Creole Hearts (4 page)

Madelaine glanced away. "I think Guy fought that duel over his placee." she said, trying to keep her voice casual in the hope Odalie wouldn't tell her to hush. "Do you know who she is?"

There was a few seconds silence before Odalie answered. "Not to say know. Her
maman
be a woman you don't want to be knowing. She be
voodooienne
."

"A voodoo queen? Really?" Madelaine stood up. "What's her name?"

"Her maman's name be Vedette Rusert."

"Do you go to the voodoo dances, Odalie?"

"Don't have them no more, that be the law."

"Pouf, you don't expect me to believe that. Not when I can hear the voodoo drums at night sometimes. No one pays any attention to that law."

"You don't be asking me about voodoo, girl. You don't be having nothing to do with voodoo. Pere Antoine say you go straight to hell for that."

"I don't care what the priest says. I'll wager you've been there and danced yourself."

Odalie frowned.

"Is it true the voodoo queen can make love potions?"

"You hear foolish talk. Time you be thinking about a husband and keeping your own house, like that, not this creeping out to meet no goods and listening to voodoo talk."

"But can they? Does Vedette sell love powders?"

"You don't be needing such things. Mirror tell you how pretty you be."

"Does she sell them?"

"There be nothing a voodoo queen can't do, she want to," Odalie said. "Now hush such talk. You best get to bed."

Madelaine walked to her dressing table and sat on the blue satin bench before the mirror, gazing at the reflection of her flushed face, her tumbled hair. She picked up a brush and Odalie took it from her hand and began brushing Madelaine's long, silky black hair.

Does Philippe really, truly love me? Madelaine asked herself. Does all that laughing and flirting with Annette Louise at the dances mean nothing? Annette Louise is very pretty. Everyone but me would be happy to see them marry.

Still, Philippe says he loves only me.

Does he?

If I had a love potion, if I gave Philippe a love potion, then I'd be certain.

"One more question and then I promise I'll be quiet and go to sleep," Madelaine said. "Tell me where Vedette lives."

Chapter
4

On December 20, Guy, his right arm in a white silk sling, followed Prefet de Laussat in a parade toward the Cabildo. The sun shone and the feel of festivity was in the air despite Creole uneasiness about this transfer.

Pretty girls waved from balconies and the banquettes seemed even more crowded than last month. Creoles stood shoulder to shoulder with free men and women of color, slaves and Kaintocks, the roughly dressed
Americain
boatmen from up the river.

In the grande salle of the Cabildo, the
prefect
took the center seat and his staff grouped to either side of him, waiting. Invited guests crowded the room. Guy, to de Laussat's right, knew what was to come, for the little play had been well rehearsed. Nonetheless, when the runner dashed inside and hurried to the commandant, Guy's pulse speeded.

"
Americain
troops at the city gates, demanding entry," the runner gasped.

The commandant bowed to Prefet de Laussat. 'I've been informed
Americain
troops demand entry to New Orleans," he said ceremoniously.

De Laussat nodded. "Permit entrance,” he ordered.

Guy edged close to a balcony when the hum from the massed crowd in the square below told him the
Americains
were near. He looked out and saw, coming into the Place d'Armes, the
Americain
Igovernor to be, William Charles Cole Claiborne, wearing a bright ceremonial sash and General James Wilkinson, Commander in Chief of the United States Army, in his dress uniform.

Behind them marched lean and bronzed soldiers armed with long barreled rifles. Squirrel rifles, the
Americains
called them. The Mississippi militia followed.

The troops deployed in a long skirmish line, backs to the river, and Claiborne and
Americain
Wilkinson entered the Cabildo. Guy hurried back into place as the two men approached de Laussat. Once again articles of transfer were read—in French, then English, this time, instead of Spanish. De Laussat bowed and offered the center chair to Governor Claiborne.

After de Laussat released the Louisianans from their oath of allegiance to the French Republic, everyone descended to the square.

A flourish of drums rat a tatted and the French flag began to flutter down the staff. Guy's throat tightened as he watched an officer step forward, take the flag and wind it about his body. Accompanied by an honor guard of Creoles, the flag draped soldier marched past saluting
Americain
troops.

A hush fell as the Stars and Stripes began to rise. Part way up it fouled the halyards. Exaltation filled Guy. The
Americain
flag was ashamed to take the place of the tricolor. Didn't the United States owe her freedom to Lafayette and France, after all?

