Creole Hearts (8 page)

Three lanterns hung from branches of the trees, casting a sinister glow over the scene. Guy knew that Jean had never fought with a knife. Creoles regarded knives as implements for skinning game or cutting cane. Certainly not for a duel between gentlemen.
Le bon Dieu
only knew how many men Whiskey Joe might have knifed up and down the river. The only thing in Jean's favor was that the boatman was half drunk.

"I'm a roaring ripsnorter and I can lick an alligator one handed," Whiskey Joe shouted, waving his knife above his head.

"Engarde
" Rafe Devol cried, acting as Jean's second.

"Go to it!" exclaimed the boatman standing by Whiskey Joe.

The duelists circled one another warily. Jean dodged aside from a feint by the American, who immediately lunged again, narrowly missing the Creole. They circled again.

Guy held his breath, watching. "Use the bedamned knife," he urged Jean inaudibly, for it wasn't proper to shout advice to duelists. "Strike at him when he rushes you."

An explosion split the air, the crack of a rifle. Guy spun around, searching the darkness. Another shot. Six soldiers double stepped into the open from the pines, lantern light glinting on leveled gun barrels. For a moment, Guy thought he was looking at Aaron Burr's men.

Major Tomlinson stepped into the light. "Perrier, Banks, you're both under arrest," he snapped. “Drop the knives and submit quietly. I'm in no mood for argument after being roused from my sleep by your foolishness. Do you think I issue orders to hear myself talk?"

Under the unwavering rifles on the soldiers, both men threw their weapons to the ground.

"You'll be confined in a tent with guards set," the major said as Jean and Whiskey Joe were marched off. He smiled for the first time. "Confined in the same tent. I trust you'll enjoy each other's company." He turned to the onlookers. "As for the rest of you, keep this in mind before you decide to flout camp rules."

The next day the Creoles avoided Guy and, as he approached his friend Rafe, even Rafe hesitated before he returned Guy's greeting.

"What's the matter with everyone?" Guy asked.

"They think you told the major."

Guy's eyes widened.

“I don't believe you'd turn against us," Rafe said, but there was a hint of a question in his words.

The next two weeks, dragged on, Guy a pariah among his fellow Creoles. When the news came on January eighteenth that Aaron Burr had been arrested near Natchez the day before, and that his force had amounted to only sixty men, Guy felt it was an ironic anticlimax.

Chapter 8

In the foyer of the plantation house, Madelaine tried to smile at her sister-in-law. Behind Senalda, the front door stood open and a cold January wind rattled the tear drop crystals of the chandelier. The setting sun slanted dull redness onto the polished tiles.

"Please stay inside," Madelaine said. "You haven't your pelisse on or even a shawl. You mustn't catch a chill."

Senalda held out her hands imploringly. "Why won't you help me?" she asked. "I know my son is out there, lost in this terrible swamp country. I've searched and searched but--"

Madelaine took her hands. "Senalda, come upstairs. Josefina has a hot bath ready for you, the tub is in your room." Her heart contracted with pity for the gaunt, bedraggled figure who stood in front of her.

Senalda looked twice as old as she was, her beauty faded. Madelaine had tried time and again to convince her that she had no baby, but Senalda wouldn't listen to her. Day after day Senalda searched the house and grounds for an imaginary son. Denis, she called him, and Madelaine felt a frisson of unease every time Senalda said the name for she knew that Guy's placee had a son named Denis.

Guy, please hurry home, Madelaine prayed under her breath. Hurry.

When she'd coaxed her sister in law up the stairs and into Josefina's care, Madelaine withdrew to her own room, where Odalie sat mending one of her mistress' gowns.

"Odalie, I'm at my wit's end," she said. "I don't like to think about locking her in her bedroom but what am I to do? If that field hand hadn't seen her go into the swamp yesterday and followed her, she'd have died. The quicksand would have swallowed her and no one would have known. We can't watch her every minute."

"
Monsieur
Guy be home soon. Maybe he help
Madame
."

"I hope so. Oh, how I hope so."

Later that night, when she was ready for bed, Madelaine walked quietly to Senalda's door and eased it open. Seeing Senalda on the bed, she beckoned to Josefina to come to the door.

"You must watch her carefully tonight," Madelaine whispered. "We can't have her outside in the dark."

"She never go out, be it dark," Josefina said.

"She's getting more and more restless. We must take no chances. Sleep in front of the door."

Josefina nodded, glancing slyly at Madelaine. "She do be talking about that Aimee when she take her bath," she said.

Madelaine frowned at her. It seemed every slave in the house had overheard the quarrel last year that had culminated in Senalda's miscarriage. Still, they'd probably known well before that about Guy's placee and the son she had. House servants seemed to know everything.

