise.

“I wish you’d stop calling me your brother. It bothers me.”

Charissa suddenly felt buoyant. “Why does it bother you, Jeff?” she asked in a weak voice.

“I don’t know, but please don’t say it again.”

Charissa was aware of the warmth of his hand as he held hers, aware also that life had somehow changed for her. She smiled at Jeff fully and completely, and he reached out and put his hand on her cheek. “You’re going to be fine, Charissa. You have to be.”

“You’re a masterful doctor.”

“Am I?” He smiled, leaned forward, and kissed her head. He stroked her hair back from her face and said, “You must get well very quickly. I can’t have my—” She knew he almost said sister, but he changed his mind and said, “I must have my best friend feeling perfectly well again. Will you do that?”

“Yes, I will, Jefferson.”

Jeff was getting ready to leave the plantation, and he was speaking with Yancy and Damita. “She doesn’t have yellow fever, of course. It’s just some sort of respiratory infection. I think she’s over the worst of it, and she’ll be fine.” Jeff shook hands with Yancy and nodded to Damita. “I’ll be back tonight. I know you’ll take good care of her.”

The pair bade him good-bye, and as soon as he was out the door, Yancy turned and said wryly, “I was afraid he might challenge me to a duel for taking you away from him. If he does, I think I’ll choose cornstalks for weapons.”

“He didn’t seem too broken up about it, did he? I suppose I should be upset about that. Here he’s gone mooning around for months, and now he doesn’t seem to mind at all.”

“He’s a strange sort of chap. But we Kaintocks are. You Creoles never understand us.” He reached out, took Damita’s hands, and drew her forward. “When can we be married? I may be a Kaintock, as you’ve often pointed out—just a rough fellow. But I love you.”

“As soon as you wish. We’ve missed a lot of time.”

“I guess it wasn’t all lost,” he said quietly. “We had to learn some things about ourselves, didn’t we?”

Damita put her arms around him and laid her cheek on his chest. “I think we did, but we’ve found each other now.”

“I still think you’re leaving too soon. You need to rest a bit longer, Charissa,” Damita said with concern. Charissa had rested for two days but was now dressing to leave, saying she needed to get back.

“I’ll be all right, Damita.”

“I have to tell you something, Charissa. It won’t come as any surprise to you, but I’m the most selfish woman who ever lived. I don’t do anything but take,” she said quickly. “I took Yancy’s help when I nearly died. I was so selfish with Jeff. I let him court me when I didn’t care for him. And I took your help when I didn’t deserve it.” She reached out and took Charissa’s hands. “I wish I could do something unselfish for you.”

Charissa looked at Damita with shock. She saw that she had tears in her eyes and knew that this was not the same self-centered young woman she had served years before. “Why, don’t cry,” she said. But then the tears rolled down Damita’s cheeks, and Charissa did something that, in previous years, would have been unthinkable.

Stepping forward, she embraced Damita and felt the tremors passing through her body as she wept silently. “I want you to forget the past, Damita. You’ve got a new life now. You serve the Lord God and Jesus. Let Him be your King. You’ve got a good man, and I forbid you to brood over what God has already forgiven.”

She held the weeping young woman and thought, What a miracle this is, that God can take what she was and make her into what she is now. And He did the same with me.

Charissa stood beside Jeff, and as the new bride and groom passed by, they threw handfuls of rice. Charissa laughed as Yancy and Damita gave them a quick glance and waved, smiling.

They followed the crowd until the two were in a carriage and pulling away to the sounds of the crowd’s cheers.

“Well,” Jeff said, “they’re married.”

Charissa turned to look at him. “Are you sure you don’t feel a little bit broken up about that?”

“Oh, no. I’m a hardheaded, rather stupid fellow, but it finally sank in. I know she’s got the right man. Come on. Let’s go get something to eat. Weddings make me hungry.”

Charissa had watched Jeff carefully as the wedding day approached. He was such a transparent man, and as far as his emotions were concerned, she had been relieved to find that, indeed, he was over his infatuation.

“Excuse me, sir.”

Jeff and Charissa turned to see a young man with dark hair and dark eyes beside them. He removed his hat and said, “You remember me, Miss Charissa?”

“Why, of course. Mr. Ransom, isn’t it? We met at the hospital when you were visiting your cousin.”

“Exactly right. I’m pleased you recall it. I understand you’ve been ill.”

“I’m perfectly well now.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Ransom said and smiled. “I would like to invite you to a party that I’m giving next Thursday night. Now that the fever’s gone, people can begin to have lives again.”

Charissa’s mischievous streak arose. “Why, Mr. Ransom, you’ll have to get my brother’s permission.”

“Oh, of course. I’d be—”

“I am not her brother. But no, she won’t come.”

Ransom drew up to his full height. He was still two inches shorter than Jeff, but he looked intimidating. “Are you trying to provoke me, sir? I’ll be happy to give you satisfaction.”

Charissa said, “Mr. Ransom, please go away. Dr. Whitman’s been under a strain. I apologize for him. Come on, Doctor.”

As they hurried away, Jeff growled, “Why, that insolent puppy! What does he mean, coming up in broad daylight, asking you to parties?”

“Would you rather he came sneaking around after dark? Don’t be such a bear.”

Charissa pulled him along firmly to the carriage, and when they got in, he was still mumbling about puppies.

Ever since Charissa had left the plantation, and it was clear that Jeff was through with Damita, the young beauty expected him to show an interest in her. But he seemed preoccupied and troubled most of the time. She had grown impatient with him and devised a scheme. “Jeff,” she said, “I’m going away for a while.”

Jeff turned to stare at her. “What do you mean, ‘going away’?”

“I’m going to take a vacation.”

“I think that’s good. Why don’t you go over to Savannah. That’s a nice—”

“No, I mean a long vacation. Maybe half a year.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’ve been thinking about going to England. You know, we talked about it before. I’ve decided to go.”

Jeff sat silently, and when she snuck a glance at him, she saw that he was staring at his hands. She expected him to argue, but he said only, “If that’s what you want to do.”

“It is!” she said sharply. “I’ll be going very soon. Next week, perhaps.”

The next week was a strange one for Charissa. Since she had spoken to Jeff about her going to England, she had expected him to try to persuade her to stay home—or to offer to go with her, as they’d discussed some time ago. Instead, he had grown silent and sullen. If he doesn’t want me to go, why doesn’t he say so? she wondered impatiently. He does nothing but mope.

She purchased her passage on the Orion, a steam-driven ship, and had begun packing her things a little at a time. Jeff and Debakky both asked about her plans, but she was purposefully vague. “I’ll decide when I get there” was all she would answer.

Two days before she was to leave, Jeff arrived home from the hospital whistling. He spoke to Charissa cheerfully and smiled, and that night he laughed a great deal, at least for him. He was very lively over the following two days. Charissa did not know what to make of him. I thought he was sad at my leaving, but now he seems delighted. This depressed her. She had no real wish to go to England; now she saw no way out. I’ve got to go, she decided. Even though he’s acting as if I were traveling around the block.

“I’ll go to your cabin with you, Charissa,” Jeff said. “I’d like to see it.”

“All right, Jeff.” Charissa was downcast. She had lost all taste for a sea voyage.

Debakky had said good-bye, hugged her, and told her to enjoy herself. For some reason, his eyes had danced, and he had said, “It’ll be the best thing in the world for you.”

“You don’t seem very sorry to see me go,” she said reproachfully.

“A young woman needs to get away. You have a good time!”

Now, as they walked up the gangplank, Jeff was speaking rapid-fire about the voyage. “You’ll love it,” he said. “Beautiful weather for an ocean voyage. You’ll stay out on the deck a lot, and get sunshine and exercise, and the food’s wonderful.”

“I’m sure it is,” Charissa said shortly. She stepped on the deck, and Jeff asked a steward in a white coat how to find her room. Then he took her arm and led her down some stairs and into a corridor. “This is almost a brand-new ship. You’re going to have a wonderful time.”

Charissa glanced up at him. He could at least act as if he’s a little sad, she thought.

“Here it is. Let’s see if the key works. It does. Step inside, my dear.”

Charissa did so, and Jeff followed her. “It’s a small room, but then, you don’t need a lot of space. You will be eating in the dining room, and I understand there are dances and things like that. You will have such a good time, Charissa.”

“I worry about you, Jefferson,” Charissa said, trying to turn the conversation to more personal matters. “You always work so hard.”

“Oh, don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.” Jeff sat down and began to speak of England. “I brought you some maps and some books,” he said, handing her the parcel he’d been carrying. “Here, let me show you. One place you should go is Cornwall. I’ve read a lot about Cornwall. It’s where King Arthur was supposed to have been.”

Charissa listened to him dully, and finally a whistle blew, and she said, “That’s the warning for you to leave, I think.” A voice cried out faintly, “All visitors ashore!” Charissa stood up and said, “Well, this is good-bye.”

“These ships never leave on time. Sit down. I want to show you some other places. Now, Brighton—there’s a place you must visit.”

Charissa sat, and Jeff continued to open the maps and the books and chatter in an excited fashion. Twice she warned him about the ship’s pulling out, but he said, “There’s plenty of time.”

She felt the ship move, and she said, “Jeff, the ship’s leaving!”

He looked up at her and rose to his feet. “Is it, really? I believe you’re right.”

“Jeff, you’ve got to get off!”

“Oh, too late now for that.”

“But, Jeff—”

“Come along, Charissa. There’s something I want to show you.”

Charissa stared at him. His eyes were sparkling with a spirit of joy, and he took her arm and led her back to the deck, then down another set of stairs and into a corridor. “It’s right down here, I think.”

“Jeff, the ship is leaving right now!”

“I know. Just this one thing.”

She followed him until he came to a door, whipped a key out of his pocket, and unlocked it. “Step in here.”

Charissa did so, and he followed her, shutting the door behind them. “How do you like this?”

The elegant cabin was three times as large as her own. It was furnished magnificently. Charissa demanded, “Jeff, why are you showing me this?”

“This is the honeymoon suite.”

“The what?”

“It’s used for newly married couples. That’s what a honeymoon is.” Jeff pulled her close and said, “I’m staying in it all the way to England, and I want you to stay in it with me.”

Charissa could not understand what he was saying. She was aware of the motion of the ship, but she was far more aware of his arms holding her tightly. “I couldn’t do a thing like that, Jefferson.”

“Why not?”

“You know why not. Because it would be wrong.”

“It would be wrong only if you didn’t marry me.”

Charissa stood perfectly still. She felt the blood leave her face, and she saw that he was now perfectly sober. “Jefferson, what are you talking about?”

“I’ve been talking to people. I talked to Debakky, and he said you loved me. And I talked to Rose. She told me you’ve loved me for a long time. And I got a letter from Olga. She called me a stupid oaf and said that you cared for me even back in those days at St. Louis. They all say it, Charissa: You love me.”

“Jeff,” Charissa began, her voice breaking.

His arms tightened around her, and he said, “When you were sick, and I thought you might die, I found out I couldn’t do without you. All my fool talk about a sister! What idiocy! I love you, Charissa, as a man loves a woman.”

Charissa felt warmth then coming to her face. She looked into his eyes, and he kissed her.

“I’ve loved you for so long,” she whispered. “I thought you’d never care for me.”

“I guess I couldn’t get it in my head that you could love a big, awkward fellow like me.” He squeezed her, kissed her thoroughly, and said, “The captain can marry us. Are you ready?”

Charissa smiled. “Yes, I’m ready.”

“Let’s go get married. We’ll have a fine honeymoon, and when we return, we’re going back to St. Louis. I’ve already made arrangements.”

“Oh, Jeff, really?” Charissa cried.

“Yes. Come along. I’m in a hurry to get married.”

Charissa took his face between her hands and cried, “So am I, Jefferson, so am I!”

About the authors

DR. GILBERT MORRIS is a retired English professor. He is the author of more than 170 novels, many of them bestsellers and several of them award winners. He has been married for fifty-three years to Johnny, and they have three children. His daughter, LYNN MORRIS, has coauthored many books with her father, including the Cheney Duval, M.D. series.

THE EXILES: A NOVEL

BOOK ONE OF THE CREOLES SERIES

The Exiles, the first book of The Creoles Series, introduces Chantel Fontaine. Readers follow Chantel through the streets and swamps of Louisiana as she falls in love, faces the loss of both her parents, and searches for the baby sister she thought was lost forever.

The culture of the citizens of nineteenth-century New Orleans was as varied and intriguing as their complexions—French, Spanish, African, and American. As the layers of these cultures intertwine, a rich, entertaining story of love and faith emerges. It is the early 1800s, and Chantel Fountaine has finished her education at the Ursuline Convent. But the trials and tragedies that preceded her graduation have put her Christian beliefs to the test.

From bestselling authors Gilbert and Lynn Morris, this captivating novel offers a unique perspective in a distinct cultural setting that comes alive in the minds and hearts of readers.

ISBN: 0-7852-7002-7

Look for Books Two and Three of The Creoles Series:

The Alchemy

The Tapestry

An excerpt from

book one of

The Creole Series,

The Exiles

Chapter one

HAVANA, CUBA, JULY 3, 1810

Aimee Fontaine looked out of the open carriage and immediately shut her eyes. She turned and threw her arms around her husband and cried, “Cretien, we’ll all be killed!”

He held her tightly and said, “We won’t be killed, darling. It’s not far to the docks, and once we get on board the ship we’ll be safe.”

Opening her eyes, Aimee moved her head back far enough to get a good view of Cretien’s face, and the very sight of it encouraged her. Faults her husband might have, but if Cretien Fontaine was a coward, no one had ever found out about it. His chestnut hair escaped the tall black top hat, and his brown eyes glowed as they always did when he was excited. He showed no fear whatsoever.

“They’ve gone crazy,” she whispered, holding on to Cretien’s arm.

“Revolutionaries are always crazy,” Cretien said. He turned to the driver, saying, “Get in the back with Elise, Robert. I’ll drive.”

“But, sir—”

“Mind what I say!” Cretien’s eyes flashed, and Robert got up awkwardly and fell into the back, where Elise Debon was crouched down, her large eyes frightened. Cretien took the lines and slapped them on the backs of the pair of bays, holding the horses firmly. “They’re crazy fools! They don’t even know what they’re fighting for.”

Others besides Cretien had made that remark concerning the uproar that had shaken Cuba to its very foundation. The countryside was alive with flames where men, apparently driven mad by the revolutionary fervor, had set fire to the homes of innocent people. The government had tottered and collapsed, and now Havana was packed with a mindless mass of humanity.

Darkness had fallen, but men carrying torches held them high, and the flickering red flames cast shadows over cruel faces loose with drink. The air was filled with drunken cries and screams of women who were being attacked regardless of their politics. Gunfire rattled, sounding a deadly punctuation.

“We’ll never be able to get through this crowd, Cretien,” Aimee whispered.

Indeed, it did look impossible, for the street that led to the docks was filled with milling people. Many of them were armed men, but some were the helpless victims of the revolutionaries.

Cretien pulled his hat down firmly, reached low, and pulled the whip from the socket. “Hold on, everybody!” he cried. He slashed the rumps of the horses furiously, and the bays lunged forward against their collars. “Get out of the way! Clear the way!” Cretien yelled. He stood to his feet and whipped at men who reached out to pull him from the carriage.

Once Aimee saw the whip strike a man right across the cheek and leave a bleeding cut. The man fell back with a scream and was seen no more.

Aimee hid her eyes, for the horses ran over anyone in their way, and the wheels bumped over the bodies that had fallen. The carriage careened wildly, and the shouts grew louder. A gunshot sounded clearly close to the carriage. Aimee’s heart seemed to stop, but the marksman had missed.

“We’ll be all right,” Cretien said. He sat back down but kept the horses at a fast clip. “There’s the ship, down there.” A few moments later he pulled the horses up short, and they stood trembling and snorting under the light of the lanterns that hung from posts on the dock. The Empress, one of the new breed of steamships, loomed large and black against the ebony sky. “Robert, you see to the luggage. I’ll take care of the women.”

“Yes, sir!”

Aimee stood, and Cretien lifted her into his arms and set her down firmly on the dock. She clung to him for a moment, but he gave her a quick hug and said, “We’re all right now. Don’t worry. I’ll get you and Elise on board, and then I’ll come back to help Robert with the luggage.”

Aimee gratefully leaned against her husband, but they had not gone three steps toward the gangplank when their way was blocked by a roughly dressed group of men. All had a wolfish look, and their eyes were wild with drink.

“Hold it there!” one of them said. “We’ll take your money.”

“That’s right. He’s an aristocrat.” The speaker, who wore a crimson rag around his forehead, pulled a knife from his belt and laughed drunkenly. “His kind’s gone forever. Give us what you’ve got, and maybe we’ll let you go.”

In one smooth motion, Cretien pulled a pistol from under his coat and aimed at the man bearing the knife. The shot struck the ruffian in the upper arm. The wounded man shouted, “That’s the only shot he’s got! Get him!”

The men moved forward, eyes glittering. Suddenly another shot rang out, and a short, stocky man staggered and grabbed his thigh.

“He got me!” he cried.

Robert, Cretien’s manservant, stepped out and said, “The rest of you had better leave.”

But the three were so drunk they could not think. They all drew knives and, screaming, surged ahead. Cretien reached into the carriage and produced a cane. He pulled a sword from the hollow container, and when one of the men came close he swung the blade in a circular motion. The tip of the sword cut a gash in the chest of the man.

“I’d advise you to leave before you are all dead,” Cretien said tightly.

“Come on, let’s get out of here!” the leader cried. Since three of the four had been wounded, his words were convincing. They all turned and made their way, cursing and holding their wounds.

“Come along, Aimee,” Cretien said at once. His face was pale, and the violence had shaken him, for he was not a man of action. “And you, Elise, I’ll get you on board. Robert, start loading the luggage. I’ll be back to help you.”

The

Alchemy

The

Alchemy

Gilbert Morris

&

Lynn Morris

Copyright © 2004 by Gilbert Morris

All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means— electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson, Inc.

Scripture taken from the King James Version.

Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. All characters, plot, and events are the product of the author’s imagination. All characters are fictional, and any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

Library of Congress-in-Publication Data

Morris, Gilbert.

The alchemy / Gilbert Morris & Lynn Morris.

p. cm.—(The Creoles series ; bk. 3)

ISBN 0-7852-7004-3 (pbk.)

1. Women—Louisiana—Fiction. 2. New Orleans (La.)—Fiction. 3.

Creoles—Fiction. I. Morris, Lynn. II. Title.

PS3563.08742A77 2004

813'.54—dc22

2004009468

Printed in the United States of America

04 05 06 07 08 PHX 5 4 3 2 1

To John Clark,

my beloved brother in the Lord.

Table of Contents

The Creole Heritage

PART ONE • 1832–1837 •

Chapter one

Chapter two

Chapter three

Chapter four

Chapter five

Chapter six

PART TWO • 1838 •

Chapter seven

Chapter eight

Chapter nine

Chapter ten

Chapter eleven

PART THREE • 1838 •

Chapter twelve

Chapter thirteen

Chapter fourteen

Chapter fifteen

Chapter sixteen

Chapter seventeen

Chapter eighteen

PART FOUR • 1838 •

Chapter nineteen

Chapter twenty

Chapter twenty-one

Chapter twenty-two

Chapter twenty-three

Chapter twenty-four

Chapter twenty-five

The Creole Heritage

In the early nineteenth century, the culture of New Orleans was as rich and wildly varied as the citizens’ complexions. Pure Spanish families, descended from haughty dons, still dwelt in the city, and some pure French families resided there, but many were already mingled with both Spaniards and Africans. Acadians—or “Cajuns,” as they came to be called—lived outside of the city. This small pocket of Frenchmen had wandered far from home, but, like many groups in New Orleans, they stubbornly kept much of their eighteenth-century heritage intact and ingrained.

Of course, there were many slaves, but there were also the gens de couleur libres, or free men and women of color. Some of these were pure Africans, but most of them were the mulattoes, griffes, quadroons, and ocotoroons who were the result of French and Spanish blending with slaves. There were Americans, too, though they were strictly confined to the “American district.” And there were Creoles, people of French and Spanish blood who were born outside of their native countries. Creoles born in New Orleans were Louisianians, but they were not considered Americans.

All well-born Creole families sent their children to receive a classical education at the Ursuline Convent or the Jesuit schools, and both institutions accepted charity children.

This series of novels traces the history of four young women who were fellow students at the Ursuline Convent School:

• The Exiles: Chantel

• The Immortelles: Damita

• The Alchemy: Simone

• The Tapestry: Leonie

PART ONE

• 1832–1837 •

Colin

Chapter one

The Marquis Armand de Cuvier, Lord Beaufort, leaned forward with a sense of satisfaction as he touched the tip of his quill to the white parchment. Quickly the musical notes seemed to flow from his heart (which the marquis felt was the real producer of music!), and some-thing close to rapture touched the composer. He continued to write as rapidly as possible, for he had discovered that when he composed his scores, when the inspiration flowed, nothing must be allowed to interfere.

The sun threw golden beams through the window to the marquis’ right hand, and the warm breezes of May caressed him, stirring his hair gently. Spring had come to France in the year of 1832 almost in a bound, it seemed, bringing out the greenery and causing the flowers to burst in small explosions of color. Even now, as the marquis con-tinued to cover the parchment with musical notes, he was conscious of a sense of well-being.

The composition had not gone well for some time, and Lord Beaufort had lost sleep over it for weeks. Ordinarily the marquis was a gentle man, soft-spoken, with a ready smile, but when whatever demon it is that clogs up the inspiration in the mind of the com-poser gripped him, he became short-tempered and hard to live with. His beloved wife, Jeanne, had learned to recognize those times and managed to keep him from the more violent outbursts. The servants also had learned to recognize the marquis’ uncreative periods and walked softly around him during those days.

An ormolu clock beat out a rhythm like soft heartbeats, and once, as the marquis scribbled furiously, from a lower story came the sound of a clock tolling off one—two—three, sprinkling the hours all through the house. The marquis paid no attention to it. When he was composing, he had the gift of closing himself off to almost anything.

A loud, angry voice from outside his window sounded suddenly, the violence of it breaking into the composer’s inspiration. “Cannot I have even a moment’s peace?” he cried aloud.

Anger swept through Lord Beaufort, and with a violent gesture, he flung the quill down and saw a blob of ink obliterate his last few nota-tions. He leaped up, knocking his chair over backwards. It fell with a crash as he moved quickly to the window. At forty-six, Armand de Cuvier was an active man of medium height with wavy brown hair and eyes that were ordinarily warm. Just now, however, they seemed to flash, sending off flecks of light. Leaning over the window and look-ing down, he saw his gardener, Philippe, a huge man of forty, grasp-ing a stranger by the arm. Philippe was shouting something, and the young man he held was trying to respond.

Suddenly Philippe’s massive arm moved, and his fist caught the visitor high on the forehead. He fell backwards as if poleaxed and lay without moving.

“What in the world is going on down there, Philippe?”

“This fellow insists on seeing you, my lord. He would not take no for an answer.”

“Well, I think you’ve killed the fellow. I’ll be right down.”

The marquis hurried out of the room, stepping lightly down the stairs, through the hallway, and outside. He walked quickly to where Philippe was picking up the young fellow.

“Now, what’s all this about?”

The young man Philippe gripped tightly by the arms was six feet tall but not strongly built like the gardener. His eyes were focused, at least, and the marquis saw that they were of a brilliant, cornflower blue. His hat had been knocked off, revealing thick hair of an auburn tint that caught the sun. He had a wedge-shaped face, a wide mouth, and his eyes were deep-set. When he saw the marquis, he tried to bow, but Philippe held him tightly. “Monsieur, I am Colin Seymour.” Then he tried to speak in French, but it was so pitiful that the marquis could not understand much of it.

The marquis asked, “You are English?”

“Yes, sir,” Seymour said at once. “I’m sorry I don’t speak French.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Armand said. “What do you want here?”

“I’ll tell you what he wants,” Philippe broke in. He shook the young man, saying, “He broke into the barn, and he’s stolen some food.”

“Is that right?”

“I did sleep in the barn, but I didn’t steal any food.”

“He’s a liar!” Philippe said roughly. “He’s a tramp. Look at him.”

Indeed, Colin Seymour was dressed in clothing that would have done dishonor to a tramp. He wore a pair of brown britches that were patched on both knees and in the seat, and the stockings that enclosed his lower legs were more runs and holes than cloth. His shirt had at one time been white but now was filthy, and the light-greenish jacket looked as if it were covered with mold. His hair was untrimmed, and his unshaven face was grimy. He was thin and had a lean and hungry look about him.

“What do you want here?” the marquis demanded.

“I was just—”

“He wanted to steal something,” Philippe said loudly. “That’s all these tramps want.”

“I expect you’re right. Hang onto him and have Merle go get the sheriff.”

“Please, sir, I really am not a thief!”

“Shut your mouth!” Philippe said, shaking the young man like a rat. “You’re going to jail where you belong.”

At that moment the front door of the house opened, and Jeanne de Cuvier, Lady Beaufort, stepped outside and approached the trio. She was a small woman, well shaped, in her late thirties. Her hair was light with a trace of gold in it, and her eyes were hazel flecked with blue.

“What is this, Armand?”

“Oh, just a petty thief, my dear. Don’t trouble yourself about it. Philippe, take him now, and hold him until Merle gets back with the sheriff.”

“Just a minute, Philippe.” Madam de Cuvier had her eyes fixed on the young man’s features. “He doesn’t look very dangerous to me.”

“You don’t know these tramps, my lady,” Philippe grunted. “He’d slit your throat in a minute if he had the chance.”

“What is your name, young man?”

“My name is Colin Seymour, Madam.”

“And you are English?”

“I am American.”

“That is even worse,” Philippe snarled, tightening his grip. “Every-one knows the Yankees are nothing but a bunch of killers.”

“Please go inside, my dear,” Armand said with concern. “In your condition, you don’t need this excitement.”

“Just a minute, Armand. Let me talk with him.”

Armand threw up his hands. “That will be the end of it, I sup-pose. You take in every broken-winged bird until I can’t get in the house, but this fellow is not a crippled animal. He could be danger-ous, as Philippe says.”

“How long have you been in France, Colin?”

Young Seymour attempted to smile. “About two weeks. I was picked up by the police and put in jail.”

“You see!” Philippe exclaimed triumphantly. “He’s a criminal!”

“I had done nothing and committed no crime—unless having no money is a crime in France.”

“You’re bleeding,” Jeanne said. Indeed, Philippe’s massive fist had opened a cut over the young man’s left eyebrow. The blood was trickling down, and Jeanne said, “Bring him inside. That must be attended to.”

Philippe began to protest, but Armand interrupted. “Never mind, Philippe. All he can do is run away, and that might solve the problem.”

“He’ll cut our throats. You’ll see!” Philippe said, glaring at Seymour. “Give me the word, and I’ll have Merle go for the sheriff.”

“Come inside, young man,” Jeanne said.

“Go on. Do what she tells you,” Armand commanded.

Colin followed the woman, aware that Philippe was glaring at him as he left. He had no intention of escaping, however. When they reached the kitchen, the housekeeper, Josephine Bettencourt, stared at them. “Who is this?”

“Another one of your mistress’s injured creatures.”

“Sit down there, young man,” Jeanne said. “Josephine, get some-thing that we can clean this blood off with, and perhaps a plaster to put over it.”

“Sit down there,” Armand commanded fiercely, pointing at a stool. He stood back and studied the young man as the two women cleaned the blood off his face. He could not help but smile when he saw the tender expression in his wife’s eyes. I think she would be kind to Judas, he thought. He watched as they carefully put a plaster over the cut, and then he stepped forward. “Now that you’ve saved his life, I have a few questions for him.”

Jeanne went to her husband and took his arm. “He’s only a boy. How old are you, Colin?”

“I’m twenty-one, ma’am.”

“‘Ma’am’? What is ‘ma’am’?”

“That’s what we call ladies in America.”

“Ma’am! What a hideous word! Everything from America is ugly,” Armand said, but kindness had begun to show in his expression. “Why did you come to France?”

“I came all the way here to meet you, sir.”

“To meet me!” Armand exclaimed in surprise. “But I don’t know you.”

“But I know you—at least, I know your music.”

Armand suddenly slapped his forehead with his open palm. “Oh no, don’t tell me! Not another genius who has come to let me expose his talent to the world.”

“Armand, be quiet. Let him talk,” Jeanne said firmly. “Tell us about yourself.”

“I want to sing in the opera,” Colin said simply.

Armand stared at him and shook his head, laughing cynically. “So do about one million other people the world over. It seems half the people I meet want to be in opera. What do you know about music, anyway? Have you studied?”

“Not exactly.”

“Not exactly? What does that mean? You’ve either studied, or you haven’t.”

“I’ve never been to a singing school, but I want to learn.”

Armand was amused. Indeed, he had been besieged for years by budding operatic hopefuls. He could no longer attend a party with-out someone saying, “I have a nephew who has great talent. If you would only take him in hand, Marquis . . .” Armand had developed a hard shell when such requests were thrown at him. Sometimes he lost his temper. One lady had produced her son with a statement: “I believe my son has a great career inside him.” Armand had replied shortly: “That’s a good place for it, Madam.” His wife, of course, had chastised him for his rudeness.

Armand had a surefire system for eliminating such applicants as young Seymour. “Can you sing right now?” he demanded. Usually this was enough to shut down the request, for most singers required music, an instrument to accompany them, the right setting, and the right mood, and when they were challenged directly, many were simply unable to sing a note.

“Well, you say you want to be a singer. Can you sing?”

“Yes sir.”

Jeanne giggled and put her hand on her stomach that was just beginning to swell with the child she was carrying. “He is a young man with much confidence.”

“Confidence doesn’t fill operatic houses. Voices do that,” Armand said sternly. “Very well,” he said, “sing.”

Instantly Colin Seymour opened his mouth and began to sing. It was an aria from The Barber of Seville, by Gioacchino Rossini, a rather demanding piece for any tenor. The room was filled with the sound of the song, which was a rousing piece of music.

Seymour’s eyes were alight, and despite the ugly, purplish lump that was developing on his forehead, he seemed completely uncon-scious of anything except the song. It was not a trained voice, as both Armand and Jeanne saw at once, but it had power that most tenors never even dreamed of. At one point it practically rattled the dishes on the shelves, and Josephine Bettencourt’s eyes flew open, and she cov-ered her mouth with her hand.

Finally the song ended, and Seymour said nothing. He simply stood waiting.

“Well,” Armand said slowly, “you certainly are loud.”

“Oh, he’s more than that, Armand!” Jeanne protested. “He has such a sweet sound in his voice.”

“You speak Italian, then?”

“No, sir, I do not.”

“How do you know the words?”

“I memorized them from hearing them onstage. I have some idea what they mean, but even without being sure, I love to sing them.”

Armand hesitated. Jeanne reminded him, “I’ve heard worse voices at the opera house in Paris.”

“You never heard one as ill-trained, though. He has a thousand faults.”

“Oh, I know that, sir! That’s why I’ve come all the way to France. If you’ll just teach me, I’ll work. I’ll do anything. I’ll clean the stables. Just tell me what to do.”

“I don’t have time for that. I’m too busy composing. You’ll have to leave.”

“Are you hungry?”

Seymour looked at the mistress of the house. “I . . . am a little hungry.”

“When did you eat last?” Jeanne asked.

“I think it was two days ago. I found some turnips in a field.”

“Nothing but raw turnips! Josephine, quick. We must feed this young man.”

Josephine laughed. “Yes, Madam, I think we must. He’s skinny as a plucked chicken.”

Armand, despite his harsh verbal judgment, was interested in the young man. As Josephine moved around the kitchen, he pulled Jeanne off to the side and said, “I know you, my dear. Your mind is already spinning webs in which to catch me.”

“He’s such a sweet young man.”

“How do you know that? He may be totally depraved.”

“With those innocent blue eyes? Of course he’s not!”

Armand suddenly laughed. “I understand that some of the most vicious criminals in the world have blue eyes and look innocent as babies.”

“You just made that up. You always make up things when you don’t want me to do something.”

“Well, he does have potential, but I can’t take on a student. I’m right in the middle of this opera, and it’s very difficult. I keep getting interrupted.” He continued to argue fervently.

Finally Jeanne pleaded, “Please, Armand, let’s at least hear his story.”

“All right, I’ll listen, but I’m telling you now I can’t help him.”

They moved over to the table where the young man was eating. He obviously was ravenously hungry, but both noticed that he had at least the rudiments of good manners.

When Josephine had removed his plate, Jeanne said, “Tell us about yourself, Colin.”

“Well, there’s not much to tell. My parents died in an epidemic before I was six. I was raised by a distant cousin of my father, a man named Silas Winters. He was a fisherman who lived outside New Orleans.”

“Was he good to you?”

“Well, ma’am, he was a hard man, and fishing is a hard job.” He put out his hands, and both of them saw that they were scarred and covered with calluses. They looked strong, however, and he said, “He died about a year ago.”

“Did you get any education at all?” Jeanne asked softly.

“Just what little I could pick up. I learned to read and write.”

“What did you do then,” Armand asked, “after your relative died?”

“I got a job cleaning the opera house in New Orleans, and oh sir, I have never heard anything like it! I stayed for all the perform-ances. It didn’t pay much, but I loved the music. I’d never heard any-thing like it.”

“And so that’s what you did? You memorized the music?”

“Yes, ma’am, I did.” Colin’s eyes were bright, and despite the pur-plish wound, he looked eager. “I don’t want to beg, but if you could let me stay, and just once in a while tell me a little about singing, I can garden for you or take care of your horses. I can fix most things. I’ll do anything, my lord!”

“I’m sorry. It’s just impossible. I don’t have the time.” He expected the young man to argue, but he saw that the eager light seemed to be extinguished in the young man’s eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said. “But we have a room overhead in the stable. You can stay there tonight, and I’ll do something about getting you back to America.”

“Thank you, sir.”

The young man was so meek that Armand felt terrible. He turned and walked out of the room, saying, “Come with me.” When the young man followed, they went outside where Philippe was still work-ing on the yard. “Philippe, this young man will be staying in the room over the barn tonight. See that he has a bath, and perhaps you can find some better clothes for him.”

Philippe stared at the American. “He’ll cut our throats, sir.”

“Oh, I don’t think he’s dangerous. Do as I tell you.”

“Yes, sir.” Philippe nodded. “Come along, fellow.”

Armand went at once upstairs and tried to work on his score again. He cleaned up the mess he had made and was not surprised to find that he had lost his train of thought. He struggled with it for over an hour, then finally muttered, “Blast it! Now I’ll have to wait until it comes back.” He heard the door open and turned to see Jeanne enter. She walked over and put her arm around him. “Are you having diffi-culty with the composition?”

“Don’t I always?”

“You’ll do it, and it’ll be magnificent.”

Armand laughed. “When you’re this nice, I know you want some-thing. It makes me suspicious.”

“I think you might guess what it is.” She put both arms around him, and he stood up and turned to embrace her. He loved the woman with all of his heart and looked forward to the birth of their first child with great expectation. “I think I can guess all right.”

“Please, Armand, let the boy stay. He’ll work hard for his keep, and he’s so hungry to learn.”

“He’s too old to learn everything an opera singer needs to know.”

“No, he’s not. He’s only twenty-one, and he has really a fine voice—just untrained.”

Armand sat down and pulled her onto his lap. She cuddled up against him and put her face on his chest. “Please, Armand.”

“You know I can never refuse you anything.”

“That’s because you’re the most wonderful husband in the world.”

“I suspect you’re right about that, and the handsomest too.”

Jeanne laughed and straightened up. She put her hand behind his neck, pulled his head down, and kissed him. “You’re a good man, the best I know.”

“Before you start buttering me up, listen to my terms. He can stay, and he can help Philippe with the grounds and muck out stables for Perin and do anything else that needs doing. I’ll try him out for a month. If he has the ability to learn, we’ll see. But I have no time for petty talents. If I see he has no potential, he’ll have to go.”

Jeanne patted his cheek and smiled. “You do have wonderful ideas.”

“I haven’t had an idea of my own since I married you. You put them all in my head.”

“It’s going to be wonderful!” Jeanne laughed and threw her arms around him and put her cheek against his. “He’s going to be a great singer, and one day you’ll be proud to say, ‘Colin Seymour was my pupil!’”

Chapter two

Philippe Gerard looked like a huge bear as he approached Colin, who was covering some young roses with dead leaves. Philippe wore a cap pulled down over his ears, and his nose was red, a certain indication that he had been sampling the cognac of which he was so fond. For a moment he watched silently, then asked, “What you do that to her for?”

Colin looked up and grinned. Philippe’s English was worst when he was drunk.

The big gardener read the young man’s expression. “My English is ver’ good! The English language is hard. What you doing?”

“I’m covering up these roses so that storm that’s coming won’t freeze them.”

Philippe stared at the younger man for a moment, then he leaned forward and struck Colin a blow on the arm. It was meant to be a friendly punch, but Philippe never knew his own strength, and Colin staggered backward. Catching his balance, he grinned and said, “Don’t hit me because you can’t learn English.”

Philippe laughed, exposing his enormous teeth, and said, “Come on in the house. I have something you will like there.”

“I know what it is. You’re trying to get me drunk.”

“Why not you get drunk? We celebrate.”

“Celebrate what?”

“You don’t know?” Philippe stared at Colin with astonishment. “This is your birthday.”

“No, it’s not. My birthday’s in May.”

“I mean, you come here seven months ago today. Don’t you rememer nothing?”

“Has it been that long?” Colin asked softly, as if speaking to him-self. He looked around the chateau grounds, which were now dead and brown, but he had seen them when they were emerald green and bright with every kind of flower that France offered. He had dug and trenched and hauled fertilizer and done the other dirty jobs that Philippe heaped on him. Now he looked up and laughed. “I remember that first month well enough, Philippe. You tried to kill me with work.”

“Work never hurt nobody,” Philippe said firmly. “Come on. We’ll have a drink.”

Colin stuck the shovel down in the frozen earth and accompanied Philippe to his house. Philippe was not married, and the house gave evidence of it: clothes thrown everywhere, dirty dishes piled up, dust enough to write one’s name on any flat surface.

“Why don’t you clean this place up, Philippe?”

“What for? Who’s gonna see it?”

“Well, I see it, for one.”

“You came here looking like a ragpicker, and now you gonna tell me my house isn’t nice? She’s nice enough for me.”

Moving swiftly to the cabinet, Philippe opened the door and took out a square, brown bottle. He pulled the cork out with his teeth, and then picked up two dirty glasses and sloshed the amber liquid in both of them. “Here, you drink this. It make a man of you.”

“Philippe, you know I don’t like to drink.”

“This is a celebration. You drink when I say so.”

“All right, but just a taste.” Colin took the liquor bottle, poured most of his drink back in, then took a swallow. He shivered and gasped as the f iery liquor bit his stomach. “I don’t know why anyone drinks. It tastes awful, it burns your stomach, and it rots your insides eventually.”

“She makes me feel good.”

“Not she—it makes you feel good.”

“What difference it make?”

“I thought you wanted to learn English.”

“I never go to that country. Nothing but barbarians there. I bet the gardens there look like a pigpen.”

It was an old argument between the two, Philippe maintaining that France was the only decent place for a human being to live on planet earth, and Colin trying to tell him that other countries had something to offer as well.

“Sit down. We eat some of this cake that Josephine made. She is very good.”

“The cake or the woman?”

Philippe took several swallows from the bottle. Colin could see the liquor going down the thick throat of his friend. The two had indeed become friends during the period that Colin had been there. The big gardener had been a hard and demanding sort of fellow, but when he saw that Colin was not afraid of work or of asking questions, Philippe warmed up to him.

“You know, Colin, I think? I think I marry Josephine Bettencourt.”

“You in love with her?”

“In love? No! She is a wealthy woman. She will be able to take care of me in my old age.”

“But you’re older than she is.”

“Mens lasts longer than womens.”

“I think you’re dreaming. Women live longer than men.”

“Josephine will not dare to live longer than me. It would not be proper.”

Leaning back in his chair, Colin listened as Philippe rambled on. The big man had strange ideas and was totally unreliable where liquor was concerned. But he was amusing and had been a good friend to Colin.

“You know, you look better than you did when you come here. You looked like a skinny tramp dressed in rags.” Philippe stared at his friend with glassy eyes and noted with approval how the young man had filled out. He had a naturally deep chest, and now muscle had formed in the shoulders, the chest, and the arms. His face had filled out, too, so that his fair skin had been burned by the hot summer sun and still held some of that golden color.

Philippe leaned forward and said, “I like you, Colin. I am going to tell you what you should do with your life.”

Colin grinned. It seemed that Philippe had a different plan for his life from week to week, sometimes from day to day. “What have you got on your mind now?”

“Forget all of that singing nonsense. You could be a fine gardener. Maybe as good as me someday.”

“You’ve taught me a lot, Philippe. I’ve enjoyed working for you.”

“With all this singing: la, la, la, la, la! Who care about that?”

“Well, I do for one, Philippe.” Colin smiled. “It’s what I want to do.”

“It’s no fit thing for a real man. A man should use his hands to make his living, not go tra-la-la-ing all over the place. And besides, the master treats you worse than I do.”

“You’re right about that. You put blisters on my hands, but he puts them on my soul.”

Philippe nodded. “See what I mean? You don’t have to put up with all that. Why, you could be a fine gardener, a master! Take a few more years.”

“No, I don’t think so, Philippe. I may never make it as a singer, but I’ve got to try.”

Philippe argued vehemently for a time, all the while sipping from the cognac bottle. Finally Colin changed the subject by saying, “The marquis is really happy, isn’t he, with this child coming on?”

“He’s a foolish man about his wife. He will be foolish about the child too.”

“I’ve never seen anyone so happy or love a woman so much.”

Philippe belched, and then scratched his behind. “It’s not good for a man to love a woman too much.”

“Why, Philippe? Why would you say that?”

“Because someone might run off with her.”

Colin suddenly grinned, his teeth looking very white against his tan. “Maybe a man should marry an ugly woman.”

Philippe stared at him. “But somebody might run off with her too.”

“But if she’s ugly, you wouldn’t care.”

Philippe was a slow thinker, particularly when drunk, but the humor of Colin’s remark finally got to him. He bellowed with laugh-ter, lunged to his feet, and pounded Colin’s arm. “By gar,” he said, “you are one funny fellow. But I still think you should be a gardener.”

Colin leaned back from Philippe’s clumsy punch. “You nearly broke my arm.” He hesitated, then asked, “Have you ever thought what it would be like if something happened to the Lady Beaufort?”

Philippe’s eyes suddenly flew open wide, and he reached out and grabbed the lapels of Colin’s coat. He lifted him off the floor and whispered, “Don’t ever say that! Don’t even say such things! It’s bad luck.”

“I guess you’re right,” Colin said. When Philippe put him down, he pulled his coat together and said, “We’ll have to pray that she’ll be all right, and the child too.”

“Yes, we do that. I will say an extra rosary for her every day. You ever say a rosary?”

“No. I’m not Catholic, you know. I’m Protestant.”

Philippe stared at the younger man and then shrugged. “Well,” he said, “nobody’s perfect.”

“You sound like a braying donkey!”

Colin had never been able to accustom himself to the harshness of the marquis’ words. Armand de Cuvier knew but one way to teach. “It’s the hard things,” he often shouted, “that teach a man! The soft ways are no good.”

“What was wrong with what I did, Monsieur?”

“What was wrong with it? Everything was wrong with it!” Armand doubled up his fists. He struck Colin three light, rapid blows in the chest and said, “It must come from in here. You are trying to sing from your throat.” He wrapped both hands around Colin’s throat and squeezed. “There is no power in the throat.” He began to pound his chest again. “From here! From here and from down here in the diaphragm!”

Colin listened silently. Armand finally quieted down enough to give him more instructions. For seven months, Colin had lived for these times when he was learning how to sing. He had been studying Italian with the help of the marchioness and had made rapid pro-gress. Her method was quite different. She was soft and gentle and could never bring herself to rebuke him. Quite a difference from her husband!

“Am I making any progress at all, sir?” Colin asked.

The marquis turned and stared at his pupil. He saw the deep-set eyes were not as bright as usual, and the broad shoulders were slumped. He put his hand on Colin’s shoulder and squeezed it. “The hard ways are best. Yes, you are making progress.”

“Really?” Colin asked, his eyes widening.

“Yes, you’re not as bad as you were when you first came here.” Colin laughed. “I think that’s the best thing you ever said to me, sir.”

“You are making progress. Now, don’t seek compliments.”

“Philippe says I ought to give up singing and become a gardener.”

“You are a good gardener. Is that what you’d like to do?”

Instantly Colin sat taller, and determination was a thread of iron in his voice. “I want to be a singer, sir, no matter how long it takes.”

“Well, you’ve already found out that it’s not easy.”

“I don’t care about that, sir, and I can never thank you enough for letting me stay and for helping me.”

The gratitude in the young man’s eyes seemed to trouble the mar-quis. He waved his hand and said, “Enough of that. Now, try it again. This time, in this passage here,” he put his fingers on the notes, “try to make it as sweet as a dove.”

For the next hour Colin sang at the direction of the marquis. Finally the marquis said, “Well, enough for today.” He hesitated, then said, “It was very good, Colin. Very good.” He picked up his coat and put it on. “It’s getting cold in here. We’ll have to have more fires when my son is born.”

“You always say ‘son.’ What if it is a daughter?”

“I will love her equally well. Of course, a man wants a son to take his name, but if it is a daughter, she will be like my dear wife. And what man could ask for more than that?”

“I’ve appreciated your teaching, sir, but one thing has meant more to me than that.”

“What, Colin?”

“I’ve learned something about how a man should love his wife. I had never seen such a thing as the love you have for Madam Jeanne.”

“When you find a woman, find one you can give your whole heart to.” Armand laughed and said, “I’ll tell you what, my boy. You have done well. I don’t commend you much, but I have a reward for you.”

“Yes, sir. What is that?”

“I’m going to take you to the opera in Paris.”

“Really, sir? That would be wonderful!”

“We’ll go next week. We’ll have to buy you some new clothes. We’ll make a holiday of it.”

Colin was stunned by the opera house. His only experience had been in the rather small and somewhat dingy opera house that he had cleaned back in New Orleans. But when he entered and saw the blaze of light from the crystal chandeliers, the red plush seats, the ceiling so high above them it seemed that there could be a cloud gathering there, the elaborate dresses of the women, and the men all dressed in the finest fashions, he could not speak.

“If you don’t shut your mouth, a fly might go in, Colin.” Armand laughed. The two were without Jeanne, who chose to stay home because of her advanced pregnancy.

“I can’t believe it. It’s so beautiful!”

“Well, the building is magnificent, but it’s nothing without the singing. They are doing your favorite tonight, The Barber of Seville. You remember? The first song you ever sang for me was from that opera.”

“I remember, sir.”

“Come along. We don’t want to miss the overture.”

Colin followed him into the box and took a seat next to him. It was raised up enough so that he had a panoramic view of the Paris Opera House. He was amazed at the beauty of the women and some-what shocked by the low-cut dresses many of them wore. There was a humming of talk, and laughter filled the air, and then the marquis said, “Now, it begins.”

Colin never forgot what followed. He missed nothing. The orches-tra, as it played the overture, fascinated him. He had never heard such playing in all of his life, and he soaked it in to his very soul.

And when the singers came on and opened their mouths, he mar-veled at the clearness and power of their voices. He was glad that he was now able to understand at least part of what they were singing.

There was an intermission, and the marquis turned and asked, “How do you like it, Colin?”

“It’s magnificent—but I’ll never be able to do what those people do.”

“Never take counsel of your fears, Colin.” Armand smiled. “Your voice is better than anyone’s on that stage. They had the advantage of early training.”

All through the rest of the opera, Armand continued to point out the flaws as well as the skills of the singers. Finally, when it was over, Colin stood with the others and applauded until his hands hurt.

“Come along. We’ll go meet them.”

“You mean—meet the singers?”

“Why, of course.” Armand smiled. “Wouldn’t you like to?”

“Yes!”

Colin accompanied Armand down the stairs, and they made their way backstage. Many other visitors were there, but Colin saw that the marquis was so well known that the crowd parted before him. When they stood before the star tenor, Alex Chapelle, Colin was surprised to find that the singer was much older than he seemed on the stage.

“Alex, I would like for you to meet a friend of mine. This is Colin Seymour, a young American who has been studying with me.”

Chapelle was a short, rotund man with lines in his face that had been invisible from a distance. He bowed from the waist and said, “A pupil of the maestro. I would love to hear you sing, sir.”

“Oh, I’m just a beginner, Monsieur.”

“You had better watch out. This young fellow will put you out of business one day, Alex.”

Chapelle laughed and shook his head. “That is always the way of it. I envy this young man, and I trust he is properly grateful for the training you’ve given him.”

“Oh yes, sir, I am. I couldn’t be more grateful.”

Colin stood back while the marquis greeted other singers. He seemed to know everyone. They finally left the theater and got into their coach. Colin asked, “Do you really think I could sing as well as Monsieur Chapelle some day?”

“Colin, you don’t understand, do you?”

“Understand what?”

“You can already sing better than he can.”

“Oh no, sir. No, not really!”

“Your voice is better than his. It’s more powerful. It’s smoother. It just hasn’t had as much training. He has more control because he’s spent practically his whole life at it, but in another year or two, you’ll be better in that respect also.”

Colin tried to speak but could not. Finally he whispered, “I’ll do my best—my very best!”

As soon as Colin entered the kitchen and saw Philippe’s face, he stopped dead. “What’s wrong, Philippe?” he demanded.

Philippe shook his head. “Where have you been?” he asked.

“I went into the village to get some supplies. What’s wrong?”

“It’s Lady Jeanne. The child is coming.”

“But that’s good, isn’t it?” Colin spoke hopefully, but as he stepped closer to Philippe, he saw the pain on the big man’s face. “What’s wrong?”

“The doctor has been here for two hours. Our lady is having a ter-ribly hard time.”

Colin stared at Philippe and could not think how to answer him. Josephine Bettencourt entered the kitchen. Her face was pale. “Is it really bad, Miss Josephine?”

“Very bad! I heard the doctors talking. They think there’s—” She turned away quickly, but not before Colin saw the tears running down her cheeks.

Colin stood numbly, not knowing what to do. “It’ll be all right,” he whispered. “It has to be.”

Philippe shook his head. There was a dark streak of pessimism in the big gardener. He went outside, and Colin followed. Philippe pulled a flat bottle from his inner pocket and drank from it. He offered it to Colin, who shook his head.

“I’m going to get drunk.”

“Don’t. It may be all right.”

The night passed more slowly than any that Colin could remember. The seconds seemed like hours, and there was nothing to do but wait for news. Colin paced the floor in the kitchen, and Philippe contin-ued to drink. He was so numb with alcohol that he sat against a wall, his head back, his eyes glazed. Annette, Jeanne’s maid, entered the kitchen at about midnight, and Colin asked, “How is she, Annette?”

Annette shook her head and bit her lip. She could not answer, but the expression on her face told Colin the situation had not improved.

Finally Colin could not stand the stillness of the house. He poked Philippe’s arm and said, “I’m going to get more wood.” Philippe did not answer, and Colin went outside. He made ten trips to the wood pile, carrying in wood for all the fireplaces, until the boxes were full. After filling the box of the room next to Jeanne’s, he saw one of the doctors leaving.

“Doctor,” Colin said, “how is Lady Beaufort?”

The doctor, whose name Colin did not know, was a tall man with a sallow face and a thin mustache. He stroked it now with nervous fin-gers, and Colin read his answer in his eyes before it came to his lips. “She died fifteen minutes ago.”

Colin’s lips trembled, and tears came to his eyes. Jeanne de Cuvier had been more like a mother to him than any woman he had ever known. Every day he had experienced her kindness and her encour-agement. Suddenly it was as if the sun had gone out. He questioned why God would allow another terrible experience in his life. He turned blindly and walked out into the night, wondering how in the world his master would handle the greatest loss that could come to a man.

After the funeral of Jeanne de Cuvier, Armand de Cuvier refused to see anyone. He took his meals in his room and never left it. He received no visitors, and only his valet, a small man named Etienne, saw him.

“Philippe, what’s he going to do?” Colin asked. “He can’t stay in that room forever.”

Philippe was chopping wood. His mighty blows were enough to demolish most things, and he seemed to be taking out his anger on the wood. “What is he going to do? He’s going to grieve.”

“But he can’t do that forever, can he?”

“No. He may kill himself.”

“Philippe, don’t say a thing like that!”

“Why not? He’s lost what he loved best: his wife and his child. I know how he feels. I had a wife once, and I lost her.”

“You never told me that, Philippe.”

“I don’t like to think about it.”

“I wish I could help him.”

Philippe tested the ax with his thumb and was silent for a time. Finally he said, “My young friend, some things nobody on this earth can help with, and the marquis is finding out what that’s like. Only the good God can help him.”

Chapter three

Annette Jourdain paused outside the side door to the mansion, hold-ing a parcel. She bent over and stroked the head of the yellow hammer-headed tomcat that pushed himself against her feet. She stroked his coarse fur, saying, “You are a no-good fellow. I heard you out yowling last night. Did you not find a lady friend?”

The big cat growled deep in his throat and butted against Annette’s calf, begging for more attention. Laughing, she pushed him away. “I have no time for you. Go find another girlfriend, and try not to fight so much.” Straightening up, Annette looked up at the blue sky and for a moment let her gaze follow the outlines of the gardens that surrounded the house, thinking what a beautiful place Beaufort was. The tulips in bloom were Philippe’s pride and joy, and she could see the big man bending over, planting something. April had come to France, the forerunner of a glorious spring, and for a moment Annette breathed in the deep fragrance of loamy earth and of wood burning somewhere.

With a sigh she entered the kitchen. Putting down the parcel, she said, “They did not have any fresh truffles at the market, Josephine.”

Josephine had married the gardener, Philippe, and was now Josephine Gerard. Philippe had proposed a dozen times over the last two years and was refused, but he was a determined man. Finally Josephine said, “I’ll have to marry you to make you leave me alone!” It had proved to be a successful marriage, however, and the two were well satisfied. At Annette’s words, Josephine frowned and shook her head. “You would think they would keep a good stock. There’s always a market for them. Did you get the other things?”

“Yes, but I am not very good at picking out vegetables. I was trained to be a ladies’ maid. I don’t know why Monsieur Armand keeps me on. His wife has been dead for two years now, and I have noth-ing really to do.”

“I think it’s for sentimental reasons. He still grieves for her.”

Annette took vegetables out of the sack and placed them on the table in front of the housekeeper. “He’s much better than he used to be. I thought for the first year after Madam died that he would die also. I never saw a man grieve so much.”

“Yes, you are right. You know, Annette, I think if it had not been for Colin, he might have taken his own life.”

“He’s grown very fond of Colin.”

Josephine looked inquisitively at the younger woman. Annette was now twenty, a little plump and bright-eyed with curly auburn hair and dancing brown eyes. A beauty indeed. “What is this with ‘Colin’?”

“What am I supposed to call him—Monsieur Seymour?”

“I think you have eyes for him, Annette.”

“He’s a handsome man, and oh, when he sings those love songs, it makes me melt inside, you know?”

“I do not melt inside,” Josephine said sternly, “and I do not think it wise for you to be so familiar with him.”

“Why not? We’re both young. I like him a great deal, and after all, the marquis has no children. It may be he will adopt Colin. If I marry him, I would be the marchioness. I would be your employer. You would have to do what I say.” Annette laughed at the thought, then went over and put her arm around the older woman. “I’m just teasing.”

“Is there anything between you two?”

“No.” Annette sounded miffed. “He thinks only of singing. That’s all he does, sing, sing, sing, night and day!”

“Yes. Philippe was upset when Monsieur Armand took Colin away from his gardening work and made a full-time pupil of him. He says it ruined a fine gardener.”

“He wasn’t made to be a gardener like Philippe.”

“No, that’s true enough. Well, get about your work. I’ve got to start thinking about the evening meal.”

Annette left the kitchen, and as she passed down the long hallway that divided the house into two parts, she heard the pianoforte in the music room. She stopped, tiptoed over to the door, then opened it cautiously. This was where the marquis gave singing lessons to Colin, but there had been no sound of singing, only the piano. She poked her head inside and saw Colin with his back to the huge window that admitted yellow beams of light. A smile turned up the corners of Annette’s lips, and her eyes sparkled. Stepping inside, she walked up silently behind him. She put her head next to his and whispered in his ear, “Oh, you play so wonderfully, Colin!”

Colin was startled. He took his hands off the keys and turned around and smiled. “Well, you do sneak up on a man, Annette.”

“That’s good for you,” Annette said. She moved closer and leaned against him, the rich curves of her body pressing against his shoulder. He suddenly stood, and she looked up at him and asked, “What was that you were playing?”

“Oh, something the marquis wrote for the new opera.”

“Is he ever going to finish that? He’s been working on it for a long time.”

“You know, I think it’s really finished. I wouldn’t be surprised if he published it.”

“Will you be singing in it?”

“I doubt it. He can have anyone he wants, with his reputation.”

Annette reached up and brushed his shoulder as if there were something there. But her touch lingered, and she lowered her voice and said, “Colin, do you only think of music? Don’t other thoughts ever cross your mind?”

“Why, of course.”

“No,” Annette said, shaking her head in disapproval, “I don’t think you ever think like most young men do.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Well, you’ve never tried to kiss me or even once touched me. I’ve been waiting for two years, but it’s never happened.”

“You know I wouldn’t do a thing like that.”

“Why not?”

“Well, because—” Colin broke off and looked embarrassed. Suddenly he grinned and said, “All right. I’ll behave like other young men.” He reached forward, pulled her into a tight embrace, and kissed her on the lips firmly. Stepping back, he said, “Now, I’m like all the rest of the fellows who chase you around.”

“You’re not very good at kissing. You haven’t had enough experi-ence.” Humor lit Annette eyes, and she said, “Let’s go out this evening. You haven’t asked me out a single time.”

“Where would we go?”

“We’d go have fun. You don’t know what it is to have fun.”

“Of course I do.”

“No, you don’t. You go hunting sometimes with Philippe and fishing by yourself, but aside from that, all you do is sing.”

“I have to take advantage of the marquis’ teaching. He’s a hard master.”

Annette looked disgusted. “Poof!” she said. “You’re nothing but a machine. You don’t even know how to kiss.” She turned around and left the room, huffily slamming the door behind her.

For a long moment Colin stared at the door, then scratched his head thoughtfully. What’s wrong with her, I wonder? I guess she wants me to chase her like all the young bucks in the neighborhood do. I don’t have time for that.

Going back to the piano, Colin looked over the music. He sang softly the words to the solo until he was interrupted when the door opened, and the marquis entered. Colin stopped playing at once and stood. “Good morning, sir. A fine day.”

“Yes, it is. I’ve been thinking I might go out for a ride. Would you like to join me?”

“Very much. We’ve good weather for it.”

Armand looked at the music on the pianoforte. “You’re playing the new solo. Do you like it?”

“I think it’s one of the best things I ever heard.”

“You’re not very critical, Colin. You never find fault with anything I do.”

“That would be wrong of me indeed, for all that you do is right.”

The marquis smiled. Smiles had come rarely to him since his wife had died, but during the past year he had found a great deal of con-solation in pouring himself into the young man who stood before him. “You’re wrong about that, but keep on thinking it if it pleases you. Now, go ahead. Sing that as it should be sung.”

Colin sat down and began to play. He had a natural gift for the piano, and the marquis had hired a master for him. It had been a pleasure for Colin to learn so that he could accompany himself. He was not an accomplished pianist, of course, but he did well enough. He lifted up his voice and poured himself into the song. When he was fin-ished, he struck the last chord, then shook his head ruefully. “I didn’t do the phrasing on that very well.”

“You’re never satisfied with yourself—which is what I taught you.” Armand smiled. “Never be satisfied. There’s always something better.” He hesitated, then said, “I’ve got something to tell you.”

“Yes, sir. What is it?”

“Actually one never finishes a work. At some point you just have to stop and say, ‘At this point in my life, this is the best I can do.’ Don’t you agree?”

“Well, that’s what I have to say to myself. I’m never happy with my singing.”

“I’ve been waiting for two years for you to show some signs of artis-tic temperament or vanity, but I haven’t seen any. That’s a miracle.”

Armand shook his head, and wonder was in his eyes. “You don’t seem to care for anything but learning and singing.”

“That’s why I came to France.”

“Well, I’ve got a bit of news for you. We’re going on a journey.”

“Where to, sir?”

“We’re going back to your home in America. New Orleans, to be specific.”

“New Orleans! Do you mean it, sir?”

“Yes. I’ve decided to take this new opera to New Orleans. They are a rather rough, crude bunch, though they would never admit it, but I thought it would be interesting to try out my new work on them before we perform it here.”

“Why, it will be a tremendous success. I know they’ve been trying to get you to come to America for a long time.”

Armand smiled and laid his hand on the young man’s shoulder. “So, you’ll be seeing home again and old friends. You never talk about things like that.”

“Actually,” he said, “I don’t have all that many people. I didn’t have many friends.”

Armand understood that Colin’s life had been an unhappy one, hard and harsh in a land that was noted for such things. “Well,” he said, “I’ve got another surprise for you. You’re going to sing the second lead.”

Colin stared at Armand with astonishment. “You mean it, sir? Of course you mean it.” He shook himself, and his eyes glowed with excitement. “Do you think I can do it?”

“I think you could do the first lead, but it would be better to get a more established figure. This will be a good introduction to your career. We’ll have to be careful, though.”

“Careful about what, sir?”

“Whomever we get for the first tenor, you’ll be better. And you know how these opera singers are—jealous as Caesar. Well, we’ll be leaving in a month. Then, when we get there, I’ve made arrangements with a man called Herzhaft, Enoch Herzhaft, to get things ready.”

“I know that name from when I worked in the opera house.”

“Yes, he’s the owner of the largest opera house in New Orleans. I’ve met him a few times. He had ambitions of being a singer himself, but he didn’t have the voice for it. So, he’s become the biggest figure in opera in America. Even though he can’t sing, he has good judg-ment. I’ve told him not to worry about the second tenor—that I’ll take care of that.” He put his hand again on Colin’s shoulder and said, “It will be a change. I’ve needed it for a long time now. Get yourself ready.”

“I could leave today.”

“Well, I can’t leave quite that quickly, but the voyage will be good for us, and you can show me around New Orleans.”

The Marquis Armand de Cuvier leaned on the rail of the Diana, his eyes fixed on the teeming harbor of New Orleans. “A crowded place,” he remarked. “I hardly see where the captain can find room to dock.”

Colin was excited at the first sight of his native land. He avidly took in the mixture of steamships and sailing ships that seemed in competition for spaces along the wharf. Turning to the marquis, he said, “This trip over was a little different from my voyage to France two years ago. Then I slept in the foul straw of the cattle on the cattle boat, but this time I ate at the captain’s table and slept between clean sheets. I’ve come up in the world.”

The two stood on deck until finally the Diana was tied up to the dock. “Come along,” said the marquis. “I’m anxious to see this city of New Orleans. I hear it’s like no other city in the world.”

“It can be a very rough place, sir. I’m afraid you won’t find much polish here.”

As they walked off the dock, Armand asked, “Who are those fel-lows over there? They’re a rough-looking bunch.”

Colin followed the marquis’ gesture. “Oh, those are what are called Kaintocks.”

“Kaintock? What does that mean?”

“Well, Kentucky is a state, and many people find their way down-river hauling freight from that place. But it doesn’t matter which state they’re from—they all are called Kaintocks.”

“They look like wild men,” the marquis murmured. “But we have our own gangs of criminals, called apaches, in Paris, and they’re probably wilder than these fellows.”

The two disembarked, and Colin saw that the luggage was located and stored in one of the many carriages that were for hire. Etienne, the marquis’ valet for years, had remained at home, protesting that he was too old for such a trip. Colin had vowed that he would see to it that his master did not have to deal with the problems of travel. Then they got into the carriage, and he said, “St. Louis Hotel, driver.”

“Yes sir.” The driver was a small, dark-skinned man with flashing white teeth and a ferocious mustache. He touched his top hat with his whip and then touched the horses with it, calling for them to step out.

As they made their way through the city toward the hotel, Armand was fascinated by it all. “It’s a very cosmopolitan place, isn’t it?”

“Sir?”

“I mean there are many nationalities here. I see a great many Spanish people and even more black people.”

“Well, there are Cajuns and Creoles and just about any other peoples that you’d like to meet. They come in on the big ships, and some of them stay.”

“Who are the Creoles?”

“Creoles are people who are descended from both the French and Spanish,” Colin said. “There are always some very prominent Creole people here. Many of them are interested in the arts, from what little I picked up. Of course, you understand, sir, I wasn’t moving in high circles in those days. They would have thrown me out of their homes.”

“Well, they won’t throw you out this time.”

“No, sir, not as long as I’m in your company.”

The driver pulled up in front of a block-long building simple and dignified in design. “St. Louis Hotel, sir.” He hopped out, unloaded the carriage, and Colin asked a porter to take their luggage inside. “I think you’ll find the hotel impressive,” Colin told the marquis. He led Armand into the lobby, past a large rotunda covered by a magnificent dome sixty-five feet in diameter. The ceiling rose at least ninety feet.

“What going on in there, Colin?”

“Well sir, I’m afraid it’s a slave auction. They use the rotunda for that sometimes. It’s not a pretty sight.”

The marquis insisted on stopping, and for a while the two men watched as the blacks were led up to the slave block and auc-tioned off.

“Why, it’s as if they were vegetables or animals!” the marquis exclaimed.

“It’s very bad, sir. New Orleans is the slave market for the rest of the country. A very bad thing. I never liked to see it.”

The marquis shook his head sadly. Colin led to him the desk, where they registered, then to their rooms upstairs. He asked, “Would you like to lie down and rest, sir?”

“No. We should get ready for the reception.”

Enoch Herzhaft, a portly man, presided over the reception for the marquis. His hair and beard were blond, and his eyes were electric blue. Every sentence seemed to be a proclamation rather than a mere statement of fact. He had greeted the marquis effusively, and when introduced to Colin, he had been fully as enthusiastic. He was a man who lived in a constant state of excitement.

“My dear marquis, you honor us with your presence, and the opera—what a triumph it will be!” Herzhaft exclaimed, waving his hands. “The entire world will hear of it.”

“Well, I would be content with a little less success than that, but I am very interested in my protégé’s doing well.”

“He will be fantastic, I am sure. I have persuaded Dominic Elfonso to sing the leading role. You have heard him?”

“Oh yes, I have heard Señor Elfonso many times. A fine voice indeed. Not much of an actor.”

“No, indeed, he is not, but never tell him so. His ego is even larger than his body.” Enoch Herzhaft turned to Colin. “Have you had much experience, may I ask?”

“None whatsoever,” Colin answered. He saw Herzhaft’s surprise and smiled. “I hope I will not ruin the performance.”

“Oh, I’m sure you will not.” There was less assurance in Herzhaft’s voice than before. “Come. We will eat, and then there will be speeches.”

“I hope I’m not expected to make one,” the marquis murmured.

“But of course you are! They have all come to hear you. Come now. We have the finest chefs in New Orleans, and you will taste Creole cooking.”

The meal was indeed unusual. It consisted of shrimp Creole, a spicy dish that the marquis tasted for the first time. There was shrimp remoulade and pompano en papilote. Colin said to Armand, “This Creole cooking, is it too spicy for you?”

“I don’t think I’ll have any taste buds left after I get through with this, but it is good.”

The meal ended with small cakes served with black chicory cof-fee. The marquis took one swallow, and his eyes flew open. “This is strong stuff, Colin!”

“Yes, it is. You can barely stir it with a spoon! But you’ll get used to it.”

Finally, when the meal was over, Herzhaft made a glowing speech proclaiming that the Marquis de Cuvier was the greatest composer the world had ever seen. He painted a picture that no man could have lived up to, and when Armand stood amid the applause, he said, “I will disclaim 90 percent of all of my friend, Mr. Herzhaft, has said. Not even Mozart and Beethoven rolled into one could live up to such a reputation.” The marquis was a good speaker, though his remarks were brief. He knew how to address a crowd, and when he sat down, the applause was enthusiastic.

After more speeches, Herzhaft said, “Now I must introduce you to our guests. I know they are anxious to meet you.”

Colin stood away from the pair but followed closely enough to hear the introductions. He lost track of the names, but he did see a young woman who stood out from all the rest somehow. She was of medium height; her blonde hair was as fair as anything he had ever seen. Her complexion was perfect. But the most striking thing about her was her large, well-shaped, dark-blue eyes. For some reason she seemed familiar. Colin put that thought aside. He had not moved in society such as this before going to France!

The woman glanced at him once, then looked back at the mar-quis, and Colin heard Herzhaft say, “And this is Monsieur Louis d’Or and his wife, Renee. This is their son, Bayard, and this is Mademoiselle Simone d’Or.” He waved his hand toward the mar-quis, saying, “Of course, Lord Beaufort needs no introduction.”

Colin watched as the marquis bowed to the family and called them each by name—but he saw that Armand’s eyes were fixed on the young woman. It struck him that she bore a resemblance to Jeanne de Cuvier! The facial structure was the same, the hair was the same color; the eyes were different, but there was a general resemblance.

The marquis could spend little time with the d’Or family, as others were waiting to be introduced. When Armand turned to greet another family, Louis d’Or approached Colin and asked, “Pardon me, Monsieur, are you a relative of the marquis?”

“Oh no, sir. Merely a pupil.”

“Ah,” Louis d’Or said. “Enoch has told me about you. You will be singing in the master’s new opera.”

“Yes, sir. My name is Colin Seymour.”

“But you are not French.”

“No, as a matter of fact, I’m an American.”

“Oh, let me introduce you to my family. We are all aficionados of the opera.” He introduced Colin to his wife, his son, and his daugh-ter, and said, “Simone will ask you a million questions. She is a great fan of the opera.”

“I’m afraid you would be disappointed, Miss d’Or. I have very little background.”

Simone d’Or looked at the young man curiously. She stepped for-ward and said, “I will interrogate him, Father.”

“Be careful of her, Mr. Seymour. She’s a dangerous woman.”

“Pay no attention to Bayard, sir. Now, you must tell me all about yourself. Where are you from?”

“Well, mostly from Louisiana.”

“Oh, you must have been in France a long time then.”

“No. Only two years. Before that I lived here in New Orleans.”

Simone gave Colin an odd look and tilted her head to one side. She was the most provocative woman Colin had ever seen. It was not just her outward beauty, which was great indeed, but there was a fiery spirit within her that he had never seen before.

“But I never met you. Who was your family?”

Colin hesitated. He had an inkling that the truth would not endear him to Simone d’Or, but he said rather bluntly, “I was an orphan, Miss d’Or. Mostly I was raised by a distant relation. He was a fisherman.”

Something changed in the woman’s eyes then, and Colin knew that she had placed him in a completely different category than before. She lifted her chin and said, “A fisherman?” in a voice of disdain.

“Yes. I left here on a cattle boat to go to France. I was determined to become a singer and to study under the marquis, and that’s what I did.”

Simone stared at him for a moment, then shrugged her shoulders. “That’s very interesting.”

At that moment a tall, lean man with black hair and dark eyes approached. “Simone,” he said, “I’ve been looking for you.”

“Oh, yes. Claude, this is Monsieur Colin Seymour. Mr. Seymour, Claude Vernay.”

Vernay looked puzzled, but he said, “Happy to make your acquaintance.”

“Mr. Seymour will be singing in the marquis’ new opera.”

Vernay smiled. He had a thin, black mustache, and his black eyes were smoldering. “Never could sing myself. Not my style.”

“You’ll have to forgive Mr. Vernay,” Simone said, her eyes spark-ling. “He’s more interested in swords and pistols than he is in art.”

“Now, that’s not so!” Vernay protested. He was a fine-looking man and dressed at the height of fashion. “I do like to shoot, and I keep in form by fencing, but I like opera.”

“Don’t listen to him, and don’t offend him, whatever you do, Mr. Seymour. He’s deadly with either weapon.”

“I’ll try to be as inoffensive as possible.”

Vernay laughed. “Simone always makes things seem more dra-matic than they are. I’ll look forward to seeing you in the opera. Are you ready, Simone?”

“Yes.” She nodded slightly and said, “I will be interested in hear-ing you when the opera takes place. When will it be, do you know?”

“I would think at least two weeks, from what the maestro has told me.”

She nodded, and Vernay said, “Enjoy your visit, Mr. Seymour.”

Colin watched the two leave and then snorted, saying under his breath, “What a snob! I’ve never seen such a proud pair in all my life.”

Later, however, he saw that Simone d’Or speaking with the mar-quis. Colin was startled to see the eagerness with which Armand con-versed with her. Of course it was true enough that Simone d’Or behaved much better to a nobleman than she had to an ex-fisherman. The idea troubled Colin for a moment, but then he thought, Don’t be foolish. He’s not interested in any woman—especially a woman like that.

In the two weeks that followed, Colin often thought of his first opin-ion of the marquis’ interest in Simone d’Or. He had seen nothing to trouble him at first, but then it became clear that the young woman fascinated Armand. She was no more than twenty-two, he guessed, while the marquis was in his late forties. The d’Ors were a prominent family interested in opera, and Simone went often to the rehearsals. Afterward, Armand escorted her out, and Colin could not help but notice that his master came in very late following these trips.

As the days passed, the marquis’ infatuation with the young woman became obvious, not only to Colin, but to others of the company.

The lead tenor, Dominic Elfonso, was talking once with Rosa Calabria—the diva—the star soprano. She was a vivacious woman with thick chestnut hair and warm brown eyes. During a break, Colin had been standing near when he heard Calabria say, “Well, Dominic, have you noticed the old maestro?”

“What about him?”

“He’s gone crazy over the d’Or woman.”

Dominic Elfonso was a big man with black hair, dark eyes, and a bristling mustache. He shrugged his beefy shoulders, saying, “She’s a good-looking woman. Why not?”

“He’s too old for her.”

“You’re just jealous, Rosa.”

Rosa glared at him. “Jealous? I have no feelings for him, not in that way.”

“Well, if I understand correctly, the marquis lost his wife a couple of years ago. I suppose he’s lonely for feminine company.”

“I think he’s found it then. But something is foolish about an older man falling in love with a young woman.”

Later that day, after rehearsals were over, Rosa said to Colin, “Let’s go out and have something to eat. I’m starving.”

“All right, Miss Calabria.”

“Don’t be so formal. You can call me Rosa.” She took his arm and pressed herself against it, then led him outside. She knew every restau-rant in New Orleans and directed him to a small, intimate place. There she proceeded to eat like a stevedore and at the same time pump him with questions. The fact that he had grown up as a fisherman amused her. “I worked in a cigar factory in Madrid. That’s even worse than being a fisherman.”

Colin liked the singer very much. She was in her mid-thirties, he guessed, somewhat older than himself, and she had no inhibitions that he could discover. He found out more about this when she invited him to her room. She made the offer as if she had been offering him a cup of coffee, and he saw that it meant little more to her. He stood for a moment, awkwardly trying to think how to answer without hurting her feelings, when she laughed out loud.

“I can’t believe it!” she cried, her eyes sparkling. “You’re blush-ing! I didn’t think there was a man in America that had a blush left in him.”

“I’m sorry, Rosa. I don’t mean to be—”

“It’s all right, lover,” she said. She patted his cheek. “I’ll have at least one man that I can trust in this world. That’s quite refreshing.”

“I suppose I’m a fool, but that’s the way I feel.”

“Oh, you’re saving yourself for some woman down the road!”

“That’s part of it, I suppose. Rosa, I heard you and Dominic talk-ing about Simone d’Or and my friend the marquis. Were you serious?”

“Haven’t I seen enough old men make fools of themselves? Not that he’s that old. He still has desires. Did he love his wife?”

“More than I’ve ever seen any man love a woman, and to tell the truth, Miss d’Or does resemble her.”

“There you have it.” Rosa shrugged. “She’s turned down enough men, but one thing worries me about his infatuation.”

“What’s that?”

“You met Claude Vernay?”

“Yes, I have.”

“He’s cock-of-the-walk in New Orleans. Loves to fight duels. He’s killed at least a couple of men and wounded a great many more. You know about this code duello that the young bucks follow?”

“I don’t know much about it.”

“They go around looking for someone to insult them so they can call a duel and hack at each other. Stupid, if you ask me, but they spend a great deal of time talking about honor, and Vernay’s the worst. He has a crowd around him—Byron Mayhew and Leon Manville are a couple of his prominent friends. All of them are wealthy, and they all lust after victims! Tell your friend the marquis to steer clear of them and to be careful.”

“Thank you, Rosa. I’ll talk to him.”

“Well, up in my lonely bed I’ll dream about you.”

Colin reached out and took her hand and kissed it. “You’re a good sport, Rosa.”

“Yes, I suppose I am. Go along with you now before I change my mind.”

The opera was a smashing success. The house was packed on open-ing night, and the critics raved in their reviews. Colin even rated a few lines, though, of course, Rosa and Dominic got the lion’s share of the praise. But Colin was satisfied with his first endeavor into the opera.

What did not please him was the fact that nothing he could say to the marquis about Simone d’Or made any difference. “For such a wise man, he is blind as a bat!” Colin said angrily to himself. He had been in the presence of the woman enough to know that she was self-ish to the bone and cared very little for anyone but herself. He had tried to hint to Armand that though she resembled the marquis’ dead wife physically, she was totally different in character. There was little kindness in her, and in Colin’s mind it would be a disaster if he were to marry her.

But nothing he could say to the marquis seemed to have any effect.

One day late in summer, the marquis, his eyes sparkling, said to Colin, “I have good news.”

“About the opera?”

“No, not about that. That’s a success, and you’re doing very well. No, this is a personal thing.”

An alarm went off in Colin’s mind, and he held his breath.

Armand said, “I have decided to ask for Miss d’Or’s hand in marriage.”

Colin tried desperately to think of an answer, but he could only say, “Well, that—that is quite a surprise.” Actually it was not. He had seen it approaching but could no more stop it than he could have stopped an avalanche on its inexorable path.

“She’s such a handsome woman—and so like my Jeanne.”

Colin wanted to cry out, but he knew that there was no hope that Armand would listen to him. He heard the glowing hope in Armand’s voice as he spoke of Simone, and finally he said, “I want only your happiness, sir.”

Armand replied, “And I will find it with Simone. She is what I have been looking for since I lost my dear wife!”

Chapter four

“Simone, you must know by this time how deeply I care for you. I want to marry you, and I would be honored if you agreed to be my wife.”

Simone could not believe what she was hearing. The marquis had been attracted to her ever since they had first met—that had been easy enough to ascertain. Simone, of course, was accustomed to the admi-ration of men, and that Armand had shown her such attention flat-tered her. Her parents had been even more impressed, and her father had said, “It would make a fine marriage, Simone. He’s a famous man, wealthy, and you could not do better.”

Simone d’Or had formed a habit of doing those things that a woman can do to attract men. It had been a game with her and one at which she had learned to excel. Her natural beauty had been aug-mented with a spirit that was quick and active, and the game of courtship was to her very much like a game of chess or tennis. Men pursued women, women tried to evade them—or at least gave the appearance of it. If the man was persistent enough, and attractive enough, the woman perhaps allowed herself to be captured. Simone had never found a man she loved enough to marry, and she certainly was not in love with the marquis. Still, he was quite a catch, and the society in which she moved, the Creole world of New Orleans, was watching the progress of the courtship avidly.

Simone, however, was taken quite aback when Armand had come on one of his many visits to her home and almost immediately pro-posed to her.

Only rarely had Simone d’Or been at a total loss for words. She was quick-witted, and as a rule, quite able to handle any situation. But the sight of the marquis standing before her and the impact of his words caught her unaware. She had, of course, thought that someday he might come to that point, but obviously he was more enamored of her than she had supposed. She hesitated so long that Armand said, “You do not speak. Is my case hopeless?”

“Oh, no, Armand, certainly not!” Simone said quickly. “It’s just that—well, you’ve taken me off guard. I wasn’t expecting you to say such a thing.”

Armand took her hand, lifted it to his lips, and kissed it. “I know,” he said, “that you are highly sought after and that you have refused many suitors. I come without much hope, for I am aware of the difference in our ages. You do not need to marry money, for your family is wealthy. I am aware also of the many dashing young men who are pursuing you even now. Still, I could do nothing else. The affection I feel for you is too strong for me to ignore. I beg you, Simone, do not refuse me.”

As Armand spoke, Simone was able to gather her thoughts and said, “Armand, I have a great admiration for you. You are famous the world over, and there are so many women who would be happy to become your wife.”

“But I am not interested in those other women. Only in you.” Armand shook his head and said, “I can say only this for my own cause. I was married once, as you know, and my wife was the light of my life. We lived together in perfect peace. You remind me so much of her, Simone. She was such a good woman, and I thought I would never find another to put beside her. But in you I have found such a one.”

A slight warning went off in Simone’s spirit; she was wise to the ways of men and women. She knew that she could never be what Armand’s first wife had been. From all reports, coming mostly from him, she had been an excellent woman but totally unlike Simone her-self. He had spoken so often of her gentleness, and Simone was not blind to the fact that she had an impetuous spirit that she had not yet learned to control.

“I am honored by your proposal, Armand, but I must have time to think.”

“That is all I ask.” Armand’s eyes brightened. “I was so afraid that you would refuse me outright. It would be a better match for me than for you, but my dear, you must believe that I am willing to do what-ever will make you happy.”

“That’s very sweet of you, Armand. Just give me some time.”

“Why, of course. In the meantime, I trust I will learn more about you and your family, and perhaps you will learn more about me.”

“Oh, I know a great deal about you, Armand,” Simone said, relieved that the crisis was over, at least for the moment. “But women always know more about men than men do about them.”

Armand laughed. “I think that is probably true. I must go now. Will I see you at the opera tonight?”

“Oh yes. I wouldn’t miss it.”

“What do you think of my protégé?”

“He sings very well. I think he has great potential.”

“I’m very proud of him. If I had had a son, I would have wanted one exactly like Colin. Well, I must go.” He took her hand, kissed it, and took his leave.

As soon as he left, Simone took a deep breath and stared at the door. “Well, it’s too bad he’s not twenty years younger. He would have been irresistible then. But even now it would be quite an honor to be the wife of a famous man such as the Marquis de Cuvier.”

“But you can’t even think of such a thing, Simone!”

Claude Vernay had been fearful of exactly what had come to pass. When he arrived to escort Simone to the opera, she told him almost at once about the marquis’ proposal. Vernay stared at her and exclaimed, “Why, he is an old man!”

“He’s not old, Claude.”

“Of course he’s old! He must be fifty.”

“He’s not. He’s only forty-eight.”

“Even if it weren’t for the age difference, he’s not the sort of man who can make you happy.”

Simone laughed and teased Claude. “Are you an expert in what sort of man would make me happy?”

“I should be,” Vernay grinned. “I’ve studied you enough. I know what you are, Simone.” He reached over and took her hand, and she made no attempt to prevent him. He stroked it and thought for a moment, studying her intently. He was impressed, as always, by the ripe, self-possessed curves of her mouth. She had the richest lips a woman could possess, and now her smile illuminated her face. Her skin was fair and smooth and rose-colored, and her hair was the same color as a very clear honey, a rich yellow that gleamed whenever the light caught it. He was also aware of the shape of her body within her dress, and not for the first time thought she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen—and he had seen a great many.

“You’re a woman of fire, and the marquis’ fires have burned low.

You need excitement and a man who will challenge you.”

“Can you recommend one, Claude?”

Vernay knew that she was laughing at him, but it didn’t trouble him. The thought that she might marry the marquis did. She was an impulsive woman, he knew, and he said, “If you gave it time, you wouldn’t marry him, but you are always jumping into something, Simone. Marriage is something you can’t jump out of easily.”

“Still, the wife of the marquis would have a lot. You would have to call me Lady Beaufort.”

Claude pulled her to him and kissed her. She did not struggle, and when he released her, he said, “You’ll not marry that old man!”

“Don’t be too sure. I would be part of the nobility in France as well as in this country. I’m sure he has a castle, too, and everywhere I went, people would look at me.”

“That would please you for a while, but not for long. You’ll never marry him.”

Simone gave Vernay a curious glance. “You seem very sure of that.”

“I am sure. You know I want to marry you myself. The time’s not right yet, but no other man can have you.”

“You’re very possessive, and I don’t want to be a possession.”

“Yes, you do. You want to belong to a man, and you want the man to belong to you.”

The astute quality of Claude Vernay’s mind impressed Simone. He was the most dashing of the Creole gentry, and he stirred her physi-cally in a way that no other man had. Still, he demanded a great deal more than she was willing to give. Quickly she said, “Let’s not talk about marriage. Let’s talk about the opera.”

“Very well. But remember what I said.”

During the intermission, Claude Vernay encountered his friend Byron Mayhew. Mayhew was a small young man, no more than five foot six, with fair hair and gray eyes. His family was prominent, and Mayhew himself was a much more steady individual than his friend Vernay. The two of them made a strange pair, but both were pas-sionately devoted to fencing, and both had engaged in duels. Mayhew was not as enamored of the practice as was Vernay, but still the two were close.

“I’ve heard rumors that Simone might marry Lord Beaufort, Claude.”

Claude shot a glance at his friend. “That will never happen, Byron.”

“I don’t see why not. The old man is panting after her in full chase, and she must be flattered to have a world celebrity after her.”

“It doesn’t matter. I’ve already talked to her about it and warned her.”

Byron laughed. “You know Simone better than that. The surest way I can think of to make her do something is to tell her she can’t.”

An angry light burned in Claude Vernay’s eyes. He was a man of unstable emotions, at times perfectly amiable, but at the slightest provocation his temper could explode. “I’ll call him out if she agrees to marry him.”

Byron stared at his friend. “Why, you can’t do that!”

“Why can’t I? There’s always some way to provoke a man into an insult.”

“Now, wait a minute, Claude,” Byron said with alarm. “It’s one thing to have a duel and pink some unmannerly puppy in the shoul-der, but this is no puppy. This is a marquis, and you can’t treat him as you would an ordinary man.”

Vernay did not answer, but the fixed expression on his face told Byron that he was wasting his time. Still, Byron repeated, “Mind what I say. You can’t challenge this man to a duel.”

“You’re right, I can’t. But if he challenges me, I can certainly accept.”

At the same time these two were talking, Rosa and Colin stood waiting for the opera to begin. The two had become close friends despite their differences. Rosa admired the steadfastness and the hon-esty in Colin that she herself lacked, while Colin admired the peppery qualities of the diva. He did not admire her morals, but he knew that she was a faithful friend when there was no amour involved. Rosa asked, “Did you see the marquis sitting beside Simone d’Or?”

“I saw it,” Colin said grimly. “I didn’t like it.”

“Why should it bother you?”

“She’s not the kind of woman to make my master happy.”

“She’s beautiful and rich and young.”

“She’s also selfish and arrogant and filled up with pride.”

Rosa shook her head. “I suppose she is, but that doesn’t seem to bother the marquis.”

“He’s trying to regain something that was lost forever.”

“And what is that?”

“He loved his first wife more than I ever saw a man love a woman. Simone looks like her, in a way; she’s more beautiful but has the same features and hair. But she’s different. Jeanne de Cuvier was a gentle, sweet woman always ready to show a kindness. I see none of this in Miss d’Or.”

Rosa was silent for a moment, studying her young friend’s face. “I’ve seen something that you haven’t.”

“What’s that, Rosa?”

“For a long time Claude Vernay has been pursing Simone. Do you know him?”

“I met him briefly.”

“He’s a volatile man, always looking for a fight. He’s had more duels than you can count, and he’s killed men. He won’t see another man take Simone d’Or. He’ll kill him first.”

“Why, that’s impossible!”

“No, it’s not. These youngbloods know how to provoke fights. They get someone to insult and challenge them, then they take them out to the oaks and kill them.”

“I can’t believe this. He wouldn’t dare!”

“He was my lover for a short time. I know him. He’s as deadly as a snake. If you have any influence with the marquis, be certain that he never has anything to do with this man.”

“Miss Simone, you have a visitor.”

Simone looked up from her dressing table. Her maid, Lucy, had gone to answer the door. “Who is it?”

“It’s the young man from the opera. The student of the marquis— Mr. Seymour.”

“All right. I’ll see him in the drawing room.” Simone rose from the dressing table, left her bedroom, and went downstairs. She found Colin waiting, and he said at once, “I’m sorry to come without an invitation, Miss d’Or, but I felt I had to see you.”

Simone studied the young man coldly. Since she had found out about his humble origins, she had been unable to show anything other than cool civility. “Would you care to sit down?”

“This will take only a moment, but I had to speak with you privately.”

Simone saw that Colin Seymour was nervous. She also noticed that his dress was not the current style of the young men of New Orleans. He was wearing a pair of fawn-colored trousers, a white shirt, and a rust-colored jacket. He seemed to care little for dress, but she had to admit that there was a rugged handsomeness about the man. His auburn hair caught the sun as it came through the window with just a trace of gold, and he had the bluest, most direct eyes of any man she had ever seen. “What is it, Mr. Seymour?”

“I know this will seem strange, but I wanted to talk to you about the marquis.”

“The marquis? What about him?”

“I think you need to understand him better. You see, he was very much in love with his first wife.”

“He has already told me that, and I must say I cannot see your concern.”

“He has been a friend to me more than any other man. I can’t stand by and watch him make a mistake.”

Simone stared at Seymour, her eyes fixed on his face. “What mis-take is that, sir?”