The problem was solved and the flag reached the top where a brisk breeze from the river snapped it out smartly. The
Americains
waved their hats and cheered but the Creoles stood silently. Something had been taken from them, there was a change, and things would never be quite the same.

Guy calculated quickly. President Jefferson had bought Louisiana from Napoleon for fifteen million
Americain
dollars. Fifty thousand people for fifteen million dollars. That made every Louisianan worth three hundred dollars. He shrugged. The land and the port at the mouth of the Mississippi River was what the Americains wanted, not the Creoles and Cajuns.

He attended the
prefet's
luncheon at three o'clock. A toast to the United States in Madeira. One to Spain in Malaga. Another in rose champagne to France. All to the roar of the guns. More toasts to government officials, to good feelings, to cotton and sugar. Guy, even with his good head for wine, felt the effect of the liquor and told himself it was because of the blood he'd lost.

His wound didn't give too much trouble as long as he wore the sling but he was awkward with his left hand. It helped little to see Nicolas swagger about as though he'd won the duel.

Tea was served at seven, gambling and dancing followed. Guy skirted the card and dice tables, looking for Senalda.

"Oh, mon pauvre Monsieur La Branche," she said when he found her. Her French was heavily accented but he thought it charming.

"Are you in pain?" she asked.

Senalda was dressed in pink, the color of a hibiscus bloom. Her gown had a high waist, just under her breasts, and the silken material fell in graceful folds to the floor. At her throat hung a pendant of rose amethyst. Her blue eyes were full of concern as she looked at him.

"It's nothing," he said.

"My heart aches to think how you've suffered." She touched her breast with her fingertips and lowered her eyes, blushing.

It belatedly occurred to Guy that she thought the duel had been fought on her account. He swallowed. He could hardly tell her otherwise. He'd be a fool, though, not to take advantage of her error.

"Since my dancing is unavoidably clumsy at the moment," he said, "can I persuade you to sit out a round or two with me? We might promenade in the courtyard."

She smiled, showing even white teeth. Her lips were delectable — the same pink as her gown. He longed to taste them.

He offered her his left arm and they descended the stairs into the courtyard. A marble statue of St. John brooded over a lily pool in a far corner and he steered her in that direction. Paper lanterns on the branches of a magnolia tree cast a soft glow.

"Perhaps I should have put on my cape," Senalda said, letting him lead her past other strollers toward the deeper shadows.

Something plopped into the water as they came up to the pool.

"Ooh!" she exclaimed, pressing close to his side.

"A frog," Guy assured her. "We've disturbed his serenade." He put his arm about her waist and she resisted only slightly. "You won't be cold next to me," he said. "I'll keep you warm." He touched his lips to her hair, breathing in the scent of gardenias.

"I hope you'll stay in New Orleans," he murmured. "You brighten the city with your beauty."

"Ah," she said, "sometimes New Orleans reminds me of Madrid. Other times . . ."

"I'll make you forget those other times," he said, moving his lips to her temple. She half turned toward him and he kissed her mouth.

Her lips were soft and sweet. They quivered beneath his and desire flared. He had to have her as his wife.

Senalda pulled away. "I must go back inside," she said.

"So soon?"

Her laughter was like the tinkle of crystals on a chandelier when a river breeze blew. "Oh, but we've been here too long already." She slipped from his grasp and he cursed his useless arm. A one handed embrace was a poor imitation of the real thing.

At the party the following evening, de Laussat made a point of steering Guy to a circle of men that included Governor Claiborne, then leaving him there. "How do you do, Governor?" Guy asked, pronouncing the English words carefully, hoping his accent wasn't too atrocious. He'd found Spanish much easier to learn.

The governor brightened when he heard Guy's words. "You know English, monsieur!"

Guy bowed. "Tanguy La Branche, Governor. I speak a little English, yes. I'm still learning."

"I admire your industry."

"Prefet de Laussat encouraged me."

"I thought I recognized you. One of his aides, I believe." The governor examined Guy quite frankly.

Guy looked back at him with interest. This was the closest he'd been to Governor Claiborne. They were much the same size. The
Americain
was older—near thirty, Guy thought—and wore his brown hair short. Though he wasn't fat, there was a hint of beginning plumpness under his chin. His eyes were shrewd.

"You're a New Orleans resident?" Claiborne asked.

