Creole Hearts (11 page)

The drummers were to the left of the voodoo queen. A man sat astride the big drum that lay lengthwise on the ground, slapping the skin head. Another Negro beat the smaller drum. Two shook gourds and a tan skinned Negro ran a long bone up and down the toothed jawbone of a horse.

The hair rose on the nape of Madelaine's neck as the rhythm quickened. The sounds, the sights were like nothing she'd ever experienced.

Her fear of Vedette mingled with excited anticipation as the voodooienne turned to the right to face a large painted box on a raised altar, inscribed with strange symbols and drawings.

Madelaine saw an iron mesh was set into the front of the box. Tiny bells on Vedette's ankles tinkled as she gyrated toward the box, chanting:

L'Appe vini, Le Grand Zombi

L'Appe vini pou fe gris gris.

Over and over she intoned the words, her voice rising to frenzy as she writhed and swayed before the box.

"Aie, aie!" the crowd shouted. "Voodoo Magnan!"

With a suddenness that made Madelaine blink, a man leaped in front of Vedette. Naked, except for a few red handkerchiefs knotted about his loins, he sprang into the air, the bells on his ankles jangling. Madelaine watched open mouthed, pushing the vines apart to get a better view, her eyes never leaving the two dancers.

He was a giant Negro, his skin glistening like black onyx in the flames. On each cheek three long lines of tattooing rayed out. An African, for Creole blacks had no tattooing—it was forbidden.

"Eh! Eh! Bomba hen, hen!" the man chanted.

He picked up Vedette and stood her atop the box. Her jerking became more violent. She flung her arms toward the night sky and her head rolled on her shoulders as though her neck was broken.

"Aie, aie!" the crowd screamed, all of them swaying in rhythm.

Vedette leaped off the box, writhing and shaking, seized the mesh and yanked it away. She reached inside and brought out a mass of coils, a huge snake that she caressed as it twined about her body. The man whirled around her, chanting, sweat gleaming on his naked skin. He was so very black.

Madelaine touched her tongue to her dry lips. The drums invaded her body until she felt their beat in her bones. Her hand went to her bodice, unbuttoning the high neck for she felt she couldn't breathe.

Suddenly the man jumped into the air to land inches from the vines that concealed her. Without pausing in his dance, he stared directly into Madelaine's eyes. She couldn't tear her gaze from his. Slowly he extended his hand toward her. His glinting black eyes held her as though she were a bird and he the snake.

Without willing it, Madelaine's hand came from the vines to meet his. With a shout he pulled her free of the tendrils and into the firelight. Her body began to sway as he danced in front of her.

"
Eh, eh! Bomba hen, hen
!" the crowd shouted, rising as one to their feet. Black bodies clustered about her, dancing, men with women, Vedette with the snake.

Madeline's hair loosened and tumbled down her back as she stamped her feet to the drum's rhythms and twisted her body to match the primitive gyrations of the tattooed black.

"Houm
! Dance Calinda!" a voice cried.

"
Voodoo Magnan. Aie, aie
!" others shouted.

How the snake coiled about the voodoo queen! As though it felt the drums, moved to their beat.

Madelaine tore at the buttons of her gown, stifled inside her clothes. Part of her seemed to stand aside and look on in amazement as she stepped out of her dress and threw it aside but she couldn't break the spell of the drumming and the dance.

"Bomba, bomba!" her partner chanted.

"Aie!" she answered, in unison with the crowd. "Aie, aie!"

Closer and closer he danced, leaping into the air, bells tinkling. As she undulated next to him she could feel the heat of his naked flesh. Her lips parted, she gasped for breath. All around her women threw off their clothes, bodies glistening with sweat, twisting, writhing snakelike as the men leaped and pranced.

She must—she must . . . Her hands were feeling for the fastening of her petticoat when she was grasped by the waist and whirled away from the tattooed black giant.

Madelaine fought against her captor, turning her head to stare into the face of Philippe Roulleaux.

Philippe half carried Madelaine through the throng of naked, dancing blacks. No one interfered, the Negroes seemed scarcely aware of them. Still dazed by the dancing, by his sudden appearance, she clung to him as he strode beyond the firelight and down the path.

"Philippe," she murmured. He set her onto her feet, his hands on her shoulders. "Madelaine, what were you thinking of to come here?" He shook her as he spoke, his voice throbbing with anger. "Mon Dieu, what might have happened to you if Tomas hadn't told me!"

She blinked at him, saw his pale face in the light of the half moon. "Tomas?"

"Yes. Tomas, our coachman. He said a La Belle slave was bringing you to the voodoo. Tomas knows about us because of the carriage. I could hardly believe you'd do such a foolish thing but I came here anyway. Luckily."