“He tells me he wants to marry you, and I think—I know that would be a sad mistake.”

Anger touched Simone then, as it often did when she was crossed. “It’s very impertinent of you to interfere in my personal affairs!”

“Please don’t be angry with me, Miss d’Or. The marquis would be ruined if—”

“If he married me?”

“Well, yes. You see, his first wife was a very gentle woman with a sweetness of spirit. You resemble her a great deal physically, but—”

“But I am not sweet and gentle.”

Colin met her gaze evenly. “No, Miss d’Or, you are not sweet, and you are not gentle. You are a woman who has to have a great deal of attention and would not be happy at all leading the life a marchioness leads.”

“I think you may leave, sir!”

“But I haven’t—”

“You have finished. Now, get out of the house!”

Colin walked toward the door. He turned long enough to say, “If you marry him, you will make two people very unhappy. You are not suited.”

“Leave the house, sir, or do I have to call the servants to help you out?”

“No, I can find my way.”

As soon as she heard the door slam, Simone began muttering and pacing. She walked over to the window and saw the tall young man leave. “He’s a boor, an uneducated boor of a fisherman! Who does he think he is, to tell me what to do?”

Claude Vernay was a brooding sort of individual, one who worried over a thought constantly until he could take some sort of action. When he had first heard of the possibility of Simone’s marrying the marquis, he had shrugged it off, but finally he saw that she was becoming more and more attached to the idea, and they had quar-reled over the matter more than once, the most serious being on a muggy July evening. In reality, Simone had grown tired of Claude’s interference and had been influenced by Seymour’s visit. She had disliked the young man intensely before he had come to warn her off from the marriage, and now, without realizing it, she was more receptive to the idea of the marriage because of his visit. She had told Claude Vernay that she probably would marry Armand, and he had grown terribly angry.

He slept little that night and started to drink early the next morning. At two o’clock he stepped into a salon where he saw the Marquis de Cuvier sitting with Enoch Herzhaft, the owner of the opera house. A recklessness came over Vernay, and he walked over and greeted the two men. Herzhaft knew him well and invited him to join them. He sat down and listened as the two men talked of music. Finally the liquor that he had consumed already that morning made him say, “So, Marquis, you are courting my friend Miss d’Or?”

Surprised, Armand stared at the man across from him. He hardly knew him. “I have been seeing Miss d’Or, yes.”

“I think it would be an unfortunate match.”

Armand had a temper of his own, and the man’s words insulted him. “It’s hardly a matter for discussion in public.”

“I suppose it isn’t,” Vernay said. “But I’ve often seen such things turn out badly. A young girl marrying an older man—it never works out.”

“Claude,” Enoch said hastily, “I don’t think—”

“I hardly think it is any of your affair, sir,” the marquis said. “And I would appreciate it if you would leave the table.”

“I’m not good enough to sit with you?”

“You are a boor.”

Claude continued taunting the marquis: “If you weren’t an older man, I would demand satisfaction from you.”

Enoch Herzhaft was alarmed. He knew Vernay’s reputation. “Claude,” he said, “you’re drunk.”

“No, I’m not drunk, but I know when a foreigner comes over with his European ways and tries to take advantage of a young woman.”

The marquis stood and said, “I will not listen to this!”

Vernay stood also. “You’re after her money, and everyone knows you’re making a fool of yourself.”

The marquis was not accustomed to such talk. He had received respect most of his adult life, and the insult inflamed him. His arm seemed to fly out on its own accord, and he slapped Vernay on the cheek. He said coldly, “There will be no more mention of Miss d’Or in this public place.”

Vernay stared at the marquis. “You have struck me, sir. You can’t take refuge behind your name and your age.”

“I take refuge behind nothing. I challenge you, sir.”

“I’ve never refused a challenge. My man will call on you.”

Vernay turned away, a slight smile on his face. As soon as he left, Enoch Herzhaft jumped to his feet and said, “My lord, you must not fight this man! He is deadly with either a pistol or a sword.”

“My honor demands it.”

“Don’t be foolish! These young men make a game out of it.”

“It’s a matter of honor.”

Herzhaft threw his hands up. “Honor! I’m sick of that word! All that word means to these youngbloods is an excuse to destroy a man of lesser ability.”

“My mind is set. I will ask you to act for me.”

New Orleans had very few secrets, and the story of the proposed duel between the two men aroused everyone’s interest. Whispers were exchanged, bets were made, and Simone, of course, heard of it almost at once. Unfortunately she heard of it from Colin, who again visited her home. He burst into her house, saying, “I beg your pardon, but I must speak to you.”

“I told the servant that I wouldn’t see you.”

“You must see me. The marquis has challenged Vernay to a duel.”

“I know about that.”

“Please, Miss d’Or, you must see now what a dangerous thing this is. You must talk to the marquis.”

Simone shrugged her shoulders. “I cannot interfere in such things.”

“You must!” Colin said loudly. He walked over and took her by the shoulders. “You brought this on, and now it’s up to you to break it off. Vernay is your friend, and the marquis is a man you profess to have some affection for. You must cause them to be reconciled.”

Simone struggled to free herself, but his grip was like iron. “Let me go!” she said. When he did, she glared at him. “I wouldn’t marry a man who would accept an insult. Now get out of my house!”

Colin stared at her. “You’re worse than I thought,” he said quietly. “You’d see a good man butchered because of your pride. I despise you.” Quickly he turned and left the house.

Immediately Simone sent for Vernay, who came within the hour. She said at once, “Claude, you must not fight the marquis.”

Claude said only, “He struck me. You know the answer to that.”

“But he’s an older man, and a powerful one.”

“That’s no excuse. He should have kept his temper. Don’t worry. I won’t kill him. I’ll just teach him a lesson.”

“This is madness, sir! You must not do it!”

“This is no time for you to talk like that, Colin.”

The dawn was beginning to break, and the two men stood on a field in the vicinity of a large oak tree. News of the duel had spread, and many had gathered there. They stood silently, watching the drama unfold before them. Enoch Herzhaft was speaking with Byron Mayhew, who was acting for Vernay. Vernay himself stood off to one side, saying nothing. Beside him stood a tall man with dark brown hair and hazel eyes. Colin learned later this was another cohort of Vernay’s, a man named Leon Manville.

Colin shivered in the coolness of the morning and could not con-tain himself. “This man has a lifetime of practice. Have you ever even fired a gun?”

“Of course I have,” the marquis replied. “I’ve never had a duel, but I have practiced often enough.”

“What if you kill him? Could you live with that?”

“I will not kill him, I assure you. I’m a better shot than that.”

“But he may kill you.”

“I do not think so. He usually shoots only to bring blood.”

“He has killed,” Colin said. But he had no time to argue further, for a short man in a black suit had moved forward and said, “My lord, if you’re ready.”

Colin watched the marquis march steadfastly to where the tall man stood. Herzhaft moved to stand beside him. His teeth were chat-tering. Neither of the men would budge. “God grant it may not be fatal,” he said quietly.

Colin was silent as he watched as the two men heard the instruc-tions from the duel master and then turn their backs to each another. He watched them as they stepped off ten paces, then turned, and the marquis fired first. He missed, and a coldness clamped around Colin’s heart. Vernay laughed. He leveled his pistol and fired. At the same instant the marquis had turned so that his back was toward the man. The shot caught him in the back and drove him forward, then he collapsed.

“Armand!” Colin cried out, using the marquis’ first name for the first time. He ran to his master and saw the blood spreading on the white shirt. The shot had caught the marquis just above the lower back.

Vernay walked over and asked, “Why did he turn? I intended only to pink him.”

He was shouldered aside by a burly man in a snuff-colored coat. He knelt down and said, “I do not think it is fatal. Can you hear me, Monsieur?”

“I—can’t move my legs.”

A chill ran through Colin, and he said, “It will be all right, won’t it, Doctor?”

The doctor turned and said evenly, “I trust so, but no one is sure of these things. I must have the bullet out. Some of you help me get him inside.”

As they moved the wounded man inside, Colin turned to Vernay. Rage filled him, and he ran at the man and with all of his might struck out. His blow caught Vernay squarely on the chin and knocked him down. At once Mayhew and others of Vernay’s friends seized Colin.

“Don’t make a fool of yourself, sir,” Mayhew said.

“If my master dies, I’ll kill him!”

“Don’t be a fool,” Mayhew whispered. “Go see to your master.”

The men released Colin, and he ran to catch up with the doctor. He had never felt such an icy anger in his life. There had been some-thing inhumanely cruel about what had taken place, and he followed the wounded man with a feeling of helplessness.

“I can’t believe it!” Simone exclaimed. “How could he have done such a thing?”

Leon Manville had gone to Simone with the news of the duel, and although he had tried to be gentle, he could see that the young woman was shaken. “I know it’s a terrible shock, Miss d’Or, but it’s not all bad.”

“How can there be anything good in such a thing?”

“The gentleman will not die,” Manville said quickly. “I under-stand that the wound was serious, but not fatal.”

“Well, thank God for that!” Simone said. “Did you see it, Leon?”

“Yes, and I wish I hadn’t. It was not at all a thing that Vernay should be proud of.” Manville had heard that Simone d’Or had some sort of an attachment to the marquis and was as curious as to its nature as the rest of the city. “I trust that you will not let this influence your plans with the marquis.”

Simone hated gossip, and glaring at Leon, she said, “Don’t con-cern yourself with such things. Now, thank you for coming, but I must ask you to leave me.”

Manville made a hasty retreat, and Simone walked nervously around the house, troubled by the news. She was grieved at the inci-dent, but in her heart she knew that she did not love Armand. I wish him well, and a speedy recovery, she thought, but I would never have married him.

Chapter five

Dr. Marcus Grigsby proved to be a good friend to Colin and Armand during the recovery period after the duel. The bullet had lodged itself in Armand’s back so close to the spine that Grigsby had been unwill-ing to take a chance on removing it. “If I make the slightest mistake, he will be completely paralyzed,” Grigsby warned Colin. “As it is, his legs are paralyzed, but at least he’ll have the use of his upper body. It’s just not worth the chance.”

Three months had passed since Grigsby had made his pro-nouncement, and October had come. Grisgby arrived at the dock to see the pair off. He stood beside Armand, looking at him with a wor-ried expression, but quickly he smoothed it away and said heartily, “Well, my lord, you are going home again. I know that will be good for you.”

Armand looked up. His features were still, and his eyes showed little sign of life. He had been quiet and listless ever since learning that he would be confined to a wheelchair for the rest of his life. “I want to thank you, Doctor,” he said quietly, “for all of your attention.”

“I wish I could do more. Really I do.”

“You’ve done all anybody could do, and I will miss you when I am at home.”

A steam whistle uttered a mighty blast, and Colin said, “It’s time to go on board.”

“Yes. Good-bye, Doctor. Thank you again.”

Colin nodded to a steward, who stepped behind Armand’s chair. “I’ll be on board right away, sir.” Armand nodded briefly, and the steward pushed him up the gangplank. As soon as he was out of hear-ing distance, Colin put his hand out. “Thank you, Dr. Grigsby.”

Grigsby shook the young man’s hand. “It’s one of those cases when I wish I’d become a blacksmith or a stockbroker—anything except a doctor! I hate to give bad news, especially to good men like your master.”

“Any final instructions?”

“I think the problem is twofold. The first is the physical one, of course. That’s obvious. His spine is damaged, and sometimes that causes other damage. We doctors still don’t understand all that goes on inside the body. Just see that he gets all of the exercise he can. Get him to use dumbbells to make his upper body as strong as possible. Keep him outdoors a great deal.” Dr. Grigsby hesitated.

“What is it, Doctor? You’re leaving something out.”

“Well, aside from the physical problem, there’s the emotional one. He’s had a great chunk of his life removed. Some people can’t handle that, Colin. Keep him as busy as you can.” The doctor was a burly man with a blunt face and sharp, gray eyes. “You’ve told me how much he’s helped you, and now it’s time for you to return the favor.”

“I’ll give him my life, Dr. Grigsby. You can depend on that.”

“One thing you might do is get him interested in your career.”

Colin shook his head. “He’s doesn’t seem to have much interest in music anymore.”

“You must see that he does. Make him compose. Make him help you. Somehow show him you want to go on and become a topflight tenor in the opera.”

“That seems selfish.”

“Not in the least. Furthest thing from it,” Grigsby protested. He raised one fist in a pugilistic gesture and said, “You’re going to have to fight for his life, Colin. Making you into a star isn’t selfish. He wants it anyway. He thinks so much of you. Now, fill up his life as best you can.”

“I’ll do that, and I’ll ask you to pray for us, Doctor.”

Grigsby nodded, and his face softened. “I’ll do that, my boy. You may be sure of it.”

“Good-bye, Dr. Grigsby.” Colin turned and climbed the gang-plank. The steward was waiting beside Armand’s chair, but Colin said, “I’ll take care of it, Ernest.”

“Thank you, sir,” the steward said, pocketing the coin that Colin gave him.

Turning to look at the teeming crowds on the wharf, Colin was silent for a moment, and then he remembered Dr. Grigsby’s admoni-tion. “Let’s find our rooms. I want you to help me with that new piece from La Traviata. I can’t get it.”

“I really don’t feel like it much, Colin.”

“None of that. I’m going to become a great star, and I can’t do it without your help.”

Armand looked up and smiled faintly. “You have ambition. I never noticed that before.”

“It’s going to take everything both of us have. I got a late start, but on the way home there’s not much scenery to look at, so I’ll entertain the passengers with my singing. They will probably want to throw me overboard.”

“I doubt that,” Armand said. He took a last look at New Orleans, and something crossed his face, an emotion that Colin caught at once. “All right, Colin. There’s nothing left to see here.”

Colin grasped the wheelchair and pushed it down along the walkway. His mind raced to make plans. I’ve got to keep him active and busy. He mustn’t have time to brood. He lifted his voice and began to sing “Amore Ti Vieta,” startling all of the passengers within hearing distance.

The booming sound of his powerful tenor voice filled the air, and one well-dressed and attractive woman turned to watch him with admiration. She leaned over and whispered to the woman with her, “What a handsome man and a beautiful voice! I wonder who he is.”

“Well, you can find out. We’ve got a long voyage.”

Unaware of this, Colin sang lustily, and when they reached the stateroom door, he saw that the marquis was smiling broadly. “You ought to charge them, Colin.”

“Maybe I can talk the captain into letting me give a concert. We can take up a collection afterward.” He saw that his actions had taken Armand’s mind off of his problem for the moment. In the cabin, he wheeled the chair around and said, “Now, let’s get to work. How does the phrasing go in that duet in the second act?”

Philippe Gerard stepped up silently behind his wife in the kitchen, put his arms around her, and lifted her off the floor. She was a large woman, but he handled her as easily as if she were a child.

“Stop that, Philippe!”

Philippe kissed the back of her neck and whispered, “I’m over-come with passion for you, my little dove. Come away with me.”

Josephine Gerard had been a spinster for many years. She had given up all ideas of love, but when Philippe Gerard had proposed to her and she had accepted, she discovered that he had the ability to make her feel like a young girl. “Put me down, you fool!” When he placed her on the floor and turned her around, he winked.

Josephine flushed but smiled. “Now you get out of my kitchen.”

The sound of Colin’s voice drifted down to them. “He sings all the time. How long have they been home—six months? And Colin sings every day,” Philippe noted.

“Yes, and he keeps the master busy too. I think it’s a good thing. You remember how sad he was when he came home.”

“Yes, what a tragic thing.” His dark eyes flashed. “I’d like to go to New Orleans and find that man who put the bullet in the marquis. I’d take him off at the neck!”

“And I would bless you if you did it.”

“When he first came home, he was so depressed, and Colin told me that we would have to keep him occupied all the time. That’s why I make him go look at the garden and help me make plans.”

“You’ve done wonderfully well, my husband.” Josephine patted his cheek and said, “The whole staff has made it the business of life to cheer up the master.”

“Colin said he was composing again. That’s good.”

“Yes, it is. Now, you get out of here. I’m taking their tea up.”

Philippe left the kitchen, and Josephine took the tray and walked down the hall. The marquis’ bedroom had originally been upstairs, but Colin had had a large room remodeled. He knocked out a wall so that the room itself was fifteen feet wide and twenty-five feet long. Colin decorated it tastefully and put new windows in so that sunlight flooded it. It was a cheerful room with thick carpet and a fine pianoforte positioned where the player could catch the sunlight on the music. Colin was sitting at the piano, and the marquis was seated where he could watch his face. As Josephine entered, he was saying, “No, no, no! You sound like a sick puppy!”

“I do not!” Colin protested. “I sang that last part exactly right.”

“You will argue with your teacher!”

Colin laughed. “You are right. I did sound awful.” He turned and said, “Oh, Josephine. Tea! Is there cake as well?”

Colin walked over and watched as Josephine poured the tea, then he pulled a chair up close to the tea table beside the marquis. “Thank you, Josephine.”

“I did make a few cakes. They’re not very good.”

Colin picked up a cake and bit a piece off. “It’s terrible. Leave them all. They’re so bad I’ll have to eat them to keep someone else from suffering.”

Josephine’s eyes sparkled and she grinned. “You always think of others, Monsieur.”

“Unselfish—that’s me.”

As Josephine left the room and the two men drank the tea and ate the cakes, they talked about the music. Colin had soaked up an immense amount of knowledge from the marquis during the past six months. He had studied Italian and German, and day after day he had sung until his throat, at times, grew raw, but Armand had thrown himself with passion into making him into the finest tenor in Europe—or in the world, for that matter.

“I need to speak to you about something, Colin.”

Colin groaned and put his hands on his head. “Every time you say that, it means you’ve found something I am doing wrong.”

“That’s not at all true, but in this case it is. You are doing some-thing wrong.”

Colin straightened up. “Well, what is it?” he said wearily. “I don’t think I’ll ever become the singer you want me to be.”

“It’s not your singing,” Armand said. “It’s something else.”

“What is it, sir? Tell me.”

“I’ve noticed that you have a bitterness concerning the man who put this bullet in my back.”

“Why, I’ve never mentioned him!”

“I know you haven’t directly, but it shows, and besides, you talked to Philippe about it, and Philippe told Etienne. Both of them, of course, agree with you, but I want to tell you that hatred and bitter-ness are more dangerous than a pistol or a sword.”

Colin could not meet the marquis’ eyes; he had spoken the exact truth. For months now, he had not gone to bed a single night with-out thinking of Claude Vernay. He had begun to indulge in violent thoughts about how he would make the man suffer and daydreamed scenarios in which he put Vernay into terrible tortures.

“I can’t help it, Armand. I just can’t.”

“If I’ve forgiven the man, surely you should. I think the Bible says somewhere that it’s wrong to take up the offenses of another. I’ll have to look it up. Don’t remember the exact place, but it’s true enough.”

Colin was silent. The marquis had done so much for him, and the idea of Claude Vernay’s taking from him a precious part of his life was hateful. Finally he lifted his head and said, “I’ll do my best to put the thing out of my mind.”

Armand reached out and grasped Colin’s arm. His grip was strong, for Colin had insisted on his doing all the physical exercises he could. “I have something else to tell you.”

“What have I done now?”

“Nothing, really. You will like this, I hope.” He hesitated and then said, “I have decided to adopt you as my son. Legally, I mean. If you agree.”

Colin stared at him. “Why, sir, I’ve never asked for such a thing.”

“I know you haven’t, but I want to do it. I have no other kin, and I want you to have all that is mine when I die.”

“Don’t speak of that.”

“It comes to all of us, Colin. One day you will be the marquis. It would give me pleasure to think of it. You’ll have sons, and the name will go on. Besides . . .” His voice grew quiet. “I have thought of you as a son for some time, and I know Jeanne would have been very happy at such a thing.”

Colin’s eyes were dim with tears. He cleared his throat and said, “It is an honor that I do not deserve.”

“We will speak no more of it. The papers are being drawn up. They will be ready later in the week. Until then we will continue our work.”

Chapter six

“I wish you would talk to the master, Mr. Colin. He’s really not well enough to go to your opening.”

Colin had entered the front door and started down the hallway into the marquis’ bedroom when Josephine stopped him and made her plea. He halted and turned to face her, his brow furrowed with worry. “I’ve tried my best to get him not to go, but you know how stubborn he can be.”

“I’m worried about him, sir. What did the doctor say?”

“He told him flatly that he would be risking his life to go to Paris, but he won’t listen. He says he’s worked too hard for this to miss it.”

Indeed, Armand had worked very hard for nearly two years since his return from New Orleans. It had been a good thing for him to stay busy, and he had done well for eighteen months. But then something had happened to his heart. Colin had entered his room to find him gasping and holding onto his chest in pain, his left arm numb and use-less. The doctors pronounced him the victim of a stroke. Some of the effects had passed away, but the marquis had lost part of the use of his left hand. His speech and memory were affected.

Nevertheless, Armand had asked Arnaud Heuse, the owner of the Paris Opera House, to put on a production of The Marriage of Figaro, by Mozart, starring Colin. It had not been hard to convince Heuse, for Colin had progressed tremendously, his talent becoming obvious to everyone who heard him. He had sung second tenor in several operas under Heuse, and Armand had set March 2, 1837, as the begin-ning of Colin’s new life as a starring operatic tenor.

Colin bit his lip and shook his head. “I’m worried. I wish he’d stay home, but he won’t.”

“Be as careful with him as you can, but then I know you will. You care so much for him.”

“We all do, Josephine. It’ll be a slow, careful trip. Where’s Philippe? I want him to help me get the marquis into the carriage.”

Armand de Cuvier sat in his box. Philippe, dressed in a decent black suit, had been pressed into service to get him up the stairs. The big man had simply picked up the wheelchair containing Armand and bore the burden as lightly as if it were nothing. He sat behind the marquis, who was speaking with Arnaud Heuse, the owner of the opera house. Philippe watched carefully as Colin sang the song that closed the opera. He had difficulty associating the man on the stage, so tall, strong, and handsome and full of life, his voice filling the tremendous opera house, with the skinny ragamuffin who had come up to the door in rags five years earlier. He was filled with pride, and once he leaned forward and said, “Our protégé is doing fine, my lord.”

“Yes, he is, Philippe,” Armand whispered back.

“Still, you spoiled a fine gardener.”

Armand could not but help smile. He was thin now and spoke little, for it embarrassed him that he sometimes stuttered and could not find the proper words.

He relished the opera, drinking it all in. As the curtain fell and the cast members began to take their bows, Heuse leaned forward and said, “You have written many fine works, Maestro, but your finest work is down there on that stage.”

“Thank—thank you for those kind words, Arnaud. I believe you are right.”

The marquis enjoyed the sound of the crowd calling out Colin’s name, the young man who had come to fill his life. He was pleased to see that his adopted son still had humility. He had undertaken to drill into Colin that pride was a deadly sin. Many times he had said, “God gave you the voice. It’s none of your doing. You simply must use it for His glory.” The marquis knew that Colin had been struggling with his faith since Jeanne had died.

Finally the curtain closed for the final time, and Philippe asked, “Shall I take you backstage?”

“I would like that.”

Arnaud said, “It’s so crowded. It will be hard for you.”

“This is his opening night. I must be there.”

At once Philippe wheeled the marquis to the stairs. He picked the chair up again and made his way down the stairs, calling out, “Make way there for the maestro!” in a booming voice. The crowd parted as the waters had parted for Moses, and Philippe continued to call out until Armand asked, “Could you please not be so loud, Philippe? You’re making—” He could not get the rest of the sentence out, and Arnaud Heuse said, “Here. I’ll get the door.”

They went in without knocking and found that Colin’s dressing room was already full. They all stepped back, however, as Philippe wheeled the marquis in. Colin went to him at once and took the thin hand that Armand held out.

“It was magnificent,” Armand whispered.

“All your doing, sir! All yours!”

The crowd listened, and one beautiful young woman, famous and rich and very prominent in the Paris social life, stepped forward and said, “I must congratulate you, sir, on your pupil.” The diamonds on her neck, arms, and hands glittered, but only slightly less than her eyes, which were fixed on Colin. “I must insist that you come to my home for refreshments.”

“Ordinarily it would be a pleasure,” Colin said quickly, “but I must get the marquis home. It’s been a trying time.”

“Then you must come, sir, next Tuesday. I’ll be waiting for you.” She swept away, and as she did, Heuse leaned over and said, “Stay away from that woman. She’s a carnivore. She eats opera stars for breakfast.”

Colin laughed. “Thanks for the advice,” he said, planning to fol-low Arnaud’s recommendation. He turned back and said, “Come now. We’ve got to get you to the hotel and then back home tomorrow.”

“I will never forget this night.”

“And I will never forget the years, sir, that you have given to me.”

Colin’s debut marked the beginning of a professional triumph. All of Paris was speaking about the young American tenor. No one could understand how anyone not European could sing so well! Colin found it amusing, more than anything else, and he spent a great deal of time avoiding the women who flocked to him.

But opening night had marked a decline in the health of the mar-quis. In the days that followed, he grew weaker, and by the time the month was out and Colin’s engagement was over, he was confined to his bed and growing weaker daily.

“I must tell you, Monsieur, that your benefactor is failing.”

Colin had caught the doctor leaving the house, and he said, “But you must be able to do something.”

Dr. Marteau answered sadly, “We doctors have no control over the final illness. It may come when a man is ninety or when a child is one, but when the good God decides that it is a man’s appointed time, there’s nothing we can do.”

“How long will he live?”

“At the rate he’s going, no more than a month. Possibly much less. I’m sorry. Stay very close to him, for you will lose him soon.”

The end came two months later, on a Monday evening at sunset. Colin was sitting beside Armand, looking out as the light faded in the west. The dying sun threw a crimson ray that tinged the clouds, and Colin watched as the sun seemed perceptibly to sink behind the hills to the west.

“Colin.”

Colin turned, and seeing something in the marquis’ face, he took the frail hand and said, “Yes, what is it, Father?”

“I—must ask you . . .” He had trouble continuing, and Colin leaned forward to catch the words. Gathering strength, the marquis said, “Many times I have asked you—to trust in Jesus Christ.” The silence seemed to fill the room, but the words echoed in Colin’s ears. He had once believed, but he had lost his faith after Jeanne died. He saw that life was leaving this man who had done so much for him, so he said quickly, “Yes, you have, my father, and I will put my faith in Jesus.”

“Will you do that right now, my son?”

Colin bowed his head. He felt the presence of God at that moment, and in a faltering, stumbling voice, he cried, “Oh, God, I have been a sinner all my life, and I am so sorry!” He began to weep, and for some time he could not utter a word. Finally he said meekly, “I ask you to save my soul, Father, in the name of Jesus! I believe He died for me! Forgive me, please, and make me Your child!”

Armand cried out with joy, “My son—my son! How happy you have made me! Now, give Him your life, my dear boy. Serve God with all your heart!”

The marquis lay quietly for five minutes, and then suddenly he stiffened, and his eyes opened. Colin saw that his life was fading. Armand smiled and put his hand up to touch Colin’s cheek. “Good-bye, my beloved son.”

The arm grew limp, and Armand lay very still. For fifteen minutes he lingered, and then he simply stopped breathing. Colin stood over the bed, holding the frail hand in his own. Tears filled his eyes. He leaned over, kissed the thin cheek, and whispered, “Good-bye, best of men.”

“I don’t understand what you’re doing,” Philippe said. “You are now the marquis, Lord Beaufort. Why are you leaving France for that awful country of yours?”

Colin was packing one of his trunks. He was taking most of his clothes with him. Three months had passed since the death of the marquis. The legal work had been done, many papers had been signed, and now Colin Seymour was the Marquis Lord Beaufort. He himself preferred the simple American name, but everyone on the staff and the lawyers insisted on calling him Lord Beaufort. “Why must you go to America? The last time you went, it was nothing but a tragedy,” Philippe protested.

Colin dropped the shirt into the trunk and turned to face Philippe. He smiled. “I promised Armand that I would follow Christ, but first, before I begin that life—” He hesitated and then said, “I have business.”

Suddenly Philippe, who, though uneducated, was a clever man, watched Colin carefully. His eyes narrowed, and he said, “It has some-thing to do with the man who shot the master, doesn’t it?”

Colin shook his head. “I refuse to talk about it. Let us just say that I have a chore to do before I can really begin living.”

Philippe gripped the young man’s shoulder. “You are now Lord Beaufort, but I think of you as the young man who came years ago. I never thought you would become anything, but now you are a man. And I say to you: avenge Armand de Cuvier!”

“That is exactly what I plan to do, Philippe. Then I will come back here.”

“It will be lonely until you return.” Philippe suddenly reached out, put his massive arms around the younger man and squeezed him, then turned and left the room abruptly. Colin stared after him, and his lips tightened. “Yes, just one more chore to do, and then I can think about life itself.”

PART TWO

• 1838 •

Simone

Chapter seven

The d’Or family usually gathered in the parlor after dinner if they were not going out. The parlor was one of the most comfortable rooms in the house. The large room was decorated very warmly with dark-green paint on the walls and brown rugs scattered on the highly polished wooden floor. The furniture—a large sofa, two side chairs, and three easy chairs—was upholstered in green damask and had hand-carved arms and legs of dark mahogany. The walls were deco-rated with colorful landscape paintings framed in gold and dark wood, and the fireplace was made of white marble with flecks of gold running through it. A small table, flanked by two of the easy chairs, had a brass and wooden chess set on it, and a desk took its place beside one of the two large windows along one wall.

Ordinarily Simone played either the harp or the pianoforte, both instruments she had mastered, but on this particular night she was engrossed in a new novel and had begged off. Her mother was work-ing on one of her interminable bits of sewing, while her father read the newspaper thoroughly. He was not a man who loved literature but studied the paper as if it were Holy Scripture.

Noticing his daughter’s intense concentration, Louis asked, “What are you reading now, Simone?”

Looking up, Simone smiled. “A new novel by the Englishman Charles Dickens. It’s called Oliver Twist.”

“What’s it about, my dear?” Renee asked. She was not a reader herself but was proud that her daughter was.

“It’s about a young boy, an orphan, who has a terrible life. He goes to London and is made into a thief by an awful Jew named Fagin. Before that, he had spent a terrible time in a poorhouse. It’s very moving.”

Louis d’Or shook his head with disbelief. “I don’t see why you want to read such sordid books. Surely there must be more pleasant novels.”

“I suppose there are, Papa, but Dickens has the ability to make things so real.”

“Those novels! They’re all nothing but lies. Just stuff made up out of some man’s head. If you want reality, listen to this.” He began to read from the paper.

More than fourteen thousand members of the Cherokee Nation from tribal lands in Georgia, Alabama, and Tennessee have been pulled up from their homes and transported eight hundred miles to the Indian Territory west of the Red River. General Winfield Scott oversaw the move in which it was estimated four thousand people, mostly infants, children and old people, died—most of them of whooping cough, pneu-monia and tuberculosis.

He lowered the paper and said, “There’s real tragedy for you. Not something made up out of a book.”

Simone looked at her father in disbelief. “Why did they move the Indians out of their homes?”

“Because they stand in the way of progress, my dear. It’s the old story. The weak must give way to the strong.”

“Well, I think it’s terrible,” Renee said indignantly, putting down her sewing. “After all, the Indians were here before we were.”

Louis laughed. He was a jovial man who could find humor in most situations. “If we followed that line of thinking, the Indians would be sitting on this very spot, naked and killing each other off with tribal wars. You wouldn’t have this beautiful home if somebody hadn’t moved them out.”

“Well, I don’t like to hear about such things as that. Please don’t read any more, Louis,” Renee said and went back to her sewing.

“None of us likes to hear about terrible things, but they exist. As a matter of fact, I think a real tragedy is shaping up for this country.”

“What do you mean, Papa?” Simone asked. She knew her father kept up with current events, and she herself was interested.

“This slavery thing, daughter. It’s going to blow up like a bomb one day.”

“I suppose you’re right. I read the other day in the paper that the abolitionists in the North have organized some sort of method of stealing slaves and taking them to nothern cities and Canada.”

“That’s right,” Louis said, “and it’s going to cause trouble. It’s called the Underground Railroad.”

“What in the world is that—a train?”

“No, not a real train, my dear. It’s just a manner of speaking. The abolitionists steal slaves from those of us who own them in the South and spirit them away. They take them to where slavery is illegal.”

“Not everyone in the North is sympathetic to that, Papa. A mob in Philadelphia burned down a hall there where people were having antislavery meetings.”

“People in the North don’t understand our problems. How in the world would we raise rice or cotton without slaves to do it? It takes a lot of people. We couldn’t afford to pay hired hands.”

The three sat talking about political problems, primarily about slavery, until Louis drew out his watch and opened the case. “Why, it’s getting late,” he said. “Where in the world is Bayard?”

“He went out with some friends,” Renee said.

Louis snapped the case shut, rubbed the back of the golden surface with his thumb, and shook his head. “I don’t know what’s going to become of that boy if he doesn’t settle down.”

“Well, he’s young, dear.”

“He’s twenty-five years old!” Louis snapped. He tugged at his whiskers and stared moodily at the picture on the wall across the room from him for a moment before answering. “I don’t like this notion of his of being an artist anyway.”

“But Papa, he’s so talented,” Simone said. “Monsieur Dupree at the art institute said he could be a great painter.” Simone had softened in recent years after watching the struggles of her younger brother.

“He’d be better off painting houses or doing something practical.”

“But suppose there were no painters,” she said, quick to defend her brother. “Look at how these pictures brighten up our room.”

“That’s all very well, but Bayard doesn’t work at it. I don’t think he’s serious. It’s not too late for him to find a real profession. He could become a lawyer.”

“Bayard would hate that,” Simone countered. “He’s a young man of imagination, and staying in a stuffy old office all day and studying dull documents would kill his spirit.”

“Well, he’s headed the wrong way.”

“Don’t be so hard on him, dear. He’ll find his way,” Renee said. “After all, he’s—”

A sudden loud knocking at the door brought Renee d’Or’s words to a halt. She said, “Who in the world can that be at this time of the night? It can’t be Bayard. He wouldn’t knock.”

“The servants must have gone to bed. I’ll see,” Simone said. She got up and walked quickly from the room, then turned down the wide hallway and passed through the foyer. She opened the door and saw her brother, Bayard, and Claude Vernay. She caught a quick breath, for Vernay was practically supporting Bayard, who was obviously inebriated.

“I brought the wandering prodigal home, Simone,” Claude said. He shook his head and said, “I’m afraid he’s a bit the worse for drink.”

“Come in, Claude.” Simone drew the door back and moved to help support Bayard, who was slumping in Claude’s grip. He opened his eyes and stared at her. “Who’s this? Oh, Simone, it’s you.”

“You’re drunk!” Simone said with disgust.

“Not drunk. Just had enough.”

“Will you help me get him to his room, Claude?”

“Certainly.”

The two steered Bayard down the hall, but when they got to the parlor door, Louis and Renee stepped out. Louis glared at his son and shook his head with disgust. “He’s drunk again.”

“No, not drunk, Father,” Bayard grinned foolishly.

Louis said, “Claude, I’ve spoken to you about this before. You’re ruining Bayard.”

“Not me, sir,” Claude protested. “I was home in bed. Leon Manville came and got me up. Bayard was in trouble, he said, so I got dressed, and the two of us went down. We pulled him out of a rough place. He was trying to fight everybody, but I had nothing to do with it.”

“Well, I apologize, Claude. Here, let me take him upstairs. Come on, Bayard.”

“I’ll go with you,” Renee said. The two held onto Bayard, who began singing a drinking song at the top of his lungs. His words were slurred as they led him down the hall.

“Come into the parlor, Claude, and tell me what happened,” Simon said after they had settled Bayard in his bed. Simone led him into the parlor and turned to face him. “I’m sorry you had to be dragged into all this.”

“It’s all right. I was glad I was there. It could have been rather nasty.”

Simone could not think of anything proper to say. She knew that Claude had been a bad influence in many ways on Bayard, although he professed to care for her brother. He was the sort of man who had influence—of a certain type—over others. She sat down in one of the easy chairs, saying, “Here, come and tell me all about it.”

Claude sat in another of the easy chairs and told her the details. “I know you think I’m a bad influence on Bayard, but honestly, I’m going to try to help him slow down on the drinking.”

“I hope you can. He’s throwing his life away,” Simone said. “I wish he’d stop drinking and start working more on his painting.”

“I’ll talk to him about that. I have already, but he’s young.”

“That’s no excuse.”

“No, I suppose it isn’t. I’m no priest to preach at a fellow, but I’ll do the best I can with Bayard.”

“I’d appreciate that, Claude.”

“I haven’t been able to see much of you lately. Have you been avoiding me?”

“Of course not.”

Claude studied her. He had pursued the woman for years, for the last year in the most fervent way he knew how. He reached over, took her hand, and said, “Have you thought about us, Simone?”

Simone let her hand remain in Claude’s. He was a strong man, virile, and he had a streak of romanticism in him. He was easily bored, she knew that, and had enough money that he did not need to work. He had a taste for the arts, and she had thought about his proposal long and hard. She could not explain to herself why she did not accept him—only a short while ago, she would have, but she had seen a rash and fiery temper in him. It seemed he was ungovernable, and of course, she knew his record of dueling. It was something that she was coming to find less and less appealing. At first such things had been romantic to her, but a good friend, Charles Daschelle, with a bright future, a young bride, and a young son, had died in a duel. It was a foolish, useless duel over a hand of cards.

“I just don’t think I’m ready for marriage, Claude.”

“Why, you’re twenty-four years old. Many of your schoolmates have already married.”

“That’s true, but I’m just not ready.” She stood up and said, “I’m really upset tonight, Claude. I can’t talk about this.”

“Well, come for a ride with me tomorrow.”

“All right, Claude.”

He reached out to embrace her, but she put her hand on his chest. “Not now. I’m just too worried about Bayard.”

“All right. I’ll be by tomorrow about one o’clock.”

“That will be fine. And thank you for bringing Bayard home.”

After showing Claude out, she went upstairs to find her mother coming out of Bayard’s room. “How is he, mother?”

“He’s drunk. How else can I put it?” It was unusual for Renee d’Or to be bitter. She was a sweet woman, agreeable almost to a fault, but now she was depressed. “Our only son, and he’s a drunkard.”

Simone put her arm around her mother. Squeezing her, she said, “You mustn’t worry about it. It will come out all right.”

“I don’t see how. I don’t see anything but trouble ahead for him.”

“Go to bed, mother, and try to rest.”

She watched as her mother walked down the hall and then looked at Bayard’s door. She herself had become doubtful about her brother’s life. They had been very close as youngsters, but Bayard had pulled away after getting caught up with the young bucks of New Orleans. Now Simone shook her head and went to her room, falling into bed soon after.

Sleep would not come, and she recalled Claude’s words, “Many of your schoomates have already married.” The words evoked memories of when she and her three friends who had been called the Four Musketeers during their schooldays at the convent. Simone had a vivid memory, and she relived the last time the four of them had been together . . .

The party was noisy, but none of the guests was more lively than Assumpta Damita de Salvedo y Madariaga! She floated around the room, followed by young men, but she refused them all. She drew her three friends Chantel Fontaine, Leonie Dousett, and Simone to her, saying, “Come, let’s hide ourselves and gossip!” Her dark eyes flashed, and she ran through the large room, leading the others outside. When they were alone, she said, “I’m going to tell your fortunes.”

“Why, fortune-telling is wicked!” Leonie Dousett was the least impressive of the three girls. She did not have the dark beauty of Damita, the blonde attractiveness of Simone, or the prettiness of Chantel—indeed, many considered her flatly unattractive. But there was a steadiness in her gray eyes, and her modest air set her off well in most company.

“Then we’ll be wicked,” Damita said, grinning. “Give me your hand, Leonie.” Ignoring the girl’s protests, she took her hand and studied it. “Ah, you will have a sea voyage—and you will meet a very handsome and dar-ing and rich man! He will fall madly in love with you. He is of noble blood! You will be Lady Leonie!”

Leonie pulled her hand away, laughing. “That is your fortune, not mine, Damita.”

“Here, tell my fortune,” Chantel said, extending her hand. She was a quiet girl who had grown even more reserved after the death of her father.She had an unfortunate history, losing her father, mother, and for a time, her only sister. But tragedy had not defeated her, and she smiled as Damita began to make wild predictions of her future. They all involved rich young men who were ready to die for her.

“I wish one of them were here now,” Chantel laughed. “I don’t need half a dozen—one would be plenty.”

“Now you, Simone,” Damita said, taking her hand. “Ah, I see a troubled future! You will have grief and loss.”

Simone laughed and said, “No, tell me good things, as you’ve done to the others.”

Damita grew serious. “You probably will have trouble, Simone—but then, we all will. Life is like that.”

Simone started as the memory came sharp and clear. She had kept up with the other girls after a fashion and knew that they were well—but none of the three had found a rich husband. She could not help thinking of how close the four of them had been, and now they were almost like strangers! A pang ran though her, sharp and keen, at the thought that something precious had been lost. She whispered, “I’ll have to get in touch with them.” But she knew that she probably would not. Life was like that—you touched a life and felt its power, and then it drifted away and became only a memory.

Rising early the next morning, Simone had breakfast with her father, and then accompanied him to his office—at least as far as the shops. She kissed him and stepped out of the carriage, saying, “I’ll need some money, Papa.”

“You always do,” Louis said. He sighed with resignation and handed her some bills from his pocket. “Simone, I’m upset about Bayard.”

“So am I, but we’ll both talk to him.”

“We’ve talked and talked, but nothing’s come of it. Come by and have lunch with me.”

“I’ll try, Papa.”

Simone made her way along the streets for an hour, shopping for a few small items. She stopped by the jewelry store to try on a ring that she especially wanted, an opal that would go with a new dress she had just bought. She was tempted strongly but did not have enough money to buy it at the moment. She said as much to the clerk.

“Certainly, Mademoiselle d’Or,” the clerk said, smiling. “When you purchase the ring, it will look very beautiful on your hand.”

Leaving the store, Simone decided that she would go visit one of her old classmates after all—but not one of the Four Musketeers. This was another friend from the convent named Marie. She made her way down to Royal Street and climbed the stairs to the second floor, where Marie had rented an apartment.

She knocked on the door. When it opened, she smiled and said, “Hello, Marie. I’ve come to visit.”

“Simone, I’m so glad to see you! Come in at once.”

Marie Devois was a large woman of twenty-seven, three years older than Simone. She was strongly built with the big chest of a singer. Her coloring was spectacular: red hair, flashing green eyes, and a beau-tiful peachy complexion. She wore too much makeup for Simone’s taste, but she had found Marie to be a good friend. Marie had been at the convent only one year and had been an older girl, but the two had become close during that time. Marie could not tolerate the discipline of the convent and left with the professed intention of becoming a singer at the opera. She had traveled quite a bit and led an independ-ent life for a woman.

“I’ll make some tea, and we can have some beignets.”

“Well, I had breakfast, but that sounds good.”

Marie fixed the tea and the two went out on the balcony, where they watched the crowd through the black grillwork. Several times men looked up and saw the two women; they called out greetings, lift-ing their hats.

“How’s your career going, Marie?”

“Oh, all right, I suppose. I’m a stand-in for Louise Perlotta.” She took a bite of the beignet, which left a dust of powdered sugar on her upper lip. She licked it off and turned to Simone. “I want you to help me pray for something.”

“Pray for what?”

“That she’ll break her leg!”

Simone laughed and shook her head. “I couldn’t pray for that.” She barely believed in prayer, but she still couldn’t ask for such a silly thing.

“Of course you can! She’s got plenty of money, and I don’t have any at all. If she broke her leg, I could become a star.”

“Think of an easier request.”

“All right. There’s a new opera going to be put on. It’s called Juliet. It’s written by a Frenchman named Cuvier.”

“Yes, I’ve heard of it,” Simone said. Marie had obviously not heard of her doings with the marquis, and she did not want to discuss them. “Tell me about it.”

“They say it’s beautifully done. The last work that Lord Beaufort wrote. That’s the older Lord Beaufort. His son now has the title. But it’s going to be a smashing opera.”

“You always say that, Marie.”

“Well, this time it’s true. The lead’s going to be sung by Lord Beaufort himself. He’s the sensation of the French opera, Simone, a nobleman, and I hear he’s frighteningly handsome.”

“I think his name is Colin Seymour.”

Marie stared at her. “I thought he was Lord Beaufort.”

“Well, Colin Seymour is his American name. Lord Beaufort is his title. And he wasn’t really the son of Lord Beaufort except by adoption.”

“Well, I want you to pray that I’ll get a role in that new opera! Everyone says it’s going to be the best thing that ever hit New Orleans.”

The two women chatted for a while, and then Simone rose to leave. “I hope you get the role, Marie. I may even actually pray about it!”

“If he’s as good-looking as they say, and as rich, I’m going to try for more than just a little singing part.” Marie winked and said, “I may get the fellow himself.”

“You mean fall in love with him?”

Marie laughed. “That would help, but it’s not entirely necessary. When a man’s got a title, looks, and money, love can wait in the closet!”

It was Monday, three days after Simone’s conversation with Marie Devois, that Simone found Bayard out in the garden. His easel was set up, and he was painting a picture of a spectacularly colorful bank of roses.

Standing beside him, Simone looked at what he had done and said, “That’s very good, Bayard.”

“I suppose it’s all right.” He turned and looked at Simone. “Are you still angry at me for coming home drunk?”

“It hurt Papa and Mama.”

“I know. I wish they wouldn’t feel so bad about my bad behavior.”

“How can they help it, Bayard?”

“It’s quite a burden being an only son.” He turned back, made several more passes with his brush, then asked abruptly, “Are you going to marry Claude?”

“Oh, I don’t know.”

“He’s very determined.”

“I’m not sure we’re suited for each other.”

“That’s not what he says.”

Simone did not want to speak of it and began to ask more ques-tions about his painting. He answered them absentmindedly. Finally he said, “Do you ever think about Lord Beaufort?”

“I haven’t forgotten him, of course.”

“The more I think about the duel, the more I hate it. Lord Beaufort was a nice chap, and he wound up a cripple. Do you feel any guilt about it?”

“Why should I feel guilt?” Simone answered sharply. “It was none of my doing.”

“Of course it was, Simone. The fight was over you.”

“I didn’t ask them to fight over me.”

“You didn’t do much to stop it, either. Well, it’s all in the past now, and I’ve done worse things. But do you remember Beaufort’s protégé?”

“Yes, his name was Seymour.”

“That’s right. Well, he’s back in New Orleans.”

“Yes, I’ve heard. He’s going to do an opera that his adopted father wrote.”

“How did you know that?”

“Marie told me. She wants a part in the opera.”

“Well, I’m worried. Claude has said something about Seymour. You know Seymour punched him at the duel. Claude doesn’t forget things like that. He may call Seymour to account for it.”

“You must try to talk him out of it, Bayard,” Simone said quickly.

“I have tried, but he’s not very reasonable about things like this.”

“I wish you’d find a different set of friends. Claude and his group aren’t good for you.”

“Why, I thought you were half in love with him.”

Ignoring his comment, Simone said, “They’re not the kind of people an artist needs. All they think about is drinking and wenching and going to balls. If you’re going to be a great artist, you’re going to have to work at it.”

“No sermons, Sister.”

“Well, I think they’re bad for you.” She suddenly took his arm, and he turned around to face her in surprise. “You’re the only son in our family, Bayard. Our hopes are in you.”

Bayard’s eyes softened, but he shook his head. “I’m just a prodi-gal, born to be so.” He dipped his brush in paint and returned to his work.

As Simone left, she thought of what he had said about Colin Seymour. I wish he had never come back, she thought. I’ll have to talk to Claude. He mustn’t fight the man.

Chapter eight

“Bayard, I want to speak to you about this young woman you’re tak-ing to the ball.”

Bayard, who was just putting the final touches on his tie, gave his father an odd look. Arching one eyebrow, he said, “You mean Miss Eileen Funderberg? Why would you want to discuss her?”

Bayard was standing in front of a full-length mirror, examining his costume, which consisted of a black-and-green silk waistcoat, a white shirt, black tie, a single-breasted long-skirted frock coat made of green velvet, and a pair of black trousers. He was a fine-looking man and had the art of making anything he put on look fashionable. Even his oldest clothes showed style and good taste.

Louis d’Or studied his son glumly. He had gone to Bayard’s room specifically to speak with him on a rather touchy subject, but now he seemed to have difficulty finding the words. He paced up and down the room for a moment, pulling at his beard, which was beginning to show signs of gray. Finally he blurted out, “You’ve got to be careful how you treat this young woman, Bayard.”

“I’m always careful with young women.”

“No, you’re not.”

Bayard turned, slightly shocked. “Why, what do you mean, Father?”

“I mean you do what you please with young women. And to be blunt about it, with Claude Vernay’s crowd, you’ve been running with the wrong kind of young women. Do you think I don’t hear the sto-ries of things that you and your friends have done?”

“I’ve guarded myself against bringing any disgrace on you, sir.”

“Well, you’ve got to be cautious tonight.” Taking a deep breath, Louis said, “Eileen Funderberg’s father, Oscar, is an important man in this town. He’s also a man filled up with family pride.”

“I thought you liked family pride.”

“I do, and I wish I saw more determination in you to have it.”

“I’m sorry I disappoint you, Father.”

“No, you’re not sorry, Bayard. Don’t pretend you are.” Sadness came into Louis d’Or’s voice, and his shoulders slumped. “I don’t know what to think of you. You’re smart, fine-looking, and you could be anything you want to, but all you do is play with paint and run around after women at these Creole balls and worse. I’m ashamed of you, Bayard.”

Bayard flushed. “I know you are. To tell the truth, I’m ashamed of myself.”

“Then why don’t you change, son? Why do you keep pursuing this disastrous lifestyle?”

“I don’t know. I wish I did.”

Louis threw his hands out in a gesture of despair. “Your mother and I want the very best for you, and your sister, too, of course. I’ve been against your becoming a painter because it seems a frivolous occupation to me, but if that’s what you want to do, then by heavens, be a good one! You’re nothing now but a dabbler. You need to find something and throw yourself into it with all of your heart.”

Bayard d’Or listened as his father continued to speak passion-ately. He had grown pale and could find no argument to confront his father’s words. He was, indeed, rather weary of the endless round of parties, balls, hunts, and other social functions that had filled his life since he was seventeen years old. For a time he had been excited about becoming an artist. He knew he had talent, but he did not have drive. His professor of art had grown angry at him. “You are throwing your life away,” he had shouted, “and your talent also! I’m fed up with you!”

The professor’s words seemed to echo in Bayard’s memory, and he stood silently as his father continued to speak. Finally, when he saw an answer was expected, he shrugged his trim shoulders and said, “I wish I were a different sort of man, but I’m just what I am.”

“But people can change, son.”

“Maybe some people. I don’t seem to be one of them.”

Louis stood silently, his lips drawn tightly together. Of all the dis-appointments in his life, Bayard’s failure to grow up and become a man of purpose, a man who counted, was the keenest. He said wearily, “Well, we’ve argued about this for years now, but I want to tell you that you must not play with Miss Funderberg’s affections.”

“I have no intention of doing so.”

“You never have an intention of doing so, as you put it, but her father is a good friend of mine. He’s also very protective of his daugh-ter. There have been enough young bucks trying to marry her for her money, and he’s suspicious. If you have any sense at all, you won’t trifle with her.”

“I think I can promise that, Father.” Bayard pulled at his tie and said, “She’s a nice girl, but not at all the sort of woman that interests me.”

“Then why did you ask her to the ball?”

“Mother talked me into it. I wish she hadn’t.”

Louis stared at his son, then turned and walked out. As he reached the door, Bayard said, “Father, I’m sorry I’m not the kind of son that you had hoped for.”

“I haven’t given up, Bayard. You need something to bring you out of this mood of helplessness. You are our hope. You’ll bear my name, and I hope you will bear it proudly. That’s my prayer.”

The door closed, and Bayard sat down. He leaned forward, put his forehead against his open palms, and sat slumped over, the picture of misery. Finally he lifted his head and whispered, “I just wish you had a better son, but you don’t.” He got up then, and thoughts of the ball were almost painful. He liked Eileen Funderberg well enough, but he knew that she was not the kind of woman who could make him happy, nor indeed the kind he could make happy. He moved toward the door, wishing that the evening were over.

The ball was held at the rotunda of the St. Louis Hotel—the same place sometimes used during the daylight hours to sell slaves. The mayor had spared no expense to make a spectacular scene.

The room was large and very ornate. The walls were white, the floors marble, and chandeliers of delicately cut crystal hung in a line down the middle of the room. These were lit with hundreds of candles. Tables stretched along one long wall of the room and were covered with fine, white linen. The finest china and crystal dishes held delicate foods of all sorts. Damask-covered chairs of gold, green, and blue lined three of the four walls of the room, and along the back wall was the orchestra, sitting four deep in a half circle.

As Simone entered the ballroom holding Claude’s arm, she whis-pered to him, “The mayor is going all out.”

“Yes, he is. I expect all this money could have been spent better on something else—but I can’t think of what that might be.”

Music filled the room, and Simone and Claude glided around the floor. They knew almost everyone, and soon Bayard entered with Eileen Funderberg on his arm. She was a small girl with cinnamon-colored hair and light green eyes. When the dance concluded, Simone and Claude walked over to greet them.

“Eileen, you look beautiful,” Simone said and kissed her cheek.

“Thank you, Simone. Of course, you outshine everyone here.”

The two talked for a moment, and then the orchestra—which Simone noticed was the same one that played for Enoch Herzhaft’s opera house—provided the music. They were excellent musicians, and Simone enjoyed herself.

Thirty minutes after Simone and Claude arrived, the mayor, George Ahern, stepped up on the podium. As soon as the music stopped, he said, “My dear friends, I have already welcomed you to the dance celebrating my daughter’s betrothal, but I have a very spe-cial treat for you.”

“He’s probably going to take up a collection to pay for this party,” Claude whispered.

Simone shushed him but smiled. “I think he’s got enough money to take care of that himself.”

“I am happy to announce that we have a very special guest with us tonight. Some of you are aware that the Marquis Colin Seymour, Lord Beaufort by his title, has come to our fair city to put on an opera by his late, lamented father. Lord Beaufort, as some of you who follow the opera know, has become the sensation of France with his performances there in Paris. I have prevailed upon the marquis to favor us with a song. Lord Beaufort, we await with expectation your offering.”

Simone was shocked. She stared at Colin Seymour, who stepped up on the podium and stood smiling over the crowd. I would never have known him! she thought. Then the orchestra began to play, and he sang an aria in Italian from Julius Caesar by Handel. Simone could not believe the tone and the quality of Seymour’s voice as he sang. There was a sweetness to it that she had never heard in the voice of any man, but at the same time a robust power that she knew he held back; he could have rattled the chandeliers if he had chosen.

And his appearance! He had gained weight and wore a plain gray suit with a frilled white shirt and no ornament except a simple ring on his right hand. More than that, he had matured beyond belief. When she had seen him before, he had been almost a callow youth, but now there was strength in every aspect of his body and maturity in his face. He was clean-shaven, and his skin was a slight bronze. The freshness of his complexion made his cornflower-blue eyes even more notice-able, and she saw that time and something else had tempered him and made him into a man of purpose and determination.

Colin sang the love song, which was humorous at times, and his eyes reflected the quick wit that lay behind the words, but when he reached the part of the solo that called for the profession of love, there was something real and startling about him. She knew that most singers were poor actors indeed, standing woodenly on the stage, not moving except from one side of the stage to the other. But Seymour moved his arms and once lifted his hands when he held a note that spoke of his feelings for his beloved.

When the song ended, the crowd burst into a spontaneous ova-tion. People called, “Bravo!” just as they did at the opera, and Simone saw that Colin Seymour took the applause with dignity, smiling and bowing slightly and finally stepping off the podium.

“Well, he’s back.”

Simone turned to look at Claude. “Yes, he is. He looks so different.”

“I agree. He’s moved up in the world. Come, let’s dance.”

Simone caught the curtness of Claude’s voice and noted the hard look that came into his eyes. She started to say something about what Bayard had warned her of, but she decided it was not the place. She moved around the floor, and then when the music ended, they applauded. Simone turned with Claude to leave the floor, but Mayor Ahern met her instead.

“Ah, Miss d’Or, how lovely you look tonight.”

“Thank you, Mayor. How kind of you to say so.”

“I say only the truth. But Miss d’Or, you must allow me to intro-duce our guest to you. I promised him a dance with the most beauti-ful woman at the ball, and of course, you can’t refuse.” He turned and said, “Lord Beaufort, may I present to you Miss Simone d’Or. Miss d’Or, the marquis.”

Simone could not move. Very rarely in her life had she found herself completely speechless. She was aware of Claude’s standing on her right, and that he had gone stiff, but her eyes were fixed on Colin Seymour. She hadn’t expected to have to converse with the man she’d only fought with previously. A tiny smile tugged at the corners of his lips, and as he stepped forward and bowed slightly, he said, “It’s been a long time, Miss d’Or.”

“Yes, it has.”

Mayor Ahern was surprised. “Oh, you’ve met before!”

“Yes. It seems like a long time ago,” Colin said. His eyes went to Claude Vernay, and their gazes locked. Something passed between them, and then Colin said, “Our dance, I believe, Miss d’Or.” He stepped forward, and without thinking, Simone accepted his arm. He led her back onto the dance floor. When she turned toward him, he was considering her in a strange way. The music started, and he put his arm behind her waist. She lifted her hand, and he took it, and they began to move around the floor. He was an excellent dancer, but Simone was silent. She could think of absolutely nothing to say. He was, unexpectedly, as fine a dancer as she was herself.

“You’re looking very well, Miss d’Or.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Simone had thought much about the terrible thing that had hap-pened to Armand de Cuvier. She had heard little about his life, really only once. A friend had visited the Beaufort estate and she had over-heard him telling someone else, “It’s a real tragedy. Armand de Cuvier died still stuck in that wheelchair. He was such a lively, cheerful man before, and his life seemed to have been stolen from him.”

The words came floating back to her, and she tried desperately to think of some way to express what she felt. She remembered the scene when the man who now held her in his arms had begged her to stop the duel, and she had coldly refused. She had changed, she knew, for if such a thing happened today, she would react much differently.

“You’re doing well professionally, sir.”

“Yes. I’ve been very fortunate.”

“You’re not married.”

“No, I’m not.”

“I’m surprised.”

“Well, music leaves little time for such things. You’re not married either.”

“No, I am not.”

Simone was conscious of Colin’s masculinity. He was holding her loosely enough, but still, from time to time, they brushed against each other, and she knew that if they had had no past history, she would think of him as one of the most attractive men that she had ever met.

The dance ended, and they both applauded. Then he extended his arm, and taking it, she allowed him to lead her off of the floor. “I wish you well with your opera.”

“Thank you very much, Miss d’Or.”

When they reached the open area off the dance floor, Claude Vernay was waiting. His eyes were hard and adamant, and he spared no look for Simone.

“Thank you for sharing your partner, Mr. Vernay.”

Vernay listened to his words, seeming to hunt for something deeper than their surface meaning. “I see you are back, Mr. Seymour.”

“Yes, the bad penny shows up again.”

“I think, sir, we have some unfinished business.”

Colin paused for one moment, and the two men stared at each other. “I’m always at your service, sir.”

“Please, Claude, I would like some refreshment.” Simone took his arm and gently tugged. Reluctantly he wheeled, and as he walked toward the refreshment table, he said, “I can’t stand that fellow!”

“Claude, we’ve got to talk about this.”

“About what?”

“About the marquis. I know how you are about things like this.”

“He struck me, and I haven’t forgotten.”

Simone stopped, and he turned to meet her gaze. She was look-ing up at him with an intensity that he had seldom seen in her eyes. Her back was straight, and she said clearly and distinctly, “Claude, I will not be fought over again. I am not a bone that two dogs will battle for.”

“Why, Simone—”

“I mean what I say, Claude. If you pursue that stupid quarrel any longer, I will never speak to you again. Do you understand me?”

“But my honor is involved.”

“No, your pride is involved. I’m not going to argue. You have my word that if you fight this man, I will never speak another word with you as long as I live.”

Claude Vernay watched Simone turn and walk purposefully away. He knew very well that beneath the beautiful exterior, Simone d’Or had a will of iron. He had laughed at it before but always felt that he could get around her. Now as he followed her off the dance floor, he knew that she meant exactly what she said. I’ve got to get at that fellow, but it won’t be easy. His mind was working as he took the glass of wine an attendant handed him, and when he turned back to Simone, he said nothing. His eyes were on the Marquis Lord Beaufort as he danced with a woman, his head high and his smile bright.

Chapter nine

“Well, my dear Colin, that was a fine ball the mayor gave last night.”

“Very impressive.”

“I saw you dancing with Miss d’Or.” Herzhaft hesitated and stud-ied Colin’s face. Seeing no expression there, he said, “I take it you two have made up your differences?”

Colin did not answer. The two were sitting in Herzhaft’s office to discuss launching the new production of Juliet. In all truthfulness, it had taken some effort for Colin to show no response when Herzhaft had mentioned Simone d’Or. He had been shocked to realize how deep his feelings toward the woman ran. Ever since the duel, he had struggled with his emotions and usually lost the battle. Toward Claude Vernay he felt no ambiguity. He despised the man and had come to America with the idea of revenge. All of the long months and arduous labor that he put into making himself into an expert swordsman—not to mention the hours spent with a pistol in practice—he had found himself picturing Vernay as his opponent.

His feelings toward Simone d’Or were more ambivalent. He had remembered her as a haughty woman filled with pride and had known that she had despised him as one beneath her station. What he had forgotten, however, was the beauty of the woman. She had grown, if anything, more attractive during the years he had been gone, and as he had danced with her, he felt himself drawn to her in a way that made him despise himself. He had been glad when the dance was over, and he could concentrate on Vernay.

There in Herzhaft’s office, though, he knew better than to bring Herzhaft into his personal life. “We have little enough in common, I think. And the duel was a long time ago.”

“I’m glad you can put it behind you. It was a tragic thing.”

“Indeed it was.”

“Well, I can’t tell you how excited I am about doing this opera. Imagine, the introduction to the world of Juliet by Armand de Cuvier! It’s such a privilege, and I can’t thank you enough for choosing me as your producer.”

Colin could not help but smile slightly as he thought, I chose you only because you were in New Orleans, and I was determined to come back and get my revenge on Claude Vernay. Aloud he said, “You are a good producer, Enoch, and I trust we are going to have an outstand-ing opera.”

“I have had singers from everywhere begging for a part. The audi-tions will be today, as I told you.”

“That’s good. I think we need to get the major parts assigned as quickly as possible.”

“We won’t have any trouble with the chorus. I have a good stable here, better than when you were here the last time. Do you have any preferences about who will sing the role of Juliet?”

“None whatsoever.”

“Well, you’ll have your pick of some very fine voices.” He pulled out a watch as big as a turnip from his waistcoat and looked at it. “It’s time. I think they’ll be waiting. Nobody will be late today, I think.”

Colin was growing tired. He had already selected the singer who would play Mercutio after listening to several candidates, and then he had heard three women who had come to audition for the part of the nurse—a very key figure in Shakespeare’s drama. “Are there any more?”

“One more. Next,” Enoch called loudly.

Colin watched the woman as she crossed the stage. He straight-ened up. “Why, it’s Rosa!”

“Yes, Rosa has gone downhill a little bit. She can no longer sing leading roles.”

Colin listened, and as Rosa Calabria sang, sadness gripped him. She had grown very heavy, which didn’t matter as far as the nurse part was concerned, but he remembered her as a beauty, and she had lost that. “What happened to her, Enoch?”

“Hard living. She fell in love with a baritone. He treated her abominably, and she took to drink. I didn’t want her to audition, but she insisted.”

“She’s still got the voice,” Colin whispered. When the song was over, he got up, vaulted over the front seats, and walked around to the stairs leading to the stage. “Rosa, it’s good to see you.”

Rosa halted, and he saw tears come into her eyes. “Hello, Colin,” she whispered.

Colin stepped forward and took her hand. “I’m so glad to see you again. I’ve thought about you often.”

“I’ve thought about you too.”

“You were such a help to me. I’ve never forgotten.”

“That—that seems like such a long time ago.”

Colin smiled and said, “I’ll be seeing you.”

Hope flared in Rosa’s eyes. It was obvious that she was not used to good news, and she whispered brokenly, “Thank you, Colin,” and slipped off the stage.

Two hours later, Colin had listened to three sopranos trying out for Juliet’s role, all of them adequate. The trouble was that one of them was nearing forty and looked it, and Juliet was closer to thirteen or fourteen. Another was much younger but was also short and chunkily built with none of the slender, lissome quality that he pictured in the romantic heroine. The third was a possibility, but in all truth Colin was not thrilled with her vocal range.

“Do you like any of them?” Herzhaft whispered. He was sitting in the second row of seats with Colin, and his face was anxious. “They’re all qualified.”

“Yes, I suppose they are.”

Herzhaft said, “I don’t want to pressure you, but Margaret Fleming is the sister of the governor. It would give us some prestige to have her sing the part of Juliet.” Fleming was the third of the singers who looked the part of Juliet, more or less, but whose voice was rather weak, in Colin’s opinion. “I’ll think about it.

Colin looked around and asked, “Are there any more auditions for the lead role?” No one answered, and he nodded, saying, “Thank you all for coming. We will be letting you know our decision by tomorrow. If any—” At that moment a voice cried out, “Just a minute, sir!” He turned to see a young woman charging down the aisle of the theater.

“Yes, Miss, what is it?”

“Please, I’m sorry to be late. I was detained.”

Colin waited until she had stepped up on the stage. She was an impressive-looking woman with exotic coloring. Her hair was bright red, and she had green eyes deeply set and beautifully shaped. Her lips were full and mobile, and she had a perfect body for an opera singer: tall, barrel-chested, and well padded. “What is your name?”

“I am Marie Devois.”

“Well, Miss Devois, you’re not very prompt.”

“I am sorry, Lord Beaufort.”

“Mr. Seymour will do. You want to try out for the leading role?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very well. Let’s hear what you can do.” He went back to sit with Enoch and asked, “What do you know about this girl?”

“She’s a good singer. Great voice and a good actress too. She just hasn’t had a break yet. But I really think that the governor’s sister would be the best choice.”

“You’re a politician, Enoch. I’m not.” Colin listened as the woman sang an aria from Rossini’s opera La Cenerentolea. It was not a well- known opera but it had always been a favorite of Colin’s. He leaned forward halfway through, his attention fully fixed on the woman. The role of Juliet was highly important, and he knew that this one had the capability.

When she finished, he stood up and said, “Thank you very much, Miss Devois. Now, once again, you will all hear one way or another tomorrow. Thank you all for coming.”

Enoch asked, “Do you want to talk about the candidates?”

“No, I’ve heard them. I must make the decision myself.”

“Very well. Can you do it by tomorrow morning?”

“Yes, I think so. We need to begin rehearsals day after tomorrow.”

Enoch left, and for a while Colin wandered around the theater. He moved around the stage from one place to another, trying to get some feel for it, and he was almost ready to go when he heard his name called. “Mr. Seymour?”

Colin turned to see Marie Devois, who was standing in the aisle close to the orchestra pit. “Please, may I speak with you?”

“I don’t think that would be fair, Miss Devois.”

Marie ignored his words. She climbed the steps to the stage and stood directly in front of him. “I don’t always play fair.”

Colin could not help but smile. “Is that right? Then I must be very careful with you.”

“Opera stars never do. In the last opera I was in, the two female singers hated each other. Right in the middle of the performance one of them leaned over and whispered to the other, ‘Your right false eye-brow is falling off.’ Immediately the other woman pulled off her left eyebrow to make them match—only the right one hadn’t fallen off, and the audience laughed uproariously.”

Colin laughed. “I suppose all is fair in love, war, and opera.”

“I don’t want to ask for special consideration—” Marie stopped and laughed. She had a delicious, deep laugh. “I, of course, do want special consideration. We all do.”

“I liked your singing very much.”

“I know the pressure will be on you to pick Margaret Fleming.”

Colin blinked in surprise. “I hadn’t known it was that obvious.”

“Well, it’s always been that way with Margaret. She gets roles because of who she is, not because of how well she can sing.”

“That’s a rather bad thing to say about a woman behind her back.”

Marie gave Colin a direct look. “I’d say the same thing to her face, sir.”

“I believe you would. Well then, tell me why I should choose you rather than any of the other ladies.”

“Because none of them will work at this like I will. I may not be as attractive as some of the others, but I’m sturdy. I can sing for eight hours at a stretch, and I will. I’m big enough to take the hard work that opera demands. Nobody knows any better than you how hard it is.”

“Indeed you are right, Miss Devois. People often don’t understand how arduous opera is.”

“Please give me a chance. That’s all I can say.”

The woman strangely moved him. Colin knew something about being on the bottom of the heap. He had been there, and he admired her pluck and her determination. Perhaps it wasn’t fair to ask for a spe-cial treatment, but as he looked into her green eyes, he saw a fierce, driving desire, and he liked that. He felt also something of the passion that was in the woman, and not just from music. He was not a wom-anizer, but there was a powerful aura about Marie Devois that he could not miss. She was a woman made for love in every sense of the word, and it troubled him that she managed to stir him simply by looking into his eyes. Quickly he said, “Well, you’ll have to wait just like all the others, Miss Devois.”

“Yes, sir. I just wanted to let you know that I will do anything to get this role, and I will give it everything that’s in me.”

“I believe you.”

Marie was pacing the floor when the knock sounded. Quickly she turned and ran to the door and flung it open. Disappointment swept across her face. “Oh, it’s you, Simone.”

“Well, nice to see you, too, Marie,” Simone said, surprised at her friend’s ungracious welcome. “Can I come in?”

“Yes.”

Simone closed the door behind her. Marie’s shoulders were droop-ing, and anxiety showed in her face. “What’s wrong, Marie?”

“I don’t think I got the role I wanted in the new opera.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry!”

Marie shrugged her shoulders, and bitterness pulled her lips thin. “I didn’t much expect to. You know that the governor’s sister was try-ing out for the role of Juliet.”

“Yes, I heard about that.”

“I’m sure she got it.”

“But you can sing so much better than she.”

“That doesn’t seem to matter.” Marie sat down, and Simone went over and sat beside her. She took Marie’s hand and said, “I’m so sorry. I wish I could help.”

“Well, it’s just part of this business. There’s more heartache in it than there is in selling dresses in a shop.”

Simone set out to try to cheer Marie up, but she had little success. Finally a knock at the door sounded, and Marie said, “That’s probably the note telling me that I haven’t been accepted. I didn’t think I’d even get that.”

She got up and walked to the door, and when she opened it, she stood stock-still.

“Hello, Miss Devois.”

“Mr. Seymour!” Simone jumped up and saw Colin Seymour standing in the doorway. His eyes swept past Marie’s and met hers. “Oh, you have company.”

“Oh, it’s just a friend of mine. Come in, please.” She stepped aside, and Colin entered. “This is Miss d’Or,” Marie said quickly.

“Yes, we’ve met.”

Simone nodded.

“I’m a little late. I sent your note by messenger, but I put the wrong address on it. I wasn’t aware that you hadn’t received it until thirty minutes ago.” He handed her the note and said, “You can open it, but what it says is that you will be in the opera.”

“You mean in the chorus?”

“Don’t be so negative, Miss Devois,” Colin smiled. “You are my Juliet.”

Marie let out a glad cry. She grabbed Colin’s hand and kissed it enthusiastically. “Oh, sir, how I thank you! How I thank you!”

Simone saw that Colin was embarrassed, but he laughed and said, “You won’t be kissing my hand next week. You’ll probably be calling me vile names.”

“Never!”

“You say that now, but I intend to make this opera the finest in the country—even if I have to kill all of us to do it.”

“Nothing will be too demanding. Oh, Simone, did you hear?”

“Yes. I’m so happy for you, Marie.”

Colin said, “Rehearsal begins in the morning. Have a good break-fast. You’ll need it.” He gave a slight bow to Simone and said, “Good to see you again, Miss d’Or.”

“I think you’re making a wise choice, Mr. Seymour. Marie has a wonderful voice, and I know she’ll be a great success.”

“That’s why I chose her.” He turned and said, “Tomorrow at nine, Marie.”

“I’ll be there.”

Marie closed the door and flew to Simone. She picked up the smaller woman off the floor and practically crushed her. “Isn’t he wonderful?”

“Don’t break my ribs, Marie,” Simone said, laughing. But then she kissed Marie and said, “Congratulations. But as he said, you may hate him before it’s over.”

“Have you lost your mind? How can I hate a man who’s giving me this chance? Besides,” she said, and a smile spread across her face, “he’s rich and has a title and is good-looking and can sing like an angel. Do you think I’m going to disappoint a man like that? There will be some romantic love scenes in this opera, and I’m going to do what any diva would do.”

“What’s that?” Simone asked.

Marie’s eyes danced. “I’m going to be sure that not all the roman-tic love scenes take place on stage.”

Simone laughed, but she knew that Marie Devois was a passion-ate woman. “I don’t think he’s that kind of man,” she said.

“They are all that kind of a man when the right woman finds them.”

Chapter ten

“Bring another bottle—and be sure it’s not any of your rotgut. I want the best you have.” Claude Vernay, who was stooped over the table, lifted his head and glared at the waiter. “And bring some clean glasses. Don’t you ever wash dishes in this place?”

Byron Mayhew leaned back in his chair and studied Claude care-fully. He had joined Vernay at the Blue Rose, one of the less-attractive saloons in New Orleans, earlier in the evening. The two of them had played cards, and Vernay had drunk steadily from a full bottle that was now empty.

“You’re hitting that bottle pretty heavy, Claude.”

“So what? What are you, a preacher of some kind?”

Mayhew shrugged and glanced out at the dance floor, where Bayard d’Or was dancing with one of the hostesses of the Blue Rose. She was an overblown woman of some indeterminate age. Her face was painted, and her laughter was shrill. She was pressing herself as close to Bayard as she could, and her skimpy, low-cut dress left little to the imagination.

The cheap woman fit well in the Blue Rose, Mayhew thought. The room was hazy with smoke, and the smell of raw liquor, cheap per-fume, and cigar smoke made an unpleasant mixture that seemed to choke him. The piano against the wall made a cacophonous racket, and the dancers seemed to have no connection whatsoever with the music. Most of them staggered around the floor, clinging to each other. The sounds of quarrels and cursing and the high-pitched laugh-ter of the women was enough to deafen anyone.

“Let’s get out of here, Claude. This place is no good.”

“It’s good enough for you.”

“You’re quarrelsome tonight.”

“Why not? Do I have to be smiling all the time to make you happy?”

Mayhew did not answer. When Vernay was in one of these moods, there was no reasoning with him. He wondered why he wasted his time with Claude Vernay. They had been friends for years, but it seemed to Byron that the man was getting coarser. When he was younger, he had had flashing good looks and charm, but some-thing seemed to have gone wrong in Vernay’s life. He’s really going downhill fast, and I suspect it has something to do with his failure with Simone d’Or. Mayhew’s thoughts were interrupted as Leon Manville approached the table, dragging a tall woman with rouged cheeks and bad teeth. She had eyes harder than agates, and her smile was cold. “Come on, let’s have a drink, Roseanne.”

“Fine with me.” The woman fell into a seat, and as the waiter brought the bottle, Manville picked it up and stared at it. He was a tall man with dark brown hair and light hazel eyes. There was a coarseness in his face, and he had allowed himself to get out of condition so that his belly hung over his belt. “Everybody have a drink. Come on, Claude. You look like a funeral.”

Vernay glared at him and said, “Shut up, Leon, and keep your remarks to yourself.”

“What’s the matter with you? A fellow can’t say anything to you.” He poured the drinks for himself and the woman, they drank up, and then he dragged her out on the floor again.

“I’m about ready to get out of here, Claude. This place is depressing.”

“What’s your hurry? It’s only ten o’clock.”

Looking out on the floor, Byron kept his eyes fixed for a moment on Bayard, whose partner was practically pushing him around the floor. “Bayard’s drunk. He can barely stand up.”

“He can’t hold his liquor.”

“You’re not going to please Simone by getting her brother drunk.”

Claude tilted his glass up, drank the liquor, and then refilled it. “I can’t stop him from drinking. He’s a full-grown man.”

“But you could stay away from him. You told me how Simone felt about it. What’s the matter with you, Claude? You used to be brighter than that. You want to marry the woman, don’t you?”

“I will, too.”

“Not if you keep getting her brother drunk. Simone is a proud woman. The whole family is ashamed of Bayard, and you’ve become the villain in their eyes.”

Vernay shook his head and put both arms on the table. He stared at his hands, clasped them into fists, and looked up. His eyes were cloudy with drink, and he said harshly, “I can’t forget Seymour.”

“You’d better forget him, Claude.”

“He struck me and knocked me flat. You saw it.”

“He was younger then, and he was upset about his teacher. They were more than teacher and pupil, I think. The fact that the marquis made Seymour his heir proves that.”

“He thinks he’s something special with his singing and his title, but I haven’t forgotten. I’ll never forget.”

“There’s nothing you can do about it.”

“I can slice him to ribbons or put a bullet in his brain.”

“A duel? Don’t be a fool,” Byron said shortly. “He’s an important man. You got in trouble enough by shooting the old marquis.”

That was true enough, and it left a bitter picture in Vernay’s memory. After the duel, Vernay had lost his popularity. Shooting the older man in the back had not sat well even with the dueling element of New Orleans. Vernay protested that the man had whirled at the instant he shot, but few listened to him. He had also had a visit from the sheriff of the parish, who warned that he could bring charges against him. Somehow Vernay had escaped that, but the memory of it was still raw in his mind.

“Maybe I can’t fight a duel with him, but someone else could.” Vernay’s eyes lit up then, and he studied, as steadily as he could, the young man in front of him. Mayhew was a smaller man, slightly over five foot six. He had fair hair and steady gray eyes, and he was study-ing the law under an uncle. For some time Vernay and Mayhew had not been as close as in days gone by, and Vernay was aware of it. Still, he had to try. He leaned forward, his eyes taking in the younger man. “You could do it, Byron.”

“I could do what?”

“You could fight Seymour.”

Byron shook his head. “You’ve had a great deal too much to drink. In the first place, I could get killed, which would interfere with some things I’ve got planned. In the second place, I don’t have anything against the man. He hasn’t done anything to me. And in the third place, he’s a prominent man. Get that in your head, Claude. Anyone who kills him or even hurts him would be up for some pretty stiff charges. You almost went to jail for shooting the old man.”

“You’re making too much of it. He’s not that important.”

Byron shook his head. “I’m going. You’re not making any sense.”

“You’re not much of a friend, are you, Byron?”

“Not enough to kill another man for you. Take my advice, Claude: forget about this.”

Byron Mayhew got up and left. Leon Manville stumbled back and threw himself down in the chair that Mayhew had vacated. “Where’s Byron going?”

“Home, I guess. Who cares?” Vernay studied the other man, noting the brutality of the features. Leon Manville had come from a fairly good family, but when his family died, he had taken over the business and run it into the ground. He endured bankruptcy, and now he lived on a small annuity plus what he could pick up gambling.

Vernay studied Manville and made up his mind quickly. “You’ve been having a hard time. Short of money, aren’t you, Leon?”

Cursing, Manville poured another glass of whiskey, downed it, and slammed the glass on the table. “Yes, I’m short of money! I haven’t had the breaks.”

“You really haven’t. Things have been tough. Well, I’ve got a little job that needs doing that I’ll pay five hundred dollars for.”

Manville leaned forward. “Five hundred dollars? What’s the job?”

“You know the trouble I had with the marquis.”

“I heard about it. Shot the old buzzard in the back, didn’t you?”

“Wasn’t my fault. He turned just as I fired. But anyway, he’s dead now. He adopted a man named Seymour, and he’s the one you probably heard about that struck me after the duel.”

Manville laughed roughly. “I heard he put you right on your back.”

“He did, and I haven’t forgotten it. I can’t fight him because I’ve been warned off by the sheriff. But you could, Leon.”

Manville leaned forward. “You want me to put a bullet in him?”

“Yes, and I wouldn’t care if you put it right between his eyes.”

Manville was quiet for a moment, then he grinned. “I’ll do it for a thousand. Not a penny less.”

“We’ll talk about it.”

“Is he a good shot? Has he ever been called out?”

“I doubt it. Remember, Leon, this is strictly between us, and if it happens, you’ll have to make him challenge you. I know how you could do it: insult him in public. If he’s any kind of a man, he won’t stand for it.”

Manville rolled the glass around in his thick fingers while staring at his friend. “You carry a grudge pretty good.”

“It’s what I do best.”

Manville looked over at the dance floor and remarked, “Bayard’s really drunk. Maybe we’d better take him home.”

“Let the fool take care of himself.”

“That’s fine with me. About this job—are you in a hurry?”

“No. It’s got to look right. I’ll teach him that nobody can hit me and get by with it.”

“All right, d’Or, get up.”

Bayard had been lying on a cot that stank abominably. The light through the window of the jail struck him in the face, and he sat up slowly, holding his head. “What is it?” he groaned.

“You’re gettin’ out of here. Get your coat and your hat.”

Bayard slowly put on his coat, jammed his hat down on his head, and stumbled out of the cell. He followed the jailer down a long cor-ridor flanked by cells on both sides and passed through two doors, finally stepping into the main office of the city jail of New Orleans. He stopped abruptly, for his father was standing beside a long counter. Behind the counter an officer was filling out a paper. He said, “Sign right here, Mr. d’Or.”

Dreading what was to come, Bayard shuffled over to stand beside his father, who said nothing but signed the paper and handed over the cash that the officer demanded. Then Louis d’Or turned without a word and left the office. As Bayard followed him, one of the offi-cers laughed loudly, saying, “I’ll see you soon, Bayard. You like our accommodations. I reckon you’ll come back.”

The sunlight was bright in Bayard’s face. He waited for his father to speak, but the older man didn’t say a word. Bayard braced him-self for the lecture as the two walked down the boarded street. When they reached the carriage, Bayard started to get in, but his father stopped him.

“We’ve got to have an understanding.”

“All right, Father. Let’s have the sermon.”

“No sermon. Not this time.” Louis d’Or was flinty as a rock, and his eyes were hard and glittering. Something in them sobered up Bayard. He straightened his back and said, “I don’t want to hear any admonitions, Father.”

“You’re not going to hear any, but you’re going to hear an ulti-matum. I’ve put up with you as long as I intend to. You have embar-rassed your father and especially your mother. Both of us are ashamed to call you our son.” Louis d’Or had spoken this firmly before, but the disgrace that Bayard was bringing upon him made his face dark and drawn. His words were sharp, and they struck Bayard almost like bullets.

“I should have taken steps long before this. I was too lenient when you were younger, but I thought you had more stuff in you than to become a drunk and even worse. You’ve caroused with the worst kind of lowlife women in New Orleans. You come home stinking drunk, and your mother has to see you. Well, Bayard, I’m telling you right now:

I’ll have your word this moment that you will not drink anymore.”

“I’m old enough to make those decisions myself, Father.”

“Decisions for what? Decisions to stay a drunk? Is that what you want out of your life?”

Bayard felt the sting of his father’s words down to the very center of his spirit. It was not that he did not know what sort of life he was living, for he did. He had purposed many times to leave his lifestyle and change it for something better. Actually, he loved and revered his parents, but something in him kept him from embracing the life they desired for him. The memories of past scenes like this one flashed before him. Always before his father had relented, and as Bayard faced him, he expected the same thing now.

“I can’t promise you I won’t drink anymore. I’m not a boy, Father.”

“No, you’re not a boy. You’re a miserable excuse for a man.”

“I won’t hear that kind of talk!”

“You’ll hear it from me right now. You don’t understand, Bayard. I’m telling you, unless I have your word right now that you’ll change your life and stop this useless drunkenness and chasing after women, I’ll not have you in my home.”

“That suits me fine.”

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Bayard regretted them. He said, “All I can promise is I’ll try to do better.”

“I’ve heard that before, Bayard. It won’t work this time. Give me your word right now. No more drinking at all, and no more of the company you’ve been keeping.”

“I can’t give that word to you. I’m a grown man.”

“All right. I’ll have your things sent to you. I don’t want you com-ing back to my house.”

“You’re throwing me out?”

“You’re throwing yourself out, Bayard! I was so proud when you were born, and when you were growing up, I saw a goodness in you—a lot of your mother. But when you grew into manhood, you began to take the wrong paths. I wasn’t stern enough with you then. Maybe it’s too late, but I’m starting now. Send word where you want your things sent. And don’t come to me for money, for you won’t get any.” Louis climbed into the carriage, shut the door, and then leaned out of the window. “Your mother and I will pray for you, but until you change your ways, you are no longer my son. Go on, Robert.”

The carriage driver spoke to the horses, and they started out at a brisk trot.

As soon as Louis got home, he went to his wife. She was in the parlor, sewing, and when she looked up and saw his face, she asked, “What’s wrong?”

Louis sat down beside her on the sofa and took her hand. “I got Bayard out of jail.”

“Well, that’s good. Where is he?”

“He’s not coming home. Not until he changes his ways, Renee.”

“What do you mean, ‘not coming home’?” Renee dropped her sewing and turned to face him. “What happened?”

“I gave him an ultimatum. We can’t go on as we have been, and I told him so. In a way it’s my fault, I suppose. I did a poor job of rais-ing him.”

“You were always a good father.”

“No, I wasn’t. I was too indulgent. Both of us were, I think.”

Renee began to cry. She pulled out a handkerchief and buried her face in it, sobbing softly. Louis put his arm around her and said, “I know this is hard on you, but we’re going to have to let him find out for himself what life is really like.”

At that moment Simone entered the room and was startled by her mother’s weeping. “What’s wrong?” She sat in the chair across from them as her father explained what had happened. Her face grew still, and she said, “I’m not sure that’s the right thing to do, Father.”

“There’s nothing else left to do.”

“But if we cut ourselves off from him completely, we won’t have any influence on him.”

“Influence! What kind of influence do we have now?” Louis said in an agonized voice. He got up and began to pace the floor. “I know you two are opposed to this, but he’s going to ruin himself completely if something isn’t done.”

Both Simone and Renee knew that when Louis d’Or was in a mood like this, there was no arguing with him. He had made up his mind. Still, Renee said, “He’ll starve on his own.”

“Let him go hungry. He’ll come back one day when he finds out what it’s like out there in the real world.”

“I’m afraid, Papa. I’m afraid for Bayard.”

Louis d’Or’s face twisted, and both women saw with shock that there were tears in his eyes. “I’m afraid, too, my dear, but we have to do something, or we’ll lose him forever.”

Simone glanced out the carriage window. “Robert, are you sure this is the right address?”

“Yes, Miss Simone,” he said from the driver’s seat. “This is the street. According to the numbers it ought to be in the next block.”

Simone looked at the broken-down section of New Orleans. She had found out from Byron Mayhew where Bayard was living, and after a week she could stand it no longer. She had to see him!

“I think that must be the place right there, Miss.”

Robert helped Simone step out of the carriage. “No place for you, Miss,” he warned. “I wouldn’t want to be here after dark.”

“That’s why I came at noon.”

“I’d better go with you inside.”

“No, you wait here with the carriage.”

“Yes, ma’am, but if you ain’t out soon, I’ll be in to look for you.”

“Thank you, Robert.”

Simone looked up at the two-story building with a faded sign reading Royal Hotel. As she entered, she smelled decay and other rank odors as well. Going over to the desk, she found herself facing a tall woman, bigger than most men, and broader. “I’m looking for Mr. Bayard d’Or.”

The woman grinned, revealing large, yellow teeth. “Up on the sec-ond floor. Room 203.”

“Could—could someone go up and get him for me?”

“This ain’t the St. Louis Hotel. You’ll have to go up yourself. You’ll be all right. If anybody bothers you, just holler. I don’t put up with anything here.”

“Thank you.” Simone walked over and climbed the stairs that were fastened loosely to the side of the wall. The treads gave under her feet, and the carpet was worn down, revealing the bare wood. She followed the dark corridor to the room and knocked on the door.

“Who is it?”

“It’s me, Bayard—Simone.”

After a long time, the door opened. Bayard stood unshaven in a pair of filthy trousers and a once-white shirt without a collar. “Wel-come to my humble abode.”

Ignoring his sarcastic tone, Simone stepped inside. It was a single room with a window that had been broken and was covered with some sort of paper. She could hear the street sounds.

“Have a chair. It’s the only one,” Bayard said. He sat down on the bed that was unmade with unwashed covers. “How are you?”

Simone was disgusted and shocked at Bayard’s appearance. His cheeks were sunken in, and he looked as if he had been ill for a month. He had been away from home only a week, and yet he had gone downhill in every way: his hair needed trimming, his fingernails were grimy, his clothes were gray and smelly. He had always been a fanatic about cleanliness, and he had descended to this.

“Bayard, I want you to come home.”

“I can’t. Didn’t Father tell you his terms?”

“Are they so very bad? Would it be worse than this?”

“Yes, it would. This is bad enough, but I’ve got some prospects. I’ll be out of here soon.”

“Mother is grieving herself away.”

Bayard looked down at his hands. “I’m sorry about that,” he said. “But I can’t just give in to Father.”

Simone begged and pleaded for fifteen minutes but got nowhere. He was angry, she saw, and hurt. Finally Bayard stood, saying, “There’s no point in arguing, Simone. Thank you for coming, but I’ll be all right.”

“At least let me give you some money.”

“I don’t want your money.”