"I was born here," Guy said proudly.

The governor nodded. "I look forward to seeing more of you," he said.

Later, de Laussat took Guy aside. "Has he offered you a post?" he asked.

"
Non
."

"He will. Either with himself or perhaps he'll arrange for a place on General Wilkinson's staff. I could see he was impressed with you. Work with the Americans. You have a flair for politics and Louisiana will need you. Fight for what she needs, don't merely fight against the Americans as so many of your friends are doing."

Guy stared at the
prefet
.

"You know I'll be returning to France in a few months," de Laussat said, clapping Guy on the left shoulder. "I can't stay to help Louisiana make the change, but you'll be here. I haven't pushed you, for all would be suspicious, then. The Creoles. The Americans. With no reason to be, but men are like that—seeing deviousness where none is intended and missing the obvious threat. Work from the inside, Guy, don't stand on the outside, complaining. And good luck."

Guy drifted through the courtyard, let himself out onto the banquette and walked aimlessly, his thoughts a blend of disbelief and excitement.

Did he want to be on the
Americain
staff? Being de Laussat's aide had been rewarding but Claiborne wasn't French. He'd had a favorable impression of the governor but still—work for an
Americain
American? He was a Creole, after all.

Non
, wait, since yesterday he was also an
Americain
. No, an American, as Claiborne would say. Like it or not. Many Creoles would condemn whatever Claiborne did, right or wrong. He was no more eager to be a United States citizen than they, but the fact remained that they all were.

It wouldn't do any harm to work with the governor. Perhaps it would do some good, as de Laussat seemed to think. He admired the
prefet
, had learned something of diplomacy from him. Certainly his advice was worth considering.

Very well, if Claiborne approached him with an offer—and that was still to be seen—he'd take him up on it.

Guy took a deep breath, looked around and found he was nearing the rue des Ramparts. He stopped abruptly. Without realizing where he was going he'd headed toward Aimee's cottage. He turned on his heel to go back to the ball. He didn't want to see Aimee again. Not yet.

As he approached the house where the party was going on, he could hear laughter, music and the agreeable noise of merrymaking. He stood for a moment outside the gates, listening, feeling a strange sense of being set apart, of actually being an outsider.

A ridiculous notion. Guy shifted his shoulders uneasily, feeling pain stab through his right arm. He'd known those inside all his life. There were few strangers except for the Americans. He belonged if anyone did.

He pushed open the small gate, crossed the lighted courtyard and went into the house, eager to banish his uncomfortable feeling, to take a drink, to plunge into the party mood. Glass in hand, he looked for Senalda and saw her dancing. With Nicolas.

Rage tensed his muscles. He took a step toward the couple, then stopped. This damnedable sling. The wound had seemed trivial once Dr. Goodreau had stopped the bleeding, but it was slow to heal. The doctor had suggested leeches, but Guy had refused. Certainly he was incapable of challenging Nicolas at the moment.

Deliberately, Guy turned from the dancing, his eyes scanning the gaming tables. He headed for one, then stopped. He had little heart for the dice tonight, he felt drained of vigor. Slowly he turned his back on the tables and walked away, again finding his way to the courtyard.

The night was so chilly few couples braved the cold. He sat on an iron bench beneath a large fig tree, staring down at the flagstones between his feet. I'll be the St. John of this courtyard, he told himself wryly. The notion failed to amuse him.

The year was ending, another would soon begin. He felt like old Father Time himself tonight. Where were his friends, Gabriel, Rafe, Andre, that they didn't rally round and help him shake his dark mood?

"Have you forgotten me so soon?" a woman's voice asked softly. Senalda's voice.

Guy looked up, got hastily to his feet.

"Now," she said. "Don't rise. I'm teasing, for I know the pain in your shoulder is what drives you from the party."

He said nothing, tongue-tied by the sight of her before him like a visitation in a dream with her gown of white, embroidered with the palest pink, the enticing rose lips, the blonde curls falling to white shoulders.

She sat on the bench and nodded her head to indicate he should sit beside her. Guy reseated himself.

"I could never forget you," he said, leaning toward her. "I'd like to sweep you onto my horse and ride off where none would find us, to keep you to myself for the rest of time."

Senalda smiled and lowered her lashes. "Is it only your arm that prevents you?" she murmured.

Guy's eyes widened at this encouragement. He leaned closer, ignoring the slice of pain down into his chest.