Creole Hearts Page 20

  What would happen to Madelaine if he dueled with Philippe's brother? She'd begun to trust him again, letting him take her to the opera, playing backgammon with him in the evenings. Yet he couldn't compromise his manhood because of Madelaine.

  He'd stand here until a door opened and Julienne came out with Nicolas. What was she doing in there with him? How dare he take her into a private room? What was her mother thinking of to let her go with him?

  With an effort, Guy got hold of himself. Nothing much ever went on in those rooms, as he knew very well. A few kisses, an indiscreet caress—no girl of good family would allow more. If he left now he could pretend he didn't know the truth.

  "We could walk over to Maspero's, perhaps," Joubert said, "you and I."

  Guy wrenched his gaze away from the doors to look at Joubert, who was perspiring heavily. All at once Guy nodded at him, forcing himself to smile.

  "Yes, I'd like a drink," he said. "Why don't we go?" He turned and walked deliberately away, conscious of the eyes following him.

  Not yet, Nicolas, he said to himself. But I won't forget.

  Guy drank more than usual, Joubert keeping pace with him so that when they left the coffee house, Joubert staggered, nearly falling. He shook off Guy's helping hand.

  "Don't need assistance," he said, his voice slurred. "You go your way, I'll go mine."

  Guy watched him walk along the banquette until he was satisfied that Joubert would find his way back to the dance without mishap. He headed for his townhouse, feeling the brandy he'd drunk make his own legs wobbly and maze his thoughts until they were as shapeless as cotton.

  Get home. Go to bed. Keep thinking that. Home. Bed. No use to bring Julienne to mind, she's with Nicolas. He hesitated, stopping. Bastard Nicolas. Challenge him. Duel.

  No. Go home.

  Guy began walking again. Strangers passed. Acquaintances greeted him. He nodded. Carriages clopped past. Drays. Carts.

  On the river a steamboat whistled. He smiled. Build hundreds of boats. Joubert was his friend. Henry Shreve was his friend. Partners. Two Creoles, one American. The right proportion. Keep control.

  As he left the commercial district fewer people passed, then none. An occasional man on horseback trotted by. The fresh breeze hinted of frost.

  Hooves clattered from behind him, a horse being ridden fast. Someone in a hurry. The horseman drew even with Guy, slowed. He turned his head too quickly and lost his precarious balance. Staggered. Heard a sharp crack. Something hit his left arm. He grabbed at the arm with his right hand and fell to one knee. The horseman spurred his mount and galloped away.

  "Wore a mask," Guy said aloud.

  He got to his feet and walked on. He let himself through the gate into the courtyard. Crossed it. Climbed the steps. Reached for the door. The lantern, gleaming yellow from its hook above the door, showed dried blood on his hand. Guy stared at it, uncomprehendingly. He let himself inside.

  His left arm hurt like the devil when he tried to shrug off his coat. He touched his arm, saw fresh blood on his hand. The horseman. The mask. The crack.

  A pistol?

  Guy sank down in the nearest chair. Dieu, he’d been shot at.

  Someone had tried to kill him!

  Chapter 21

  Guy’s wound healed slowly even though it wasn't a serious injury.

  "I can't think why you persist in believing Nicolas Roulleaux shot at you," Madelaine said just before Christmas as they sat over coffee.

  Guy shrugged. "He could have been the one."

  "Over Julienne Le Moyne? He'd have challenged you, not shot from ambush. And thank le bon Dieu he didn't challenge you. For if you face Nicolas on the field, I'll leave your roof, Guy. Don't mistake my words, for I'm serious.

  “I no longer worry over you dueling. Everyone knows you're the most skillful swordsman in the city. But you've killed one Roulleaux and I won't stand by and see you kill the other."

  Guy spread his hands. "In one breath you say I can best any swordsman in the city, in the next you say Nicolas couldn't have been my cowardly assailant. What if he fears to face me?"

  She shook her head. "I don't believe it."

  "I won the election. He may have realized Marc would lose and decided to--"

  "Ridiculous! What of those fires Captain Shreve mentioned?”

  "I admit it's possible the Fulton monopoly might have hired a man to rid them of me. But why not shoot Captain Shreve and Joubert Le Moyne as well?"