Simone was fumbling in her reticule, but she saw the anger in his face and knew that it would be useless to protest. She went to him, pulled his head down, and kissed him on the cheek. “We all love you, Bayard. Please, don’t do anything desperate.”

Bayard cleared his throat and said, “Thank you for coming, Simone. I’ll be all right. Don’t tell Mother how bad this looks. Lie a little bit.”

“Yes, I’ll do that. Please—think about what you’re doing.” She turned and left the room, descended the stairs, and returned to the carriage. Robert opened the door. “Did you find him, Miss?”

“He was there.”

She got in the carriage, and Robert asked, “Be he comin’ home— Mr. Bayard?”

“I don’t think so. Now, take me back home, Robert.”

Chapter eleven

Simone had worried herself almost sick over Bayard, and on Thursday morning she got up and spent the day trying to put the whole thing out of her mind. This proved to be impossible, and finally, late in the afternoon, she went to her mother and said, “Marie’s invited me to come to one of the opera rehearsals. I think I’ll go.”

“Don’t be out too late, dear.”

“No, I won’t, Mother.”

Leaving the house, Simone had Robert take her to the theater. When she got out, she said, “Why don’t you go get yourself something to eat?” Reaching into her reticule, she pulled out a bill and handed it to him. “Have a nice supper on me.”

“Thank you, Miss.”

Simone turned and entered the theater. There was no one at the door, and as she stepped inside, she was surprised that the theater was completely empty except for those on the stage. The stage was lit up, but the rest of the theater was dark. She had been in the opera house only during actual performances, and there was something gloomy about the rehearsal setting. She walked down to the front, aware that the orchestra was there, but only Marie and Colin were on the stage. He was speaking to her in a low voice, and Simone took her seat, wondering where the rest of the cast was. She must have made some sort of noise, because Marie looked out and saw her. “Oh, Simone, you came!”

“Yes. I thought I might like to see a rehearsal.”

“Not a very good day for that, Miss d’Or. The rest of the cast is finished. Marie and I are working on a number that’s rather difficult.”

“Would you rather I leave?”

“No, but I don’t think it will be very entertaining.” Colin Seymour seemed distracted, and he turned to the orchestra leader and said, “Let’s try it again, Steven.”

“Yes, my lord.”

As the music rose and filled the theater, Marie and Colin dis-appeared into the wings, and then after a few moments Marie came out slowly. She was not wearing the costume that would be worn in the opera but a simple, cream-colored dress that set off her red hair. She began to sing, and Simone understood just enough Italian to know that Juliet was singing of yearning for her lover to return.

As Marie’s song ended, Colin stepped out from the opposite side of the stage. He stopped and looked at her and then began to sing a beautiful song. His voice was clear and very muted, soft, and gentle. As he continued to sing, the volume rose, and Marie turned to look at him with surprise. The two of them came together and blended their voices in a duet. When it was over and the orchestra was still playing, he kissed her in a lingering fashion.

Simone saw that Marie was making the best of the kiss. She was clinging to him, pressing herself against him. When the music died, Colin stepped back and shook his head. “It’s still not right, Marie. We’ll have to do it again.”

“But we’ve done it five times.”

“We’ll do it five more if we have to.”

“I need to take a break, Colin.”

“All right. Take fifteen minutes. This song is the key of the first part of the opera. It must be done right, or we’re lost.”

Marie sighed. “I’ll be back, and we’ll try it again.”

Marie left the stage, and Simone saw Colin look at her. He leaned over and said, “Why don’t you take a break, too, Steven, you and all the orchestra?”

The orchestra members began to chatter, and Colin walked down the steps and stood in front of Simone. “It’s not much like the real thing.”

“No, it’s not. I guess I never thought about how much work went into an opera. All I’ve ever seen is the finished product.”

“Sometimes I think that’s the hardest part, the getting ready. Shakespeare said, ‘Readiness is all.’”

Colin stretched himself, arched his back, and shook his head. “I’m just about groggy with rehearsal, and by now everybody in the cast hates me. The orchestra, too.”

“Oh, I’m sure that’s not true.”

Colin smiled, which made him look much younger. “Well, I guess the trick is to keep those who don’t hate me away from those who do. That way maybe we can all last without someone kill-ing me.”

“How is Marie doing?”

“Very well indeed. She has a fine voice.”

“I like the part you just performed. Tell me,” she said, “I’ve never been into drama, but I’ve wondered. That—that kiss between you and Marie. Does it mean anything?”

“It’s part of the opera.”

Simone was puzzled and did not know how to ask the question. “It seems such an—well, intimate thing to do.”

“I think professionals get over that.”

“You mean you can hold a beautiful woman in your arms and kiss her and feel nothing?”

Colin laughed and sat down on the chair in front of her. Turning around, he said, “I’d be a liar if I said that. I suppose the professional thing is to put it aside, no matter what you feel.”

“It must be very difficult.”

“Just part of the work.”

The two sat for a while, Colin speaking of the difficulties of pro-ducing an opera, when he suddenly stood and peered into the gloomy part of the theater, up toward the front doors. “What is it? Can I help you?”

Simone turned around to see a roughly dressed man enter. He was a hulking figure and wore his hat pulled down low over his face. “I’m lookin’ for a woman named d’Or.” He pronounced it Door.

“I am Miss d’Or,” Simone said. She stood. The man was obvi-ously from the lower rung of society, and she could not imagine why he would want to see her.

“I’ve got a message for you, Miss, from your brother.”

“From Bayard?”

“Yes. He’s in trouble.”

Simone’s hand went to her throat. “What’s the matter? Is he hurt?”

“Not yet, he ain’t.” The man grinned, but it was not cheerful. “But he’s liable to be if somebody doesn’t come to where he is.”

“Where is he?”

“He’s in a place over on Rampart Street. It’s called Sally’s Parlor. You know it?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Well, it’s just down the street from Jackson Square, like I say, on Rampart Street. You keep goin’, and you’ll see Sally’s Parlor—and don’t bring no police, neither!”

“What’s wrong with my brother?”

“Like I say, he needs help. I reckon you’d better get there pretty quick.” The man turned and left, and Simone watched him, speech-less. She picked up her reticule and said to Colin, “Excuse me.”

“Wait a minute,” Colin said as she reached the end of the line of seats. “You can’t go down in that part of town by yourself.”

“I have to.”

“No, you don’t. Stay right there. I’ll go dismiss the cast, and I’ll take you.”

Simone wanted to refuse, but he gave her no chance. He walked over to the leader of the orchestra, who was smoking a cigar and laughing with one of the musicians. He spoke with him, and then he turned and got his coat, picked up a cane, and put his on hat. “Come along, Miss d’Or.”

“I really shouldn’t let you do this, but I don’t have time to go get my father.”

“It sounds urgent. It might be wise to send word to the police.”

“But he said not to do that.”

“All right. As you wish. Let’s go.”

“Oh, my driver will be coming back sometime soon. He’ll have no way of knowing I’m not here.”

“I’ll leave word with one of the stagehands to tell him not to wait.” Colin delivered the instructions, then the two left the theater, and Colin hailed a carriage. He opened the door, put her in, and said to the driver, “Rampart Street. You know a place named Sally’s Parlor?”

The driver grinned and said, “I knows it. It ain’t your kind of place, sir, if you don’t mind my sayin’ so.”

“It is today. Take us there.”

Colin got in and sat down next to Simone. He saw that her face was pale and said, “Try not to worry. Things aren’t usually as bad as they seem.”

“We’ve had—difficulties with Bayard.”

“Well, maybe this will be a simple matter.”

“I hate to ask you to bother yourself with my troubles.”

Colin shrugged. Actually he was half-amused at his own actions. He would not have imagined himself going to any trouble for this woman who had shown him nothing but an arrogant spirit. That had been some time ago, though, and as he glanced at her, he saw the fear that kept her drawn up tight with her fists clenched. He knew that, at least for now, he had gotten past some of his animosity toward her.

Neither of them spoke until the driver pulled up in front of a shabby three-story building. “There’s Sally’s Parlor,” he said as Colin got out and helped Simone step down to the pavement. He took the money that Colin gave him and asked, “Should I wait, sir?”

“I think you’d better.” He handed him another coin and said, “There’ll be another of those if it takes longer. I’ll pay whatever your time is worth.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Taking Simone’s arm, Colin led her to the front door. “It’s a pretty coarse place. Why don’t you wait in the carriage while I go find out what the problem is?”

“No, I have to go with you.”

“Very well.”

They entered and found what they had expected, a bar with dis-reputable characters drinking and shouting and loose-looking women dancing. A burly man in a striped shirt approached the couple. His hair was slicked back with grease, and he wore a black tie. “What can I do for you, sir?”

“We got word that a man named Bayard d’Or was in some difficulty.”

The burly man grinned. “Back there—first door on the right. It’s a private party, so knock before you go in.”

“Thank you.”

Colin and Simone walked down the short hallway, found the door, and Colin knocked on it. It opened almost at once. “What do you want?” the individual demanded.

“My name’s Seymour. This is Miss d’Or. We’re looking for her brother, Bayard.”

“Well, come in, mate. My name’s Tyrone.”

Tyrone was a wolfish-looking man of some six feet, lean, with a patch over his left eye. He was dressed in the attire of a typical gam-bler but was obviously one of the rougher sort. As they stepped inside, Simone saw that there were three other men in the room in addition to Bayard, who had risen to his feet. “You shouldn’t have come here, Simone.”

“Now, don’t be like that,” Tyrone said and grinned. There was a feral quality about the man, and Simone felt repulsed at the very sight of him. His single eye gleamed as he looked at her, and his face twisted in a leering expression. “We’ve got a little problem here, Miss d’Or. Your brother here has been gambling with me for some time. I’m ashamed to mention it to you, but he ain’t actin’ like no gentleman.”

Bayard was half-drunk, at least. His clothes were wrinkled. His shirt was stained, and his hair hung down in his eyes. “Get out of here, Simone. This is none of your business.”

“But Bayard, you sent for me!”

“No, I didn’t.”

Simone looked puzzled and asked, “How much does he owe?” It was hard for her to speak, but she faced the man as squarely as possible.

“Nine hundred dollars.”

“Simone, they just sent for you to get your money. The game was crooked. I won’t pay it,” Bayard said defiantly.

“That’s always what a cheater says,” Tyrone grinned. “Ain’t that right, fellas?” The three other men in the room looked as dangerous as Tyrone. It was clear to Simone and Colin that they comprised some sort of setup that fleeced unsuspecting victims.

“He ain’t leavin’ here until we get it, and we’re gonna rough him up if we don’t get our money right away.”

“My father will pay it,” Simone said quickly.

“No, he won’t! Don’t you ask him, Simone!”

“Be quiet, Bayard.” Simone said, “My father is Louis d’Or. He’s a prominent man in the city. I promise you he’ll pay the nine hundred dollars.”

“Well, Missy, ordinarily I would take a lady’s word, but your brother here has put this off long enough. I got to have more than a word. I’ve got to have cash.”

“Please let him go!”

“Sure. I’ll let him go,” Tyrone said. He moved closer, and Simone could smell tobacco and alcohol on his breath. “And you stay here with me. He can bring the money back from Papa.” He reached out and took Simone by the arm, but Colin stepped forward and struck a sharp blow on his bicep.

“Take your hands off the lady,” he said pleasantly.

“And who might you be?”

“Just a friend. I’ll give you some good advice, Tyrone. Let Mr. d’Or make you out an IOU. The lady says that her father will pay it. I suggest you take her word for it.” Colin felt the tension in the room and wished Simone were outside. “Come, Bayard. Make out the IOU.”

Bayard stared at him and could not think clearly. “I’ve already made out an IOU,” he said thickly.

“Then we’ll leave. I’ll promise you as a gentleman, you’ll get your money.”

Tyrone laughed. “‘As a gentleman.’ Well, that makes it all right, because gentlemen never lie, do they?”

Simone could not think clearly. She had never been exposed to real danger, and danger lay in the room thick as a blanket. She shot a quick glance at Colin and saw that his face was calm, but he did not take his eyes off Tyrone. “Please,” she said, “I promise you you’ll get your money.”

“I’ll get it all right, but I’ll take a chunk out of your brother there while we’re waiting.”

“He’s leaving with us, Tyrone. Come along, Bayard.”

Simone gasped when Tyrone pulled a knife. He did it so quickly that she barely caught the action. It was a long-bladed knife, and he held it out in front of him, pointed at Colin. His voice was deadly as he said, “Get yourself out of here, Mister, before I cut you wide open.”

Colin suddenly pulled at the top of his cane, and it separated from the rest. Simone saw that he held a gleaming sword almost three feet long. She had seen sword canes before on display but had not dreamed that Colin would have one.

Tyrone leaped forward, stabbing with the knife, but Colin’s sword moved and caught the man in the arm. The steel cut him, and Tyrone cried out and dropped the knife to the floor.

Things happened very quickly then. Tyrone yelled, “Get him!” and all three men leaped to their feet. One pulled a pistol from his belt, but Colin dropped the cane from his left hand and pulled a small pistol from his belt. He shot quickly, and the man grabbed his own shoulder, the pistol clattering to the floor.

Colin said in a grating voice, “There are more bullets in here. Which of you would like to have one between the eyes?”

Two of the men were bleeding badly, Tyrone holding his arm, pain etched on his face. The other man slumped back in his chair, hol-lering, “Get me a doctor! I’ve been shot!”

“You’ll be all right. You other two, pull your pistols out with your finger and thumb. If you do it wrong, you’ll never know it. You’ll be dead.”

Simone watched as the two men pulled out their pistols and put them on the table. Then Colin stooped to pick up the one that had been dropped. He reached inside Tyrone’s coat, pulled out another gun, and said, “Take these pistols, Miss d’Or.” He waited until Simone had picked them up and said, “Take your brother outside.”

Bayard’s eyes were wide with shock. The explosion of violence had sobered him up, and he followed Simone without question. When the two were outside the room, Colin said to Tyrone, “You got off easy. I could have put that sword in your throat.” He stooped down, picked up the hollow part of the cane and put the sword back in, all the time keeping his eye on the four. “I expect you’ll get your money. If I hear of you troubling Miss d’Or anymore, I’ll have to come back and fin-ish what I’ve started.”

“I won’t forget this,” Tyrone gasped, holding his bleeding hand.

“I hope not,” Colin said coolly. “I’ll leave your weapons at the bar.” He stepped outside and shut the door. After depositing the weapons with the barkeeper, the three stepped quickly outside. Colin helped Simone back into the cab. He turned to Bayard and said, “You’d better go home with your sister.”

“No, I won’t do that.” He turned to Simone and said, “Tell Father not to pay. That was a crooked game.” He turned and walked off unsteadily.

“Shall I go get him?” Colin asked.

“No, it would be useless.”

Colin got in the cab and gave the d’Or family address to the driver. He saw that Simone was trembling and said, “I’m sorry you had to see all that. It wasn’t very pleasant.”

Tears ran down her cheeks. Her shoulders began to shake, and she put her face down in her hands. “Bayard—Bayard!” she cried. “What’s going to become of you?”

When they reached her house, Colin stepped out and helped her down. She turned to him, and he saw that her eyes were desperate.

Strangely enough, at that moment Simone had the clearest mem-ory of the time he had come to her, begging her to get the duel between Armand and Claude called off. She remembered how cold she had been when she had refused. Shame flooded through her, and she said, “You have no reason to think well of me or to help me, but believe this, sir: I thank you from the bottom of my heart. Accept the thanks of my family and myself.”

Colin was struck by the vulnerability that he saw in her face. He was relatively sure that she was not a woman who cried a great deal. Perhaps she had had nothing to cry about, but this had brought her face-to-face with one of the ugly realities of life. He felt a sudden gust of compassion, and when she put her hand out, he took it and held it for a moment, then leaned forward and kissed it. “I think you’ve changed for the better, Miss Simone.”

Simone’s hand seemed to burn where his lips had touched it, and when he released it, she dropped her eyes, unable to meet his. “I hope so,” she said.

Colin asked, “Did you ever hear of the ancient science of alchemy?”

“I—don’t believe so.”

“It was the search of scientists in the Middle Ages to turn base metals such as lead into gold.”

“Is such a thing possible?”

“Not with cold metals, I believe—but there is an alchemy of sorts. It occurs when a heart that is cold and hard is turned into one that is warm and gentle and tender.” His grip tightened and he whispered, “I think I’ve seen something very close to this kind of alchemy in you, Simone.”

Simone lifted her head and saw a depth in his eyes she had never noticed before. His words were like balm to her wounded spirit, and she whispered, “That was a lovely thing to say.”

She felt like weeping and murmured “Good night,” then turned and went into the house. As soon as she was inside, she leaned back against the door and closed her eyes. She knew that Colin Seymour had saved her, and Bayard, from a great deal. She did not dare to think what. As she heard the carriage drive off, she thought how strange it was that this man she had once so disdained had put himself in dan-ger for her. “I don’t understand him,” she whispered. Then she straightened up and went to find her father, dreading what she had to tell him.

PART THREE

• 1838 •

Bayard

Chapter twelve

A banging noise awoke Bayard from a deep sleep. With a groan, he rolled over and peered around for a moment, not recognizing his sur-roundings. Then a voice said, “Get up! Do you hear me? Get up!”

Groaning, Bayard sat up in the bed, then paused as a sharp pain struck him in the temples, almost forcing him to lie down again. The banging and the voice continued insistently, and finally he called out, “All right! All right, I’m coming!”

Getting up, he stifled a cry as the pain hit him again. The taste of stale liquor in his mouth and the pain in his head made him feel as bad as he ever had in his life. He was still dressed, and he vaguely remembered falling into bed after drinking a quart of whiskey. Staggering to the door, he shot the bolt and opened it.

“Well, I thought maybe you was dead.” The speaker was a tall, slatternly-looking woman. Snuff ran out the edges of her mouth. “I want my money, you hear me? And I wants it now!”

“I’ll get it to you today.”

“That ain’t good enough. You said that yesterday and the day afore. You pay up, or you get out.”

Bayard felt the room reel. He shut his eyes for a moment. He said, “I’ll have it today.”

“If you don’t, I’ll throw your stuff out in the street. You pay me or out you go!”

Bayard slammed the door, and the noise seemed to echo inside the confines of his skull. He leaned against the door with both hands and waited for the room to stop spinning. Then he straight-ened up. He had eaten practically nothing, and the hangover was fierce. It was as if someone were driving steel spikes into both sides of his skull.

Finally he walked over to the wash basin, lifted the pitcher, and drank the tepid water thirstily. He poured the remainder into the basin, leaned over, and sloshed his face. The water helped clear his mind, and as he dried with the filthy towel, he knew he had to do something. With a vague idea of trying to sell his easel and his paints, he pulled on his dingy white hat and left the boardinghouse. As he slammed the front door, he heard the landlady calling after him, “Mind you, money or you’re out!”

He looked in his pockets and found that he had nothing. He remembered losing the last five dollars he had in a penny-ante poker game at some bar. Hunger gnawed him. He had been drunk for over a week and had eaten only when the mood struck him. He wandered into two shops and offered his equipment, but in both places the pro-prietors took one look at the rickety easel and box of paints, mostly dried, and laughed at him.

When noon arrived, he finally came to a conclusion: “I can’t go home again. I’ve got one canvas left. I’ll paint a picture. Someone will buy it for a few dollars.”

Weak and nauseated, he started walking out of town eastward, toward the bayou. He had walked for over an hour and was growing weaker when a wagon passed by, driven by a black man. Bayard waved his hand and asked, “How about a ride?”

The black man drew up and stared at him. “You wants to ride with me, suh?”

“I’m going out to the bayou.”

“Yes, suh, I go close. Get in.”

“Thank you.”

Throwing his equipment into the bed of the wagon, Bayard climbed up into the seat. He was feeling worse by the moment.

“Been lots of rain lately. The swamp pretty high.”

“Yes, it has been wet.”

“You not huntin’ no ’gators, is you?”

“No, I’m a painter. I’m going to paint a picture of some of the wildflowers by the swamp.”

“Plenty of them.”

That was the extent of the conversation. An hour later, Bayard got down out of the wagon with his equipment and nodded. “Thanks for the ride.”

“You welcome, suh. You be careful. Bad ’gators in that swamp could eat you whole.”

“I’ll watch out.”

Bayard began walking toward the swamp. Fifteen minutes later, he was out of sight of all humans, and the smell of humus was thick in his nostrils. He watched as mallards rose in squadrons above a group of willows, trailing in long, black lines across the sun that was yellow as an egg yolk. He continued to walk, and the big cypress trees began to grow thicker. He could hear the bass flopping, breaking water, and more than once he saw the solitary V-shaped ripple of a nutria swimming through the dark waters. Bayard splashed through the muddy pools that began to gather, keeping his eye out for the beautiful, wild orchids. He passed through large areas green with lily pads clustering along the bayou’s banks. They were bursting with flowers, and he muttered, “I can come back and paint the lilies if I don’t find any orchids.”

On and on he walked, until the trees hid the sun overhead, and the air grew cooler. Once he stirred a flight of egrets, and a blue heron lifted its long legs carefully, its long beak darting down on a fish. Bayard’s breath grew shorter, and finally he reached the very center of the bayou. The air was moist and cool, and it smelled of fish and mud. There was also the smell of something dead that lay heavy in his nostrils. Finally, stepping over roots and struggling with his easel, Bayard came to a spot where he caught the colorful gleam of the wild orchid.

“Now,” he muttered, “I’ve found you.” The water was around his ankles, but he sought a dry spot, spread the easel, put the single canvas on it, and opened the case of paints. He felt disgusted at how sparse his supply was, but grimly he began to work.

For two hours he tried to transfer reality to canvas, and as some-times happened, he grew so consumed with the act of painting that he forgot his hunger and the headache that continued to nag at him. He reached a point where the paint seemed to flow onto the canvas, and he wished that he had more of the brilliant colors. Still, he did the best he could.

Twice he stopped to rest, and once, with his back against a tree, he dozed off. He slept for over an hour and came awake with a start. “Got to finish this blasted painting! Don’t want to get caught in the dark in this bayou.”

He stayed with the work until finally he had done the best he could. He admired the painting for a moment, and he thought, If I worked at this, I would be really good. Remorse filled him as he thought how he had squandered his talent, but hunger growled like a live thing in his belly. He folded up the canvas, closed the paint box, and put it under his left arm. He carried the easel with his left hand, and the painting he held with the painted side away from him. He started back and paid little attention to where he was going. He thought of how pitiful a sight he had become. Shame rushed through him as he realized what he had thrown away.

He suddenly realized that he was wading in water up to his knees. Looking around, he saw nothing familiar. “I came this way,” he mut-tered. “I must have.” He surged forward, but the water grew deeper. “It can’t be.” Bayard turned and traced his way back, and for the next fifteen minutes he followed a track that he thought he had taken into the bayou, but then, too, the water grew deeper. “This is wrong,” he said. He tried to ascertain his direction, but the sun was low in the west, and the shadows were deep in the bayou. He heard the sound of a bull ’gator grunting somewhere and grew afraid. He found another path and started stumbling, hurrying to get out. He nearly fell once, and finally the path he had chosen faded out completely into vegeta-tion that seemed to close around him.

His fear deepened, and Bayard started to run blindly. A root tripped him, and with a cry he fell across a rotten log coated with green moss, his painting flying into the water. He put his arms out to brace himself, but his chest crashed onto the log, and suddenly a pain struck him in the left bicep. Bayard jerked madly and glimpsed a bit of white. He didn’t recognize it at first, thinking it was a flower, and then he saw it was the inside of the mouth of the biggest cottonmouth he had ever seen! It was as big around as his own arm, and with a cry of panic he threw himself over backwards. He scrambled to his feet and saw the huge snake glide away from him.

But his arm! He tore the button off his sleeve, pulled it up, and saw the deadly twin punctures.

Fear can drive a man into frenetic activity, or it can stun and para-lyze him so that he cannot move. Bayard d’Or stared at the twin punctures and remembered the stories he had heard of the deadly cottonmouth. “I’ve got to try to find help,” he gasped. He started walking, stumbling through the water, but he had not gone far before he began to feel the effects of the poison. It burned like fire, and five minutes later he felt so ill that he tried to vomit. He leaned forward on his hands and knees, retching. The ground was dry beneath him, and finally the heaving stopped. He knelt, willing himself to get up, but all around him the swamp was growing darker. He was lost, his body was full of deadly poison, and a terrible dizziness was overtaking him. He cried out, “Help! Somebody please help me!”

The echo of his own voice came back to him, and he realized the futility of the attempt. He called out again, this time not for human help. “Oh, God, I’m dying! Help me, God! Don’t let me die in this swamp!”

Again the echoes of his voice came back to him. He felt the presence of live things around him moving in the dark waters. Night was coming on, and he bent over and touched his head to the ground, covering it with his hands and crying out again, “Oh, God, don’t let me die! Please don’t let me die!”

Chapter thirteen

The darkness that surrounded Bayard seemed to be almost pal-pable— soft, thick, and warm as a blanket. But at other times he felt a coldness like the frozen northlands where snow eveloped every-thing. These two extremes covered him, and he cried out at times, for one seemed as painful as the other.

The voices he heard seemed to come from far away. He strained and tried to make them out but failed. They were the voices of strangers, and he felt frightened that there was nothing familiar in his world of blinding whiteness and stygian darkness. One of the voices came more often than the other, and in time he came to look for it and to try to make sense out of the words. He was not able to do this, but the voice had a soothing tone, and that comforted him.

The sense of touch was within this world, wherever it was. Besides the burning heat or bitter chill, he felt hands touching him, and he came to look forward to it. They were strong hands, he knew, but they were gentle at the same time. There was the feel of sheets, some sort of cloth, a breeze that touched him lightly, but there was no sense of the passage of time. He might have been in the terrible place for as long as it took to build the pyramids—or it might have been only a day or less.

Finally the heat and the cold seemed to modify, and he groaned with pleasure as the pain left him. The words began to have meaning, but there was still something about them that he could barely under-stand. He longed to know who spoke and who touched him.

Finally reason and order and sense came, almost as if someone threw a switch. One moment he was deep in the warm darkness, knowing that the hands were touching him and the voice was speak-ing, and the next instant he realized that he was lying flat on his back, a sheet was covering him, and something wet was touching his face and the upper part of his body. He opened his eyes then, and directly over him was a face—one he had never seen before. His thoughts swarmed and confusion stirred him, and then he felt fear.

Where have I been? Who is this? Bayard blinked and stared at a young woman with jet-black hair and eyes that seemed black at first, but as he studied them, he noted that they were a dark blue. Her face was oval, she had broad, full lips, and her expression was friendly but focused. His eyes dropped, and he saw that she had a cloth in her hand and was sponging his chest. He watched as she put the cloth into a basin, wrung it out with one quick motion, then began to wash him again.

“Where is this place?”

His words came from his throat hoarsely and creaked almost like a hinge that had frozen in place. They startled the young woman, whose eyes widened. He noticed she had the thickest eyelashes he had ever seen, and that they curved upward gracefully. She answered him, saying, “Ah, you are awake!”

At first he could not understand her, and then he realized that she had spoken in French. “Oui,” he said. His French was very limited, so he muttered in English, “Who are you?”

The young woman’s eyes were deep pools, it seemed, and she studied him a moment before she said, “My name is Fleur Avenall. You are in our house, yes.”

Bayard closed his eyes for a moment, trying to put together what was happening, and then it all came rushing back. He remembered falling in the bayou and the enormous snake and the pain in his arm. Alarm filled him, and he looked down and saw that a bandage was on his arm. “A snake—a snake bit me.”

“Yes,” the young woman said, nodding. “You almost died, I think. Me, I think you will not live for a time.” Her English was bro-ken, but Bayard understood her. He struggled to get up, and she bent over and put her arms under his and pulled him to a sitting position. She set the pillow upright and pushed his head against it. “You have been ver’ sick,” she said. “Ma mere and I think you will die maybe.”

Bayard could hardly speak, but he managed to gasp, “Water! A drink of water!”

“Oui, certainement,” the girl named Fleur said. She picked up a pitcher on a table by the bedside and then a glass. She poured the water and handed it to him. His left arm was sore, and he flinched and took the glass in his right hand. Thirstily he drank the water, and he had never had a drink so good.

Fleur took the glass and asked, “What you are called?”

“Bayard d’Or.”

She considered that, then nodded. “Can you eat something?”

“How long have I been here?”

“Me, I fin’ you last Tuesday. Tomorrow will be a week.”

Alarms went off in Bayard’s head. “My family! I’ve got to get word to my family!”

“I would have send, but I not know who your people were. You must eat.”

Bayard watched as the young woman put the glass down, then turned and walked over to the fireplace. A series of hooks suspended blackened pots over the fire. It was warm in the cabin, and as she began to stir something in one of the smaller pots, Bayard looked at his surroundings. The room he lay in was part of a log cabin. His bed was against the wall, and he reached out and touched the smooth, rounded logs. The furniture was sparse, consisting of one small table and two chairs, both obviously homemade. A large bearskin was on the rough, plank floor, and the walls were covered with shelves on which were placed various objects: seashells, a tiny skull of a small ani-mal, a vase with blue flowers in it.

Two windows admitted pale sunshine. The smell of cooking meat was in the air, stirring Bayard’s hunger. A door to the left led to what was evidently another room, and on the far side another door led outside.

He lay quietly, and Fleur came back with a bowl and a large spoon. He tried to lift his left arm to take it, but it was so sore that he winced.

“Here, Monsieur,” she said, “Me, I will feed you.”

She dipped the large spoon into the bowl, and he saw that the food was smoking. She blew it and tasted it herself, then said, “It’s ver’ hot, but it’s good.”

Bayard opened his mouth, feeling like a child, and swallowed a spoonful. The first bite aroused a raving hunger, and he ate until she had emptied the bowl.

“Not good to eat too much at once,” Fleur said. “You have little bits not far apart.” She blinked and said, “Oh, I forget to pray over the food. Maybe you want to pray now?”

This struck Bayard as odd. At his home sometimes grace was said, but only rarely. “I am thankful for it,” he said.

“The good God, He takes care of you. If He had not, you would be buried in a grave.”

The food had somehow produced sleepiness. Bayard felt his eye-lids drooping, and he asked, “Where is this place?”

“It is our house where I live—me and ma mere.” She saw that he was going to sleep and helped him lie flat with his head on the pillow. She touched his chest and said, “You sleep now. It will be good.”

The smell of cooked meat awoke Bayard, and as he came out of the sleep, he knew the fever was gone. He struggled up and saw the young woman named Fleur across the room, stirring something in a pan. “That smells good,” he said.

Fleur turned and smiled. Her hair was long, tied with a thong, and hanging down her back almost to her belt. She was wearing a pair of man’s faded trousers and a man’s shirt, and moccasins without any stockings. Her petite frame looked odd in a man’s clothing. She straightened up and said, “You are hungry, no?”

“I am hungry, yes.”

“This will be ver’ good for you. You want to try to sit at the table?”

“I’ll try.” He threw the sheet back and saw that he was wearing only his undergarments. “Where are my pants?” he said.

“You do not need them, no. You will go back to bed and sleep some more after you eat. Come.” Fleur went over and pulled him to his feet, then draped his arm over her shoulders. The room seemed to reel, and he clung to her as she guided him across the floor. Slumping down in one of the two chairs, he shook his head. “I’m weak as a kitten!”

“You be strong ver’ soon,” Fleur said. She plucked a plate off of a shelf and pulled some of the meat out of the frying pan with a fork. She brought it back to him and furnished him with silverware. She said, “You eat. I get you some milk.” She stepped outside. He noticed that she moved quietly and gracefully, almost like a young deer. When she came back, she had a jug in her hand. Retrieving a cup, she poured and said, “The milk, she is fresh.”

Bayard found that he had some use of his left hand, and putting the fork in it, he steadied the meat while he carved out a bite-sized chunk. He put it in his mouth and chewed. It was tough and had a rather fishy flavor. “This is good,” he said. “What is it?”

“’Gator.”

Bayard had been about to insert another forkful of meat but halted. “’Gator?” he said. “You mean alligator?”

“Yes. I soak her in saltwater. Is good?”

Bayard grinned. “Very good,” he said.

She got up and spooned something out of a pot on the fireplace and brought a bowl back to him. “Gumbo,” she said. “Ver’ good.”

Bayard ate hungrily and drank the milk, and then he asked, “Where is your family?”

“Only ma mere.” She gestured toward the door. “That is her place.”

“Your father?”

“He is with God.”

Her way of speaking of God seemed very familiar. “I’m sorry to hear it,” he said.

“He was very sick—ready to go.” A tiny line suddenly appeared in the girl’s smooth brow. “Ma mere, she very sick also. She will go be with God soon.”

“What’s wrong with her?”

“I do not know, except she’s sick.”

Bayard studied the young woman. Her strange garb lent her a for-eign look. Her hair was black as the blackest thing in nature, and he guessed her age was somewhere between sixteen and nineteen. She had a long, composed mouth, and her skin was olive with a smooth-ness and a slight rose tint that did not come out of a jar. The light that came in through the window was kind to Fleur, showing the full, soft lines of her body, the womanliness in breast and shoulder. She was still not quite out of that part of youth that marks girlhood, but she was a woman. He saw the hint of her will and her pride in the corners of her eyes and lips, and as she spoke, she made little gestures with her shoul-ders and expressive turns with her hands. “I need to get word to my people, Miss Avenall.”

Fleur laughed. “No one call me that. I am Fleur. I cannot leave ma mere, but someone will go.”

“One of the neighbors?”

“I will ask Lonnie Despain to go.”

“Who is he?”

“He lives five miles from here, but he come by twice a week to pick up the meat to sell.”

“What meat is that?”

“I catch ’gators, and I trap. Lonnie takes the meat into the city to sell it.”

“What sort of meat is it?”

“I catch many fish,” she smiled. “I am a good fisherman. Also there are wild pigs in the bayou, and I shoot them. Also some people eat the coon, so I shoot him too. Squirrels and rabbits. Everything I sell. People like almost any kind of meat.”

It seemed strange to Bayard. “Do you have other family besides your mother?”

“No. She is all I have.”

“Has a doctor been here?”

“When ma mere first got sick, Lonnie, he fetch a doctor out, but he said that she cannot live. I think he’s right. When I pray, the good God, He tells me that I must say good-bye to her soon.”

“I’m sorry, Fleur,” Bayard said, and indeed he did feel pity for the girl. He wondered what she would be like if she had been born into different circumstances, but there was no way of knowing. He glanced at the door and asked, “Does your mother ever get up?”

“Oui, some days she feel ver’ good. I think she get up today later, and I fix her something good to eat.” For a moment the girl’s face changed, and he saw her vulnerability. “I feel ver’ bad that she suffers so much. I wish I could suffer for her, me. But none of us can suffer for another.”

“I suppose that’s true.”

“You have family?”

“Yes. My father and mother, of course, and I have one sister.”

“It is ver’ good to have people. I know they will be afraid for you. Lonnie will be here later on in the day. He always come on Tuesday. I do not think you are fit to move, but if you will write, Lonnie will take it to your people.”

“I’ll do that now if you have paper.”

After some searching Fleur found a scrap of paper. She also found a stub of a pencil, and Bayard wrote as clearly as he could, but he found himself growing weary. When he ended the note, he handed it to Fleur, and she looked into his face. “You are tired. You sleep now.”

“Wake me when Lonnie comes.”

“Yes, I will do that. Can you get to the bed by yourself?”

“I think so.” Bayard got up and found that he was indeed some-what steadier, but he was ready for the bed, and he lay back in it with a sigh. He wanted to say something to Fleur to thank her, but sleep came quickly, and he fell asleep thinking of the strangeness of the young woman.

Bayard heard voices, and when he opened his eyes, he saw an older woman sitting in one of the chairs beside the table. Fleur was putting food in front of her. He struggled upright and said, “Miss Fleur, could I have my trousers?”

Fleur said, “Oh, you are awake.” She found his trousers and said, “I wash them for you.” She handed them to him, then turned back to her mother. Bayard felt better when he had put his pants on, and he stood up and bowed, saying, “Good afternoon, ma’am.”

“This is ma mere. Her name is Gabrielle. This man is Bayard d’Or.”

Gabrielle Avenall’s hair was black, her eyes were the same dark blue as her daughter’s, but she was wasted away and had none of Fleur’s strength. The disease that was killing her was obvious in the sunken cheeks and bony arms. Still, there was strength in her face and traces of an earlier beauty. She must have looked exactly like Fleur when she was young, Bayard thought. “I do not know how to thank you and your daughter for taking care of me. I was very lucky.”

Gabrielle studied him with her dark eyes, her gaze intense. “Not luck. It was God who give her to you.”

“I think you’re probably right, Mrs. Avenall.”

“Come and sit down. You can eat again.”

Bayard walked over and sat down and noticed the thinness of Gabrielle Avenall’s hands. He was aware that she was watching him. For some reason, this made him nervous, and he said, “I would have died out there if it hadn’t been for your daughter.” He looked at Fleur and asked, “How did you get me here to the house? You couldn’t have carried me.”

“No, I have a mare. I was riding, and I hear you cry out. When I find you, you could not speak, and the poison was already in your blood. Lonnie was riding with me, to help me drag ’gators back to the house. He brought you back to our cabin, and my mother and I treated your sickness. I think God must have been in it.”

Bayard blinked with surprise. “I think that must be close to the truth.”

Gabrielle said, “You cannot be the same man again. When a man comes close to death, he can’t go back to being what he was. Do you ever pray, Mr. d’Or?”

“Well, I haven’t been much for prayer, but I did pray out there in that swamp.” Memory came flooding back, and he shook his head in wonder. “I cried out to God with every bit of strength I had just after that snake got me. I cried out until I felt life passing out of me.”

“Then you must live the life of a man of God.”

A silence fell over the three, and Bayard stared at the sick woman. Her eyes were fixed on him intently, and he found that he could not meet them. He nodded. “I think you are right.”

“Yes, I am right. He has given you your life, and you are respon-sible for using it to serve Him.”

Bayard lifted his eyes and found something in the expression of the woman that he could not explain. He shifted his gaze and found some of the same in Fleur’s face. The two women were regarding him strangely, and he heard himself saying, “I think you may be right. When God gives a man his life, he must not throw it away.”

“I hear Lonnie coming,” Fleur said. She had put her mother back to bed and was sitting with Bayard. Bayard had said little, but she had talked considerably. Her world was small—trapping animals, fishing, taking care of her mother, and serving Jesus. Bayard had never met anyone with such a simple faith! To her, Jesus was not a man who had lived two thousand years ago, neither was He someone who lived far off in the sky. No, for Fleur Avenall, Jesus was as real as Bayard himself. She spoke of Him as naturally as if He were a next-door neigh-bor. It was a fascinating thing to Bayard d’Or. And since his near-death experience, he was aware that something was stirring within his heart.

He told her, “When I believed I was going to die, Fleur, I thought of two things. One, the awful mess I’ve made of my own life. That was a hard thing to bear.”

“You have been a bad man?”

Bayard grimaced. “Very bad, Fleur. I’m not the kind of man you would admire.”

“Tell me some bad things that you have done, you.”

Bayard suddenly laughed. “You are an unusual young woman! Well, I have hurt my parents deeply. I’ve wasted the talent that God has given me, and I’ve been a drunkard and a womanizer. As a matter of fact, I’m a terrible man.”

Fleur watched him. “That is sad,” she said, “but God loves sin-ners, and we are all sinners. You remember in the Bible the man said, ‘I thank you, God, I’m not like other men, that I’m good.’ And the other man said, ‘God be merciful to me a sinner.’”

“I’m like that second fellow.”

“We are all like him, I think, Bayard.” She used his name easily and added, “But God loves us all—sinners though we are.”

The sound of a man’s voice called from outside, and Fleur said, “There is Lonnie.” She went to the door and invited him in. A small man, wiry with a dark complexion, stepped into the room. He was wearing a floppy black hat that he did not remove, and his eyes were gray and inquisitive. He stared at Bayard.

“This is Bayard d’Or, Lonnie. The one who was bitten by a snake and nearly die.”

“Them snakes, they are bad. You are better, I hope?”

“Very well, Lonnie, but I need to get word to my people. I’ve been here nearly a week. Could you take a message to New Orleans for me?”

“Certainement! You tell me where.”

Bayard discovered quickly that Lonnie could not read, but he was a quick, intelligent man. He listened as Bayard gave instructions and then said, “I take this to your family.”

“I don’t have any money to pay you, but my family will pay you. I put that in the note.”

Lonnie nodded and then turned to Fleur. “You have the meat?”

“Yes. Quite a lot this time.” She left the room with Lonnie, and he heard the two of them chatter as she gave him the meat. When she came back in, she said, ‘’He is a good man, but he does not know the Lord Jesus. My mother and I pray for him every day.”

Bayard admired the young woman who had done so much for him. “I owe you a lot, Fleur.”

“I’m glad the good Lord had me passing by. If I had been a little later, I would not have heard your cry.” She studied him and said, “God is good to you, Bayard.”

Evening had come. Bayard had eaten well on gumbo and fried venison steaks. He sat at the table, listening to Gabrielle and Fleur talking. They were very curious about the outside world, and he entertained them with stories. They had been interested also in his family, and he spoke of them a great deal.

Finally Fleur insisted that her mother go to bed. As she helped her to the room, Bayard went outside. He heard the two women speaking and knew that they were praying. It touched him. When Fleur stepped outside, he said, “I’m sorry about your mother. Perhaps you’d let me take her to one of the hospitals in New Orleans.”

“You are kind, but she is past all help now.”

“You can’t know that, Fleur.”

“Yes. God has told us both that she must be with Jesus soon.”

The answer elicited no argument, and Bayard sat silently on the steps. She sat down beside him. He looked up in the heavens and said, “The stars are beautiful tonight.”

“Yes. The Lord, He knows all their names. Every one of them.”

“Do you really think so?”

“Oh, yes. In Psalm 147 He tells us that. It says, ‘He telleth the number of the stars; He calleth them all by their names.’” She smiled at him. “He is a great God to know all the names of the stars, but He made them, so it is not too strange.”

They fell silent for a few minutes. Then Fleur asked, “You are married and have children?”

“No, I’m not married.”

“Why not?”

Fleur had a way of asking intimate questions with no embar-rassment at all. It amused Bayard. “Well, I don’t know why I’m not married.”

“You will be one day.”

“I suppose so.”

“What do you do to make money?”

Bayard was embarrassed. “To tell the truth, not much of anything.”

“How do you live?”

“My father has money.”

“He is rich?”

“Well, he’s comfortably well-off.”

Bayard half expected her to follow this line, but he hoped she would not. In order to prevent it, he began to ask her questions about herself. “Why are you not married?” he asked.

“I will be one day, but God has not sent me a man yet.”

“How old are you, Fleur?”

“Eighteen. How old are you, Bayard?”

“I’m twenty-five. My sister is a year younger than I.”

“What is she like?”

“She’s very beautiful. She has blonde hair and the bluest eyes you’ve ever seen. Fleur,” he said, changing the subject, “what do you do for fun out here?”

“For fun? Oh, sometimes I go to the dances, me. There’s music there. It is a long way, though, and because of ma mere, I have not gone lately.”

“Don’t you get lonely out here, Fleur, all by yourself with just your mother?”

“No.”

“You don’t? I would think you might.”

“No, I have Jesus.”

The calmness of her reply and the enormity of it stunned Bayard d’Or. He could not think of anything to say. Fleur turned to him and touched his arm. She asked, “How do you live? Do you have Jesus as your friend?”

“No, I don’t.”

“How do you live without Him? I can never understand. I have know Him since I was nine years old, me.”

Bayard had never given a great deal of thought to religion. He had gone through the formality of it when he was younger, but even that he had given up in recent years. He was not a hypocrite and knew that his lifestyle was not pleasing to God. He saw that Fleur was waiting for an answer, and finally he looked up at the stars, at the magnificence of the display in the heavens, and thought of the God who had made them all. There had never been any doubt in his mind about the existence of God. He had merely refused to give too much thought to it. Finally he turned to her and said, “I envy you, Fleur.”

“You envy me? Why’s that? You have a family. You have every-thing that most men want.”

“But I don’t have God. When I called out to Him after that snake bit me, I knew that.”

She smiled. “Maybe God, He send the snake to get your attention. Now,” she said, and her eyes were warm, “that God has saved you, you will love Him.”

Bayard dropped his head. “I hope so, Fleur. I never have. I think it’s time.”

Chapter fourteen

As soon as Simone entered the house, Agnes, the housemaid, met her and said, “There’s a man who’s been waiting to see the master.”

“To see my father? Is he here?”

“No, he and Madam left to go to visit the Dubres. They won’t be back until late tonight, they said.”

Simone pulled off her hat and put her parasol in the teak holder. “Why did you ask him to wait?”

“I didn’t, but he insisted, Miss Simone. He’s a very rough sort of man. I can’t think what he would want with any of you.”

Simone bit her lip for a moment and said, “Well, I’ll see him.”

“He’s waiting out back. I didn’t want to let him into the house. He’s not that kind of person.”

Simone moved down the long hallway and then through the kitchen. When she stepped outside, she saw a man leaning against the live oak tree. He was wiry, wore the coarsest sort of clothes, and did not look like a tradesman.

“I’m Miss d’Or. I understand you want to see my father?”

“I got a note for him.”

“A note from whom?”

“A young man. I think his name is Bayard.”

“My brother!” Hope shot through Simone. “He’s been missing for a week.”

Indeed, the whole family had been almost in despair. Ever since the altercation with Louis, Bayard had simply dropped out of sight. When Louis had gone by the rooming house, the owner said brusquely, “He left one day and didn’t come back. He couldn’t pay, anyway.” Since that time they had waited anxiously, and more than once Louis had said to Renee, “I was too hard on him. I shouldn’t have driven him out of the house.”

Simone said quickly, “The note’s for my father?”

“That is what he say.”

“He’s not here, but I need to see the letter.”

The man fished in his shirt pocket, came out with a brown piece of paper, and handed it to her. Simone opened the letter and read it quickly:

Father, I have run into trouble. I was in the swamp doing a painting, and I was bitten by a huge cottonmouth. I nearly died and was unconscious for several days. I don’t know how to tell you to get to this place. The people taking care of me have been very kind. Their name is Avenall. The man who bears this note is named Lonnie Despain. If you would pay him, I think he will bring you to me. I’m sorry for all that happened.

Simone looked up at the man and said, “This says my brother has been hurt.”

“Yes. He was bit by a moccasin.” Lonnie shrugged his trim shoul-ders. “He nearly die, Fleur tell me.”

“Who is Fleur?”

“Fleur Avenall. She stay with her mother ver’ deep in the bayou.”

“But I need to get to him.”

“You can’t ride into the swamp. I can take you in my pirogue.”

“Can you bring him out, the two of us?”

“Oh, certainement. Is easy.”

“I’ll pay you for your trouble. Let me go tell the servants where I’m going. Can you leave now?”

“Now is good. I have finished my business here in town.”

Simone went inside and told Agnes the news with some agita-tion. “I’ve got to go. I think I’ll be back before my parents get here. If I’m not, give them this note, and tell them I’ve gone to get Bayard.” She did not wait for an answer but picked up her reticule and looked inside it. She saw that she had sufficient money. She put on her hat and stepped quickly down the hall and out the front door. “Robert,” she called, “hitch up the horses.”

“Yes, ma’am, you going to town?”

“No, a man has come saying my brother has been ill. We’re going to get him.”

“Yes, Miss, that’s good news!” Robert disappeared around the cor-ner, and Simone returned to speak again with Lonnie Despain.

“I’m having the team hitched to my carriage. How long will it take to get there?”

“It ain’t too far, Miss. You follow me as far as my place. Then we get into my little boat, and I take you to where Fleur and her mother live. They are fine people.”

Simone waited impatiently, and when Robert drove the carriage out, she got in without waiting for him to step down and help her. “Follow this man, Robert.”

“Yes, ma’am, I’ll just do that.”

As soon as the team stopped, Simone opened the door and stepped out. Looking around, she saw that Despain had dismounted and was putting his horse into a small corral that was fenced with wooden rails. He stripped off the saddle and slapped the gelding on the rump, then came back, locking the gate behind him. “This is my place,” he said. He gestured toward an enormous body of water and said, “The swamp. We cannot go farther in the carriage.”

Indeed, Despain’s house was right on the edge of the tremendous bayou. Few roads led into it, and the only means of transportation was the little wooden boat sitting on the bank. “We go now if you ready, Miss.”

“Yes, I’m ready.” Simone turned and said, “Robert, you wait here, no matter how long it takes. I’ll be back with Bayard as soon as possible.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll wait right here.”

Simone went down to the bank and watched as Despain pushed the small craft down the shore. “You get in the front, Miss, up there.”

“Are you sure it’s safe?”

“It ain’t never done kill me yet.”

This was not much comfort to Simone. She got in carefully and felt the boat move beneath her feet. Dropping to her hands and knees, she crawled to the end and then sat down flat on the bottom. It was a very shallow boat and looked entirely unstable.

She felt the boat move forward and then give a lurch. She grasped the gunnel, but Despain assured her, “It’s real safe. You sit still now. Me, I push.”

Turning around, she saw that the man had picked up a long pole. He shoved it against the bottom, and the pirogue shot forward. She resisted the impulse to cry out.

Evidently Lonnie Despain was an expert boatman, for he sent the small craft skimming across the water. The swamp seemed to go on forever, and they passed canals, sand spits, willow islands, and huge cypress trees. The mosquitoes came then in swarms, and Simone slapped her face and her neck.

“The mosquitoes are bad, yes.”

“How much farther is it?”

“Not too far. Yet quite a ways too.”

At this enigmatic response, Simone grew quiet. The sun was high over the cypress. They passed sweet-smelling hyacinths, and the air grew moist and cool underneath the shade of the giant trees. Once they passed a whole island covered with buttercups and bluebonnets. She saw enormous black and yellow grasshoppers flying, and when they landed in the water, sometimes fish came up and took them. Finally Lonnie said, “There is Fleur’s house—right over there.”

They had come out of a large body of water into a narrow inlet. The land appeared then, and fifty yards from the water a cabin sat beneath some cypress trees. Smoke rose up from the chimney, and Simone waited until Despain drove the boat up onto the land. She stepped out, and the black mud covered her shoes, but she reached down, pulled them off, and waded to shore.

“The rain, she make the ground wet,” Despain remarked as he came out of the boat, agile as a monkey, and pulled it up onto dry land. “See? There’s Miss Fleur. She hear us coming.”

Carrying her shoes in one hand and her reticule in the other, Simone went toward the cabin, her eyes fixed on the young woman. When she was closer, the young woman said, “Hello.”

“Hello. I’m Simone d’Or. My brother is here, isn’t he?”

“Oui, he is here. He was sleeping, but I think he want to wake up for you.”

Simone studied the girl, noting the rough, masculine attire, but only for a moment. As soon as the girl opened the cabin door, Simone stepped inside and saw the bed against the wall and Bayard swinging his feet over the edge.

“Bayard!” she said. She ran toward him, and he stood up and met her. She put her arms around him, noticing the bandage on his left forearm.

“Thank God you’re all right! We’ve been so worried!”

“I couldn’t get word to you any sooner. I was unconscious.”

“Are you all right?”

“Arm is a little bit stiff, but basically I’m all right.” He turned Simone to face the young woman. “This is Fleur Avenall. She found me out in the swamp just after the snake bit me, and she and Lonnie brought me back to this cabin. I would have died if it hadn’t been for Fleur.”

Simone said fervently, “I am so grateful to you, and my family will be also.”

Fleur seemed disturbed by the expression of gratitude. “If you give me your shoes, I’ll clean them off.”

“Oh, that’s not necessary. I’d just get them muddy getting back in the boat.”

“My mother, she is not feeling well today, or she would get up to meet you.”

“Mrs. Avenall is not in good health, Simone.”

Even as he spoke, the door opened and Gabrielle Avenall stepped out. She looked almost ghostly, but as Fleur introduced her, she said, “You are welcome. Sit down and have some café au lait.”

Simone took one seat and Gabrielle took the other. Bayard dragged up a box, set it on end, and sat down. He told Simone how he had gone to the bayou to paint and had gotten lost. “When I saw that snake slithering off and knew he had gotten me in the arm, I pretty well gave up.”

Simone was shaking, she was so happy to see her brother. She put her hand on his wrist and said, “We’ve all been worried sick. We thought of everything in the world that could’ve happened to you.”

Fleur brought the café au lait in cups that did not match. It was thick and strong, and the rich odor filled the small cabin. Fleur put her hand on her mother’s thin shoulder and said, “Your brother does not know God, but he is meeting Him, I think, now.”

Startled, Simone gave her a quick look. “Why—that’s good,” she said, not knowing what else to say.

“God saved him,” Gabrielle remarked. “So now he belongs to God.”

Simone looked at Bayard, who reddened. “I—I think she’s right, Simone. When I was dying out there, I could feel the poison of that snake killing me. I called on God. The first time I had done anything like that.” He turned then and smiled at Fleur. “And then He sent this young woman to save me. She saved my life.”

Simone impulsively got up and went to Fleur. She took the young woman’s hand and suddenly kissed it, tears in her eyes. “How can my family ever thank you, Fleur?”

“We must all thank the good God and give glory to Him. He is the one who saves.”

Bayard saw the strange look on his sister’s face and laughed aloud. “You’ll have to get used to it, Simone. Mrs. Avenall and her daughter are very close to God.” He sobered then and chewed his lower lip thoughtfully. “I think I am too. I don’t believe I can ever be the same again.”

“That’s so good to hear, Bayard.”

“I’ve made resolutions in the past, but it took that snake to wake me up.”

Fleur laughed. “There was one snake that got Eve and Adam into trouble, but now God, He uses another snake to bring one of His own back to Him. I think that’s very funny.”

Bayard d’Or smiled at the girl thoughtfully. She was like no one he had ever seen or experienced, but he knew that she was right, and something good was going to come out of that terrible experience.

Simone sat quietly listening as Gabrielle spoke of her life with God. This woman who was obviously dying showed no fear at all, which Simone found intimidating. Finally Gabrielle said, “I must lie down again.”

At once Bayard stood and offered her his hand. The sick woman put her hand in his. Lifting it to his lips, Bayard kissed it and said, “I pray that God will give you peace.”

“He’s already done that, Monsieur d’Or, and now I think He has given you the peace as well.”

Fleur took her mother into the bedroom. While the two were wait-ing for her to return, Simone said, “I’ve never met people like these.”

“Neither have I. I didn’t know there were such people.”

As soon as Fleur came out, Simone asked, “Would you think us terribly rude if we left? I need to get Bayard back to town. My parents will be home soon.”

Fleur nodded. “Oui, madamoiselle. You must go tell them.”

Simone stood before the young woman and said, “Please, let us do something for you. There must be something you need.”

Fleur seemed surprised. “Why, no. We have all we need, Miss d’Or.”

Simone did not know how to answer. She was accustomed to being the one who gave things to people. There had been very few things she could not have simply by asking for them, but this young woman—poorly dressed, living in a small cabin with no luxuries— was complete and self-assured. It disturbed Simone, and she shook her head. “I can but thank you now, but we’ll find some way to show our gratitude.”

She turned and walked to the door and stopped. She turned to see that Bayard had gone to stand before Fleur. “How do people say good-bye, Fleur?”

“Why, they shake hands,” Fleur said, smiling, “and they say ‘Good-bye.’”

“Is that all?” Bayard smiled put his hand out, and when she extended hers, he took it and held it. “Good-bye, then.”

“Good-bye, Monsieur d’Or.”

He said, “Is that all there is to it? It doesn’t seem like enough.”

Suddenly Fleur seemed shy. She was unaccustomed to such inter-actions. “You’re holding my hand, Bayard.”

“Am I? Well, I’d like to do more than that.” He covered her hand with his left one and said, “I will be seeing you again, now that I know the way.”

“No, you will not come back here.”

“You’re mistaken. I’ll be coming to check on you and on your mother. But for now, good-bye.”

They left the cabin, and Fleur followed them outside. Despain was sitting on a chopping block, whittling. He closed his knife, got up, and asked, “Are you ready?”

“We’re ready. Will that boat hold all three of us?”

“What you think, I make a bad boat, me? You get in front, and Monsieur, you get in the middle, and I’ll pole us out of here.”

The three got in the boat, and although it moved more slowly and was sunk almost to the level of the gunnel, it moved easily through the dark waters. Bayard looked back, and as he did it he said quietly, “I owe her my life, Simone.”

“Yes, you do. And they say you owe God your life.”

“I think they are right.”

They made a slow passage with the heavy load, but finally they landed at Despain’s small cabin. When they were all out and Despain had pulled the pirogue up on the bank, Simone reached into her reti-cule and drew forth some bills. She took several of them and handed them to the small man, who stared at them in surprise.

“Why, this is too much!”

“No, it’s worth every penny, and we thank you so much.”

“I’ll be coming back when I get on my feet,” Bayard said. “Can you take me back?”

“Certainement!”

Robert called out, “Good to see you, Mr. Bayard!”

“Good to see you, Robert. As a matter of fact, it’s good to see any-one.” He stepped slowly into the carriage and slumped into the seat. Simone got in, sat across from him, and closed the door. She saw that Bayard was still not himself. His face was pale, and he was trembling.

“Shall I go home, Miss?” Robert called.

Simone suddenly remembered that Bayard no longer lived at the house, but the altercation with her father seemed to have happened a long time ago. “Will you go home with me, Bayard?”

Bayard nodded. “Yes. Take me home, sister. I have a great deal of fence-mending to do. I don’t know what I’ll say to Father.”

Simone took Bayard’s hand in both of hers. “Tell him what hap-pened, and tell him that you are a new man. That’s what Fleur and her mother said, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is.” Bayard squeezed Simone’s hand and nodded. “I can do that because it’s the truth.”

Chapter fifteen

As soon as Louis heard the door open, he leaped up and ran out of the parlor. He was closely followed by Renee, and when the two of them saw Bayard, they rushed to him, crying out his name.

Bayard was nearly knocked off balance when his parents grabbed him. Something about the way his father and mother clung to him struck him hard, almost as hard as the snake itself ! His mother was weeping, and Bayard could see tears in his father’s eyes.

“We’ve almost been out of our minds, Bayard,” Louis whispered hoarsely.

“Yes, we thought the most dreadful things, son.”

“All of you come into the parlor. Bayard needs to sit down,” Simone said. She noted that neither of her parents let go of Bayard but held him as they moved out of the foyer, down the hall, and into the parlor. They sat down on the sofa, and Simone stood back, watching them. Something about the scene made her want to weep herself. She did not speak as she watched her parents, their arms around Bayard as though he would rise and flee away from them.

“What happened, son?” Renee whispered. “Tell us everything.”

Bayard took a deep breath and then began at the very begin-ning, not sparing himself. He spoke about how he had awakened after a night of carousing and left his boardinghouse, then told how he had, in order to raise money, gone to the swamp to paint. His relating how the snake had struck him caused Renee’s face to go pale, and his father shook his head in disbelief. “It’s a miracle you’re alive, son.”

“That’s what Fleur and Gabrielle both said,” Bayard answered.

“Who are they? How did they find you?” Louis asked.

Simone listened to the story, and she saw her parents drinking it in. When Bayard told about calling on God just before he passed out, she saw her mother’s face grow radiant. Renee and Louis shared a faith in God, and it had been a grievance to them that their children prac-ticed no faith at all.

“And so that’s the way it was. I want you to meet them,” he said, “both of them. Gabrielle, unfortunately, is dying.”

“Dying!” Louis said. “Surely not.”

“I’m afraid she’s very ill. Both of them are convinced that God has told them He will call her out of this world very soon.”

“The poor child!” Renee exclaimed. “She will be left all alone.”

“We’ll have to do something to help,” Simone said. “They’re such wonderful people. So different from anyone I’ve ever met.”

“They are wonderful,” Bayard agreed quietly. “We will have to find a way to help them.” He took his parents’ hands and said, “I’ll find a way to say this better later on, but right now I want to tell you both: just before I passed out I realized what a rotten life I’ve led, and I thought of you two. I’ve been a terrible son.” He paused and bowed his head for a moment, then lifted it and looked at his mother. “Mother, I hope you believe me when I say I’m going to be a differ-ent kind of man.”

“Of course I believe you, son!”

Looking at his father, Bayard swallowed hard. “You did exactly right in putting me out of the house. It took all this to wake me up. But if you’ll give me a chance, Father, I hope to show you something in my life—something more than just talk.”

Louis d’Or was overcome. He put his arm around his son’s shoulder and squeezed him. “Of course,” he said quietly. “We’ll see great things.”

“And n ow you must go to bed,” Simone said. The three stood up.

Simone stood on tiptoe to kiss Bayard’s face. “I believe what Fleur and Gabrielle said. God’s given you back to us, and now we’ll see a differ-ent man.”

They all climbed the stairs, and Bayard went into his room and closed the door. Simone said, “He’s going to be all right.” She felt the tears in her eyes and suddenly threw her arms around her mother. “He’s going to be all right, Mother. I know he is.”

“Yes, he is. I believe it,” Louis said. He patted her shoulder and said, “I guess we’d all better try to get some sleep.”

Simone went to her room and made ready for bed, but even after she lay down, she could not sleep. What had transpired had shaken her more than anything else ever had. As she lay in the darkness under the mosquito netting, she began to think of her own life. Somehow it was a rebuke to her.

All this time Bayard has been drinking and running with a low crowd, but I’ve been no better. I haven’t paid any more attention to God than Bayard did. I may have looked better to the world, but I’m not.

On impulse she swung her feet over the bed and walked over to the bookshelf. She found the Bible there that she had rarely read and sat down beside the lamp. She thumbed through the New Testament for a time. She looked for something, and finally her eyes fell on a passage in the seventh chapter of Luke’s Gospel. She read it aloud: “And, behold, a woman in the city, which was a sinner, when she knew that Jesus sat at meat in the Pharisee’s house, brought an ala-baster box of ointment, and stood at his feet behind him weeping, and began to wash his feet with tears, and did wipe them with the hairs of her head, and kissed his feet, and anointed them with the ointment.”

Suddenly the words struck Simone with power and force. She seemed to see the fallen woman as she wept and knelt and wiped the tears that fell on the feet of Jesus. It was so vivid that she sat stock-still, closing her eyes, and thinking of what it all implied. Simone was a woman of great emotional potential, but she rarely wept, and never had anything from the Bible touched her like this. She bowed her head and tears came to her eyes. They ran down her cheeks, and she wiped them away with her hands. “That poor woman!” she whis-pered. “How she loved Jesus!”

She began to pray, “Lord, I am worse than that woman. I have been proud and arrogant, and I have been unfeeling and thoughtless. I would love, if I could, to do what she has done: embrace Your feet and wet them with my tears and then wipe them with my hair. Since I cannot do that, I want, dear Lord, to be like her. I want to be humble in spirit. I want my heart to be soft and receptive. Take away this stony heart of mine, and give me a heart of flesh.”

Finally she stopped praying and just sat, her face in her hands. After a long time she went back to bed. She lay down and closed her eyes. A strange sense of peace enveloped her. She didn’t understand it, but she knew it was of God. She remembered suddenly the peace that was in the eyes of the dying woman, Gabrielle Avenall. She had not been able to understand how a woman facing death could be so calm and so filled with contentment and even joy. But she felt now, in the silent darkness, that she had touched on the secret of God. “It’s all in giving up what we are and letting Him do what He wants,” she whis-pered, and then she drifted off to sleep.

As Bayard worked in his studio, he thought about how strange the past week had been. He had regained his strength almost com-pletely, although he still had some numbness in his arm. It might always be there, the doctor had said. But aside from that, every-thing else was different. He got up each day and read the Scripture and then had breakfast. There was a change in his family that they could all sense.

As he stood painting, he heard the door open and turned to see his father.

“Can I come in, or am I disturbing you?”

“Certainly. Come on in, Father, and see what I’m doing.”

Louis d’Or walked over and looked at the canvas. He gasped and said, “Why, Bayard, it’s your mother!”

“I thought for a while,” Bayard said, “of doing one of the two of you together. Maybe I will, but I wanted one of her and then one of you and then one of Simone.”

“I can’t believe it. It’s her to the letter!” He stood admiring the painting, a glow on his face. He shook his head. “I said some pretty hard things about your career as a painter. I take them all back now. If you can do this, you can do anything!”

Bayard laughed and shook his head. “It’s not really that good, Father.”

“Certainly it is!”

“Well, it is for you, but the real aficionados would see a lot of faults in it. I have a long way to go, but I’m going to make you proud of me.”

“I’m already proud of you, son. This week has been wonderful for our family.”

“It’s been that way for me.”

“Let me ask you: have you felt any temptation to go out and do the things you used to do?”

“Oh, once or twice it’s come to me, but I wouldn’t go back to what I was for anything in the world.”

“That’s good to hear, son.”

“I have been thinking about the Avenalls, though.”

“So have I,” Louis said. “We have to do something for them.”

“Well, I suppose they could use some financial help, but that doesn’t seem to be a problem with them. What I need to do is go back and spend some time with them. Maybe take them a gift—not money.”

“Why don’t you do a painting for them?”

“Why, that’s a great idea! Why didn’t I think of it?”

“Paint a picture of that girl. From all you’ve said, I’d like to see her. I may make a trip in that little boat, but I don’t think your mother is up to that.”

“Perhaps we can get her to come in. No, I don’t suppose so. She can’t leave her mother. But I will do the painting if she will pose for me.”

Louis d’Or smiled. “I have an idea that she will. Anyway,” he said, “we’re all going out tonight.”

“Going out to eat?”

“Yes. We’re going to the opera afterward.”

“I hear it’s taken New Orleans by storm. The most successful opera they ever had.”

“So I’m told. Simone has already been to see it three or four times. She’s fascinated by it, so she persuaded your mother and me to go, and we want you to go along.”

“All right. We’ll see what all the fuss is about.”

The opera was everything Simone had told her parents it would be. Louis d’Or was not a fan of that style of music, but he was enthralled. He leaned over once and said, “It helps to know the story. He’s fol-lowed Shakespeare pretty closely. I can’t understand a word of what they say, but I know what’s happening.”

“Yes, it is wonderful,” Renee whispered. “I never heard such a voice as Mr. Seymour has—or should I call him Lord Beaufort?”

“I don’t think he takes a great deal of pleasure in his title,” Simone said.

“That’s strange,” Bayard said. “Most men would.”

The four of them spoke no more, but after the final curtain and many curtain calls, they made their way backstage. Admirers sur-rounded Colin, but when he saw them, he excused himself and came over. “It’s good to see you, Miss d’Or,” he said.

“My parents and my brother had to come. I’ve told them so much about it.” She introduced them, and Louis said, “Indeed, I am not knowledgeable in music, but I was strongly moved by this opera.”

“The credit goes to my father. He’s the one who created it.”

“But it takes you and the others to make it come to life,” Simone said, smiling, “and it always does.”

“I insist that you have dinner with us. You don’t perform on Sunday, do you?”

“No, we do not.”

“Sunday night then. Will you come?”

Colin hesitated, but Bayard urged warmly, “It would be a great pleasure to all of us, sir. I remember what you did for me, and I hope you will come.”

“Then I will. I will see you Sunday night.”

Colin arrived early at the d’Or house, and Simone greeted him and took him at once away from her parents. “You’ve got to see Bayard’s work. Come along.” Bayard followed the pair up to the third floor to his study, and Simone stood back as the two men looked at the paint-ings. She could tell that Colin was impressed. Indeed, he said so most enthusiastically.

“Why, these are very fine, Bayard,” he said. “I had no idea that you had such talent.”

“Well, I’m really a beginner, and I’ve wasted a lot of years,” Bayard shrugged. “You’ve heard about what happened to me.”

“Only the outline of it. I want to hear the rest.”

“It’s a wonderful story, my lord,” Simone said with evident pride in her younger brother.

“Please don’t call me that. Colin is fine.”

“All right then. Colin,” Simone said, “I think you would like the young woman who saved Bayard’s life. She and her mother are extra-ordinary people.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, fervent Christians, both of them. I’ve never seen two people closer to God,” Bayard said.

Colin’s thoughts immediately returned to his promise to the mar-quis. He felt a tugging at his soul that he could not ignore.

The three stood talking until Agnes appeared and said, “Please, it’s time for dinner.”

“We’ll be right there, Agnes.”

Simone led the way out, and the two men followed. When they entered the dining room, Colin said, “I’m sorry you had to call us, but it was interesting to see the work your son is doing.”

“Isn’t he talented?” Renee smiled.

“You have to forgive Mother. She gets overenthusiastic about my humble abilities.”

“I’m not sure that’s true, Bayard,” Colin said with a smile.

“Well, come sit down. I’m starved. And you can tell us about your opera. I know very little.”

The evening was a tremendous success. Colin, after much prompting, talked a great deal about the music and the opera—not just the one he was performing in, but others. All of them were impressed at how much work went into the production.

“Why don’t they translate it into English, Colin?” Louis asked. “It would make it easier to understand.”

“Well, they do translate some, but the translations are almost always bad.”

“Why is that?” Simone asked.

“Well, you see, it’s very difficult to translate a thought from one language to another, especially if the language doesn’t have a word for the thought you want to express. And in opera, every syllable is matched with a musical note. What might take twenty syllables in one language might take forty in another, and that would upset all of the music.”

They went to the parlor, where Colin played the piano and sang several songs. They all felt the power of his voice. Finally Louis and his wife stood to retire. He said, “I haven’t expressed my thanks to you, Colin, for what you did for my daughter and son.”

“Why, it was nothing.”

“That’s not so,” Simone said at once. And Bayard chimed in, “It certainly wasn’t. I was in bad shape, and I’ll never forget it.”

“None of us ever will, Colin,” Renee said. She put her hand out. He took it, and she squeezed his with both of hers. “Thank you so much for what you’ve done for our family.”

Bayard said, “I’m turning in. Good night, Colin.”

After they had left, Colin was left alone with Simone, and both of them felt some constraint. “I must be going,” he said.

“I thank you for coming. It meant a great deal to Bayard and to my parents and to me.”

“It was my pleasure.” Colin looked at her. He had borne a resent-ment for the woman for so long, but now as he looked at her, he felt as a man feels who looks on beauty and knows that it will never be for him. He saw that quick breathing disturbed her breast, and color ran freshly across her cheeks. “Is something wrong?” he asked.

“I’ve been trying to think of some way to say something to you, and I’ve been afraid.”

“Why, there’s no need of that, Simone.”

“All right. I’ll say it then.” She took a deep breath and said qui-etly, “I treated you abominably and—and Armand even worse! I’m so ashamed, Colin, of the way I acted!”

It was the sort of statement that Colin never thought he would hear from Simone d’Or. He knew her temperament could swing to extremes of laughter and softness and anger, and he knew there was a tremendous capacity for emotion in her. He had not thought that she would be able to overcome her pride and admit what she had done.

“I must confess I had uncharitable thoughts toward you, Simone.”

“I should not blame you.”

As he looked into her eyes, Colin saw something he had never seen before. An emotion strongly worked in her and left its fugitive expression on her face. He saw it in her eyes and on her lips, and then something happened that he could never explain to himself or to any-one else. All of the anger and bitterness he felt for the woman left, and he was aware only of a vulnerability he had never dreamed of. He saw grief in her eyes and knew that her words were not empty, and with this knowledge came something entirely different. A vague, restless desire that had been in him suddenly stirred, and he knew what it was to long for her in a way that shocked him.

She held his glance, and he studied her beauty. She was near enough to be touched, and he wanted to touch her, for her nearness sharpened a long-felt hunger. She had a woman’s fire and spirit, and he saw a sweetness in her that had not been destroyed, and somehow it gave her a faint fragrance and a powerful desirability.

Recklessness came over him, and knowing he was doing the wrong thing, he reached out and pulled her to him. To his surprise, she did not pull away. He lowered his head and kissed her, and her lips were soft beneath his own, and he felt a rush of inexpressive things. This is not right, he thought. He was still waiting for her to pull away, but she did not, and when she put her arms around his neck and pulled him closer, a shock ran through him.

As for Simone, she had seen desire in his eyes, and when he had pulled her into his arms, she had gone to him, not knowing why. And then when he kissed her, she thought, Something old and something new has come! A wild sweetness was there and immense shock and the feel-ing of a deep need satisfied. She felt it pass between them, and some-how it took a loneliness out of her and incompleteness out of him.

She stepped back then, putting her hand on his chest, and faint color stained her cheeks. She couldn’t believe what had happened, and yet her glance was half-possessive. For a moment they stood like that, something whirling rashly between them and swaying both of them in its violent compulsions.

“I shouldn’t have done that, Simone.”

She smiled. “I can’t believe it happened.”

Colin stood, his eyes fixed on her, and then he turned his head slightly to one side. “I’d better go now.”

“Will I see you again?”

Colin stared at her. “Yes,” he said quietly. “You’ll see me again. Good night.” He turned and left the room. She stood still until the door closed, then raised her hands to her cheeks. “Why did I let him do that?” she whispered. But she knew that she would do it again, and the thought both troubled and thrilled her.

Chapter sixteen

Rosa Calabria stood in the wings, watching as the company performed the opera that had come to mean so much to her. She had been in poor condition and facing a bleak future when almost, out of nowhere, Colin Seymour had appeared and offered her work. Now as she watched him singing, her heart grew warm, and she turned to Marie Devois, who stood beside her, awaiting her entrance.

“I’ve never heard a more beautiful voice, Marie.”

“No, I haven’t either.” Marie turned. She was wearing the simple dress for her role of Juliet, and there was a beauty about her that could not be denied. “If ever a man had everything, Colin’s the one.”

The two women listened as Colin’s voice rose and filled the opera house with power, volume, and sweetness. Marie tilted her head to one side, and a smile turned the corners of her lips upward. “The way the women chase Colin is a shame, but I can’t complain, because I’m doing the same.”

“Why, it’s your role in the opera, Marie.”

“That’s only part of it.” Marie laughed and ran her hand over her hair. She turned to face Rosa and said with a sudden intensity, “I’m going to have him, Rosa.”

“What do you mean?” Rosa asked, although she had little doubt.

“I mean he’s a man any woman would want, and I’m going to get him. He likes me a great deal already.”

“That’s a different thing from what you’re talking about, Marie.”

“Oh, come on. You’ve been around for a long time. You know what it’s like with a man and a woman. You’ve had lovers enough.”

“Don’t remind me of it,” Rosa said, shaking her head with an air of sorrow. “I wish I could go back and erase some of the things I’ve done in my life.”

“You can’t live in the past. I’m not going to. This chance has come my way. I’m going up in the world with the help that Colin can give. He’ll be going to New York after this is over, I expect, and then Europe. I want to go with him, and I want to be more to him than just the singer in the operas.”

The aria that Colin was singing was winding down, and Marie smoothed her dress and prepared to make her entrance.

“Why don’t you leave him alone?” Rosa said.

“Why would you say that? He needs a woman. Every man does.”

“He needs more than just a woman. He needs someone who loves him.”

“I can make him love me. I want him, and that’s enough.”

With those words Marie moved out of the wings with confidence. Rosa watched sadly. “She wants him—and she’ll probably get him too. Men are such fools!”

After the usual visitors had left from backstage, Marie dressed quickly in street clothes. She stepped out of her dressing room and waited until Colin left his. She said to him, “Well, it was a good performance tonight.”

Colin smiled at her and nodded. “It was, wasn’t it? You did excep-tionally well with the aria.”

“Why, thank you, sir. Kind words, indeed, from the master. You know, I’m starving tonight. Let’s go get something to eat.”

“That sounds good. Any special place in mind?”

“Most places are closed, but Luigi’s will be open. Let’s go get spaghetti, and they have the best wine there.”

The two left the theater and walked to Luigi’s, which was only three blocks away. Luigi Pastrimi greeted them fulsomely. “Come in— come in, the stars of the great opera. An honor to have you in my place.”

“We’re late, Luigi,” Colin smiled. “Could you scrape up some-thing for us?”

“For you, only the best. Come, I have a table over here. It will be very nice.”

The two followed the short, chunky Italian to the table. He seated them and took their order personally. He scurried off, and Marie said, “You must feel very good about the way the opera is going. A full house every night, with no end in sight.”

Colin put his hands flat on the table and studied them before he answered. He was tired. Singing for hours at a time was as depleting as digging a trench. “I am happy,” he said, “but mostly for Armand.”

“You miss him a great deal, don’t you?”

“Yes, I do. I think of him every day.”

Marie covered his hand with hers. “That’s very sweet. I know he would have been very proud of you.”

“I hope so. He did more for me than anyone in this world ever has.”

Marie squeezed his hand. “You’ve brought honor to his name.” She leaned back as Luigi brought a bottle of wine and poured for them.

“You’ll like this wine. It is the very best, my lord.”

“You know I’m not a wine drinker.”

“Oh, come on,” Marie smiled. “You’ll hurt Luigi’s feelings.” She lifted the glass and held it out. He picked up his own and clinked her glass with it. She said, “A toast to the best tenor in the world.”

Colin laughed. “I can’t drink to that, but I’m glad you think so.” He merely sipped the wine and put it down. He listened while Marie did most of the talking. She was excited, he could tell from the way her eyes danced and the way she moved her hands in eloquent ges-tures. He had been rather proud of his choice, for she had blossomed as the opera had progressed.

Finally he said, “You know, Marie, you’re one of those singers who just gets better all the time.”

Marie looked down, then back at Colin. “Thank you, Colin. You don’t know how much your approval means to me.”

“Well, you certainly have it.”

When the meal came, they ate hungrily and lingered over it until finally Colin said, “It’s getting late. We have a rehearsal tomorrow at ten. I’d better get you home.”

The two rose, Colin paid the bill, and they left the restaurant. In the carriage, all the way to Marie’s apartment, Colin seemed to be deep in thought. She finally asked, “What are you thinking about?”

“Thinking about? Oh, I don’t know, Marie. I’m just tired, I suppose.”

“You’re working too hard. You need something to relax you.”

He laughed. “I’ll relax when I get too old to sing.”

“I don’t think that will ever happen.”

The carriage stopped before Marie’s hotel. She had taken a much nicer place than the one she occupied when she first started the opera, for she was well paid. She turned to Colin and said, “Come up with me.”

Colin was taken off guard. “It’s very late, Marie.”

Marie put her hand on his arm. “I’m lonely tonight,” she whis-pered. “Please come, Colin.”

The invitation in Marie’s eyes was clear. Colin had seen a great deal of such flirtation since his success. Women sought him out, but he had kept his distance, using his work as an excuse. But as he sat in the carriage, he was aware of Marie as a woman and not as a singer. She had a challenge in her eyes, making her a more complex and unfathomable woman than the one to whom he was accustomed. Indeed, she was beautiful and robust, with a woman’s spirit and fire.

There was no curtain of reserve in her eyes so that her invitation struck him hard. He was a man with all of the hungers and desires of a healthy man in the prime of life, and at that instant he felt vulnerable. The urge to go with her and to take what she was offering became stronger, and he struggled against it. There was the impulse to satisfy the rich, racy current of vitality within this woman, and he knew that he could not conceal this from her.

She leaned forward and put her hand on his cheek. All the curves of her healthy, supple body were plain to him, and the desire in her eyes stirred him. Her lips, very red, broke into a quick smile, and she whispered, “I like you very much, Colin, and I have the feeling that you like me too.”

“I do like you, but—”

“What’s wrong? Why don’t you take what you can find in this life? It’s short enough.” She leaned in farther and kissed him. At that instant he was aware only of the warmth of her lips, the fragrance of her perfume, and the softness of her form as she lay against him.

“Come with me,” she whispered.

With almost a physical surge of strength, Colin shook his head. He again felt that tug in his soul. “It wouldn’t be good, Marie. I’m not in love with you, nor you with me.”

“That can come,” she said. But she saw that his shoulders stiff-ened and knew that she had lost. “Don’t think less of me, Colin. I’m just lonely.”

“I don’t think less of you, Marie. We’re both tired and worn out. You go get a good night’s sleep. I’ll see you at rehearsal in the morning.”

“Yes. Good night,” she said.

Colin watched as she descended from the cab and walked toward the door. He knew that most men would have taken what she offered, but something held him back. He felt like a fool and struggled with his faith in God and his human aspirations and desires. Finally he snapped, “All right, driver, you can go now.” Settling back in the seat, he felt the strain of the moment that she had brought about, and suddenly he knew that he had escaped somehow from something that he did not fully understand. Taking a deep breath, he whispered, “A close call, Colin, old boy. You’d better be careful. There may be more of them.”

Colin had stepped offstage, leaving the second tenor who played Mercutio to sing the solo that always brought large applause. He stood beside Rosa Calabria. “He brings the house down with that every night.”

“He’s good. Not as good as you, of course.”

“You always make me feel appreciated, Rosa.”

As Colin listened to the tenor with pleasure, he felt a touch on his arm and turned to find Rosa looking at him with concern in her face. “What is it, Rosa? Something wrong?”

“Not with me, but I have to tell you something, Colin. You’ve been such a good friend to me, so kind, and I’m worried.”

“About what?”

“About you.”

“Why, there’s nothing wrong with me.”

“You’ll probably hate me when I tell you this and think I’m just a jealous woman, but be careful of Marie.”

Colin nodded and said almost grimly, “I know.”

“You do?”

“Yes, but thanks for being concerned.”

“Men can be very weak where women are concerned. I wouldn’t want anything bad to happen to you, Colin. You’re too good a man to be ruined by a woman.”

“Marie’s all right.”

“She’s hungry for success. She’ll do anything to get it. You’d be her ticket.”

“Do you dislike her so much?”

“No, not at all. I was just like her. That’s the reason I know what she’s got on her mind.”

“I think I’ve already found that out, but I haven’t been a fool, and I won’t be. Not with her. Probably in many other ways. There’s my cue.”

The second tenor finished his solo, and Colin reentered the stage. It was the scene where he and Mercutio talked about love, and as he spoke, Colin glanced at the audience and saw Simone sitting in the third row. Instantly everything else seemed to fade out. By the look on her face, he knew she was remembering how he had kissed her. He himself had been thinking of the embrace and knew that it would stay with him a long time.

Finally the curtain closed, there were the usual curtain calls, and afterward the visitors went backstage. To Colin it seemed that at times, handling the visitors diplomatically, always with a smile, and thanking them for coming, was more taxing than performing the opera. He was glad to see Bayard and Simone together, and when they compli-mented him, he took it as gracefully as he could.

“I suppose you get tired of people telling you how wonderful you are,” Bayard smiled.

“Oh no, that’s always good to hear, but I don’t ever know what to say.”

“What do you mean?” Bayard, looking puzzled.

“Well, I mean someone says you have a beautiful voice. What do you say, Bayard? Do you say ‘Oh yes, I do’?” He saw them smile at this and shrugged. “Or do you say, ‘Oh no, I don’t,’ in which case you sound like you’re asking for more praise?”

“What do you say?” Simone asked.

“I say, ‘Thank you.’”

“Probably best,” Bayard said, nodding. “Look, old man, we’re going out to eat, Simone and I. If you don’t have another engagement, perhaps you’d go with us.”

Simone saw that Colin hesitated, and she wondered what it meant. Perhaps I’ve scared him off, she thought. Half the women in New Orleans are after him, and the way I kissed him, I suppose he thinks I’m another of them. Her cheeks reddened at the thought as she saw he was watching her. “You’re probably busy. I know you get many invitations,” she said.

“No, as a matter of fact, I have no engagements. Let me change, and we’ll go out someplace.”

The restaurant that they finally found open was a small place, full of the rich scents of meat sauce, crab boil, sautéed shrimp, cheese, and salami. The fried oysters and sliced tomatoes and onions they ordered as a first course were delicious. Simone had deep-fried, soft-shelled crab and shrimp salad with a small bowl of étouffee. The men ordered shrimp gumbo and oysters on the half shell. Accompanying the meal were rolls, sausages, and cheese. All were liberally dosed with sauce piquant. During the meal Simone relaxed, and the men got along famously. Bayard was an entertaining speaker and kept them both laughing with stories of the year he had spent in Paris studying painting.

They were only halfway through the meal when Bayard glanced up to see a party entering the restaurant. He straightened in his chair when Leon Manville, from Claude Vernay’s circle, came in with three friends Bayard knew slightly. Simone saw Leon at the same time.

“Who is that?” Colin inquired.

“Oh, just a fellow that used to be a friend of mine, of sorts.”

Colin picked up on the distaste in Bayard’s voice and studied the man carefully. He remembered seeing him then. He had been with Claude Vernay at the duel in which Armand had been shot. His eyes narrowed, and at that instant the anger and bitterness that he had man-aged to put away for a while came back. “I remember him,” he said.

“I hope he doesn’t come over here. I never liked the fellow,” Bayard said quietly.

But he was disappointed, for Manville approached the party and said, “Well, hello, Bayard. How are you, Simone?”

“Hello, Leon,” Bayard said rather shortly. “How have you been?”

“Fine as silk. Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?”

Colin looked up at the man. He was tall and muscular with dark brown hair that fell across his forehead. He had strange, hazel-colored eyes, and there was no warmth in them.

“This is Lord Beaufort. My lord, this is Leon Manville.”

“I remember him,” Colin said coldly.

“I remember you too. There wasn’t any ‘lord’ about it the last time I saw you. You’re the singer, aren’t you?”

“Among other things,” Colin said.

Simone felt the tension and said, “Excuse us, will you, Leon?”

Manville looked irritated. “You’re getting too good to speak to your old friends?”

“I’ll have to ask you to leave, Leon,” Bayard said quietly, standing as he spoke.

Leon Manville glared at Bayard, then turned his attention back to Simone. “You always were a proud one. I don’t see anything to be that proud of.”

“Do I have to ask the manager to speak to you?”

“Why don’t you speak to me yourself, Bayard? We’ve been drunk together enough. You remember that woman we fought over in Algiers at Mamie’s Place?”

“I don’t want to discuss that.”

“I’ll bet you don’t. I haven’t seen you lately. Have you gotten too holy to speak to your old friends?” Manville’s voice had grown louder, and his companions looked uncomfortable. Simone said, “Please, Leon, go to your table. We don’t want any trouble.”

Manville leered. “You’d give a man trouble, Simone. I always thought there was something under that manner of yours. You’re no different from any other woman. All you need is a strong man to bring it out of you. Maybe me.”

Colin saw the color rise in Simone’s cheeks. He jumped to his feet and said, “That will be enough. Leave us alone now.”

“And what’ll you do if I don’t? You opera singers are a bunch of ladies, from what I hear.” Manville stepped behind Simone and put his hand on her shoulder. He squeezed it, and she tried to move away, but he gripped her too firmly. “Why don’t you come with me, Simone? I’ll show you a better time than these two.”

Bayard shouted, “Take your hands off her, Leon!” He moved for-ward, but Leon, a strong, powerful man despite a beer belly, struck him in the chest. The blow drove Bayard backwards, and at that instant Colin stepped forward.

Colin saw triumph in Manville’s eyes and knew that this was what the scene was all about. It was directed at him, not at Simone or Bayard. “Turn her loose,” he said, but instead of doing that, Manville swung his hand to slap Colin in the face. Colin moved out of the path of the blow and and grabbed Manville’s wrist. He gave it a twist that brought a sudden cry of pain. Colin kept the pressure on and swung Leon around, and when he was standing free of Simone, he released the wrist and stepped between Manville and Simone and Bayard. “I said, that will be enough.”

But Manville surged forward, anger flickering in his hazel eyes. He raised his hand to strike, but Colin was much faster. He drove a blow straight into Manville’s face, right in the mouth. The force of it nearly forced Manville off his feet. Blood seeped out of his lips, and he reached up and touched it. “You all saw it,” he said loudly. “He hit me! You can get away with that in France, but not here. I’ll have my second call on you.”

Colin stared at him, his eyes cold. “I have delegated all that sort of fighting to my dog, Manville.”

Manville cursed. “You’ll fight,” he said. “You may be handy with your fist, but I’ll have you with a sword or a pistol. You can take your pick.”

“My choice is to throw you out of here if you don’t leave now.”

The blood was dripping off Manville’s chin, and he wiped it with his hand. Hatred was like venom in his voice. “I’ll drive you out of New Orleans, Seymour. You won’t be able to leave your hotel room.”

At that instant the manager appeared, saying, “I must ask you to leave, or I will send for the police.”

“I’m leaving,” Manville said. “My lord, you’ll fight, or I’ll give you no peace.” He turned and left with his friends.

Bayard stood beside Colin. “It was my fight,” he said. “It just hap-pened so quickly I couldn’t handle it. She’s my sister.”

“No, it’s me they’re after.”

“But she’s my sister.”

“He’s not doing this on his own, Bayard.”

Suddenly Simone understood. She knew that Leon Manville was nothing but a crony of Claude Vernay’s. As clearly as if it were writ-ten out, she knew that it was Vernay who had sent him. “Let’s leave,” she said.

Colin nodded. “I think it’s time.”

Simone felt afraid. She knew that Claude Vernay was a merciless man. She couldn’t say anything, but she feared for Colin. The three paid their bill and left the restaurant.

The manager said to his chief waiter, “That is a bad thing. He means blood.”

“But would he be permitted to fight a member of the nobility, a famous man like Lord Beaufort?”

“When a man wants blood,” the manager said, “he will do what-ever he has to to see it.”

Simone heard two days later about the persecution that Leon Manville was exacting on Colin. Bayard told her, “Manville’s really out to make him fight. He was at the opera night before last. He shouted that Colin was a coward and made such a scene they had to throw him out.”

“Couldn’t the police do anything?”

