Creole Hearts (12 page)

Time ceased to have meaning. Shapes hovered over her in a fog, Odalie, Guy, Once she thought she recognized Dr. Goodreau but when she looked again, he wasn't there.

Visions flitted through her mind. The tattooed black man with snakes writhing about him, his eyes glinting hard as onyx. Vedette, slipping through the house, up the stairs with a
gris gris
in her hand.

"No, don't let her," Madelaine tried to say, for she'd die as Senalda had died if the gris gris were hung on her door, but she was too weak to say the words.

Philippe held out his arms, but she couldn't move to embrace him. He faded into nothingness.

She retched and vomited everything Odalie gave her, hearing the dread word muttered as Odalie emptied the basin. "
Noir
." Black. She was vomiting black as did those who died from Bronze John's visit.

The tattooed slave loomed above her, gigantic. Black. Darkness was all around. His arms were snakes as black as he, reaching for her, to coil about her and crush out her life.

Frantically she tried to call out but no words came. A light, she must have light to save herself. The glow of a candle, the red of a fire. Red …

John Kellogg brushed a strand of hair from his forehead as he stood looking down at his patient. He’d never gotten used to this moment, the instant the spirit fled from the body, leaving nothing behind but a cast off shell.

He bent over and gently closed the staring eyes.

"No!" The cry came from behind him and he was thrust aside as Annette Louise cast herself onto her husband's dead body.

"Gabriel, oh, Gabriel," she moaned, hugging him, kissing his face.

The priest had come and gone, as desperately busy as the doctors in this season of sickness and death. John knew the widow must grieve, but it would do her no good to give way to hysteria.

"
Madame
" he said, touching her arm, "come with me."

She paid no attention, tears streaming down her cheeks as she clutched at her husband's unresponsive hands. When John motioned with his head, the black woman in the doorway stepped into the room. He grasped Annette Louise's arms firmly and pulled her to her feet.

"Oh, no, no," she sobbed.

"You must come away," he told her. "You must rest. Pray for his soul, for he's with God now—didn't Father Antoine tell you so?"

He guided Annette Louise to her maid, a sensible looking black woman, who put her arms around her mistress to comfort her.

John walked with them to the door. "You must rest," he told Annette Louise. He looked at the slave. "Give your mistress the medicine, a spoonful from the blue bottle, so she'll sleep."

The maid nodded, tears in her eyes. "Come along,
cherie
," she said.

After letting himself out, John walked wearily down the steps into the courtyard and across the paving bricks to the street gate. He'd never been so tired, even when the army had been campaigning in Indian country.

He must rest, he'd prescribe sleep for himself as he had for
Madame
Davion.

The acrid stench from burning tar stung his eyes and clogged his nostrils as he reached the banquette. He’d spoken to Governor Claiborne about the way the Creoles dumped night soil and garbage into the Mississippi River from the levee. It was all very well in the winter and spring when the water ran high and the waste was carried into the gulf, but in hot weather, when the river fell, the noisome stench of the refuse surely must contribute to disease. The governor agreed, but said the practice was  impossible to stop.

He liked New Orleans, despite the sanitary problems, and he liked the Creoles. He got along better with their doctors, many of whom were trained in Paris, than he did with most of the American ones.

Mercury in the form of calomel and bloodletting were in favor among his American colleagues, but he couldn't bring himself to follow either course in treating his patients. The logic behind treating an already ailing patient with a potent poison such as mercury was beyond his grasp.

As for bleeding, it seemed as barbaric as anything the Indian medicine men practiced. He didn't even own one of the small bronze cubes that a doctor pressed to the back of his patient's neck to bleed him. A touch of a spring released a flock of tiny knives that cut into flesh like cats' claws. Then, to keep the blood flowing, a cloth saturated with turpentine was stuffed into a glass, lit, and when the flames had almost died out, the mouth of the glass was clapped over the wounds, creating a vacuum to suck out the blood.