Madelaine's lower lip quivered. He sounded almost like Guy scolding her. She flung her arms around him, tears in her eyes. "Philippe," she cried, "don't be angry. I love you so."

He groaned and his hands slid from her shoulders to crush her against him. His lips came down on hers demandingly. Her body throbbed with the drums, a fiery pulsation. His lips moved down her throat to the top of her breasts.

"Madelaine, cherie," he murmured.

He lifted her and, carrying her in his arms, pushed through the bushes along the path to a tiny clearing. As he put her down, her loosened petticoats slipped off and left her clad only in her chemise. She pressed against him, molding her body to his. He held her tightly, staring into her eyes, his face only inches away.

"This is madness," he said. "I'm mad for you, to have you,
mon cherie
, but . . ."

Her kiss stopped his words.

Philippe's hands caressed the curve of her hips, cupped her buttocks to hold her firmly to him. A tingling desire grew within her, a need crying to be satisfied. When he put his lips to her breasts through the thin batiste of her chemise, she pulled away and, with a quick sinuous motion, pulled the chemise over her head. She stood naked in the moonlight.

He caught his breath. Keeping his eyes on her, he hurried to remove his clothes. She stared in fascination at his revealed maleness, put out her hand and touched it, marveling at how different he was from herself.

How wonderfully different.

When he caught her to him, she moaned at the feel of his flesh on hers, his throbbing hardness pressing against her. The drums pounded, pounded, both without and within her, urging her, driving her.

Somehow they were on the ground, his hands on her breasts, then his lips.

"Philippe," she breathed, "please . . ." She didn't know what she wanted him to do, only that he must, he must, or she would die with desire.

"My beautiful, my love," he whispered.

His hands stroked her thighs, then moved between her legs, gently pushing them apart. His body slid over hers, his hardness probing, entering, thrusting against something that yielded with one knifelike stab of pain, gone so quickly she had no time to cry out before she was overcome with pleasure.

Madelaine arched to him, wanting more and more of the wonderful, terrible sensation. Her fingers dug into his back as, unable to speak, she murmured incoherently.

She was in a glittering night of pulsating darkness where fiery serpents writhed inside her in a dance of ecstasy. Flames skyrocketed into the blackness, a fireworks of release, and she felt herself fragment into delicious wonder.

Philippe cried out, moaned, they held one another tightly, their hold gradually relaxing. He moved, turned onto his side, next to her. "I love you very much," he said. "We shouldn't

have--”

"Hush. I won't listen. It's a part of our love so it must be right. So wonderful, Philippe. I never dreamed anything could be like this."

"You're mine forever, sweet Madelaine. No other man shall have you, I swear, no matter what may happen."

"Yes," she said, "I'm yours, always." He sat up.

"
Mon Dieu
, how am I to get you home? You in your petticoat. Ah, my love, you're a wanton."

"For you," she said fiercely, shoving away the memory of the moment she'd danced with the giant slave, when she felt the heat of his body . . .

"A wanton only for you, Philippe."

Chapter 11

When they came onto the path, Madelaine saw, with disbelief, her black gown hanging from a branch of a shrub. Philippe swore and stared back toward the voodoo fire.

"Josefina," Madelaine said, putting on her dress. "She remembered me and brought the gown." But she felt a chill, for whoever had hung the gown on the bush might well have seen her with Philippe, seen them making love.

Not Josefina. The slave was with her own lover, Tomas, and would have forgotten Madelaine.

The tattooed African? No, he wouldn't care about her clothes.

Vedette? Madelaine shivered, suddenly certain the voodoo queen had been the one, but she said nothing to Philippe.

"Why haven't you come to our meeting place?" she asked him. "It's been four months."

"I came many times. You didn't. I thought you no longer cared."

'I couldn't get away much. Senalda . . ." Her words trailed off. It was better not to speak of poor Senalda. "I'll meet you there again. Philippe. Tomorrow?"

He put his arm about her, guiding her along the path. "No, not tomorrow. The next day, in the afternoon."

She stiffened. "Why not tomorrow? Is it because you must see Annette Louise?"

He laughed. "Annette Louise was your idea, not mine. She's a pretty little girl, but I'm hopelessly in love with a far more lovely woman. I've given my heart away to her and have nothing left for poor Annette Louise." He paused and kissed her, his lips warm on hers.

"I came tonight because I thought you didn't love me," she said when they were walking once again. "I hoped the voodoo queen would help me." She couldn't bring herself to say Vedette's name.

Again he laughed. "
Dieu
, I've little need for you to give me love potions. I think of you constantly as it is." His voice changed, grew serious. "You must promise me you won't go out at night again on foolish errands. It's not safe."