  "You haven't mentioned your placee at all. Estelle is much admired among the free blacks. What if. . . ?"

  "Enough!" Guy exclaimed. "I won't discuss Estelle with you." Underneath his annoyance, a persistent tendril of doubt thrust. Could the masked assailant have actually been Estelle, dressed as a man? Sometimes he felt her hatred for him was greater than anyone else's.

  "Very well, have it your way—though it's foolish to pretend I don't know she exists. Whoever the man was, I've said many novenas in gratitude that your life was spared." Madelaine held out her hand to Guy and he reached across the table to touch her fingers.

  "Promise me you won't challenge Nicolas over the Le Moyne girl," she went on. "Julienne isn't worth anyone's life."

  Guy scowled. "How can I make such a promise?"

  "Will you at least try to keep your temper? Let Julienne choose." Madelaine shook her head. "That is, if she intends to. It strikes me that she enjoys playing one man against the other far more than she enjoys the idea of marriage."

  "I'll keep my temper. Though you're wrong about Julienne. She's young, she'll change."

  Madelaine's raised eyebrows told him she had her doubts, but he knew his sister would do all she could to help Julienne become a proper wife once he married the little minx.

  "We'll be able to move into Lac Belle by February," he said to take Madelaine's mind off Julienne and Nicolas.

  Guy roused from a doze. Beside him Estelle slept, arms and legs outflung. He eased one of her arms from his chest and rose to his feet.

  Despite the nap he felt exhausted, drained, as he always did after bedding Estelle. After he wed Julienne he'd have no need for these savage encounters. He began to dress.

  "People say you're going to marry," Estelle said.

  He turned to look at her. She lay in the same position, her dark eyes fixed on him.

  "I plan to."

  “The younger of Monsieur Le Moyne's daughters."

  "Yes."

  "She's not going to marry you." There was no threat in Estelle's voice, she spoke as if stating a fact. Nevertheless, a frisson crept along Guy's spine.

  "That's nonsense," he said.

  "I danced. I asked Zombi. He told me, spoke in my head."

  "I thought I told you to stay away from voodoo."

  "You told me. I do what I must."

  "Don't go near Julienne."

  Estelle smiled slightly, "Why would I do that? You think I need you?"

  "I know you do."

  "Not forever. But you listen to what I say. You won't marry that girl."

  The steamboats brought in money so rapidly that even with the expense of building additional boats, Guy's share was more than he needed to finish the manor house. It had been a favorable day when he spoke to Captain Shreve.

  What if he built a place especially for Julienne? Not Lac Belle. Though she'd be mistress there when they married, Lac Belle was for Madelaine as well, for La Branche children to come, not just for Julienne.

  Wouldn't she like a picnic house of her very own? Not a simple wooden structure such as the old summer house on the lake had been. He'd had that torn down. He thought of the glittering splendor of Versailles. He could plan a palace in miniature for Julienne, a dreamland along the lake, complete with canals and tiny boats, sparkling fountains and flower gardens. A castle with furnishings fit for a princess. What could Nicolas offer to compete with that?

  He began to prepare for Julienne's dreamland the next day, setting the slaves to dig the canals.

  By the tim
e he and Madelaine moved into the manor house, the little palace was beginning to take form. To his surprise, Madelaine approved.

  "It's a lovely toy," she said. "Julienne will surely enjoy it and later your children will have a charming playhouse." She fell silent, staring pensively at the plantings between the canals.

  Guy knew she was thinking of Cecile. A pang gripped his heart. How cruel it was to deprive a mother of her child. But what else could he have done?

  When his fantasy was almost completed, he brought Julienne to Lac Belle.

  "How beautiful," she said over and over as she walked throughout the manor house, admiring the crystal teardrops of the chandeliers, the carved plaster embellishing the ceilings, the white marble fireplaces, the graceful floating staircase, the brocade wallpaper from Paris.

  When he handed her into the miniature carriage drawn by a pony, she clapped her hands in delight. He led the pony along a winding path of crushed oyster shells to her own domain, Belle Fantaisie, hidden from the manor house by tallow trees.