John shook his head. He'd never seen a diseased patient improved by this practice. The Creole doctors tended to try supportive measures, giving the patient fluids, keeping him clean and warm—methods that did no harm.

Sometimes it seemed to John Kellogg that a physician helped his patient the most when he did the least.

He reached his quarters, opened the gate and was immediately met by a slave carrying a letter. No matter who it's from or what it says, he told himself, I'm going inside to bed. He unfolded the paper and read the note.

Dr. Kellogg: My sister, Madelaine La Branche lies ill with yellow fever. In her delirium she calls your name. I fear for her life. Will you please come? Tanguy La Branche

Chapter
12

John Kellogg sat beside Madelaine's bed, her black maid, Odalie, asleep in a rocking chair behind him. Madelaine's skin was fire hot with fever, but her pulse, instead of racing to match the increased heat of her body, was ominously slow. A bad sign. He raised her head and trickled another spoonful of sweetened lemon water between her parched lips, watching closely to make sure she didn't choke.

Her skin was dark yellow from the disease. Her eyes, when he lifted the lids to check them, were glazed and unseeing, the sclera as yellow as her skin. He remembered her as she'd been at the ball where they'd met—beautiful, magnificent in her righteous anger at the quarrels of men.

"I won't let you die," he muttered aloud. "Madelaine, you mustn't die."

Her eyelids fluttered and opened. He saw her eyes try to focus on his face as he bent over her. She blinked, and he thought he caught a gleam of recognition in her eyes before they closed again. A spoonful at a time, he trickled more lemon water into her mouth. "Swallow," he urged her. "Swallow, Madelaine, the water will help you."

"I go fetch more for you to give her." Odalie spoke from behind him and he nodded. The Negro woman was as devoted to Madelaine as if she'd been her own daughter. It spoke well for the treatment of slaves at La Belle.

He wasn't used to the idea of one human being owning another, for there'd been no slaves on or near the Connecticut farm where he grew up. His father hired help when it was needed. When he went away to school he learned about slavery and its justifications, but the idea of human bondage was abhorrent to him.

"How is she?" Guy spoke from the doorway.

John turned to look at Guy's red rimmed eyes, his haggard face. Without answering, he looked back at Madelaine, reached to feel the pulse at her temple. Faster, yes, definitely more rapid.

"I think the tide has turned and she's on her way back to us," John said. The "us" had slipped out, and he saw Guy frown at the word.

"You're certain she's better?" Guy asked, looking dubiously down at Madelaine's yellow face.

As if in response, Madelaine's eyelids quivered. "Water," she whispered. "Water."

Madelaine's recovery was quite rapid, though her strength returned slowly. John Kellogg called daily.

In early October, Madelaine sat before her vanity mirror watching Odalie arrange her hair. The slave had cut it during the illness, for everyone knew that long hair sapped one's strength. How strange it was to see herself with short curls all over her head.

"I look perfectly awful," she complained. "My skin is still yellow, and my hair looks like a child's."

"You be alive," Odalie said. "And you looks just fine. That doctor, he see you when you look ready to die, he be the only one coming today."

Madelaine sighed. Odalie was right, John had seen her when she looked really terrible—her first look at herself in a mirror in the beginning of her convalescence had made her shudder. Still, she couldn't help longing to see her old familiar self in the mirror instead of this short haired stranger. She wanted John to think of her as attractive.

His face was one of the few things she remembered about the worst of her illness, the lurking darkness lightened by the red flare of his hair, showing her the way back to life, his voice saying her name, keeping her with him so she didn't slip into the black void.

Yet she must discourage him from coming to see her now that she'd recovered. She couldn't deny the bond between them, couldn't even deny that she felt more than a patient's confidence in her doctor when he took her hand to feel her pulse, but her love belonged to Philippe now and forever, and it was wrong to enjoy the company of another man so much. Besides, Guy had begun to glower at John's continued visits. How long would it be before her brother would feel compelled to forbid them?