"I'm not afraid of the night animals, the wildcats and such. And the slaves wouldn't harm me."

"I'm not thinking about the animals. The slaves—well, who can really trust them? But there are also the
Americains
—those
Kaintocks
off the boats—wild and more dangerous than any animal."

"Not all the
Americains
are like them." Why was she baiting Philippe this way? Some mischievous devil guided her tongue for she agreed entirely that it was foolish to be abroad at night without an escort.

He stopped abruptly, grasping her shoulders and glaring into her face. "Have you been seeing that red haired soldier? That
Amercain
. Answer me!"

"No," she said. "Oh, no, Philippe."

But she had, though it was months ago. Philippe's question made the memory spring vividly to her mind. Not only had she seen John Kellogg, but she had enjoyed his kiss—try as she might to forget the feeling.

She clung to Philippe's arm. He was the one she loved. After what happened tonight she'd never love another.

* * * 

Seagulls swooped over the blue water, their cries shrill and plaintive. Madelaine, drowsy from the heat and the wine she'd drunk, watched the birds glide on the wind. Although it was               cooler along Lake Pontchartrain than at La Belle, the July day was sultry. Although it was cooler

along Lake Pontchartrain, the day was sultry.

“You dream, perhaps, of another," Gabriel Davion said from his place beside her on the gallery of the old summer house.

The gallery was netted against the mosquitoes, but a few had gotten past, as usual. One hummed in her ear and she picked up her ivory fan to wave it away. "It's so warm," she murmured, ignoring his comment.

Guy had left them alone purposely, she knew. He'd arranged the picnic in the summer house on La Branche land near the lake and invited the guests, all the while hoping she would say "yes" to Gabriel. So far she'd managed to forestall a marriage proposal.

Gabriel leaned toward her. "You've changed these past months, Madelaine," he said. "I see you're no longer a child." Although his glance didn't miss the curve of her body under the light blue muslin gown, she realized he meant more than that.

"I've had to grow up.' she said.

"Yes. Such misfortune must have been difficult for you. But the change seems deeper. You even look at me differently."

Madelaine blushed. She hadn't known he was aware of the long, considering gaze she'd turned on him earlier. She'd been wondering what it would be like to marry Gabriel, to be bedded by him.

Not that she wanted such a thing! Each meeting with Philippe, each time they lay together, made her love him all the more passionately. She eyed Gabriel, fluttering the fan between them. Since she'd experienced what a man and a woman could share, she no longer regarded Gabriel as a brother—even if she had no desire to marry him.

“I could never marry you," she said abruptly.

His eyes widened.

"I know you haven't asked me, but surely you realize that Guy has been pushing us together with marriage in mind. He wants it, I don't."

"Madelaine, I--"

"Let me finish, for I may not gather the courage to speak so bluntly again. I've always been fond of you, Gabriel, but I don't love you. Please don't tell me that I could learn to. It may or may not be true, but I don't wish to try to love you. We aren't meant for each other, Gabriel, and I want you to be free to find a wife who can love you as you deserve, because I can't. Annette Louise Courchaine, perhaps. She's sighed over you from the time we were children."

Gabriel took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I can't deny I was about to propose to you. I have long admired you, and I've watched as you've grown into a beautiful woman—a woman of character and charm."

"Be honest, Gabriel. You aren't heartbroken by what I've said, are you?"

He smiled a bit sadly. "I'd be honored to have you for my wife. But, no, though my heart pains a trifle, it's intact."

Impulsively, she leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. "I've always liked you, Gabriel. Can we not remain friends?"

He nodded. "Do you love another, Madelaine?"

She lowered her eyes. It wouldn't be wise to reveal too much to Gabriel, for he was Guy's best friend. "You embarrass me," she murmured.

When she looked at him through her lashes she saw his skeptical glance. Gabriel knew very well she wasn't easily abashed. But he didn't press her. She brushed away a mosquito from her arm. The shadows were lengthening, encouraging the pests to swarm, and more were getting past the netting. Her head had begun to ache from the glare of the sun on the water. The picnic was over, and it was time to go home.

* * *

In August, Annette Louise visited Madelaine at La Belle. Flushed and excited, she clutched at Madeline's hands.

"Just think," she said, "Gabriel has spoken to papa and we're to be married in three weeks. I never dreamed he noticed me. All the time I thought. . ." She stopped, eyeing Madelaine.

"I'm happy for you," Madelaine said honestly. "Gabriel is a wonderful man, and I know he'll make you very happy. I suspected you still nourished a tendresse for him, even though you have flirted constantly with Philippe." What pleasure it gave her to say her lover's name.