“You know how they are about this dueling business. They see it as kind of a game.” Bayard’s voice was bitter. “Leon even went into the barbershop where Colin was getting his hair cut and cursed him. Colin held himself in, so I hear, but he can’t forever. Something’s got to be done. I just don’t know what.”

All of this disturbed Simone terribly. She knew that Leon Manville was a bully, and his reputation as a duelist was well known to every-one in New Orleans. Finally she sent for Claude, asking him to meet her at Jackson Square. She did not want to have him in her home.

When he arrived, he smiled and said, “Well, my stock must be going up in the world. You’re speaking to me again.”

Simone had made up her mind what to say. “Claude, you must stop this terrible thing you’re doing to Colin.”

“I’m not doing a thing to Colin. It’s Leon.”

“Leon never had a thought in his head that you didn’t put there.”

“I tell you I have nothing to do with it.”

“Don’t lie to me, Claude! I know you better than that.”

Claude’s face grew pale. “If you were a man, I would have you out for calling me a liar.”

“I’m sure you would. That’s what you do.”

“You’re falling for this singer, aren’t you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Claude, you’re going to get into serious trouble if you fight this man. No matter how it turns out, you’ll lose.”

Claude Vernay seemed not to have heard. “You’re in love with him,” he said, “but I’ll tell you this.” He lowered his voice, and his lips twisted in a cruel expression. “He’ll never have you. I promise you that.”

Vernay turned and walked away, his back straight, and Simone knew that she had made a mistake even talking to him about the matter.

Chapter seventeen

“We’ve got to do something, Bayard,” Simone said. “Things can’t go on like this.”

Bayard looked up from his painting and saw the distress on Simone’s face. For a time, she had sat silently watching him, but then she burst out with concern for their friend. He put his brush down. Fresh, pale sunlight streamed through the windows, illuminating the study, and from outside a mockingbird filled the air with music. It was Thursday, September the eighteenth, and a week had passed since the encounter with Manville in the cafe.

“I don’t know exactly what we can do.”

“I went to Claude. He’s behind all this, you know.”

“I wasn’t sure you understood that.”

“Of course I do. Leon didn’t think up a thing like this. He had no quarrel with you or with Colin, but Claude hates him.”

“It’s because of you, isn’t it? He wants you to marry him, and you’ve refused him.”

“I was never serious about Claude. Oh, well, maybe I was.” Simone sighed. “I was younger and impressionable, and he was better in those days.”

“He was always a cruel man. I knew it, and I was surprised you didn’t see it. I should have said something.” His face lit up with an idea. “Maybe I ought to call Leon out myself.”

“No, you mustn’t do that! Neither of you needs to fight Leon. That’s what he wants. He’s nothing but a butcher.”

“That’s about what it amounts to. You remember poor Fred Graham? He displeased Leon, and Leon insulted him. It wound up in a duel, and Leon cut poor Fred to pieces. He’s an expert swordsman. Better than anyone except Claude.”

“I’m going to go talk to Colin,” Simone said.

“You can talk to him, but what can he do? Leon’s following him around the streets. No man can take those insults without breaking.”

“Anything would be better than getting maimed or killed,” Simone said. “I’ve got to try.”

“You can try, but Colin’s a pretty stubborn fellow. I doubt if he’ll listen to you.”

Simone found out that Bayard was right about Colin. She had called on him at his hotel, and he had come down to the lobby and taken her to the restaurant where they drank café au lait. Simone studied him carefully and saw little sign of strain on his face. He did not men-tion Leon, so finally she brought up the subject.

“I’ve heard about all the awful things that Leon is doing to you, Colin.”

“He has become quite a pest.” Colin lifted the small cup, sipped from it, and shrugged. “I can’t put up with it much longer.”

Simone felt a quick surge of fear. “You mustn’t fight him, Colin. He’s deadly with a sword. And it’s beneath you.”

Even though Colin had set out for revenge, his return to New Orleans had awakened his faith and had stirred uncharted, romantic feelings in him for the first time. Still, he could not ignore Leon’s proddings any longer. “It’s not my choice, Simone. I’d be glad to walk away from it, but it seems he won’t permit that.”

Simone said, “It’s not Leon. It’s Claude. He’s the one who hates you.”

“Because of you.”

Simone was startled. She had not expected him to say—or to know—that. “He’s been in love with me for a long time—at least as much as a man like him can be in love. I was flattered by his atten-tions when I was younger. He started coming around when I was only seventeen. He was handsome and rich, and so many of the younger men, like Bayard, admired him. He’s an expert with a sword or pistol. That was exciting to me.” Her lips twisted bitterly, and she said, “I should have known better.”

“This dueling code is a bad thing. I think it got started some-where in Europe, this code-of-honor business. I wish men had never heard of it,” Colin said.

“So do I. They use the word ‘honor’ like the chorus of a song. They look for any excuse to cut someone down. And quarrels among the Creoles hardly ever end in fistfights,” Simone said. “There is some sort of unwritten law that absolutely forbids the striking of a blow, and anybody who forgets it is barred from the so-called privilege of the duello. These men feel as if they’ve been insulted if they are refused a meeting.”

The two drank their coffee. Simone added, “I don’t under-stand it, Colin. The least breach of etiquette, any sort of impolite-ness, even awkwardness can create a challenge, and nobody dares refuse.”

“I understand that sometimes duels are fought between two young men who simply want to fight, with no problem at all between them.”

“Bayard told me about one of those. He said there were six young Creoles who were promenading the streets one night. One of them said, ‘Oh, what a beautiful night. What splendid level ground for a joust. Suppose we pair off and draw our swords and make this night memorable by spontaneous display of bravery and skill.’ Isn’t that foolish?”

“What happened, Simone?”

“Well, the idiots fought until two of their number lay dead in the field.”

“It’s all foolishness,” he said, “but I’m going to have to do some-thing about Manville.”

“Oh, please, you mustn’t fight him! It’s not right. It will be like Armand.”

Colin looked at her. “You still think about that?”

“Of course I do. The older I get, the more I think of what a fool I was. A brainless girl!”

“Actually, I don’t think there was much you could have done. Armand was a strong-willed man, and he felt he had been insulted. He was caught up in this duello thing, the only irresponsible impulse I ever saw in him.”

Simone felt miserable at the memory. “You think of it, too, don’t you? You must have hated all of us after it happened.”

Colin said quietly, “For years, I brooded over it. Armand, at the last when he was dying, begged me to forgive Claude, but I was never able to do it.”

“You must have hated me also.”

“Armand was the most important person in my life, the one who had been kind to me above all others, so I loathed everthing about New Orleans, especially Claude and the stupid duello code.” He smiled. “But I find that I don’t have that in my heart anymore. I don’t want to fight anyone.”

“I’m glad to hear that, and I’m glad you no longer feel hatred for me.”

Colin reached over and took her free hand. “I see a difference in you, Simone. You’re not the same as you were. You’ve always been beautiful, but now I see beauty on the inside.”

Simone met his eyes and saw the honesty and truth there. “Then you won’t fight him,” she said.

“I think sooner or later I’ll have to or leave town.”

Simone wanted to plead with him, but she saw the firmness of his lips, the steadfastness of his eyes, and knew that it was useless. He removed his hand, and she said, “I’ll pray for you, that it will never happen.”

Colin did not answer. He knew that Leon Manville would never stop. He had made up his mind even before Simone’s visit that it would have to come to a halt, and he had a plan. He knew that Simone was afraid that he would be cut down like Armand, but he knew that this would be different.

Colin did not have to wait long to put his plan into operation. The very next day Leon accosted him as he got out of the carriage to go into the opera house. Manville rushed forward, his face red, and shouted curses at him. “You coward! You filthy coward!” Manville raved. “Why don’t you put on a skirt? You’re nothing, you hear me? Nothing!”

Colin turned and faced Manville. He said, “I’m tired of your yap-ping, Manville.”

“Then why don’t you fight?”

“I think I will.” Colin was aware that a crowd had gathered around the two. The quarrel was known throughout New Orleans, and he knew there were odds offered on whether or not he would fight. He smiled. Before Leon could move, he cracked him across the face, staggering the man. “There. That’s what I think of you.”

Leon stared at Colin, hatred blazing in his hazel eyes. “My man will call on you, sir. I’m looking forward to our engagement.”

“I hope you’ll enjoy yourself now, because you won’t afterwards,” Colin said.

Manville laughed, and two of the men who had accompanied him laughed also. “You hear the rooster crow, my fellows? Since I’m the challenged one, I have the choice of weapons. It will be pistols, and I guarantee it won’t be a flesh wound. You’ll have a hole right between your eyes.”

Colin shrugged and said, “Have your man call. I’ll be glad to see him.”

Bayard entered the house with his shoulders drooping. Simone was passing through the foyer on the way to the study when she saw him. “What’s wrong, Bayard?”

“It’s Colin. He’s accepted a challenge, and he’s asked me to be his second.”

“Oh no, that can’t be!”

Bayard shook his head angrily. He ran his hands through his hair and said, “I’ve tried everything I can think of to stop him, but he won’t. He says he can’t live under those conditions any longer.”

“He’ll be killed,” Simone whispered.

“That’s what Manville will try for. You know, in many of these duels they just aim to draw a little blood, but Manville’s serious about this. Claude’s got him worked up, and he’ll kill Colin if he can.”

“Can’t we do anything?”

“I’ve tried to think of something, but I can’t find a solution.”

“Why can’t we call the authorities? Dueling is against the law.”

Bayard laughed bitterly. “You know how much attention the police pay to this. Why, they’re making bets along with everybody else. They always manage to get there after the duel is over.”

Simone said nothing. In her heart she was crying out, Oh, Colin, don’t do it. Don’t let yourself be destroyed.

The duel was set for seven o’clock in the morning on a Saturday. The first frost had already touched the city, but as Colin traveled to the spot selected for the duel, he noticed that the sky was absolutely blue and cloudless, without an imperfection in it. Robins had filled the trees along the bayous, and camellias that appeared fashioned from crepe paper still bloomed with all the colors of summer even though winter was on its way.

The air was cool as he approached the spot that smelled of wet trees and torn leaves blowing in the wind. Colin saw that a large crowd had gathered. The whole thing disgusted him, but he could see no way to solve the problem except by the means he had chosen.

Bayard approached him. His face was white and drawn. “There’s still time to fix this thing, Colin.”

“I don’t think so.” Colin looked across the field and saw that Claude Vernay was standing with Leon. “I see Vernay’s here,” he said.

“Yes, he’s Leon’s second.”

“Well, let’s get to it.”

“We go over, and the two seconds are supposed to try to work out some sort of apology. It never happens, though.”

The two walked over to Vernay and Manville. Bayard began to speak of the possibility of an apology, but Colin glared into the eyes of Claude Vernay. It was a handsome face, but there was no mercy there. The eyes were opaque. It was as if they were a flat surface with nothing behind them. Colin listened as Bayard spoke, but he knew that it was a waste of time.

“My man is ready,” Vernay said flatly.

Bayard shook his head and turned to Colin. “I am ready also, sir.” Bayard could hardly restrain himself. He said bitterly, “Claude, I can’t believe you were my friend once.”

“I’m still your friend, Bayard.”

“No, you’re not.” He would have said more, but Colin inter-rupted. “Let the thing proceed,” he said.

“Good.” Manville grinned ruthlessly. He was enjoying himself, anticipating an easy victory. “Will you examine the weapons?”

“I’ve seen to the loading,” Bayard said.

Colin picked up the two pistols and seemed to be weighing them.

“Choose whichever you want,” Manville said with a sneer. “I can kill you with either one of them.”

Colin held a pistol in each hand. He casually stuck them in the band of his trousers.

“What are you doing?” Manville demanded.

“Just testing, if you don’t mind, to be sure they’re true.” He reached into his pocket and drew out some coins. He selected two, held them up, and said, “These should do.”

“Do for what? What is this nonsense?” Vernay asked angrily.

“Surely you don’t mind if I test the accuracy of the weapons.”

In Paris, Colin had often performed a trick. After years of steady practice, he had grown to be deadly accurate. He took the two coins and without another word flung them high into the air. The early morning sun caught the glittering coins. Colin leisurely pulled the two pistols, fired with his right hand then his left. The two coins dis-appeared, and a cry of admiration went out over the crowd.

“I think these will do. Tell me, Manville, would you prefer to be shot in your left eye or your right?”

Manville’s face had grown still. He shot a quick glance at Claude Vernay and said hoarsely, “I’ve changed my mind. It’ll be swords.”

“That’s fine with me,” Colin said.

“I brought the blades just in case,” Vernay said. He retrieved the weapons and presented them to the duelists. He told Colin, “Take your pick.”

Colin took both swords, held them, and said, “You know, I’m one of those strange fellows. I’m ambidextrous.”

“What does that mean?” Manville demanded.

“It means I can kill you with either hand, right or left, it makes no difference. When my right arm gets tired, I simply swap to my left. I have a great advantage, you see.”

Vernay said, “You’re a boaster, but Leon has never been beaten except by me.”

“Let’s just see how good he is,” Colin said coolly.

Vernay said, “Step back, everyone.” He himself backed up, and Manville took the sword, making a few passes with it that made swish-ing sounds in the air.

Colin took his position, his left foot forward, his right foot back, and extended his left hand out of the way. The world seemed to fade then, and he saw only the face and the blade of his adversary. It was another advantage he had. He had always been able to focus solely on the man who faced him with a foil. His teacher, François Morell, had often commented on what a blessing this was. “Men sometimes get confused and disconcerted by something other than their opponents. You never have that problem, my lord.”

As he expected, Manville came forward thrusting and slashing. At once Colin saw that Manville depended on physical strength and intimidation. Coolly he thwarted the first blow and did not back up. Manville thrust his foil upward, and with a quick gesture, Colin moved his blade to to match Manville’s guard. He shoved with all the strength in his arm and Manville reeled backwards. He tripped and fell but scrambled to his feet. His eyes were wide with shock, and Colin said, “That was rather clumsy, Manville. Come, you can do better.”

Colin waited as the man approached him again, this time more carefully. He was a good swordsman but nothing like the master from whom Colin had learned. The two circled each other, and Colin quite easily parried. He made no attempt to carry the fight to Manville. He kept his guard up, and knowing that the grass was wet and slippery, he moved carefully.

The clashing of the blades and the heavy breathing of Manville were the only sounds until Manville tried for a killing move. A cry rose from the crowd.

“I thought you were an expert swordsman,” Colin said. “But I see you are just an amateur.” His remark excited the rage of Manville, who tried even harder. The fight went on and on, and finally Colin saw that his opponent was growing weary. He said, “My arm’s a little tired. I think I’ll use my left.” He switched to his left hand and began to put more pressure on Manville. He moved forward, feeling strong. He drove Manville back, and finally, when Manville ran toward him, he parried the blow, and his blade shot out and slashed Manville’s tie. Part of the tie fell to the ground, and Colin said, “You have to be more careful of your attire, sir. It wouldn’t do for a great swordsman like you to be dressed in anything but the best.”

The crowd laughed. For Colin the duel had become silly. Manville was exhausted, and Colin could have killed him at any time. He had no plan to do that, however. Then he finally he saw his chance.

Manville’s right arm was trembling with fatigue, and he meekly held up his left to protect himself. Colin lunged forward. He felt the jar as the tip of his sword struck Manville’s hand, penetrating it, and he twisted the blade as Manville screamed.

Withdrawing the blade with one smooth motion, Colin stepped back and lowered the tip. “I think this duel is over.”

“My hand! You’ve ruined my hand!”

Manville had dropped his sword and was clutching his hand. Blood poured through his fingers.

The surgeon came forward at once and looked at the hand. “You’ve got some tendons sliced there. I don’t think this hand’s going to be much use for things like dueling,” he said.

Colin turned to Claude, who was shocked into silence. “Why don’t we finish this now, Vernay? I think everyone here knows you’ve been hiding behind your man.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Vernay said quickly.

“I’m not sure about all the rules, but perhaps this will give you a good reason for fighting.” He reached forward and slapped Vernay lightly on the cheek. “That provocation enough for a challenge?”

Vernay glared at Colin. He was thinking how easily the man before him had shot the two coins out of the air and how he had toyed with Manville as if he were a child. “You’re safe. You know I will not challenge you.”

“I rather thought you wouldn’t. Well, this is the end of it, as far as I’m concerned.”

Claude Vernay wheeled and walked stiff-legged away from the crowd. Rage flowed through him. He knew that he had no chance with the man with a sword and very little chance with a pistol—Colin was simply more skilled than he, to his surprise. As he walked away, however, he already had begun to think. He may beat Leon, but there is one he cannot beat. He thought of Jean Paul Compier, who was known as the best swordsman in France. The two had been compan-ions, and now the plan formed in his mind. I will send for Jean Paul. He will take care of this popinjay! He will put a sword through his heart!

Chapter eighteen

New Orleans had buzzed with talk about the duel between Colin, the famous star of the opera, and Leon Manville. Many had actually congratulated Colin, something that displeased him and to which he barely responded. The news had come out that Manville’s hand had been badly mangled so that he lost partial use of it. No one had seemed particularly upset about that, for he was widely known as a bully, and he had no powerful friends.

Simone was tremendously relieved when the affair was over, and she had thrown herself into helping Bayard, who had scheduled his first show. He had worked hard and accumulated a good stock of paintings, and the show was well advertised throughout the city.

The day of the show, Simone traveled to Fanair Hall, which was often used for such things. The hall was a very old building but well preserved, and the reception area was adequate for such a show. Simone had hung decorations and arranged for refreshments, and she was delighted when the citizens of New Orleans filed in. Many of them came out of curiosity, she knew, but the d’Or family had many friends, and Simone was busy greeting and showing people around.

She worked all day, but the high moment of the show came for her when Colin arrived late that night, after the opera. She met him at once and said, “It’s going so well, Colin. We’ve already sold six paint-ings. Isn’t it marvelous?”

“Yes, it is. I must go congratulate Bayard, but he seems rather busy right now.”

“I think this show proves that he has the talent to be a successful artist.”

“I agree. Well, perhaps you’ll show me around.”

“Oh yes, of course. Come along.”

Colin followed Simone as she showed him various paintings. He stopped before the one of her and said, “That’s new, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Colin decided to paint one of each member of the family.”

“How much is it?”

“Oh, it’s not for sale. I just wanted to put it up so they could see how well he’s done.”

“He’s done very well indeed.”

Simone protested, “I don’t really look that good.”

“I think you’ll have to let others be the judge of that. As for me, I think you do.” He turned to her and would have said more, but at that moment Bayard approached and greeted Colin warmly. “I’m so glad you came, Colin. Has Simone told you how well we’re doing?”

“Yes, I’m very pleased, Bayard. I’d like to buy that one, but she tells me it’s not for sale.”

“Maybe I can convince her to pose again and paint one just for you.”

“I’ll commission you to do that. How much would you charge me?”

“Charge you! Don’t be foolish! For you it will be a pleasure.”

Colin was truly happy for Bayard. He knew a little bit about how far down in the world he had gone and now was pleased to see the glow of health in Bayard’s cheeks and the pride in his eyes.

They stood talking until Bayard’s parents came up. They greeted Colin, then Bayard said, “Now that I have a little money, there’s some-thing I must do.”

“What is that, son?” Louis said. The success of the show had stunned and pleased him. Painting had always seemed a frivolous thing for a grown man’s occupation, but he saw the leaders of the city, powerful men and women, who had come to the show and bought his son’s work. This dissolved Louis’s whole objection, and he gazed at Bayard fondly. “I suppose you’re going to buy a fancy racehorse now.”

“Not at all. I’ve thought a great deal,” he said, “about Fleur and her mother. I haven’t had any way to help them, but now I do.”

“Are you going out to their place?” Simone asked.

“Yes. I’m going to take tomorrow off.”

“Anything they need, I’ll be glad to help with,” Louis said quickly.

“Thank you, Father, but this is something I would like to use my own money for. I owe those two a great deal.”

The rains had passed away, and as Bayard approached the cabin, he felt extraordinarily well. The light had washed the sky, and the wind had blown through the cane fields as he had ridden his stallion to the cabin. He had discovered that it was not necessary to go by boat. If one had a horse, there was a rather roundabout way. He had to stop twice to make inquiries, but the day was beautiful, and he was happy about his plan.

Mimosa trees stood in front of the house. He could smell the damp earth as he called, “Hello, the house!” and quickly dismounted. The door opened, and he smiled as Fleur stepped out. She was wear-ing the same outfit that he had seen her in the last time. He took off his hat and said, “Good morning, Fleur. I’ve come for a visit.”

“I’m glad to see you, Bayard. Tie up your horse, and come in.”

Bayard tied his stallion to a sapling and entered the cabin. She waved toward one of the chairs at the table. “Sit down. Perhaps you are hungry.”

“No, but I could use some of that good, strong coffee that you make so well.”

“I have some ready. I just browned the coffee beans yesterday and ground them. It will be ver’ fresh.”

Bayard had a strange feeling. He glanced over toward the bed and saw where he had lain for almost a week, totally out of the world. He shook his head. “I think about my time here so often.”

Fleur said, “I think about it, too.” She obtained two cups and said, “I have fresh milk.”

“That’s the best way to drink coffee,” he said. She poured the cup half full with the black, thick coffee and then added milk. Giving him a spoon, she sat down opposite him. “What have you been doing?” she asked. “How is your family?”

“I’ve been doing better than I ever have in my life,” Bayard said. He leaned forward and began to describe the work that he had done, and with great excitement he told her of the show and how he had sold many paintings.

Fleur listened to him silently, and Bayard was puzzled. She had always been so filled with life, her eyes gleaming and dancing as she spoke. But she was very quiet now, until finally she said, “Oh, I’m happy your paintings are sold. Are you still walking with God?”

“Yes, I am, as best I know how. I owe that to you and your mother.” He looked toward the door and said, “How is your mother, Fleur?”

Fleur looked down at her coffee cup, picked it up, and moved it around in a circle on the tabletop. When she looked up, her eyes were dark. “Ma mere, she go to be with God a week ago.”

“Oh, Fleur, I wish I had known. I would have come.”

“It was time for her,” Fleur said simply. “The night before she die, we talked a long time. She seemed ver’ well. She tell me things about herself I had never known, and then she kiss me, and then she blessed me. When I go to her the next morning, she had gone.”

“I’m so sorry.” Bayard reached across the table and took her hand.

“It is not to be sorry. She is with her Lord now.”

“What will you do now?”

“I will stay here, I suppose.”

“Fleur, that’s not good. You need to be with people.”

“I have friends. I do not see them ver’ often, but they came to the funeral.”

“You are cut off out here.” A sudden impulse moved Bayard, and he said, “You must come and stay with my family for a while.”

Fleur looked up, her eyes widening with surprise. “Stay with you, Bayard?”

“Yes. You are all alone here. There’s nothing to think of but your loss. I want you to come.”

“But I do not know your family, and they do not know me.”

“They will love you as I do.”

The words struck Fleur. She stared at him in surprise. “I do not know what to do. It is lonely here. Ma mere, we had each other, and now I have no one.”

Suddenly Fleur got up and walked to the window and stared out. She had made no sound, but her shoulders were drawn tensely together. Bayard got up and walked over to her. He turned her around, and when she looked up at him, he said, “You have done so much for me, and my family’s so grateful. I want you to come at least for a visit.” He gave her no chance to object but smiled and said, “They will be very glad to see you. Now, you get your things together.”

“Is it right for me to do this?”

“It’s very right.”

New life seemed to flow into Fleur’s face. “Maybe the good Lord send you to bring comfort to my heart. I think I was ready to give ma mere up, but I am ver’ lonely.”

“It’s not good to be alone.”

Fleur smiled up at him. “That is what the Bible says. God say it to Adam. He say, ‘It is not good for man to be alone,’ and He made Eve for him.”

“Well, I certainly agree with the Lord.”

“I will have to stop and tell Lonnie to take care of the livestock.”

“We can do that. Come, I’m anxious for you to meet my family.”

PART FOUR

• 1838 •

Fleur

Chapter nineteen

All the way from Fleur’s cabin into town, Bayard had talked steadily. Fleur rode her mare, and the two traveled at a fast clip. As they neared the city, Bayard saw that the girl was frightened.

Once in New Orleans, she looked around carefully at every-thing. “I have never see such a big place. How you ever find your way?”

“The same way you find your way in the bayou, I expect. By going over it and over it. Come. Our home isn’t far from here.”

When they arrived at the house, Fleur admired its size and said, “This is your house?”

“My family’s house. The stable is in back. We’ll have our driver take care of the animals.”

They rode to the back, and Robert met them. “Robert, this is Miss Fleur Avenall. She’s going to be staying with us. I want you to take good care of her mare. Grain her, and rub her down.”

“Yes, sir. Good to see you, Miss Fleur.”

“Your name is Robert? I am glad to know you.”

“Come along. Simone will be so happy. She talks about you a lot.”

Fleur grew tense when they entered the house. She looked around and saw the wallpaper with bright colors, the shining cypress floor, the light streaming through the high windows. “I’ve never been in a place like this.”

“Fleur, you’ve come to visit!” Simone had come down the hall, and she hurried forward with a smile on her face. She put out her hand, and when they had shaken hands, she put her arm around Fleur and said, “What a delightful surprise!”

“I have some bad news, Simone,” Bayard said quickly. “Fleur’s mother passed away last week.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Fleur. I wish you had gotten word to us so we could have come.”

“I did not really think of it.”

“But you’re here now, I hope for a long visit.”

“She certainly is—as long as we can persuade her. I want you to take her upstairs and let her have the green room. I’ll have Robert bring her things up.”

“Of course. Come along, Fleur.” Simone led the way up the stairs and down the hall. She opened the door and said, “This will be your room. I hope you’ll like it. It’s always been one of my favorites.”

Fleur stepped inside and then stopped dead still. “I have never see such a room,” she whispered. The room was wallpapered with green-and-gold flocked wallpaper all the way up to the high, white ceiling. The dark wooden floor was covered with a very large brown, green, and beige carpet with designs of flowers, leaves, and birds on it, and two tall windows were covered with dark green velvet curtains that were now pulled back to admit the day’s light. The furniture was all quite large and made of mahogany, with the bed dominating the middle of the room with its tall posts and covered canopy. Many pic-tures decorated the walls, all in ornate gold frames, and a beautifully carved mirror hung over the washstand holding a fine porcelain basin and pitcher.

“I think is too fine for me.”

“No, it’s just right for you.” Simone put her arm around the girl. “I’m so sorry about your mother, but I want you to stay with us for a long, long time. I’ve always wanted a sister, and now I have one.”

When Fleur looked up, Simone saw tears in her eyes. “I am too ignorant. I would not know what to say to your family or your friends.”

Simone said, “That’s foolishness. Why, you know a lot more about many things than any of my friends.”

“What could I know that a fine lady like you would not know?”

“Well, I don’t know how to skin a coon or dress a ’gator.”

Fleur smiled. It was not a full smile, but she no longer looked sad. “I will teach you how when you come and visit with me.”

“That’s a bargain.”

The two talked until Robert brought her things up, and when Simone saw the pitiful clothing, only one faded dress, she said, “I know what we will do first thing. I need some new things, and we’ll both go out and buy new dresses.”

“But I have no money.”

“Oh, that’s not necessary. Papa is always generous. You are so pretty, and we’ll fix you up fine.”

Bayard saw during the evening meal that Fleur was overwhelmed by the world into which he had thrust her. His parents had welcomed her fulsomely, and Simone had made much of her. Still Fleur looked with panic, he saw, on the table that was set with china and a full set of tableware. Why, she doesn’t know which fork to use or even how to eat in a place like this, he thought. It must be terrible for her.

The others saw the girl’s embarrassment and tried to set her at ease, but Fleur ate very little and f inally whispered in a voice barely audible, “I would like to go to my room, if you don’t mind.”

“Why, of course,” Simone said. “You must be tired. Shall I go with you?”

“No, thank you. I can find it.”

As soon as Fleur left, Simone said, “She’s frightened by all of this.”

“Well, she might be,” Renee said. “From what you told me, she has absolutely nothing. Think how out of place we’d be if we were put in a cabin in the middle of a bayou.”

“Well, she will learn,” Louis said quickly. “She a fine girl, and I can see that she’s very intelligent.”

“We must be careful of her feelings,” Simone said. “I’ll spend every moment I can with her. I’m going to take her shopping tomor-row, Father. She doesn’t have a thing to wear. I must have some money.”

“Buy her whatever she needs, my dear.”

Bayard was troubled, for he had wanted things to be different. After everyone had gone to their rooms, he found he could not sleep. Finally he made up his mind: I’ve got to do something!

He went to the room assigned to Fleur and tapped on the door lightly. “Fleur, are you awake?”

There was a long silence, and then the door opened. Fleur had not dressed for bed. He realized she probably had nothing to wear.

“Are you sleepy?” Bayard asked.

“No, I’m not.”

“Come downstairs with me. I want to show you something.”

“You mean now?”

“Yes, now. Come along.” She stepped outside, giving him a strange look. He turned and walked down the stairs, and she accom-panied him. “Let’s just go outside.” Once outdoors, he said, “Come around over here, out from under the trees.” He led her to an open spot and said, “There’s what I wanted to show you.” He gestured at the stars and said, “I’ve never seen as many stars in my life. You remember we talked about that out at your home.”

Fleur looked up. The moonlight bathed her face with a silver light. She seemed small and fragile, but her eyes lit up as she looked at the sky. “They are ver’ beautiful. I remember I tell you God named each one of them.”

“Well, I know a few. There’s Arcturis right up there. You see?”

“Arcturis? That is his name?”

“That’s what the astronomers call it. And over there, that’s Sirius. They call it the Dog Star.” He continued to name off the few stars he knew, and she watched quietly.

Suddenly Fleur said, “I must go home. I do not fit in this place.”

Bayard saw that her face was drawn tight. He could not help but notice how lovely her skin was. The summer darkness lay over it, but her shirt fell away from her throat, showing the smooth olive shading beneath. Her black hair lay rolled and heavy on her head, a dense black that shone under the moonlight. The pale light revealed the soft lines of her body. Bayard remembered then how she had saved his life, nursed him back to health, and a great desire to do her good stirred in him. He asked suddenly, “Did you weep when your mother died?”

She held her head up, and he saw the tears glittering in her eyes. “No,” she whispered, “I did not.”

He saw the tremor in her body, and then the tears overflowed. He reached out and pulled her close, holding her head against his chest. “Maybe I can help,” he whispered. Her body continued to tremble, and he heard her quiet sobs. He made no attempt to speak, but he held her firmly until the weeping stopped. She straightened up and put her hands on his chest. “Is the first time I have cry.”

“We all need to cry, Fleur, even me.”

She looked at him shyly.

Bayard reached down, took her hand, and kissed it. “I learned so much from you and your mother. Maybe now you can learn a little bit from me and from my family. You must stay here and become a part of us. It will be exciting,” he said.

Her face seemed to glow then. She looked up at him and said, “Maybe I will stay for a little while, me.”

Chapter twenty

As Simone walked down the street into Jackson Square, she paused for a moment to look at the paintings and drawings of the sidewalk artists who had set up their easels along the piked fence surrounding the park. One of them was painting a picture of the St. Louis Cathedral, which was very poorly executed, according to her judgment. She thought, Bayard could do so much better than that. The artist, a short, greasy-faced man with bloodshot gray eyes, stared at her. “You want to buy?” he demanded.

“No, thank you.”

The artist gave Simone a look of contempt, then turned and con-tinued to splash paint on the canvas almost carelessly.

The wind was refreshing coming off the river, and the bright sun threw its warm beams down on the banana and myrtle trees inside the square. Simone had always liked to walk the Quarter in the morning, when the streets were fresh and before the din of shoppers began, and now the sight of it pleased her. She could smell the coffee and fresh baked bread in the small grocery stores, and from the alleyways came the cool, dank smell of old brick.

For some time she wandered around, looking occasionally through the scrolled iron doors of the brick alleyways. Once she saw a courtyard of a building lit by the sun. Purple wisteria and climbing yellow roses decorated the wall, and the ivy rooted in the mortar clung to it determinedly while four-o’clocks bloomed in the shade, and a green garden of spearmint erupted against the sunlit stucco walls. She turned to leave the square when someone spoke.

“Hello, Simone.”

Turning, Simone saw Colin, who took off his hat. The wind blew his auburn hair, and his eyes looked bluer than any she had ever seen. The color reminded her of cornflowers that grew in the open fields. “Hello, Colin,” she said. “What are you doing here?”

“Just getting away from things. Would you like some coffee?” Simone nodded. “That would be nice.”

“We could go in the Cafe du Monde. They have great coffee there.”

He escorted her into the cafe. He ordered beignets and café au lait. The two nibbled at the delicacies and sipped the coffee. Simone asked about the performance the previous evening, and he spoke of it almost with disinterest. Then he asked, “How is Fleur doing?”

“Why, she’s been with us for only three days, but she’s doing very well. Of course everything is a little strange to her. All she’s ever known is a cabin out in a bayou.”

Something seemed to be troubling Colin. He swirled the milky coffee in his cup and stared down at it intently, as if it had some great meaning. Simone finally asked, “What’s wrong?”

Looking in her eyes, Colin said, “It’s a dangerous thing to experi-ment with lives, Simone.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You can change the color of a dress, or you can change a hat you’re wearing—but it’s more difficult to change people.”

“You sound as if you don’t approve of our bringing her in to stay with us. I’m surprised at you.”

“Maybe I’m wrong, but has she been happy?”

His question made Simone uncomfortable for some reason, and she shifted in her chair and glanced down at the table. She picked up a spoon and stirred her coffee without answering for a time. Indeed, she had been somewhat disappointed at Fleur’s behavior. It had seemed so right that Bayard should bring her there. After all, they owed her a tremendous debt, and now there was a chance to pay it back. And Simone had thrown herself into helping Fleur with all of the energy that she possessed. Thinking about it, however, she real-ized that Fleur had not responded as well as she might have liked. She had seemed to withdraw into herself and spend as much time in her room as possible, coming out only when Simone and Bayard insisted on it.

“It will just take time,” she said finally.

“I hope you’re right. But—” He broke off and shook his head doubtfully. “It’s going to be more difficult than you think.”

The stubborn streak that lay beneath the surface of Simone d’Or’s personality arose. She had been accustomed to having her own way, and now being challenged, she responded by saying stiffly, “I don’t agree with you. What do you know about it, anyway?”

“It happened to me, Simone. When I went to France, I couldn’t speak French. I didn’t know anything. I was ignorant, and there I was right in the middle of the highest form of French society. I remember when Armand took me to the parties and balls and the meetings with his artistic friends, I felt more stupid than you can imagine.” He smiled wryly at her, and she noticed tiny crinkles at the edges of his eyes. “I would have cried, but I was too old for that. But I wanted to.”

“You turned out all right. You adjusted.”

“It took a long time, and it was a painful thing. I think you’d bet-ter be prepared for Fleur to want to go back to her old life.”

“She’s free to go if she wants, but Bayard and my whole family want to help her.”

“Sometimes the wrong kind of help can be harmful. And some-times people don’t need help.”

“I’m telling you, Colin, you don’t know what you’re talking about. She’s a beautiful young woman. All she needs is a little training, a little help with her speech, a few tips on how to dress. She’ll fit right in.”

“You’re talking about a girl who has lived next to a swamp all of her life. She’s been out hunting alligators and fishing and trap-ping wild animals, and you’re pushing her into Creole high soci-ety, which, if I may say so, is not the most enviable one, in my judgment.”

Simone grew angry. “I see there’s no point in our talking about it, Colin. You’re wrong, and that’s all there is to it.” She rose, saying, “I must go now. Good day.”

She left the Cafe du Monde, walking as rapidly as she could. She did not look back, and by the time she reached the spot where Robert was waiting for her with the carriage, she had decided that Lord Beaufort had gotten too wise for his own good. After all, he was noth-ing but a fisherman! What could he know about people? she thought. She snapped at Robert, “Take me home at once!”

“Yes, ma’am,” Robert said carefully. He had learned to recognize the storm signals that rose sometimes, transforming Simone d’Or from a pleasant, smiling woman to a determined, hardheaded one. I don’t know what set her off, but it don’t take much! he thought casually, and then spoke to his horses, “Get up, Nell. Get up, Betsy.”

As soon as Simone stepped into the house, she asked Agnes, “Where is Miss Fleur?”

“She’s upstairs in her room, Miss. She’s been there all morning. Don’t know why she wants to stay inside on such a beautiful day.”

Simone nodded and moved down the hall toward the stairs. As she ascended the carpeted steps, her head was full of the program that she had decided on for Fleur. The conversation with Colin Seymour had increased her determination, and she muttered, “All Fleur needs is a little help—and I’m going to see that she gets it!”

Knocking on the door, she waited until Fleur invited her to enter. The young woman was sitting on a chair beside a window. The sun-light touched her glossy black hair.

“What are you doing up in your room alone, Fleur?”

“Just thinking.”

“Well, you’ve thought enough.” Simone smiled and went over to her. “You have the most beautiful hair I’ve ever seen. We’re going to do something with it.”

“What you do with it?” Fleur asked with a frightened look.

“I’m going to take you to a woman who fixes my hair, and we’re going to go to some stores and buy you some new clothes.”

“You already buy me new dress. See, it fits fine. I don’t need no more.”

Simone laughed. “We only bought you two dresses. We’re going to the reception tomorrow, and you need a new gown. Come now, we’ll have all afternoon to shop.”

“I think I rather stay here, Simone.”

“Don’t be foolish. It’ll be fun. I’ll tell you what: we’ll go shopping, and then we’ll get a fine meal at Antoine’s. Then we’ll go to the opera. Would you like that?”

“I don’t know. I never go to no opera.”

“Well, you’ll like it, I’m sure. Come along now. You better wear that coat that we bought. It’s getting brisk out there, and it’ll be cold when we get back tonight.”

“This is Francisco’s. They have the finest ladies’ fashions in New Orleans. Come along. We have a lot to do.”

Fleur hung back. She had accompanied Simone reluctantly, and now the sight of the store with its bright lights throwing a glow over the selections of dresses and shoes and other ladies’ accessories intimi-dated her. She longed to be back in her room, or even back in her cabin on the bayou—though she had enjoyed being with Bayard and watching him paint. And she enjoyed the family. But once outside the house meeting strangers, she became frightened and felt ill at ease.

“Good afternoon, Mademoiselle d’Or. It is good to see you.” The speaker was a petite woman wearing a gray dress and an elaborate hair-style. She had bright brown eyes and a smile to match. “What can I do for you today?”

“Eleanor, this is Fleur Avenall, a very special friend of mine. We’re going to the reception for the new lieutenant governor tomorrow, and Miss Avenall needs a new outfit.”

“That will be a pleasure. If you will come this way, Miss Avenall, I will show you what we have.”

Fleur followed but paid little heed to the woman’s talk. Every-where she looked she saw well-dressed women wearing flashing jew-elry, with their hair done in fashions she could not quite understand. They were talking and laughing, and Simone kept up a running conversation with the woman named Eleanor. Fleur said almost nothing, and for the next hour she simply did as she was bidden. She tried on half a dozen dresses as well as shoes, bonnets, and gloves.

“These shoes, they are too tight,” she complained. After wearing moccasins most of her life, she felt the leather shoes bite into her flesh. “They hurt.”

“Oh, they’re not too small, I’m sure,” Lucille said. “You will get used to them. New shoes take breaking in.”

“Moccasins don’t take no breaking in. You make them and put them on, and they feel good right off.”

Simone laughed. “Well, you can’t wear moccasins to the recep-tion. Those will look very pretty. Now, which of the dresses did you like? I thought the green one was very nice indeed.” Simone waited, but Fleur seemed confused. “Of course, the white brings out your hair and your eyes.”

“The white is ver’ pretty, but the green is nice also, Eleanor said.”

“Very well. We’ll take them both,” Simone said. “Now, you’ll need a cloak to wear. What do you have, Eleanor?”

“We have some fine wool cloaks just imported. It is merino wool, the very finest.” Eleanor brought out a cloak and draped it across Fleur’s shoulders. “It would look just right with either dress, and it is so warm.”

“Do you like this, Fleur?”

“Yes, I like him, but what keep him from falling off?” The coat had no buttons and simply draped over the shoulders.

“It’s supposed to be like that, Mademoiselle Avenall,” Eleanor answered. “It allows the beautiful dress to be seen.”

“We’ll take it,” Simone said firmly. “Now, let’s see, is there any-thing else?”

“I think is enough, Simone,” Fleur said quickly. “Too much for me.”

“Certainly it’s not too much! You must look beautiful for the reception.” She paid her bill, and the pair left for home.

Fleur stood in the middle of the room while Simone’s maid, Lucy, moved about her, touching her hair with a brush, adding a hairpin to keep it in place. Fleur did not like the way her hair was fixed, all curled and tied up. Always she had let it simply hang down her back, tied with a thong. She felt awkward in the new clothes. When Lucy said, “Now you are perfect,” she looked in the mirror. The white dress brought out her dark hair and eyes, as Simone had said, but she reached up and tried to tug the dress upward. “This shows too much of me,” she said.

“Oh no, it’s very modest!” Lucy said.

“I don’t think so, me! I wish I had a sweater, something to cover myself up.”

Lucy restrained a laugh. “Wait until you see some of the other ladies’ dresses! They are cut much lower than this.”

“Then they should stay home!”

Simone entered the room, smiling. “Let me see you. Turn around—oh, it’s perfect!”

“This dress shows too much of me. I want to put a shawl or some-thing over my chest.”

“Why, it’s just right,” Simone said with surprise.

“I never wear nothing that show me like this. Maybe I could wear a shirt or something under the dress.”

“I’ve tried to tell her it’s very modest. See, Miss Simone’s dress is much lower than that.”

Fleur looked at Simone’s maroon dress that was indeed even more revealing than her own. “Don’t you feel funny, letting your skin show like that?”

Simone exchanged smiles with Lucy. “It’s all the fashion. You’ve just never worn a ballroom dress. Now come along. It’s time to go.”

Fleur followed Simone down the stairs and found Bayard waiting. His eyes lit up, and he said, “Well, the two most beautiful woman in New Orleans are here. Let me look at that new dress, Fleur.”

Fleur flushed. “I don’t like it,” she said in a low voice.

“You don’t like the dress?”

“No, it show too much of me.”

Bayard was surprised. He was accustomed to such fashions him-self, but he saw that Fleur was indeed troubled. “I know it’s differ-ent from anything you’ve worn out at the bayou, but when you go to dances out there with the Cajuns, don’t they wear anything like this?”

“No. Women wear their dresses up to their neck. This is not nice.”

Bayard chewed his lip and said, “Well, I think you’ll find that things are a little different at these receptions.”

“It’ll be fine,” Simone said. “You look lovely.”

“Yes, every young blade in New Orleans will be pestering you for dances.”

“I can’t dance, me,” Fleur said. “Just the zydeco is all I can do. I bet you don’t do that where we going.”

“I don’t think so.” Simone was taken aback. She assumed that every young lady could dance. She looked at her brother. “Bayard, you’ll have to stay with her.”

“We don’t have to dance,” Bayard said. “We can just walk around and sample the food and meet people. Come along now, we don’t want to be late.”

Colin had arranged for the company to have a night off. They had worked hard, and except for Sunday nights, they had performed regu-larly. He was stepping downstairs from his room when he saw Rosa crossing the lobby. He called out to her, and she turned to smile at him.

“Hello, Colin. Where are you going?”

“I’m trying to decide whether to go to that reception for the lieu-tenant governor. I don’t like such things usually, but I suppose I ought to go.”

“It should be fun,” Rosa said.

“I’m a little bit worried about the young woman I told you about—the one who’s staying with Simone and Bayard.”

“The one named Fleur, who rescued Bayard? I’d like to meet her.”

“Well, here’s your chance.” Colin made up his mind suddenly. “You go with me. I’m afraid Fleur’s going to feel out of place. She’s never been to a thing like this. She’s just a country girl, really.”

Rosa offered, “You want me to go with you?”

“Yes. Let’s go to the blasted thing. We can make her feel at home.”

“All right. Let me stop at home to put on a different dress, and I’ll be ready.”

The ballroom was filled, for the new lieutenant governor of Louisiana was already a power in the state. Everyone knew that he would be the next governor and was anxious to show him respect.

As Bayard and Simone arrived with Fleur, they were greeted on every hand, but Fleur could only look at the magnificence of the ballroom.

The room was large and oval-shaped, with domed ceilings and pic-tures of gilded angels and clouds painted throughout. The walls were painted a brilliant white, and the floor was highly polished marble of white with gold flecks. Large, round columns encircled the room about ten feet in from the outer walls, and upholstered chairs of gold and blue silk damask and tables covered with fine white linen, china, and crystal lay behind the columns. Floor-length windows around the room were covered with heavy blue velvet curtains and crystal chan-deliers seemed to be everywhere, lit with hundreds of candles.

Fleur felt terribly uncomfortable, and her face was pale, but nei-ther Simone nor Bayard noticed. They were too busy greeting people. Finally two men came up, and the shorter one was introduced as Governor Taylor while the tall man beside him was Jeffrey Williams, the incoming lieutenant governor.

“Are your parents here, Miss d’Or?” Governor Taylor asked.

“They will be here later, sir.”

“You’ve met the new lieutenant governor, Mr. Jeffrey Williams?”

“I have not. Glad to know you, sir. This is my sister, Simone, and our good friend Miss Avenall,” Bayard said.

The lieutenant governor’s eyes were fastened on Fleur. He stepped forward and bowed from the waist. “Happy to know you, Miss Avenall. Perhaps you’ll honor me with a dance?”

“No, I don’t dance.”

Both the governor and the lieutenant governor looked shocked.

Bayard said quickly, “She is new to our city and hasn’t yet picked up our ways.”

“Well, if you ever learn, I’ll be first in line.” Williams smiled, and the two men wandered off.

“I don’t think this a good idea,” Fleur said.

“Now, don’t be foolish. Come along, let’s just walk around,” Bayard said. He took her lightly by the arm and steered her toward the refreshment table. They were sampling the food when George Ahern, the mayor, came up. Bayard introduced him to Fleur, and Ahern asked, “You’re new to our city?”

“Yes.”

“Where are you from, may I ask?”

“Whiskey Bay.”

Ahern’s eyes flew open. Whiskey Bay was one of the many spots deep in bayou country. “Well,” he said, “we’re glad to have you here tonight.”

Several others had been within hearing distance, and one of them, a tall, fashionable woman remarked, “Whiskey Bay—nothing there but alligators and moccasins.”

Instantly Bayard turned and glared at her. She met his eyes and then reddened. She turned and walked away, and Bayard said, “Don’t mind them, Fleur. There are people with bad manners everywhere.”

“Please, Bayard, take me from this place!”

“We won’t stay long,” he promised. He realized that bringing her had been a mistake, but he couldn’t leave so early in the evening. He saw Colin speaking with Simone and another woman he recognized from the opera. “Look, there are some friendly people you should meet.”

He led Fleur over and introduced her. Colin smiled. “Hello, Miss Avenall. May I introduce my friend, Miss Rosa Calabria.”

Rosa smiled and stepped forward. “You look lovely. I’m so happy to meet you.”

“I am glad to meet you. I heard you sing last night.”

“Did you like the opera?” Colin asked.

“Yes. It was loud.”

Colin laughed, and the others joined him. “It was indeed loud. Operas may be good or bad, but they are all loud.”

Fleur looked around with alarm. “Did I say something wrong, Bayard?”

“No, of course you didn’t. I think all of us agree that operas are hard on the ears.”

Colin said, “I thought I might ask you to dance, Miss Fleur.”

“I can’t do that.”

Silence ensued, and Simone said quickly, “I’m going to have Fleur start taking dancing lessons at once.” She was upset and saw that Colin was looking at the girl with pity in his eyes. “It won’t take long for her to learn,” she said.

“I’m sure it won’t,” Colin said quietly.

Simone watched as Colin and Rosa spoke with the girl. Bayard stepped close to Simone and whispered, “We were wrong to bring her here.”

“No, we weren’t,” Simone said. She was still determined to prove that Colin was mistaken. “It’s just a small thing. Anybody can learn to dance.”

“I don’t know. It’s more than that.”

At that moment Claude Vernay strode across the room. He stood before Fleur and said, “Bayard, would you introduce me to your friend?”

Colin turned to face Vernay. “It wouldn’t be proper, Vernay.”

Vernay turned pale, and the people within hearing distance were watching carefully. New Orleans loved its drama, and the townspeople knew the antagonism that existed between the two. Vernay shot a venomous glance at Colin, then turned and walked away, his back stiff.

“Why is that man so mad at you?” Fleur asked.

“Just a disagreement. Come on, let me get you something to drink.”

“I already have something to drink. I didn’t like it.”

“It’s not very good,” Bayard agreed, “but I’m sure we’ll have some entertainment. Did they ask you to sing, Colin?”

“No, they didn’t, and I’m glad of it. I’m about sung out.”

Simone hailed three of her friends across the room. She intro-duced them to Fleur, who said little, but the reaction of Simone’s friends was obvious. They were amused at the young woman. One of them said in a bright voice, “What a delightful friend you have, Simone. She’s so—so exotic.”

Her tone was such that everyone who heard knew she had insulted Fleur. Simone was furious. “Yes, she is, Mary. She is unspoiled and has a sweetness in her that I don’t find in any of my other friends.” She turned around and said, “Come, Fleur.”

Bayard accompanied them, and Fleur reached up and put her hand on his arm. “Please, Bayard, take me home.”

“Yes, I will. Simone, I’m taking Fleur home.”

Simone started to argue, but Bayard shook his head and led Fleur out of the room.The music was playing, and Colin asked, “Would you care to dance?”

Simone turned and looked at him. She was thinking of the con-versation when he had warned her against the difficulty of bringing Fleur into a world she did not know. “She just needs more training, Colin,” she said firmly, “and I’m going to see that she gets it.”

Colin replied, “Lots of luck. I think you’ll need it.” He turned and walked to Rosa, and the two left at once. Simone knew that he had come for Fleur’s sake, and a feeling of disappointment filled her. Still she thought, It’ll work. I can make her into a society woman. Colin’s wrong about this!

Chapter twenty-one

Simone put down her pen, flexed her fingers, and sat looking at the words she had written in her journal. Nothing is working out with Fleur. I don’t know what to do, but I will not give up.

A knock on the door startled her. “Come in, Lucy.”

Her maid entered the room, her eyes big. “Lord Beaufort is here to see you, Miss.”

Simone rose and said, “Very well. I’ll come down.”

“Is he really a lord like they say?”

“Of course he is, Lucy. That’s why they call him Lord Beaufort. What a silly goose you are!”

She descended the stairs and found that Colin was waiting for her in the foyer. He was wearing a pair of worn brown trousers, a green-and-white checkered shirt, and a short wool coat that came down to his fingers and was open at the front. His boots were heavy and had thick soles. “I came without an invitation, Simone,” he said, and his eyes were dancing with some kind of excitement.

“Well, come into the parlor.” They had parted on icy terms at the ball, and she wasn’t sure whether she was glad to see him or not.

“No, I’ve come to take you for an outing.”

“An outing? What sort?”

“I bought a small boat some time ago. I’ve been meaning to ask you to come for a sail with me.”

“But Colin, it’s freezing out there!” Indeed, the first of November had just passed, and New Orleans had been held in extremely cold weather, which was very unusual for the city.

“Don’t be so picky, Simone. It’ll be something new for you. I imagine you haven’t been out on many small sailing crafts.”

“No, and I’m not sure I’ll like it,” Simone said. “I can’t swim.”

“You won’t have to. I can pull you out, but we won’t capsize. Come on. I need your company.”

Simone had been upset with Colin for his advice about Fleur Avenall, but at the moment, she was tired of balls and parties and the formal manners of her world. So she sighed and asked, “What does a lady wear on a boat like this?”

“The oldest clothes you have. Good boots and warm socks and warm underwear.”

Simone was surprised. No man had ever mentioned underwear in her presence, and she saw that he was waiting for her to complain.

Instead she fell into his mood. “All right. Give me a few minutes. You might as well go back to the kitchen. They’ll give you something to warm you up.”

“I’ll wait for you there.”

Upstairs Simone searched her closet for something suitable. Lucy asked, “What are you looking for?”

“Some winter clothes. The warmest I have.” She picked out a wool dress that she had not worn for years.

“Why, you can’t wear that old thing. I don’t know why you keep it.”

“It’ll do. Now, find me two sets of the warmest underwear I’ve got.”

As Simone stepped out of the carriage, the breeze off the river cut into her like a knife, despite two sets of underwear and her heavy woolen coat. She gasped, but Colin did not seem to be troubled. He did not even bother to button his coat. “There she is, right over there,” he said, pointing. “Isn’t she a beauty?”

Simone walked with him to the pier, where the boat was bobbing up and down. “It’s so small,” she said.

“Twenty feet long and plenty of room. She’s got a good wide beam and a deep draft too.” A man was working on it, a short, tub-shaped fellow with a red face and blue lips. “A bit rough out today, Cap’n.”

“Just right for sailing, Frank.”

“Well, sir, she’s all ready.” He offered his hand and said, “Let me help you in, Miss.”

Simone stepped gingerly into the boat, and Colin said, “Take that seat up in the bow.”

Simone obeyed and sat down. While Colin spoke with the man and then boarded, she looked out over the river. Few boats were on the water, only a few paddle wheelers headed for the docks of New Orleans. The wind bit at her, and she shivered and wished she had put on three sets of underwear. She was glad she had worn a pair of fur-lined leather gloves.

“All set?” Colin asked cheerfully.

“I suppose so. I still think this is insane.”

“Anybody can go sailing in the spring or summer. It’s good to have a challenge.” He began to loose the ropes and cast them off, and the man took them and rolled them up. Colin moved quickly, pulling at a rope that raised a sail, and at once the stiff breeze caught the vessel and pulled it sideways. Simone watched as he leaped back to the tiller and cried out, “Well, here we go!”

“Be careful of them waves, sir,” Frank called out. “They can turn you over before you know it.”

“I’ll watch ’em, Frank.”

The small craft moved swiftly through the water, and Simone saw Colin smile. He’s really enjoying this. I don’t know why anybody would!

As the boat moved along, Colin spoke about how he had found her and restored her with Frank’s help. “She’s a real traveler. Someday I’d like to have a bigger boat. I miss the sea.”

The wind whipped about Simone, seeming to wrap her in its coldness. The sail was stiff with the breeze as the craft drove through the gray water, and from time to time she saw Colin adjust the tiller. He was jolly, seeming not to feel the cold weather, and he began to speak of the time when he was a fisherman. “I never thought I’d miss those days,” he said. “It was a hard life, but there were some good things about it.”

By the time they neared the Gulf, Simone felt that she was frozen. It was impossible to keep her face warm, and her lips were numb so that she had difficulty responding to Colin. Her eyes watered, and she beat her hands together from time to time and stamped her feet to get the blood going.

Finally the Gulf opened up before them, and the waves made the small craft bob up and down like a cork. Once a wave smashed into their side, and the small craft listed alarmingly.

“Colin,” Simone said, “this is enough! I’m freezing to death!”

“Why, this isn’t too bad. I can take you down and show you some islands that we might even explore a little bit.”

“No, I want to go home.” At that moment the wind rose, and the craft bobbed some more. “Please, Colin, I’m afraid!”

Colin looked at her, then shrugged. “Well, fishermen pay no atten-tion to this sort of weather, but we’ll go back.” He put the sail around, then grabbed the tiller and straightened the vessel. They ran before the wind all the way back down the river. Simone was as miserable as she had ever been in her life. Her world was comfort and warmth and someone looking out for her. She thought as she watched Colin maneuver the boat back toward the dock how hard his fisherman’s life must have been. Just the thought of putting her hand in that cold water was painful.

Colin pulled up to the dock and said, “I guess Frank went to get something to eat.” They had been gone for two hours, and he leaped out and quickly secured the boat fore and aft. Then he reached for her and said, “Come along. I’ll help you out.”

Simone had trouble when she got to her feet. She had no feeling in them and was afraid she would twist her ankle. She took his hand and stepped on the dock, shivering. She repeated, “I’m freezing!”

“It’s not that bad. I’ve been out when ice was on the water. Look, there’s Frank’s shack up there. Let’s go see if we can get something to warm us up.”

He held her arm firmly until they reached the small shack. When he knocked, no one answered. “He must have gone to get a drink. Come along.”

“We can’t go into his house.”

“He won’t mind. Come inside.”

Simone stepped into the shack, which was no more than twelve feet square. A stove was throwing out waves of heat, and she went over to it at once and held her hands out. Great tremors ran through her, and she had to clamp her teeth together and force herself to be still.

Colin soon had water boiling, and by the time Simone was fairly comfortable, the coffee was ready. He took two unmatched cups, poured them full, and said, “No fancy trimmings. Just black and hot.”

Simone took it and sipped it cautiously. “It’s good,” she said. She drank the coffee gratefully and looked up to see Colin smiling at her. “What are you grinning about?” she asked.

“You didn’t have a very good time.”

“Of course I didn’t. It’s miserable out there. I can’t think why’d you ask me to go.”

Colin sipped his coffee, swirled it in the cup, and stared down into it. Finally he lifted his eyes. “Not your kind of a world, is it?”

“No, it certainly isn’t.”

“I could teach you to live in it.”

“I don’t want to live in it. I like my own world.”

He seemed not to have heard her. “It would take a long time, but you would learn.”

“I have no interest at all in joining that kind of world.”

Colin moved closer, reached out, seized her arm, and squeezed it. His voice was level, and his eyes were direct as he said, “Neither does Fleur want your world, Simone. She was as miserable at that fancy ball as you were out in that boat. Fleur could learn to live in your world, but it was as cruel of you and Bayard to throw her into that place with no preparation as it was for me to take you out in an icy, rough sea.”

Simone felt the pressure of his hand squeezing her arm and of the intensity of his bright blue eyes. She understood then why he had taken her out there. “You did this to teach me a lesson.”

“Sure I did. You don’t learn easily, Simone. Sometimes I don’t think you learn at all. You’ve got your little plans all put together, and everybody has to fit into them. But life’s not like that. You were wrong about Fleur. Why don’t you admit it?”

Simone was furious. She put the cup down on the table next to her and lifted her hand to slap him, but the cold slowed her move-ments. Colin caught her wrist and held it. “You can’t slap everyone who offends you.”

“Let me go!”

“Do you really want me to?”

“Yes! Take your hands off me!”

Colin pulled her to her feet and held her by her forearms. “I don’t think so, Simone. I think you like it when I hold you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous! I don’t like to be handled!”

“When I kissed you, you didn’t fight much.”

Simone didn’t answer. She was embarrassed when she saw that he had not forgotten her surrender to his embrace. She had many times wondered why she had given in to him. “I’m ashamed of what I did.”

“Ashamed of what? Being a woman and feeling something for a man?”

The room was close about them, and she could feel the strength of his hands pressing into her arms. She looked up and wanted to break away, but he was too strong—and she was not sure that she actually wanted to. “Let me go. You confuse me!”

“I’m not a complicated man, Simone. Your life is complicated, and your emotions too. You keep them in a little box and trot them out on occasion, expecting them to behave exactly as you want. But love isn’t like that.”

“Love? What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about a man and a woman. You know I hated you once, but I don’t any more. You’re spoiled to the bone, but I feel some-thing for you that I’ve never felt for another woman.” He pulled her forward, and she cried out, “Let me go, Colin!”

“I won’t do it.” He pulled her closer. He knew his hunger for Simone would never lessen—and would never be satisfied. There was a beauty in her that made him feel strong enough to take on the world. He knew it was foolish and that she was still often selfish, but that did not change what he felt. He knew she wanted to be touched, and he wanted to touch her. He lowered his head and put his lips against hers, and at first he felt resistance. Ignoring it, he held her close, and then her lips softened and he felt a tremulous warmth in them. He held her tightly and kissed her until finally he felt an eager-ness in her lips. It was like falling into some sort of gentle softness.

Simone seemed to have lost all her power to think. She wanted to fight, to resist, but something in her would not permit it. She knew that they were both on the near edge of rashness, that he was strug-gling with his impulses. She knew that any gesture on her part would sway him, and it frightened her somehow. She lifted her arms to his shoulders and looked into his eyes. “Please,” she whispered, “let me go, Colin!”

Colin did not release her, however. Instead he said, “Men see beauty in different places. My tough luck is that I see it only in you, Simone.” He reached out and put his hands on her face. “Do you think you could ever learn to care for me?”

Simone could not believe what she was hearing. “I—I don’t know.”

Colin smiled. “Well, that’s good. You’re blunt—and mean enough to say so at once if you didn’t care at all for me.”

“I am not mean!” she exclaimed.

“No, not on the inside. Just on the outside. But inside you, Simone, there’s a loving, generous woman, beneath that veneer that society has put on you. And I’m going to make sure that woman gets out.”

“I want to go home,” Simone whispered. She was frightened now, not of him but of herself. “Please, Colin, take me home!”

“Of course.” He stepped back, moved to the door, and opened it, and she walked outside. The cold air hit her again, and as he took her to a carriage, neither of them spoke. He handed her in, followed her inside, and spoke to the driver. Colin was silent for several minutes, then said, “I’d like to take you out on the Gulf sometime when the sun’s shining and the water’s warm. Would you go?”

Simone was shaken by what had taken place. “I think maybe,” she said finally, “I see what you mean about Fleur.”

“She’s a sweet young girl, but it’s going to take a lot of care to make her into what you want. And I’m not sure that’s wise. Make sure she wants it.”

Simone could not respond. As the horses moved along the streets, she knew that she would not forget that day. It was the second time he had kissed her, and both times all of her defenses had collapsed. What kind of a woman am I? I might have given in to him. The thought frightened her, and she pulled the cloak tighter about her and said no more.

Fleur had put on her oldest clothes and gone out to the stables. She was grooming her mare, and when that was finished, she started mucking out the stalls. Robert walked in and stopped, shocked. “Miss, you shouldn’t do that!”

“Why not?”

“That ain’t no job for a lady.”

“Oh, I’m no lady, Robert.”

“Beggin’ your pardon, Miss Fleur, but you’re mighty wrong about that.”

“I can’t do none of the things fine ladies can do, Robert.” She leaned against the wall, holding the rake in her hand. “I go to that ball, and it was terrible. I couldn’t even talk right.”

“Well, I’ve been around these so-called ladies quite a bit. Most of them ain’t got no more feeling than a snake. They don’t care for nobody but themselves.”

“Well, what is a lady, you think?”

“I don’t rightly know, Miss,” Robert said, shaking his head. “It’s got somethin’ to do with how you treat other people.”

Just then Bayard appeared. “I’ve been looking for you, Fleur.”

“I thought I’d come down and groom my horse.”

“That’s good. Robert, Miss Fleur and I are going on a little ride.”

“A ride? You mean around town?” Fleur asked with surprise.

“No, I thought we’d go out to your place. I’ve had our cook pack a lunch. We can stay all day.”

Bayard was surprised at the sudden life that came into the girl. Her eyes flashed, and she grabbed his arm. “Do you mean it? Can we really go?”

“That’s what my plan is. Are you ready now?”

“Oh yes, let’s go, Bayard!”

Ever since the two had arrived at the cabin, Fleur had been very quiet. Bayard had watched her carefully and been quieter himself than was usual. He understood then how her staying at his home had been hard on her. She walked around the cabin, touching things, and finally went outside, braving the sharp bite of the wind. He followed her to the edge of the water. The swamp was still now, broken only when a fish came to the surface and sent concentric circles outward. Once a heron flew slowly overhead and settled somewhere deep in the bayou.

“It’s good to be here, Bayard. Thank you for bringing me.” She turned to him, and at that moment he saw something in her eyes he could not identify. He had no idea what her life had been as far as men were concerned. He knew she was shy and suspected she knew nothing of romance. He reached out and took her hand and found it cold. He held it, feeling the roughness of her palm. Then he said what he had brought her to say. “Fleur, I’ve become very fond of you.”

Startled, Fleur tried to read his face. “Fond of me?”

“As a man gets fond of a woman.”

“I don’t know about things like that,” she said quickly.

“I’ve fallen in love with you.”

His words shocked her, and she tried to pull her hand back, but he would not release it. “Nothing can come of that,” she said.

“Why not?”

She gave up her struggle and let him hold her hand. Her face was troubled. “I can’t live in the city, me, and you can’t live in the bayou.”

Suddenly Bayard felt a great sense of need to protect the young woman. He dropped her hand and put his arm around her. As she came against him, he was aware of the softness of her body and saw that her lips were trembling. “People change sometimes, for love. I can change, and so can you. I’ve never felt like this about any woman, Fleur.”

Fleur was trembling. She did not know how to answer him, but in all truth he was like no man she had ever met. A sense of longing had been in her since she had saved his life, but it had been something she had kept very secret. Now she said, “Your family would never agree, even if I did.”

“You won’t be married to my family. You would be marrying me.”

“You want me to marry with you?”

“Yes, I do.” He pulled her close and kissed her on the lips, then put his cheek next to hers. She seemed to resist for a moment, and then she put her head down against his chest.

“I don’t know what to say. I am afraid.”

“Don’t be afraid, Fleur,” Bayard said. “I’ve been afraid most of my life, but ever since I met you, there’s been something different. Part of it is you, part your faith in God, which has touched me.”

Fleur felt tears come to her eyes. “I don’t know how to answer you.”

“Come, let’s go back in the cabin. You’re cold.” He led her back inside, and when the door closed, she turned to face him. He stood waiting.

Fleur said, “I think I love you, Bayard. I have never loved any man, so I’m not sure.”

Bayard laughed. He took her hands and kissed them. “Well, be very sure,” he said. “Don’t be afraid of anything.”

“There’s a man to see you, sir. He wouldn’t give his name.”

Vernay looked up at the butler and asked, “What does he look like?”

“He looks foreign somehow, Mr. Vernay.”

“Bring him in, Dennis.”

Vernay stood, and as soon as the man entered the room, he smiled. “Hello, Jean Paul.”

“Hello, Claude.” The man who entered the room was not large. He was somewhat less than average height, but he had a neatness and trimness and strength in his body, and he wore a careful expression. The two men shook hands, and Vernay said, “Sit down. You must be hungry.”

“No, I ate before I came.”

“How long have you been in New Orleans?”

“I just got in yesterday.”

“Did anyone see you come?”

“No.”

“Well, that’s good. I’ll fix us a drink.” Vernay went over to the cabinet and poured two drinks. He brought them back and sat down and handed one to Jean Paul Compier. “You have a good trip?”

“It was all right.”

The two talked for a few moments, and finally Compier asked, “Why have you sent for me, Claude?”

“I have a problem. I need some help.”

Jean Paul Compier made a sour face. “I have a problem too.”

“I guess yours is financial. I know you’ve been having difficulty.”

“I gave up gambling, but it was too late. I have lost nearly every-thing.”

“What about your idea of an academy to teach fencing? A fitness academy for young men.”

“That’s what I want to do, but it takes money.” Compier had dark brown eyes, studious and calm. “What about this problem that you have?”

Claude hesitated, then said, “I have to go back to tell you about it.” He described how he had wanted to marry Simone d’Or and been frustrated. He spoke of Armand, the former Marquis of Beaufort, and saw Compier’s gaze grow intense as he described the duel. “I didn’t mean to hit him in the back. He whirled around for some reason. It was an accident, but it was the worst thing I could have done. He was a popular man.”

“He was a very fine musician. I admired his work greatly. But he’s dead.”

“But the man who now bears the title is not.” Vernay went on to speak of how Colin Seymour had shamed him. “He’s a curse to me, Jean Paul. I want him finished.”

Compier sat absolutely still. “I am not a murderer, Claude.”

Claude Vernay did not answer immediately. “How bad do you want to start this new academy? Very bad indeed, I think—and you’ve wanted it for a long time.”

“You know I have.”

“Do this thing for me, and I will become your silent partner. I’ll put up all of the money. We’ll split the profits. You’re famous in France. Young men will flock to you.”

“What is the man’s name? The man you want me to fight, it’s Lord Beaufort?”

“That’s him. I despise the fellow.”

Compier stared at the glass in his hand. His voice was soft as he said, “I have heard him sing several times. He is a great singer.”

“It’s up to you, Jean Paul. I can’t force you to do anything you don’t want to. If you don’t want the job, I’ll pay your expenses back to France. I might add,” he said, “that Seymour is a master with a sword and pistol. It may not be as easy as you think.”

“My friend François Morell, his teacher, has spoken of him.”

“What did he say?”

“He said, ‘I would bet no more than even money on you, Jean Paul, if you had to fight my pupil Colin. He can use either arm for swordplay.’”

“That’s the truth. I’ve seen it for myself.” Claude Vernay knew that there was no point in arguing with Jean Paul Compier. The man had been famous for years as the best blade not only in France, but in Europe. His weakness had been gambling, and knowing this, Vernay thought him a likely ally.

Compier looked at him bitterly. “Yes, I will do as you ask.”

“You will? That’s good news.”

“No. It’s bad news, Claude. I despise myself for what I have become. Nothing but a murderer! But I’m getting older, and this is my one chance.”

“The challenge must not be connected with me. You must pro-voke him and leave me out of it.”

“I will find a way, Claude—and may God have mercy on my soul!”

Chapter twenty-two

Simone smiled but shook her head, saying patiently, “The way to pro-nounce the word very sounds like this: ver—ree.”

“Am I not say that, Simone?”

“Not really. You usually leave off the ree and just say ver.”

“Me, I am not know I say it like that. Veree. Is right?”

“Exactly right.”

“Then you tell me every time I say him wrong.”

“Of course I will. You are learning so fast—and by the way, words are referred to by it, not him. I know in French every word has be mas-culine or feminine, but in English inanimate objects are just referred to as it.”

“What is an—what you call it, ‘object’?”

“Don’t worry about it. Read some more. It’ll all become clear to you after awhile.”

Fleur began to read aloud again from the book that Simone had given her. It had become a daily practice for the two of them to go to Simone’s room and work on Fleur’s English and accent. When Fleur and Bayard returned from their trip to the cabin, the young woman had shown a devoted interest in becoming more of a lady who would fit into Bayard’s world. Simone was thrilled and threw herself into teaching. She was glad Fleur had made clear that she wanted these changes. Colin had been right. It would have been wrong to force city ways on her if she didn’t truly want to be part of it. She had started teaching Fleur to dance. She found out that Fleur had a natu-ral rhythm and learned very quickly. As a matter of fact, she learned everything very quickly.

Finally she said, “You’re doing well. You are going to speak English much better than I speak French.”

Fleur shook her head, and her black hair tumbled as she did so. “Me, I not think so.” She was quiet for a moment and finally said, “I have a question for you.”

“What is it?”

“I not know how to ask it.”

“Just ask it right out.”

Fleur said, “Bayard has said that he—that he cares for me.”

“I’m not surprised, and I’m very happy about it.”

“You would not mind having me in your family?”

“Why, of course not. I can think of nothing that would please me more.”

“Your parents, they might not find it so pleasing.”

“Of course they would. They are very fond of you, Fleur.”

“But I’m not the kind of woman that would fit in here.”

“That’s what we’re doing now. You’re studying and working and making marvelous progress.”

“It can never be,” Fleur said simply. “I can never be like you.”

“You don’t need to be like me. You need to be like yourself. All of these other things, the speech and the dancing and the clothes, these are just surface issues. Who you are is much more important.” Simone took Fleur’s hand. She was surprised to hear herself saying this, for she was well aware that she had had different goals once. “Look, Fleur, if you love Bayard, and he loves you, you must not pass up the miracle.”

“The miracle? What is that you mean?”

Simone released her hand and stood and walked to the window. She stared outside. The weather was cold; it was now mid-December. She was surprised to see a robin hopping along, pecking at the hard ground. It was past the time for robins, and she wondered what the bird was doing there that time of the year. She turned then and said, “I think it’s always a miracle when two people find each other and love each other. Just think, Fleur, out of all the millions of people in the world, for a man and a woman to find each other out of all these: it is a miracle.”

Fleur laughed. “I think you are right, but I do not know much about love. You must teach me, Simone.”

Simone suddenly flushed. “I’m not the one to ask. I’m certainly no expert.”

“But you have had many lovers.”

“No, don’t say that. It’s not nice.”

“It’s not nice? Why?”

“Because ‘lovers’—well—that refers to two people who have become—um, intimate.”

Fleur looked at her knowingly, “Ah, I understand. What are these men that come after you as I see them? They are not your lovers, what are they?”

“Oh, I suppose suitors is the word.”

“Suitors. I’m think a suitor was one that made suits.” Fleur spoke so earnestly, with her eyes so wide, that Simone was amused. She chuckled and said, “No, that’s another thing entirely.”

“But have you loved none of these men?”

“I thought I was in love with one once, but he . . .” She thought of Claude Vernay and how she had been flattered by his attention and fancied herself in love. Now that he had shown himself in his true col-ors, she was disgusted to think that she could once have felt so strongly about him. Shaking her head firmly, she said, “No, I didn’t love any of them.”

“But then how will you know when the right one comes along?”

“As I say, I’m the wrong one to ask. I’ve read many romantic nov-els about love, but they all seem foolish to me now.”

“I wish I understand more about love. I care for Bayard. He is so good to me, and I think that I can never be happy if he were not around.”

“Why, Fleur, I think that’s as close to defining love as I ever heard! Someone you can’t be happy without.”

“I do not know how it is between a man and a woman when they marry. Several men have kissed me and tried to have me, but I always fight them off.”

“I’m glad you did, Fleur. That’s a good thing. You’ll come to your husband a pure woman, and that’s good. We’ll talk about this again, but right now, we’ll work on your grammar.”

“My grammar? What is this—my grammar?”

“Oh, basically it’s the way you put words together to make sentences.”

“My grammar, she is bad?”

“Your grammar, it is not too bad. Just a few little things that we need to work on . . .”

Jean Paul sat at the back of the opera house. He had been to see Juliet three times, each time growing more impressed with the power and the sweet tone of Colin Seymour’s voice. As the last tragic scene unfolded, the scene in which Romeo died, he listened to the final song. Despite himself, he felt moved by the story and by the singer. He shook him-self slightly, suddenly angry. “You fool,” he said, “it is only a song, and this is only a made-up story.”

He started to leave and stumbled over the feet of the man next to him, who gave him a harsh look. He left the theater and stepped out into the cold night air. The streetlights made greenish dots in the darkness as he made his way along the street. He pulled his cloak around him more closely and gripped the sword cane. During his stay in New Orleans, he had concentrated totally on the task that he had agreed to do. He had not gambled, for he knew bitterly that it had caused his ruination. He had not drunk a great deal either, only at night when he could not sleep. He knew that the thing he was about to do was wrong, and Jean Paul Compier was aware of a shame that seemed to be with him constantly.

As he approached the rooming house where he stayed in the French Quarter, he saw a buggy outside and recognized it. Walk-ing closer, he spoke to the man sitting inside. “You are here, Claude.”

Claude Vernay started, for he had not heard Jean Paul’s footsteps. “Don’t sneak up on a man like that,” he snapped.

“I was not sneaking. What is it you want at this time of the night?”

“Get in the carriage. We need to talk.”

Jean Paul walked around the carriage, opened the door, and climbed in. He sat down, and Vernay pulled out a flask. “Have a drink,” he said. “Cold as the poles in here.”

“Not now.”

Vernay took a drink but did not put the flask away. In the dark-ness Compier could make out only the outlines of his face. “Where have you been?” he asked.

“What difference does it make?”

“It makes a great deal of difference.”

“I have been to the opera.”

“Ah, did you speak to Seymour? Did you—”

“No, I did not. I merely went and watched the opera.”

“What good does that do?”

“It does no good at all, but then I am not supposed to do him good, am I?”

“I can’t understand,” Vernay complained. “You’ve been here long enough, but you haven’t even approached the man. Haven’t even spo-ken to him.”

“If you want to call this thing off, I am willing.”

“Wait a minute, Jean Paul. Don’t be so touchy.” Vernay knew there was no way to force him.

Compier said, “This is not something that can be done twice. The challenge must be complete the first time, and the approach must not be crude. Now, tell me more about this man.”

“Why do you want to know about him?”

“Everything I hear about him is helpful. Why can I not just punc-ture him in the arm?”

“What good would that do me?”

“What good will it do you to kill him?”

“He and his adoptive father have kept me from what I want.”

“From the woman? If she loves you, this man would not be a problem. And I can’t understand why you do not fight him yourself.”

Vernay did not answer for a time. He drank again from the flask, then said, “That’s none of your business. I’ll be paying you a lot of money. What good is money if it won’t buy a man what he wants?”

“We are a fine pair, you and I, and I am the worst. You want to kill the man because he stands between you and a woman. And I am nothing but your lackey.”

“Come on, Jean Paul, it’s just a business matter. For you it’s not personal. You’ve killed men before.”

“I am not proud of it, and those were not intentional. They were both accidents in dueling. I overestimated the skill of those men to fight me. And I am not proud of what I am doing now.”

“Are you going to back out then?”

A long silence ensued, and then Compier said, “I would like to, but I must have money. Tell me again about him. I need to know as much as I can before I make my approach.”

Compier listened as Vernay talked. Finally he said, “It will be soon. I will find a way. Have the money ready.”

“Of course. You know I’m good for it.”

Compier stepped out of the carriage, but he looked through the window and added, “Yes, my friend, you will be good for it, or it will be a sad day for you.” He turned and walked toward the rooming house, leaving Vernay staring after him. “I’ll have to pay him. He’d kill me if I didn’t.”

For the next two days Jean Paul Compier drank steadily. His think-ing processes seemed to be impaired, but he knew well it was the distaste he had for the job that troubled him. Finally he came up with a scheme and sought Vernay late at night, when no one saw him.

“This man doesn’t go out to a public place very often. I can’t very well jump on the stage and start an argument with him.” Compier held back his actual plan of attack.

“That’s no problem,” Vernay said quickly. “He’s being honored at a dinner the day after tomorrow. It’ll be a fancy affair. There’ll be a meal, and afterwards there’ll be drinking and a great deal of talk.”

“Can you get me an invitation?”

“Certainly.”

“Do it.”

“All right. And I must be there when the duel takes place. I want to see him wallowing in his own blood!”

The dinner was well attended by the cream of New Orleans society. The mayor, George Ahern, was master of ceremonies, and there were several speakers. The party was composed entirely of men. Jean Paul Compier had given his invitation and taken his seat silently. He spoke to no one during the dinner and ate practically nothing. Finally, after the speeches, the mayor said, “Some of you may need to leave, but our guest of honor will be here for a short time in case any of you haven’t met him.”

Compier watched as some of the men filed out. Most remained, however, talking and laughing. The cigar smoke made a purple haze in the room, and Compier watched carefully as a group of men con-gregated around Colin Seymour. He studied Seymour’s face as he had ever since he had come to New Orleans. He was impressed by the clean good looks of the man and more by his simplicity of manners. It would be easier if he were a bully or a bore, he thought but then forced the idea out of his mind. He stood and crossed the room to the circle of men. Slowly he worked himself forward, and finally he and Colin were face-to-face.

“How do you do, sir?” Colin said. “I don’t believe we have met.”

“No, we have not,” Compier said. “But I knew your adoptive father.”

“Did you really? I don’t remember meeting you.”

“We would not have met. I knew Lord Beaufort when he was a younger man, and I must tell you, sir, he was a man I despised. He had no honor at all in him.”

Compier had spoken loudly enough so that the group immedi-ately fell silent and stared at him. The silence seemed to spread out-ward, and the other men, seeing something was happening, stopped speaking, and some moved forward so they could hear better.

“You are mistaken, sir. My father was incapable of doing a dis-honorable thing.”

“You are innocent, perhaps, my lord, but the man you call your father brought shame and disgrace on my sister. He got her with child and cast her out. She died a derelict.”

“You are a liar!”

A gasp went around the room, and Compier felt a sense of grim satisfaction. At least, he thought, I have done part of what I came to do. “I will overlook your insult, my lord. You do not know me.”

“I know you are a liar, and I will prove it any way you choose.”

Compier smiled. “My name is Jean Paul Compier. If you lived in France, you should know that name.”

Claude Vernay had been standing back on the outer circle. He moved forward and faced Compier briefly, then turned to say, “Lord Beaufort, I am no friend of yours, but I warn you: have nothing to do with this man. He is the deadliest swordsman in Europe. It would be suicide.”

Colin ignored Vernay’s words and studied Compier’s face. “I don’t know what your motive is, sir. Perhaps it’s mistaken identity, but—”

“It is not mistaken identity, my lord. The marquis was a vicious man.”

Colin stood silent. He felt no fear, but a great prejudice against the code duello had been settling in him, and he had resolved that he would never again take part in such a thing. He said so now. “I will not fight you, Compier. I despise this whole business of dueling. It’s foolish.” His voice rose, and he said, “A man’s honor is not in his trig-ger finger or in his agility with a sword. The worst villain in the world may possess these qualities.”

Compier smiled thinly. “Those are the words of a coward—as Armand de Cuvier was. I called him out when he disgraced my sister, and he refused to meet me. Instead he sent hired assassins to kill me, and they almost did.”

“That’s another lie!”

“Though you are not the true son of the man you call your father, you are the same sort of coward he was.”

“You are a liar, and I will proclaim it anywhere in this city.” He hesitated. “But if it takes some sort of senseless duel, I will fight you.” A slight smile came to Colin’s face, although he was paler than usual. “If you wish to fight, fine. We will stand three feet apart with loaded pistols pointed at one another’s hearts. On the count of three, we will fire.”

Compier stared at him. “It is not the code duello, my lord, and I am the challenged party. I would be a fool to commit suicide. You may place no value on your own life, but I value my own. We will fight with swords. I have the choice of weapons.”

Colin asked, “Why should I fight you with weapons that you have spent a lifetime mastering? I will meet you with bowie knives or with axes or with clubs, or as I said, with pistols at a distance of three feet. I will not let you kill me simply because you are an accomplished butcher. Good day, sir.”

He turned and walked out, and Compier said as he left the room, “You will fight me, my lord, or be branded a coward.”

Bayard, who was also in attendance, was momentarily shocked into silence by Compier’s sudden appearance and his words. His face reddened. “I think you are the coward, Frenchman. You will not fight unless you are certain to win.”

Compier’s mind worked quickly. He knew about Bayard and that the two had become good friends. “You are brash, sir, and young. Shut your mouth, or I will shut it for you.”

“I’ll speak what I think, and I think you are a scoundrel!”

“You are his friend, then, the friend of Lord Beaufort?”

“Yes.”

“Then you are the friend of a villain. He is like his adoptive father, a man with no shame, and you should feel shame at being the companion of such a man.”

Bayard stepped forward and slapped Compier’s face. Compier could have dodged the blow easily, but he said, “Don’t be a fool. Get away, boy.”

Bayard repeated, “I think you are the coward.” He slapped him again, and the mayor said, “Stop this, Bayard.”

“I’ll meet you with any kind of weapon, Compier.”

“With the blade, then,” Compier said. “I will ask my friend to call on you.”

Compier left the room. Vernay stayed long enough to hear almost all the men telling Bayard d’Or that he must not meet the man. Bayard was adamant, and Vernay left feeling a grim satisfaction.

He waited until night and went to Compier’s room. “You did well,” he said. “I see exactly what you’re doing. You think Seymour will not allow his young friend to fight.”

“He is a man of honor—unlike me and unlike you. Yes, I think he will do all he can to dissuade young d’Or, but d’Or is like I was at his age. But I won’t have to fight him. You understand that.”

“I don’t think it’ll be necessary. Seymour will come to his rescue. Then he will die.”

“Perhaps not. He may kill me. That would be a great economy for you.”

“Don’t be foolish. He can’t stand in front of you. No one can. I’ve got the money ready. It’ll be in cash. After the duel, I’ll pay you.”

Chapter twenty-three

Simone opened the door to see Colin. His face was drawn tight, and he said merely, “Hello, Simone.”

“Colin, come in.” Simone stepped back, and Colin entered the house. She saw that she was stiff and tense.

“I just heard about Bayard’s challenging Compier. I came right over to talk to him.”

“It’s—it’s terrible, Colin.” Simone’s voice was barely above a whis-per. She clasped her hands, and he saw that they were trembling. She pressed her lips together in an attempt to gain control and said, “Father’s talking to him now, and I’ve tried everything. He just won’t listen. Has he lost his mind?”

“Could we go into the parlor? I’d like to wait until he gets through talking with your father.”

“Oh, of course, come in. It’s cold out here in the foyer.” Simone led him to the parlor. A fire crackled in the fireplace, and she picked up a poker and jabbed at the logs. They settled and hissed, sending a storm of golden sparks up the chimney. Putting the poker back in the holder, Simone turned to Colin, and her eyes mirrored the fright she felt. “He’ll be killed, Colin. I know he will.”

“We mustn’t let him do it, Simone. I feel responsible. I should have taken up Compier’s challenge.”

“I heard that he was deadly with any sort of weapon.”

“That’s true. Armand spoke of him often. He didn’t admire him, but everyone knew about him. I think all he’s ever done is fight with a sword.”

“What’s he doing over here?”

Colin shook his head and said, “He claims he wants to start a fencing academy here in New Orleans—at least that’s what I heard.”

The two stood silent for a moment. Simone walked over to the window and stared out. Colin went to stand beside her. “You mustn’t let this destroy you, Simone.”

“We’ve never had anything like this happen. Now I know how you felt when Claude challenged Armand. I was unmoved by it. Oh, what a terrible beast I was!”

Colin put his hand on her shoulder. “You’ve changed since then.”

“I’m glad you think so, but I can hardly speak. I didn’t realize what a terrible thing fear was. It’s worse than being physically ill. Oh, Colin, what are we going to do?”

“We have to talk sense to Bayard. He’s fallen into this ‘honor’ business again. All of this is part of that stupid code duello men-tality. Why can’t people see that it’s brutal and cruel? How many good men have died because of some mistaken idea of honor?” He took her arm and led her over to the sofa in front of the fire. “Here, sit down,” he said.

“I’m too frightened even to pray. That’s silly, isn’t it? When we’re afraid, that’s when we need to go to God.”

“You’re right about that. Well, we’ll agree to pray for Bayard, that he’ll come out of this safely.”

“Son, don’t you see how foolish this is? The man’s nothing but an assassin.”

“I’m sorry that we don’t agree on this, Father, but I don’t see any way I can refuse to meet him.”

Louis d’Or paced the floor in his study. His voice was tight with anxiety. “Bayard, God has just come into your life. We all see it, son. Something happened to you when you nearly died out in the bayou. You’ve become a different sort of person, and a great future lies before you. Are you going to throw it all away because of your fool-ish pride?”

Bayard listened, and although he desperately wanted to please his father, he had stubbornly set himself to do the thing. Finally his father threw up his hands and said, “I can’t believe you’re going to do this. I thought you had more sense.” He turned and walked out of the room.

As soon as he left, Bayard sat down in a chair beside the bookcase. His nerves were on edge, and he started when the door opened. Seeing Fleur come in, he stood up at once, and when she put out her hands, he took them.

“Your father, he talk to you about this fight. I hope you listen to him.”

“I’d like to, Fleur, but I can’t.”

A steadfastness in her gaze held him. “I think you are wrong.”

“Everyone thinks I’m wrong.”

“And that don’t tell you nothing? Your father, your sister, your mother, and me. And I hear that everyone who is talking about say you are crazy to fight this man. He is a butcher!”

Bayard released her hands and turned away. He could not bear to meet the accusation in her eyes. He walked over to the desk, stared down at it, then turned quickly. “You don’t understand, Fleur. No one does. All my life I’ve done nothing but take the easy way out. I became a weak lowlife, and this is the one chance I have to prove that I have some metal in me.”

“No, it proves you have pride in you!”

“Well, pride is a good thing, isn’t it?”

“No, not the kind you have. The Bible say that God loves humil-ity. I remember a verse my ma mere say over and over to me. It is in the Proverbs, I think. It says, ‘By humility and the fear of the LORD are riches, and honour, and life.’ And that is what you are giving up because of your pride. Not riches or honor, for there is no honor involved in this. Only pride! So you are giving up your life for a worth-less thing.”

She went to him and put her arms around him. She put her head down on his chest and whispered, “Don’t you see, my Bayard? What does it matter what people say as long as you know you are doing the wise and right thing?”

Bayard stood absolutely still. Finally he gave a short laugh. He put his hands on Fleur’s shoulders and said, “All right. I’ll apologize to the man. It goes against the grain, but I will do it because you say so.”

Fleur’s face lit up. She put her hand on his cheek and said, “That is a fine thing. God will honor you for this. Bayard, you must do it as soon as possible.”

“It will have to be in public. I’ll look him up tomorrow.”

“Come. We must tell your parents and your family. They are so worried about you!”

Bayard slept little that night. He practiced the speech that he planned to make to Compier until it became bitter in his thoughts. His fam-ily had been ecstatic when he told them that he would apologize, as had Colin. Colin had grasped his hand and said, “That’s the mark of true wisdom there, Bayard. You wouldn’t make anyone happy getting yourself killed.”

Bayard waited until midafternoon, and then he stood outside the saloon he had heard from Byron Mayhew that Compier frequented. Taking a deep breath, he muttered, “I’d almost rather be shot than do this.” Nevertheless, he straightened his shoulders and walked in. As soon as he entered the room, men began to mutter. When he started for the table where Jean Paul Compier sat playing poker, a silence ensued.

Compier was aware of him. He put his cards down and turned to face Bayard. He said nothing, and Bayard could not read what was in his eyes. But he had a chore to do, and he said quickly, “I have come to speak with you, sir.”