  "This I had made for you alone," he told Julienne as he helped her from the carriage.

  She looked around, her eyes wide.

  There was an acre of intersecting canals with a scaled down steamboat complete with a slave boy, who’s feet on pedals furnished the power to turn the paddle wheels. Plantings of shrubs and flowers grew between the canals and delicate drawbridges spanned the water. Songbirds in an aviary fluttered from branch to branch near the entrance to the nearly completed palace.

  "Mine?" Julienne breathed, incredulous.

  "All yours. When they're through inside, you'll have three rooms downstairs and two upstairs, one with mirrors for walls."

  "Oh, I can hardly wait to live in it! When will it be finished?"

  "By July."

  "That's a long time." Julienne pouted.

  He put an arm about her. "By the time we finish all the preparations for the wedding, July will be here."

  She drew back. "The wedding?"

  "You know I want to marry you."

  She shot him a sidelong glance. "Do I?"

  He caught her to him, kissing her lips, and she allowed him a brief embrace before turning her face from his and pushing at his chest.

  "Stop, that's enough.'*

  He let her go.

  She straightened her bonnet. "I haven't agreed to marry you."

  "You can hardly live in your palace if you don't."

  "You said it was mine!"

  "But Julienne—it isn't proper for a young lady to accept a house from a man. I couldn't possibly ..."

  Julienne stamped her foot, "I hate you!" she cried. "You tell me this is all mine, and then you say that I must marry you or I can't have it."

  He tried to take her hand, but she turned her back petulantly.

  "Your papa would surely challenge me if I offered you Belle Fantaisie without offering marriage," he told her.

  “Well, haven’t you offered marriage? Why can’t I have my place without saying yes?"

  "Julienne, it's not proper. Your papa..."

  “Papa, always you say 'papa.' Don't you know I may do as I wish?" She tossed her head. "You may take me home. I don't wish to stay here any longer."

  The next month Joubert Le Moyne held a party to celebrate Julienne's betrothal to Nicolas Roulleaux.

  "She did it to spite you," Madelaine told him. "Watch, you'll see the engagement will be broken. Julienne isn't ready to marry any man."

  "It was my own clumsiness," Guy said.

  "Pouf! Julienne's a willful, spoiled young woman who wants her own way in all things. If you persist in wishing to marry a Le Moyne, Yolande is by far the better choice."

  "Yolande bores me."

  Joubert's invitation to Guy to attend the betrothal party included Madelaine. Guy understood that courtesy demanded he be asked since he was Joubert's partner, but realized that no one expected him to actually come to the dinner.

  "I believe I'll attend this celebration," he told Madelaine.

  "Why would you want to be at a dinner honoring Nicolas Roulleaux? I thought you avoided him whenever possible."

  He shrugged. "Don't I have to be in the same room with him every day that I attend the legislature?"

  "You'll cause trouble."

  "No, certainly not. I wouldn't embarrass Joubert. He has no control over Julienne, I realize that."

  "Guy, it's not a good idea."

  "You don't have to come."

  "If you intend to go, I shall certainly attend this party. Who'll keep an eye on you otherwise?"

  D'Argent, the Le Moyne plantation, was brilliant with lights as the steamboat Creole Folie brought the guests up river from New Orleans. Lanterns hung from ropes strung between high branches of the oaks that lined either side of the road from the river, and colored illuminations decorated trees about the house.

  Inside, chandeliers blazed with hundreds of candles. There were flowers everywhere—reds and yellows and oranges, vivid colors that enhanced the dark beauty of the rosewood paneling. Guy escorted Madelaine into the double parlor. He thought she looked especially young and pretty tonight in a new Paris gown of deep rose, the high waist showing off her shapely breasts.

  Odalie had coaxed Madelaine's hair into a new fashion, tiny curls about her face, the rest caught back with a star clasp of rose garnets. The style became her. She was more beautiful than any of the younger women, Guy thought— except, of course, for Julienne.

  Guy tried to keep his eyes away from Julienne's glowing loveliness as she fluttered from one group to another, as fragile and dainty as a butterfly in her yellow and white dress. She touched the arm of a scowling young man, dancing away as he tried to catch her hand. Guy, watching, saw the man turn to glower at Nicolas, who glared back at him.