Madelaine sighed again. She'd seen no one but John and her brother since her illness. She wasn't well enough to call on Annette Louise, who, still grief stricken over Gabriel's death, was in seclusion at her parents' home. What a terrible tragedy for Annette Louise, to find love only to have it snatched away so quickly.

When would she be strong enough to rendezvous with her Philippe again? she wondered. She closed her eyes, dreamily recalling the feel of his lips, his hands, his body.

"There," Odalie said, "you is new made."

Madelaine stared at her reflection. Curls tumbled over her forehead and ears in a style that reminded her of drawings she'd seen of Napoleon's Josephine. She actually looked quite elegant. She smiled at Odalie, catching her hand and pressing it affectionately.

Odalie helped her to walk to the chaise lounge and drew a silk coverlet over her.

"A charming picture," John said as he came into her boudoir. "You look radiant, Madelaine."

She held out her hand and he took it, feeling automatically for the pulse at her wrist. She laughed and pulled her hand away. "No need for that —I'm better, much better. In fact, I'm certain coming here forces you to take time from more pressing duties."

"But none I enjoy more."

He smiled at her, looking into her eyes in the intent way he had, a way that made a forbidden prickle of excitement stir inside her. She'd never forgotten the day that John had kissed her on the bank of the bayou.

She lowered her eyes. He's not for you, she reminded herself. You don’t want him and even if you did, Guy would never allow it.

Her brother, in mentioning how grateful he was for Dr. Kellogg's care, had obliquely pointed out that John wasn't only an American, but a poor one at that, born into an insignificant family.

Never mind that Philippe was also forbidden. She was committed to Philippe, body and soul. To dally with John would be unfair to Philippe as well as to the
Americain
.

Madelaine looked at him earnestly. "You must stop your visits to La Belle," she said. "Guy is beginning to misunderstand your reasons, and I don't want any unpleasantness between you."

"He doesn't misunderstand my reasons."

She twisted her hands together. "I can't continue to see you."

"Because of the way your brother feels?"

"No. Because I—I love another man."

All trace of a smile left his face. He leaned forward as though to take her hand again but she kept her fingers firmly clasped together. His lips touched hers, gently but firmly.

"Have you forgotten?" he asked softly when she drew back—a second or two later than she should have.

"It makes no difference what I remember. I love another and won't see you again. It's not right."

He straightened. "Madelaine, I’d hoped—I meant to ask you ..."

“There's no hope. Don't ask me. The man I love is a Creole, and he's everything I want. You and I are too different, and besides—I don't love you. There's no possibility I'll change my mind." She blinked rapidly, hoping he wouldn't see the tears in her eyes. He might misinterpret them and believe there was a chance.

She loved Philippe, of course she did, and yet sending John away made her feel like her heart was breaking.

"I'm leaving New Orleans, my unit's been transferred. I was going to ask you to come with me—as my wife."

She shook her head. Traveling with John—where would they go? To the
Americain
cities in the east? To the capital, Washington? Or to the western wilderness? Something in her responded to the lure of other places, of strange sights. And how would she feel when John came to her at night, when he ...

No! What could be the matter with her that she thought of such things?

"Please, John—go now," she said. "I can't talk about this any longer. Please go." Her voice broke on the last word.

"I won't forget you, Madelaine," he said.

She thought he meant to kiss her again and lowered her face into her hands, afraid of what might happen if he did. She heard the door close softly. When she glanced up he was gone.

John Kellogg didn't return to La Belle.

* * *

In the scant warmth of a November afternoon, Guy trotted toward the rue des Ramparts on his bay gelding, Marquis. Since Estelle had taken Denis to live in Aimee's cottage, he had found himself visiting there often. To see the boy, of course. Denis was going on three, and was bright and talkative.