“Well, speak on.”

The words were like acid in Bayard’s mouth. “I have come to apologize. I behaved in a most ungentlemanly way, and I must ask you to overlook my words.”

Jean Paul’s eyes changed. Something flickered in them, but his voice was harsh. “So you insult me in public, and now you think by a few words you can wipe it out? I refuse your apology. If you are not a coward, I will meet you at the appointed time.”

Bayard knew then that the matter was hopeless. He nodded, say-ing quietly, “Very well, sir.” He turned and left the room and went home. He knew that the news would frighten his family, but he felt fenced in—trapped. “There’s no other way for it.”

Vernay was ecstatic. As Compier started to leave the saloon, he grabbed his arm. He said, “You’ve got him now! I know Seymour. He’ll never permit that boy to fight. He’ll come rushing in to save him, and then you can kill him out of hand.”

Jean Paul Compier struck Vernay’s hand away from his arm. “Never touch me again,” he said. He glared at Vernay until Claude felt a touch of fear. He knew the deadliness of the man. “What’s wrong with you? It’s going just as we planned.”

Compier said bitterly, “You are a dog, and I am worse for what I am doing. Get out of my sight, Vernay!”

Vernay at once backed away. “We have an agreement,” he whispered.

“If you do not leave, you will not be in any condition to know anything about our deal, for I will kill you.”

Compier watched as Vernay’s face turned pale. Then as he turned and strode out of the saloon, Compier thought, I thought I had sunk low, but never as low as this.

Colin went again to the d’Or house and found Bayard in his studio. He was not painting but simply standing beside a window, looking out on the frozen earth. When Colin entered, he said, “It’s a cold night for you to be out.”

“I just heard about what happened at the saloon.” He put his hand on Bayard’s shoulder. “You can’t do this to yourself.”

“I don’t have any option.”

“Yes, you do. It’s not your fight. Vernay is behind all this. He’s out to destroy me, and he’s using you.”

“Talking won’t do any good.”

“I look on you as a friend, Bayard. I might as well tell you that I love your sister, and I’m going to marry her if I can.”

“That is good news, Colin. I’ve watched her. She cares for you very deeply, and she needs a man like you.”

“That’s good to hear from you, but this thing you’re going to do is not wise. Speaking of love, I have the feeling you care for Fleur. She’s going to need all the help she can get, and a dead man can’t help her.”

“I’ve got to do it, Colin. I failed at everything I ever tried. I always gave up when things got tough, but I’m not going to give up on this!”

Colin argued strenuously, but finally, when he left the house that night, he shook his head, saying, “He’s so young and so foolish. Something has to be done!”

Chapter twenty-four

Hearing the knock on her door, Fleur opened it to find a pale Simone. “Colin is here.” Fleur saw Colin standing behind her and said, “Come in, please.”

The two stepped into her room, and Fleur said, “This duel must not happen!”

“We’ve all tried our best to talk to Bayard, but he won’t listen.”

“I know. I have try everything.” Tears came into her eyes, and she said, “I have not known Bayard long, but I know that I care for him. He must not throw his life away!”

Colin threw up his hands in despair. “I have tried everything I can think of. He won’t listen to reason.”

“Well, I have prayed, and I think God has give me an answer.”

“What is it?” Simone cried. “What is it, Fleur?”

“Listen and I will tell you. First thing we must do . . .”

Bayard put on his best suit, even though it seemed foolish as he fin-ished fastening his tie. I’m going to be dead, so what difference does it make what I wear? He looked at himself in the mirror and saw a stranger. You’re a fool, Bayard d’Or. Everyone thinks so. Your stupid pride’s going to get you killed, and then what will this so-called honor matter? He turned quickly away from the mirror and left his room. It was early morning, and the winter darkness lingered. Bayard felt numb, and his mind would not function properly. It was as if he had willed himself not to think but simply to go through with the terrible act.

As he stepped outside the house and headed for the stable, sud-denly a figure appeared. He started, then relaxed. “Fleur, it’s you. You startled me.”

Fleur came closer. She was wearing a heavy, wool coat against the cold, but she wore no gloves on her hands. She reached out, put her hands on his chest, and said, “I have come to beg you not to go.”

“I must do it, Fleur. Please don’t say anything else. I’ve had a hard enough time saying good-bye to my family.”

“I thought you love me.”

“I do love you, but I couldn’t face myself in the mirror if I let Colin risk his life for me.”

“You are throwing everything good away.”

“I can’t help myself.”

“You won’t change your mind?” Fleur said. “Are you sure, Bayard?”

“I must do it.”

Fleur stood very still, then dropped her hands to her sides, and her eyes glittered strangely. “Then I must stop you.”

“Fleur, don’t interfere.”

Fleur said, “Ansel!”

Bayard caught a movement, a man coming out of the stable. He was a big man accompanied by another, also large. Instantly Bayard stiffened. “Who are you? What do you want?”

“I am Ansel Guidry, and this is my friend Chapin Billaud.”

Bayard faced them cautiously. “What are you two men doing here? What do you want?”

“What do we want?” Ansel said. “We want you should do as Fleur asks. She is our friend, as was her mere.”

“These are some good friends of mine from the bayou,” Fleur explained.

“We Cajuns have to stick together.” Ansel grinned wolfishly. “The little one, she ask you to do something for her, and she says you will not do it. So, we have come to help her.”

Bayard turned and asked, “What does this mean, Fleur? Did you ask these men to come here?”

Fleur said evenly, “If you will not listen to reason, then I will have to use force. You are not going to that fight!”

“Oh yes, I am!” Bayard said. He shoved his way around the men to get to his horse, but Fleur called out, “Ansel, stop him!”

Ansel whirled quickly for a big man and grabbed Bayard’s left arm. The other man took his right. “Take your hands off of me!” Bayard cried. He struggled but was powerless as a child in their hands.

“Don’t hurt him, Ansel!”

“No, chéri, we treat him like a baby.”

“Bring him into the stable.”

Bayard tried to escape the men’s grasp, but it was useless. As soon as they were inside, Fleur said, “Tie him up, Chapin.”

Chapin produced a short length of rope. “We tie you here, I think, Monsieur. Be content.”

Bayard protested, “Fleur, you can’t do this to me!” He lifted his voice and called, “Robert, where are you?”

“Robert has gone home. There is no one here but us. Tie him to that pillar,” Fleur said quietly.

The two men backed Bayard to one of the posts that held up the roof, put his hands behind it, and tied him firmly. “I am sorry to have to do this, Monsieur, but sometimes a man, he won’t listen to reason.”

Bayard stared at Fleur’s friends. They had no animosity in them. The one called Ansel asked, “Can we do anything else for you, chéri?”

“No, thank you, Ansel, and you, too, Chapin.”

“We go now.” Ansel Guidry smiled then at Bayard and said, “Do not be angry, Monsieur. This is the wise thing. We must help the little one. She has lost her mere, who was our good friend. She can’t lose anyone else. If you ever need us, Fleur, you come at any time.”

“Thank you,” Fleur said again. She watched as the two men left and then stood in front of Bayard, who stared at her in disbelief. “It’s going to be a long wait,” she said. She got a blanket and put it behind his feet. “Let yourself down. You will be more comfortable.”

Bayard exclaimed, “Turn me loose, Fleur! This is crazy!”

“No, it is not.” She put her hands on his face, pulled his head down, and kissed him. “You can beat me when this is over,” she said with a smile.

“This won’t do any good. I’ll find Compier as soon as you turn me loose.”

“No, you will not. Colin has gone to fight him, and God will give him the victory over that man.”

Bayard struggled, pulling against the ropes, but an expert had tied them. “I can’t let Colin fight my battles for me.”

“It is not Colin. I have prayed, and I think this is what God wants. Please do not hate me, Bayard, because I do this.” She put her arms around him and lay her head on his chest. He smelled the fra-grance of her hair, and her voice was so soft he could barely hear it. “One day after we are married, I may get very sick or have trouble, and I know you will take care of me. And now I must take care of you.” She lifted her head and put her hands on his cheeks. “Now sit down.” She pulled at him until finally he sat down. She got another blanket, pulled it around the two of them, and said, “Now, my English must be ver’ good to be your wife. You teach me how to talk like a lady, Bayard.”

Suddenly Bayard laughed. He could not help himself. “At a time like this, you want me to give you a grammar lesson?”

“Ah, but yes. I must live in your world. When this is all over, I will take you to my house. I will teach you how to catch a ’gator without having him bite your face off. Now, teach me how to talk.”

Compier stood straight in the fast-fading light. A crowd had gathered, as he had known it would, when word spread that Colin would fight him after all. George Ahern, the mayor of New Orleans, stood before him. “Compier, I must speak with you.”

“Certainement, Mr. Mayor.”

“You see those two men over there?”

Compier looked to see two large men wearing bulky coats. “My vision is good,” he said.

“They are officers of the law. If you kill Lord Beaufort, you will be arrested and charged with murder. Do you understand?”

Compier looked at Claude Vernay, who had heard the mayor’s words. “With murder? But it is a duel!”

“Dueling is illegal,” Ahern said. “We are fools in this city for per-mitting it to continue. It shouldn’t have gone this far. Go ahead and have your duel. I think you’re expert enough simply to pink the young man in the arm, but if you kill him, you will hang for it. You have my word on that, Compier!”

Compier stared into the mayor’s face. Ahern was not a tall man. He was chunky and short, but there was a fierce light in his brown eyes. Compier was certain that Ahern meant exactly what he said. He had no time to think further, for suddenly Colin Seymour stood before him.

Colin said, “Compier, I know that your fight is with me, not with my friend Bayard d’Or. I refused your challenge once, but I will take it now.”

Compier suddenly felt a flash of admiration. He well understood that Colin Seymour was not a fool. “You must know, sir, that you have no chance with me.”

“That may be true, but it is something I must do. I can’t permit those remarks about my father to go unchallenged.” Colin added, “I don’t understand you, sir.”

“Why is that?” Compier asked.

“I have heard from my friend and teacher, François Morell, that you were two things: the best swordsman in Europe, and a man of honor. I can believe the first, sir, but not the second.” Colin looked inquisitively at Compier. “And any man who makes himself the tool of another has sold his honor, and I’m convinced that’s what you have done.”

The crowd waited to hear Compier’s reply.

Compier suddenly smiled, and he stood straighter. “I have changed my mind about the weapon. We will use pistols.”

“They are not really your weapon,” Colin said. “They’re mine.”

Compier looked at Claude Vernay, and their gazes locked until Vernay had to drop his eyes. “I will have my honor back,” he said. “Are you ready?”

“Yes,” Colin said.

The two put themselves into position, and as Colin walked the ten paces, he was thinking, This may be my last moment on earth. At the count of ten, he turned quickly. He saw that Compier had already whirled but then was shocked when Compier lifted his pistol and fired it into the air.

“You may take your revenge now, my lord,” Compier said in a strong, clear voice.

Colin stared at the man. He pointed his pistol in the air and fired it, then moved forward at once. “It’s all over then, Compier?”

“No, it is not. I have two things to say.” The spectators, who had watched the drama with fervent interest, moved forward so they would not miss a word. “The first thing I say is that I lied when I spoke of your father. He was a man of honor. Everything I said about him was a lie, and I ask your pardon.”

“I think I can guess why you said such a thing,” Colin said.

“Indeed, I think you can.” Compier turned and glared at Vernay. “The second thing I say is that Claude Vernay is a cowardly dog! He hired me to pick a quarrel with Lord Beaufort. I regret I ever agreed to do such a thing, and I hereby renounce him. You are a liar, a cow-ard, and a cheat, Vernay! I hope you take exception. We can settle the matter right now. The weapons are here.”

Claude Vernay glanced around wildly and saw that every man’s face was set against him. He suddenly wheeled, shoved his way out of the crowd, and broke into a run.

“That man’s finished in New Orleans,” Ahern said with grim satis-faction. “If he doesn’t leave, I’ll have him run out.” He walked away, leaving the two men together.

“Why did you do this, Monsieur Compier?” Colin asked quietly.

Compier looked at the ground. “Why does a man do that which he knows to be wrong? I’m getting older, and I wasted my life. I wanted one thing: to start an academy for young men to learn the sword. Vernay promised to furnish the money.” He lifted his eyes and said, “I almost sold my soul, and I ask your pardon again.”

Colin put out his hand. When Compier shook it, Colin said, “I like to see a man who can change. Come and visit me this week. We will see what can be done.”

Compier gasped, “You mean it, my lord?”

“Try me.”

Compier bit his lip. He cleared his throat and whispered, “Yes, I will come.”

Simone was waiting, and when Colin rode up, she grabbed up her coat and ran outside. She saw Colin dismounting. She flew to him and cried, “Colin, you’re safe!”

“I think God was with me.”

“What happened?” she asked. She held onto him. “You’re not harmed.”

“It went off much better than I thought.” He told her quickly what had happened and then asked, “Where’s Bayard?”

“He is in the stable. He’s probably frozen stiff. Fleur’s friends tied him up a couple of hours ago.”

“Well, we can go turn him loose now.”

They walked around the side of the house. As soon as they entered the stable, Fleur jumped to her feet. “You’re safe!” she cried. “I knew God would help us!”

Colin laughed and looked down at Bayard. “You’ve been treated roughly, my friend, but it’s all right now.” He waited until Fleur had pulled the knots loose, and Bayard got to his feet, rubbing his wrists.

“What about the duel?”

“There was no duel—or not much of one.”

Bayard listened as Colin told him the story, then he reached out and pulled Fleur close. He looked down at her and said, “I never saw a woman who would have her fiancé tied up.”

“I promise never to do it again,” Fleur said. Her eyes were flash-ing, but her lips were trembling. She said, “And we must never quarrel again.”

“I can’t promise that, but please don’t have me tied up when I dis-agree with you.” He smiled.

“Come inside,” Simone said. “It’s freezing out here.”

“And I’m hungry,” Bayard said. “I haven’t eaten anything all day.”

“Neither have I,” Colin confessed.

The four of them went inside, and soon they were seated around the table eating the rice and sandwiches that the d’Ors’ cook put together. They all talked loudly, their faces flushed with happiness and excitement. Finally Fleur and Bayard left, and as soon as they did, Colin said, “I suppose I need to be going home, but I’ve got some-thing to tell you.”

Simone looked at him. “What is it?” He had grown quieter. He rose, and as the two walked down the hall toward the front door, he said, “I’m leaving for New York next week.”

“New York? What for, Colin?”

“I’m meeting with the head of the New York Opera Company. They’re interested in having me bring Juliet to New York.”

They reached the door, and Colin put on his coat. Simone said, “I knew you’d be leaving—that New Orleans wouldn’t hold you. How long will you be gone?”

“I am not sure.” He took his hat from the rack but did not put it on.

“I was terrified when you went to fight that man.”

Colin did not answer. He was looking at her in a peculiar way. He suddenly moved forward, and Simone felt that he was going to embrace her. But instead he took her hand, kissed it, and said, “I’ll see you again before I leave.” He turned quickly and left. The parting had been formal, and after the victory in the duel, she could not understand it. She went back into the kitchen, where she poured herself another cup of coffee.

She sat for a long time in silence. Then Fleur entered the room and said, “Isn’t it wonderful? It’s all over now.”

“Yes, it is.”

“What did Colin say?”

“Nothing really. That he was going to New York to see about putting on the opera there.”

Fleur looked intently into her face. “Did he say he loved you, Simone?”

“No.”

Fleur heard the shortness of Simone’s answer and said quietly, “I thought he would.”

“So did I, Fleur—but he didn’t.”

Chapter twenty-five

Christmas Eve had come to New Orleans with a most unusual phe-nomenon: a light snow arrived that December afternoon and coated the ground with white. Snow was a rare thing in the Crescent City, and in the residential areas the children were out trying to make snowmen from the thin layer of snow. Very few succeeded in this, but there were snowball fights, and those who had traveled from the northern parts of the country were gathering up enough to make snow cream.

At the home of Louis d’Or, the carriages that had come for a Christmas Eve dinner created tracks in the snow, and the coachmen beat their hands together as they waited outside. After a time, Agnes the maid invited them into the kitchen for some “Christmas cheer,” and they gladly accepted.

Inside the large dining room, extra places had been set so that twenty-five people were wedged into the room. The chandelier over-head threw its sparkling light down on the excited faces, reflecting off of the silverware and the fine china, and the servers were bringing in the food: turkey and dressing and a huge ham.

Louise d’Or and his wife, Renee, sat at opposite ends of the table. They beamed at each other from time to time, their glances often going to Bayard and Fleur, who sat together midway at the long table. Louis d’Or was more jovial than anyone had ever seen him. His eyes flashed, and he yielded the knife that sliced the turkey with a flourish.

Fleur was wearing a new gown that she had picked out herself. It was a pale blue that fitted her form extremely well, and from her ears two green stones flashed and caught the light overhead. Often she put her hand on Bayard’s arm, as if seeking reassurance. Once she whis-pered, “I never seen so much food.”

“Well, I have an engagement party only once, so Father and Mother went all out.”

Suddenly the talk died down, for Louis had risen from his chair. “I will interrupt the festivities only long enough to make an extended, boring speech.”

“No, Louis,” Renee said. “No speeches, please.”

“Well, you see what honor I have in my own house. My own dear wife can’t bear my speaking. Very well. It will be a short speech then.” He grew serious and looked around the table, his eyes finally coming to rest on Bayard and Fleur. “This is the time of Christmas. Usually we think about giving and receiving presents. Tonight I want you to meet the person who has given my wife and me such a great gift. My daughter-in-law-to-be, Miss Fleur Avenall, who gave us back our son.”

Applause rose from the company, and Fleur colored but managed to smile. She kept her hold on Bayard’s arm, and he reached over and enclosed her hand in his.

Louis smiled at this and continued, “She gave us our son by sav-ing his life, and I’ll be glad to tell that story, although you’ve all heard it, but we are giving her a great gift, too: our only son. So, at this time of Christmas, I propose a toast to my son, Bayard d’Or, and to his bride, Miss Fleur Avenall.”

The voices rang out, “Hear, hear!”

“Now we need to hear from the bride and groom. Bayard, what do you have to say for yourself?”

Bayard did not rise or release Fleur’s hand. “Thank you, Father. You left out a great deal about what a prodigal son I was. I would be out there yet, I suppose, if it were not for this woman beside me. She not only saved my life physically, but she and her dear mother, bless her soul, taught me to love God and to trust in Him.” He turned to Fleur and smiled gently. “Soon we will stand up and make our vows, but I’ll make you one just now, Fleur: I am yours as long as you will have me, to love you as long as we are on this earth.”

“That is very beautiful,” Fleur responded. Then humor twinkled in her eyes. “Still, maybe I will have to tie you up a few times when you misbehave.”

Laughter exploded around the table, for everyone there, close friends and acquaintances, knew the story of how Fleur had managed to stop Bayard from a senseless duel only by tying him to a post.

Simone laughed with the others. She was glad for the couple, and after the dinner was over and the guests had gone, she went to Fleur and said, “I’m so happy for you.”

“It is wonderful,” Fleur said, her eyes dancing. “We have decided to have our honeymoon in my old cabin. But then your father and mother, they have given us a wonderful wedding present. We will spend six months, maybe longer, in London. Bayard will study his painting there, and I will learn to speak and act like a lady.”

“It’s like a storybook, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is.” Fleur looked more closely at Simone and asked, “Have you heard from Colin?”

“Yes. The rehearsals are going fine. He had to train a whole new company for the production in New York.”

“None of the old company will be in the new opera?”

“Just a few. Rosa Calabria will keep her role as the nurse, and a few others.”

“What about Marie?”

“She was not asked.”

Fleur hesitated, then said, “Does he say anything else in his letter, I mean?”

“Not really.”

Fleur noted the sadness in Simone’s face and hugged her. “I will pray for you, my sister.”

The house was quiet. The guests had departed, and the family had gone to bed. Looking at the clock on her mantel over the small fire-place, Simone saw that it was after ten. She was listless, and for a while she sat trying to read, but the book made little sense to her. She tossed it aside and started to get ready for bed. Sitting down, she began to brush her hair, and her thoughts were happy as she thought of Bayard and Fleur. They’re going to be such a fine couple, and when they come back, Fleur will fit in perfectly.

Her thoughts went then to herself. She felt restless and out of place and frustrated. She knew that it had to do with Colin. She could not understand him. He had left so abruptly, almost formally, and his letters had been the same. She had received only three, and they were all filled with information about how the preparation for the new opera was going. There was no personal warmth to them, and as she brushed her hair, Simone thought, Something has happened to Colin. I know he cared for me, but he left so coldly. I have prayed for an answer, but I don’t know what it is.

Finally she put the brush down and started to remove her dress, but even as she loosened the first button at the back of her neck she heard a voice. She stood stock-still, then with a glad cry, she ran over to the window. She opened it with a bang and leaned out. There in the snow stood Colin. He was singing the love song of Romeo to Juliet. His voice rose and filled the air. He was smiling. Finally the song ended, and he asked, “Do you remember that from the opera?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Well, in the opera Romeo climbed up to the balcony. I’m not sure I can climb up there, Simone. I might fall and break my neck.”

“You wait. I’ll come down.”

Simone flew down the stairs and out the front door, forgetting even her coat. She ran to Colin, who caught her up in his arms and hugged her so tightly that she gasped. Then he put her down on the ground and kissed her. She held him tightly, and when he lifted his head, he said, “Our story is not going to end like the opera. I always hated the end of Romeo and Juliet.”

“So did I.” Simone looked up, and her eyes were sparkling. “It’s so dreary.”

“Well, our life isn’t going to be like that.”

Missing his statement, Simone asked, “Colin, why did you leave almost without a word?”

“I wanted to give us both a chance to think about this. I wasn’t sure you’d have me. But I have thought about it, and now, sweetheart, I want to tell you.” He kissed her again and then laughed. “Romeo’s love for Juliet was nothing. Kid stuff. My love for you is the real thing.”

Simone seemed to relax. “I thought you didn’t want me.”

“Not want you? I want you like a man wants air or water. So, will you have me?”

“Yes!”

They stood clinging to each other, and finally he said, “We’ll be engaged then until the run of this is over in New York, and then we’ll be married.”

“Will it be a long time?”

“It will be long for me. One day would be long for me. But I haven’t told you about our honeymoon.”

“You’ve already got that planned, without even talking to me?”

“I think you’ll like my plan.”

“What is it, Colin?”

“After we’re married, we’ll get on a ship, and we’ll have a honey-moon on board. Then we’ll get to France, and we’ll go to my estate.”

Simone snuggled closer to him. “Is it a castle?”

“Not exactly, but with you there as queen, I’ll feel like a king.” He asked, “Do you remember I once told you about alchemy?”

“Yes, I have never forgotten it.”

“I’m sure of it now. Scientists all failed to turn lead or iron into gold, but you have proven that there is an alchemy in the truest sense of the word. You are another woman from the one I first met. All that was cold and hard is gone—and nothing is left in you but warmth and gentleness and love.”

Simone pulled his head down and kissed him, and then they began to dance around in the snow. Pulling him to a stop, Simone said, “God has answered our prayers, and it’s going to be wonderful.” She paused and added, “But my feet are freezing.”

“You ought to be willing to suffer a little bit. You’re getting me for a husband. Think how lucky you are.”

“You are filled up with pride. I’ll have to puncture that. But come inside. We must tell Father and Mother.”

Suddenly a voice rang out. “You don’t have to tell us anything!”

Simone looked up and saw her parents leaning out of their bed-room window. They were both beaming, and her father said, “I think everybody in the neighborhood heard your proposal, Colin. Now you can come inside and ask my permission to court my daughter.”

Colin waved his right arm, his left around Simone. “I’ll be right there, but I’m only taking yes for an answer.”

The two walked toward the house, clinging to one another, and the stars glittered above them. Snow began to fall.

THE CREOLES SERIES

The

Tapestry

Gilbert Morris

&

Lynn Morris

Copyright © 2005 by Gilbert Morris

All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson, Inc.

WestBow Press books may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail SpecialMarkets@ThomasNelson.com.

Scripture taken from the King James Version.

Publisher’s Note: this novel is a work of fiction. All characters, plots, and events are the product of the author’s imagination. All characters are fictional, and any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Morris, Gilbert.

The tapestry / Gilbert Morris & Lynn Morris.

p. cm.—(The Creoles series ; 4)

ISBN 0-7852-7005-1 (pbk.)

1. Women—Louisiana—Fiction. 2. New Orleans (La.)—Fiction. 3. Creoles—Fiction. I. Morris, Lynn. II. Title.

PS3563.O8742T37 2005

813'.54—dc22

2004028699

Printed in the United States of America

05 06 07 08 09 RRD 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Table of Contents

The Creole Heritage

PART ONE • APRIL 1831–SEPTEMBER 1833 •

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

PART TWO • SEPTEMBER–OCTOBER 1833 •

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

PART THREE • NOVEMBER 1833–MARCH 1834 •

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

PART FOUR • MARCH–JULY 1834 •

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

I am not a fan of beauty contests, so I have decided to select my own Miss America and dedicate this book to her.

And the winner is . . .

MISS SARAH ANDRUS of Farmington, Minnesota.

You are my Miss America, Sarah, and I wish that every young woman in our country had your character, sweetness, and dedication to Jesus Christ.

Your family deserves to be included in this dedication, for I know that it was their love and commitment that has formed you into the fine young woman that you are. My warm congratulations to your parents and your brothers.

My prayer is that God will open up doors of service for you and that you will be a handmaiden of the Lord all the days of your life.

The Creole Heritage

In the early nineteenth century, the culture of New Orleans was as rich and widely varied as the citizens’ complexions. Pure Spanish families, descended from haughty dons, still dwelt in the city, and some pure French families resided there, but many were already mingled with both Spaniards and Africans. Acadians—or “Cajuns,” as they came to be called—lived outside of the city. This small pocket of Frenchmen had wandered far from home, but, like many groups in New Orleans, they stubbornly kept much of their eighteenth-century heritage intact and ingrained.

Of course, there were many slaves, but there were also the gen de couleur libres, or free men and women of color. Some of these were pure Africans, but most of them were the mulattoes, griffes, quadroons, and ocotoroons who were the result of French and Spanish blending with slaves. There were Americans, too, though they were strictly confined to the “American district.” And there were Creoles, people of French and Spanish blood, who were born outside of their native countries. Creoles born in New Orleans were Louisianians, but they were not considered Americans.

All well-born Creole families sent their children to receive a classical education at the Ursuline Convent or the Jesuit schools, and both institutions accepted charity children.

This series of novels traces the history of four young women who were fellow students at the Ursuline Convent School:

• The Exiles: Chantel

• The Immortelles: Damita

• The Alchemy: Simone

• The Tapestry: Leonie

PART ONE

• APRIL 1831–SEPTEMBER 1833 •

Leonie

Chapter one

Simone d’Or stared at the paper in front of her, and then suddenly, without warning, reached out and crumpled it up. Throwing it across the room, she said loudly, “I can’t stand this any longer, Damita!”

Damita Madariaga, who sat across the room from Simone, stared at her roommate, taking in the long blonde hair, the dark blue eyes, and the full lower lip. Damita had always admired Simone’s beauty, although she herself was recognized for being one of the most attractive girls at the Ursuline Convent. Damita took the book that she was reading and threw it across the room with all her force. The pages fluttered, and the book struck a picture on the wall and knocked it to the floor. It fell with a crash, and the glass shattered.

“Good!” Damita said viciously. “I’d like to tear the whole building down!” She got up abruptly, went over to the window and stared outside. “I’m sick of this room!” she exclaimed. “It’s like being in a prison.”

Actually the room was much nicer than most of the others in the convent. Both Simone and Damita came from wealthy families who had spared no expense in fixing up the bare room. The floor was carpeted with an expensive Persian rug. Silk hangings decorated the walls, and the furniture was mostly of polished rosewood gleaming from the sunlight that streamed through the large window. The two half beds, each of which occupied one side of the room, were comfortable and covered with well-chosen and attractive coverlets.

“I’d like to take Sister Agnes and dump her in a well,” Simone muttered darkly. Rising from her desk, she threw herself down on the bed, put her hands behind her head, and stared up at the ceiling. #8220;She’s too mean to be a nun.”

“She’s worse than the rest of them. If it wasn’t for her, we wouldn’t be confined to quarters. I think it’s a shame, and I’m going to tell my papa to take me out of this place.”

“He won’t do it.”

Damita started to argue, then shrugged. “No, he probably won’t, but I’m going to get even with her somehow or other.”

Simone closed her eyes and was quiet for a time. The two girls were perfect roommates, for both were spoiled beauties. The Ursuline Convent was not designed for such proud young women, and the two had been a problem for the sisters who were responsible for their training for their entire stay.

As Damita stared out the window, her mind worked quickly. She had known little discipline at her home—she was the spoiled pet of the family, and although the discipline was somewhat stricter at the convent, neither Damita nor Simone had allowed it to interfere greatly with their lifestyles. Damita watched as one of the servants washed clothes beside a well. A young man had come to flirt with her, and Damita felt a twinge of envy. “Marie can have men flirt with her, but we can’t.”

Simone got up from the bed in a smooth, easy motion and walked over to stare out the window. “She’d better watch out. If Sister Agnes catches her with Juan, she’ll be sorry.”

The two girls watched as the young man reached out and smoothed the golden-brown cheek of the servant girl. The laughter of the two floated up to them, and Damita exclaimed suddenly, “Let’s do something wicked, Simone!”

“Do something? Like what?”

“I’ve got to get out of this room, or it’s going to drive me crazy!”

Sister Agnes had confined them to their room for a week until they brought their work up to standard. She was a stern taskmaker with no respect for the power the girls’ families had. She had even required them to take their meals there, and both young ladies were furious. They were the same age, seventeen, and the confinement had been the worst punishment they had known in their lives.

“I mean it,” Damita said, her lips growing tight. “Let’s just get out of here for a while.”

“And go where?”

“We can go see that play in town. It’s Shakespeare.”

“Oh, Romeo and Juliet. I’d love to see that!” Simone exclaimed, but a doubtful look crossed her face. “I don’t see how we could do it.”

“Sister Agnes is gone for the day. She went over to one of the villages to take some food to a needy family. We can go to the matinee. I saw it in the paper.”

Simone was caught by the daring idea. “All right,” she said, “let’s do it. But if we get caught—”

“So what if we get caught? What can they do to us—beat us with a whip?” Damita laughed and shook her head, her glossy black hair catching the spring sunshine. “All we have to do is sneak out when nobody’s looking and sneak back. It’ll be almost dark when we get back. It’ll be easy.”

“We can’t go through the gate. They’d see us.”

“You know where they’re repairing the wall over on the south side? It’s not quite finished yet, and the men aren’t working on it. We could slip through that gap that’s still there. Come on, get ready!”

“Do you have enough money for us to get in?”

“Yes. I’ve got plenty. Hurry up, now!”

“Let’s go see if Chantel wants to go with us, and maybe Leonie.”

“I doubt if they will, but we’ll give them a chance.”

The two girls left their room and moved cautiously down the hall. They knocked on a door, and then without waiting, Simone opened it, and the two girls slipped inside.

Leonie Dousett was sitting at the desk, writing industriously. She was a petite young woman with a good figure. Her waist was the smallest of any of the girls, the envy of the rest of them. She had a heart-shaped face, auburn hair that had recently darkened to a lustrous deep brown, and well-shaped gray eyes. Her complexion was olive, very smooth. She had a widow’s peak and a dimple in her right cheek when she smiled.

“What are you two doing here?” Leonie asked.

“Where’s Chantel?”

“She went down the hall to the washroom.” Leonie was very plainly dressed compared to the other two. She was one of the girls that the sisters at the convent took in as an act of charity. Leonie was an orphan and had made her way, when she grew old enough, by working for the sisters and sewing for some of the students. “If Sister Agnes catches you out of your room, you’ll be sorry.”

“I’m not afraid of her,” Damita said defiantly. “She didn’t have any business confining us to our room anyway.”

Even as Damita spoke the door opened, and Chantel Fontaine came in. She was a tall young woman with striking green eyes. “What are you two doing out of your room?”

“Never mind that,” Simone said. Her eyes were glowing with excitement. “Damita and I are going to sneak out and go see Romeo and Juliet in town.”

“Yes,” Damita said, “there’s a matinee that starts at three o’clock, I think. We’ll get back about dark.”

“You can’t do that,” Leonie said. “You’ll be in trouble if you get caught.”

“We won’t get caught.” Damita shrugged her shoulders. “We’re going to go sneak through that place in the wall they’re repairing. Come on. You can go with us.”

Leonie shook her head. “No. I’m not going.”

“I—I don’t think I’d better,” Chantel said. She came from a good family but one not as wealthy and influential as Simone’s and Damita’s families. She was a much milder girl and more amiable in every way.

“I told you they wouldn’t go,” Simone said.

“Well, we’re going.”

Leonie and Chantel tried to dissuade their friends, but both knew it was useless.

“Come on. I’ve got to get out of this place!” Damita said. She grinned roguishly and winked at Leonie. “You’re going to miss a good time.”

Leonie didn’t answer, but as soon as the two girls left, she turned to Chantel and said with a worried expression. “I wish they wouldn’t do that. They could get in serious trouble.”

“That’s never bothered those two,” Chantel remarked. “I just hope Sister Agnes doesn’t catch them. I think she’d really take a cane to them this time, no matter how important their families are.”

Simone and Damita made their way down the hall. Both of them, of course, knew every nook and cranny of the convent, and they silently threaded through several corridors usually vacant. Finally they stepped outside, and Damita looked cautiously in both directions. “There’s nobody in the courtyard, and the workmen are gone. Come on.”

Simone followed Damita as they ran lightly across the grass and reached the wall. The wall, an ancient one, had been crumbling, and now only one small gap remained unfinished. Avoiding the pile of stones and the mortar boards and other tools of the trade, the two slipped quickly through the gap. As soon as they were outside, Damita laughed. “Now, let’s go to town!”

The play was not the first Shakespearean play that the two girls had seen; both were lovers of drama. Damita had paid for the best seats in the house, and although Simone was worried that someone, somehow, from the convent might see them, Damita had shrugged. “Who from a convent would want to go to see actors? They think all actors are demons straight out of the pit.”

“They’ll think we are, too, just for going.” Simone managed to smile.

When the play concluded and the actors came out for their curtain call, the two girls applauded until their hands ached. “I’m going to be an actress,” Damita said firmly. “They get to travel everywhere.”

“I don’t think that would be a very good life. Besides, your parents would never let you do it.”

“I suppose not. They never want me to have any fun, and yours are about the same.”

The two left the theater and set their minds on a meal before returning to the convent. “If they’re going to starve us at that old convent, we’ve got a right to eat out. Come on,” Damita ordered.

The two girls found a café and filled up on shrimp, fish, and gumbo. They both laughed a great deal, feeling rather proud of their exploit.

Finally, however, the meal was finished and Simone sighed. “Come on. We’d better get back.”

“I wish I didn’t have to go to that place. It’s like going to Devil’s Island.”

“Oh, it’s not that bad!”

“It is too!”

“How do you know? You’ve never been to Devil’s Island.”

“I’ve read about it, though.”

“Well, they don’t throw us in dungeons and whip us with whips.”

The two girls argued all the way back to the convent. The sun had already dipped below the horizon, and darkness was beginning to fall as they approached the gap in the wall. Damita whispered, “You’d better be quiet now. Sister Agnes may be back by this time.”

The two girls tiptoed through the wall and no sooner were they inside than they were startled by a shadowy figure that appeared to their right. Damita, for all her boastfulness, gave a little cry, for she knew that to be caught by Sister Agnes was not far removed from being sent to Devil’s Island.

“Damita—Simone—is that you?”

A gust of relief passed through Damita. “Leonie,” she said when the young girl stepped forward. “What are you doing out here?”

Leonie moved closer and put her finger to her lips in a sign. “You can’t go back the way you left,” she whispered. “Sister Agnes is back, and she’s patrolling all the halls.”

“Does she know we’re gone?” Simone said.

“I don’t think so. Not yet. But you know how she is.”

“How are we going to get in? We can’t go to the front door,” Damita said.

Ordinarily Leonie Dousett was not one to give orders. But now she saw that both girls were frightened. “Come around to the back,” she directed.

“Those doors are always locked.”

“I know, Simone, but the windows aren’t. There’s a window up over the shed.”

“We can’t get to that window.”

“Yes, we can. There’s a ladder, and we can climb in and get on the shed. From there we can reach the window. I checked on the ladder, but we’d better hurry.”

It was typical that neither girl thought of thanking Leonie for the risk she was taking. They took it for granted as they took everything else for granted in their lives. The three girls followed the shadows until they had rounded the building, and at the back Damita made out the shed that protruded from the outer wall of the convent building.

“Climb up on that ladder,” Leonie said. “You go on in. I’ll climb up the ladder last. No one will know how you got in.”

The two girls scrambled up. Leonie was about to mount the ladder herself when suddenly a light shone directly in her face.

“Who is that? Girl, stop right where you are!”

Leonie had no chance to run. The light had blinded her, but she recognized Sister Agnes’s harsh voice.

Sister Agnes appeared, holding the lantern up to Leonie’s eyes. “Leonie, what are you doing out here, and who’s that with you?”

Leonie could not think of a single thing to say. She remained quiet, and suddenly Sister Agnes’s hand took her arm. “Speak to me. I know that there was someone out here with you. Who was it?”

Leonie did not want to lie, so she couldn’t say she was alone. At the same time she knew with a sinking heart that she could expect nothing good to come of this.

“I’m surprised at you, Leonie! I wouldn’t put it past some of the other girls. You’ve been sneaking out to town, a group of you, haven’t you?”

“I haven’t been to town.”

Sister Agnes stared at her. “Well, you can explain all this to the mother superior. Come along.”

Leonie was a meek, quiet young woman who had never been in trouble in all her years at the convent. As she trudged heavily behind Sister Agnes, her heart was beating rapidly, and she had a sudden impulse to turn and run away—but there was nowhere to go. She had no home where she could take refuge. She began to pray as she entered the building. “Lord, don’t let them throw me out of here.”

“That was Sister Agnes’s voice,” Simone whispered. She peered out the window, but it was too dark to see.

Chantel, who had met the two girls to help them through the window, asked, “What about Leonie?”

“I think Sister Agnes got her.”

“She’ll tell on us,” Damita said, and fear showed in her eyes.

“No, she won’t,” Chantel said. She knew Leonie better than the other two girls. “She’d let them pull her fingernails out before she’d tell on anyone.”

“I hope you’re right,” Damita said. “If she tells the mother superior about us, we’ll probably be expelled. My family will have a fit.”

“Mine too,” Simone said.

“You don’t have to worry. Leonie won’t tell. She’s not that kind.”

The mother superior of the Ursuline Convent had rarely known such uncertainty. She was a small woman of fifty with hazel eyes and hair that was turning silver. Although one of the most petite of the nuns, her determination was by far the most firm. She had gone to the convent as a novice and stayed in the service until she was in authority over all the other nuns.

“I’m surprised at you, Leonie. What do you have to say for yourself?”

“Nothing, Reverend Mother.”

“Do you admit that you were caught and that there were others with you?” She waited for Leonie to reply, but the girl did nothing but stand before her. The mother superior could see that Leonie’s hands were trembling and that fear was in her face. She had formed a great affection for this young woman who had never given her a moment’s trouble. She said quietly, “I have every confidence in you, Leonie. I know you wouldn’t do anything that was wrong. Others might, but you won’t—still, I can’t let this pass.”

“I know, Reverend Mother.” Leonie’s voice was barely audible.

She shook her head. “This is your last year here. It would be a shame if you lost your place before you graduated.”

The implied threat frightened Leonie, but still she could say nothing.

“I believe you are protecting someone,” the mother superior said. “You might think that’s a noble thing, but I’m not certain it is. Those who were with you aren’t helping you in the least, and I don’t think they will. They’ll let you take the blame and the punishment while they get off scot-free.”

“I—I’m sorry, Reverend Mother. I hate to disappoint you.”

“If that’s all you have to say, I will have to punish you. All your privileges will be suspended, and you’ll spend one month on rough cleaning detail.” The mother superior saw relief come into the young girl’s eyes, and she added, “And no evening meal.”

“Yes, Reverend Mother.”

“You may go now.”

Leonie left at once, and as soon as she was out of the room Sister Agnes bustled in. “Did she tell you who the others were?”

“No, she didn’t. You didn’t think she would, did you?”

“If she had any sense, she would.”

The mother superior smiled. “She’s got more than sense. She’s got character.”

“Character!” Sister Agnes snorted. “What good does it do her to protect those others?”

“I took away all her privileges, including the late meal, and put her on rough cleaning for a month.”

“And those who snuck out with her get away with it. Is that the way it has to be?”

“I can’t think of anything else to do.”

The two women stood regarding each other, and finally the mother superior said, “I’ve always had a soft spot for Leonie.”

“Well, so have I, for that matter. She’s had a hard life. I was an orphan myself.”

“I know you were. Actually, we don’t know that she was an orphan.”

“I understand you were the one who found her, Reverend Mother.”

“Yes. Most of the time, when people leave infants we meet the parents, but I found Leonie in a basket outside the door early one morning.”

“You were never able to find out who her parents were or anything about her background?”

“We tried,” the older woman answered, “but we had no success.” She shrugged her shoulders and said, “She’s a good girl.”

“Yes, she is,” Sister Agnes said. Then her features hardened. “But it does her no good, her friendship with those rich, spoiled girls. I wouldn’t be surprised if they weren’t the ones who were into this thing with her.”

“I have no doubt that you’re right, but you’ll never get it out of Leonie.”

As soon as Leonie stepped inside her room, she was greeted by all three of her best friends.

“What’d they do to you, Leonie?” Chantel demanded.

“Nothing very bad.”

“I’ll bet it was,” Simone said. “What did she say?”

“Did she try to get you to tell her who was with you?”

“Yes, she did.”

“But you didn’t,” Chantel said.

“No. I couldn’t do that.”

Damita expelled a breath of relief. “Well, what punishment did you get?”

“Nothing too bad.”

“Come on and tell me,” Chantel said. “I know it wasn’t pleasant.”

“Reverend Mother was very kind. I do without supper and have rough cleaning detail for a month.”

Damita went and put her arms around Leonie. “Don’t you worry about it. We’ll make it right with you. You’ll have a better supper in your room than you’d have in the hall. You’ll see.”

“Are you mad at us, Leonie?” Simone asked, studying the girl’s face.

“Why, of course not. You’d do it for me.”

Chantel shook her head but said nothing. “You’d better get back to your rooms now. I think probably Sister Agnes and Reverend Mother know pretty well who was in on this.”

The two girls left, and for a while Chantel tried to pry more secrets of the interview out of Leonie, but the girl said little. Finally the two girls studied their lessons and went to bed. Their huge black cat with golden eyes, Louis, who was an expert mouser, was curled up on Leonie’s bed. She had found him when he was just a tiny ball of black fur, and after much wheedling, she had obtained permission to keep him. That night Leonie was glad for his fellowship. Louis’s purr was like a tiny motor that often made her sleepy. She went to sleep finally thinking of all that had happened and praying that God would take care of her.

For the first week Damita did well getting food to Leonie at night. She bought the best that money could buy, and it had become a game sneaking it into Leonie. But eventually she tired of the extra chore or forgot. Chantel did not, however, and she saw to it that her roommate got at least the same food that the rest of the students received.

As for Leonie, it was not a terrible burden for her to lose privileges, for she had no visitors. She put it out of her mind and had already begun to look forward to the day when she would finish her studies and leave the convent. The other girls all had families to go to, but she herself had no one, and every night she asked God to provide a place for her.

Chapter two

The days passed quickly after Leonie had completed her punishment, and as her graduation date was rapidly approaching, she seemed to have more freedom than ever before.

She had thought more and more about what she would do when she had to leave the convent, and it still frightened her to think of her future.

A bright day on the first of May brought her out of the convent on a pleasant errand. She had always enjoyed roaming the streets of New Orleans, and having been assigned a few errands by Sister Agnes, she moved through the city, taking it all in.

New Orleans in 1831 was perhaps the most multiracial society in the United States. It was a rich mixture of occupations and activities with a population composed of Spaniards, Americans, Germans, Indians, and Africans. The blacks, both slave and free, made up about half of the total.

As she walked along the streets, Leonie was as usual fascinated by the streams of people who crowded each other. She passed an older woman wearing a tignon, a madras handkerchief. The woman was clasping her prayer book and obviously on her way to the cathedral.

Indians were still a common sight even at this late date, and she watched them with interest, especially a couple who had three small children. The children were silent, absorbing the sights in the streets, and it struck Leonie that she had never seen Indian children laugh, and she wondered why.

She passed black nursemaids in Lafeyette Square, some of them wheeling their small charges in buggies, others leading them by the hand.

A woman passed by carrying an enormous wooden bowl on her head, filled with calahs, coarse rice fritters. The woman cried as she walked, “Fine fritters, just made!” Leonie used some of the money she had saved to purchase a few.

Other women, mostly black, carrying their wares, shouted out their virtues. Leonie approached the woman who cried, “Blackberries, very fine!” and bought a small sack full of the rich, juicy berries and munched them as she went along. Another vendor shouted about her own delicious products, browned pecan and pink or white coconut pralines. Leonie bought a few from her as well. Then she passed through the market house situated on the levee near the Place d’Armes, an enormous sale market with more than a hundred stalls and over three hundred feet long that extended along the levee.

She wandered along its arcaded sides under its low-pitched roofs and marveled at the babble of languages—English, French, German, and Spanish—that filled the place with a perfect hum. Though it was still early, the market was crowded with sellers and buyers. She stopped at the different vendors to buy items according to Sister Agnes’s instructions. From the ceiling hung numerous spiderwebs, flies, and much dirt. The flies made a relentless buzz as they moved about.

Finally, when Leonie had bought all the wares Sister Agnes listed, she wound her way along the crooked streets until she reached one of the poorer sections of town. She had not gone far when a brutal-looking man lurched out of the alley and lunged toward her with a loose grin on his coarse features. He grabbed Leonie’s arm, mumbling, “Hello, honey girl. Come along with me. We’ll have us a good time.”

“Please let me go!” Leonie cried.

“Come on. Don’t be shy! You need to know what a real man is like, a real Kaintock.”

“Kaintock” was the term many dwellers of New Orleans applied to all Americans, regardless of their points of origin. They were a rough, rowdy bunch for the most part. Many of them were the river boatmen, the roughest of all the men. They fought with huge knives, guns, or fists and filled the jails up in New Orleans regularly.

“Here. You be on your way.”

The Kaintock turned quickly to see a tall naval officer frowning at him.

“I don’t take orders from no sailors.”

The officer had a sword at his side. He drew it in one smooth motion. “Fine,” he said. “Which arm do you want removed: your right or your left?”

Leonie backed away from the scene. For one moment she thought the Kaintock intended to challenge the officer. He put his hand on the sheath of the large hunting knife he carried—and then turned and stumbled away.

“I thank you, sir,” Leonie said, relief filling her voice.

“Why, you’re welcome, miss,” the officer said. His skin was bronze and he spoke with an accent she did not recognize. That was not unusual, however, because ships came from all over the world into the port of New Orleans. “You’d better let me escort you to where you’re going.”

“It’s just down the street a ways, but I thank you.”

The officer insisted on walking along with her, and she offered him some of the blackberries. He sampled one and said, “I’d like to have some of these to take to sea, but they wouldn’t last long. Sailors eat everything good first and wind up with nothing but salted meat.”

“It must be exciting to be a sailor.”

“It’s a hard life, miss.” The officer shook his head. “You couldn’t think how hard it is.”

“And where are you from, sir?”

“I come from Scotland. Glasgow, that is.”

“That’s far away, isn’t it?”

“Very far away. Many a time I wish I’d stayed there with my old pa and been a farmer. Too late now, though. He’s gone. Nothing left for me but the sea.”

The two reached the house, a mere shack, and Leonie said to the officer with a smile, “You take the blackberries. There are plenty more.”

“Why, I thank you, Miss. You’re a bonnie lass. Be careful now. There are lots of bad characters roaming the streets of New Orleans.”

“I will. Thank you, sir.”

The house that Leonie stopped in front of was a poor one indeed. It was unpainted and made of weathered boards, some of them rotten. Gaps showed between some of the flimsy boards, holes large enough to admit a bird.

Leonie knocked on the door and thought with pleasure of the tall sailor. She had a romantic imagination, and, for a moment, she stood thinking how it would be if such a man came courting her, but she realized that was not likely to happen. Scottish sailors didn’t go to convents looking for sweethearts!

“Why, Leonie, you’re here!”

The door had opened, and Susan Barnes was wiping her hands on her apron. She smiled. “Come in. You’re just in time for tea.”

“Hello, Susan.” Leonie stepped into the house and was at once swarmed by four small children: Billy, Henry, Annie, and Dora. She put her baskets down but reached in and withdrew the pralines that she had bought for each. “Here are sweets for you.”

“Now then. What do you say, children?” Susan elicited the thank-yous from those old enough to talk.

Susan busied herself with the tea, and shortly the two women were seated at the rickety table. They sipped the rich tea and nibbled on the fritters that Leonie had brought.

The Barnes family was poor, and matters had gotten worse when William Barnes, who was from Kentucky, had been injured in a fall from a building he was working on. He had broken both legs, and the family had become destitute. William was now just beginning to get around using canes, and during all of their trouble it had been Leonie who had been consistent in her care of them. She had begged food from the kitchen at the convent and even money from the wealthier girls to keep the family going.

The children were quiet as long as they had their sweets to suck on, and Leonie asked about William.

“He’s out looking for work. Of course he can’t do manual labor, but he thinks he can find something until he’s well enough to work.”

“That was a terrible accident.”

“I don’t know where we would have been if it hadn’t been for you, dear,” Susan Barnes said fondly. She reached over and took Leonie’s hand and laid it against her cheek. “You’re a sweet girl. Not many would show interest in a poor bunch of Kaintocks.”

“Oh, it was little enough.”

“No. It was more than that. The children adore you. Can you stay a while and tell them some of your stories?”

“For a little while, Susan.”

The “little while” turned out to be more than two hours. William came home and greeted Leonie with a glad smile, adding his thanks for the food she had brought and the small bit of money that she had been able to raise. “I got a little something to do that’ll maybe last until my legs get well enough to go back to work.”

“What is that, sir?” Leonie asked.

“I’ll be in a booth down at the French Market. All I have to do is hand out a few items and take the money. I can do that sitting down. It doesn’t pay much, but every little bit helps.”

The small family pleaded with her to stay, but she said, “No, I’ve got to get back.” She hesitated, then said, “I’ll be leaving the convent in about three weeks.”

“Leaving!” Susan said with dismay. “You told us this would come, but I’m surprised it arrived so quickly.”

“Will you be leaving New Orleans?” William asked.

“I don’t really know, sir. Most of the girls have families they’ll be going to, but I’ll have to find work myself somewhere.”

“Well, the good Lord will take care of you,” William said. “He put you to taking care of us, and He’ll find someone to take care of you. You’re such a fine Christian girl that He’ll not let you suffer want.”

“I don’t mind telling you I’m a little bit worried. I know that’s a lack of faith, but I don’t have any family at all. But I still hope to find work in New Orleans.”

“You’ll be coming by to see us, won’t you, dear?” Susan said.

“Oh yes, I will. I don’t have enough friends that I can afford to do without you.”

“I think we ought to pray right now that God will open up a door for our sister,” William said. “Come here, children, we’re going to pray for sister Leonie.”

The children scrambled around, all of them trying to get as close as they could to Leonie. She sat in her chair with their hands touching her, and she felt William’s hand on her head. It gave her a strange feeling. She felt Susan’s hands on her shoulders, and William began to pray.

Such a prayer! William Barnes prayed for Leonie’s physical well-being, for her financial needs, for friends, and for God to open every door until finally he ended with, “This is Your daughter and Your handmaiden, Lord, so we’re believing that You are going to open every door for her for good and shut every door for evil. In the name of Jesus, amen.”

“Amen,” Leonie whispered. She got up with tears in her eyes. “Thank you, William. That was a beautiful prayer.”

“And God will answer it,” Susan said. She embraced the young girl, then all the children had to have a hug, and finally William himself gave her a squeeze and said, “Don’t forget. The Lord God never let any of His children go hungry. I’ve never seen the righteous forsaken nor His seed begging bread. That’s what the Book says. You must believe it, sister Leonie.”

Leonie said her good-byes, and as she left the Barnes house, she was thinking how much happier those poor people were than many of the wealthy people that she encountered. She was impressed by their faith in God, and somehow, for a moment, it was easier to face her unknown future.

The grounds of the Ursuline Convent were crowded with parents, grandparents, and friends of the graduates. The bright sunshine of May lit up the gloomy corners of the convent, and the sound of laughter and loud talk made a counterpoint against the bells as they rang announcing the ceremony.

Most of the graduates had purchased new dresses for the ceremony, and Leonie had put her skills with a needle to work and made dresses for three of her classmates. This had taken so much time that she had not been able to make anything for herself, so she simply wore a modest dress that she usually wore to church.

The excitement that filled the girls’ rooms somehow depressed Leonie. She still had no idea where she would go, and soon she expected Reverend Mother to question her on her plans. The possibilities for work in New Orleans were slender for a young woman indeed, even one with the good education the convent provided.

Simone d’Or suddently burst into the room Leonie shared with Chantel crying, “Leonie, you have to help me fix my hair!”

“Of course,” Leonie agreed and at once followed the young woman down the corridor. When she entered, she was taken aback, for Simone and Damita had made no attempt to clean up. The room was a wreck with clothes, presents, paper, and food in a wild array.

“You’re not going to leave your room like this, are you?” Leonie asked Damita.

“Why not?” Damita grinned. “Let the next student clean it up.”

“That’s right,” Simone laughed. “We’ll be through with this place by four o’clock this afternoon.”

“It won’t be a minute too soon,” Damita said. “I’ll be so glad to get away from here I could scream.”

Damita and Simone talked rapidly about their gifts, which they hoped would include travel outside the country. Leonie felt more and more left out. It was as if she were another species. The gaiety of the two girls only caused her to worry more about what she would do with herself.

The girls were interrupted when their parents came in. Leonie felt out of place, so she went back to her own room where Chantel’s parents were visiting with her. “Oh, Leonie, Reverend Mother wants to see you before the ceremony,” her roommate told her.

“What does she want?”

“She didn’t say. She just sent for you.”

Leonie walked to the office, which was on the second floor. She found the mother superior looking out of the window at the crowd milling around below.

“You sent for me, Reverend Mother?”

“Yes, Leonie. Come in and sit down. It’s quite an exciting day, isn’t it?”

“Yes, I suppose it is.”

The mother superior looked carefully at the girl and saw that she was not happy. “Is there anything wrong, Leonie?”

“Oh no.”

“You’re not ill, are you?”

“No, ma’am. Not at all.”

The mother superior had gotten to be an expert at reading the faces of young women, and she saw something was vastly different about Leonie Dousett. She was usually one of the most cheerful young women at the convent, but now an air of disappointment and almost dismay hung about her. “Here, come and sit down. We have a few minutes.”

Leonie took her seat, but no matter how hard she tried, she was not able to enter into the spirit of gaiety that floated through the window.

“I’m sorry to say that the position I had hoped to find for you has already been filled.”

Disappointment seized Leonie. She had been hopeful to get the position as companion to a wealthy young woman in Baton Rouge.

“I wish it had been different,” the mother superior said. “You haven’t been able to find anything here in the city?”

“Not yet.”

“Well, you’ll find something, I’m sure.”

“Yes, ma’am, I know I will.”

“It will be harder for you than for Simone and Damita and Chantel. It helps to have wealthy parents.”

“It would be nice to have parents even if they weren’t wealthy,” Leonie noted.

The mother superior was surprised. It was the first time she had ever heard Leonie voluntarily mention such feelings. She knew the young girl had determination and courage, but she knew how hard it must have been on her with the other girls having parents, grandparents, and friends coming to wish them well while she herself was all alone.

“I’ll keep on looking, of course, and something will turn up,” the mother superior assured her.

“If nothing else, I can always work as a seamstress.”

“Oh yes, you’re very good at that! I’ve never seen better.” She waved at the tapestry that was on the wall. It was one of the two that Leonie had made, and she had offered it as a gift to the mother superior for all of her kindnesses. “That is a beautiful piece of work. Somehow it cheers me up. I don’t know why a tapestry should do that.”

“What a nice thing to say.”

“Well, it’s no more than the truth.” The mother superior, seeing Leonie’s depression, felt uncomfortable, wondering if she had failed the young woman. “I’ll keep looking for a place for you.”

“Thank you. I know that God will take care of me.”

“That’s the right attitude, Leonie.” The older woman took her hands and said, “You have a very special gift, Leonie.”

“Me! A gift?”

“The gift of faith. I’ve noticed it in you before. You’ve had a harder life than almost any of these girls here with not knowing your parents and being alone, yet you’ve not let it sour you. I know that God is going to honor you somehow or other.”

Leonie felt the warmth of the woman’s words and smiled. “Yes. God will take care of me.”

The graduation ceremonies were long, and Chantel Fontaine won the award for the best scholar. This came as no surprise to anyone; she was a bright young woman. Leonie applauded as hard as Chantel’s own family when she walked up to receive her award.

Finally the speeches and the ceremonies were over, and the four girls went to their rooms for the final time—at least for three of them.

“Do you have any more prospects, Leonie?” Chantel asked as she was packing the last of her clothing.

“I’ll keep on looking until I find a position.”

“I told my parents about you, and the other girls have done the same. We’ll find you something.”

“Thank you, Chantel. That’s like you.”

“We must keep in touch,” Chantel said.

“Yes, of course,” Leonie said, knowing it was not very likely. Chantel, Simone, and Damita moved in the upper regions of society of New Orleans. She herself would be somewhere in the lower order.

The three girls were in a flurry, parents urging them on, and each embraced Leonie. She walked out to the gates and waved as they left, all of them laughing and excited. When she turned back, despondency filled her. She was a young woman of great faith, supposedly, but still the future looked dark. She straightened her back, and her mouth tightened in a stubborn expression. “I’ll find something,” she murmured. “God won’t let me down.”

Chapter three

The days passed slowly after graduation, turned into weeks, and finally stretched into two months. New students were coming to take their places in the rooms, and Leonie felt more and more uncomfortable. The mother superior had not said anything about her leaving, but a larger enrollment than usual put rooms at a premium. Desperately she had gone throughout the city looking for work and found nothing, and she knew that the older woman had been active on her behalf as well. It had been a disappointment to her that she had not heard from any of her friends who had left the convent, but she knew they were busy with their families and plans.

It was midmorning, and Leonie was working on a tapestry. She was putting all of her skills into it, for it was larger and more ornate than anything she had attempted before. Leonie had spent the last two months trying to more fully develop her faith, and she decided to make something that would glorify God. Having decided to sew into the tapestry the miracles of Jesus, she was working now on the feeding of the five thousand, which was a challenge to her talents. How to give the impression of a multitude of people on a small bit of fabric was harder than she had expected.

From time to time, she looked outside her window, interested in the purple martins that were building in the house the custodian had put up for them. It had eight separate compartments, and every one was filled, and the birds were busy bringing food to the young ones. They were such a happy breed of bird, and the sounds they made were so cheerful that Leonie stopped often to watch them.

She also paused that morning to read the Scriptures and pray that God would put a way of making a living in her path. She was unusual in that she possessed a Bible, and even more unusual in that she read it. Most religious folk left the reading of the Scriptures and the explanation of them to certain authorities. Leonie had become fascinated with the Bible when she was but a young girl. More than one nun had warned her about the dangers of reading the Bible without guidance, but she could not seem to agree with that.

A knock on the door sounded, and without waiting for an answer Sister Agnes opened it, popped her head in, and said, “You’re wanted in Reverend Mother’s office, Leonie.”

“Me? What for?”

“I don’t know, but you’ll find out when you go. Hurry now.”

Quickly Leonie put her sewing away and looked into the small mirror to be sure that her appearance was suitable. She made her way swiftly to the second floor and knocked on the office door. When she heard the woman’s quiet “Come in,” she opened the door and stepped inside. “You sent for me, Reverend Mother?” Her eyes went to the leader of the convent first and then to a couple who were seated in chairs across from the large desk.

“Yes, I did, Leonie. This is Monsieur Gaspar Millard and his wife, Matilda. They own an inn in the city, and they are looking for a young woman to work for them. I thought you might be interested.”

“Oh yes, I would!” Leonie said quickly. She turned to face the couple. The man had risen, and she saw that he was a tall, bulky man of some forty years. He had blunt features and a pair of quick, black eyes that took her in all at once. His wife was also a tall woman but very thin. She had iron-gray hair and was obviously at least ten years older than her husband. Her eyes were small and close-set, and she had a steel trap of a mouth.

“We cannot pay much,” Madam Millard spoke up at once. “You must understand that at the beginning.”

“Yes, that is true,” her husband said quickly, “but we will offer you room and board. There will be plenty of food and a nice room.”

“At least it’s a beginning, Leonie, and I know you’re anxious to get on with your life,” the mother superior said.

“What sort of work would I be doing?”

“The same sort that needs to be done at an inn,” Madam Millard said sharply. “Cleaning, helping the cook. I expect all of our help to work hard.”

“I think you’ll find Mademoiselle a very hard worker. She has set the example for others here for all of her years,” the mother superior said quickly. She turned to Leonie, and her eyes expressed her lack of pleasure. “Leonie, it’s not necessary for you to go. We will make a place for you here if you would rather do that.”

Leonie understood that the woman was offering a way out. The couple did not seem to be particularly pleasant, but Leonie was anxious to start a life away from the convent. She turned to the Millards and said, “I have a cat.”

“We do not allow animals,” Madam Millard said sharply. “They’re nasty creatures.”

“Louis is very clean. I couldn’t leave without my cat.” She saw the anger rise in the woman, but Monsieur Millard spoke up at once. “Oh, let the girl have her cat. He can catch some of those pesky mice.”

Madam Millard wanted to argue, but one look at her husband caused her to say, “Very well. You may keep the cat. We need help immediately. The last girl ran away without giving notice. When can you come?”

“I can come today, Madam.”

“Good. Get your things. We have a carriage outside.”

Leonie packed her few belongings and then put Louis in a basket that she had designed. She closed the lid, latched it, and he protested vehemently with loud, guttural cries.

“It’s all right, Louis. We’re leaving here, but we’ll be together.”

Picking up the basket, Leonie looked around the room she had lived in all of her life. As anxious as she was to make a living, it gave her an uncomfortable feeling to be leaving to go live with strangers. She was standing in the middle of the room uncertainly when the door opened and the mother superior came in. She had concern written on her face, and she said, “Leonie, you do not have to go with these people. They don’t seem particularly agreeable.”

“Oh, it’s all right, Reverend Mother. I need to work, and this is what has come. Maybe it’s God’s will.”

“Perhaps, but if you do not like it, you come back here. We will take you in. We’ll find a place and work for you to do. You know we can’t pay, but we love you, and you will always be welcome here.”

Tears came to Leonie’s eyes. “Thank you, Reverend Mother. You’ve always been so kind to me.”

“I’ll have George take your chest down. Remember, I expect you to come back often to visit with me and let me know how you’re doing.”

“Of course I’ll do that, Reverend Mother.”

On the way out, several nuns met Leonie to say good-bye. She had been popular with all of them. Sister Agnes stood before her and said, “Now, you behave yourself and be a good girl.”

“Yes, Sister Agnes.”

“I’ll miss you.”

Leonie blinked in surprise, for she had not thought Sister Agnes would ever miss anyone. She saw, however, that the woman actually was sorry to see her leave, and she put her hand out, saying, “You’ve been very good to me, Sister. I will miss you too.”

When she stepped outside the building, the old gardener came to her with a small posy of flowers. “Ah, you’re leaving us,” he said. “You’ve been the light of my life.”

“Why, Pierre, what a nice thing to say! And thank you for the flowers.”

She made her way to where the carriage was waiting. By that time, George had brought her chest down. He waited until he had put it into the back of the carriage, then he turned and gave her a hand in. She put Louis’s basket on the seat, and Louis protested vehemently.

“I hope that cat doesn’t make that racket all the time,” Madam Millard said querulously.

“No, ma’am, he’s very quiet usually. He’s just a little bit nervous.”

“Natural enough. I’d yowl if somebody put me in a basket,” Gaspar Millard said. “Well, here we go.”

A small crowd, including the mother superior, was there to wave good-bye, and Leonie put her head out the window and waved, trying to smile. When they went out the gate, she turned and sat back, holding onto the basket with her arm.

As they traveled toward the city, Gaspar kept asking her questions, and she answered as well as she could. She was filled with a nameless fear, for she knew little of the world.

“I suppose you’ll be glad to get out of that place, eh?” Gaspar said, twisting his head around and winking at her. “Not much going on there, I would guess, in the way of fun.”

“No, but I’m sad, sir.”

“Sad! Why would you be sad to leave a place like that?” he said with genuine surprise.

“It’s the only home I’ve ever known, sir, and they—they were very kind to me, the sisters.”

Gaspar shrugged and said nothing.

“Is it far to the inn?” Leonie asked.

“Not too far.”

“Can I come back for a visit, do you suppose?”

“On your day off. Why not? I could bring you myself,” Gaspar said with a smile.

“You don’t have time to be hauling servants around,” Madam Millard said.

There was a sharpness between the two, and Leonie could not help but wonder what sort of situation she was getting into. She said no more and sat back listening, whispering from time to time to Louis in his basket.

Gaspar followed a familiar route at first and then pulled off onto a route she did not know. It was close to the waterfront, and she saw the Mississippi from time to time through the trees. The houses were all poor, and there seemed to be an inordinate number of inns. More than once they passed men who were the worse for drink. It was a section of New Orleans, known for its roughness, where many Kaintocks lived.

Finally Gaspar said, “Well, there it is. The White Horse Inn.”

Leonie looked quickly and saw a dilapidated-looking inn wedged in between two other structures, one a warehouse of some sort and the other a three-story dwelling with iron railings around the balconies. The White Horse Inn had a sign bearing what had once been a white horse but now was faded to a sickly green. Gaspar drove around and arrived at the back of the inn where there was a court of sorts with a stable. He got down, and a tall, scrawny young boy came at once. Gaspar spoke to him harshly, and the boy flinched as though he had been struck. “Take this young woman’s chest up to Emily’s old room,” he said. “Be quick about it.”

“Yes, Monsieur.”

Leonie stepped out of the carriage, holding onto Louis’s basket, and waited until Gaspar Millard helped his wife down. “Come this way,” Madam Millard said.

Leonie followed the pair up a set of rickety steps and was greeted by an unpleasant smell of boiled cabbage and the ancient odors that any house will accumulate. They passed through the kitchen, which she saw was filthy. A large woman spilling out of her clothes with her hair tied up with a rag was cooking. “This is Gemma. She’s the cook. Gemma, this is Leonie. She’ll be helping you out.”

“About time. I need a little help.” Gemma’s face was hardened by years of hard work, but her manner was not unkind.

Gaspar said, “Come. I’ll take you up to your room.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Gaspar led her through the area that served for eating and drinking, and she saw that quite a few men were in there and even a few women, all looking more or less disreputable. The smell of strong liquor and other worse smells made her wrinkle her nose.

“Up this way. Watch your step.”

The steps indeed were steep that led to the second floor where they turned and climbed to the third floor. “This is the attic. I made a room out of it,” Gaspar said. There was a short hallway with only one door at the end. “You’ll have lots of privacy up here if you want to entertain your gentlemen friends.”

“I won’t be doing that, Monsieur.”

Gaspar laughed and opened the door. “You got your own window, you see.”

The room was a disaster. It was filthy, and the covers on the bed were so awful that Leonie knew at once that she would have to wash them before she could sleep on them. She didn’t know what she would do about the mattress. Whoever had occupied the room had never thought of cleaning it. The paper was peeling off the walls, what little paper there was, and the one window was coated with grime so that the sun could hardly force its way in.

The furniture consisted of a single bed with the filthy covers, a chair that looked ready to collapse, and a washstand with a chipped basin and a pitcher even more so.

“You’ll have to haul your wash water up here,” Gaspar said. “It’ll take a little cleaning up, but you’ll make out fine here.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you for bringing me.”

Gaspar suddenly moved forward and put his hand on her shoulder. It startled Leonie, and she quickly looked up at him. He had a peculiar expression in his eyes. “You and me are going to get along fine. If you want anything, you let me know.” He squeezed her shoulder with a caress and Leonie, horrified, pulled away.

“Thank you, sir,” she said quickly. “I’ll be fine.”

“Too late to do much today. Supper will be in a couple of hours. You can work on your room until then.” He turned and stared at her, and she felt something unclean in his look. He laughed harshly then turned and left.

What a horrible, horrible place! How will I ever live here? The words did not escape Leonie’s lips, but they were true enough. She was used to cleanliness and quiet, and already she could hear the boisterous yells and shouts and raucous laughter coming from the bar downstairs. She had a feeling it would be much worse at night.

For a moment Leonie thought of leaving, of going back to the convent at once, but there was an innate determination in this young woman for all her mildness and meekness. “I can live here,” she said aloud, then straightened her back. She reached over and opened the basket, and when Louis jumped out, she picked him up and hugged him to her breast. “We’ll be all right, Louis. You’ll see.”

For the rest of the day, Leonie threw herself into a frenzy of cleaning. She hauled up hot water and soap in buckets until she had scrubbed the room, including the ceiling. She had gone out and bought fresh blankets out of her own slender store of money and had exchanged the mattress, such as it was, for a better one. Gemma, the cook, had helped her, saying, “This ain’t much of a place for a fine young lady like you.”

“It’ll be all right, Gemma. I’m used to hard work.”

“It ain’t the work.” Gemma closed one eye in a wink, and her mouth twisted upward in a wry grin. “Watch out for the master. He likes young girls.”

“It’ll do him no good.”

“You watch what I say. Don’t ever let him get you alone. He’s gotten more than one girl in trouble here. Have you got some kind of a knife?”

“A knife! Of course not.”

“Here. Take this one.” Gemma reached over into a drawer and pulled out a short but obviously very keen weapon. “Here. Keep this with you all the time.”

“Oh, I couldn’t use that.”

“You could if it kept him from harmin’ you, couldn’t you?”

“I won’t need that. The Lord will take care of me.”

“Well, the Lord helps them that helps themselves. You watch out for him. You mind what I say.”

“I’ll be sure and watch, and thanks for the warning, Gemma.”

The noise from the inn downstairs rose up to the third floor and seemed to fill the room. There were shouts, curses, laughter, and music of a sort. Leonie could even hear the words of some of the coarse songs. She had bathed as well as she could and gotten into bed, but not before she had knelt beside her bed and asked God to protect her.

As she lay there, suddenly the bed bounced as Louis leaped upon it in the light way that cats had. She nuzzled up against his purring, and soon she could feel the heat from his body. It was nice to have a warm cat on cold winter nights, but the little room was stifling in the summer heat with only the window for fresh air. Nevertheless, Leonie was glad to have Louis close at hand. She reached over and stroked his silky fur, and he purred loudly and kneaded the blanket with his claws, occasionally touching her skin.

“That hurts, Louis. Be easy,” she whispered. She closed her eyes and tried not to listen to the noise from downstairs. Finally when Louis dropped off to sleep with a steady purr, she found herself exhausted. She dreaded to waking the next day, for she knew that this life was not going to be pleasant. When she drifted off, she prayed a final prayer to God that He would watch over her and keep her safe from all harm.

Chapter four

A sense of despair gripped Leonie as she straightened up with a grimace, putting her hands on the small of her back. She arched her body backwards and felt her stiff muscles protest. She was exhausted, as she was every day, for the work at the inn had been far worse than anything she could have imagined. She worked from dawn to dark cleaning, washing soiled bedding, emptying the chamber pots, scrubbing the greasy dishes, and helping Gemma, the cook, prepare the meals.

As she walked downstairs, the morning light barely penetrated the grimy windows, and Leonie stared at them doggedly. She had been commanded to wash them all, every window in the inn, that day. First she had to scrub the floor in one of the guests’ rooms.

Slowly she got her bucket, wash water, soap, and a rag and began to scrub the floor, which was filthy as usual. She sometimes wondered if human beings or pigs kept the rooms there; no one ever made the slightest attempt to keep his or her room clean. Evidently the man who lived in this room was worse than usual. The floor was littered with cigar butts, beer that had soaked into the ragged carpet, and every sort of smelly garbage imaginable.

With a sigh Leonie remembered the convent and how clean and neat everything had been. It was the only life she had known, and the relentless grime of the inn was a continual drag upon her spirit.

Wearily she scrubbed the floor and for that one moment wished desperately that she was back in the convent. Involuntarily a prayer rose deep in her breast, and although she did not speak it, it was an effectual cry: “Oh, God, help me to survive this nasty, dirty place!”

“Stop your lagging there, girl!”

Madam Millard had suddenly appeared in the doorway, her eyes angry and her lips drawn tight. “You’re going to have to work harder. Do you hear me?”

“Yes, Madam, I hear you.”

“Mind what I say then. Hurry up with that room. I want you to go down and help muck out the stable.”

Before she could think, Leonie responded, “Why, that’s not a maid’s job!”

Madam Millard seemed to explode with fury. Her eyes seemed to be flickering points of fire. “What did you say?” she screamed. “Don’t you talk back to me! You’ll do anything I tell you to!” She advanced quickly and stood over Leonie, who had not risen from her knees. Profanity and anger mingled in her screams, and she drew her hand back suddenly and struck Leonie. The blow caught her on the cheek, and Leonie nearly fell prostrate from the force of it. “You’ll get some more of that if you don’t do what I tell you. Now hurry up!”

Leonie was a meek young woman, milder by far than most, but the blow did something to her. An overwhelming desire to get away from the place seemed to mushroom inside her breast. She got to her feet slowly and stared at the doorway from which Madam Millard had disappeared. Anger was such a rare thing with her, but the place had become intolerable. It was not only Madam’s cruelty—Gaspar Millard’s constant pursuit was even worse. He was always finding some way to put his hands on her, and Gemma’s warning had proved true. Once he had trapped her in her room when Madam was gone to market, and Leonie had barely managed to squeeze by and flee downstairs to the kitchen.

Now tears formed in Leonie’s eyes, and she returned to scrubbing the floor. She had nowhere to go except the convent, and she knew that there was really no place for her there.

She had almost finished the room when suddenly a shadow fell across her, and she turned to see a tall, bulky man standing there framed in the doorway. Startled, she said, “I’m through with the room, sir.”

“Why, don’t be in a hurry.” The speaker was a blunt-faced individual with twisted lower lips as if he had tasted something sour. There was an unhealthy look about him, and he advanced toward Leonie, saying, “You don’t have to worry about the room, a pretty little thing like you.”

Instantly Leonie was on her guard. The male guests at the White Horse Inn took it for granted that a young female servant was there for their convenience. She dropped the rag and attempted to move around him, but he grabbed her arm with his hand and put his other around her shoulder.

“Please, sir, let me go.”

“Not a chance.”

Leonie wrenched her arm away, and the unexpected suddenness of it caught him off guard. The man moved quickly enough, however, and put himself in the doorway. “You can’t run anywhere,” he said, smiling dreadfully. “Come on now. Be nice to a chap, can’t you?”

Leonie wished desperately that she had kept the knife that Gemma tried to get her to carry, but she hadn’t. There was no weapon available, though her eyes searched frantically around the room. The big man stepped forward, and as he did, Leonie took the only thing close at hand: the full chamber. With one swift move she bent over, picked up the chamber pot, and without even thinking, dashed the contents of it into the face of the big man.

He let out a wild scream, clawing at his face, and as he did, Leonie ran out of the room. She ran lightly, hearing his cursing and knowing that it meant trouble for her.

The trouble came in the form of Madam Millard’s visiting her in the attic and screaming as usual. “What do you mean, soiling a guest like that?”

“He was trying to put his hands on me. I was afraid of him.”

“Well, you’ve done it now. He left, and I can’t say as I blame him. But you’re not as good as you make out to be!” Madam Millard screamed and cried and shouted, and all Leonie could do was stand and listen.

“Let me tell you this. He’s left his room, a good lodger. Paid every week. And the cost of his room comes out of your wages until we get another lodger.”

Suddenly Leonie knew she could not stand the place any longer. “I won’t stay if you do that.”

Madam Millard stared at the girl in disbelief. She was accustomed to being obeyed—she ruled by fear. “You’ll do whatever I say!”

“No, I won’t! It wasn’t my fault.”

“What’s going on here?”

Gaspar Millard had come up the stairs and was staring at the two women. “What are you shouting about, my dear?” He listened while she told him the story, and he said, “Well, after all, it wasn’t so bad.”

“Not for you. You’d do anything to get a young girl to stay here, but she’s not staying,” Madam hissed in a sudden reversal. “I’ve had enough of your ways!” she shouted at Leonie. “Get your things and get out of this place now!”

“Now, my dear, don’t be hasty.”

But Madam Millard was out of control. She fumbled in the pocket of her apron, pulled out some bills and peeled off a few and threw them on the floor. “There’s your pay! Be out of this place in ten minutes!”

Gaspar Millard gave his wife a desperate glance. “But my dear, who will do the work?”

“You’ll do it until you find somebody else!” Turning back to Leonie she shouted, “Now you leave!”

The two left, and Leonie, who was trembling so badly she could barely stand, knew that there was no choice. Quickly she dragged her chest out and began throwing her belongings in it. It did not take long, and she closed it and then pulled the basket out and went at once to Louis, who was lying on her bed, alarm showing in his round, golden eyes. “Come on, Louis, we’ve got to go.”

Louis was agreeable enough. He was almost limp as she put him in the basket, and she was glad he didn’t protest. Putting on her cloak and bonnet, Leonie went down the stairs. From the back of the inn she could hear Madam Millard screaming and her husband trying to talk and failing.

Stepping outside, she looked desperately down the street. A cab pulled by a large, gray horse was coming down the street, and she shouted, “Please, can you help me?”

The driver, a small man in his late sixties with bright blue eyes, pulled the horse up at once. Snatching his hat off, he said, “Why, of course I can, miss.” He was bald as an egg, but he had almost as much facial growth as he would have had on his head. His mustache was fierce, and he tugged at it proudly, saying, “Where can I take you?”

“Please, could you get my chest? It’s upstairs in the inn there.”

“You just show me, Miss.”

Five minutes later, after the cab driver had gone upstairs and brought the case down and placed it in the back of his vehicle, he turned and looked at her. He was birdlike in his motions, and his eyes were avian, too, sharp and moving quickly. “Where can I take you?”

At that moment Leonie realized she had absolutely no idea where she might go. “I don’t know,” she said.

“You don’t know? That’s strange. I’ve got to take you someplace.”

“I’ve got to find a place to stay, and I’ve got to find a job.”

“Well, that’s two pretty tall orders. Which shall we do first?”

Leonie was weak. The scene had unnerved her, and the cab driver saw her distress. “Look, you get in,” he said, “and we’ll just get away from here. Then we’ll talk about it, all right?”

“Yes. Let’s do that.”

The cab driver helped her in and asked, “What’s in the basket?”

“My cat.”

“Oh, I like cats myself. By the way, my name’s Jean Larue.”

“I’m glad to know you, Mr. Larue. My name is Leonie.”

Larue jumped into the seat with a sprightly motion and said, “Get up, Caesar,” and the horse began ambling down the street. He drove for a block before he said, “What kind of job would you be lookin’ for now?”

“I was a serving woman at the inn.”

Larue turned back to stare at her. “A serving woman, is it? Well, that was pretty rough. The White Horse Inn ain’t no place for young ladies, I’d say.”

“It was terrible.”

“What about your family?”

“I—I don’t have any family, Mr. Larue.”

“Oh, I’m old enough to be your grandfather. You can call me Jean. Everybody does. No family at all?”

“No. None at all.”

“What about friends then?”

Suddenly the words came pouring out of Leonie. She found herself telling Jean all about her life, how she had never done anything but live at the convent and how cruel her life had been at the White Horse Inn. “I just couldn’t stand it anymore, Jean.”

“I should think not. Well,” he said, “the good Lord has a place for you. He feeds the sparrows, don’t He? And we’re worth more than sparrows. That’s what the Good Book said.”

“The Good Book? Which Book is that?”

“Why, the Bible, Miss!”

“Oh yes, it does say that!”

“Well, you believe the Bible, don’t you?”

“Yes, indeed!”

“I’d think so.” Jean Larue nodded vigorously. “Now, why don’t we just ask the Lord to open up a door for you?”

Leonie stared at the small man, not understanding his meaning. “You mean—pray right now?”

“You got a need right now, don’t you?”

“Well, yes, but . . .” All of Leonie’s praying had been one of two kinds: either a formal prayer she memorized and spoke by rote in public or the prayers in which she bared her heart to the Lord, which she always said in the privacy of her room. The idea of praying for a specific thing in the presence of another person was uncomfortable to her. “I don’t know how to pray like that.”

“Don’t know how? Let me teach you.” Larue looked up into heaven as if he expected to see the Lord leaning over one of the black iron balconies that lined the houses. “Lord,” he said, “this young woman has a need. She needs a job and a place to stay. Now, Lord, You know that I don’t know anything about either one of those, but You know all about both of them. So I’m asking You right now to do what You promise. Give this young woman a place to work and a place to stay, and I’m asking it in the name of Jesus because, Lord, I know You can’t refuse a prayer in that name. Amen.”

Jean turned to her and broke into a smile. “There. That’s done now.”

Leonie was a bit dazed. It was so foreign to her experience that she could not speak for a moment. Finally she said, “Thank you, Jean.”

“Now I know what you’re thinkin’.”

“How could you know that?”

Larue tapped his head and grinned at her broadly. “I’m not a mind reader, but it’s what we all think when we’ve asked God for something. As soon as we ask it, the devil comes and says, ‘Well, you don’t think you’ll get it, do you?’”

Leonie had to smile, for that had been her exact thought. “I believe you are a mind reader,” she said.

“No, not a bit of it, but you just begin to tell me now a little bit more about yourself.”

Leonie was at a loss but feeling desperate. She spoke briefly about the kind of work she had done, then said, “Really, aside from that the only thing I can do well is sew.”

“Ah, you’re a seamstress, are you?”

“Yes, I’m a very good seamstress.”

“Well then. We’ll go knocking on the door of every seamstress in New Orleans until we find the one God wants you to work for. There’s one right down the street here. I know nothing about it, but God knows all about her and all about you. We’ll try there first.”

Leonie had absolutely no confidence in asking for a job as a seamstress. It was true she was very skillful, but her experience at the inn had left her fearful and shaken. She thought about the tapestry that was packed in her chest and thought it might be good to take it inside any place she asked for work. Hope began to grow in her. Jean pulled up in front of a small building with the sign “Madam Belleau, Seamstress.”

Leonie said, “I’ve never done this before.”

“Well, you’re about to go your first time, then. Shall I go with you now?”

“No. I’ll go alone.” She got out of the carriage, and with Jean’s help, she opened the chest and pulled out the tapestry. It was not finished, but at least it showed the kind of work she could do. She walked inside the shop and was met by a short, fat woman who smiled at her, asking, “Can I help you?”

“Please, I need work. I’m a good seamstress.”

“Well, I’m sorry, Miss. I just don’t need anybody. This shop just about produces enough work for me.”

“I’m sorry to bother you.”

Leonie turned to go, but before she got to the door, the woman said, “Wait a minute! Not so fast.” When Leonie turned, she saw the woman was thinking.

“I know of another seamstress. She might need help.”

“Oh, please, could you give me her address?”

“It’s three blocks down the street to your right. It’s on the second floor. You’ll see the sign.”

“Three blocks to the right. Thank you so much.”

Leonie ran outside with a light in her eyes. “She didn’t need anybody, but she said there’s another seamstress that may need help.”

“Did she now? Well, let’s be going to it.”

“It’s three blocks down the street and to the right.”

Leonie climbed up into the seat, holding the tapestry to her breast. Excitement flickered faintly in her, and she said nothing as they made their way along.

“Now then. Maybe this is just the place the good Lord wants you to stay, and He used that other woman. Ain’t it marvelous the way the good Lord arranges circumstances?”

“I suppose it is.”

“There’s no supposin’ to it,” Jean said, nodding vigorously. He drew the horse around the corner and at once pointed with his whip, which he never bothered to use. “There it is right there: ‘Madam Honore, Seamstress.’ You hop right in there, and I’ll stay out here and pray that you’ll get just what you ask for—the desires of your heart—a place to work and a place to stay. This could be the place to work anyway.”

“Thank you, Jean. I’ll be right back.” Jumping to the ground lightly, Leonie stepped quickly up the stairs. When she left the landing on the second floor, she saw that the entire floor, apparently, was made up into a dress shop. Models hung on frameworks, and the smell of cloth was strong in the air. She saw no one, so she called out, “Madam Honore?”

A door opened to her right at the back, and a woman emerged. “Yes, I am Madam Honore. Can I help you?”

“Madam Honore, I stopped down the street and was told that you might be able to use help.”

Madam Honore stepped forward. She was a small woman, almost petite, with silver hair and lines in her face. There were traces of earlier beauty there, however, and her eyes were kind. “It is true I do need some help, but I was hoping for an older, more experienced person.”

“Please, would you give me a chance? I’ll work very cheaply. Look. Here is a sample of what I can do.”

Madam Honore took the tapestry. She moved over to the light that came flooding through the window and ran her fingers over the material. “Why, this is fine work, child! But you understand we do dresses, not tapestries.”

“I have been at the Ursuline Convent all my life, Madam. I have made dresses for myself and for my fellow students for many years now. I had a very fine teacher. Sister Abigail was a seamstress herself in Paris before she came to this country as a nun.”

“Well, this is a beautiful piece of work. It’s not finished, I see.”

“No, ma’am, not yet.”

Desperately Leonie held her breath as the older woman fingered the seams. “These are very fine stitches indeed. Do you have any of your other work?”

“Just this dress, which I made myself.”

“Let me see.” Madam Honore studied the dress and even took a seam between her fingers and felt it. “Very nice. You must understand, I cannot pay much.”

“Oh, that doesn’t matter. I do need work badly.”

“I have a room you could have. It’s small, but it would be handy to the work here. If you can cook, perhaps you can even help me with the cooking and the housecleaning.” She held up her hands and said, “My hands are very stiff, you see. It’s difficult. You would be doing most of the fine work under my direction.”

“Oh, that would be wonderful!”

“When could you begin?”

“Today—right now, Madam.”

Madam Honore smiled. “Well, you are eager enough. Let us see if you can keep up.”

“I must go down and get my chest. Where is the room?”

“Come. I will show you.”

Madam Honore led Leonie through the shop. At the rear was a door, and when she opened it and stepped back, Leonie went inside. She took one look around and sighed with delight. “Why, it’s a beautiful room!”

“It was my daughter’s room before she left New Orleans. She took great pride in fixing it up.”

It was indeed a beautiful room. The room was very large, almost twelve-by-twelve-feet square. The walls were painted a light pink with a white ceiling and two floor-length windows covered in sheer white curtains. The furniture was large and well built, with a lustrous dark shine showing the pure beauty of the mahogany. The bed had a pink, blue, and green coverlet on it with overstuffed pillows, and on the floor was an enormous gray and blue area rug.

“Well, if the room is satisfactory, we will work out something with the wages. Go get your things. Oh, what is your name?”

“Leonie Dousett.”

“Well, Leonie, go get your things.”

Leonie practically flew downstairs, and her face was alight. Before she could say a word, Jean Larue laughed and said, “You don’t have to tell me. God’s dropped a gift in your lap, ain’t He?”

“Oh, it’s so wonderful, Jean! A very fine lady, so kind, and I’m to live in a beautiful room, and she needs me almost as much as I need her. Her hands are stiff with rheumatism.”

“Well, ain’t that a wonder now! God had His eye on an older lady who needed a young woman and on a young woman who needed work and a place to stay. Praise God. He puts it all together as He always does! Shall I carry your chest up?”

“If you will, please.”

Jean shouldered the chest, and Leonie picked up Louis’s basket and led the way. Jean carried the chest into her room, put it down, and smiled. “Now, it’s a lovely place.”

“Oh, I forgot to ask Madam if I could have a cat. I’ve got to keep Louis.”

“Well, if she won’t, I’ll take him myself.”

“No. He’s my best friend. I have to have him.” Worry furrows spread across Leonie’s smooth brow. She went at once outside the room and found Madam Honore waiting. “I forgot to tell you I have a cat. I hope you don’t mind. He’s really very quiet and no trouble at all.”

“Well, let me see the fellow.”

She led the older woman back to the bedroom and undid the top of the basket. Louis hopped out in all his glory, his golden eyes gleaming. Madam Honore went closer, put her hand out, and he butted against it with his head in the manner he had with those he liked. “What a handsome chap you are! You and I will get along fine.”

“This is Jean Larue. He’s been a great help to me, Madam.”

“I’m very happy to meet you, Jean.”

“You take good care of this young woman now. I’ve taught her how to pray, so she ought to be all right.”

“How to pray?” Madam Honore raised her eyebrows. “Are you a preacher then?”

“No. Nothing like that. Just a child of the King.”

“Here. Let me pay you, Jean,” Leonie said, opening her purse.

“I wouldn’t take a penny, Miss. It was all the Lord’s doing and glorious in our sight. Just a little service for the Lord Jesus. I pass here pretty often. You give me a wave from the window once in a while and shout ‘Hallelujah!’”