"Oh, Philippe." Annette Louise waved her hand as if to dismiss the possibility that she could ever seriously consider him as a suitor. "He's amusing, but I could never marry him. I could never feel for him as I do about Gabriel." She sank into a chair, and removed her fan from the pocket of her dress. "
Mon Dieu
but it's hot." Peering at Madelaine from behind the waving fan, she added, "You really are glad to hear the news. And to think that I once thought Gabriel was in love with you!"

"He has always loved me as a sister. He helped Guy raise me. We could never take one another seriously because of that. I'm very fond of Gabriel, as I am of you, and I know you'll have a good marriage—a loving marriage. It makes me very happy."

Ah, Philippe, she thought, if only you could approach Guy so we could be married. If only this foolish feud didn't stand between us.

Annette Louise brushed a mosquito from her hand. "I sweat these pesky bugs grow worse every summer," she said. She lowered her voice, leaning forward. "Have you heard about the sickness in the city?" she asked.

"Summer fevers."

"No, no, it's worse. Maman whispers and doesn't think I hear." Her voice dropped so low Madelaine could barely hear her. "Bronze John. Many are ill. Some have died."

Yellow fever. Governor Claiborne had lost his wife and little daughter to the disease two summers ago. Annette Louise herself had been sick with yellow fever five years ago.

"You're safe from Bronze John," Madelaine reminded her. "He doesn't visit twice,"

"But Gabriel—what about him?" Annette Louise cried.

"You truly do love him," Madelaine said. "Don't worry, he's as healthy as Guy. Bronze John will pass him by this summer, too, as he has every other year."

She wasn't speaking merely to soothe Annette Louise's fears. It did seem that newcomers to New Orleans, like the governor's wife, were the ones most likely to come down with yellow fever.

It struck
Americains
and visitors from Europe far more often than those born and raised in Louisiana. And it killed them more often, too. Annette Louise hadn't been so very sick—she'd been out of bed a week later. Her skin had barely turned yellow at all.

             
B
ronze John seemed to avoid the slaves almost entirely.

"Marie Thibodeaux has died," Annette Louise went on in her hushed, frightened voice. "
Maman
was told she vomited black for days before she went. Remember how fair she was, such pale skin? It turned the color of cantalope flesh—a hideous orange yellow."

"Don't dwell on such things. Think of your trousseau, your wedding gown. Surely your parents will give you the grandest marriage ever seen inside St. Louis since it was built. I can't wait to be there."

Annette Louise smiled tentatively. "
Maman
says I'm to have pearls sewn into the lace of my gown," she said. "And the neckline—" she touched her finger between her breasts—"down to here, just think! It's the very latest from Paris."

"You'll look enchanting."

The first week in September, Madelaine recalled her words as she sat in a pew watching her friend standing with Gabriel before the altar of St. Louis. Annette Louise was enchanting, a vision in white lace and silk, the luster of the pearls on her gown no fairer than the glow of her skin.

Ah, I'm so envious, Madelaine thought. Why couldn't it be me standing before Father Antoine, with Philippe beside me? All because of some ancient disagreement that no one even remembers correctly anymore.

The church wasn't crowded because of the epidemic in the city. People hesitated to gather in groups lest Bronze John join them as an invisible guest. Still, a scattering of friends and relatives braved the scourge. Later, they drank to the newlyweds' health in the Courchaine townhouse.

Whether from the champagne or the enervating heat that hung over the city, heavy with the stench of the rotting garbage by the levee, Madelaine began to feel queasy. She asked Guy to take her back to La Belle before the  reception was over.

"Are you ill?" Guy asked, peering at her closely as he helped her into the manor house.

"No, it's merely a headache."

"Your eyes look strange," he said. "Glassy."

Madelaine tried to laugh but only mustered a faint smile. "Even a headache is suspect these days," she said.

"The city's using the dead carts again," Guy said. "So many have been dying each day that St. Louis Cemetery can't keep up with the burials. The Americans have their army doctors working night and day with our own doctors."

He hesitated, then went on, "I understand that Dr. Kellogg is foremost among them. Governor Claiborne praises him highly."

Madelaine hadn't thought of John Kellogg in weeks. As she let Odalie help her to bed, she saw in her mind's eye the strong planes of his face, his auburn hair. It was strange for her to think of him as a doctor, tending to the ill and dying, for he was so vibrantly alive.

She was sick, though. It was more than a headache, her neck and back hurt and her legs cramped until tears came to her eyes.

She began to shake, shivering so that her teeth chattered. Odalie piled more quilts onto the bed, then ran down to the kitchen fire to warm bricks, for there were no others fires lit in this hot month.

But Madelaine was cold, chilled to the bone. She ached all over. By the time Odalie had placed the heated bricks around her, she had to fly across the room for a basin because Madelaine began to retch, vomiting until nothing came but bile, green and bitter.