Certainly Estelle didn't offer herself. Even when he made it clear he was interested in her she'd avoided a response. He was both attracted and repulsed by her. She was dark for a quadroon—darker than he cared for—not plump enough and definitely not accommodating.

Yet when her dark eyes looked at him, something equally dark stirred inside him, something he'd never felt for another woman.

As he approached the cottage, Denis hurtled off the porch.

"Papa, papa," he shouted, holding up his arms. "Ride me, ride me."

Guy lifted Denis onto the horse, kicked Marquis into an easy canter and rode the length of the street and back. He dismounted and, perching Denis on his shoulders, went into the cottage.

"
Tante, tante
? Denis called, "papa is here."

Estelle came from the kitchen. "I have shrimp jambalaya, if you're hungry," she said by way of greeting.

"I didn't come to eat," he said. "I came to see the boy."

"Denis was to attend a birthday party," she said. "Of course I won't take him now."

"He'll go," Guy said. "I wouldn't want him to miss the party. A boy can never be too young to learn to enjoy parties. Where is it?"

"But two doors away. For Henri de la Harpe. He's four years old."

"I'll have coffee while you take Denis," Guy said.

Estelle fixed the coffee, poured him a cup, dressed Denis in his best clothes and left the cottage. Guy emptied his cup, poured another and waited for her to return, feeling anticipation rise with each passing minute. He'd never been alone with her in the cottage.

When Estelle came through the front door he was standing just inside. She stopped, looking at him, her dark eyes unreadable.

"Go into the bedroom," he ordered.

She raised her chin, still meeting his gaze, saying nothing.

He grasped her arm. "Didn't you hear?"

She nodded but stood her ground. He tightened his hold and pushed her ahead of him toward the bedroom.

“It’s customary for a woman to agree to an arrangement,” Estelle said, resisting. Í haven’t heard you ask.”

“Asking be damned! You know I want you.”

“I don’t agree to have you." She twisted in his hands to stare at him. “I don’t agree.”

Her eyes glittered with some emotion he couldn’t identify. Hate? Certainly not fear. He was determined to have her, even though he’d never taken a woman against her will.

He yanked her close to him and held her, kissing her savagely, his hands tight against her buttocks. Her mouth was hot and he tasted blood where he’d forced her teeth against her lips. The taste drove him wild and he lifted her lithe, slim body, carrying her to the bed.

Tearing her clothes away, he caressed her bared breasts, putting his tongue to her nipples, nipping them with his teeth, his hands stroking the smooth skin of her thighs.

At first she tried to writhe away from him, but suddenly her breath came faster and her mouth answered his hungrily. When he touched her between the legs he found her ready for him and he stared in triumph into her eyes, seeing the glitter for what it was—passion.

“You want me as much as I want you,” he said hoarsely, hurriedly taking off his clothes.

She fought him as he eased his body over hers, twisting from underneath him. He held her writhing body close, feeling his desire mount as she squirmed against him, her breath hot on his throat.

He gripped her legs and forced them apart, thrust inside her ferociously. She moaned, her arms around his back holding him to her in a fierce embrace as she plunged wildly beneath him in untamed and open passion, uttering animal cries, head back, mouth open.

Her nails raked his back, her teeth sank into his shoulder as she lost herself in a feral rush of desire, She was a wildcat. Her insatiable need multiplied his own passion until he lost all sense of time and place, driving into her again and again in a fury, unaware of anything except the panting woman beneath him.

She shrieked in release, a high pitched sound he'd never heard from a woman. As she continued to move her hips hard against him, he spent himself convulsively within her.

When he finally rose to wash and dress, Estelle lay as he'd left her, on her back, legs apart, arms flung to either side, eyes closed.

He studied her as he dressed, the rise and fall of the high peaked breasts, the slim waist and flat belly, the thrust of her pelvic bones under the brown velvet of her flesh. His shoulder throbbed where she'd bitten him, his back smarted from the scratches. His eyes lingered on the secret part of her that had throbbed so violently against him.