“I may do that, Jean. Thank you so much. I wish you’d let me pay you.”

“No.” Larue shook his head. “A pleasure to be of service to a lovely lady and to the lovely God of heaven and earth.”

Leonie had worked all day on a dress that had to be ready for a wealthy customer. She finished it by five o’clock, and when the lady came by, she was pleased. “This is good, fine work, Madam Honore.”

“My new assistant finished it up. She does very skillful work, don’t you think?”

“Why, yes.” The woman smiled. “I’m glad you found someone. Here, I’ll put a little bonus in here for such a fine job.”

“Thank you, Madam.”

After the customer left, Madam Honore said, “Come. While you were working I fixed us a good dinner. I hope you like Creole food.”

“Oh yes, I like it very much. We had a cook at the convent who was a Creole lady. Her meals were always the favorite.”

“Well, come along. It’s hot, and I’m hungry.” Madam Honore led Leonie back to her apartment, which was as neat as the woman herself.

“Your apartment is beautiful.”

“Thank you. Here, you sit down, and I’ll do the serving this time.”

The meal was delicious. It included lamb-okra gumbo and a delicious asparagus salad, and the main dish was beef bordelaise. There were delicious, tiny rolls that melted in Leonie’s mouth, and for dessert, fresh apple trifle. After the two women had eaten, Leonie could only say, “You’re a wonderful cook!”

“If you’d like to learn how to cook Creole, it would be my pleasure to teach you.”

Leonie accepted the offer with pleasure. Then she began to speak of the cab driver who had brought her there. “Just think: if any other man had come along, he wouldn’t have been as willing to help me. You know,” she said, her eyes wide, “I think Jean Larue may be an angel.”

“That’s possible.”

“Do you believe in angels, Madam?”

“Oh, I think angels are all about us. We need to keep our eyes open for them.”

“Well, he doesn’t look much like an angel, but I think God sent him. I wouldn’t have found you, Madam Honore, if it hadn’t been for him.”

“Then we’ll fix him a very special treat. Something good to eat. The next time we see him going down the street, we’ll call him in.”

Madam Honore noticed that exhaustion was filling Leonie’s face. “You go to bed, my dear. I’ll clean up.”

“Oh, let me help.”

“Not tonight. Tomorrow you can do it all. Cook the supper and wash the dishes and wait on me. We two are going to suit each other very well.”

“I—I thank the Lord for you, Madam. I’m going to work very hard to please you.”

“I’m sure you will.”

Leonie barely managed to wash her face and hands, get into her nightgown, and climb into bed before drowsiness stole over her. Louis crawled up on her chest and sat down. When she closed her eyes, he reached out and touched her eyelid gently with a soft pad. It was something he usually did in the morning as if saying, “Open your eyes. Let’s see if you’re in there.”

“You can’t sleep there, Louis. You’re too heavy.” She rolled over, and Louis snuggled in beside her. She wanted to say a prayer but had said only a few words when suddenly sleep seized her, and she knew no more.

Chapter five

September had come, and as Leonie sat sewing the collar on a dress, she thought of the two months she had spent with Madam Honore. It gave her intense satisfaction to think how well the two had suited each other. The older woman had been kinder than any employer she might have dreamed of, and Leonie had thrown herself into the work with all of her strength.

She listened as the traffic passed on the street below and once went over to the window, hoping to see Jean Larue. They had become good friends. Madam had insisted that they have him for supper and fixed baked Creole red snapper fresh off the dock. The old man apparently had no family in New Orleans, and now a week scarcely went by but that he came to bring them some food he had picked up from the market, and they always had a special treat for him.

She had seen the Millards in the marketplace twice, and both times Madam had glared at her as if she were a criminal, and her husband had acted as if he was afraid to see her.

She had been back to the convent twice, carrying glowing reports of her new place, and the mother superior had been very happy for her. The convent had given her a strange feeling. Although she had been there all of her life, already her life among the sisters seemed to be something that had taken place many years ago instead of only a couple of months.

Leonie went to Mass every Sunday. She got up early every weekday and more often than not made breakfast for herself and Madam. She had worked steadily, her skills improving under Madam Honore’s teaching. The customers had been more than satisfied with her work. Madam said once with a smile, “They like your work better than mine. They will begin to ask for you instead of me!”

Leonie had gotten to know the shop owners on the street. She did most of the shopping for Madam, and it had given her great pride to think she had learned how to buy wisely. She mused over all the changes in her life in such a short period of time.

Madam Honore interrupted her thoughts. “Mrs. Wilson will be in for her dress tomorrow. How’s it coming, Leonie?”

“Oh, it will be finished in plenty of time. This is such beautiful material. I’ve been afraid I’d spoil it.”

“You wouldn’t do that.” Madam Honore smiled. She sat down across from Leonie and humor sparkled in her eyes. “You’ve made a conquest.”

“A conquest? What do you mean?”

“Monsieur Guignard has asked permission to call on you.”

Leonie stared at her employer. “You mean the butcher?”

“Yes indeed.”

“But—he’s an old man.”

“Why no. He’s only forty. That may seem old to you, but it seems young to me.” Madam Honore studied the young woman carefully. She had become quite fond of her in the weeks that she had been there, and she asked, “What shall I tell him?”

“Why, tell him no. I don’t want him calling on me.”

Madam Honore smiled. “You better think it over. He’s quite prosperous. His butcher shop is a moneymaking business, I understand. And he likes you.”

“I’d rather not.”

“I think you should at least allow him to call.”

“Is that what young women do? I have no experience.”

“It can do no harm. He’s actually a very respectable gentleman. He holds to the old ways, and of course, I do too.”

“Well, if you think it’s best, I suppose it’ll be all right.”

Aubrey Guignard was a very respectable man indeed. His suit was respectable; his words were respectable. Even his shoes were respectable. Everything about him was respectable, including the attention he paid to the two women.

“The supper was very fine,” he said. “I recognize the meat.”

“Yes, you should,” Leonie said. “We bought it from you just this morning.”

Aubrey Guignard was enthusiastic about one subject, and that was meat. He launched into a long discussion of meat that lasted almost until time for him to leave. Finally, when he did rise to leave, the two women rose with him. “It was so nice of you to have me in your home, Madam Honore, and you, Mademoiselle.”

“It was a pleasure, Monsieur. We must do it again some time,” Madam answered.

“Yes. We certainly shall.” Monsieur Guignard put his respectable hat on, turned, and left.

As soon as the door closed, Madam began to laugh. “Well, did you fall madly in love with him?”

“No! I certainly did not!”

“I am not surprised. He’s the most boring human being I ever heard. All he knows about is meat. I will admit he is a fine butcher.”

“I wish him well, but I hope that we don’t have to have him in again.”

“Well, we need to be careful.”

“Careful about what?”

“About how we treat him.”

“I don’t understand you.”

Humor danced in Madam Honore’s eyes. “As long as he thinks you consider him a possible husband, he’ll give us good buys on meat.”

“Madam, you don’t mean that!”

“No, I don’t. That wouldn’t be fair.”

“You must tell him I’m not the woman he needs.”

“You don’t have to worry about the butcher anymore.”

As the two women were cleaning up, Madam said, “Leonie, you’ve done so well. We’re almost out of work.”

Leonie agreed, “We are, aren’t we? But I think I may help with that.”

“What do you mean, Leonie?”

“I have three very good friends. They come from wealthy families. Why don’t I take a day off and go visit them? They are always buying fine, expensive clothing.”

“I think that would be excellent. What are friends for, if not to make us prosperous?”

Leonie laughed. “You don’t believe that.”

“No, I don’t, but if you could get some business, it would be good.”

“I’ll go tomorrow,” she said.

Damita stepped into the parlor, her eyes alight. “Why, Leonie, how wonderful to see you!”

“It’s good to see you, too, Damita.”

“I’ve just gotten back from a long trip.”

Leonie listened as Damita spoke of her travels, and finally Damita asked, “Well, what have you been doing, Leonie? You left the convent, I suppose?”

“Yes. I’m working as a dressmaker now.”

“A dressmaker. Well, you always made beautiful things for all of us. Do you like it?”

“Very much, but I’m afraid I’ve become a beggar.”

“A beggar? What do you mean?”

“I’ve come to ask you if you would consider letting me do some work for you.”

Damita’s eyes flew open. “Certainly! Why not? And we must go to Simone and Chantel.”

“Oh, I’ve already been to see them. They’re both coming for fittings.”

Damita smiled. “What time shall I come?”

“You set the time, Damita. You’re the customer.” The two chatted for a moment about meeting times. Leonie then left the house and returned to Madam Honore’s shop. When she entered, she was bubbling over. “We have three new customers, all rich!”

“Wonderful! I love rich customers. Now, sit down and tell me about them.”

Leonie was excited, and Madam Honore listened. Finally she said, “Are you ever jealous of these young women?”

“Why would I be?”

“Why, because they’re rich. They don’t have to work. They can buy whatever they want, and you have to work for a living.”

Leonie stared at the older woman. “No. I never thought of such a thing.”

Madam Honore’s eyes grew soft. “You’re a wonder, Leonie Dousett. Most girls would be eaten up with envy.”

“God has been good to me, Madam. I am content.”

“That is good. I hope you always will be.”

Chapter six

“Reverend Mother, there’s a gentleman to see you.”

The mother superior looked up from her desk, which was covered with documents. A frown crossed her forehead. “I’m not expecting anyone.”

Sister Agnes shook her head. “I didn’t think you were, and I don’t believe you want to see him.”

“Why not, Sister?”

“He’s not respectable.”

Humor glinted in the mother superior’s eyes. “Jesus wasn’t considered respectable in His day.” She loved to tease Sister Agnes, but she saw that she had gone too far. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to put it like that. What is he, a tradesman?”

Sister Agnes’s mouth tightened. “I don’t know what he is. He’s almost like a beggar, his dress, anyway, and he has a—well, a rather rough look about him. He looks like a criminal.”

“Well, criminals come under the gospel decree, I suppose. Did he say what he wanted?”

“Only that he had to talk to you, and it was private.” Sister Agnes sniffed with disdain. “Be best to send him on his way.”

For a moment the mother superior drummed her fingers on the desktop, then shook her head. “I’m afraid to do that.”

“Why?”

“A few times in my life I missed opportunities to serve our Lord with people. I wouldn’t want to miss another one. Just think, Sister, what if Jesus didn’t stop at the well to talk to the Samaritan woman? Her life wouldn’t have been changed, and you remember the story in the Bible. It says that the whole village pretty well came to know Jesus because of her testimony. No, I don’t think I’ll take the chance. Send him in. I’ll get rid of him if necessary.”

“As you say then.” Sister Agnes was miffed as she turned and walked outside the door.

When the man entered, without meaning to, Reverend Mother thought, Sister Agnes was right. He does look like a criminal.

“My name is Blaise Mignon.”

“Won’t you sit down, Monsieur Mignon?”

“Thank you.” Mignon took his seat. He was a small man, his face was lined and burned with the sun, and his hands, Reverend Mother noted, were callused and twisted. He had dark eyes almost hidden by heavy lids, and there was a sinister air about the man.

“What can I do for you, Monsieur?”

“I want to inquire about a young woman who, I understand, was one of your pupils here.”

“Which young woman would that be?”

“Her name is Leonie Dousett.”

A slight alarm went off in the mother superior’s head. She had spent a great deal of time years before trying to find something of Leonie’s history, all to no avail. Though two years had passed since the young lady had left the convent, she still kept in close contact with her. The woman’s protective instinct arose. “Why are you interested, may I ask?”

Mignon hesitated. “I understand you can’t give information about your pupils to anyone who walks in here.” He grinned. “Especially to a rough-looking fellow like me.”

“It’s our policy to be very cautious about giving out information.”

“Very commendable, Reverend Mother, but you may rest assured I mean the girl no harm.”

“I’m afraid I’ll have to have a little more assurance than that, Monsieur.”

“Of course. I understand completely.” Mignon leaned forward. His eyes were almost hooded, yet there was a glitter in them of intelligence and even audacity. “I was not always as you see me now. Many years ago I was a man rising in my profession—the law, if you can believe it—but misfortune overtook me.” He hesitated for a moment, then said, “I have been in prison. You probably guessed that.”

“I’m sorry to hear it, sir.”

“So am I,” Mignon said almost solemnly. Then he managed a grin. “Like all the others, I was totally innocent.”

The mother superior didn’t respond.

Mignon said, “I cannot give you the name of the family I worked for, but I think you would know it if I did.” He leaned forward and clasped his hands together. “I have reason to believe that the young woman that you know as Leonie Dousett is the daughter of a very wealthy, indeed, a noble family.”

“You astonish me, sir!”

“I would give you more details, but let me ask you, Reverend Mother, were there any clues to the infant’s identity when she came to this place?”

“Sir, there was very little. I found the child myself.”

“You did? Where?”

The mother superior decided there could be no danger in revealing the details of Leonie’s arrival. “It was very early in the morning, when I left to go to the village. A basket was on the doorstep and an infant was in it.”

“And the basket, was there anything in it that would lead to the child’s identity?”

“Only a locket and a book.”

“No names? No letter explaining the infant’s arrival?”

“Nothing like that.”

“No doubt. Well, what about the locket?”

“It had a man’s picture in it. It was an expensive locket.”

“Could I see it?”

“I do not have it, sir. I gave it to Leonie on her twelfth birthday. It was all she had of her family.”

“The picture inside—had you ever seen the individual?”

“It was perhaps the child’s father—but who could say?”

“I must see this young woman, Reverend Mother. If I am right, and she is who I think she is, she will be very fortunate indeed. She would be an heiress to a very large fortune.”

“Of which you would expect a liberal reward, Monsieur?”

Blaise Mignon laughed. “You are right indeed. But I will do all things aboveboard. The crime for which I was sent to Devil’s Island was not theft but violence. I killed the wrong man in a duel. He was very prominent. But I will not rob the girl. You yourself will know all the details as soon as I discover them myself.”

The mother superior said, “Let me see your face. Look me in the eye.”

Mignon lifted his head, his eyes open wide. He did not speak, and for a long moment the two were totally silent. “There’s no art to find the mind’s construction in the face,” Mignon said. “I believe that comes from Macbeth, and he was right. Some of the most angelic-looking men I’ve ever seen were villains at heart. You can tell nothing by my face.”

“I do not agree, but I cannot ignore your request. Monsieur, return tomorrow at this same time.”

“Ah,” Mignon said with a smile. “That means she is in New Orleans or very close. You wish to contact her and tell her about her odd-looking benefactor.”

Ignoring Mignon’s words, the mother superior nodded a dismissal. “You may come back tomorrow at this same hour.”

Mignon rose, bowed, and left without another word. As soon as he was gone, the mother superior got up and began to pace the floor. She was excited but at the same time cautious. What can the man want? It could not be money, at least not from Leonie, because she has none. If he’s telling the truth, I have no right to withhold it from her. She walked to the door, opened it, and called out, “Sister Agnes, have someone take word to Leonie that I wish to see her immediately.”

As soon as Leonie entered the mother superior’s office, she saw that the older woman was nervous. “Is something wrong?”

“I’m not sure. Sit down. I want to talk with you.”

Leonie sat down at once and felt a tension growing. The mother superior was usually a calm woman who showed little strain.

“A man came to see me yesterday, Leonie. His name is Blaise Mignon. Have you ever heard the name?”

“Why, no. Never.”

“I didn’t think so—nor have I. He had a very strange claim.” The mother superior fixed her eyes on the young girl. “He said that he knew something about your background.”

“My background? Is he related to me?”

“Don’t get excited. It may all come to nothing. No, he’s not related to you.”

“Well, who is he then? What does he want? How does he know about me?”

The mother superior slowly explained every detail of Mignon’s visit. She saw that Leonie was pale and paused to warn her. “He spoke of your family as being wealthy and prominent, but why would a wealthy, prominent family abandon a baby?”

“Perhaps—perhaps I was stolen.”

“That sounds like a fairy tale or a romance novel.”

Leonie looked down at the floor for a moment, and her voice was almost inaudible. “I’ve always longed to know who my family was and why they gave me up. I assumed it was because they were poor and couldn’t take care of me.”

“Leonie, I must beg you not to build your hopes on this. The man may be a scoundrel. Indeed, he appears to be one, at least to the eye.”

“That may be, Reverend Mother, but I must talk to him! I would do anything to find out who my parents were and if I had brothers and sisters.”

“I thought you might say that, and in fact, I would say the same thing myself. Very well, Leonie. I will give the man your address, but I must caution you, child: be very careful. You are young and innocent, and this man has a terrible background. I ask you to come and see me as soon as you have talked with him. Perhaps I can give you some counsel.”

“Oh, I will, Reverend Mother. Will you tell him to come as quickly as you can?”

“I assure you, child, he will be knocking on your door almost by the time you get home. He made no secret of the fact that he expects to be well paid if he’s the agent of reuniting you with your family.”

“That would be only fair.”

“Come and see me immediately after you have met the man.”

“I will. I promise.”

As soon as Leonie walked out, the mother superior shook her head and murmured, “I hope I’ve done the right thing. But who is to know about things like this?”

Chapter seven

Leonie’s heart beat more rapidly as the man who called himself Blaise Mignon stood before her. She had been waiting for him, and when he appeared at her door, she escorted him to the parlor that she shared with her employer.

“Madam Honore is working in the shop,” she explained. “Will you have a seat, sir?”

“Thank you, Mademoiselle.” Mignon took his seat and kept his eyes fixed on the young woman. “It was kind of you to agree to see me. I know Reverend Mother warned you that I was not particularly presentable.”

Leonie smiled. “I am not particularly interested in fashionable clothes. What I am interested in is what you told Reverend Mother— that you may know something about my parents.”

“Perhaps you need to know something about me first. I know my appearance is against me. I was at Devil’s Island for many years. I was only relieved a year ago.”

“I’ve heard about that place. It must be terrible.”

“It is indeed, Mademoiselle, and as I told the mother superior, I was not sent there because I stole but because I killed a man. Oh, it was in a duel, in a fair fight, and he was a very wealthy, prominent man—a nobleman, as a matter of fact—and I was only a lawyer.”

“What was the duel about?”

“Foolishness, as they always are. I wasted my life because of a moment’s anger.”

Mignon’s face changed, and she saw a sadness there. He was shabby, and she could tell that he had been drinking, but there was a hope in her as she looked at the man. “Would you please tell me why you think I am related to a noble family?”

“I served a family called Augustine. Sir Ancel Augustine was my employer. He’s dead now, I’m sorry to say.”

The three canaries that Madam Honore kept were singing, and the sun was streaming in through the windows. The cheerfulness of the scene contrasted with the tension in Leonie. She waited patiently for Mignon to continue.

He began to speak again. “Sir Ancel and his wife, Maria, had a son named Ives. They were very proud of him. He was the male heir, and he was the only child, and they had great expectations, of course. But as such things sometimes happen, Ives Augustine fell in love with a woman who was unacceptable to the family.” He paused to look at Leonie and said, “Her name was Lila Moran.”

The sound of people passing on the street below came faintly into the drawing room, but Leonie shut them out. “I have never heard the name.”

“Likely not. She was a beautiful woman. I met her only once. It was a rather painful scene. Sir Ancel met with his son, Ives, who had brought Miss Moran in to meet his parents. They wanted to be married, but Sir Ancel wouldn’t hear of it. Sir Ancel was a hard man. He told his son that if he married the woman, he would be cut off forever and not even allowed to come back to the house.”

“What did his wife say?”

“A good question. She tried to take the woman’s part, but Sir Ancel was a headstrong man. He always was, so he had his way about it.”

“Did they get married?”

“They did. I heard about it indirectly.”

“How did you find me, Monsieur?

“A trick of fate, I think. I was walking down the street and saw a painting in the window of a run-down shop. I recognized it as the woman that Ives fell in love with. Naturally I went into the shop and inquired about the painting.” He shook his head, adding, “The owner told me that his father had bought the painting years ago.”

“Did he say who sold it to his father?”

“Better than that, Miss Dousett: he found the slip that gave the name and the date of the sale. The woman who sold the painting was named Zuri Vidette.”

“What a strange name. I don’t recognize the origin of it.”

“She’s a gypsy. She owned a boardinghouse years ago, but she’s fallen on hard times. I found her in a workhouse. I think you should go with me and listen to her story.”

“Yes, Monsieur, let us go at once!”

As Mignon led Leonie up the steps, he warned her, “She’s a gypsy, as I told you. Looks like one, too, and rather a foul old woman, so you’ll have to be prepared.”

The two entered the house and were greeted at once by a slatternly woman who appeared not to have bathed for years. “We’d like to see Zuri Vidette, Madam.”

“What for?”

“I think I’ll keep that to myself, if you don’t mind. Where is she?”

“Out in the back.”

“Thank you for your kindness.”

Mignon led the way through the house, which had terrible odors and seemed to be held up mostly by dirt. “Do your best to bear it, my dear,” he said. They went out onto a wide porch that circled the house, and Mignon murmured, “There she is over there.” He led the way over to where a tiny figure was seated in a chair. She had snow-white hair, and when she turned to face them, her dark eyes were alive though the rest of her was shriveled up, and her voice was a shrill cackle. “Well, the lawyer man is back.”

“Yes, Zuri, I am, and I brought a guest. This is Miss Dousett.”

Zuri Vidette locked her dark eyes on Leonie but spoke to the lawyer. “What do you want now?”

“I want you to tell this young woman the story you told me.”

“You’ll have to pay again.”

“I’ll pay. Don’t worry.”

“The same amount?”

“Yes. The same amount. Now, you tell Miss Dousett your story.”

The old woman turned to face Leonie. “Be careful of this one. He’s got the devil in him.”

“I’d like to hear the story, Miss Vidette.”

“Ah, she’s got manners, this one! Not like some I could mention.” Zuri gave a malevolent glance at the lawyer. “Like I told the lawyer here, a young woman came to me for a room. She was expecting very soon, and she had almost no money. She had a little jewelry and a painting. She stayed with me until the child was born. She pawned everything, including the painting.”

Leonie leaned forward. “Did she ever tell you anything about herself?”

“Not much, but I knew a lot. She talked about her husband. Not by name, of course, not to me. And I found out.”

“What did you find out?” Leonie demanded.

“I found out his family didn’t want him to marry her. She wrote letters to someone. I posted them.”

“Letters to whom?”

“I don’t know. I can’t read.”

“What was the woman like?”

“Well, she was a good one, I’ll have to say. Of course it’s been a long time. You could tell she had seen better days. She was sick when she came to me, and she didn’t get no better.”

Leonie took in every word as Zuri rambled. She got off the subject often, but then Mignon drew her back to speak of the young woman.

“And finally the baby came. Born right in her room, it was. She had a hard time, and she was dying.” The old woman’s eyes glittered like a bird’s. “She made me promise to take her baby to the holy sisters. I took her out to the convent early the next morning and left her there.”

Mignon stood to one side listening as Leonie asked many questions about the young woman who had died and left her baby in Zuri’s care. Finally the old woman grew sullen. “Give me my money. That’s all I’m saying for now.”

Mignon reached into his pocket, pulled out several coins, and handed them to her. “We’d best be going, Miss Dousett.” After saying good-bye to the old woman, Mignon gently guided Leonie out of the house. “I have something to show you, but it’s in my lodgings. I can bring it by tomorrow or later today even.”

“Couldn’t we go by now?”

“I don’t live in the most respectable part of town, but we can go if you’d like. You’ll be safe enough.”

“Yes. I’d like to go now.”

Leonie got into the carriage that had waited for them, and all the way to Mignon’s quarters she was thinking about the old woman and the strange story that she had told.

“Are you convinced?” Mignon quickly asked, breaking into her thoughts.

“There’s not enough evidence.”

“Not yet.”

They spoke no more until they got to his quarters. She got out of the carriage, and Mignon told the driver to wait. He led her inside and asked her to sit down in the drawing room that all of the boarders used. No one was there at that time, and he left her for a moment. When he came back, he was carrying what she had expected, a painting. Without comment he handed it to her.

Taking the picture, Leonie examined it. It was a portrait of a woman. Leonie stared at the features. “She’s very beautiful. She couldn’t be my mother.” Leonie could not take her eyes off the picture. “She seems so—so gentle.”

“She was. I liked her very much.”

Leonie pulled out a locket out from where it hung next to her flesh. She removed it and unsnapped it and handed it to Mignon without comment. He looked at it and said, “This is Ives Augustine, your father. I see the resemblance.”

“There was also this. I brought it to show you.” She pulled out a small book and handed it to him. He looked at the title: The Imitation of Christ.

“It was in the basket with you when you were found?”

“Yes.”

He opened up the book and stared at the writing that filled the white spaces around the print. He fluttered through the pages. “All we have to do is match this handwriting with a sample of your father’s.”

The words “your father” sent a sudden thrill through Leonie. “You really think it is my father’s book?”

“I think there’s no doubt of it, my dear.” He gave her the book back and said, “I have learned that your father died at very nearly the same time as your mother did. They both were very ill. And now, your grandfather is dead, but your grandmother, Maria Augustine, is alive. She would have to receive you as part of the family. You would, in fact, be an heiress, for you are the only child of Ives Augustine.”

“There were no other children?”

“No. There are two cousins, a man and a woman, children of Ancel’s dead brother.”

“What do we do now, sir?”

“I think it’s time for us to present you to your family.”

Suddenly Leonie looked at the man and asked, “Why are you doing this?”

“For two reasons,” Mignon said. “When I was arrested, your father did his best to help me. He did everything in his power, but it was hopeless. But he tried, and I always admired and liked him.”

“And the other reason?”

“We’ve already talked about that. If we come into a fortune, I would expect to be rewarded for my efforts.”

“Are you a scoundrel, Blaise Mignon?”

“I am a half-scoundrel, but then all of us are.”

“I think you’re right.”

“Good,” Blaise said. “Now I will need to disguise myself as a respectable man. Your grandmother, of course, will remember me, but I need to be a bit more presentable. Do you have enough money for a new suit to clothe a respectable man?”

“I will make it myself.”

Blaise Mignon laughed and reached out and put his hands on her shoulder. “The Augustines,” he said, his eyes sparkling, “are in for a shock!”

PART TWO

• SEPTEMBER–OCTOBER 1833 •

Blaise

Chapter eight

Leonie paused to look around her room briefly and for a moment was overwhelmed, an emotion that confused her. Ever since she had heard of the possibility of finding her family, she had been thrilled with excitement, but now, for some reason, fear brushed its fingers across her spirit, and she stood bolt upright and stared blankly at the wall.

What if it’s not true? What if it’s all part of a moneymaking scheme on the part of Monsieur Mignon?

The thought of losing the only hope she had ever had of touching her past loomed large in her mind. Especially now, since Madam Honore had mentioned possibly giving up the shop. Her arthritic hands continued to worsen, and the woman could sew less and less.

But that worry for was another day. Today Leonie must marshal her strength and go face the people who might be her blood relatives. Taking a deep breath, she picked up her purse, petted Louis, and left her room. It will be well! she told herself.

Taking one last look in the small mirror on her wall, she tucked her hair in under her bonnet and left her room. She found Blaise Mignon talking with Madam Honore, and both of them turned quickly to look at her. She saw that Madam Honore was anxious and said quickly, “I don’t think we will be gone for long, Madam.”

“Take all the time you need.”

“I can’t say when we will be back, Madam Honore,” Mignon said, “but rest assured I will take good care of Mademoiselle.”

Madam Honore turned and fixed her steady eyes on the lawyer. “I will expect you to do exactly that.”

“You do not trust me, I see.”

“Not one inch!”

Suddenly Blaise Mignon laughed. “I am accustomed to that. Prisoners in Devil’s Island get little trust, and as I was a lawyer before that part of my life, I was already used to this response from people.”

“Make sure that Mademoiselle Leonie returns safely and soon, or it will be the worse for you.”

“You forget one thing, Madam. She is my meal ticket. If anything happens to her, why, I would make nothing out of this. And we all understand that I am a very mercenary creature.”

Suddenly Madam Honore laughed. “You are a scoundrel, sir, but I think you have touched on it. You would do nothing to endanger your opportunity of making a profit.”

Mignon smiled and bowed slightly. “Exactly right.” Turning to Leonie, he said, “I think we are ready.”

The two left the shop, and Mignon handed Leonie up into the carriage. Leonie was somewhat surprised at the gesture and gave him a small smile. “Thank you, sir.”

“You’re not accustomed to being treated like a fine lady,” Mignon said with a grin, “but I expect you will have to get used to it.” He walked around the carriage, got inside, nodded, and picked up the lines. “I rented this carriage for a day since I wasn’t sure how much time we would need. Besides it’s cheaper, and I’m short of funds.”

Leonie turned as Mignon drove the carriage away from the curb, and she gave him a close look. He was wearing a new suit that she herself had made for him. It was a good job I had done of it, she thought with satisfaction. It was a rich brown color with a matching shirt, and somehow he had found himself a pair of shoes that glistened with polish. “You look almost respectable, Monsieur Mignon.”

Mignon found this amusing. He spoke to the horses as they picked up their pace, and he said, “Almost respectable. That is quite a compliment, coming from you.” He fingered the sleeve of his suit and said, “You are a fine seamstress. Madam Honore showed me the tapestry you have been working on. Do you enjoy such work?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Most women consider sewing a chore.”

“I do not find it so, Monsieur.”

“Why do you not just call me Blaise? I would like it better. Why would you enjoy the work?”

“Making a tapestry is a little like making a life, I think.”

Surprised, he turned to her and lifted one eyebrow quizzically. “And how is that?”

“When I make a tapestry, I put in the very best that I have. I make it a matter of pride to do the most elegant, the most perfect work that I can. Once you have put in a seam, it is there to stay, and I find life is a little like that. If I do the best I can, each deed is a seam that will stay there. If I do good things, then my life will be a good tapestry. If I do shoddy work, my life will be the same.”

“I would hate to see the tapestry that you made of my life. It would be a very ugly thing, I fear.”

“But it is possible to start again with a piece of tapestry. Throw the old one away and start again.”

Blaise turned to stare at her. “I believe you are preaching at me. You got that from the sisters at the convent, I assume.”

“They taught me many things. Most of all, they taught me how to trust in the Lord.”

Blaise handled the lines well and did not speak until they were clear of the city. Finally he turned to her and picked up the conversation as if there had been no intermission. “You really believe that, that we can start over?”

“Why, of course.”

“I do not.”

“How can you say that?”

“Because once I committed murder and was sent to Devil’s Island, I could never pick up my career again. No one would ever trust me. I would have been a rich, successful lawyer by now. Obviously, if there is a God, He does not favor me.”

“It was not God who caused you to fight the duel. You made that decision yourself.”

Blaise turned and stared at her, his eyes wide. She was a meek, mild young woman, gentle in spirit, but she had spoken straightforwardly, and he found it difficult to meet her gaze. “My heaven!” he exclaimed. “That’s speaking right out.”

“Are you an atheist, Blaise?”

“I was at one time. When I was in prison, life was so terrible I could not believe in the goodness of God.”

“Bad things happen to good people,” Leonie said simply.

“Yes. The patriach Job in the Bible proves that.”

“You have read that story?”

“Many times. Why, I felt like Job. He lost everything: his family, his money, his position, his health. I thought about him often when I was suffering on Devil’s Island.”

“You must not let your bad experiences poison your life. You are yet a young man. You can do many things.”

“A young man? No one has called me that for a time.” He laughed shortly and shook his head. “I find it hard to believe that God would be interested in a criminal like me.”

“Jesus died to save criminals.”

Once again Blaise was stopped short by the bluntness of her words. “I have thought of Jesus Christ so often. He’s the only thing I could not answer.”

“What do you mean?”

“I could not find a reason why an innocent man should die for sinners like me.”

“That is the great mystery of Jesus, that He could do such a thing to prove He is God, for no man could do that.”

The two rode along in silence, and strangely enough Leonie felt compassion for Blaise Mignon. He had endured much, and she knew that he was not a good man, yet somehow she had hope for him. She knew she would pray for him every day from that point onward.

Finally she asked, “If what we’re trying to do works out, and we get some money, you’ll be able to change your life. What would you do if we got a great deal of money?”

Blaise laughed and shook his head. “Something foolish, no doubt.”

“What,” she asked, “will you do if we don’t get accepted?”

“I will live life one day at a time. That’s how I made it at Devil’s Island.” He turned and said, “What about you, Leonie? Will you be crushed if Madam Augustine and the family reject you?”

“It will be painful.” She looked out over the countryside. September brought the cool air, and the trees were beginning to lose their green. Already tints of golds and red in the hardwood leaves were beginning to show. “It will be very hard for me. All I’ve ever really wanted out of life was to have a family.”

“Well, having a family isn’t everything. Many people are disappointed in their relatives.”

“Do you have a family, Blaise?”

“I had one once. I had a wife, at least, but when I was sent to Devil’s Island, she divorced me.”

“Do you ever think of going back to her?”

“She remarried and has three children. That door is closed to me.”

“Well, another door will open,” she said and smiled.

He studied her face. She had a fair, smooth complexion—rose-colored— and now a summer darkness lay over her skin. He was struck again by the beauty of her eyes. The color was a deep gray that he had never seen in any other human being. It seemed impossible that anyone would have such clear eyes. Her lips were fixed with determination, and he noted that she had a long, composed mouth. The sunlight touched her dark hair, which lay rolled and heavy on her head, and the dove-colored dress she wore seemed to deepen the shade of her hair. “You are an attractive young woman,” he said.

Her face colored. “Why, no, I’m not particularly. I know that because I grew up in the convent with three very attractive women. I was like a sparrow among beautifully colored birds.”

“Well, we shall see. We will be at Belle Fleur soon.”

“Belle Fleur? What is that?”

“It’s the name of the Augustine mansion. You will be impressed with it, I think.” He said no more until finally he pulled off the main road and gestured with his buggy whip. “There is Belle Fleur.”

The mansion was indeed impressive. It was a three-story white house with four columns in front, two on each side of the large front door. It had eight windows across the front on the top floor, six on the second, and six on the first, all flanked by green wooden shutters. The stairs to the first floor were shaped in a half circle and led up to a very impressive porch. The estate grounds had large, old trees everywhere, almost obscuring the view from the road, and the driveway made its way to the front of the house and back again through a circle with gardens of elegantly shaped shrubs and rosebushes on each side and in the center, surrounding a massive water fountain.

“It is a beautiful place,” Leonie said. She was overwhelmed by the magnificence of the house. There were other buildings, but the house seemed to fill her eye.

Blaise stared at the mansion as they approached. “Old memories,” he murmured. “I used to come here often. Just a ways beyond the garden are the bayous. I’m told your father spent many hours there, walking, fishing, thinking. I wonder what would have happened if I had grown up in such a place? I was going to be a great lawyer and then go into politics. Why, I might have been governor. Who knows what I might have been? And I wind up at Devil’s Island. Life takes odd turns, Leonie.”

Blaise pulled the carriage up in front of the house, and a black man came and said, “Take your horses, sir?”

“Yes, if you please.” Blaise stepped down out of the carriage, walked around, and handed Leonie out. He saw her eyes were wide and thought that she seemed intimidated. “Don’t be afraid, Leonie,” he said. “Never be afraid of anything.”

The two went up the steps, and Blaise reached out and grasped the brass knocker. He struck it firmly, and when the door opened, Leonie saw a tall, stern-faced woman. Her eyes were fixed on Blaise Mignon, and Mignon said at once, “Well, do you remember me, Mrs. Danvers?”

“I remember you well enough, sir.” The woman was in her sixties, and her eyes were cold. She had brown hair speckled with gray, and she stood staring at Blaise.

“We need to see Lady Augustine, Mrs. Danvers.”

The woman at first shook her head slightly, but then she changed her mind. “I’ll see if she will receive you. You may come inside, I suppose.”

The two stepped inside, and Mrs. Danvers said, “Wait here.” Her voice was icy, and when she disappeared down the wide hallway, Blaise said, “That’s the housekeeper. She was married to the manager. Poor devil. She led him a horrible life.”

“She obviously was not glad to see you.”

“No. She never cared for me. I think she was suspicious of everyone whose name wasn’t Augustine.”

The two stood until the woman came back and said in a spare tone, “Madam will see you now.”

Leonie’s heart seemed to close for a moment, but then it began to beat faster. She felt a touch and saw that Blaise was offering his arm. She took it, and he smiled and whispered, “Courage. This is your home. These are your people. I know it!”

They followed Mrs. Danvers down the hallway. Without a word, she gestured at the door, then turned and walked away.

“And thank you, Mrs. Danvers,” Blaise smiled. He led Leonie through a pair of tall French doors into a lavish parlor. As soon as they were inside, Leonie’s eyes were drawn at once to the woman who stood at the far end of the parlor. She had risen from a couch and stood facing them.

“I did not expect to see you again, Monsieur.”

“I’m sure you didn’t, Madam, but I felt I had to come.”

“What do you want?”

“May I introduce Mademoiselle Leonie Dousett? Mademoiselle, this is Lady Maria Augustine.”

Leonie curtsied but could not say a word. She felt the woman’s eyes on her, and the thought that she might be her own flesh and blood was overwhelming. Lady Maria Augustine was a tall woman with dark hair mixed with silver. She was in her sixties, Leonie guessed, and she had the most direct gaze that Leonie had ever seen. Her eyes were brown, a rich color, well shaped and widely spaced. Her complexion was pale, and her figure was straight and trim.

“How do you do, Mademoiselle?” she murmured. Then she turned and said, “State your business, Monsieur.”

“I can understand your attitude, Lady Augustine,” Blaise said quickly, “but I have something that you need to hear.”

“State it briefly.”

A silence fell across the room, and Leonie’s eyes went to Blaise. She knew that he was weighing his chances, and she had no idea how he would bring up the subject that they had come to present to Madam Augustine. She saw him take a deep breath. Then he said abruptly, “Does this young lady look familiar?”

“Familiar?” repeated Lady Augustine, and her eyes went back to Leonie. “No, not particularly.”

“She is your granddaughter, Madam.”

Shock washed across Maria Augustine’s face. Leonie could see it. The older woman turned and stared at her, and Leonie could tell that she was shaken and even distressed by the news. She shook her head firmly and said, “What game is this? Another of your lawyer tricks?”

“If you would give us ten minutes, Madam, that’s all I ask.”

For a moment Leonie thought Lady Augustine would order them out of the house. She felt the woman’s gaze seemingly envelop her, and finally she was relieved to hear her say, “You may have your ten minutes but no more.”

Blaise spoke quickly of his release and his finding the portrait that had led him to Leonie. He held out his hand and said, “The locket, please.” When Leonie handed it to him, he in turn stepped forward and said, “You may recognize this.”

Lady Augustine took the locket and stood holding it. She was silent. Then, without lifting her eyes to the two visitors, she opened it. She stared at the picture on the inside for a long time. “Anyone could have found this.”

“You’ll admit that it is your son, Ives.”

“Of course it is. You knew that, Mignon. Well, is this all you have?”

“No. We have this.” Mignon handed over the copy of the book, saying, “This book was found with this young woman when she was left as an infant. I think you will recognize the handwriting.”

Lady Augustine took the book and opened it. She turned the pages over slowly, and Leonie noticed that her face was pale. She looked up and her voice was different. She was shaken by the experience. “Anyone could have found these items.”

“That is true, but if you will examine this young woman, you will see the resemblance she has to Ives. I knew him well. Not as well as you, naturally. He was your son, and you will notice that this young woman has the same dimple in her cheek. She has the same widow’s peak. Her eyes are the same shape. She resembles him greatly.”

“That means nothing.”

“Lady Augustine, I know you think I’m a cad,” Mignon said. “You have had reason to think such, but I have two reasons for being here. One is that when I was arrested and put on trial, your son, Ives, did all he could to help me. I have never forgotten that.”

“He did so against my judgment and against my husband’s.”

“His heart was gentler than yours, Madam.”

Color rushed into Maria’s face. “Yes. You are right about that. He was always a tenderhearted boy and a gentle man.” Suddenly she turned and said, “Tell me about yourself, Miss Dousett.”

Neither of them had been asked to sit, so Leonie began speaking, standing firmly in front of the woman who so filled her eyes. “I know very little to tell you. I was at the Ursuline Convent from the time of my earliest memories. The mother superior herself found me there in a basket with this locket and with this book.”

“The kind reverend mother will bear witness to that, Madam Augustine,” Blaise put in.

“They were very kind to me at the convent, Lady Augustine,” Leonie said quietly. “They gave me an education, and I had many friends there. Naturally I often wondered about my parents, but I had no idea who they might be until Monsieur Mignon appeared and showed me the painting and told me the story. That is all I can tell you.”

“You have no more to say?”

Leonie hesitated. “I know that Monsieur Mignon would like to make money out of this situation, but I hope you will believe me when I say that the only thing I want is to find my people.”

Lady Maria Augustine stared at the young woman for a long time. The only sound in the room was the ticking of the large ormolu clock on the mantel over the fireplace. Finally she said to Mignon, “You said you had two motives for bringing this young woman, the first to pay a debt to my son. What is the other?”

“Why, to be rewarded, of course.”

“At least you are an honest cad. I believe you always were.”

Leonie stood stock-still; she saw that Lady Maria was weighing this situation that had walked in her front door.

Finally the woman said, “You may leave these things with me. I will send for you when I have had time to consider. Where are you staying?”

“At the Black Hawk Inn.”

“You should hear from me in a few days. Now good day, sir.”

“Good day, Lady Augustine. Thank you for your time.”

Leonie curtsied and saw that the woman she hoped was her grandmother staring at her in a fixed fashion. She did not speak, so finally Leonie turned and followed Blaise out of the house. Mrs. Danvers opened the door for them and did not speak a word.

Blaise handed Leonie up into the carriage, gave the black man a coin, got in, and drove off. As they were leaving Belle Fleur, Leonie turned and took one last look at the mansion. Blaise said abruptly, “Well, that was successful. She could have thrown us out at once. Her husband would have.”

“She certainly didn’t like us.”

“She doesn’t like me, but didn’t you see how she devoured you with her eyes?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“She loved her son, Ives, better than she loved anything else. I think she saw some of him in you. I wasn’t lying when I said you resemble him greatly. You do.”

“What do you think will happen?”

Blaise suddenly chuckled deep in his chest. “I think she’ll tell the family, and all perdition will break loose.”

“They wouldn’t want me?”

“If you are who I claim you are, you would be the heiress of Belle Fleur. The rest of the family would be left out in the cold. Now, you know little of human nature, growing up around nuns, but I can tell you, my dear, in this world no one appreciates having a fortune snatched from their fingers. They will not receive you with open arms.”

Chapter nine

Dinner at Belle Fleur was always an ornate affair. On this particular Thursday evening, Maria had insisted on everything being in order. As she entered the dining room, she looked around, remembering the times that she and her husband, Ancel, had chosen the decor for it. She had always liked the dining room and even now felt a sense of pride in the beauty of it.

The large room had a bright white ceiling and dark green wallpaper with golden flocked fleur-de-lis on the upper half of the wall. The lower half was painted a dark red. The large Persian carpet was green with hints of red and gold, and the highly polished wooden floor gleamed out along the outer edges. Two floor-length windows were covered with light, airy curtains that fluttered with the breeze, and the sun’s evening glimmer of red, orange, and yellow found its way into the room, giving it an iridescent look. The table was long and wide and covered with a delicate, handmade lace tablecloth. Along with the buffet and chairs, the table was made of the best mahogany. Fine crystal, china, and silver covered the table and the buffet, where delicious and decadent food was served.

Taking her seat, Maria looked around the table, her glance touching every face. To her right was her brother, Hugh Langley, a trim man in his midforties with auburn hair and brown eyes. He smiled at her, and she had to struggle to return his smile. They all had had such great hopes for Hugh. He had started to gain recognition as a painter when his wife died, yet since that day he had given up.

“Good evening, Maria. You are looking well.”

“Thank you, Hugh.”

Next to Hugh sat Lowell Augustine, the nephew of Maria’s husband. He was a fine-looking young man of twenty-five years. He nodded and spoke to her pleasantly. “Good evening, Aunt.”

“Good evening, Lowell.”

Zara Augustine, Lowell’s sister, sat across from her brother. She was a beautiful young girl with the same wealth of brown hair and brown eyes. Next to her sat Julian Harcourt, a young man with fair hair and blue eyes. He seemed to be in love with Zara. Maria studied Julian for a moment. His father and grandfather had run through his family’s money and had designs on the Augustine estate, Maria believed, and apparently planned to live on the Augustine fortune when he married Zara.

They all waited and bowed their heads, following Lady Maria Augustine’s example. She insisted on grace before a meal and pronounced the simple blessing herself. “Thank You, Lord, for this food and for every blessing. We are grateful to You for all that You have given us, and we thank You in the name of Jesus. Amen.”

A faint echo of amens went around the room and then the meal was brought in.

First came a large pot of delicious crawfish gumbo with hot bread and fresh butter. After this came a small salad of cucumbers and tomatoes with a zesty homemade dressing, followed by the main dish of baked pork with onions, a dish of buttery, spiced green beans, mashed potatoes with fresh garlic, warm applesauce, and for dessert, hot coffee with fresh slices of pecan pie covered in heavy cream.

Maria only half listened to the account Zara was giving of the trip abroad she planned to make. She was excited about it, and Julian laughed at her enthusiasm, saying, “You’ll be bored to tears. Nothing is more boring than a long voyage on the ocean.”

Zara reached over and slapped at her suitor’s arm. “You’re spoiled, Julian!”

“I will admit it, and I would like to be spoiled more.”

Lowell said, “Lady Maria, I’ve been telling you about this mare that is such a great animal.”

“You already have three horses, Lowell. You can’t ride but one at a time, can you?”

Lowell laughed, “Not unless I was an acrobat, but this mare is going to win a lot of races, and she’s going to produce some great foals.”

“I think three horses is enough for any man, and I don’t like that racing crowd anyway.”

The conversation was amiable enough, but Hugh Langley noticed that his sister was very quiet. “Is something wrong, Maria?”

“There may be.”

Silence fell across the table.

“What is it? You’re not ill, are you?” Zara asked at once.

“No, I’m fine. But I had a visitor two days ago whom you all need to hear about.”

“What sort of visitor?” Lowell asked. “He didn’t come to court you, did he, Aunt?”

“No. It was Blaise Mignon.”

“That rascal!” Zara exclaimed. “What did he want?”

“You remember him, do you, Zara?”

“I was just a child, but I remember he was arrested and sent to Devil’s Island.”

“That’s right, he was.”

“What did he want this time, money?” Zara demanded, her eyes indignant. “When did he get out of prison? I thought he was there for life.”

“He was pardoned, I understand,” Maria said. She took a deep breath and looked around the table. “He brought a young woman with him.”

“A young woman? What sort of young woman?” Hugh asked.

“A young woman he says is Ives’s daughter.”

Zara gasped and her hand went to her breast. “Ives’s daughter? Impossible!”

“Why should it be impossible? Ives was married. Why couldn’t he have had a daughter?”

“Why, we would have known about it!” Lowell exclaimed.

“How would we have known?” Hugh said. “He was forbidden ever to come to this house. As far as I know, you and your husband never received any word from him, did you?”

“We may have.”

Once again surprised faces met Maria’s eyes. “You never told us that you heard from him,” Lowell said. “What did he say?”

“I never saw any letters from him,” Maria admitted, “but I think he wrote. Ancel let it slip once that he had heard from Ives, but he never let me see the letter, and there may have been more. It’s very possible,” she said slowly, “that Ives and his wife had a child. We may not have known because Ancel was very unforgiving. You all know that.”

“Why, it’s ridiculous!” Zara said loudly, her cheeks flushed. “Mignon’s nothing but a criminal. How could you take his word for it?”

“There’s a little bit more than his word.”

“He has evidence, Lady Augustine?” Julian Harcourt spoke up. His eyes were fixed on his hostess, and he had a sharp, clear mind. He had studied law, and although he had not completed his work, he still had a lawyer’s mind. “Was there any physical evidence?”

“Yes, there was.”

“But who is this girl? Where has she been? How old is she?” Lowell demanded, leaning forward anxiously.

“She was left as an infant, only a few days old, at the door of the Ursuline Convent. The mother superior herself found her there.”

“And when was this?”

“Nearly twenty years ago. The young woman is nineteen now.”

“But about this evidence,” Julian insisted. “What does it consist of?”

“This.” Maria reached into the small reticule that she had brought and held up the locket. She handed it to her brother, saying, “You’ll recognize it, Hugh.”

Opening it, he said, “Why, this is Ives. No question about it.”

As the locket was passed around, Maria said, “This locket belonged to my mother. I gave it to Ives myself, and I commissioned the picture. There’s no question that it’s genuine.”

“But it could have been stolen. They could have found it,” Zara protested.

“Yes, they could.”

“What other evidence, if any?” Harcourt demanded.

“This book: The Imitation of Christ. I gave you and Ives copies at the same time, brother.”

“Yes, I remember it.” Hugh flipped through the pages and said, “Ives’s handwriting.” He passed the book on and looked at Julian Harcourt. “That’s pretty strong evidence, Julian.”

“That lawyer could have laid hold of these things a dozen different ways!” Zara protested.

“No. The mother superior says they were in the basket that the infant was left with. She’s had them all of her life.”

“But how did Mignon find out about all this? Where did he find the young woman?” Lowell asked.

Maria repeated the story of the painting and said, “There’s one more bit of evidence.”

“What is it, Aunt?” Zara asked quickly.

“The girl looks very much like Ives. There’s a strong resemblance.”

“Coincidence,” Lowell shrugged.

“You’re too young to remember Ives, but you’re not, Hugh. She has his widow’s peak, which we often commented on, and also the same dimple. She looks very much like him.” Her voice seemed to grow unsteady then. “She resembles him a great deal.”

“You’re not believing this crooked lawyer, I hope, Aunt,” Zara said.

“I haven’t decided.”

“I’ll never believe it!” Zara exclaimed.

“Well, you’ll have a chance to judge for yourself.” Maria smiled slightly. “The two of them will be here tomorrow morning. You can ask either of them anything you like.”

Hugh laughed. “Well, I must say this has been the most interesting dinner we’ve ever had.” He picked up the locket again and said softly, “I miss Ives, sister, more than you can know.”

Taking the locket from him, Lady Augustine looked down at the picture. “So do I, Hugh. So do I!”

“Keep your courage up, my dear,” Blaise said taking Leonie’s elbow. He had noticed that she was stiff with anxiety. “It’ll be all right.”

“I’m afraid, Blaise.”

“They’ll give you a hard time, but you’re going to win out. Keep your eye on Lady Maria. Remember Ives was the sun in her heaven. To have even a piece of him back again would be beyond anything she could desire.”

“But the rest of them—they won’t accept me.”

“We’ll see,” Blaise said. He knocked on the door firmly, and while they were waiting, he whispered, “You can bear the hatred of the others if you become mistress of Belle Fleur.”

The door opened, and Mrs. Danvers stood just as she had on their first visit.

“Good morning, Mrs. Danvers. I believe we’re expected.”

Mrs. Danvers reluctantly stepped back. “They’re waiting for you in the large parlor.”

“Thank you.”

As Leonie walked through the foyer, she kept a firm hold on Blaise’s arm. All night long she had tossed and turned. Ever since the invitation had come from Maria Augustine, she had been tense. Actually it had been a summons more than an invitation. Blaise had showed her the brief note: “Come to Belle Fleur in the morning at ten o’clock. Maria Augustine.”

Not exactly the warmest of notes! she thought. Still, Lady Maria had written, and now as Leonie glanced up at the portraits of Augustines, dead and gone, the thought came to her mind, My picture may be on this wall one day, and someone may be looking up and wondering who I was and what I was like even as I wonder about these.

Mrs. Danvers led them toward a large double door. “You may go in,” she said, disapproval in her tone.

“Thank you, Mrs. Danvers,” Blaise said pleasantly. He winked at Leonie, and she managed a smile. Blaise opened the door, and she stepped inside. Blaise followed, and the two stood just inside the doorway. Leonie glanced around the room at the strangers standing and staring at her, and it took all her courage not to show fear.

“You are prompt, sir, and you, Miss Dousett.”

“I imagine you’re not too surprised at that, Lady Augustine,” Blaise said smoothly.

“Not at all.” Lady Maria turned to face Leonie. “You may sit down. Indeed, let us all sit down.”

Numbly Leonie took her seat in the wing chair that Maria Augustine indicated and was glad that Blaise sat down in a chair very close to her.

“Let me introduce you to the family. This is my brother, Hugh Langley. This is my nephew, Lowell Augustine, and his sister, Zara Augustine. And this is Mr. Julian Harcourt.” Taking a deep breath, she said to the others, “And this young lady is Leonie Dousett.”

“Well, after all, that’s what we’re here to decide, isn’t it?” Blaise said quietly. “It’s possible her name is Leonie Augustine.”

Lady Maria gave the man a steely glance and said tersely, “You may tell your tale again, Monsieur.”

“With pleasure, Lady Maria.” He began telling the story of his finding of Leonie, and as he did, Leonie watched the young people in the room. Zara Augustine stared with a stark antagonism that she found difficult to meet. Why, she hates me! Leonie thought. Her eyes went to Lowell Augustine, and although he, too, showed no friendship, his stare was not as bitter. The young man, Julian Harcourt, was studying her clinically. She had no idea who he was. He wasn’t an Augustine, and Lady Maria had not explained his presence.

The one encouraging sign was the man called Hugh Langley, who was Lady Maria’s brother. He was watching her intently, but there was no antagonism in his look. He seemed curious about her, and when she met his eyes, he smiled slightly and nodded as if to say, “Keep a stiff upper lip, my dear.” He was a fine-looking man, although his eyes were red the way drinkers’ eyes get at times. He was careless in his dress, and although his clothes were expensive, they were rumpled and not at all in keeping with what she expected of an aristocrat.

When Mignon finished, he said, “Now you may ask anything you wish.”

Zara said, “I don’t believe a word of this.”

“And why not, Mademoiselle Augustine?” Blaise asked calmly.

“It’s obviously a twisted attempt at getting money.”

“It’s always possible, when a great deal of money is involved, that someone will come up with a way to get some of it.”

Zara’s face flamed, and she said, “What are you implying?”

“Why, nothing, Mademoiselle. I’m merely stating a fact. The question is, am I a charlatan? You have a right to believe it, but look at this young woman. She spent her whole life in a convent, she was found there a helpless baby, and in the basket she was found in there were two irrefutable items that belonged to Ives Augustine. Surely you don’t suggest that she is involved in a plot.”

“There are other ways. You could have found these things, and you may be lying!” Julian Harcourt said.

“All you have to do is go to the mother superior of the Ursuline Convent. She will vouch for this young woman’s history.”

“I’m afraid we’ll have to accept the mother superior’s word. I’ve already checked with her.”

“You always were very careful, Lady Maria,” Blaise said.

“It’s likely that I would be careful where something like this was concerned.” Lady Maria turned to her brother and asked, “What do you think, Hugh?”

“She has the Augustine look. Ives’s dimple and widow’s peak, and generally she resembles him.”

“Why are you doing this, Mignon?” Lowell Augustine demanded. “You’re not a member of our family.”

“You are right; I am not. But your son was kind to me, and I would like to do something for his daughter in return.”

“So you don’t care about money.”

“I would not say no to money,” Blaise said.

Julian Harcourt remained silent while Lowell and Zara fired questions at Blaise and at Leonie. Finally he said, “I think you would be unwise to take any action on this, Lady Maria. After all, there is no actual proof. It’s all circumstantial.”

“Very strong circumstance would put Ives’s locket and the book that he treasured in such a place.”

“That may be true. Still, there is, as this man says, a great deal of money. She would be—”

“Yes. She would be the only living child of Ives and would stand to inherit under Louisiana law,” Lady Maria said, her eyes fixed on Leonie.

“I do not care about the money,” Leonie said firmly. She held her head high and said, “None of you, perhaps, understand what it is to have no family, to be completely alone. That’s been my life. The sisters were kind to me, but all my life I dreamed of having a family. When Monsieur Mignon came to me, that was what thrilled me.”

“So you’re willing to give up the money?” Zara said quickly. “It means nothing to you?”

Leonie turned to face the young woman. “I understand little of legal things, but if I were taken into the family as the daughter of a man I can’t even remember, I would promise that there would be no contention about money. If I were to inherit, all would inherit. All I want is to find my people and to love them.”

“I suppose you learned all those noble sentiments from the sisters?” Zara sneered.

“I learned a great deal from them. Every one of those sisters gave up everything in order to serve Jesus. I would certainly give up anything to find a family.”

“We mustn’t be too hasty about giving up anything,” Blaise said abruptly. “Time enough to settle that when the case is clear.” He glanced at the two cousins and smiled, “I am sure that you would be well provided for, regardless of this young lady’s status.”

“I have decided what must be done.”

Instantly every eye in the room went to Lady Maria. She was sitting bolt upright, and her mouth was drawn into a fine line. Her chin was held high, and her eyes were locked with those of Leonie. “I cannot say that I am totally convinced, but I cannot ignore even circumstantial evidence. If this is the child of my son, Ives, she is my granddaughter. I cannot ignore that.”

A gust of relief ran through Leonie. “Lady Augustine,” she said, “do you believe it is possible that I am your kin?”

“I cannot say, but I will know soon. Ives had certain qualities. I would see these things if you lived here. Therefore, you will come and stay here.”

“Under what circumstances?” Blaise said quickly, his eyes sharp.

“For a time, as a guest. She will be expected to live here, to share in some of the duties perhaps, and in time I will know for certain. I must pray about this, Monsieur, you understand.”

“I understand,” Leonie said eagerly. “I will be happy to come. But I have a cat.”

“You may bring your cat.” Lady Augustine stood, and everyone rose with her. She walked over to stand directly before Leonie. Leonie’s eyes were wide, and the older woman studied her. “Julius will come for you tomorrow morning.” She gave Leonie the locket.

“Yes, Madam.”

“Do not sever all your connections. I am not welcoming you into the family. I am saying we will look into this.”

“Yes, of course,” Leonie said.

Maria turned and faced Blaise. “You need not return anytime soon, Monsieur Mignon.”

Blaise shrugged. “It shall be as you say, Madam. Come, I will take you back, Leonie.”

After the two left the room, a battle of voices erupted in protest. Zara and Lowell were the loudest, but Julian Harcourt echoed them by saying, “It is a dangerous precedent. The law might come to believe that you are recognizing this girl as your grandchild.”

But it was Hugh Langley’s voice that prevailed. He went to Maria, put his arm around her, and said quietly, “You have done the right thing, my sister. I see Ives in her.”

“I’m glad you approve, Hugh. I’ve always trusted your judgment.”

“Why should you trust the judgment of a man who can’t even stay sober?” Zara asked furiously.

“She has a point, I’m afraid,” Hugh said, his eyes sad. “It is all a feeling with me.”

Maria Augustine stood in the small circle, but her thoughts were on the young woman who had stood before her. “She looks so much like Ives,” she whispered. “We will see if she has any of his goodness in her.”

Pulling up in front of Madam Honore’s shop, Blaise said, “You have said hardly a word all the way back.”

“I’m afraid I’m a little bit overwhelmed, Blaise.”

“You have a right to be.”

“I don’t know what to make of it all. I understand the enmity of the young woman and her brother. They think they will lose money. Why is Mr. Harcourt so much against me?”

“Because, my dear, he hopes to marry Zara. The Zara he hopes to marry, in his mind, is the heiress and the mistress of Belle Fleur. If you are who you say you are, she is merely a poor relation. Quite a different thing.”

“But I’ve said I don’t care about the money,” Leonie said. “I would share anything I received, in ample measure.”

“That’s a discussion for another day,” Blaise said quietly.

“I don’t know what to make of Lady Augustine.”

“She has had a hard life. Her husband was not an easy man to live with,” he said, shaking his head. “She has to make up her mind about you, and I’m afraid you must expect a hard time.”

“I don’t mind that.”

Blaise got down, walked around the carriage, and handed her down. They went to the door, and Madam Honore opened it before they could knock. “Come in,” she said. “I want to hear what happened.”

The two went in and sat down in the small parlor. Madam Honore fixed tea for them and listened intently as Blaise told the story.

“I’m very glad for you, Leonie,” she said, her eyes on the young woman.

“They don’t love me,” Leonie admitted. “Only one, the man Hugh Langley, seemed to have any warmth at all.”

“Then they will have to learn,” Madam Honore said firmly, “and they will. I have something to tell you, my dear.”

“What is that, Madam?”

“As I told you might happen, I am leaving New Orleans. I have sold the shop. I simply can’t sew anymore.” She held up her arthritic hands and stared at them. “I really don’t have any choice.”

“I’m so sorry, Madam.” Leonie looked sadly at her first kindly employer, her close friend for two years.

“I hope to leave in a few days. Now that you have a new home, I feel much better.”

“They may not keep me,” Leonie said.

“Don’t talk like that,” Blaise said. “It’s going to be all right. I was watching the old woman, and I know her pretty well. She’s hard and tough, but she’s fair. And as I’ve told you several times, she loved her son dearly.”

“We will pray that you will be accepted by your family, will we not, Monsieur Mignon?”

“Prayer is a little out of my line,” Blaise said. He shrugged. “I will hope, and you may pray.”

“That’s the best: hope and prayer,” Madam Honore said.

“Will I ever see you again, Madam? You’ve been such a friend to me.”

“Baton Rouge is not a long journey. I think we will meet again.”

“I hope so. I do not have so many friends that I can afford to lose one.” Leonie tried to think of what life would be like at Belle Fleur, but she could not. Finally she said quietly, “It is all in the hands of God.”

“Everything is,” Madam Honore smiled. “Is it not so, Monsieur?”

“That is what I am trying to find out,” Blaise said. “Maybe this will be the time for me as well as the time for this young lady.”

Chapter ten

Leonie heard the knock at the door. When she opened it, she found a very tall, strongly built black man whom she recognized as the Augustines’ groom. He removed his hat and said, “Mademoiselle Dousett?”

“Yes. I am Mademoiselle Dousett.”

“My name is Julius. Lady Augustine says I am to take you to Belle Fleur.”

“Yes. I’m all ready, Julius. Would you help me with my trunk?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Julius followed Leonie through the shop to her room. He picked up the trunk as if it weighed nothing and asked, “Is this all?”

“Except for my cat, but I can carry him.” She picked up Louis and put him in his basket, ignoring his protests. “If you’ll go to the carriage, I’ll be there in a moment. I just want to say good-bye.”

“Yes, ma’am. I will be waiting.”

Leonie went to Madam Honore’s door and knocked. When the door opened, she said, “It’s time for me to go. A man has come for me.”

Madam Honore embraced Leonie and kissed her on the cheek. “You’re going to be fine. I’ve been praying much for you.”

“You’ve been so kind to me.” Tears came to Leonie’s eyes. “I’m going to miss you greatly.”

“And I shall miss you. You must write me regularly, and I will answer, and we will find a way to meet again.”

Leonie hugged the older woman and said, “Good-bye for now.” She turned and left the shop. She went down the stairs and found Julius standing beside a very large carriage. “All ready, Mademoiselle?”

“All ready.” Julius handed her in, and she took her seat. When Julius got in and spoke to the horses, she turned and took one final look at the place where she had spent two years, happy ones at that.

“You’ll be living at Belle Fleur, Lady Augustine tells me.”

“Yes,” she said, “at least for a while.”

“I add my voice to welcome you, Mademoiselle.”

“Why, thank you, Julius.”

Leonie did not speak for a time, and finally when they were getting to the suburbs and the open country was beginning to appear, she said, “Have you been at Belle Fleur long, Julius?”

“Oh yes, ma’am. Many, many years.” He turned and smiled at her. “I belong to Lady Augustine, but she allows me to be the pastor of a small church for my people.”

“You are a minister?”

“One of God’s poor servants.”

“Is your church large?”

“About forty souls, ma’am, when we’re all there.” He was silent for a time, then he said, “I heard your story. Servants hear almost everything. I just wanted to say while we’re alone, I remember your father very well.”

Surprise swept across Leonie’s face. “You knew my father?”

“Oh yes, Miss. I was just a boy, but I remember him well. I used to go with him and carry his gun when he went hunting. And more than once I paddled the boat when he fished in the bayou.”

“What was he like, Julius?”

“Oh, Miss, he was a very fine gentleman. Fine-looking—everyone commented on that.”

“I have a picture of him.” Leonie took out the locket, removed it from her neck, and opened it. “See?”

Julius took the locket and stared at it for a long time. “It’s him, Mademoiselle. He’s just like life.” He looked at her and smiled. “You have some of your father’s looks.”

“That’s what Monsieur Mignon says.”

“But it wasn’t his looks that drew me to your father. It was the way he cared for people.”

“Tell me all about it, Julius. Everything you can think of.”

“Well, he was very kind to the slaves, to all of us. He was the one member of the family we could go to and be sure we’d get a fair hearing. And . . .”

Leonie listened with pleasure. She could picture her father based on his picture, and as Julius spoke and as she kept her eyes on the miniature, he seemed to come to life. “I wish I could have known him.”

“I wish you could, too, Miss. He would have been mighty proud of you, I can tell you.”

“Did you know my mother too?”

Julius nodded and straightened up in the seat. “I saw her twice,” he said. “He brought her to Belle Fleur once, and then once when I went to carry a message to him.”

“A message from whom?”

“From your grandmother, Miss. She sent a letter by me. You understand that Mr. Ancel, he was a very hard man and would have nothing to do with anyone who crossed his will. Hard man, indeed, but not your grandmother. She’s very different.”

“She’s not sure that I’m her granddaughter.”

“No. She’s a careful woman, but she’s a kind woman.”

All the way to Belle Fleur, Leonie listened as Julius told her tales of her father’s youth and young manhood. The groom had indeed been very close to him, and by the time they had arrived at Belle Fleur, she felt she knew her father much better. “It’s so kind of you to tell me all these things.”

“Why, it’s my pleasure, Mademoiselle. Your father was very kind to me, and the least I can do is to be kind to his daughter.”

Ten minutes later they arrived at Belle Fleur. Julius stopped the team, got down, and said kindly, “I will bring your trunk in, Mademoiselle.”

“Thank you, Julius.” Leonie picked up Louis’s basket, got out of the carriage, and walked up the steps to the front door. She remembered how frightened she had been on her previous two visits and admonished herself, Really, Leonie, you must have courage. She knocked on the door, and Mrs. Danvers stared at her. “Come in, Mademoiselle.”

“Good morning, Mrs. Danvers.”

Mrs. Danvers merely nodded. “I will show you to your room.” She lifted her voice and said, “Hurry along with that trunk, Julius.”

“Yes, Mrs. Danvers.”

“Come this way.” Mrs. Danvers walked down the foyer to a staircase, and without a word she led Leonie and Julius up. At the top of the third flight she turned right and stopped before a door painted pure white. “This is your room.”

She opened the door and Leonie walked in, curious as to where she would be staying. “What a beautiful room!” she exclaimed.

The walls were adorned with light purple and white wallpaper, the three large windows were covered with white, airy curtains, and the ceiling was painted pure white. The furniture was all highly polished rosewood, the bed having a canopy with ornate carvings on the posts and deep purple bedding and bed curtains tied back with white lace ties. The armoire was very large and was decorated with the same carvings as the bed. There was a desk between two of the large windows with paper and pens and books arranged neatly on the top and with a beautiful tapestry-covered chair on one side. A large, snowy-white area rug was centered in the middle of the room, and pictures of flowers and family members in gilded frames were arranged on the walls.

“Julius, put the trunk there,” Mrs. Danvers said. When Julius put the trunk down, he smiled and said, “Welcome to Belle Fleur, Mademoiselle,” and left.

“Lady Augustine is waiting for you. Come. I will take you.”

“I hope I won’t be any trouble to you, Mrs. Danvers,” Leonie said as the two made their way. “I’ll try not to be.”

“That would be convenient.”

The woman seemed continually angry, and Leonie made up her mind to make a friend of the woman. “I would be glad to help with any work that you find for me.”

The offer caught Mrs. Danvers off guard. She gave the girl an astonished look. “You’re here as a guest.”

“I wouldn’t be happy unless I had something to do. I’m a good seamstress. Anything you want mended, please bring it to me. Really, I want to be helpful.”

Mrs. Danvers studied her briefly, and then nodded. “That may be,” she said. “Come this way.”

They found Lady Augustine alone in her bedroom. She was sitting beside the window as the two entered and did not get up. “Thank you, Mrs. Danvers,” she said, dismissing her. “Come in. Come over here, Mademoiselle.”

“Please. Everyone at the convent called me Leonie.”

“Where did you get that name?”

“It was the name of the mother superior’s sister. She named me after her.”

“It’s a most unusual name. Sit down.”

Leonie took the seat but felt stiff and awkward.

“Do you find your room satisfactory?”

“Oh, it’s a beautiful room! Much too nice for me.”

“I’m glad you like it. You’ll be expected to take your meals with the family.”

“Yes, ma’am, of course.” Leonie said, “I would like to be able to help with anything I could. I’ve worked all my life, Lady Augustine.”

“There are always things to do in a place like this. I have a considerable correspondence.”

“Oh, I would be glad to help with that! My handwriting is not as good as it should be, but I will do my best.”

“Very well. Also, there are some small markets close by. You can help with that, I’m sure.”

“Thank you, Lady Augustine.”

Maria studied the young woman. She had slept little since this situation had exploded in her life. She saw the girl’s innocence and humility, but still it frightened her to think that she might be Ives’s daughter. She could not think why she should be afraid, for she had loved Ives deeply. Suddenly she said, “You understand, Leonie, I must be certain that you are Ives’s child. We never had any word that Ives and his wife had a child.”

“Oh, I understand that perfectly well. Do I really look like him, Lady Augustine?”

“There are several portraits. I will show them to you. You look very much like him, but that could be a coincidence.”

“I will serve you as best as I can, Lady Augustine.”

Lady Augustine looked at the young woman. “We will see about all this. We must get to know each other. Tell me again about yourself. Do you like to read? Have you been to the theater? I need to know as much as I can.”

“There’s really not much to know, but I will be glad to tell you, ma’am.”

Later that afternoon, Leonie took a walk around the grounds. She had been introduced at the house to some of the servants, including Olan Winters, a short, strong man who served as overseer. She encountered him directing the digging of a ditch. “Hello again, Mr. Winters.”

“Bless you, miss, it’s just Olan.” He was a balding man with a pair of sharp, hazel eyes.

“You’ve done a marvelous job on the grounds.”

“Well, I’ve been here a long time.”

“What’s the ditch for?”

Olan explained the purpose of the ditch and waved over toward a bed that some black men were digging. “There’s going to be a new bed of flowers there. Your grandmother loves flowers.”

“My grandmother?”

“Why, I understood you were her granddaughter. You are Mr. Ives’s daughter.”

Leonie looked confused. “Well, no one has confirmed that yet.”

“Why, all they have to do is look at you. You’re the spittin’ image of Mr. Ives.”

“You knew my father?”

“Of course I knew him. I knew your mother, too—Miss Lila. Of course I didn’t meet her but a couple of times. You’ve got her look about you too. Her hair was the same dark color as yours, and her face was shaped like yours.”

“I’d like to hear all about both of them!” Leonie exclaimed.

“You drop by for a cup of tea after I get off of work; I’ll be glad to tell you, Miss.”

“I will. Thank you so much, Olan.”

Continuing her walk, Leonie marveled at how she was in the presence of people who had actually known her parents. She herself was totally convinced that she was Ives Augustine’s daughter. That would make me Leonie Augustine, she thought as she continued to walk along the garden. The flowers were mostly gone now, but she knew that they must have been beautiful in the spring—banks of color everywhere. She turned a corner and encountered Zara Augustine, who was hurrying out of the house.

“I’ve been looking for you, Leonie,” she said.

“Yes, Miss.”

Zara said, “I want you to help me clean my room. It’s a mess.”

This had not been one of the duties that her grandmother had mentioned, but Leonie was happy to oblige. She hurried to the room, and for the next hour she worked assiduously. Zara was a beautiful young woman but a terrible housekeeper. Her clothes were everywhere, and she had many of them. Zara made no attempt to help except to tell her where things were located.

Finally Leonie was done, and Zara said, “That will do for now. You’d better come by every afternoon and straighten things out.”

“Of course. I’ll be glad to.”

“And about that cat—I’m afraid you’ll have to get rid of him.”

Dismay swept through Leonie. “Why, no, I can’t do that.”

“You’ll do as you’re told!” Zara snapped. “You’re only a guest here. Remember that. I don’t think for one moment you’re a relation.”

“I can’t get rid of my cat.”

“You do what I tell you!” Zara said. “Now leave!”

Leonie left the room with a sense of gloom. For over an hour she wandered the grounds, wondering what would happen if she refused to give up Louis. Finally she started toward the house, determined to speak with her grandmother, but she encountered Hugh Langley, who had been sitting on a bench in the garden. “Hello, my dear,” he said. “Come and sit beside me. Let’s get acquainted.”

Leonie hesitated, but she liked the look of the man. She sat down, remembering how Lady Augustine had turned to him for advice. “I have a great problem, Monsieur.”

“At your age, you couldn’t have much of a problem,” Hugh said, smiling. “What is it? Tell me all about it.”

“It’s Miss Zara. She tells me I have to get rid of my cat, and I can’t do that, sir. I just can’t. I’ve had him since he was a kitten.”

“Why, I heard my sister say you could keep your cat.”

“But Miss Zara says—”

“Rain on Miss Zara! My sister decides things like that. She told you the cat was all right. Don’t worry about it.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure of one thing. Zara will do whatever my sister tells her. We’re all dependent on her, you see.”

“Sir, did you know my father?”

“Yes indeed! We were great friends. I was only seven years older than he. We hunted and fished together.” He smiled. “He was a fine man, Leonie. So was your mother.” He shook his head. “She was beautiful and good and fine. I expect you want to know all about them.”

“Oh yes, sir, I do.”

“Well, I don’t know much about your mother, but I can tell you a great deal about your father.”

“Olan said that he knew him well too.”

“Yes. They were good friends. Ives liked people.”

Leonie was entranced by the stories the man told about her father. The picture she had of him in her mind was becoming even more lifelike. She knew very little about her mother and probably never would know more, she thought sadly. To Hugh she said, “It’s so kind of you to share these memories with me.”

“Not kind at all. I was very fond of Ives.”

“I understand you are an artist.”

Suddenly lines formed over Hugh’s forehead. “I used to be considered so.”

“Don’t you paint anymore?”

“I don’t do much anymore except grieve.”

“Grieve over what, Mr. Langley?”

“Why don’t you just call me Hugh when nobody’s around? Mr. Langley’s so formal.”

“If you wish.”

“I grieve about my wife, Autumn. She was the brightest thing in my life, Leonie. She encouraged me, and I worked like a madman. Everything was fun when she was around. When she died,” he said, and his voice quivered, “I lost everything. I just gave up.”

“I don’t think she would like that, sir.”

Hugh Langley looked surprised. “What do you mean?”

“Your wife. She loved you, didn’t she?”

“So she said, and I believed it.”

“She wouldn’t want you to just give up. Didn’t she encourage you while she was living?”

“More than anyone.”

“Then I’m sure she would love to see you go on now.”

“It’s too late,” he said. “I lost whatever fire it is that artists are supposed to have.”

Leonie reached out and put her hand on the man’s arm. There was such a kindness in him, and he was so sad. “I’m sure your wife would want you to continue. It would make her proud. Who knows,” she said, “maybe she’s looking down from heaven right now.”

“I’ve often wondered about that,” Hugh said softly.

“I wish you would think on it.”

“I will.” He patted her hand, then rose and said, “It’s time for dinner.” He reaffirmed, “Don’t worry about the cat. Don’t worry about anything Zara or Lowell says. They’re afraid they’ll lose their inheritance. Come along, my dear.”

They walked into the dining room, and the others came in shortly afterward. Lady Augustine came in, sat down with a terse greeting, and asked the blessing. The mood during dinner was strained, and Leonie said almost nothing except when spoken to.

After the dinner, Leonie was at a loss as to what to do. She wandered into the library and was looking at the books when she heard some footsteps. She turned to see Lowell Augustine come in. “I followed you here,” he said cheerfully. “You didn’t say much at dinner. Are you sad at leaving your old place?”

“I feel out of place,” she admitted. “I knew my place at the convent and then later with Madam Honore. But everything is strange here.”

Lowell walked over to stand opposite her. He had good looks— a firm chin and quizzical gray eyes. “Don’t worry,” he said. “We have to be nice to you. If we don’t, you’ll throw us all out when you become the mistress here.” He saw the shocked look in her face, then laughed and said, “I like to throw people off guard, but after all, that’s the way it is.”

“No, it isn’t. I would never do such a thing.”

“I don’t believe you would,” Lowell said. “You spent most of your life in a convent. Haven’t seen much of the world.”

“That’s true.”

“Well, now you can afford to see some of it. I’ll tell you what: why don’t I take you to the theater?”

“I’ve never been to the theater.”

“It will be interesting.”

“I’m not sure that Lady Augustine would permit it.”

“Oh, she won’t mind. I’ll ask her myself.”

“I’m not sure that it would be proper.”

“Well, I’m not a very proper young man, but you’re a proper young woman,” he said with a grin. “I expect you have enough properness in you for both of us.”

“I feel very—awkward, Mr. Augustine. Please don’t make it worse.”

Instantly Augustine apologized. “Why, I’m sorry. I’m too flippant, I know. But I heard what you said the first time at our meeting— that even if you are accepted and become the heiress and the mistress of this place, you would be generous.”

“That’s right, sir.”

“Look. I’m only twenty-five, Leonie. You don’t have to call me ‘sir.’ Lowell is fine. And I’m just a cousin, not really a threat. Why can’t we be friends?”

“I’d like that very much.”

“Friends then?” He put out his hand, and she, with some hesitancy, took it. He said, “Fine. Watch out for my sister, Zara, though. She’s not as nice as I am.”

“She doesn’t like me.”

“Oh, she hates you,” Lowell said cheerfully. “She’s got her mind set on having the Augustine fortune and becoming Lady Augustine one day. That would have happened if you hadn’t come along. You can’t expect her to be too happy about that.”

Leonie shook her head. “She doesn’t have to be upset. I hope I can convince her I mean her no harm.”

“You can try.”

At that moment Lady Augustine entered the room. “Hello, Aunt Maria,” Lowell said. “I’ve just been asking Leonie if she wouldn’t like to go to the theater. I offered to take her.”

“Perhaps you can take us both.”

“Why, that would be fine!?”

“Yes. We need to get out a bit more. Now run along.”

“Of course. I’ll see about the tickets.”

As soon as the young man left, Lady Maria said, “I heard that Zara told you you had to get rid of your cat.”

“Yes. She did say that.”

“Don’t worry about it. I said you could keep the cat.”

“Thank you.”

Lady Maria was studying the young woman so closely that finally Leonie said, “May I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Do you see anything in me that looks like my father—or my mother?”

Maria did not answer for a moment, but then she nodded. “I see something, but I’m not sure if it’s just the physical resemblance. I’m a lonely old woman, Leonie, and only time will tell. I will say this: nothing would please me more than to have a grandchild with Ives’s blood in her. But I am not ready to say that yet.”

“Of course, Lady Augustine.”

“We shall see. I am praying that God will give me guidance.”

“I will pray with you, if I may.”

“You are a Christian then?”

“Oh yes, naturally. I grew up in a convent.”

“That’s right. You did. Well, you will learn our ways here, and we will learn something about you. Come now. I will show you the portraits of my son.”

Chapter eleven

Lowering the newspaper, Lowell Augustine looked at his sister as she walked in and sat down heavily across from him at the breakfast table. He studied her carefully, then grinned. “You look terrible,” he commented. “You stay up all night?”

Zara glared at Lowell and snapped indignantly, “That’s none of your business!”

“Everything you do is my business, sister. Where would you be if it weren’t for me?”

Zara ignored Lowell and turned to Nora, the maid. “Hurry up with my breakfast, Nora,” she said, irritability flavoring her tone.

“My, you are in a foul mood,” Lowell remarked.

“I’m not feeling well. That’s all.”

“There’s nothing wrong with you. You’re healthy as a horse.” He picked up his coffee cup, drained it, then put it down with a wrinkle in his brow. “Our aunt isn’t feeling well.”

“What’s wrong with her?”

“She’s got a slight fever. I’ve tried to get her to call for the doctor, but you know how she is—stubborn as a mule. Want some free advice?”

“From you? No.”

“Come on, sister of mine. Let me straighten you out here. When Auntie grew ill yesterday morning, Leonie began taking care of her. She sat up with her half the night while you were out doing depraved things with Julian.”

“We weren’t doing depraved things. We simply went to the Creole Ball.”

“That’s what I said. You know how those things are.”

“Lowell, I wish you would hush.”

“Those balls are nothing but a marketplace for men to find beautiful Creole mistresses.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“People usually don’t want to talk about depraved things, but anyway, don’t change the subject. Leonie has been caring for Maria, and you should be doing it.”

“I’m not a nurse.”

Lowell leaned back in his chair. He was very rarely serious. For him, life, as long as he had plenty of fine food, feminine companionship, and expensive clothing, was happy. Now, however, he grew concerned, and he leaned forward and lowered his voice. “I don’t think you appreciate what’s going on here, Zara.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean we could be out on our ear, and you don’t seem to be aware of it.”

Zara glared upward as if she could see through to the second floor. “You mean that girl?”

“I mean that young woman who is probably Maria’s granddaughter.”

“I won’t believe it—not ever!”

“Unfortunately that’s not the test. The question is, will Maria believe it? If she does, we’re sunk. I’d have to go to work,” he said, shrugging his shoulders, “and you’d have to marry somebody with money.”

“Lowell, you can’t be serious,” Zara said. “Our aunt’s got more sense than that. She’ll never make that impostor the heiress.”

“She might, Zara. You’ve got to remember. She loved Ives better than anyone, and once she makes up her mind for sure that Leonie is her flesh and blood, the daughter of her precious Ives, she’ll deed this place and all that goes with it over to her quicker than you can blink.”

Zara put her hand suddenly on her breast, and a look of fright came into her eyes. “We’ve got to do something, Lowell.”

Lowell nodded. “That’s exactly what I’ve been trying to tell you. Be sweeter to Tante Maria.”

“You mean wait on her? She has servants for that.”

“The servants aren’t trying to get into her will, Zara. You’d better think about this, and by the way, if I were you, I’d be a little more pleasant to Leonie. If she inherits, we’ll be totally dependent on her. Watch me. I intend to be as appealing and as charming to her as I possibly can, and I suggest that you do the same.”

“Couldn’t you eat just a little bit more, Lady Maria? I made it the way you like it.”

“I can’t eat anything else, Leonie. Take it away.” Outside, October winds blew, whipping around the house.

Leonie had made a bowl of oatmeal spiced with cinnamon. She had found out from Opal, the cook, that Maria Augustine loved this. Now, however, she sighed and shook her head. “You really should eat something.”

“I can’t keep it down,” Maria said. Her face was pale, and new lines crossed her forehead. “I don’t know what’s the matter with me.”

“You need to see the doctor.”

“Oh, I’ll be all right. Don’t fuss over me, Leonie.” She threw the cover back and said, “I’m burning up.”

“You have fever. Let me get some cool water.”

“Oh, don’t bother. I don’t like to be fussed over.”

“It will be good for you,” Leonie said. She went to the nightstand and poured water from the pitcher into the basin. She saturated the cloth, wrung it out, and then went and sat down on the edge of Maria’s bed. “Let me just bathe your face.”

Maria lay still and finally sighed, “That does feel good.”

“If your fever gets any higher, we’ll have to do something.”

Maria Augustine lay still while the girl tried to relieve her fever pains. She studied the young woman’s features and not for the first time tried to decide if the resemblance to her dead son was accidental or a matter of genes. She looks so much like Ives, she thought. She asked, “Are you happy here, Leonie?”

“Why, yes, Lady Augustine.”

“Call me Lady Maria.”

“If you wish. Yes, I’m fine here.”

“Are you as happy here as you were at the convent?”

“That’s hard to say. They were very kind to me there.”

“And we haven’t been kind here.”

“Oh, I didn’t say that. Everybody has been very nice.”

“That’s the first wrong thing I’ve heard you say,” Maria said. “Zara hasn’t been very hospitable.”

Leonie could not answer that, for indeed, Zara had been snappy and even cruel to her. “She just doesn’t like strangers, I suppose,” she commented.

Maria began to cough and toss, and Leonie said, “You must see a doctor!”

“There is only one doctor that I have any confidence in, and that’s Dr. Duvall.”

“Then I’ll go get him at once.”

“It wouldn’t do any good,” Maria said faintly. “He doesn’t make calls any longer. He’s too old.”

“Let me go to him, please.”

Maria hesitated, but she felt terrible. “All right. Have Julius take you. He knows where the doctor’s office is. It’s all foolishness.”

“No, it’s not. I’ll go down right away.”

“Ask Zara if she will come in.”

“Yes, I’ll do that. I’ll be back as quickly as I can.”

Leaving the room, Leonie went downstairs and found Zara and Lowell still at the breakfast table. “Lady Maria would like to see you, Miss Zara,” she said.

“Is she all right?” Lowell asked with something like alarm.

“I don’t think she is. I’m going to get Dr. Duvall.”

“Dr. Duvall? He’s older than dirt,” Lowell said. “He won’t make a house call.”

“Maybe he’ll make an exception. I’ve got to try.” She left the room at once, and Lowell said, “There’s your chance, Zara. Go up and pamper Maria.”

“All right. I will.”

Leonie was leaving, bundled up in two coats, when Mrs. Danvers appeared. “Oh, Mrs. Danvers,” she said, “I’m going into town to get the doctor.”

“She’s worse, isn’t she?”

“I don’t think she’s any better. She wants Dr. Duvall.”

“He won’t come. I can tell you that now.”

“Well, I have to try. If he can’t come, I’ll find another one.”

Mrs. Danvers stared at the young woman. “Do you know any doctors?”

“No, but Reverend Mother at the convent will. I’ll ask her.”

Mrs. Danvers brushed her hand across her face in a futile gesture. “She has an affection for Dr. Duvall. He saved Master Ives’s life when he was just a boy.”

Although Leonie was in a hurry, she stopped. Anything about her father was fascinating to her. “What was he like as a boy— Mr. Ives?”

“A good boy and a good man.” Something seemed to change in Mrs. Danvers. The sternness of her face broke, and she touched her cheek and said, “I—I haven’t been too kind to you, Leonie, but there are some who try to take advantage of Lady Maria. I thought you might be one of those.”

“Oh, certainly not.”

“No. I can see you wouldn’t.” Mrs. Danvers looked upstairs and whispered, “She’s very lonely now. If you can bring her any cheer, I’ll say amen.”

Lowell watched her go from the window. Julius drove up in a buggy. The black man got out and handed Leonie in, then took his seat again and drove off at a fast clip. I’d give anything to know what Aunt’s will says now, but Maria won’t tell anybody. He thought for a moment about his future, which seemed particularly bleak. I’d hate to have to go to work for a living or marry an ugly, rich woman for her money. He had no illusions about himself. He was a wastrel and lived totally for his own gratification. He thought about Leonie for a moment, and smiled. I may have to court Leonie if she’s going to hold the purse strings. Shouldn’t be too hard. She couldn’t have had too many handsome fellows such as myself chasing after her. She wouldn’t be hard to handle, either.

He began to whistle and then walked out to the stables and mounted his favorite horse. A few minutes later he was riding out over the fields of Belle Fleur, wondering what it would be like to actually own all of it.

“Right there’s Dr. Duvall’s home, and his office is over there in that section built on,” Julius observed. He pulled up in front of the office section of the home and said, “Let me go find out if the doctor’s here.”

Leonie watched as the tall, black man went to the office door and knocked. Nobody came, but the door to the house opened, and a black woman came out. Leonie watched as the two spoke briefly.

Julius came back, got up in the buggy, and said, “Dr. Duvall is able to see nobody. He’s a pretty sick man himself. What’ll I do now, Miss?”

“Go to the convent, Julius.”

“I’m so glad to see you, Leonie, and you look so well.” The mother superior embraced the young woman. “You’re happy there at Belle Fleur?”

“Well, I guess I am.”

“You don’t sound quite sure.”

“I don’t suppose I’ll be sure until it’s settled.”

The older woman studied Leonie’s face. “How do you feel about it?”

“I feel as if that’s my place. All of the pictures of my father, that is, of Ives Augustine, look like me—or should I say, I look like him. I don’t know, it just feels right to me. I’ve talked to so many people there who actually knew my father, and some knew my mother too. It’s been so strange.”

“And how does Lady Augustine feel?”

“She doesn’t say much. She’s very ill right now, and that’s why I came to town.”

“Not serious, I hope.”

“I think it might be. I went to see Dr. Duvall, but he couldn’t go.”

“Oh no. He hasn’t seen any patients now for six months.”

“I thought that perhaps you could recommend someone.”

“It’s a bad time, Leonie. The scarlet fever is everywhere, it seems. It would be very difficult to get a doctor to make a call that far away.”

“Don’t you know anyone?”

The mother superior thought for a moment. “One of our girls grew very ill recently. We had to do something, so I called on a young physician who had just gone into practice in New Orleans. His name is Shef field. He came, and it’s a good thing he did. He had to operate on the young woman, and he saved her life.”

“I’ll go to him at once,” Leonie said firmly.

The older woman took a piece of paper and wrote on it, saying, “Here’s his address. Remember, I don’t know much about him except that he helped us out a great deal.”