  Guy smiled wryly. More than one disgruntled suitor in the party. Perhaps there'd be a challenge tonight, after all.

  Servants carried trays of wines, liquors and lemonade. He took a glass of champagne for Madelaine, whom he found talking to Yolande.

  ". . . terribly upset," Yolande was saying. "I wish he hadn't come.”

  Guy handed Madelaine the glass. "Are you speaking of that sullen young man by the archway?" he asked Yolande.

  She nodded. "He's Ignace Proulx—you know, the Proulxes have the next plantation to us. I do hope he doesn't make a scene and ruin Julienne's party. The Proulx family are very close friends, but Ignace is so—so uncontrollable."

  Guy thought he saw a resemblance between Ignace and Antoine Proulx. Antoine, who had fought with Beale's Rifles, must be the young man’s father, Guy decided.

  He leaned closer to Madelaine. “I’ll keep an eye on Ignace. That ought to keep me out of trouble," he whispered to her.

  Madelaine raised her eyebrows and he grinned.

  As Guy mingled with the guests, he kept an eye on young Proulx. I don't want to challenge Nicolas over Julienne, he told himself. It would mean nothing, for she doesn't want me anyway.

  If I can keep Ignace from disrupting the festivities, that can be my wedding present to her.

  When the fifty guests had been seated at the three long tables in the dining room, Joubert stood, raising a hand for silence. He pulled a long ribbon attached to a gilt cage suspended from the ceiling. A door opened in the cage and a white pigeon flew out, made a circle of the room and fluttered down to alight on the table directly in front of Julienne.

  While the guests exclaimed, Julienne picked up the pigeon and took a rolled paper from a band on its leg. She unfolded the paper, scanned it, and blushed becomingly.

  "Read it aloud," a girl called.

  "Oh, I couldn't," she protested.

  "Is it a love note from the bridegroom?" Ignace Proulx asked harshly.

  She shook her head, handing the paper to Nicolas. "You read it aloud for me," she said.

  Nicolas stood up. After a quelling glare at Ignace he began.

  Oh, fair sister of mine

  Beautiful belle of Louisiana

/>   May your days be sunshine

  May your nights be moonlit

  Be happy forever oh, sister

  Oh, lovely Julienne.

  "It's signed Yolande," Nicolas added.

  Everyone clapped, craning their necks to look at Yolande, who sat smiling at her sister. Julienne, Guy thought, looked almost petulant, as though she resented Yolande’s brief moment of glory.

  As Nicolas sat down, Joubert rose again. "It was all my elder daughter's idea—the bird, the poem. My wife and I are proud of both our girls, and we’re thrilled and happy to announce Julienne's betrothal to Nicolas Roulleaux." He spread his hands. "I welcome you to D'Argent to join us in celebrating the happy occasion."

  Sitting on the same side of the table as Ignace Proulx, though separated by four chairs, Guy watched the young man carefully. Ignace was on his seventh glass of champagne by Guy's count. With luck he'd drink himself under the table. A parade of servants came in with tureens of soup—bouillabaisse made with redfish, red snapper, crabs and shrimp, and also a crayfish bisque. The soup was followed by file and okra gumbo made with both seafood and chicken, oysters on the half shell, frog legs fried golden brown, and three kinds of jambalaya. There were cuts of ham and roast beef on silver platters, baked squabs, peas and beans, plus assorted fruits in syrups, pain patate sweet potato cakes, colas tout chaud, hot rice cakes fried and sprinkled with sugar, batons amondes, almond sticks, and pecan candies. Ignace, who sat directly across from Nicolas, ate little, scarcely speaking to those on either side of him. Guy, on the other hand, found he had a good appetite for the tasty dishes, but he kept part of his attention on the brooding Ignace throughout the meal.

  As the servants cleared the table, Ignace began fumbling with something under cover of the tablecloth, his hands out of sight. Guy tensed. An immensely fat black woman wearing a blue tignon entered the dining room bearing a silver salver with two tiny stemmed glasses filled with layers of different colored liqueurs. She offered one glass to Julienne and the other to Nicolas. They touched glasses, then drank. Everyone cheered.