“Thank you, Reverend Mother. I’ll go at once.”

Chapter twelve

A cold wind brushed across Leonie’s face. October had brought the coldest temperatures she could remember. She was sure that in days to come, people would talk about the winter of ’33 as one of the bitterest that they ever experienced. “There’s a blanket in the back if you need to wrap up more, Miss Leonie.”

“No, thank you, Julius.” Leonie smiled. “Actually the cold feels kind of good after the hot summer we had.”

“Yes, it does. The good Lord sends us hot summers and cold winters, so we won’t get bored.”

Leonie laughed. “You always think of something to say about the Lord, don’t you, Julius?”

“I guess I do, Miss.” Julius smiled. The sun lighted his dark face, and his hands looked huge as they held the lines guiding the horses. “The Lord is about all there is in my life. You know, I just live to praise the Lord.”

Curious about that statement, Leonie sat quietly for a while. “How do you praise the Lord, Julius?”

“Why, Miss, you know how to do that. You’re a Christian.”

“I know, but when I hear you talk about praising the Lord, I feel as if there’s something I’m not doing.”

“Well, you read the Psalms.”

“Of course I have many times, but that doesn’t seem to help much.”

“Well, let me ask you this. Do you remember the time when David brought the ark back to Jerusalem after it had been in the camp of the enemy for a long time?”

“Yes. I remember that.”

“Do you remember what David did?”

Leonie thought. “I can’t really remember. It’s been a long time.”

“The Bible says that David danced before the Lord with all his might. Ain’t that somethin’ now? Dancing with all his might! I sure would like to have seen old David do that!”

“We don’t having anything like that in our services, I’m afraid. If anyone did it, he or she probably would be considered crazy.”

“Well, I don’t think they’d be crazy. If David did it, it must be all right. He was the man after God’s own heart. But just think about the Psalms, Miss. Can’t you just hear David when he shouted, ‘The King shall joy in thy strength, O LORD; and in thy salvation how greatly shall he rejoice!’ Can’t you just hear him shoutin’ like that? That’s in Psalm 21. Psalm 33 says, ‘Praise the LORD with harp. Sing unto him with a psaltery and an instrument of ten strings. Sing unto him a new song; play skillfully with a loud noise.’ Ain’t that f ine, Miss? With a loud noise. That’s the way I like to praise the Lord.”

“But what do you say?”

“Why, I say what the Bible says: ‘Praise the Lord. Glory to God in the highest. Blessed be the Lord, O my soul.’ I just tell God how good He is and how much I love Him.”

Leonie sat quietly listening to Julius, whose face shone with excitement. She felt a desire growing in her to be as close to God as he was.

“You’ll have to come to our church sometime, Miss.”

“Do white people ever come?”

“Not very often, but you’d sure be welcome.”

“I’d like to do that, Julius.”

“You come to my church, and then someday I’ll get to come to yours.”

Leonie could not help thinking, He wouldn’t get much in the way of dancing and loud shouting and singing at Mass.

“There it is, Miss. That’s the address written down on the paper. Sure is sorry, ain’t it?”

Indeed, the section of town that Julius had brought her to was pathetic. The houses were leaning on each other so they almost appeared to be holding each other up. The yards were filled with trash and litter. Here and there a group of children tried to play but seemed almost too feeble to do it.

“This is awful!”

“It’s pretty bad, but that’s where the doctor’s office is. Right there.”

Stopping the horses, Julius got down and walked around. He reached up, and her small hand was lost in his. “Reckon I’d better go in with you?”

“No, I don’t think I’ll be long, Julius. All I need to do is ask the doctor if he’ll come to Belle Fleur.”

“He must not be a very successful doctor if this is his office,” Julius muttered.

Leonie felt somewhat the same, but he was a doctor after all. She looked at the paper again. “Dr. Ransom Sheffield,” she whispered aloud, then she went up to the door and hesitated. Taking a deep breath, she stepped inside. The warm air struck her, for a stove was burning at the far end of the room. Chairs lined the walls, and she saw at a glance half a dozen patients waiting—all poor people. She waited for a nurse or a receptionist, but finally an old man looked up at her and nodded. “You have to take your turn, Miss. The doctor will see you then.”

“Thank you.” Leonie stepped outside to invite Julius to come in from the wind. Then she took her seat and wondered how long she would have to wait. The room itself was bare except for a worn carpet, and there were several pictures on the wall. One of them was of two children about to fall through a dangerous hole in a bridge, but a bright angel above was reaching down to save them. Leonie smiled briefly and thought how much the angel looked like her earliest concepts of angels, bright and strong and powerful-looking.

After about twenty minutes, an older woman came out of the inner office, and a man got up stiffly and walked in to take her place without being told.

The door let in the icy breeze when the patient left, and a woman with three small children shook her head. “It’s so cold out there,” she whispered.

“Yes, it is,” Leonie said. She looked at the woman more closely and saw the pinch of hunger on her face. She was a thin woman, not old, but worn by work and sickness apparently. One of the children was able to walk, but the other two were infants. The woman was trying to hold both of them, and Leonie said, “Let me help you.” She got up, went over, and said, “I can hold this fellow right here.”

“He’s not very clean.”

“That’s all right.” Leonie smiled. She took the baby and stood for a while, rocking him in her arms. The baby started to cry, but when she whispered to him, he opened his eyes and stared at her owlishly. She walked around the floor singing under her breath, and finally she went over to the mother and said, “He’s a beautiful baby.”

“Thank you.”

“Is he sick?”

“No. That’s Timmy. George here is sick.” She nodded toward the infant she held in her arms. “And Leah there, she’s getting whatever he has.”

“I’m sure the doctor will be able to help.”

“I hope so.”

“Have you seen Dr. Sheffield before?”

“No, I haven’t. Have you?”

“No. I’ve never met him.”

The woman was staring at her. “You don’t look like you belong here.”

Leonie looked up from the infant and said, “What do you mean?”

“I mean nobody but poor people come here. I came because my neighbor told me that Dr. Sheffield would treat people that didn’t have any money. I hope it’s true.”

“It’s true enough,” said a tall, skinny man who was leaning back with his head against the wall, his eyes shut. He had a deep bass voice that didn’t seem to go with his emaciated body. “He ain’t a society doctor.”

“Why, I never heard of a doctor like that,” Leonie said.

“Neither did I, but I hope it’s true. I hate it when my children are sick.”

Leonie held the baby until finally the room cleared out. The women and her three children were the last ones. As the tall, skinny man left with a bottle of medicine clasped in his hand, he said, “You can go in now.”

The young woman struggled to her feet. “I’ll take Timmy now.”

“Oh, let me go in with you. I can hold him.”

“That would be kind.”

“My name is Helen Finch.”

“I’m Leonie Dousett.”

The two women entered the inner office, which was brightly lit with kerosene lamps. A tall man in a white jacket had his back to them, arranging a series of bottles on the shelf. He turned and smiled. “Well, ladies, what do we have here? I’m Dr. Sheffield.”

“I’m Helen Finch, Doctor. My children. They’re sick.”

“Well, let’s see what we can do about that. All of them?”

“Not this one but the other two are.”

As the doctor came over and plucked the infant from Helen’s arms, Leonie took a good look at him. He was tall and lanky with coarse, black hair that needed trimming. He had blue eyes widely spaced, and he was rather a homely man, not at all handsome. Still, there was a strength in his face, and his broad lips turned up at the corners in a smile. “Well, let’s see what’s going on here, young fellow.”

For the next twenty minutes Dr. Sheffield examined all three of the children and finally turned to the mother. “Mrs. Finch, I don’t think there’s anything to worry about. There’s a mild flu bug going around, but it doesn’t seem to be serious.”

“I thought—I thought it might be scarlet fever.”

“No. I can tell you it’s not that. I’m going to give you some medicine, and I want you to be sure that they get plenty to eat and stay warm. Keep them in for a few days.”

Leonie saw the woman’s face change when the doctor said to feed the children well. When Dr. Sheffield turned to fill a bottle with brown fluid, she reached into her reticule and pulled out a couple of coins. “Here,” she whispered, “buy something good for the children to eat.”

Helen Finch’s eyes misted over. “I would like to be proud, but I’ll take it for the children’s sake. God bless you.”

Dr. Sheffield overheard the exchange. He turned and handed the bottle to Helen Finch, saying, “There. A teaspoonful of this three times a day for all of them. Come back and see me if they don’t get better.”

“I don’t have any money, Doctor.”

“Well, in that case you’ll have to pay me in something besides money.”

Confusion swept across the woman’s face. “What do you mean?”

“Why don’t you just pray for me? I need it.”

“I’ll do that, Doctor. God knows I will, and thank you.” The woman left bearing two children, with the third hanging onto her skirts.

Dr. Sheffield looked at Leonie with surprise. “Aren’t you going with her?”

“No. I don’t really know her.”

“Why, I thought you two were together.”

“No. My name is Leonie Dousett, Doctor. I live at Belle Fleur. That’s a plantation about two hours’ drive from here. Lady Maria Augustine is very ill, and she needs to see a doctor.”

“Doesn’t she have a physician?”

“Well, Dr. Duvall was her doctor, but he’s not making calls anymore.”

“No, I understand he’s retired. Well, I’m sorry to tell you that I don’t have any way to get there.”

“Oh, I have a carriage outside. We will take you and bring you back if you’ll just come.”

Ransom Sheff ield studied the young woman. “Are you related to Lady Augustine?”

Leonie could not speak for a moment. “It’s—it’s a little bit complicated, Doctor.”

“It is? I think it’d be simple enough. But we can talk about it on the way. Let me put a notice on the door and then get my coat and my gear and my bag, and we’ll be on our way.”

Leonie waited as the doctor began to stock his bag, but even as he did, she heard a door slam.

“Another patient. You’ll have to wait, I’m afraid,” Dr. Sheffield said.

“That’s all right, doctor.”

Dr. Sheffield stepped to the door and opened it and exclaimed, “Man, what happened to you?”

Leonie stood back as a man came through the door. He had blood all over the shirt he wore and was holding his neck and his side. “I got cut up in a fight.”

“Here. Lie down here, man. You’re losing blood fast. When did this happen?”

“About—half hour,” the man said and then collapsed.

Ransom Sheff ield turned quickly. “Miss Dousett, is it?”

“Yes.”

“I need your help. Can you hold this cloth right here on his neck? He’s bleeding from the artery there. He’ll die if it’s not stopped.”

Instantly Leonie moved forward and held her hand firmly on the wound. It was spurting so that it got on the front of her dress and the outer lapels of her coat, but that did not seem to matter. She watched as Dr. Sheffield cut the man’s shirt open with scissors and gasped when she saw the terrible cut.

“This is going to be tricky. Can you hold on there?”

“Yes, Doctor.”

“You won’t be sick and faint?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Good girl.”

Later, Leonie did not remember too much about the rest of her visit with Dr. Sheffield. She had never seen a doctor in action in such a case, but she watched as he sewed up wounds, and by the time he was through, both of them were covered with blood.

“There. I think he’ll live, but he’s lost a lot of blood.”

“What will you do with him?”

“We’ll have to take him to the hospital. That is, unless I stay with him.”

“We can use our carriage. I’ll go get the servant in the waiting room. He’s very strong. I think he can carry the man.”

Julius walked in at once at Leonie’s urgent call. “What happened to you, Miss? You’re all bloody!”

“I helped care for that wounded man who walked in.”

“I seen him go in holdin’ himself. Is he dead?”

“No, but we’ve got to take him to the hospital. Can you pick him up?”

“I expect I can.”

Indeed, picking up the man was easy for Julius; he was a powerful individual. He put the man in the back seat, and then the three of them got in the front. Julius drove quickly to the hospital following Dr. Sheffield’s instructions.

“I expect I’ll have to go back and change clothes before we go tend Lady Augustine,” he said. Dr Sheffield was examining Leonie carefully. “Most women would have panicked seeing a thing like that. Have you had any experience with nursing?”

“Just with girls. Never with wounds like that. I don’t see how you did it, Doctor.”

Sheffield grinned, which made him seem much younger. “That’s what doctors do, Miss Dousett.”

Chapter thirteen

The sun was going down rapidly as Julius drove the horses at a fast clip. He had mentioned that he wanted to get home before dark, and indeed, this was Leonie’s wish also.

Dr. Sheffield looked more presentable since he had changed clothes, but Leonie still was wearing the bloodstained garments. She looked down and saw that the blood had dried into a brownish color and wondered at herself for functioning as she had.

Sheffield was watching the young woman. He asked, “Have you been living with Lady Augustine long?”

“Oh no. Only a few weeks.” She struggled to find a way to explain her position and then said, “It really is complicated, Doctor.”

“Don’t tell me if you don’t want to, Miss Dousett.”

“I don’t mind. Well, you should know that I grew up in the Ursuline Convent. I just left there two years ago. Since then I’ve been working as a seamstress.”

“Do you have a family?”

“Well, that’s the complication. I was left as an infant, only a few days old, at the convent. Only recently have I learned that I may be related to the Augustine family. As a matter of fact, Lady Augustine may be my grandmother.”

“Sounds like a mystery.”

“It is rather.” She said, “What about you, Doctor? Are you from Louisiana?”

Sheffield laughed. “Can’t you tell from the way I talk I’m not a Louisiana man? No, I was born in Kentucky. Lived there all my life until recently.”

“Is your family here?”

“My family? Oh, I’m not married.”

“I meant your parents.”

“They’re gone now. As a matter of fact, I’m here because of my mother.”

“Was she from here?”

“Oh no. She was born in Kentucky. We were from the mountain country. Very poor. My father died when I was only eight. Mother had a rough time raising the four children. She had already lost three in miscarriages. It was hard living, Miss Dousett, very hard.”

Leonie turned to study the doctor’s profile. He was not a handsome man, but somehow he had a winsome quality that pleased her. “How did your mother cause you to be here?”

“She grew ill, and none of the doctors would come and look at her. I was just a boy, barefooted almost. I was only seventeen. I went to every doctor that I could find, and none of them would come without pay, so she died a slow, painful death.”

“How terrible!”

“Yes, it was. So I determined I’d do something about it.” He turned to face her, and she saw a warm light in his brown eyes. “I fought my way through school, working nights and going to school in the daytime. Finally I finished my medical training. I had a chance to go into practice in St. Louis, but I’d always said I’d try to do something for poor people if I became a doctor. So that’s what I’m doing here.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Not long. Just about six months. I know that’s a pretty poor place, where I am now. Someday it will be different. I’ll have a clinic. Maybe there’ll be a whole hospital that will take poor people when nobody else will.”

“What a fine thing to do!”

Her compliment seemed to make Sheffield uncomfortable. He laughed shortly, “Well, I’m not nearly as noble as I make myself sound.”

“I think you are.”

The two talked all the way to Belle Fleur, and when Julius drew up in front of the house, Dr. Sheffield jumped out and helped Leonie down. “You’re going to scare them, covered with blood like that.”

“Maybe no one will see me,” Leonie said hopefully. She turned and said, “Thank you, Julius. I appreciate it.”

“Anytime, Miss.”

Leonie led the doctor up the stairs to the porch. Before they reached the front door, it opened. Mrs. Danvers took one look at Leonie and exclaimed, “What in the world happened to you?”

“It’s not my blood, Mrs. Danvers. I was helping Dr. Sheffield with a patient. It is the patient’s blood. How is Lady Maria?”

“She’s no better, I think.”

“This is Mrs. Danvers, our housekeeper. She’ll take you up to Lady Augustine while I go change.”

“I’m not sure she’ll see you, Doctor. She doesn’t like changes.”

Sheffield grinned. “We all have to change, Mrs. Danvers.”

As quickly as she could, Leonie changed her clothes and hurried to Lady Maria’s room. She stepped inside and saw Mrs. Danvers standing back in the shadows, looking anxious. Sheffield was standing beside the sick woman. He turned and smiled at Leonie. “You look a little better now.”

“What’s wrong with her?” Lady Maria said, her voice weak.

“Why, nothing, ma’am,” Sheffield said easily. “She helped me with a patient and it got a little messy. She’s quite a nurse.”

“You’re too young to be a doctor.”

“Well, there’s a cure for that.” Sheffield smiled, reached down, and took her hand. He held her wrist, taking her pulse, and said, “I’ll get older soon enough. Time always takes care of that.”

“What’s wrong with me?”

“Why, you have scarlet fever.”

“Oh no!” Leonie said. Gloom filled her face. “I thought it was something less.”

“You two need to get out of here. It’s very contagious.”

“I had to nurse the girls at the convent when they had it, and I never caught it.”

“That doesn’t mean you can’t catch it this time.”

“Mrs. Danvers, you leave now.” Lady Maria’s voice was weak. “We’ll need you to keep the house running.”

“I need to help you.”

“No. You leave now. Mind what I say.”

As soon as Mrs. Danvers left, Dr. Sheffield said, “You will need a great deal of care, constant almost. There’s some danger of this disease spreading. I’d like to keep it confined to this room.”

“I can do that, Dr. Sheffield,” Leonie insisted.

Lady Augustine lay still. Her fever was high, and her face was crimson. She whispered to Leonie, “I don’t want you to be exposed.”

“I’m already exposed. Let’s not argue about it.”

“Really, Lady Augustine, I think it might be wise to let the young lady help. I’ll stay until you’re out of danger.”

“You seem awfully young. Are you a good doctor?”

“Why, I’m the best doctor in this room.” He leaned over and put his hand on her forehead. “Would you mind,” he asked, “if I pray for you?”

Lady Augustine’s eyes opened wide. “I suppose it would be all right.”

“I always like to pray for my patients. God needs to be involved in any sickness.”

Leonie’s eyes met those of Lady Augustine, and the two women were speechless. Sheffield began to pray, and it was a simple enough prayer, asking that he be given knowledge and skill but most of all that the great Physician would take over the case. When he said amen, Lady Augustine said, “You are a strange doctor.”

“You’re probably right.”

“Come with me, Doctor,” Leonie said. “There’s a room right next to this one. You can stay there. Julius can go get some of your clothes to bring here.”

“Very well.”

Mrs. Danvers had come to help Leonie fix the room for the doctor. The housekeeper commented, “I’m surprised that Lady Augustine would let him treat her.”

“He took her by surprise.” She related how the doctor had asked if he could pray for her, and laughed. “It caught Lady Augustine off guard. She said a doctor never did that before.”

“I hope he knows what he’s doing. He’s so young.”

“I think he does, Mrs. Danvers.”

“This is Dr. Ransom Sheffield,” Leonie said as the two of them entered the dining room. “He’s been kind enough to come and treat Lady Augustine.” She introduced the other members of the family and saw their curiosity.

“Are you new to New Orleans, Doctor?” Lowell asked.

“Very new, Mr. Augustine.”

“How long have you been in practice?” Hugh Langley asked.

“The ink’s practically dry on my certificate. Here, let me help you, Miss Dousett.”

Leonie was surprised when he pulled her chair back. She took her seat, and when he seated himself next to her, she said, “Dr. Sheffield’s going to open a clinic for the poor people of New Orleans. Isn’t that wonderful?”

“You must be independently wealthy.” Lowell grinned. “Most doctors are more interested in making money.”

“I suppose I’ll do some of that too. I may have this young lady as my nurse. She’s quite handy.”

“How do you mean that?” Zara demanded, her eyes on Leonie.

“Why, this man came in just as we were leaving, cut to shreds. She helped me patch him up. Didn’t blink an eye.”

Lowell stared at Leonie. “I don’t think I could do that.”

“Of course you couldn’t,” Zara said. She was watching the doctor carefully. “How is my aunt?”

“She’s not at all well. I’m going to keep her confined to her room. No one should go in but Miss Dousett and myself.”

“Should we get another doctor?” Zara said.

“If you would like. Two doctors are probably better than one.”

“Why, that’s ridiculous, Zara,” Lowell said. “We have a doctor here.”

Nora began serving dinner. It was an excellent meal consisting of crawfish casserole and crawfish bisque.

Lowell seemed very interested in Dr. Sheffield and peppered him with questions.

Sheffield answered easily and seemed to be studying the two cousins. Leonie was fairly sure he was trying to figure out the family situation.

After the meal was over, the doctor excused himself, and Leonie went back with him to check on the patient. As soon as they were gone, Lowell said, “It’s a good thing that Leonie is here. You wouldn’t want to be in a sick room with scarlet fever, would you, sister dear?”

“No more than you.”

“I’ve been wondering about the will. You haven’t seen it, have you?”

“No. She’s very secretive about things like that.”

The two sat talking in whispers, and finally Lowell said, “You know, it might be better if she didn’t make it through this illness. I’m pretty sure she hasn’t changed her will yet. I’d still be the heir.”

The two stared at each other and Lowell laughed. “I didn’t mean that, of course.” The two got up and left the room, but Zara pondered what her brother had said.

“Well, I think the crisis has come.”

Leonie had been sitting beside Lady Maria. She looked up quickly at Dr. Sheffield. “What do you mean?”

“I mean if she can make it through tonight, I think she’ll be all right.”

“She has to live. She just has to.” She looked over at the woman whose lips were parched, although Leonie had kept them as moist as she could.

“Do you ever pray for your grandmother?”

Leonie was confused by the word “grandmother.” “Yes, I do pray for her.”

“You know the Bible says that it’s better for two to pray than for one.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Yes. One of my favorite verses. ‘If any two of you shall agree on anything, it shall be done.’ Jesus said that Himself.”

“I don’t know that verse.”

“It’s given me a lot of comfort. I always like to find somebody to pray with me, to stand with me before God, so why don’t you and I take our stand together?”

“All right,” Leonie said rather breathlessly.

“Here. Give me your hand.”

Leonie tentatively reached out, and he took her hand. “Now you put your hand on your grandmother’s shoulder and I’ll do the same on her head. The Bible says, ‘Lay hands on the sick and they shall recover,’ and that’s what we’re going to do—to pray that God will work.” He bowed his head and said, “Lord, we remind You of Your promise, for You cannot lie. And You have said that if we will agree, You will do what we ask. So Miss Dousett and I agree that we want to see this woman made strong and well again. In the name of Jesus, we ask for this healing.”

Leonie trembled. There was a unique power in the man’s prayer. His hand was strong, and when finally he released hers, she looked up and said, “I feel the Spirit of the Lord here in a strange way.”

“Nothing strange about it.” The doctor’s face changed, and he said, “God is going to do something in Lady Augustine’s life.” He added, “And I think in your life.”

Leonie looked up at him. “I’m thankful that you came, Dr. Sheffield.”

“Do you believe God’s promise?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Good. The two of us make a good team, don’t we?”

Leonie suddenly felt warm and confident about the future. She looked at the face of the woman that now she was certain was her grandmother. The fever seemed to have gone down, and she turned and said, “Yes, Dr. Sheffield, we make a good team.”

PART THREE

• NOVEMBER 1833–MARCH 1834 •

Maria

Chapter fourteen

One of the heavy logs settled in the fireplace, making a hissing sound and sending a shower of golden sparks up the chimney. Lowell Augustine had been reading a book but looked up and watched the display for a moment. He got up and walked over to the fireplace. He picked up one of the logs, put it on top of the glowing embers, and then used the heavy poker to shove the log until more sparks flew upward. The tiny flames began to lick around the fresh fuel, and for a time Lowell stood soaking up the heat. It had been a cold November for New Orleans, and Lowell made a note to remind Julius to bring in more wood for the fireplaces.

From somewhere deep in the house, he could hear voices. Punctuating this noise, the grandfather clock began striking a slow, sonorous tune. Replacing the poker, Lowell walked over to the window and looked up at the leaden gray sky. The sun had been hiding itself for several days behind heavy gray clouds, and now the whole earth seemed cloaked in funeral garb.

Lowell’s gaze fell upon a large red squirrel that scampered down the tree and dug industriously in the soil, then sat up. He folded his paws and for a moment looked like a priest engaged in his prayers.

“I wonder if squirrels ever pray,” Lowell murmured, and then the foolishness of his thoughts made him grin. “I’m going crazy in this house. I’ve got to get away.” He turned and walked around the room, looking at the covers of the books. His Uncle Ancel had been a collector of fine first editions, and Lowell had found great pleasure in going through the library. He remembered suddenly how grim life had been as he and Zara grew up. Their father had been a failure in business, and they had moved from one wretched house to another as he tried to eke out a living at various occupations. None of them had succeeded, and when he had finally died, Ancel Augustine had taken his family in.

Reaching up, Lowell took down a book and ran his hands over the fine leather cover, memories flooding him about the days that he, his sister, and his mother had first come to Belle Fleur. It was like going to heaven, he thought. Plenty of food, warm rooms, no worry about how to pay the bills.

He thought briefly of his mother, who had died only two years after they had moved to Belle Fleur. He still missed her, for he’d had a genuine affection for her. He replaced the book slowly, stood irresolutely before the books, and considered his future. He had tried several occupations. None of them seeming to suit, and he faced up to the fact that he was not by nature a driven individual as his Uncle Ancel had been. He loved the life of high society; parties, balls, and social events of all kinds were his delight. Zara was the same. Both of them had grown accustomed to an exorbitant style of living. Their Aunt Maria had been generous, far more so than Uncle Ancel had been. Since Ancel’s death, she had given them everything they wanted, although at times she also delivered a lecture on wastefulness.

Footsteps coming down the broad hallway interrupted Lowell’s thoughts, and he turned to see Julian Harcourt enter. “Hello, Julian,” he said. “Foul weather, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is.” Julian walked over and turned his back to the fireplace, spreading his hands out behind him. “I wouldn’t be surprised if it snowed.”

“Not in New Orleans. It’s not our style.” Lowell studied Julian carefully. At the age of twenty-seven, Harcourt was a fine-looking man, not more than average height and very trim. He had fair hair, bright blue eyes, and classic features. His family had a long and illustrious history, but Harcourt’s grandfather had started dismantling the family fortune with his dissolute habits, especially gambling. Harcourt’s father, Sir Ralph Harcourt, had done the same. He had finally killed himself rather than face poverty, leaving Julian, his mother, and two sisters practically penniless.

“Are you and Zara going out?”

“Yes. The McKays are having a ball. You’re not going?”

“I think I will. Nothing to do around here particularly.”

“How is Lady Maria?”

“She’s getting better. That doctor seems to know his business.”

“I never heard of him.”

“No. He’s new in practice here.” The two men talked aimlessly for a while, and then Lowell said, “Maria’s gotten very close to Leonie.”

Harcourt shot a glance at his friend. “That’s only natural, I suppose. She’s taken care of her during this sickness.”

“I’m not sure it’s a good thing, Julian.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, come now. You must know that we’re on mighty shaky ground here. If that girl is really Ives’s daughter, my aunt will make her the main heir of all of this.”

“Well, there’s nothing we can do about it, I suppose,” Harcourt said gloomily.

“I suppose not. It scares me a little bit.”

“What does?”

“The idea of having to go to work. I’m not fit for anything.”

“Well, I’m not either, I suppose. Blast it!” Julian’s countenance darkened, and he added vehemently, “All would have been fine if she hadn’t shown up! Zara and I would have gotten married. The money would have eventually come to us. We could have gone on just like we have been.”

“You’d better talk to Zara about it.”

“What can she do?”

“She can be nicer to our aunt, for one thing. It’s past time to use a little caution.”

“All right. I’ll try.”

“I’m going up to get dressed. I’ll ride with you, if it’s all right, to the ball.”

“That’ll be fine.”

Zara entered and twirled around. “How do you like my new dress?”

The dress was made out of a dark purple silk with a low neckline, tight-fitting bodice, and long sleeves. The neckline and the sleeves were trimmed with black lace with a row of tiny black bows running down the middle of the bodice to the cinched-in waist. A black silk sash was tied around to the back in a bow, and the full skirt featured black embroidered flowers with three rows of the same black lace along the bottom edge. She wore a black lace wrap around her shoulders and black shiny shoes peeked out from under the long skirt.

“You look beautiful as always, Zara.” Julian went over and put his arms around Zara. She embraced him, received his kiss, and then stepped back, putting her hands on his chest. “Don’t muss me up now. It took me two hours to get this way.” She turned back to the mirror.

“Well, it was worth it. Oh, by the way, Lowell’s going with us to the ball.”

“I guess that’s all right. It ought to be a fancy affair. The family has enough money to do it.”

“I’ve got to talk to you, Zara.”

Surprised at Julian’s tone, Zara turned and studied him. “What is it?”

“It’s about us, I suppose. Things are not going well.”

“What do you mean, ‘not going well’? You don’t mean that girl?”

“Yes, I do. Lowell said he’s talked to you about her.”

“Oh, he has.”

“Well, you should listen to him. I might as well spell it out.” Harcourt grimaced. “We’re in trouble here. You know I have no money. We’ve been depending on the estate coming to you. I feel bad enough about that.”

Zara moved closer and looked up at him. “We’ve talked about that many times. When we’re married, it won’t be ‘my money’ or ‘your money.’ It’ll just be the two of us sharing it.”

“That may never happen. The old woman’s getting mighty fond of Leonie.”

“Well, what can I do about that, Julian?”

“You can do what Lowell says: be nicer to her.”

“That girl! If only she hadn’t shown up!”

“I know, but she did. And she’s not going away.”

Zara’s face clouded. “We’ve got to get rid of her somehow.”

Julian stared at Zara. “What do you mean by that?”

“I mean she doesn’t deserve to be the heiress of Belle Fleur. Lowell and I are the family.”

“Not if the courts declare her the daughter of Ives Augustine.”

“There’s not enough evidence for that!”

“I’m not sure about that. In any case, you be sweeter to your aunt.”

Zara looked at Julian and nodded. “All right. Maybe you’re right.”

“My, you look like a young woman, Lady Maria.”

Maria Augustine was sitting in a chair. The doctor had arrived that morning and was sitting across from her. He smiled and reached out and took her wrist. He felt the pulse, then nodded. “Running like a fine watch. I do pronounce you ‘Out of danger.’”

“It’s been a hard sickness,” Maria murmured. “I don’t remember a worse one.”

“Scarlet fever’s a terrible thing.” Ransom shook his head. “I see sad things every day. Whole families decimated. There’s not really much we can do.”

“You did a great deal for me, Dr. Sheffield.”

Ransom smiled. “You’re a tough patient. Always questioning the doctor.”

The two were sitting in Lady Maria’s bedroom. Faint sunshine had broken through the clouds and threw its beams on the fine carpet. It also touched Maria’s face, and Sheffield noticed that her color was much better. “I’m going to leave instructions for a special diet for you. I’m going to put some meat on your bones.”

“Just give it to Leonie. She’ll see to it.” She looked at the doctor curiously. He had made three visits to Belle Fleur, staying overnight, and had been a comfort to Maria. She had actually been fearful for her life, but Ransom Sheffield’s cheerful manner, his care, had been a comfort to her. She had watched him carefully, and being a good student of human nature, she knew that there was a chance he was just after a wealthy patient. She had, however, also listened as Sheffield had talked to Leonie about the work he did with the poor people of New Orleans, and now as she considered him, she asked, “What about your practice? You seem to be rather able to leave it.”

“Well, my patients can’t go anywhere else.” Ransom grinned. He had a cheerful, open expression, and there was a winsomeness in the man that Maria liked. He was not handsome, but even the roughness of his features had a certain attraction. He had none of the classic good looks of Lowell or Julian Harcourt, but he had a strength that Maria admired.

“Couldn’t you take over some of Dr. Duvall’s practice?”

“He talked to me about it, but I couldn’t see my way clear to doing that.”

“Why not, Doctor?”

“Because I have another dream.”

“What sort of dream?”

“I don’t talk about it too much. I’ve told Leonie about it. My mother died because she couldn’t get the proper medical care, and somehow God put a desire in my heart to become a doctor to help those who couldn’t get help anywhere else. So, that’s what I want to do.”

“Couldn’t you do that and carry on Dr. Duvall’s practice at the same time?”

“I don’t think so. I think God’s calling me full-time to serve Him in this way.”

Maria considered the young man thoughtfully, then said, “Leonie told me that your facilities are very limited.”

“Oh yes, they are. Just a couple of rooms in a run-down house. It gets packed like sardines in a can sometimes, but I’ve done something now that’ll make it better.”

“And what is that?”

“Well, I’ve rented an old warehouse. It’s right in the heart of one of the worst slums in New Orleans. It’s a mess,” he admitted ruefully. Then he laughed and said, “I’ve been working nights trying to make it presentable, but just hauling off the trash is pretty tiresome.”

“And you’re going to make some sort of a hospital out of it?”

“Well,” Ransom answered, “I think that’s a bit too ambitious. But I could make a clinic out of it. There are some rooms in the back that could be made into living quarters. I could cut expenses that way. But it’s going to take a while just to get it prepared. It needs a lot of work.”

Maria looked down at her hands and thought for a moment. Then she looked up and said, “I have an idea—something that might help with your work.”

“And what’s that, Lady Maria?”

“It’s the middle of the winter, and there’s nothing much for the slaves to do until spring planting. Why couldn’t I send them down to help you with this renovation work?”

A pleased light came into Ransom Sheffield’s eyes. “Why, that would be of immense help!”

“I’ll do it then. I’ll send Julius down the first thing in the morning, and you’ll have all the help you want. Also, if you need supplies, I’ll write a note to the supplier who furnishes that sort of thing for us here at Belle Fleur.”

“Aren’t you afraid I’ll take advantage of you?” Ransom smiled.

“No, I’m not.”

Ransom blinked. “Well, I’m glad you feel that way, Lady Maria, and I’ll keep a strict account.” He got up and began to pace around. “This is going to be great!” he said enthusiastically. “I can first—” He broke off when Leonie came into the room bearing a tray covered with a white cloth. “Leonie, guess what?”

“I guess it’s time for Lady Maria’s lunch.”

“Yes. Here, let me help you.” He walked over, picked up a small table, and put it in front of Lady Maria. Leonie put the tray down, uncovered it, and said, “I made you some candied sweet potatoes. I know you love that.”

“Oh, Leonie, that smells so good!” Maria said. “And what’s this?”

“Mushroom and eggs a la ritz. I learned to cook it for my employer when I was a seamstress.”

Maria tasted it and said, “This is delicious. You’re a fine cook.”

“You eat, Lady Maria, and let me tell Leonie the good news.” He turned to her, his face was alight with pleasure. “Lady Maria is going to send some of her slaves down with Julius to help with my new project. I haven’t told you about it.”

“What is it, Doctor?”

“I’ve rented a big warehouse, and I’m going to turn it into a clinic. There’s nothing like it in New Orleans, and I’ve been working nights trying to get it ready. It was such slow work, it seemed almost hopeless.” He turned to Lady Maria, reached over, and put his hand on her shoulder. “Now we’re partners. She’s also going to pay for some paint and some materials to put in walls for private rooms.”

“Oh, Lady Maria!” Leonie exclaimed. She was pleased to see the color in her grandmother’s cheeks and said, “I think it’s wonderful to help like that. And I want to help, too, if you agree.”

“Certainly,” Lady Maria said.

“Come anytime, Leonie. I think it’ll be pretty confusing for a while, trying to renovate that warehouse and see patients at the same time. I’m going to see if I can interest some of the other doctors in coming in and seeing a few patients.”

“I’ll drive in with Julius tomorrow,” Leonie said. She went over and took her grandmother’s hand and held it. “I’m so glad that you’re willing to do this. It’s very kind of you.”

Lady Maria was not accustomed to being praised for her virtues. She flushed and said, “It’s nothing, really.”

“That’s not so, Lady Maria,” Leonie whispered. “It’s something.”

The work at the clinic had gone well. For three days Julius oversaw a dozen of the slaves there, and Leonie had made herself responsible for feeding them well. They had enjoyed the work, apparently, and the good food that she put before them.

The warehouse was a low-ceilinged, rambling sort of place, but Julius, who was a gifted carpenter, had thrown up extra walls, and some of the women had been painting. They had begun to sing during their work. Some of the songs were ones they sang while they were working in the fields. Once Ransom had come to stand beside Leonie, and the two of them had listened. “They sound happy, don’t they?” Leonie said quietly.

“Yes, they do. They don’t have much color and light in their lives. Slavery’s a bad thing. It’ll have to go one day. God willing, it will be soon.”

“I don’t see how that could happen.”

“It’s in God’s hands, but the abolition movement in the North is very strong.”

“Come along. I want to show you your office. We’re all through with it.” Leonie led the way, and when they stepped into one of the larger rooms, Ransom said, “Why, it’s beautiful!”

“No, but it’ll be handy. Notice you get lots of light from the sun through those windows.”

One side of the large room was banked with three windows that admitted sunlight freely. The walls had been whitewashed, and Leonie had managed to scrounge some furniture from the attic back at Belle Fleur. Medical equipment was at a minimum, but at least there were chairs, tables, and cabinets to keep a spare store of medicine and equipment.

“Why, this is really fine! You’ve done wonders, Leonie,” Ransom said, walking around the room, his eyes lighted with pleasure.

Leonie smiled. “I’ve enjoyed it, and Lady Maria is going to come and see it as soon as she gets better.”

“I couldn’t have done it without her and without you.”

The two were talking about the improvements that still had to be made when suddenly a voice rang out. “Hello, Leonie!”

Leonie turned to see Jean Larue come through the door. She smiled. She had seen little of him since she had worked for Madam Honore, but he had visited the clinic a couple of times and met the doctor. He went to her and took her hand, leaned over, and kissed it. “There you are, my little seamstress.”

“Not a seamstress anymore. She’s my chief helper,” Sheffield said.

Larue said quickly, “Doctor, I brought you a patient. I don’t know what to do with her.”

“What’s wrong with her, Jean?” Sheffield asked.

“She has been badly beaten.”

“Beaten! Who beat her?” Leonie asked, her face indignant.

“She worked for a man over in the Quarter. He misused her and beat her. I’ll fix him, though. You wait and see.”

“Where is she?”

“In my cab. Can I bring her in?”

“Of course. Bring her right in here.”

Jean disappeared, and Leonie began to make a place for the new patient. “It’s sad, isn’t it, when things like this happen?”

“Yes, it is. I think Jean’s mad enough to shoot somebody.”

They waited until Jean came in, half supporting a young woman.

“Here. Put her right here in this chair.”

“You take care of her, Doctor. I’ll be back to see you later on, Leonie.”

“Thank you,” the injured young girl whispered to Jean. She was no more than seventeen or eighteen, Leonie figured. She had a beautiful, light-olive complexion. Her eyes were swollen nearly shut, her lips were cut, and there was a large bruise on the side of her cheek. She cried out when the doctor bent over and touched her.

“Here, why don’t you lie down, Miss? What’s your name?”

“My name is Lolean Delaughter.”

“Would you stay with me, Miss Dousett? I may need some help.”

Leonie said, “Yes, of course, Doctor.” As Ransom began to examine the girl, she was shocked at the severe beating the girl had taken. She could barely move, and Sheffield murmured, “I think you’ve got some cracked ribs there. Nothing much I can do about that except try to make you comfortable, but we can take care of some of these cuts on your face.”

After treating the girl, he asked, “Do you have a home to go to?”

“No. I have noplace.”

“Well,” Ransom said, “we’ve got a room practically ready, and I’ve got a cot we can put in there. You can stay there until you find someplace better.”

“Thank you, Monsieur,” the girl whispered. She lifted her eyes to the doctor and said, “I have no money.”

“No money necessary. Why don’t you take care of this young lady, Miss Dousett?”

“Come along, Lolean. Here. Let me help you.” She assisted the young girl, who could barely walk, to one of the rooms and saw that she had all she needed. “I’ll bring you something to help you sleep.”

“Thank you, Mademoiselle.”

Blaise Mignon appeared unexpectedly the next day. He greeted Leonie with a smile and said, “Maybe we can talk.”

“Of course. Come over here where it’s quiet.”

Blaise followed her and looked around at the slaves who were banging away, putting up a new wall. “What is all this?” He listened as she told him the plan to make a clinic for poor people, and he said, “That doctor, he must be a nice fellow.”

“He’s a fine man.”

Blaise said, “How are you getting along with your grandmother?”

“She was very sick, but she’s better now. Dr. Sheffield treated her, and she’s paying for having this clinic refurbished.”

“Has she said anything about you?”

“You mean has she admitted I’m her granddaughter? We haven’t talked about it.”

Suddenly a loud voice—an angry voice—sounded.

“Who’s that yelling?” Blaise asked, looking toward the door.

“I don’t know.” Leonie quickly moved outside and saw a very large man towering over Sheffield. He was shouting, “I’ve come to get that girl! My name’s Carl Hackman, and she’s my property!”

“She’s not a slave. You don’t own her,” Ransom said. He was as tall as Hackman but looked thin next to him.

Hackman had a blunt face, and his eyes were small and burning with rage. “You keep out of this! I’m taking her back!”

“No, you’re not. She says she won’t go back with you—that you abused her.”

Hackman continued to shout, and then he looked up and saw that the young girl was watching him fearfully. “You come with me,” he demanded.

“No. I will never go back with you,” Lolean whispered.

“Then I’ll take you!”

Hackman started for the girl, but as he did, Ransom reached out and caught his arm. “You can’t take her. I’ll have—” He had no time to finish, for Hackman had swung a fist and caught him right over the eyebrow. Sheffield reeled backward into the wall, and at once Hackman was at him, striking fierce blows at his body and face. Sheffield tried to defend himself, but he was no match for the bruiser.

Leonie cried out, but before she could do more than that, Blaise Mignon reached down and picked up a short length of timber. Swinging it like a bat, he caught the big man on the side of the head. Hackman staggered but did not go down. As coolly as a man casting a fly with a fishing pole, Blaise took another swing even more powerfully that hit the man again in the head. Hackman collapsed, blood streaming from his head.

“We’ll have him arrested,” Mignon said lightly.

“Is he dead?” Leonie whispered.

“Unfortunately not. He’s got a hard head.” He walked over to Sheffield, who had stumbled to his feet, and said, “You must be the good doctor.”

Sheffield was dazed, and Leonie went to him and said, “Come and sit down, Dr. Sheffield.”

Blaise left and returned shortly with two burly policemen. They hauled Hackman to his feet, and Blaise said, “I’ll be down to press charges later.”

“Your poor face,” Leonie whispered to Ransom. “Let me put some cool compresses on it.”

Slaves had gathered around to watch, and Julius said with indignation, “If I’d been here, I could have hit him my own self !”

“Just do that the next time he comes in,” Blaise said with a smile.

“Are you hurt badly?” Leonie whispered to Ransom.

Ransom Sheffield reached up and touched his bruised face.

She said, “Where are you hurting most?”

“I guess I hurt all over more than I do any particular place.” He tried to smile and said, “Ouch!” He looked up at Blaise and said, “Thank you, sir.”

“Anytime. Come to think of it, maybe I can make a living as a tough guy.”

“You need a doctor to put you together,” Leonie said to Ransom. “That eyebrow. That cut’s going to take some stitches. I’ll go down the street and get Dr. Roberts.”

As soon as she left, Blaise said, “That’s a fine young woman.”

“Yes, she is. I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“I’m Blaise Mignon, an old friend of Miss Dousett.”

“I hope that fellow doesn’t come back.”

“I don’t think he will. A few days in jail may cool him off. I’ll go along now. Tell Leonie I’ll be back later.”

“Yes, sir, and thanks for your help.” As Blaise Mignon left, Sheffield got slowly to his feet. His ribs hurt, and as he went over to look in a mirror, he said, “You were ugly enough to begin with, and you’re going to look like a gorilla now.”

“Are you all right, Doctor?”

He turned around and saw the young Creole woman, Lolean. Concern was in her face.

“I guess we’re about the same. Both of us had a beating.”

She reached up and touched his face. “I am so sorry. He is a cruel man.”

“He won’t be back anymore. I promise you.” He looked down at the young woman and smiled. “I guess we could hire a bodyguard to take care of both of us.”

Tears came to her eyes, and she said, “Thank you for taking care of me.”

Ransom Sheffield had a tender heart. “Why, that’s what I’m here for, Lolean.”

Chapter fifteen

February had passed away, taking with it the worst of the cold weather. March came in like the proverbial lamb, with warm days of sunshine and even breezes loaded with warmth from the South. The beaches of the Gulf Coast were filled with bathers, and the streets of New Orleans were packed with visitors.

Leonie had just returned from a trip into town. She greeted Lady Maria, who asked, “How was the clinic doing?”

“Dr. Sheffield looks so weary,” Leonie answered, a troubled look in her eyes. “He’s lost weight, and he works day and night. I’m afraid for him.”

“You’ve grown very fond of that physician, haven’t you?”

“Yes, I have. He’s such a good man.”

Maria sent more funds to help with the clinic and to pay for medicine for those who could not afford it.

As the weeks passed, Leonie stayed close to home, but she had little to do except take care of her duties in the house. As a result of this, she spent a great deal of time out-of-doors, wandering through the bayous. She had been confined to a city most of her life, and it began to delight her to watch the reptiles, birds, and mammals of the swamp. She became familiar with the staccato quock of the stubby black-crowned night heron, and she loved to watch the great space-loving egrets as they came to fish and nest in the swamps. She grew familiar with the small mammals, such as squirrels and swamp rabbits, who inhabited the solid land. The shy otter and the gregarious raccoons fed on the banks of the swamp, their diet fish, crawfish, and young amphibians. Once she saw a pair of black bears, shy creatures that usually stayed deep in the swamp. Many days she went out to roam the land whose only significant rises were natural ridges called levees. The cypress and tupelo gum trees were everywhere, and a green gloom in the depth of the bayous gave it a romantic image.

Flowers, even in early March, were a delight. Hibiscus, wild iris, spider lilies, and pond lilies decorated the freshwater marshes, and Leonie delighted in gathering them and taking them into the house. Sometimes a solid layer of hyacinths stretched from bank to bank on the surface of the bayou.

“You better watch yourself in that bayou, Miss Leonie,” Julius warned as she began spending more time there. “There’s bad things there. There’s alligators that could swallow you in one bite and cottonmouths most thick as my leg.” He shook his head and frowned. “It’s a beautiful place, but it’s full of death.”

Leonie was careful, and many times she did see the monstrous leviathans looking like logs for all the world. She also was careful to stay away from anything that looked like one of the cottonmouths that pervaded the swamp.

One late afternoon, as she was walking home from her wanderings, she passed through hackberry trees and live oaks and white oaks towering seventy feet above the earth. The live oaks were not as tall, but they made up for it in breadth, stretching out their branches to make crowns a hundred feet or more across.

As she made her way back to the house, she noted that the streams were muddy, the color of milk chocolate, as if the earth had melted and begun to ooze. The broad streams were lined with the oaks, and there were enormous patches of long, yellow-spiked cane and green palmettos rearing up from the banks like oversize hands, motionless in the shade. Finally she passed out of the bayou, walking down a long, winding road that led to the plantation itself. Some of the hands were out, and as she passed, she gave them a cheerful call, and they looked up from their plows to wave back at her. She had become acquainted with most of the slaves and felt a great sorrow at the plight that most of them endured.

Finally she reached the house, and when she entered, she found Mrs. Danvers in the kitchen working with the cooks. The older woman looked up and smiled. “You’ve been out in that bayou again.”

“Yes, I have. It’s such a wonderful place.”

“It ain’t wonderful to me,” Opal Dupre snorted. Opal was the cook, a heavy woman with green eyes and thick brown hair. She was superstitious. “I dreamed about that place once. I wouldn’t go out there if you gave me the city of New Orleans.”

“Oh, don’t be foolish, Opal,” Leonie replied with a smile. “As long as you stay away from the alligators and the snakes, it’s a beautiful place. What can I do to help you?”

“You can peel these potatoes.”

“All right.” Leonie sat down on a high stool and began peeling. As she did, the three women talked about the plantation, and Leonie thought again how Mrs. Danvers had become far more friendly than she had dreamed could happen. The older woman had been antagonistic when she had first come, but Leonie understood that. Mrs. Danvers now was as friendly as it was in her to be. And as she peeled the potatoes, Leonie asked, “What was Mr. Ives like growing up?”

“He was a good boy but mischievous. Always pulling a practical joke,” Mrs. Danvers answered. She was carefully shelling crawdads and preparing them for the pot. She smiled unexpectedly then and shook her head. “He was one for practical jokes. I had his mother paddle him more than once for some of his wild tricks.”

“Tell me about them.” Leonie listened as the older woman began to relate stories, and finally, when all the potatoes were done, she sighed, “I wish I could have known him.”

Mrs. Danvers suddenly looked at her. “He would have been proud of you, Leonie, very proud.”

Leonie’s face colored as it always did at praise. “Do you think I am his daughter, Mrs. Danvers?”

Mrs. Danvers looked at her for a long moment silently, then nodded. “You are very like him. I think you have the Augustine blood.”

“My grandmother never says anything.”

“She’s afraid of being deceived. She has been fooled many times by people, some of them in her own family.”

Leonie did not ask more, for she knew that Mrs. Danvers would never go into detail. “I’m going up to see how she is.” She left the kitchen, walked upstairs, and found Lady Maria sitting out on the balcony.

“It’s too brisk out here for you, Lady Maria.”

“No, it feels good. It’ll be sultry and hot soon enough. Where have you been? I saw you coming down the road.”

“Oh, I just went out to the bayou. I like it so much out there.”

“You be careful. That’s a dangerous place.”

“I am.”

“What have you heard about the clinic? Anything more?” Lady Maria asked.

“I got a letter from Dr. Sheffield this morning,” she said. “The clinic is full, and he’s working full-time there.”

“I don’t see how he does it. The people can’t pay.”

“He’s mentioned the money you sent, and he says he’s writing you, too, to thank you.”

“Yes, I got his letter. He writes very well for a Kaintock. He says business is slowing somewhat now.”

“Yes, so he says.” Leonie hesitated, then said, “Mrs. Danvers was telling me about my father when he was a boy.”

It was the first time that Leonie had had the courage to call Ives “my father.” She saw Lady Maria’s eyes fly wide open and expected her to protest, but she said only, “He was a good boy. What did she tell you?”

“She said when he was a boy, he played practical jokes.”

Lady Maria smiled. “Yes. Even on me. Not on his father so much.”

“Didn’t they get along?”

“My husband was too strict with Ives. I always told him that, but he would never listen.”

“That’s sad. A boy should be close to his father.”

“So I always thought, but they didn’t have the same sort of personality. My husband was a strict man, not one given to levity, but Ives was full of fun.”

“Tell me more about him.”

For a time Maria described her son and his escapades. Then Leonie asked, “Did you like my mother?”

“I didn’t at first, but I probably wouldn’t have liked any young woman Ives chose. I was very possessive of him. I see that now.”

“What was she like?”

“You’ve seen her picture. It’s very like her. I know now that she was one of the sweetest young women I ever met. But my husband was proud, and he wouldn’t listen to Ives. Ives loved her very much; he told me that many times.”

“I wonder what I would have been like if they had lived.”

“Probably as you are now. Perhaps a little more so.” Suddenly Maria asked, “What is it you want out of life, Leonie?”

“Why, to be a good woman, to serve God.”

“What about a husband and children?”

Leonie flushed slightly. “That will come if God’s wills it.”

“A good answer. I’m going to give a party for you!” she said abruptly.

“For me! What kind of party?”

“We’ll have a ball here at Belle Fleur. We’ll invite the neighbors.”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that, Lady Maria.”

“It’s something I’ve been thinking about. I want to do it.”

“But I have nothing to wear.”

Maria laughed. “You’re a seamstress, aren’t you? We’ll buy some attractive material, and you can make your own dress.”

The conversation at dinner had been fairly friendly, but it fell off abruptly when Lady Maria said, “I’ve decided to give a ball for Leonie.”

Instantly Zara and Lowell glanced at each other, and then Lowell said quickly, “Why, I think that’s a wonderful idea.”

Zara quickly masked her displeasure and said, “Yes, it is. I’ll be glad to help you with a dress, Leonie.”

“That’s good of you, Zara,” Maria said, “but Leonie’s going to make her own dress. I have a feeling she can do a better job than any of those French dressmakers in town.”

Leonie said only, “It seems like a lot of trouble.” But Lady Maria affirmed again, “This is the right thing to do. It’s good for our neighbors and our acquaintances to meet you.”

Lowell and Zara met briefly after dinner outside in the garden. Lowell said, “This isn’t good, Zara. There’s only one reason why Maria would want to give a party.”

“Yes, I think you’re right.”

“If she introduces Leonie as her granddaughter, we’re sunk.”

“I know. We’ll have to do something about it.”

“I don’t know what we can do,” Lowell said miserably. “It’s out of our hands now.”

Zara was silent, and there was a steely flicker in her eyes. “We’ve got to do something, Lowell,” she repeated. “We can’t lose all this.”

Mrs. Danvers looked out the window and said, “There’s that lawyer again.”

“Lawyer?” Leonie was sewing her dress and did not get up, although she looked across the room at Mrs. Danvers.

“It’s Mr. Mignon.”

“Really? I’m surprised.”

“So am I.”

“I know for a fact that Lady Maria told him not to come back.”

Leonie was aware of this as well, and she put her sewing down saying, “I’ll let him in.”

“You better not let Lady Maria know. She’ll be displeased.”

Leonie nodded, then went to the door. She opened it and waited until Blaise came up the steps. He was wearing the suit that she had made for him, and it looked a little bit worse for the wear. He was clean-shaven, his eyes were bright, and she couldn’t smell liquor on him. “Hello, Blaise,” she said.

“Well, greetings, my dear. I suppose you’re surprised to see me.”

“To be truthful, I am.”

“Lady Augustine sent for me.”

Surprise washed across Leonie’s face. “She did? Well, come in then.”

Mignon stepped inside the door and gave her his hat. She hung it on the hall tree and said, “I’m glad to see you again.”

“Let me look at you. Why, you’re blooming. A flower on the bayou.” He took her hands and smiled broadly. “I know someone else who would like to see you.”

“Who is that?”

“That doctor friend of yours. He told me to tell you he can hardly run the clinic without you. Wants to know when you’re coming back.”

“I think I can come fairly soon.”

“Good.”

“How is he, Blaise?”

“Worn down, as usual. Of course, he’s got Lolean to take care of him. That young woman has taken over like a mother hen with one chick. I wish a beautiful woman like that would decide to take care of me.”

“She’s still there?”

“Yes, she works at the clinic now. She’s gotten to be very handy. Almost like a nurse.”

“Oh.”

Blaise gave her a wise glance. “What do you mean, ‘Oh’?”

“Nothing. I’m glad he’s got someone to look after him,” she said stiffly. “Come along. I’ll take you to my grandmother.”

“Do you call her that?”

“Not when I’m around her.”

“I’m curious as to why she sent for me.”

“I am too. She was very suspicious of you before.”

They had reached the second floor and stopped outside of Lady Maria’s door. After Leonie knocked, they heard her say, “Come in,” and Leonie opened the door and went inside. “Monsieur Mignon is here to see you, Lady.”

“Come in, Monsieur.”

Blaise came in, stopped in the middle of the floor, and made a quick bow. “You sent for me, Lady Augustine?”

“Yes. Have a chair. Leonie, would you mind bringing refreshments for us all? I will have café au lait.”

“That will do fine for me as well, Lady Augustine.”

Filled with curiosity, Leonie went downstairs, fixed the thick coffee laced with milk, and took it back upstairs. She found Blaise telling her grandmother about Dr. Sheffield and his clinic. He seemed excited about it. “To tell the truth, no one thought it would work. And, of course, the poor chap was overflowing from the very first. So many poor people and so many sick people. He’s made quite a name for himself, and I know some of the wealthier people have made contributions to the clinic. He’s thinking now of expanding. About all he talks about.”

“I would like to see him again.”

“I’ll tell him you said so, Lady Augustine.”

Leonie took a chair and sat quietly as her grandmother and the lawyer talked for some time. Finally Lady Augustine said, “I feel that I have not been just to you, Blaise.”

Blaise was obviously surprised. “Why, what do you mean?”

“I mean that I was very suspicious when you brought Leonie here. I didn’t trust you.”

“There was no reason why you should.”

“Perhaps not, but I have now decided that you are to be trusted. I am wondering if you would like to be my man of business, as you used to be.”

Blaise’s face suddenly went pale. “Why—why, nothing would please me better, Lady Augustine.”

“Good. It’s settled then. We’ll talk about terms later.”

Blaise glanced quickly at Leonie and said, “Well, if I’m now officially your man of business, there’s one question I would like an answer to.”

“And what is that?”

“How do you feel now about this young woman? In other words, do you feel that she is Ives’s daughter?”

Silence filled the room, and for a moment Leonie could not breathe. She saw her grandmother’s eyes were resting on her. She could not imagine what the older woman was going to say, but her eyes were kind. Leonie’s whole life seemed to be resting on a pair of balance scales, and Lady Augustine’s words would decide her fate.

“I am convinced that she is.” Maria rose from her chair, and Leonie rose as well, feeling faint. Lady Augustine reached out, embraced the young woman, and said, “Granddaughter, it is good to have you here in your home, where you belong.”

Blaise Mignon expelled a deep breath of relief. He smiled broadly as he saw tears come to the young woman’s eyes, and she held f iercely to the older woman. Well, he thought with pride, at least I’ve done one thing right in this sorry life of mine! In his satisfaction, he announced, “A regular job is much better than a monetary reward! Therefore, I will forego financial remuneration for delivering your grandchild. Thank you, Lady Augustine.”

Chapter sixteen

Luke Benteen took a sip out of the whiskey bottle, gasped as it hit his stomach, and then leaned back against the post that supported the roof over the small porch. His tiny shack sat on a piece of the bayou just outside the plantation. He had been drinking steadily all afternoon. He looked up and saw the moon begin to rise, covered with stains of clouds. Discontentment filled him, and he had an impulse to go visit the next plantation, where he could have a liaison with one of the slave women. He knew better than to have any such encounter with the slaves on Belle Fleur; nothing happened in the slave quarters there without everyone knowing about it.

From far off in the swamp came the sound of a bull gator grunting, and Luke listened to it with half his attention. He had been working at Belle Fleur for two years. He was well enough paid for his position, which mostly involved caring for the horses. He had come from New Orleans after experiencing some unpleasantness with the police, and as he sat in the bright moonlight, he longed for the city again. At the age of twenty-eight, he felt his life had gone nowhere.

A slight sound caught his quick ear, and as he turned, he saw a glimpse of white. “Who can that be?” he muttered. He strained his eyes and then suddenly saw Zara Augustine walking toward him. He had quietly admired her beauty many times but knew nothing could ever come of it. What can she want with me?

It was not usual for one of the family to be roaming around servant quarters, and curiosity began to fill him.

“Luke,” she said, coming closer, “is that you?”

Luke put the whiskey bottle down on the porch. “Yes, ma’am, it is.”

“Stand up. I want to talk to you.”

Luke jumped up to face Zara. She looked strangely determined— but about what? “Don’t see you here often, Miss Augustine.”

Zara ignored his remark. She was looking at him steadily, and Luke frantically tried to think what he might have done that she had come to scold him about it. “Anything wrong, ma’am?”

“No. Not yet, but I’ve come to ask you to do something.”

Luke grew wary. What would this woman be coming to ask me? “I’m surprised, but I’ll do what I can.”

“You haven’t heard what it is yet.”

Luke grinned. “Well, I reckon you wouldn’t want it known or you wouldn’t be comin’ like this, Miss Zara.”

Zara’s face was fixed. She had thought of nothing else but a way to get rid of Leonie, and now there was a frightening rigidity in her body, and her eyes seemed almost to glitter. “Do you like money, Luke?”

“I reckon I like it as well as the next.”

Zara was carrying something in her hand. She held up a handful of bills and said, “This is for you if you do what I ask.” She handed the bills over, and Luke took them. He didn’t count them but saw that it was a considerable sum. He held the bills tightly in his hand and asked, “What is it you want me to do?”

“Something that isn’t honest or honorable.”

Luke Benteen laughed. “I don’t reckon we need to worry about that.”

“You understand if you ever breathe a word of this, I have ways of making you wish you hadn’t.”

“For this kind of money, no problem about that. What is it you want? This ain’t enough to hire me to kill somebody.”

“You don’t have to kill anybody.” She took a step forward and said, “Here is what I want you to do . . .”

At dinner that evening, Zara seemed brighter and more cheerful than usual. Leonie thought she looked nervous, but she could not think why that would be. It was just the usual family: Leonie, Lady Maria, Hugh, Lowell, and Zara. The talk had been mostly of the ball that was coming. Lady Maria spoke of it with great anticipation, saying, “We’re going to spare no expense on this, Lowell. I’ll expect you to help with the preparation. You, too, Zara.”

“Why, of course, Aunt,” Lowell said at once. “It’ll be a pleasure. We’ll do it up right.”

“How’s your dress coming, Leonie?” Zara asked, fixing her eyes on Leonie.

“It’s nearly finished.”

“I’m sure it’ll be beautiful,” Lady Maria said.

“I feel odd about all this,” Leonie said.

“Why ‘odd’?”

“Because I’m not using to having a fuss made over me.”

Hugh smiled and said, “Then it’s time, isn’t it? After all, we can’t have a second-rate ball for Lady Maria’s granddaughter.”

Lowell and Zara seemed to have frozen in position. Finally Lowell said, “You’ve decided that, have you, Aunt?”

“Yes, I have. The more I thought about it, the more I saw Ives in Leonie. She resembles him greatly physically, and her ways are like his. And besides, there’s the evidence. I told Hugh of my decision this afternoon.”

“Well, welcome to the family, cousin,” Lowell said. He moved his foot to touch Zara’s under the table.

“Yes. Welcome to the Augustines,” Zara said. She held her glass high and said, “A toast to our new cousin.”

Leonie took the glass and drank. Her face was pale, and she could not take her eyes off her grandmother. She said, “Thank you, Grandmother.”

“I wish your father were here to see this,” Maria said. “But at least we have you.”

Zara had watched Leonie carefully for several weeks, and she had learned that every night Leonie went to the kitchen and drank a large glass of buttermilk. She had asked Leonie once why she did this, and Leonie had said, “Oh, I love buttermilk, and it seems to make me sleep better.”

The house was still as Zara made her way to the kitchen. She opened the cabinet where a quart of buttermilk was kept, removed the top, then poured the contents of a brown bottle into the milk. Quickly she replaced the top, put the jar back into the cabinet, and left the kitchen.

She barely managed to conceal herself behind the door that led to the dining room when she heard steps. Peering out, she saw Leonie enter the kitchen. She watched as the young woman poured a glass of buttermilk and drank it with obvious enjoyment. Relief came to her, then, for she had not been certain that the sour taste of the buttermilk would conceal the taste of the laudanum.

As soon as Leonie left, Zara quickly moved to take the tainted buttermilk from the cabinet. She stepped outside, poured the contents of the jar on the ground, and then filled the jar with fresh buttermilk from the springhouse. Moving inside, she put the jar into the cabinet, and as she turned to leave, a smile was on her lips.

Benteen stood waiting in the darkness. He hid behind one of the large live oak trees, his eyes fixed on the light just over the back porch. It threw its feeble yellow gleam over the yard, and he felt nervous. There was never a thought in his mind of refusing Zara Augustine’s offer. He had done worse things for less money.

Suddenly a noise caught Benteen’s attention, and he straightened up. He saw Zara Augustine step out on the porch. At once he slipped out from behind the tree and approached the house. He asked, “Is it time?”

“Yes. You’ll have to be quick.”

Luke Benteen, of course, had never been in the big house. It was late, nearly midnight, and the house was quiet. “Don’t make any noise,” Zara said.

“No, ma’am.”

Benteen followed her through the kitchen, down a hall, and then up to the third floor. She stood outside the door and said, “Go in, and do as I told you.”

“What if she’s awake and makes a holler?”

“She won’t be,” Zara said flatly. “You go in now. You know what to do when someone comes.”

“I reckon so.”

“You’d better be sure of it. You’re getting well paid enough.”

“I know what to do,” Benteen said and stepped inside the door, closing it behind him. The silver moonlight came through a window, illuminating the room. His eyes went to the young woman lying asleep on the bed. Moving quietly, he went to stand over her. She was lying on her back, and her face was placid and still. He knew her name and that she was reputed to be Lady Augustine’s granddaughter. Too bad for you, Miss, he thought, but I’ve got to get out of this place, and you’re my ticket!

Maria looked up, surprised, at the door. It was late, and she had been unable to sleep. She could not imagine who would knock at that time of the night. “Who is it?”

The door opened, and Zara came in. Her face was fixed. She said, “Aunt, something terrible has happened.”

Instantly Maria threw the cover off. “What is it? Is someone injured?”

“No. It’s worse than that.”

“What is it, girl? Tell me!”

Zara had practiced this scene many times. She swallowed hard and tried to make the words come out as if they were bitter. “I hate to tell you this, Aunt, but it’s about Leonie.”

Maria flinched. “What is it? Is something wrong? Is she sick?”

“I wish it were only that.” Zara was a good actress. “It’s so hard,” she said. “I know how much you care for her, and I’ve tried to keep you from finding out.”

“From finding out what? For heaven’s sake, child, tell me.”

“Well, Leonie’s been having an affair with one of the servants.”

Maria’s eyes flew open. “That can’t be true!” she exclaimed. “It’s impossible.”

“I thought so too. She fooled me for a long time, but it’s true enough.”

“Which servant? Who is it?”

“Luke Benteen.”

“Why, he’s nothing but a rascal!”

“I know, but I got suspicious some time ago, and I began watching them. I hate a sneak as much as you do, but I felt that I had to find out if it was true.”

“What did you do?”

“I followed her. She goes to his room at night after everyone’s in bed, and lately he’s come to her room more than once.” She hesitated, then said, “He’s there now, Aunt Maria.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“I didn’t want to either. That’s not all. I’ve been missing things, some valuable jewelry, and I believe she’s been stealing from me. She’s helped me clean it. She’s the only one that could have taken it.”

The missing jewelry did not seem to disturb Lady Maria as much as the charge of a liaison with one of the servants. “I’ll have to see it.”

“I knew you would. That’s why I waited. He’s there now.”

“Show me.”

The two women left the room and walked down the hall. They ascended the steps to the third floor where Leonie’s room was, and Maria’s face was pale. She watched as Zara opened the door and stepped inside with her.

She saw Luke Benteen jump out of the bed half-dressed. He scrambled into his clothes, and her heart seemed to grow cold. He began to babble something, but she did not hear it. “Get out of here!” she shouted. “Right now!”

Benteen grabbed his shoes and scurried out of the door, and Maria stood looking in disbelief at the girl in the bed. She was lying still, and Zara said, “She’s drunk, Auntie. Here. See this bottle.” She reached on the table and picked up a whiskey bottle. “She pretends not to drink, but I know she does.”

Maria Augustine stood looking at the face of Leonie Dousett. Her heart seemed to have stopped, and she turned and walked out in silence. Like a sleepwalker, she went down the stairs and back to her own room. She sat down heavily in a chair. All strength seemed drained from her. She did not move and could not think straight.

Finally she looked up and saw that Zara had entered. “I found the jewelry,” she said stiffly. “It was under her things in a drawer of the chest in her room.” She held out her hand with the jewelry in it.

Silence filled the room them, and Maria heard herself speaking as if a stranger. “Get rid of that man.”

“Yes, Auntie. Anything else?”

“I will tend to the rest.”

Leonie’s head seemed to be splitting as she woke up. She had never had a headache in her life, but she felt as though someone were putting a red-hot ice pick through her temples. She heard a voice, but for a moment she could not make it out. When she opened her eyes, the room was blurred, and finally her eyes focused and she saw Mrs. Danvers.

“Lady Augustine wants to see you right away.”

Leonie sat up and had to pause. She felt sick, and the pain in her head was terrible. Her tongue seemed thick. “What did you say?”

“You heard me,” Mrs. Danvers said coldly. “I suggest you go to her right away.” She turned and walked out of the room without another word.

Leonie could not put things together. She looked in confusion, then slowly began to remove her night dress and to put on her clothes. It was difficult. She thought, I must be coming down with a fever. I’ve never felt this bad before.

Finally she was dressed, and she made her way to Lady Maria’s door. She knocked, then she stepped inside and saw Lady Maria standing over by a window.

“You wanted to see me, Grandmother?”

Lady Augustine turned, and a glare was never fiercer. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

“About—about what, Grandmother?”

“Do I have to spell it out? Do you have to hear it? I’m talking about the man you had in your room last night. A servant, and a bad one at that!”

“No. That’s not true!”

“I saw it myself, Leonie.” She repeated what had taken place, and Leonie’s mind seemed to be whirling.

“I don’t know what’s going on. I’m sick.”

“I wanted you to be my granddaughter and perhaps you are, but the bloodline does not run true. You’re not what I thought you were. I expect you to be out of this house today, as quickly as possible.”

Leonie stared at Lady Maria, then she turned woodenly and left the room. Her mind would not seem to function. She went upstairs to her room and sat down. Her legs felt weak, and the headache continued to rage. Finally she fell on her knees and said, “God, I don’t know what’s happening, but I know one thing. I don’t have any money and no place to go, but I have You, Lord, and I believe that You’ll take care of me.”

For a long time Leonie Dousett remained on her knees. Finally the headache seemed to grow less violent and then passed away. She thought about all that had happened and knew that she had no choice. She felt a touch and looked down to see Louis pressing against her. She picked up the large cat and hugged him, pressing her face against the fur. “We’ve got to leave this place, Louis, but God will take care of us.”

Chapter seventeen

Ransom Sheffield slumped down in a chair and let the weariness fill his body. He had worked steadily for almost twenty-four hours, having missed a night’s sleep because of the demands of the clinic. For a moment he felt completely and utterly drained, unable to do more than listen to the hum of voices that came from the outer offices.

The door opened, and he looked up to see Lolean enter carrying a tray. “What’s this, Lolean?”

“You must eat something, Doctor.”

“I’m not very hungry.”

Lolean set the tray down on the desk in front of him. “Sometimes when we get very tired we don’t know we’re hungry, but you must eat. You can’t keep going like this.”

Ransom looked up and managed a weary grin. “I don’t know what I’d do without you to take care of me, Lolean.”

The young woman flushed at his praise and said quickly, “I made you some bouillabaisse.”

“What’s that? It smells delicious.”

“It’s mostly fish. I made a lot, so it will last.”

“What’s in it?”

Lolean smiled. “A whole redfish, a whole red snapper, a whole blackfish, and a whole sheepshead. And shrimp and crawfish tails.”

“Well, Lord, for what I’m about to receive, make me truly grateful.” Ransom dipped into the soup with the large spoon she had provided, took a sip, and blinked. “That’s hot.”

“Bouillabaisse is supposed to be hot. I added some hot peppers. I always like it that way myself.”

“I think you could get a job cooking at a fancy restaurant.”

“No, men do all that. Here, I think you’ll like this, Doctor.”

“What is it?”

“Creole lamb chops.”

Ransom cut off a bite of the meat and tasted it. “Why, this is great! I’m going to weigh three hundred pounds if you don’t stop stuffing me.”

“No, you never will. You’re not one of those men that gets fat.”

“No, I guess I’ll be tall and skinny all of my life.”

“You’re not skinny,” Lolean said. “You’re lean and trim.”

“I guess ‘lean’ sounds better than ‘skinny.’ How many patients are out there now?”

“They’re all gone except three, and I asked Dr. Roberts if he would see them. You’ve worked hard enough today. Two days, really.”

“I guess I’d have to agree with you.”

“I don’t know how long you’re going to keep this up. You’re doing too much.”

“It’s what I set out to do, Lolean—to help people who couldn’t help themselves.”

Ransom ate steadily, his hunger aroused by the good food, and finally she took a napkin off of yet another plate and said, “Here. You will like this.”

“What is it?”

“Gateaux galore.”

“Always loved chocolate. How’d you learn to cook, Lolean?”

“My mother taught me how. Now, drink your coffee.”

“You’re up awfully late, Lolean. You’d better go to bed.”

“I’ll go later after you.”

“I’m so grateful for your help,” Ransom said, sighing with contentment. “It’s almost like having a wife. No, it’s better than that. Most wives don’t take care of their husbands as well as you look after me.”

The young woman did not speak, and when Ransom glanced up, he saw an odd expression on her face. “Why, what’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” Lolean said quickly. “It’s just that I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t taken me in.”

“Well, I guess the Lord knew that you needed me and that I needed you. God always puts things together exactly right.”

“You really believe that, don’t you?”

“Of course I do.”

“I hope you always will.”

“You know, Lolean, there are beautiful simplicities in every life. Oh, there are mixed-up things, too, but basically we need to love God and love each other.”

Lolean sat down, seeing that despite his fatigue, Sheffield wanted to talk. It had occurred to her more than once that he really had no one to talk to, at least not on an intimate basis. She loved listening to him, and as he began to describe his dream of a hospital, she was happy to draw up a chair.

“You know, sometimes I wonder if I’m crazy, Lolean. I feel as if I’m a man in the middle of a bridge who forgets both its ends and just stands there, looking down at the water flowing below.”

“That is not what you’re like, Doctor.”

He looked at her, thinking again what a beautiful young woman she was. He had been surprised when she seemed to have no interest in the many men who were certainly interested in her. He took in the ripe and self-possessed curve of her mouth, her wide-spaced eyes colored a golden brown that seemed to have no bottom, and the pale olive shading of her skin—a beautiful complexion. He could not help also but notice the shape of her body: slim and tall. The light from the lamps were kind to Lolean, showing the soft lines of her body and the womanliness in her breast and shoulder.

“You’re a comfort, Lolean,” he said. “I don’t know why you sit here in the middle of the night, listening to my rambling.”

“I like it,” she said simply. “And you are going to have your hospital one of these days.”

“I hope you’re right.” He leaned back, closed his eyes, and locked his fingers behind his head.

“Have you ever had a sweetheart?” Lolean asked abruptly.

Startled, Ransom opened his eyes and took in the expression on her face. “Not really. Women seem to play a game, and I never learned the rules of it.”

Lolean studied him, saying little for a while. “I feel like an orphan, Ransom: too young to die and too old to play, and I’m always losing people. Beloved people push off from my life like boats on the shore, and they disappear.”

Ransom Sheffield felt compassion for the lovely, lonely young woman before him. He leaned forward and took her hand. “Don’t be sad,” he said quietly. “You have many wonderful qualities.”

“No, not really.”

The two looked at each other, and her lips parted in wonder. She had never been as attractive to him as she was at that moment, and he suddenly realized that she was looking at him the way a woman looks at a man. He knew she admired him, and he had come to feel a great affection for her. He opened his mouth to speak, but as he did, the door suddenly resounded from a knock. Quickly he drew his hand back and said, “Come in.” When the door opened, he jumped to his feet. “Why, Leonie, what are you doing here this late?”

Leonie’s face was strained, and her eyes were filled with misery of some sort. “Could I—could I talk with you, Dr. Sheffield?”

“Of course. Come in.”

Lolean stood and gave a half-resentful glance at Leonie. “I’ll be going now.” She picked up the tray and said, “Go to bed as soon as you can. You won’t be fit for work tomorrow.”

“I will, Lolean. Thanks for the supper.” As soon as the door closed, he turned and said, “What’s the matter?”

“Something terrible has happened, Dr. Sheffield.”

“Look, I think we’re good enough friends we can be on a first-name basis. Leonie and Ransom, all right? Now, what’s happened? Is Lady Maria ill again?”

“No, it’s not that. I had to leave Belle Fleur.”

“Had to leave? Why?” He listened as she repeated the story, and he saw the despair etched on her face and deep in her eyes. “I can’t believe it, and I don’t see how Lady Maria could believe it.”

“The man was in my room. Something was wrong with me. I don’t even remember any of it.”

“You were obviously drugged, Leonie.”

“And the jewelry. Zara says I stole the pieces from her and she found them in my room.”

Anger began to build in Ransom. His face grew stern. “I think Lady Maria’s lost something somewhere along the line—compassion or common sense. She knows you well enough to know better.”

“She couldn’t deny the evidence.”

“Well, we’re going to look into this. Don’t worry about it.”

“How can I help it?” Leonie said, tears tingeing her voice. “I have no place to go, Ransom, except back to the convent.”

“Nonsense. You’re not going there. We’ll fix up a room here at the clinic, and you can work here. Not much money for anybody, but it’ll be a place to stay, and I can certainly use the help.”

Relief flooded Leonie, and she said simply, “I knew I could come to you. You were the first one I thought of.”

“I’m glad you did.”

“You’re so kind. I don’t know what I would have done if I hadn’t had you to turn to.”

Ransom put his hand on her shoulder. She seemed very small and vulnerable. “People have to learn to serve each other. We live on credit, balances of little favors we give, and one day we have to return. If you meet someone in trouble, you stop. Another time he may stop for you. One of these days you may pull me out of trouble.”

“I can’t imagine that.”

“The first thing is to get you settled. Come on. Let’s get that room fixed up.”

Leonie’s life took such an abrupt turn at times that it left her breathless. The room in the back of the clinic was small, but she made it functional and attractive. She hung the tapestry she had been working on on the wall, and it gave her comfort to look at it. Some of it she had done before she had left the convent, some while she was working for Madam Honore, and some at Belle Fleur. She thought often that the tapestry was like herself, the fabric of her life woven into it.

She was sitting in her room early in the morning before breakfast. She had been reading her Bible, and it came to her suddenly that her life had a vastly different shape from anything she had imagined. It had new branches, and some of the old branches were dead. It had followed the constant pattern of discard and growth that all lives follow. Things passed, and she had confidence that new things would come. She got up, washed her face, and walked outside. It was too early for patients to begin to gather, so she went to the small kitchen and began cooking breakfast.

She thought of Lolean and knew that the girl resented her. She also had learned during the days she had been there that Lolean had eyes for Dr. Ransom Sheffield. This came as no surprise to Leonie; the girl had come in pitiful condition, and it was Ransom who had pulled her out of it. It was obvious he was a hero to her. Quickly she made eggs, fried ham, and coffee. She had just finished eating when a knock on the clinic’s front door startled her. She got up and walked to the front. When she unbolted the door and opened it, she found Blaise Mignon. “Blaise,” she said, “come in.”

“Good morning. Am I too early?”

“No. Have you had breakfast?”

“Not yet,” he said. He was wearing a new suit, not the one she had made for him, and looked altogether more prosperous.

“Come in. I’ll fix you something. Will eggs and ham be all right?”

“What could be better?”

He followed her into the little kitchenette and sat down. She poured him a cup of coffee and then began to prepare the food. “I’ve done nothing but think about what happened,” Blaise said.

“It doesn’t do much good to think about it, does it?” She tried to smile, but the pain of her separation from her grandmother was keen. “When I didn’t have any relatives, I had nothing to lose. But I was just beginning to feel that I was a part of Lady Maria’s life.”

“You were. She was very fond of you. Everybody could see it.” Blaise sipped his coffee, then shook his head. “Something is wrong, and I’m going to find out what it is.”

She finished preparing the breakfast, and when she sat down, he began to eat. But his eyes were fixed on her. “Are you very unhappy, my dear?”

“I have a hurt in my heart, for I hate to disappoint my grandmother.”

“This place isn’t much,” Blaise noted. “I’m being paid now. If you’d like to move to a better place—”

“Oh no, this is fine. I have work to do here.”

“It’s not a paying proposition, is it?”

“No, not for anyone. I suppose that’s why I admire Dr. Sheffield so much. He could be making a lot of money in practice. He’s such a fine doctor.”

“I admire him, too, although sometimes I think he’s a fool for turning down prosperity. I think of my own life and the mistakes I made. They were the worst kind. You know, sometimes I think we’re made of memories. They say 95 percent of us is water, but that’s wrong. It’s 95 percent memories.” He took a bite of toast, chewed it thoughtfully, and shrugged. “My memories are all snarled and tangled like a line on a reel that had to be cut away. I’ll never get them straightened out.”

“God could straighten them out for you, Blaise.”

He smiled. “You’re going to preach at me. I can feel it coming. Well, I’m eating your food, so preach away.”

“I’ve become very fond of you, and I want to see you safe.”

The simple declaration made Blaise stop midchew. He said, “I believe you mean that. Well, don’t give up on me, Leonie. I’ve thought about God more since I met you than I have in my whole life.”

At that moment Lolean entered the kitchen. She was startled to see Leonie and Blaise there.

“Let me fix you some breakfast, Lolean,” Leonie offered.

“No, thank you,” she said, backing toward the door. “I’ll eat later. Good morning, Monsieur.”

“Good morning, Miss.”

Lolean disappeared, and Blaise lifted one eyebrow. “What a beautiful girl.”

“She is very pretty.”

“The doctor’s doing all right. Two beautiful women to take care of him.”

“It’s not like that, Blaise,” Leonie protested, “and I’m not beautiful the way she is.”

“We won’t argue about that.” He finished his breakfast and said, “Do you need any money? I just got paid.”

“No, I’m fine.”

“All right. I’ve got to go.” He reached out and took her hand and kissed it. “You’re going to find your place. I’m going to see to it.”

“As God wills.”

“I don’t know much about God, but I think it’s always His will that a family be together. Good-bye.” He left abruptly, and Leonie stood thinking what a strange man he was.

“We worked too hard. We’ve got to have a break.”

Leonie looked up. She had been mopping the floor, and Ransom had come in, his face determined.

“You work harder than anyone,” she said.

“Well, I need a break then. Tonight we’re going out on the town.”

“Going out? Where?”

“We’ll go out and have dinner at an expensive restaurant. Then we’ll go to either the circus or an opera. They are both in town. I’ll let you choose.”

“I’d rather go to the opera, but isn’t it expensive?”

“I got a new contribution for the clinic. We’ll take a little out of it. We owe ourselves a night out.”

“If you say so!”

The two looked at each other like conspirators, and he said, “You know, we ought to ask Lolean to go.”

“Oh, that would be very nice.”

Lolean, when Ransom mentioned it, brightened up at first, but then her face fell when he said, “Just the three of us.”

“Leonie is going?”

“Yes. It’ll be fun, Lolean.”

“I’d rather not. I don’t care for operas.”

“We’ll be disappointed.”

She did not answer, and Ransom could not persuade her to go. He mentioned this to Leonie, who looked at him oddly. “Don’t you know why she won’t go?”

“She says she doesn’t like operas.”

“Ransom, she’s a woman, and you practically saved her life. It’s only natural she would attach herself to you.”

“Well, nothing can come of that.”

“Why not?”

“Well, I don’t know why not. It’s just not to be.”

“Be very careful, Ransom.”

Ransom stared at her. “What do you mean, ‘Be careful’?”

“I mean she’s a beautiful young woman, and you’re often alone with her. You could make a big mistake and hurt her very badly— yourself too.”

Ransom looked confused. “That won’t happen, but I’ll be careful. Another night I’ll take her somewhere else—just she and I will go.”

“That’s a good idea. What time shall we leave?”

“As early as we can. I want to make this a night to remember.”

The meal had been excellent, and the opera had been fun. Leonie had been pleased to see her old schoolmate Damita Madariaga there, and the two had had time for a brief visit.

Driving home in a carriage that one of Ransom’s doctor friends had offered, Leonie and Ransom carried on an animated conversation punctuated by laughter. When they reached the clinic, he unhitched the horse, and the two went inside. The clinic was silent. A single lantern hung on the wall threw its amber corona through the room, twisting shadows into shapes and shedding yellow on the walls and on the floor.

“I’m tired, but I hate to go to bed,” Leonie said with a sigh.

Ransom turned to her and asked, “Did you have a good time, really?”

“Oh yes!”

“I wanted to make you forget some of your problems. I had some things I needed to forget myself.”

“What would you want to forget?”

“Oh, we all have things that need to be shoved into a box and locked up.”

The two stood talking in low voices, and as Leonie stood looking up at Ransom, he recognized a deep and well-guarded interest. He was aware that something warm and real lay between them, strong and unsettling, and he gave way to a smiling restlessness. She spoke in a detached and unstirred voice, but somehow Ransom knew she was not as cool as she seemed, for somewhere within, an emotion worked and left its fugitive expression on her face.

Then suddenly, without really meaning to, he leaned forward to see more of what was in her face. He caught the smell of her perfume, lavender, and as he drew even closer, he put his hands on her shoulders. He saw that she had not moved but was looking at him with her face lifted, her eyes motionless. He saw the quick rise and fall of her bosom, and he leaned forward and kissed her. At each moment he waited for her protest and was astonished when it did not come. He felt her hands go to his shoulders, and she did not pull away.

For a moment, as his lips lay on hers, there was a sweetness in them for him. Then the heat of something rash and timeless touched him. She had the power, he discovered with a start, to deepen his sense of loneliness and his hungers.

Leonie knew she was trembling, and she was enormously aware of the strength of Ransom’s arms as they pulled her closer and even more aware of the pressure of his lips on hers. It was like a tall fire springing up through a black sky, and she knew somehow she had crossed a boundary that she had set for herself. She pulled him closer for a moment, and then with a sob pushed him away.

“Don’t cry, Leonie, it was my fault. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” she whispered. “Please don’t be sorry.”

“Then I won’t be.” Faint color stained her cheeks, and she looked at him with a glance that he could not really understand. She was like a strong presence, like a fragrance riding the night air, like a melody coming from a great distance. Ransom said, “We better say good night.”

“Yes. Good night, Ransom. It was a lovely evening.” Turning, she walked quickly away, but he stood for a long time in the yellow light of the lantern.

“What did I mean by that?” he whispered. And he found that he did not know.

Something had changed. He knew that the two of them had turned a corner, had touched the mystery that lies between a man and a woman, and could never be again what they had been before that night.

Chapter eighteen

Two weeks had passed since Leonie’s trip to the opera with Ransom, and every day and every night she was conscious that something new and different had touched her life. It was not the memory of the opera or the fine meal at the restaurant that she dwelt upon but the moments when the two were alone, and Ransom had put his arms around her and kissed her. She had no experience with men and was not sure what he meant by it. She had listened to other young women talk about their romances, but that was of no help to her.

Late one Thursday afternoon she had taken a few moments off from her work in the clinic to walk around the city. She walked aimlessly for a while and found herself on St. Peters Street, walking through the cemetery. She knew that burials in New Orleans were different from those in other places. New Orleans was built on low and swampy ground—the area surrounded by ditches and the earth from the ditches used to raise the level of the land. All of the plots were aboveground, and the cemetery was fenced partly by a wood palisade and partly by a brick wall. She knew that the cemeteries in the city were called Cities of the Dead, and somehow the walk troubled her.

She remembered that on All Saint’s Day, the relatives came to decorate the cemeteries. She had joined the sisters and the students at the convent in this ceremony. They cut down weeds that grew rank in some of the cemeteries, and they patched and freshly whitewashed tombs.

Always one could hear the tap-tap of the marble cutters’ mallets on the tombs of those who had recently been interred. People brought vases of marble and cement and glass and thousands and thousands of chrysanthemums to the cemeteries and placed them at the tombs. Leonie saw that many of the burial sites were graced not with flowers but with funeral ornaments that consisted of floral emblems called immortelles. They were made of wire, beads, and glass. She had heard someone say that Mark Twain, the writer, had said on a visit, “The immortelle requires no attention; you just hang it up, and there you are. Just leave it alone; it will take care of your grief for you and keep it in mind better than you can.”

This had seemed callous to Leonie, and she had resented its seeming indifference to genuine grief. Finally she left the cemetery, disturbed for some reason, and walked down toward the river. For a long time she walked along the banks of the Mississippi, watching the steamboats as they moved in a stately fashion up- and downstream. All the time, she was thinking about her grandmother and Belle Fleur. She had had to remain in prayer almost constantly to keep her spirit sweet, for a bitterness would rise in her, and she would have to struggle against her natural instinct to strike out. When not thinking of this, she was thinking of Ransom Sheffield and what his caresses meant.

Finally she decided to go see the sisters. She made her way through the city until she reached the convent. As soon as she went in, Sister Margaret greeted her. Surprised, Leonie asked, “Where is Sister Agnes?” Agnes usually met all visitors.

“You have not heard?” asked Sister Margaret.

“Why, no. What is it?”

“She’s very ill,” Sister Margaret said, shaking her head sadly. “The doctor says she can’t live long.”

Leonie stared at the nun, filled with shock. Sister Agnes had not been a favorite with most of the students; she was a hard taskmaker. But lately, since she had left the convent and been out on her own, Leonie had discovered another side to the woman. She asked, “Could I see her?”

“I think it would be very good. She may not know you, however.”

Leonie followed Sister Margaret to the infirmary. She walked into the room and was stunned to see Sister Agnes’s emaciated form.

“She can’t eat. The doctors have tried everything. There’s nothing they can do,” Sister Margaret whispered.

“I’ll just sit by her.”

Sister Margaret left, and Leonie stood over the bed of the dying woman. Sister Agnes’s face was merely the outline of a skull. Her lips were drawn back, and she moaned slightly in her sleep. Leonie took a chair and drew up closer. Sister Agnes moved occasionally, as if in pain. Finally she opened her eyes, and her lips moved slightly. “Leonie,” she whispered.

“Sister Agnes,” Leonie said. She reached over and took the hand that was nothing but skin and bones. “I’m so sorry to find you like this.”

“Don’t be sorry. I’m going to be with my Lord soon.” The voice was weak and thin, and speaking seemed to take all of her effort.

“Is there anything I can do for you? Anything?”

“No. At a time like this we can only go so far with our friends.”

Leonie held onto the woman’s hand, and Agnes wanted to know what was happening in her life. Leonie did not tell her about leaving Belle Fleur. She spoke mostly of helping Dr. Sheffield in the clinic.

Sister Agnes listened, sometimes seeming to doze off. Leonie’s heart gave a little lurch each time, for she thought the woman might be dying that moment.

Suddenly Agnes seemed to gather strength. She turned her head, and her eyes seemed enormous in her shrunken face. She began to speak of her childhood. “I was in love once. You didn’t know that, did you?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“I was very much in love, but I couldn’t make up my mind whether God was calling me to be a nun or to be a wife and mother.” She lay very still, and finally she whispered, “I made a mistake. My calling was to be a wife and a mother, not a nun.”

“Oh, I can’t believe that, Sister Agnes! You’ve served God so faithfully.”

“I’ve tried to.” Agnes seemed to struggle for breath, then whispered, “God uses people who make mistakes. Now I’ll never know what could have happened if I’d married Joel.”

“God will honor you, for you served Him faithfully.”

Sister Agnes had no strength in her hand, but she tried to squeeze Leonie’s. “Don’t make the mistake I made, Leonie.”

That was the last word she spoke to Leonie. Then she drifted off into what seemed to be a coma. Leonie was alarmed, and she called Sister Margaret to the bedside. “She does this. The doctor says she can’t last more than a few days, if that long.”

Leonie stayed at the convent for the rest of the day. Sister Agnes did not awaken again. When Leonie decided to leave, she stopped at the mother superior’s office. The two women were grieved, and Leonie said, “I didn’t show Sister Agnes the love that I should have.”

“She was a very strict woman and didn’t make friends easily, but the Lord Jesus is her friend, and she’ll be with Him soon.”

Leonie hesitated, then decided to tell the mother superior her entire story. The older nun listened without a word. Finally, when Leonie had finished, she said, “You mustn’t try to defend yourself, and you mustn’t grow bitter. Those are the two worst things you could do. God knows all of this, my child, and His hand is on you.”

Leonie listened as the mother superior spoke for some time, and finally she said, “I’ll come back and see Sister Agnes every day.”

“That won’t be many days, for she’s on her way to the other world.”

Sister Agnes died two days later, and Leonie attended the funeral. It was a grievous time for her, and she was quiet for several days. Somehow the death of Sister Agnes had touched her in a way that she had not anticipated. She could not figure out why it so affected her. She kept thinking back over the words, “Don’t make the mistake I made.”

One night Leonie Dousett sat trying to pray, and finally she fell on her knees beside her bed and said, “I don’t want to make a mistake in my life, Lord. You know I love You, but I can go wrong. So I’m asking You for wisdom.”

She prayed for a long time, and she thought of the intimate prayers of certain individuals she had met. They had seemed to have a closer relationship with Jesus than she had.

Finally she began to pray in desperation. “Lord Jesus, I want to know You better than I know anyone else. I want to love You more than anyone on this earth, so I ask You to come into my heart in a new and fresh way. Give me Your Spirit that I may walk free from bitterness and free from anger, filled with love as You were filled with love.”

For hours Leonie struggled in prayer, but she was not conscious of the passage of time. She was locked in a struggle with God, and once she thought, This is like Jacob struggling with God all night.

Finally, near midnight, she suddenly relaxed, and she felt something change within her. She did not know what it was, but she knew that somehow God was in it. She cried out softly, “Lord Jesus, I give You my life. Whatever You want me to do, I will do. I only ask that You be with me.”

Joy suddenly flooded her heart, and she began to weep. As she wept, she managed to say, “I’ll serve You, God, any way that You choose.”

Finally the dawn came, and Leonie Dousett got up. She knew somehow that never again would she be the same.

PART FOUR

• MARCH–JULY 1834 •

Ransom

Chapter nineteen

“Oh, it’s you, Leonie! Come right in.”

Leonie smiled at Susan Barnes’s greeting. The woman had always been fond of her, and now she grinned broadly as she reached out and drew Leonie into the interior of the small house. She gave her a hug and a kiss on the cheek then exclaimed, “Where have you been? We’ve missed you so much!”

“I’ve been away for a time, but I’m back now.” Leonie had time to say no more before the four Barnes children came flowing in, two from a back room and the others from outside. They pulled at Leonie, all vying for her attention, and finally Susan cried, “Now, you children leave the poor woman alone! You’re going to have to be quiet.”

“It’s all right, Susan. I’m so glad to see all of you.” She spoke to them, each one in turn. When she had greeted them all, Susan said firmly, “Now, you come and sit yourself down right here. I made a new prune cake just this morning. I had a feeling we’d have visitors. While you eat it, you can tell us all you’ve been doing.”

For the next twenty minutes Leonie alternated between small bites of cake and answering the questions that the children fired at her. They were naturally interested in what she had been doing, and finally she laughed and said, “You are all far too curious.”

At that moment the outer door opened, and William Barnes entered. He was wearing his working clothes, his face was sunburned, and he looked healthy and strong. “Who is this come to the Barnes house?” he cried and went at once to shake hands with Leonie, who rose to greet him. “It’s about time you made your way back to our humble abode,” he said.

“I’m so glad to see you, Sir. You look fine.”

“The good Lord’s given me good strength and health. It’s another miracle. Now let me sit myself down and eat some of that cake my dear wife has made, and you can tell me all you’ve been doing.”

Nothing would do but that Leonie would have to go over her activities again. She was discreet about the trouble she had undergone and did not mention the circumstances that had caused her to leave the Augustine estate. Finally she said, “So I’ve come back now, and I’m living at the clinic and helping Dr. Sheffield.”

“Oh, you’re a nurse! How wonderful!” Susan exclaimed.

“Oh, I’m not really a nurse. I don’t have that kind of training. I just help as I can.”

“That man is a saint,” William Barnes said, thumping the table with the flat of his hard hand. “Only God above knows the good he’s done for the poor people in this section. He’s an angel. I wouldn’t be surprised to see wings sprout from his shoulders one day.”

Leonie laughed. “He’s not an angel, Sir, I’m afraid. But he is a good man.”

“In any case I revere the man, I truly do,” William Barnes said, winking at her.

For the next twenty minutes Leonie enjoyed her visit with the family, and finally she rose saying, “I really must go.”

“No. Stay and tell us stories!” Annie begged.

“Now don’t pester the lady,” William said gently. “She has work to do.”

“I’ll come back another time, Annie, and tell you stories.”

Leonie had to promise faithfully. Before she left, she knew she had to say something about the new walk she had with God. “Mr. Barnes and Susan, I need to tell you something,” she said. “I learned so much about trusting in God from watching you two. When things were bad you never doubted, and God has been speaking to me lately. I don’t know what to call it—a second conversion or what—but I have learned to trust in the Lord for everything.”

“Well, bless the Lord!” William Barnes exclaimed loudly. “Glory be to God and the Lamb forever! I rejoice with you, Leonie.”

“I’m so happy for you,” Susan said, and tears were in her eyes. “You have always been so good to us, and it’s good to know that you’re walking closer to God now.”

Leonie left the house, and on her way back to the clinic, she thought of how those poor people had such happiness and joy while there was such unhappiness in those who had much more materially. She thought of this all the way home, and going to her room, she sat down in a straight-backed chair, and Louis jumped up into her lap. “Well, what have you been doing, Louis?”

“Yow!”

“You always say that. What does it mean? And by the way, I don’t want you bringing me any more presents, no more mice or birds. You hear me?”

“Yow!”

Leonie laughed and squeezed the cat and stroked his silky fur, and for a time she sat thinking about where her life had come in such a short time. She had thought she would stay permanently with her grandmother, but somehow that had not happened. She could not understand it at all, and she reached over and picked up the Bible. Louis was protesting, but she put him on the floor.

She opened it up to the book of Romans and searched for the verse that had been coming back to her again and again. It was in the eighth chapter of Romans, the twenty-eighth verse: “All things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to his purpose.” She closed the Bible and put her hands on the cover. Her head was bowed, and she did what she had been doing of late: simply meditating on the Word of God. No one had taught her, but she had read in the First Psalm that those who did mediate were blessed. She thought about the verse and how strange it was. How can it be good when bad things happen? And yet God says that it is. That all things are working together for good. I don’t understand it, but I believe it.

For a long time she sat thinking about what God was doing in her life, and more than once she thought of what a tremendous effect Ransom Sheffield had had on her. She had not given much thought to young men or to marriage while a student at the convent, but lately she had wondered about such things. What would she do with the rest of her life? She knew deep within her heart that she wanted a husband and children, a home based on love between a man and a woman. But which man?

Finally she knelt down and began to pray. Her prayers until recently had been rote, going over a rosary and repeating the same prayers without giving them much thought. Now, however, when she talked to God, she simply spoke to Him as a woman talked to her friend. She poured her heart out to God, and when she finally rose, she felt a warmth and a sense of having met with the Lord.

Leaving the room, she went at once to the main part of the clinic where a large number of patients were waiting. Many of them she knew and spoke to, stopping to chat for a moment. When she went into the main examining room, Dr. Sheffield was treating an older man. He was a small man, shrunken, but his eyes were an amazing bright blue, electric and alert. They were almost hidden in their sockets, and his face was lined and tanned a deep mahogany. “This is Mr. Griffith, nurse,” Dr. Sheffield said cheerfully. “He’s having a little trouble with his rheumatism, so we’re going to give him something to make it better.”

The patient smiled and bobbed his head. He had an odd habit of keeping his head turned sideways and squinting upward. “How you be, Miss?”

“Very well, thank you, Mr. Griffith. I hope this treatment will help you.”

“Not much can help rheumatism. Too many nights at sea, wearing wet clothes.”

“You were a sailor, sir?”

“All my days, from the time I was five years old. I went out with my dad, I did. Still miss the sea, I do.” He winked and took the bottle that Dr. Sheffield gave to him. “What be this, Doctor?”

“Something that’ll make the pain a little bit more bearable.”

“Thank ye, Doctor.” The old man held it and looked at it carefully. “I’m short of money right now, but I’ll have some next week from my son.”

“Don’t you worry about it, Mr. Griffith. Come back if you have any more trouble.”

“That I will. That I will. Good-bye, Missy. Good-bye, Doctor.”

“Good-bye, Mr. Griffith,” Leonie said. After he left she said, “He’s very lively for his age, isn’t he?”

“Yes. I wish I could do more, but laudanum is about the only thing we have that’ll help, and it’s temporary. Maybe someday one of the real doctors will discover a cure for rheumatism.”

Leonie looked puzzled. “What do you mean, ‘real doctors’?”

“Oh, I mean those that find the causes of disease. The rest of us struggle along, giving laudanum and half a dozen other remedies, and that’s about all we can do.”

“I won’t have you talk about yourself like that, Ransom Sheffield!” Leonie stared at him, her face flushed. “You help these people every day, and I don’t want to hear you put yourself down again!”

“Whoa, don’t shoot!” Ransom laughed and held up his hands in mock defense. “Maybe I’m more wonderful than I think.”

“You may make fun, but that old man didn’t have anybody. He’s probably pretty much alone in the world, but now he knows there’s one man he can come to.”

“You really think our work is that good?”

“Of course I do!”

“Well,” Ransom said slowly and thoughtfully, “I’m glad to hear you say that. It’s always what I wanted, to be a help to people, and I’ve asked God to put me in that position.”

“He’s answered your prayer.”

Suddenly the door opened, and Lolean came in. She was wearing a white dress much like a uniform. When her eyes went to Leonie, there was a hardness there. “Shall I show the next patient in, Doctor?”

“In a minute. First I’ve got a surprise for you two.”

“A surprise?” Lolean asked. Leonie could see the devotion in her eyes. She could not hide her love for the doctor any more than she could hide her dislike for Leonie. “What kind of a surprise?”

“We’ve been working hard, and I think we deserve a reward,” Sheffield said. “Tonight we’re going out to Antoine’s for dinner.”

“But that’s so expensive!” Lolean gasped.

“Hang the expense!” Sheffield waved his hand in the air airily. “We’re going out on the town, so you two have your best dresses on at seven o’clock. I’ll put on my ratty old suit. But people won’t be looking at me anyway. We’ll go out and have ourselves a time.”

“It sounds wonderful, doctor,” Leonie said. “We’ll enjoy it, won’t we, Lolean?”

Lolean did not even answer. “I’ll send the next patient in,” she said.

“What’s the matter with her? She seems grumpy,” Ransom said.

Leonie almost burst out, “She wants to be alone with you—can’t you see it?” but she caught herself just in time. “I think she’s all right. She just works hard.”

The two women and the doctor all worked long hours that day. It was late in the afternoon when the younger woman confronted Leonie. Leonie had gone to the room where they kept their meager supplies, and as she turned to leave, suddenly Lolean came in. “Hi, Lolean,” she said, smiling. “We’re going to have a good time tonight, aren’t we?”

Loleen did not smile but said abruptly, “I know you think you’re in love with Dr. Sheffield, but you don’t love him like I do. You couldn’t.”

Leonie had known for some time of the girl’s affection for the doctor but was surprised at the bluntness of her words. “What are you talking about?”

“You’re in love with him. I can see it.”

“No, you mustn’t say that.”

“Don’t bother to deny it,” Lolean said scathingly. “I know it’s true. But I love him more than anyone else, and I just want you to know that you couldn’t make him happy.” She turned and left the room, leaving Leonie staring after her. “The poor girl,” she said, “but she’s wrong.”

The rest of the day was unpleasant since the two women had to work closely together, and Leonie could feel the hard feelings that Lolean had for her.

About four o’clock she heard a voice and looked over to see that Blaise Mignon had entered the clinic. He rushed up to her, and she saw that his face was flushed. He had been drinking, she realized, but his eyes were alert. “Hello, Blaise,” she said. “What brings you here?”

“A little business. I’ve got some bad news from the house.” Seeing the quick look of worry on Leonie’s face, he said, “It’s Hugh. He’s very ill. Dr. Sheffield needs to take a look at him.”

“What’s wrong with him, Blaise?”

“I don’t have a clue,” he said. “What with the scarlet fever floating around New Orleans, every time anybody coughs it scares us a bit. I’m quite fond of Hugh.”

“I’m sure the doctor will want to go.”

“Well, this won’t be a charity call. He’ll be well-paid for his trouble.”

The two chatted for a moment, then Blaise said, “I’ve been poking around a little bit, and I think I may have a line on why you had to leave the house.”

“What is it?” Leonie asked.

“I won’t say much about it now, but you keep your faith up, for one of these days Lady Maria is going to know the truth about all this. I’ll be going now, but I’ll probably see you at the house. You be sure Dr. Sheffield gets the message.”

“I will, Blaise.”

She quickly found Ransom and told him what Blaise had said. He said, “We’ll have to go out as soon as we get the patients all seen. You’d better go with me.”

“I’m not sure I’d be welcome.”

“You’re my nurse,” he said. “You’ll be welcome enough.”

As the horses pulled the buggy along at a fast clip, Ransom spoke with obvious excitement of the plans he had for the clinic. The buggy was one of his recent purchases, made possible by the donations from wealthy patrons.

Leonie listened, giving him a smile and an encouraging word from time to time.

Finally he said, “If we expand like I’d like to, we’d have to get some more help. You and Lolean won’t be enough.” One of the horses suddenly reared up and threw the other horse out of step. It took some time for Ransom to get them quiet, and he shook his head. “Must have been a snake or something. Jack’s not usually that spooky. Come on, Jack, calm down now. It’s all right.” When he got the horses under control, he was quiet for a time, and then he said, “I’ve been a little bit worried about Lolean.”

“Why is that, Ransom?”

“She seems sort of—oh, I don’t know, hard to get along with. No, that’s not right. She’s very affectionate, but she’s moody.”

“Don’t you really know what’s wrong with her, Ransom?” Leonie asked. She knew him, she suddenly realized, better than she had known any man, and now she studied the familiar features of his face. Although he was not at all handsome, something in him strongly appealed to her. He had almost a fanatical streak in him when it came to doing the right thing. She had never known a man so concerned with being fair and honest. The patients sensed this and clung to it, and now, as she studied the rugged terrain of his features, she knew that somehow he had a lack of confidence in himself where women were concerned, which surprised her.

“I suppose she’s just not feeling well.”

“Oh, Ransom, she’s in love with you! Surely you can see that.”

Suddenly Ransom Sheffield he turned and looked at her, his eyes wide. “Oh, don’t be foolish, Leonie!”

“Why would it be foolish?”

“Why, she can’t be in love with me. She’s just a child.”

“She’s not a child. She’s a woman, and you came to her aid when nobody else would, Ransom. She’s with you almost constantly. The fact that you’re a doctor has an appeal for some women. You’re not handsome, but women like you. I’ve seen that.”

Ransom grinned wryly. “I’m not handsome.”

“No more than I’m pretty.”

“Well, there’s two opinions about that. But you’re wrong about Lolean—at least, I hope you are.”

“I don’t think I am.”

“But, dash it all, that’s going to complicate everything!”

“Why is it?”

“Because I’m not in love with her. I have no idea of being in love with a child like that.”

“Stop referring to her as ‘a child’!” Leonie said sharply.

“Well, don’t snap my head off! But you can see how difficult it would make things.”

“I don’t know what you can do about it.”

“Why, I can talk to her.”

“And what would you say?”

“I would say—let me see—I would say, ‘Don’t be in love with me.’”

Leonie laughed. “Oh, Ransom, you can’t say that! You’d hurt her feelings. But you’ve got to say something.”

“I know. Why don’t you talk with her, Leonie? You’re good with talking with women patients.”

The idea was so ridiculous that Leonie could not help but laugh again. “I can’t talk to her.”

“Why not?”

“Don’t you see? She’s jealous of me.”

Once again Ransom was taken aback. “Did she tell you that?”

“She would be jealous of any woman you paid attention to.”

Ransom was quiet for a time. Finally he turned and said, “Well, we’ll just have to work it out, you and I. I don’t want to hurt the girl.”

“Of course you don’t. You don’t want to hurt anybody.”

Ransom did not answer. They pulled up at the door of the house, and Julius came out at once to take the team away. “Good day, Sir, and to you, Miss.”

“I probably won’t be staying too long, Julius, but you might feed the horses a little bit.”

“Yes, Sir, I will do that.”

The two went up the steps. When they rang the bell, it was Zara who answered the door. She gave Leonie a frigid glance and nodded without enthusiasm at the doctor. “I suppose you’ve come to see Hugh.”

“Yes, I have, Miss Zara. How is he?”

“Not too well.”

“Then we’ll go up right away.”

“Hello, Zara,” Leonie said. She received only a brief nod in reply, and the two went up to the sick man’s room. Hugh was lying in bed, his face twisted with pain. “Hello, Doctor. Hello, Leonie,” he said in a strained voice.

“What’s the trouble, Hugh?”

“It’s my gut. It feels like I’m being stabbed with a sword.”

“Well, we’ll have to find out about that. Let’s take a look . . .”

“It’s appendicitis, Lady Maria.” Sheffield stood alone in the parlor with the older woman. Leonie had stayed to try to comfort Hugh.

“Oh dear!” Maria said, alarm washing across her face. “What can you do?”

“We’ll have to operate. No time to go to the hospital. We’ll have to do it here.”

“Will he be all right?”

“If nothing goes wrong. Operations are always dangerous, but I have Leonie to help me. We should do fine.”

“What will you need?” Lady Maria listened as Sheffield outlined his needs. Then she said, “I’ll see that it’s all done.”

“He’s going to do fine, isn’t he, Ransom?”

The two had were sitting in rocking chairs on the porch. The operation had been much briefer than Leonie, who had never seen such a thing, had expected.

“I think he is, but it would have been dangerous if we had waited much longer.” He turned and smiled. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“I’ll bet you could,” Leonie said, “but I’m glad I was able to help.”

“I’m sorry that Lady Maria feels the way she does about you. It’s not right.”

“It will come out all right.”

“You think so? You really do?”

“I was reading in the Bible today. All things work together for good to those that love the Lord.”

“I’ve always loved that verse, but it’s hard to understand sometimes. When a terrible thing happens, how can we apply that verse?”

“I don’t really know, except it doesn’t say ‘All things are good.’ It says ‘All things work together for good.’ That’s a little bit different.”

“I don’t understand. What do you mean?”

“Well, I was reading the story of Abraham in the Old Testament last week. You remember God told him to go out and make a sacrifice of his only son, the one he had waited for all of his life.”

“That was a terrible command, wasn’t it?”

“It seemed to be, but Abraham obeyed. But God let him keep his son, and when it was over, Abraham was a better man. God knew that he wouldn’t withhold anything from him. So while it was all going on it didn’t seem good, but it worked for good, just as the Bible says.”

“You’re becoming quite a Bible scholar.” Ransom leaned over and put his hand on her shoulder. She was startled at his touch, and she turned and saw that he was smiling at her. He had heavy lips and his features were plain enough, but there was a light in his eyes now that caught her attention. “You’re a fine young woman. God’s going to do great things in your life.”

Leonie could not answer. The touch of his hand was warm on her shoulder, and the approval in his eyes meant more to her than she could say. She tried to express herself, but she could only say, “I try to do what I can.”

Chapter twenty

Leonie looked up, and when she saw Lowell enter, she grew nervous. She had been walking through the garden, thinking mostly of Hugh and how miraculously he had recovered from the operation. Ransom had gone back to town but had asked her to stay and be sure that Hugh suffered no aftereffects.

“Hello,” Lowell said, and he came over and stood beside her. He was studying her as if he was not quite sure how to approach her, and finally he asked, “How did the operation go?”

“It went fine. He’s much better.”

“That’s good. I’ve always been fond of Hugh.”

“I think he’s going to be all right. Dr. Sheffield is a wonderful surgeon.”

“I’m sure he is.” A silence fell between the two, and finally Lowell said, “I always feel a little bit protective toward Hugh.”

“Protective—why is that?”

“Well, I’ve always felt that he missed out on life somehow. He could have done a lot more with his life than he did. He could have made something of himself.”

The remark did not sit well with Leonie. She was a quiet, modest girl not given to making judgments, but as she looked at the tall young man who stood beside her and thought of what his life was, she could not help remarking, “What about you?”

The simple question seemed to put Lowell on the defensive. “What do you mean, ‘What about me’?”

“I mean you could have made something of your life, too.”

“There’s nothing wrong with my life.”

Leonie did not answer. She only looked at him, and something in her gaze struck Lowell. He said stiff ly, “Are you trying to tell me that my life isn’t right?”

“Well, is it?”

Lowell’s face flushed a dusky red. He was an easygoing young man, but Leonie’s questions obviously disturbed him. “I don’t do any harm to anyone.”

“Life’s more than that, I think,” Leonie said. “I’m sure you don’t harm anyone, but do you help anyone?”

“That’s none of your business!” Lowell snapped.

“I suppose not, but you were the one who brought it up, speaking of Hugh. I felt sorry for him, but I don’t feel sorry for you. At least he has some reason for having missed out, as you put it, on life. He lost the one he loved very dearly, but your own losses have never crippled your penchant for laziness and luxury. Your life isn’t making anyone else’s better.”

“I don’t appreciate your comments,” Lowell said angrily. He turned without another word and stalked away. His back was stiff, and as he entered the house, he slammed the door behind him.

“Well,” Leonie said, not at all disturbed by his anger. “We are a little touchy about it, aren’t we?” She walked for another half hour in the garden and then reentered the house. Climbing the stairs, she went up to Hugh’s room, and when she stepped inside, she halted suddenly. Lady Maria was sitting in a chair beside Hugh’s bed. “Excuse me,” she said, “I didn’t know you were here.”

“Come in, Leonie,” Hugh said. His head was propped up with a pillow, and his color was much better. He smiled, and his voice was weak but stronger than it had been. “Come in and take care of your patient.”

Leonie smiled and walked over to his bedside. “You don’t need much care,” she said. “You’re looking fine.”

“I feel pretty washed out, but I think I would have died if you and Dr. Sheffield hadn’t come.”

“I think you might. Dr. Sheffield said he got to you just in time.”

“Sit down, Leonie. I was just talking to my sister about what happened to me.”

Somewhat hesitant, Leonie sat down. She felt Lady Maria’s eyes on her and met them. The older woman was studying her carefully, and there was something in her gaze that was cryptic. She turned again to face Hugh, f inding his smile ready. “What is it you’ve been telling her?”

“I’ve heard all my life that when someone is drowning, just before he dies, his whole life f lashes before him.”

“I heard that too.”

“Well, it’s true enough, or at least it was for me.” Hugh lay quietly in the bed. His hands were folded together, and there was a thoughtful expression on his face. “I really thought I was going to die, and the thing that came to me was what a waste I’ve made of my life.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Maria said suddenly. She leaned forward and put her hand over Hugh’s, and her voice was gentle. “You’ve been a help to me.”

“No, I haven’t, but you’ve been a help to me,” Hugh said. “Ever since I lost my wife, I just haven’t cared about living. I just gave up. But when I lay here thinking I was going to die, it came to me that that was the last thing Autumn would have wanted for me. She wasn’t a quitter, but I have been.”

“You loved her very much, didn’t you?” Leonie said quietly.

“More than anything else. You know, I just wonder, from time to time, if I didn’t love her too much.”

“I don’t think it’s possible to love anyone too much,” Maria murmured.

“I don’t know about things like that, but I thought maybe God took her because I loved her more than I loved Him.”

The three were silent, and finally Maria said, “I don’t think that’s the way it was. We can’t explain why we lose those we love.” The sunlight filtered down through the window, and millions of tiny dust motes danced and fluttered in the yellow beams. The beams touched the carpet and brought out the rich colors of the oriental rug, and from outside a bird, lifting his voice in a chorus, sounded joyful and full of hope.

Hugh turned his head. “Listen to that bird. He sounds happy, doesn’t he? That’s what I’d like to be like. What I used to be like.”

“We can’t sing like birds all the time,” Leonie smiled. She leaned forward and studied Hugh’s face. “But I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

“I’ve always had kind of a contempt for those who made New Year’s resolutions,” Hugh said. “I’ve always thought, Why fool with such things? Just do what you intend every day. But I made a resolution while I thought I was not going to make it.”

“What was it?” Maria asked.

“I resolved that if I got well, I was going to go back to work. I was going to start painting again. I was going to make myself of some use in the world.”

Immediately Leonie thought of Lowell’s words about Hugh’s uselessness, and it pleased her that Hugh had come to this conclusion. “I think that’s wonderful,” she said. “I’ve seen some of your early work— you’re very talented. In a way it’s sort of cheating not to paint.”

“What do you mean?” Hugh asked curiously.

“I mean when we have a gift God gives us, we’re obligated to use it to help others.”

“I think you’re right about that,” Maria said, “and you do have a great gift, Hugh. Your work gives pleasure to so many.”

“I don’t know about that, but I know I’m going to try. I’ve probably forgotten all about how to paint, it’s been so long.”

The sound of horse hooves caught the attention of the three. Leonie rose and went to the window. “It’s Dr. Sheffield,” she said. “He’s probably come to check on his patient.”

That proved to be the truth. Ransom came through the door smiling and spoke to the two women, then examined Hugh. “Why, you’re going to be able to get out of this bed pretty soon.”

“I don’t know how to thank you, Dr. Sheffield.”

“You don’t have to do that. Why, that’s what I do.”

Ransom gave a few instructions to Lady Maria, then said, “I suppose you are about ready to go back, Leonie?”

“Unless you think I should stay.”

“You know, that might not be a bad idea.” Ransom nodded. “At least for a couple of days.”

“I really would feel better if you stayed,” Maria said quickly.

“Well, then I will,” Leonie said.

“Good. I like being waited on,” Hugh said.

“Come along, Doctor. I have your fee in the study.”

“I’ll come back the day after tomorrow, Leonie. Take good care of this fellow.”

“I will, Doctor.”

“Thanks for coming, Dr. Sheffield,” Hugh said.

After the doctor had left, Hugh said, “That’s one fine fellow.” He turned his head and studied Leonie. “He might be good material for a husband there.”

Leonie flushed. “I suppose so.”

“On the other hand, doctors may be very poor husbands. They stay busy all the time.”

Leonie didn’t answer. “I think Dr. Sheffield’s calling is going to keep him busy, but a good wife would understand that.”

Hugh studied her carefully, then smiled. “I believe she would,” he said. “How about reading to me for a while?”

The dinner was excellent, as usual, consisting of a jellied veal con-sommé, a French bean salad, and beef bordelaise. Leonie ate hungrily, for the cooking was very good. She said very little but listened carefully. Zara did most of the talking. Her eyes went, from time to time, to Leonie, and while she never specifically accused her of anything, she hinted strongly that Leonie had come simply to ingratiate herself with Lady Maria. Suddenly she said, “Aunt Maria, Julian and I have decided we want to get married.”

“I thought you decided that a long time ago,” Maria said quietly. Her eyes were fixed on Zara in an odd sort of expression. “What’s the urgency?”

“We’ve waited a long time,” Zara said. Her manner was nervous, and with her fork she pushed a grape around her plate. She had something on her mind, they could all see, and finally she said, “Julian and I have wanted to get married for a long time, but things were so—so unsettled.”

“Unsettled in what way?”

“Oh, you know,” Zara said, shrugging her shoulders.

Lowell laughed. “Yes, I suppose we do know. You mean you want to confirm how much money you are going to get and when.”

Zara was furious. “That’s unkind, Lowell.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be.”

Zara got up and swept out of the room without another word, her face livid with anger.

“You shouldn’t have said that, Lowell.”

“It’s true enough, Aunt Maria.”

“It may be true, but we shouldn’t be unkind to one another.”

“Zara has always been selfish.”

Maria Augustine straightened up. She looked at Lowell and said, “She’s not the only one, Lowell.”

Lowell flinched, and his face turned slightly pale. He could not answer but looked down at his plate.

“I think that it’s time you did something with your life.”

Lowell’s gaze went instantly to Leonie. “Leonie said the same thing,” he said.

“She’s a wise young woman,” Maria said. “I think you ought to pay attention to her.”

The tension grew in the room, and Leonie longed to say that strangers should not be included in family arguments. She excused herself and went to her room.

Later that evening, Leonie was sitting with Hugh. He had gotten out of bed, and she had fed him his supper off a tray. When she had taken the tray away, he had asked her to bring him some paper and a pencil.

“Are you sure you feel up to going to work? It’s very soon.”

“I’m just going to try a few scribbles,” he said. Leonie brought the tools he requested.

“Now,” he said, “sit right over there where the light from the lamp strikes you.”

Leonie was startled. “What for?” she asked.

“Because I’m going to sketch your picture.”

“Oh, no, I don’t—”

“Don’t argue with the patient. You’ll aggravate me, and it’ll be bad for my condition. Now sit down.”

Hugh was happy, she saw, and she went to sit down. He propped the tablet up on his lap, holding it with one hand at the right angle, and his hand moved rapidly. He did not speak, and his eyes studied her from time to time. “Tell me about yourself, Leonie,” he said.

“Tell you what?”

“Oh, about what you’ve done, what you’re going to do.”

Leonie hesitantly began to speak of her life. She did not dwell on the past but spoke mostly about her work at the clinic. He kept her sitting still for a long time, and then finally he said, “Come and see.”

Rising from her chair, she went over and stood over him and looked down. “Why, that doesn’t look like me.”

“Yes, it does, and it’ll look even more like you when I transfer the sketch to canvas and the paint goes on. I’ll start that in the morning. You know, I’m really excited about beginning to paint again.”

“Did you sell many paintings back in the earlier days?”

“Quite a few. I could have made a good living at it, but there didn’t seem any point. I was depending on Maria. I was a parasite, I suppose, just like Lowell and Zara.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t call them that.”

“Well, that’s what we are or were. But no more for me.” He looked up and said with a teasing grin, “Leonie, how about marrying me?”

Leonie knew he was joking. She smiled and said, “I don’t think so, Hugh.”

“I know your secret.”

“What kind of a secret? I don’t have any secrets.”

“Yes, you do. You’re in love with Dr. Ransom Sheffield.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Ah, your answer was too quick, but I believe you are.”

It was the second time someone had pointed out that she was in love with Ransom. She had paid little attention to Lolean’s charge, but Hugh was a man of some observation, and Leonie suddenly realized that he was right!

“He’ll marry someone from a higher social standing than I’ve got,” she said weakly.

“You think he’s looking for a fancy bride from the social register? You know better than that, Leonie.”

Leonie was too confused. She shook her head and was glad when suddenly the door opened and Maria walked in.

“Why, sister, I’ve begun my new work. What do you think of it?”

Maria went over and looked at the paper. “Why, it’s Leonie,” she said. “What a fine sketch.”

“The painting will be even finer. I’m going back to work with a vengeance. Tomorrow the painting starts.”

“You are looking fine, Hugh. I’m so pleased.”

Hugh grinned and winked at Leonie. “I feel so good at getting a new lease on life. And I’m so grateful to you, Leonie, and to Dr. Sheffield, of course.”

For one horrible moment, Leonie was afraid that he was going to say something about her being in love with the doctor. She did not want to hear it, so she got up and said, “I’ll leave you two alone.”

As soon as she was out of the room, Maria said, “You are really fond of her aren’t you, Hugh?”

“Of course. She’s a f ine young woman.”

Maria hesitated, then said, “You know, you say that knowing what went on here between her and that stable hand.”

“I never believed a word of that.”

“But we had evidence.”

“I don’t care about the evidence. I know she’s not the kind of girl who would do a thing like that, and that’s all there is to it.”

“You’re not very logical.”

“No. We artists aren’t,” Hugh said cheerfully. “Now, I want you to stop being logical and start thinking with your heart. That girl is Ives’s daughter. There’s no question in my mind.”

Maria began to tremble. “I know that she is, but she did a terrible thing. I was about to put my whole heart and trust into her when this came along, and now—”

“And now you’ve lost her. What if you’re wrong?”

Maria stared at her brother. She had no answer for that question had echoed in her own heart. “I can’t help it,” she said. “It’s hard for me to let myself love someone unconditionally.”

“That’s the only real kind of love there is, sister,” Hugh said gently. “I hope you find out about it.”

Zara had greeted Lowell with a harsh word when he had gone to her. She was still angry at him for his remarks, but he was always able to talk her out of her f its of anger. Zara finally said, “That girl is here to wind herself back into Maria’s good graces, but I’m not going to let that happen. You have to help me discredit her.”

“I won’t do it, Zara, and I think you’re behaving badly too.”

“Have you lost your mind?” Zara cried, staring at Lowell in angry disbelief. “If she comes back here, you’ll having nothing, and neither will I.”

“Nothing? Well, to tell the truth, that’s about what I’ve got now, Zara.” He looked at her and said, “I’ve been thinking what a sorry way it is to live, to sit around for years, waiting for someone to die. I’ve about had it with that kind of life.”

“What are you going to do? You’re pretty old to start in a profession.”

“I’m pretty old to be acting like a child, too,” Lowell said. His own remark seemed to surprise him, and he said, “I think I’ll have to do a little rearranging in my life, and I think you’d better do the same.”

Zara glared at him, but he only laughed and left the room. Zara shook her head, “You fool! You’ll throw everything away because that girl came back, but I won’t!”

Chapter twenty-one

Sunday morning was a beautiful day—the bright sun was shining and a cooling breeze made everything comfortable. Leonie had gotten up early and gone to Mass. When she had arrived back at the clinic, which was closed on Sundays, she encountered Ransom, who was just leaving. He was wearing a white suit and a black string tie, and he removed his hat with a sweep of his hand. “Good morning to you. Been to Mass?”

“Yes, I have.”

“Well, I’m going to church. Why don’t you go along with me?” He saw her hesitate, so he said, “I think it would be interesting for you.”

For one moment Leonie struggled with herself. She had known nothing but Mass all of her life. Then something stirred within her, and she suddenly smiled. “I think I’ll go with you then.”

“Fine. It’s a small church, but I like the preacher very much. Come along. I’ll hitch up the buggy, and we’ll get started.”

The church was on the outskirts of New Orleans, set back in a field under several huge live oak trees. Buggies and horses tied to racks announced that a crowd was beginning to gather, and as they approached, several people spoke to Ransom, addressing him formally as “Dr. Sheffield.”

“I feel so odd,” Leonie whispered.

“I stopped paying attention to the signs on the outside of church buildings,” Ransom said easily.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean it doesn’t matter whether a church is Baptist or Catholic or Presbyterian. What matters to me is one thing: the Spirit of the Lord in the service.”

“I never thought of it like that.”

“Well, it’s natural you wouldn’t, since you grew up in a convent. Let’s go while there’s still a seat.”

They entered the small church, and Leonie looked around curiously. It was a small church with plain wooden benches and at one end, a raised platform with a pulpit right in the center. Behind the pulpit were two rows of benches where a group of plainly dressed people had already assembled. She assumed that was the choir.

“I see two seats up close to the front,” Ransom said.

Leonie felt that everyone in the church was looking at her as she walked down to the front. She would have preferred a less-prominent place, but every bench seemed to be filled. When they got to the row, people had to stand to let them in. When they sat down, Leonie saw that she was seated directly in front of the pulpit.

“Best seats in the house,” Ransom said with a smile. He saw she was nervous and reached over and touched her shoulder. “Don’t worry. The Spirit of the Lord will be here. You will enjoy it.”

While they waited for the service to begin, Leonie looked around. It was a poor group of people for the most part, many of the men wearing overalls and some plain denim trousers, but nearly all of them wore a white shirt with a tie. The women wore their best dresses. All of them wore hats, it seemed, and they all seemed happy and pleased to be there.

Leonie thought about how different the atmosphere at the church was from Mass. People were whispering to their neighbors, some, perhaps, a little too loudly, but it was nothing at all like the Catholic church that she was accustomed to attending.

A tall man with a string tie and his black hair slicked back stood and said in a high tenor voice, “Well, folks, it’s time to begin. We’ll start by singing the doxology.”

The crowd rose to its feet, and an organist hit a note. The congregation sang loudly and enthusiastically:

Praise God from whom all blessings flow

Praise Him all creatures here below

Praise Him above, ye heavenly hosts

Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.

The tall man bowed his head and prayed fervently that the Spirit of God would be present at the service. Then he said, “Now we’re going to praise God with all of our hearts. You will remember that the psalm says, ‘Let everything that hath breath praise the LORD.’” A smile split his wide lips, and he shook his head. “I sure would admire to see everything in creation praising God like that. Well, maybe the forests and fields won’t sing, but we can—with all of our might. We’ll sing a good old song written by Charles Wesley himself: ‘O for a Thousand Tongues.’”

The organ boomed forth, and the congregation lifted its voice. Leonie did not know the song, had never heard it, but she listened carefully to the words:

O for a thousand tongues to sing

My great Redeemer’s praise

The glories of my God and King

The triumphs of His grace.

My gracious Master and my

God Assist me to proclaim

To spread through all the earth abroad

The honors of Thy name.

Leonie had never heard such singing! It was not that the worshipers were skilled or that their voices were excellent. Indeed, it was nothing like the trained choir she was accustomed to, but excitement and sincerity marked not only the voices, but the faces she glimpsed around her. They sang one song that touched her heart particularly:

Holy, holy, holy, Lord God Almighty!

Early in the morning our song shall rise to Thee

Holy, holy, holy! Merciful and mighty!

God in Three Persons, blessed Trinity!

As Leonie began to follow in the hymnal and sing, feelings swept over her in a way she could not define. The hymns all exalted the holiness of God or the sacrifice of Jesus on the cross. She longed to know the words by heart, so she might join more freely in the worship of these simple people. Finally they sang a song that she had never heard before but whose words seemed to ring her heart.

Alas! and did my Savior bleed?

And did my Sovereign die?

Would He devote that sacred head

For such a worm as I?

Was it for crimes that I have done

He groaned upon the tree?

Amazing pity! Grace unknown!

And love beyond degree!

Well might the sun in darkness hide

And shut His glories in

When Christ, the mighty Maker, died

For man the creature’s sin.

But drops of grief can ne’er repay

The debt of love I owe

Here, Lord, I give myself to Thee

’Tis all that I can do.

As the last verse echoed through the small chapel, Leonie suddenly felt that Jesus Christ had entered into the building. She saw Him in her mind’s eye on the cross, and she thought of her own sins, and tears rolled down her cheeks. Taking out her handkerchief, she tried to wipe them away without being seen, but she knew that Ransom, standing beside her, had noticed.

After the song service, a short, muscular man got up. He was wearing a black suit and a white shirt, and he was bald except for a fringe of hair around his head. He wore a winning smile, however, and he preached a sermon such as Leonie had never heard. It exalted the name of Jesus and held him up as the Lamb of God. A hundred times, it seemed, he said during the sermon, “Behold the Lamb of God, that taketh away the sin of the world.” At other times he said with excitement lighting his face, “Blessed be the Lord God and the Lamb forever.”

At the end of the service, the minister gave an invitation, and several went down to kneel at the front and pray. Leonie did not understand any of this, but she knew that God had touched her. When the service was over, the minister said, “We have eight candidates to be baptized. We invite you all to the river.”

“Would you like to go to the baptism, Leonie?” Ransom asked.

“I think I would.”

“It’s not far. I always enjoy baptism. There’s something especially holy about it.”

“I was baptized when I was an infant. I don’t even remember it.”

Ransom smiled and squeezed her arm. “I think you’d remember it if you ever got baptized like this. Come along.”

The tributary that fed into the Mississippi was small, no more than fifteen feet across, but it had cut a deep channel. Most of the congregation, Leonie saw, had come to the river and now lined the eastern bank. The preacher and those he was to baptize had donned plain work clothes. Leonie watched as the preacher waded out until he was nearly waist deep and said, “Come along, brother Ed. You’ll be the first.”

The man walked forward and stood almost directly in front of the minister. He was somewhat taller, and the preacher put his hands on his shoulders and looked at the congregation. He raised his voice, saying, “Jesus died and was put into the earth, but on the third day He rose from the tomb. Baptism is a picture of that. When an individual stands in this water, he’s alive to the world, but then when he is put under the water, he dies to the world. He’s a dead man. But when he comes up out of the water, he shows that he is no longer the man he used to be. Let me make it clear: this is a picture of the death, the burial, and the resurrection of Jesus. Baptism never saved anybody. Only the blood of Christ can do that, but the Lord has told us to go into the world, preaching the gospel and baptizing those who believe. When a person is baptized, he is saying to the world, ‘Look at me. I’m a new man. I’m a new woman. I’m a new young person.’”

All of this was foreign to Leonie. She watched, fascinated, as the minister put his hand on the back of the tall man’s neck while the man clasped his arm. Then the minister leaned him back and slowly lowered him into the water. He went down deep, deep, deep, completely submerged, and when he came up, people along the bank cried, “Glory!” “Praise God!” “Hallelujah!” The man wiped his eyes, and Leonie could see he was weeping. He said in a broken voice, “Praise the Lord!”

As Leonie watched the procession of people being baptized, something was happening inside of her. She could not describe it exactly, and it frightened her, for it was like nothing she had ever known. She closed her eyes for a moment, wondering what was wrong with her, but whatever the emotion, it was intensified.

Suddenly she was aware of a great desire being born in her heart to be baptized. This startled her, for she had known only sprinkling as a mode of baptism. But something about this service seemed to draw her spirit, and she felt that God was speaking to her.

The thought of God Himself speaking to her was a fearful thought. She had spoken often to Him, but now she knew that the Creator of heaven and earth was communicating with her. It did not come in words, but in human speech it would have been, “I want you to announce your love for Me to the world, publicly undergoing baptism.”

Leonie began to tremble, and she knew that this was a turning point in her life. She wanted to turn and flee and wipe all of it out of her mind, for it broke the tradition that she had been born into, all that she had ever known. But the ceremony had been so powerful, she knew she could not run.

Vaguely she was aware that the service was over. A hymn was being sung, and then when it ended, she felt Ransom’s eyes on her. “Is something wrong, Leonie?” he asked quietly as he led her away toward the buggy.

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t you feel well?”

She did not answer until they got to the buggy, and then she turned to face him. “I have the feeling that God is telling me that He wants me to . . .”

When she broke off, Ransom said gently, “What is it? You can tell me.”

“I have the feeling that I need to be baptized as those people were, but if I do, it will cut me off from all my friends.”

“Not if they’re your real friends. We’re all just Christians, whether we’re sprinkled or immersed. That’s not the test of whether people are converted or not. It’s a sign, a symbol, a picture, as the preacher said. It’s just a declaration that you are a follower of Jesus.”

“I don’t know what to do,” Leonie said helplessly. She felt weak and faint, and he put his arm around her. “You need to pray about it, and I’ll pray with you. You’ll do what God tells you to do, I’m sure. Come along now. We’ll talk about it some more.”

For the next two weeks, Leonie thought every day of her desire to be baptized. She grew calmer about it and searched the Scriptures to find guidance. Daily she prayed, “God, show me the way,” and always the answer came back in one form or another. “I want you to announce your discipleship.”

On a Thursday, Hugh came to see her, bringing her the picture he had finished. “Here it is!” he announced when she greeted him. “Hope you like it.” He stripped off the paper that protected the painting and held it up. He watched her expression and then smiled. “What do you think?”

“Why, it’s beautiful. But I never looked like that!”

“Yes, you do. Don’t insult the artist in me now.”

The picture was expertly done. She exclaimed, “You’re such a wonderful painter!”

“Come along. Let’s show it to the doctor.”

They went at once to the inside office where Ransom was seated at his desk, studying a medical book. He looked up and smiled. “Well, hello. How’s my patient?”

“Completely cured and gone back to work.” He held up the painting and said, “Here’s your favorite nurse.”

Ransom stood and exclaimed, “Why, that’s marvelous, Hugh! You’ve done a wonderful job.” He walked over and examined the painting. “I’ll buy it.”

“No sale. It’s for you, Leonie.” Hugh gave it to her, and she stood speechless.

“You mean I can keep it?”

“Yes. A small token of appreciation from a grateful patient.”

Hugh soon left. Ransom would not let Leonie leave with the painting. He kept admiring it, and he suggested, “I tell you what: let’s hang it on the wall here. It’ll be yours, but I can look at it.”

At that instant Lolean walked in and stopped abruptly when she saw the painting.

“Look at this, Lolean. Isn’t it a marvel?” Ransom asked.

Lolean stared at the painting and then said in a toneless expression, “It’s very nice.”

“It’s better than that. Here—let’s hang it right here where we can all look at it.”

Lolean did not respond, but she watched as Ransom hung the picture on the wall.

“Now,” he said, “that adds a little color to this drab office.”

Leonie knew that it was a bitter thing for the girl, but she could not think of a thing to say to her.

The patients had come and gone, and the clinic was closed. Ransom Sheffield had stayed late in his office, preparing for the next day. He was startled when the door opened and Lolean stepped inside. “I thought you’d gone to bed, Lolean.”

“No. I wanted to talk to you.”

“Is something wrong?”

Lolean had prepared herself for this moment. She said, “I have to tell you something, Dr. Sheffield.”

“You’re not ill, are you?”

“No, nothing like that.” Lolean’s face was tense, her eyes were wide, and she breathed quickly as if she had been walking very fast. “Don’t you know I care for you, Dr. Sheffield?”

Ransom suddenly knew that Leonie had been right about the girl. He had thought about her and hoped that the situation would never come to a confrontation. Now he felt helpless as he faced the young woman. “Why, of course, we’re fond of each other. That’s the way it should be.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about,” Lolean whispered. “I mean I love you.” She watched his face, and the light went out of her eyes. “But you don’t care for me. I can see it.”

Clearing his throat, Ransom said, “You’re such a lovely young woman, and you’re going to find a man one day. For him you’ll be everything.”

“But not for you,” Lolean said flatly.

“I don’t think I’ll be getting married for a long time. I have a lot of work to do with building a new clinic.”

Lolean watched him as he faltered for words, and then she said, “I’ll be leaving tomorrow.”

“Leaving! Where are you going?”

“Away from here. Thank you for all you’ve done for me.” She turned and left before Ransom could move. When the door closed behind her, he stared at it and said, “Blast, why did this have to happen?” He knew she would be gone the next morning, for she was a very strong-willed young woman, and he was grieved for her. I’ll have to see what I can do for her. Maybe I can find her work somewhere else. But he knew that she was dreadfully hurt and in all probability would accept no help from him.

“Lolean left this morning.”

Startled, Leonie looked up. She had been arranging the equipment and supplies for the day’s work. She had noticed that Ransom had been very quiet, and now he was pale.

“What do you mean, she left?”

“We—we had a talk last night, and she decided to leave.”

“Did you quarrel?”

“No . . . well, I guess we did in a way. You were right, Leonie. She came and told me that she cared for me. And when I couldn’t return her affection, she said she’d find work elsewhere.”

Leonie felt great pity for Ransom. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “I don’t think there was any way you could have avoided it.”

“I feel rotten.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong, Ransom.”

He looked at her quickly. “Don’t you talk about leaving me now.”

Leonie stared at him. He has no idea that I care for him. She said, “No, I won’t be leaving, Ransom.”

The mother superior sat listening as Leonie spoke. She did not say a word until Leonie had completely finished. Then she asked, “Why are you telling me this, Leonie?”

“Because you’ve always been so good to me, and whenever I had troubles, I came to you with them, and you always listened. And I’m troubled about what I feel. I feel that I need to be immersed, baptized the way the Protestants do it, but that’s not what I was taught. That’s not what I have always believed.”

“Catholics and Protestants differ, but they’re not the only ones. Methodists don’t immerse either—they sprinkle or pour. Episcopalians do the same. The only question is this: is God telling you to do this?”

“I’ve prayed and prayed, and the feeling won’t go away. Every night I go to sleep thinking that God is telling me to be immersed, and then the next morning, that is the first thing I think of.” Leonie’s face was twisted with anxiety. “Tell me what to do, Reverend Mother, please.”

“I can only tell you to follow the Spirit of God. And I can assure you of this: if you do decide to leave the Catholic church and go another way, I will still love you as much as ever. We will be on different paths, but they lead to the same destination.”

“Pray for me, Reverend Mother.”

“I have prayed for you since you appeared on my doorstep,” the mother superior said kindly. “But there comes a time when each of us must make her own decision. You listen to the voice of God. Be sure that it’s God who is speaking, and then you do exactly what He says. That’s the only road to happiness.”

Chapter twenty-two

Carefully Leonie stitched on the tapestry. She had gotten up before dawn, and now yellow sunlight streamed in through her window. Stitch by stitch she made the pattern come alive, and finally she straightened up, took a deep breath, and smiled. “It isn’t bad,” she said aloud. “Not bad at all.”

She had been working on the tapestry now for longer than she had ever worked on any of her projects. It was a large wall hanging, and she had woven into it things that had been meaningful to her. There had been times when she had had no money for thread or materials, but for the last two months she had been able to make considerable progress.

Running her hand over the silken surface, she took a deep pleasure in what she had created. She didn’t know why it was, but making something seemed to be an act that relieved her from the pressures of the world. Ransom had told her it was therapeutic. She knew it was good for her to work, for as she put herself into the cloth and the thread and the materials of the tapestry, somehow the world seemed to fade away, and she could concentrate solely on the project.

Finally she heard the sounds from the street outside and rose to put the tapestry away. Carefully she folded it and put it into a large box that she had saved for that purpose. Then after looking in the mirror and fixing her hair, she left her room.

She began making a breakfast, for she knew Ransom liked to have a large morning meal. She had just begun stirring the beaten eggs in a frying pan when he came in, his cheeks rosy from a shave and his eyes bright. “Another good day, Leonie,” he said cheerfully and sat down at the table.

“It is a good day.” She smiled. “I fixed you a double portion of eggs and bacon this morning. I didn’t make biscuits, though. You’ll have to eat yesterday’s.”

“That’ll be fine.”

Leonie set the table for the two of them and poured fresh coffee into the large cups and then sat down. They bowed their heads, and he asked a quick blessing. And then he tipped a bottle of hot sauce and literally baptized his eggs.

“You shouldn’t do that, Ransom.”

“Makes them taste better. Good old hot sauce!”

“You’ve destroyed your taste buds,” she scolded, but she knew it was useless. He liked hot sauce on practically everything he ate.

The two of them talked easily, and she realized, Why, we’re like a husband and wife in the morning. The thought caused her cheeks to flush slightly, and she said quickly to cover her embarrassment, “Hugh came in yesterday while you were gone.”

“How’s he doing?”

“Very well. He’s sold four paintings, and he’s happier than I’ve ever seen him. He lives in a house in town now and has asked us to visit soon.”

Ransom applied a fresh layer of hot sauce to his eggs and then spilled a few drops on the bacon. “He’s a good man, I think.”

Impulsively Leonie said, “Did you know he asked me to marry him?”

Leonie’s words caught Ransom off guard. He had just placed an enormous forkful of scrambled eggs in his mouth, and he couldn’t speak for a moment. Hastily he swallowed and nearly choked. He grabbed the coffee and drained the cup, then put it down and stared at her. “You never told me that,” he said accusingly.

“I don’t tell you everything, Dr. Sheffield,” Leonie said, smiling.

“Well, you could have told me something as important as that.” He leaned forward and studied her carefully. The light of her eyes held laughter, and he noticed, not for the first time, that she had a pleasantly expressive mouth—a woman’s lovely lips.

Light danced in her eyes. “Did you think I should have sent him to ask your permission to marry me?”

Ransom said casually, “Well, since you don’t have any parents, I think it might have been appropriate.”

“What would you ask him?”

“Oh, the usual stuff. ‘Are you able to support a wife? Do you love her with all your heart? Will you promise never to be short or angry with her?’”

“And what if he passed the test?”

“Leonie, why did he bring that up? It’s an odd topic for the two of you to discuss.”

“I think he’s just lonely and—”

When she broke off Ransom studied her more carefully. “You’re lonely too, I suppose.”

“I’m very happy, Ransom. Much happier than I was when I was younger.”

Ransom watched her face and said, “Well, if any young men come calling, I insist on interviewing them.”

“You’d scare them off. You have a formidable manner at times.”

“Me? I’m as mild as Louis.”

Louis had been sitting on the floor, looking up, hoping for a bite of something. “You are gentle, aren’t you, Louis?” Ransom said. He broke off a piece of bacon, leaned over, and gave it to the cat, who promptly devoured it.

“You can be stern sometimes.”

“Not with you, I hope, Leonie.”

“No. Never with me.”

It was a pleasant breakfast, and finally Leonie rose, saying, “I’ve got to go to the market. Do you need anything particularly?”

“Why don’t you get some fresh jumbo shrimp?”

“You’d have those every night. You need a change.”

“Just tonight. We can have what you want tomorrow night.”

“All right. I’ll see what I can do.”

Jean Larue was sitting in his carriage half-asleep, but as Leonie emerged from the clinic, he straightened up and pulled at his mustache. His bright blue eyes lit up, and he whipped off his cap, exposing his bald head. “Good morning, Mademoiselle. Where can I take you?”

“Oh, I’m just going to the market, Jean.”

“Get in. A young lady needs to go in style.”

Leonie got into the carriage and said, “Let’s go by the Barneses’ house, Jean. I want to check on the children.”

“Oui. I will take you there.”

They arrived at the Barnes home a few moments later, and Jean said, “Take your time. I’m not anxious to work much today.”

“All right, Jean.” Leonie dismounted, stepped to the pavement, and knocked on the door. Susan opened it and greeted her warmly. “You’re up early. Come in!”

“I can’t, Susan. I’m going to market. I thought perhaps you might need something.”

“No, but thank you for stopping. Why don’t you come for supper tonight?”

“Oh, I’ve promised to cook Dr. Sheffield a special dinner. He loves shrimp.”

Susan Barnes smiled and shook her head. “You’re getting good practice for marriage,” she observed. “You’re learning how to take care of a man.”

Leonie looked up quickly, embarrassed. “Well, I’ll be going. If I see anything particularly good, I’ll drop it off on the way home.”

“Thank you, dear. You’re always good to look out for us like that.”

Leonie got back into the carriage, and Jean said, “To the market now, I take it?”

“Yes. And hurry, if you please. I need to be back before the patients start coming in.”

The market was not busy, and Leonie made her purchases quickly. Jean had gone along with her, insisting on carrying the heavy parcels. Back at the carriage, Jean helped her in and seated himself. Suddenly the horse reared up, and he said loudly, “Stop that, you stubborn creature!”

“What’s the matter with him? That’s not your usual horse, is it?”

“No. My horse had a sore fetlock. I had to borrow one from my friend. This one is young and not ready to work. He thinks only of running. Stop that, you!”

Jean finally managed to pull the young horse around until he headed back toward the clinic. They had gone only a block when suddenly a bunch of youngsters ran toward them down the street, yelling happily. They were young boys who had obtained some firecrackers. They threw one with a yell, and it landed almost under the feet of Jean’s horse.

When the firecracker exploded, the horse uttered a wild cry, screamed, reared up, and then dashed down the street at full speed. Jean hauled at the reins, but the horse was strong and had the bit in his teeth.

Leonie tried to hold on, but when the wheel of the carriage fell into a large pothole, the jolt threw her to the side. She made a wild grab but missed her hold and was thrown abruptly out of the carriage. For her the world seemed to go around, and then as her head struck the hard cobblestone street, it seemed to dissolve in a shower of brilliant stars.

Ransom heard the sound of pounding feet in the outer office and looked up from the patient he was treating. The door burst open, and Jean Larue ran in, his eyes wild. “Doctor, come at once!”

“What’s wrong, Jean?” Ransom demanded. He headed for the door toward the older man and said, “Somebody hurt?”

“It is the Mademoiselle Leonie.”

“Leonie! What’s happened?” Ransom demanded.

“My horse, he ran away, and she was thrown. She struck her head on the pavement.”

“Where is she?”

“Outside in the carriage.”

Ransom did not ask more questions but dashed outside. He saw at once the wound on her head and her swollen face. Her eyes were closed, and she was pale. Quickly he reached in, picked her up, and shoved Jean aside. Going into the office, he told the patient, “Just take two spoons of that medicine every day, then come back in a week. I’m sorry, but right now I’ve got to tend to this young woman.”

Placing Leonie on the table, he quickly examined her injuries. She seemed to have no broken bones, but the head injury troubled him. It looked serious, and he said, “Jean, do you know where Dr. McDowell’s office is?”

“Oui, I know him.”

“Go at once,” he said. “I need him here immediately. Don’t take no for an answer. Then get Lady Augustine here.”

“I bring him, you bet!”

“Dr. Sheffield—is he hurt?” Maria asked.

“No, it is not him. It is the young lady Leonie. She has had a bad accident.” After delivering McDowell to the clinic, Jean had raced to the Augustine estate.

At once Maria Augustine jumped to her feet. “What happened?” She listened as the cab driver explained the accident. He spoke rapidly and nervously and said, “The doctor, he says you come quick!”

Dr. Jamie McDowell stood looking down at the pale face of the patient. He leaned over, examined the head injury, and said nothing.

Ransom could not keep still. He desperately wanted to help Leonie, but he knew that McDowell was a far more experienced doctor in cases like this. “What do you think, Doctor?”

“You know these cases as well as I.”

“No, I don’t. What’s your opinion?”

McDowell was a small man of Scottish descent. He had a full set of side whiskers, and his eyes were green. “I wish we could look inside her skull and see. Someday we may be able to do that, but for now,” he said, looking down at Leonie, “it’s in God’s hands.”

“I wish we could do something! It’s hard to just stand here.”

“I know, lad. This young lady—is she your fiancée?”

“Why, no. What makes you ask?”

“You’ve lost your calm spirit. It’s easy to see you have feelings for her.”

“I have a great respect for her.”

“Indeed?”

“Yes. She’s had a hard life, and I would like to make it easier.”

“Well,” McDowell said, shrugging his thin shoulders, “again, it’s in God’s hands.”

“I may be some time, Julius. You’ll have to wait.”

“Yes, Madam, I will be here.” Julius helped his mistress down and said, “You tell the young lady I’ll be praying for her.”

“I’ll tell her that.”

Maria reached the door just at the same instant that a woman in a habit arrived. The two paused. “You go first, please,” Maria said.

“You are Lady Augustine, are you not?”

“Why, yes I am.”

“I am the reverend mother at the convent.”

“You’ve come about Leonie.”

“Yes, I have.”

“So have I. Perhaps we could go in together.”

The two women entered, and Dr. Sheffield met them. “Reverend Mother, Lady Augustine, I’m glad you could come, both of you.”

“How is she, Doctor?” the mother superior asked quickly.

“Not as well as we’d like.”

“How badly was she hurt? What’s her condition exactly?” Lady Augustine asked.

The two women listened as Ransom Sheffield described Leonie’s fall and injury. He took a deep breath, and they saw how serious he was. “Head injuries are always more difficult than any other kind. She’s been unconscious since she was brought in. I’ve had another doctor in who is very good in such cases. He’ll be back later this afternoon.”

“Could we see her?”

“Of course. I’ll take you to her.”

The two women followed Ransom Sheffield into an inner room. Leonie lay on a single narrow bed with a blanket over her, her bandaged head resting on a pillow. Lady Augustine whispered, “She looks so pale.”

“We’re doing everything we can,” Ransom said, then added bitterly, “which isn’t much, I’m afraid. These cases are very hard.”

“We’ll sit with her while you treat your other patients, Doctor,” the mother superior said.

“That’s kind of you. If you see any change, please come for me at once.”

“Of course.”

As soon as Sheffield left, the two women sat down in chairs next to Leonie’s bedside. The room was silent, and finally the mother superior said, “Leonie was with us from the time she was born.”

“Yes, I know.”

“She is your granddaughter, I understand.”

Lady Maria hesitated, then nodded. “Yes. It’s a very complicated story.”

“I think I know most of it. Leonie told me. When she discovered her identity, I was very happy for her. I was the one who found her, you know.”

“You?”

“Yes. She was left at the convent, and I discovered her that morning. Somehow it made me feel closer to her. In all of the years that she was growing up, I did the best I could for her.” She looked down at the silent young woman and whispered, “She has always been such a fine girl. A fine child at first and then an exemplary young woman. The best that I have ever known.”

“I haven’t known her long, but I had the same impression. But—” Maria bit her lip. “I don’t know how much you know about the problem we had.”

“I think I know most of it. She told me the story.”

“I’ve been so disturbed about it, Reverend Mother,” Lady Maria said. “She seems such a sweet child, so much like her father, Ives. He had a sweetness himself, but then—”

“I know the story, but I don’t believe a word of it.”

Lady Maria stared at the nun. “But we have evidence.”

“And I have Leonie. I’ve know her all her life. Such a thing as she’s been accused of, it is not possible.”

Lady Maria did not answer. Finally she bowed her head. The mother superior started to speak, but then she reconsidered. She had learned that the power of conscience often had more impact than the spoken word of another. She prayed silently, “Work on her, God. Let her see that this child is not what she thinks.”

Ransom came often into the room and once brought Dr. McDowell with him. The two physicians removed bandages from the wound and reexamined and redressed it. Dr. McDowell turned to the two women and said, “There’s little change. I think it’s a time for prayer.”

The mother superior asked, “Would you object if we prayed for her now?”

“No, certainly not,” Ransom said quickly.

“I think we should anoint her with oil, and then all four of us should agree in prayer.”

“Aye, that’s what the Bible says,” McDowell said.

“What kind of oil?” Ransom asked quickly.

“It doesn’t matter. Olive oil will do.”

“I’ll get some from the kitchen.”

In a few moments Ransom was back with a small bottle of olive oil. The reverend mother took the oil, let a few drops roll out on her palm, and then handed the bottle back. With her other hand, she dipped the tips of her fingers in, and walking over, she touched the head of the young woman and began to pray. It was not a formal prayer, but all three of those that gathered around the mother superior heard the pain in her voice.

Maria began to weep. She reached out and put her hand on Leonie’s head and held it there. She felt light-headed, and her knees felt weak, and when the woman ceased praying, tears were running down Maria’s face. She looked up at the three who were watching her closely. “She is of my blood. This is my granddaughter, and I love her. She must get well!”

The Mother superior said, her face beaming. “She is blood of your blood, and she needs you at this time. God will give her back to you. I know it!”

Chapter twenty-three

Everything seemed to be clothed with clouds. All were scenes from the past, at least she remembered that much. She saw herself dressed in her white dress as she made her First Communion, and standing close to her were Sister Agnes and Reverend Mother and her friends. It was as if she were seeing it through a veil of some sort, and she strained to see more clearly.

The scene changed, and she saw herself with her friends from the convent on a picnic. In this scene she was older, and she remembered that it was on the day of this picnic that she had experienced the primary signs of a young girl turning into a young woman. She had been so frightened. It had been Simone d’Or who had taken her to the mother superior, and the older woman had explained what was happening to her.

The clouds seemed to swirl around the scene, and she saw herself working in the clinic with Dr. Sheffield. The scene was clearer this time, and she watched his face, noting the seriousness of it. And then in the dream he looked up, smiled at her, and said, “You’re going to be a f ine nurse.” She remembered that day. It had not been long ago.

But then abruptly she felt a sharp pain in her head and the clouds dissipated, and she felt the firmness of the mattress supporting her. She smelled the acrid odor of antiseptic and was conscious of a terrible thirst.

The sounds of voices from far away came to her then, and she could not distinguish any of them. But there was someone singing, and she knew she had heard the song before. Slowly she opened her eyes, and at first the light overhead blinded her and added to the pain. She closed them quickly and memory came swirling back. I was in an accident. I fell out of the carriage, but where am I now?

Cautiously she reopened her eyes and allowed them to become accustomed to the light. She knew then that she was in the room where Dr. Sheffield treated patients who came in from accidents. A fly buzzed in her ear, and she shook her head, but that was a mistake. The movement sent pain like a dagger running from temple to temple. She moaned slightly and lay very still. Finally the pain left her, and she turned her head slightly. There beside her in a chair, Dr. Ransom Sheffield slumped, his head back and his mouth open. He was snoring slightly, and the sight of him made Leonie feel better. She watched him as he breathed and finally settled himself into a more comfortable position.

For some time Leonie lay there, letting herself savor consciousness. Some of the dreams had not been particularly pleasant, although some had. Now she was back in her own world, and Ransom was there, and she was alive.

Slowly she raised her hand, touched her head, and her fingers felt the bandage that swathed her. She touched an area that brought a cry of pain from her, and when she did she saw Ransom’s eyes open. When he saw her face, he jumped out of the chair instantly and cried with a glad voice, “Leonie, you’re awake!”

“Yes,” she whispered faintly. “Could—could I have some water?”

“Of course you can.”

Leonie watched as he quickly moved to the table beside the bed and poured water from a pitcher into a glass. He went to her side and put his arm behind her. “I’m going to lift you up, so you can drink. I know you’re dry as a bone.”

Leonie felt the strength of his arms as he pulled her up. His arm behind her gave her a feeling of safety. When he lifted the glass to her lips, she gulped thirstily.

“Take it easy now. Just a sip at a time. You can have all you want, but a little now and a little later.”

The tepid water was the best drink Leonie had ever had, but even better were the safety and security she felt in Ransom’s embrace. He held her as if she were a child, and she rested against him. Looking up, she whispered between sips of water, “How long have I been here?”

“Two days. You’ve been unconscious the whole time.”

“What’s wrong with me, Ransom?”

“You got a nasty crack on the head, but you’re going to be all right now. Here, have a little more water.”

For some time Ransom held her, giving her sips of water, and he said, “The mother superior was here, and so was your grandmother.”

“Grandmother was here?”

“Yes. She and the mother superior seemed to become quite good friends. They’ve both left for a while, but they’ll be back later to see you.”

Leonie could not think very clearly. She knew that her grandmother was highly displeased with her, and finally she said, “Did Grandmother say anything?”

“She said you were of her blood and that she loved you.”

“Really, Ransom?”

“Yes, really.” His arm tightened about her, and he set the glass down for a moment and put his hand on her cheek. “My heaven, I thought I’d lost you,” he said softly. “You gave me quite a scare.” He leaned forward then, kissed her forehead, and when he saw the look on her face, he said, “Here I am, taking advantage of a helpless young girl. Just the sort of a rascal I am!”

“I don’t mind,” Leonie managed to whisper, and then she felt herself retreating somehow. “I don’t mind at all,” she whispered and lost consciousness.

“Well, it’s very good news, Lady Maria,” Ransom said cheerfully. He had greeted Maria when she had come back from taking a rest, and he had taken her hand and said, “I know you’ve been terribly worried, but she woke up about two hours ago.”

“Is she all right? Why didn’t you send for me?”

“I thought you needed the rest. You’ve slept hardly at all. But yes, she’s all right. Her eyes are clear. She’s weak, but I think she should be awake now. Come along.”

Ransom led Lady Maria into the room where Leonie still lay in the bed. Her eyes were open and she smiled when she saw her grandmother. “You have a visitor,” Ransom said cheerfully. “You think you feel up to a little talk?”

“Oh yes,” Leonie said. She tried to struggle to a sitting position, but Ransom at once went to her, reached down, pulled her up, put a pillow behind her back, and then said, “I’ll just leave you two to catch up.” He looked at Maria and said, “God has been good to us, hasn’t He?”

Maria Augustine could not speak for a moment. Relief had flooded through her when she had heard the good news, and now, seeing Leonie sitting up with some color in her cheeks . . . Then she gathered herself together and said, “Indeed He has, Doctor. Indeed He has.”

Ransom left the room, and Leonie said, “Dr. Sheffield told me how you came at once when you heard I’d been hurt.”

“Yes, and Reverend Mother was here, too.” Maria sat in a chair at Leonie’s bedside. She struggled to put into words what she felt. She thought again how very much Leonie looked like her father, Ives. Ives had had that same shape of eye, dimple, hairline. It was amazing now that she had accepted the fact that Ives’s daughter was alive and well, and she saw freshly how much the girl resembled him. How did I ever miss it before! she cried to herself.

“I have something to say to you, Leonie.”

“Yes, Grandmother.”

Taking a deep breath, Lady Maria said, “I have failed you, and I failed Ives, and I failed myself.”

“Oh no, don’t say that!”

“Yes, I must. I should have ignored the stories I heard and trusted my heart. I know now, although I don’t have any evidence, that you are innocent of those things I was told about you. I don’t understand what happened, but I’m going to get to the bottom of it.”

Leonie’s face glowed, and she held her hand out, but Maria did not take it. Instead she leaned forward, embraced Leonie, and held her tightly. “Can you forgive me, my dear, for doubting you?”

“Oh yes. Certainly I can.”

“Good. Then welcome to the family, and I will never doubt you again—not ever!”

Chapter twenty-four

“Oh, Louis, what have you done?”

Louis looked up with satisfaction at Leonie and said, “Yow!” He held the baby rabbit that he had brought into Leonie’s room between his paws, and his golden eyes glowed with pleasure.

“You’re a bad cat, Louis!” Leonie cried as she bent over. “Turn it loose.” She freed the tiny rabbit from Louis’s grasp and cuddled it in her hands. “You poor little thing,” she said. “Now I’ll have to take care of you.”

For the next fifteen minutes, Leonie busied herself with making a home for the tiny rabbit, which was uninjured. She had made a nest in a large box by lining it with an old blanket and put a small saucer of water inside. “I’ll go get you some milk,” she whispered to the rabbit. With her forefinger she stroked the soft, silky fur and cast a disgusted look at Louis, who had watched all of this. “Now you’ll have to stay out of my room until he’s old enough to turn loose. It serves you right, Louis.”

Louis stared at her but did not seem in the least repentant.

She left, then returned with some milk and an eyedropper. Carefully she fed the tiny creature until he would take no more. “You stay here now, and I’ll be back and feed you a little more later. Come along, Louis. You can’t stay in here.”

As she left her room, she met Mrs. Danvers. “What are you doing, Leonie?”

“Oh, that cat of mine brought a baby rabbit in, and I had to make a home for it.”

Mrs. Danvers smiled. “That’s the nature of cats. I used to keep cats, but I loved the birds too, so it was a constant battle to save the birds and keep the cats. I don’t think you can do both successfully, not all the time. Was the rabbit all right?”

“Oh, he’s so tiny, but I fed him some milk with an eyedropper and made him a little nest. Louis will have to stay out, though, until he’s old enough to turn loose.”

Mrs. Danvers studied Leonie’s face. The young woman had been back at her home now for five weeks. The injury to her head had given her little trouble, although Dr. Sheffield had insisted that she take things very easy. Slowly she had recovered her strength, and it had been a joy to watch her blossom.

“Your grandmother wants to see you as soon as you can find time.”

“Oh, I’ll go now.”

“It’s been a good thing for you to be here for everyone, Leonie,” she said, “but especially for Lady Maria. She was so lonely, and now you and she are almost like a couple of schoolgirls. I’ve never seen her laugh or enjoy life so much.”

Indeed, this had been the case. Lady Maria Augustine had blossomed as her relationship with Leonie deepened. The two of them spent hours together. Much of it consisted of Maria’s telling Leonie about her father’s early years. The two also had taken great pleasure in the tapestry that Leonie was making. Lady Maria was an expert seamstress herself, and the two had worked on the tapestry for hours at a time, sometimes in silence, sometimes laughing and talking.

“She’s so sweet to me and so very good—as you all are, Mrs. Danvers.”

“Well, we’re glad to have you here.”

Leonie smiled. “I’ve never had such a good time. It’s so different from any kind of life I’ve ever had.”

“Well, everyone’s happy then.”

“Except Zara. She doesn’t like me.”

Mrs. Danvers’s countenance darkened. “She’s jealous. That’s what it is. She’s always been first, but now she’s not. It’s understandable, I suppose. But she’ll have to change. Now, you’d better get along to see your grandmother.”

“I will, but I want to come and help work on the dinner tonight.”

“All right, but your grandmother first.”

Mrs. Danvers watched the girl as she stepped downstairs, then returned to the kitchen where the staff members were working—or at least talking about it. They were all sitting around the table, drinking café au lait, and Mrs. Danvers said in mock severity, “What’s this? Have you all grown rich and retired?”

“Sit down and have some cake, Mrs. Danvers,” Charles Dupre, the butler, said. He was a tall man with gray hair and brown eyes. “I couldn’t have made better cake myself.”

“I’m sure you couldn’t,” Mrs. Danvers agreed with a smile. She sat down and joined in the tea party. The talk and the laughter went back and forth, and Mrs. Danvers was very aware of the difference in the atmosphere of the house. Opal Dupre, Charles’s wife and the cook, had always been a prophet of gloom, but now she seemed as cheerful as it was possible for a woman with her temperament to be.

“Well, I will say,” Opal said between bites of the cake, “she’ll be a good mistress, Miss Leonie will, when it’s her turn.”

“It’s too soon to talk about that,” Mrs. Danvers said.

“You never know,” Opal said, frowning. “When we wake up in the morning, none of us know whether we’ll be dead by nightfall.”

A groan went around the table, and Olan Winters, the overseer who was rarely in such meetings as this, complained, “I wish you’d be a little bit more cheerful, woman. Charles, why don’t you take a stick to her until she learns how to be more happy?”

“Yes, indeed,” Charles said. “I will do that immediately.”

“You will not!” Opal snapped. “It would worth your life.”

“Well, I dare say that the day will come,” Olan Winters said. “It comes to all of us, but you’re right. She’ll make a good mistress.”

The party went on for some time until finally one of the maids heard the doorbell ring. “I’ll answer it,” Mrs. Danvers said. “The rest of you get on with your work.”

Leaving the kitchen, Mrs. Danvers went to the door. When she opened it, she found Blaise Mignon standing on the porch. “Come in, Sir. I suppose you’ve come to see Madam?”

“Yes, I have, Mrs. Danvers.”

“She’s in the large parlor. Come with me, please.”

Maria looked up as the lawyer entered and greeted him. “How are you, Blaise? Is it business that brings you here?”

“I have a rather important announcement to make, but I think I would like to make it, with your permission, before the entire family. It will save time.”

“The whole family? You mean all of us?”

“Yes. It’s very important. Critical, I would say.”

“Very well.” Lady Maria pulled the sash cord by her side, and Mrs. Danvers was back almost at once. “Would you go find Leonie, Zara, and Lowell, and tell them to come at once to me?”

“Yes, Madam, at once.”

As soon as Mrs. Danvers closed the door, Lady Maria gave Blaise a careful look. “You’re being very mysterious, and you look very pleased with yourself.”

“I am both. More pleased than mysterious. How is the young lady doing?”

“Miss Leonie is completely recovered, I’m glad to say.”

“That’s good news indeed.” Blaise studied the woman and said, “You two get along famously, do you not?”

“It has been a joy to have Leonie with me. It’s almost like having Ives back. She is so much like him.”

“She resembles him a great deal.”

“But she’s also like him in her ways. He was always sweet-tempered, and she has that same touch of humor that he always had.”

The family began filing in. Lowell came first, a quizzical look in his eye. “What’s going on, Blaise?”

“A matter of family business,” Blaise said smoothly.

Zara was there almost at once, and she cast a cold look at Blaise Mignon. She had never liked the man or trusted him, and she barely gave him a nod when he greeted her. She went over to stand close to Lowell, looking suspicious.

Leonie entered then and went at once to Blaise with a smile. She extended her hand, and he kissed it and said, “Ah, Leonie, you look beautiful. All well now.”

“Yes, indeed, Blaise.”

“All right,” Lady Maria said abruptly, “you’ve greeted everyone. Now, what is this all about?”

“It is a matter of business, Madam. I have two depositions here, and you will be very interested in both.” Reaching into his pocket, Blaise pulled out an envelope and removed two sheets of paper. “The first is from a physician, Dr. Rupert Jones. He is semiretired now, but he is of high standing and of very good reputation among the medical community. It took some time for me to find Dr. Jones, for I had to check every doctor that was practicing in the area at the time that Leonie was born.”

Every eye went to Leonie and then back to Blaise. He liked his drama, Blaise Mignon did, and held the paper high. “Dr. Jones vows in this deposition that he delivered a baby girl on the exact day before a child was found by the reverend mother of the convent.”

“That proves nothing!” Zara said sharply. “It could have been anybody’s child!”

“But according to the deposition, which you shall all read,” Blaise said with some force, “the woman cried out in pain the name ‘Ives’ many times. And afterwards Dr. Jones does hereby avow she told him that her husband’s name was Ives Augustine.”

“My Ives!” Lady Maria exclaimed. “Let me see that, Blaise.”

“Certainly, Madam.”

Lady Maria took the paper, read through it quickly, and then looked across the room at Leonie. “I did not need this kind of evidence to know that you were my granddaughter. Nevertheless, it makes it more legally firm, does it not, Blaise?”

“Indeed, as firm as it can be. The evidence is irrefutable.”

“Well, I don’t believe it!” Zara said stubbornly. She was pale and glared across the room at Leonie. “Who knows whether that child even lived?”

“I think the courts would agree that in all probability the two infants were one and the same.”

“Be still, Zara,” Lowell said sharply. “It’s obvious that Leonie is Ives’s daughter.”

“Yes, it is,” Lady Maria said. “What is the other deposition?”

“The last, it is not such a happy one. I was never convinced that Leonie was guilty of having an affair with a servant, as someone accused her of doing, so I set out to find Luke Benteen.”

Every eye then was riveted on Mignon, and he said, “It took some time, but I finally located him. He’s serving a term in a prison in Tennessee—for assault and burglary. I went to Tennessee myself and spoke with him, and in the presence of another attorney I took this deposition.”

He walked across the room and handed the paper to Lady Maria. As she read it, Leonie looked across at Zara and saw that her face had turned pale as paste and that she was trembling.

For a long time Lady Maria stared at the paper, and then she looked up and said, “I will deal with this, Monsieur Mignon.”

“Yes, of course, Lady Augustine.”

“You must stay for dinner. It’s my granddaughter’s birthday.”

Leonie was puzzled about the contents of the second deposition. Finally she determined to ask no questions, but just before dinner, her grandmother called her into the study. When Leonie entered, Lady Maria said, “I didn’t want Lowell to know about this unless it was necessary, but I want you to read the deposition that the lawyer brought.”

Leonie took the paper and read it quickly. It was very brief, and she looked up in astonishment. “Why, can this be true?”

“The man would have no reason for lying. I am so ashamed of Zara. It’s all her doing. She paid the man, and I’ve already spoken with her.”

“What did she say?” Leonie whispered.

“She finally confessed it all.” Maria shook her head. “She won’t be at dinner. But I’m going to leave it to you, my dear, about what should be done. You would be totally just in demanding that Zara never show her face in this family again.”

“Oh, we can’t do that, Grandmother!” Leonie cried. “She did wrong, but we must show mercy.”

Lady Maria’s face softened. “I knew you’d say that, but I wanted to hear it. Very well. We will let her have some time to think about what she’s done, and perhaps we can help her in some way.”

Leonie left the room, and Lady Maria Augustine felt a tremendous satisfaction. It’s exactly, she thought, the sort of thing that Ives would have done. Zara deserves no consideration, but I’m glad that Leonie has the same quality of mercy as her father had.

Chapter twenty-five

Hugh went to speak with his sister when she was in the rose garden. He stood talking with her for a moment and then said abruptly, “I’ve been somewhat surprised about Leonie.”

Maria looked up quickly. “What do you mean?”

“Well, she’s got what she wanted most. She has a family. She has security, but somehow, well, she just doesn’t seem right.”

“No, she’s not entirely happy.”

Hugh stood for a moment admiring one of the roses. He plucked it off and stuck it in his buttonhole. “I think I know what her problem is.”

Maria looked at him. “What do you think is bothering her?”

“It’s a secret, but let me work on it. I think I can help.” He smiled, turned, and left the garden.

Maria stared after him and shook her head. “You always were a mysterious fellow, Hugh,” she said, “but I hope you know what you’re doing.”

Hugh went at once into the house. He searched until he found Leonie in the library. She had pulled several books from a shelf and was poring over one of them. “Hello, Uncle Hugh,” she said.

“I have to talk to you, my dear,” Hugh said.

As Hugh came to stand over her, Leonie felt a moment’s discomfort. “What is it? You sound serious.”

“Well, it is serious,” Hugh said. He studied the girl’s face and said, “You’re not as happy as you should be.”

“Why, I’m perfectly happy,” Leonie protested.

“No, you’re not. It’s been two months now since you’ve been proclaimed officially and proven to be, by our good lawyer, the granddaughter of Maria Augustine. So now here you are, Mademoiselle Leonie Augustine, heir to a prosperous plantation. But you stay in this house. You never go anywhere. You don’t have any young men calling on you.”

“I don’t want any young men calling on me,” Leonie said. “I’m happy enough as I am.”

Hugh leaned forward and took her hand. “My dear,” he said quietly, “you know my history. You know that I had a loss, and I allowed that loss to ruin much of my life. So I’ve come to beg you not to do the same as I did.”

“I don’t understand you, Hugh.”

“You know, in a way Leonie, moments in time—that’s all we have. We don’t have yesterday. They are only memories. And no one is certain about tomorrow. But this very moment, right now, we have that. And I saw that I wasted many moments when I could have been doing something good and productive. I want to keep you from making that same mistake.”

“You think I’m wasting my life?”

“I think there’s something that you want very desperately, and you don’t know how to get it. Therefore, think of me as your elderly uncle. Sit down, Leonie, and let me give you a push.”

“A push? What do you mean?”

“I mean there are times in our lives when we need someone in our lives to help us get started when we are uncertain and unhappy. So I’m giving you a little push. Now sit down and listen to your Uncle Hugh!”

The day had been long, and Ransom slumped in his chair at his desk. He had seen many patients, and now that the day was over, he was drained. A knock on the door startled him.

Getting to his feet, he thought, I thought I locked the outside door.How can anyone get in to my office? He opened the door, and when he saw who was there, he exclaimed, “Why, Leonie!”

“Yes. I need to talk to you, Ransom.”

“Well, come in.” He stepped back, and when she stepped inside, he saw from her face how serious she was. Her lips were drawn tight. “Is someone ill?” he asked at once. “Lady Maria?”

“No. Everyone is fine—except me.”

Ransom leaned closer and studied her face more intently. “You’re not having headaches or any kind of aftereffects from that fall?”

“No, I’m not. Physically I’m all right, but I—I do have a problem, and you’re the only one that can help me.”

“Of course I will help in any way I can, Leonie,” Ransom said at once.

The two were standing in the center of his office. The light cast a pale corona across her face, and he saw the tension and the strain there. “Come now, it can’t be all that bad,” Ransom said soothingly.

“I don’t know how bad it is, but I will in a few minutes. I have something to confess.”

“Confess? Why, I don’t think it can be very bad, knowing you.”

“I don’t know if it’s bad or good, but I’ve got to say it.”

“Just say it then, Leonie.” He reached out and took one of her hands and held it between both of his. The action seemed to encourage her, and she looked up into his face.

“I haven’t had any experience in love, Ransom. I can only follow my heart.”

Ransom was puzzled. “Well, I haven’t had much experience myself.” A thought came to him, and his brow wrinkled. “You haven’t fallen in love with someone, have you?”

“Yes, I have.”

Leonie felt his grasp tighten on her hand and saw that her words had shocked him.

“Who is it?” he demanded. “Who could you have met in this short length of time?”

“I met you, Ransom.” He stared at her. Leonie knew she had to speak quickly, or she would never be able to express herself. “I have loved you for a long time. I know it’s not proper for a woman to say this to a man. That men are supposed to make the first move. And I’ve been waiting for you to come, but—you never have, so I can only tell you what my heart is. I love you, and I want to be your wife. I know women aren’t supposed to say this, but I have to, Ransom. I know I’ll never love another man the way I love you.”

As Ransom looked down, he saw the tears glimmering in Leonie’s eyes, and her lips were trembling. She whispered, “Do you have any feelings at all for me?”

Ransom could not answer for a moment, but then he put his arms around her and drew her close. “Yes, I do, but I haven’t come for a very good reason. You’re going to be a wealthy woman. You’ll be able to move in high society here. I’ll never be rich. My heart is in serving poor people. You know that, Leonie. I couldn’t ask a woman with money and position and all that goes with it to step down to my lifestyle.”

“Oh, Ransom, I don’t want those things! The money doesn’t mean anything to me. I’ve already decided that whether you love me or not, when I get the inheritance it will go toward making your dream come true—for it’s my dream too.”

And then Leonie saw great happiness come to Ransom Sheffield’s face. He pulled her forward and kissed her, and she surrendered to his embrace. She felt as if she were coming home as he held her. Leonie remembered how he had held her tenderly and gently when she had come out of her coma, and now she was not in a coma at all. She was strong and full of a woman’s desires and dreams. She put her arms around him and held him close.

Finally he lifted his lips and said, “So you’re determined to be the wife of a poor doctor.”

“Yes,” Leonie said, and her eyes sparkled. “Oh, we’re going to have such a life together. And you’re going to have to do one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“You’re going to have to tell me every day that you love me. You’ll never know how hard it was for me to come and say what I said. I felt so awful!”

“I do love you, Leonie, and we’ll tell each other, every day.”

And so they made the pact, and both of them knew as they stood there that they would be one, and they would never lose what they felt for each other at that moment.

THE EXILES: A NOVEL

BOOK ONE OF THE CREOLES SERIES

The Exiles the first book of The Creoles Series, introduces Chantel Fontaine. Readers follow Chantel through the streets and swamps of Louisiana as she falls in love, faces the loss of both her parents, and searches for the baby sister she thought was lost forever.

The culture of the citizens of nineteenth-century New Orleans was as varied and intriguing as their complexions—French, Spanish, African, and American. As the layers of these cultures intertwine, a rich, entertaining story of love and faith emerges. It is the early 1800s, and Chantel Fountaine has finished her education at the Ursuline Convent. But the trials and tragedies that preceded her graduation have put her Christian beliefs to the test.

From bestselling authors Gilbert and Lynn Morris, this captivating novel offers a unique perspective in a distinct cultural setting that comes alive in the minds and hearts of readers.

ISBN: 0-7852-7002-7

THE IMMORTELLES: A NOVEL

BOOK TWO OF THE CREOLES SERIES

The Immortelles, the second book of The Creoles Series, follows the story of Damita De Salvedo, a fortunate young woman, born to a life of affluence and privilege in nineteenth-century New Orleans. Her beauty, accentuated with a wealth of glossy, jet-black hair, is exceeded only by her brashness. With a firm determination and willful disposition, Damita’s spirit is not conducive to discipline, the one thing she desperately needs—and stubbornly resists.

With her family in crisis, Damita faces hardships she has never known. Does she have the character and fortitude to meet the responsibilities thrust upon her? Will she sacrifice body and soul to save her family’s legacy?

ISBN: 0-7852-6806-5

THE ALCHEMY: A NOVEL

BOOK THREE OF THE CREOLES SERIES

The Alchemy focuses on Simone d’Or, a vivacious young woman hardened by high society life, and Colin Seymour, a talented young man from humble beginnings. As the famed singer and composer Lord Beaufort nurtures Colin’s singing voice, Colin rises to stardom in the opera world. At first, Simone judges Colin as a man beneath her standing, but after hearing Colin at the opera, she finds herself captivated by his talent and passion. Meanwhile, Simone’s brother places the family name in jeopardy by his gambling debt, and she must face the possibility of marrying Vernay, a rigid young man of equal status who is feared for his skill in dueling others to the death.

ISBN: 0-7852-6806-5

Table of Contents

The Creole Heritage

PART ONE: MAY–NOVEMBER 1831 Damita

Chapter one

Chapter two

Chapter three

Chapter four

Chapter five

Chapter six

PART TWO: SPRING 1832 Charissa

Chapter seven

Chapter eight

Chapter nine

Chapter ten

Chapter eleven

Chapter twelve

PART THREE: 1834–1835 Jeff

Chapter thirteen

Chapter fourteen

Chapter fifteen

Chapter sixteen

Chapter seventeen

Chapter eighteen

PART FOUR: 1835–1836 Yancy

Chapter nineteen

Chapter twenty

Chapter twenty-one

Chapter twenty-two

Chapter twenty-three

Chapter twenty-four

A bout the authors