"I watch Madame good," Josefina said, eyes downcast.

"See that you do." Madelaine turned away from the door and returned to her own room, troubled and uncertain. Should she have punished Josefina for daring to speak Aimee's name in her presence?
Dieu
only knew Senalda said the name often enough, demanding to know who Aimee was, where she lived.

She seemed to have forgotten entirely about the placee business which was just as well.

Every day Senalda seemed to sink deeper into a morass of confusion and agitation. When Madelaine had stopped her from going out this afternoon, the wild look in Senalda's eyes had been more chilling than the winter wind.

Senalda kept her eyes closed when Josefina bent over her. Everyone in this house was against her, she knew that. No matter how they smiled and pretended concern, no one would help her find Denis.

She'd asked and asked about Aimee. Tanguy had said the name, she recalled that clearly. Who was this person? Yesterday she'd asked one of the field hands, threatening to have him whipped if he didn't tell her. She'd frightened him into revealing where Aimee lived. Now she clutched the knowledge to herself.

Rue des Ramparts.

She lay very still, eyes shut, hearing Josefina fuss about the room, straightening, putting things away. Finally the glow of light on her eyelids faded and she knew Josefina, believing her asleep, was planning to prepare for sleep herself.

To sleep in this bedroom in front of the door. Madelaine had told her to. They thought she couldn't hear as they whispered and plotted against her. Where was Tanguy, why had he left her alone?

Senalda waited, listening for Josefina's snoring to begin. When she heard it, she opened her eyes. The lamp was turned very low. Josefina lay on a straw pallet next to the bedroom door so that the door couldn't be opened, Senalda's eyes turned to the windows that were really glass doors leading onto the balcony. Outside, next to the balcony, thick vines of wisteria clung to the stuccoed brick walls. Once, a long time ago, hadn't she stood on that balcony with Tanguy while voices shouted below?

Carefully, Senalda rose from the bed. She saw Josefina's old black shawl folded on the floor next to the pallet and, tiptoeing, picked up the shawl and flung it over her shoulders so it covered much of her white nightgown. She crept to the glass doors and very slowly eased one open, freezing in place when it creaked. Josefina grunted and turned over.

Senalda waited, then inched the door farther open until she could slip past it onto the balcony. She pulled up her gown and bunched it around her thighs, tucking in the ends to hold it in place, climbed onto the balcony railing and clutched at the vines of wisteria.

On the way to the ground, strands of the vine ripped loose under Senalda's feet and she almost fell, but she hung on grimly with her fingers until her bare toes found new holds. She realized when her feet touched the cold ground that she'd forgotten her slippers. It didn't matter, the important thing was that she'd escaped. She was free now to find Aimee.

As she headed toward the city she prayed to the Virgin. "I must find my child, Mary. You, who lost your beloved son, aid me in my search. Mother Mary, guide my steps."

Senalda sighed, remembering Sister Ana in the Convent of the Blessed Miracle near Madrid. Sister Ana had been like a mother to her, more beloved than her own mother, whom she rarely saw. Sister Ana had urged Senalda to pray that God might lead her to a religious vocation. Senalda had been of two minds. She knew men admired her and the knowledge was like wine but she still felt at home, protected, behind the convent walls where she'd spent so much of her life.

Her mother wouldn't hear of such a notion. "You'll marry well, Senalda," she said. "You'll marry money."

Tanguy was wealthy, but she'd married him because he didn't frighten her as much as some of her other suitors. With his arm in a sling he'd been a romantic figure, she'd felt he needed her to take care of him.

After the marriage . . . Senalda put her hand to her heart. No, she wouldn't remember. She couldn't All she knew was that Tanguy wasn't with her. Where was he? Why wasn't he helping her to find their son?

A bobcat screamed in the darkness to her right, startling her. So many wild animals in this country, the swamps filled with them, with snakes and birds and plants that fought each other for room. Too much life and growth, a choking green profusion. Not like Spain's hills and fields which had never threatened her.

Everything and everyone was against her here. The cold damp ground hurt her feet, the chill night breeze froze her—and they'd taken her son. Wings brushed her face and she bit her lip to keep from crying out. A bat? An owl? Senalda hurried on.

She reached the river road along the levee. She knew the way, she'd follow the road into town. When she'd walked for some time, she heard horses' hooves and the rattle of wheels. She shrank into the roadside shadows. A loaded dray passed her. Fortune smiled. The driver hadn't seen her. She clutched the shawl closer and went on.

Senalda slipped through the streets of New Orleans uncertainly, keeping away from the light, avoiding everyone. She had only a vague idea of where the rue des Ramparts was, although she knew from the name that the street must be near the fortifications at the edge of the city.

When she finally came onto the rue des Ramparts, Senalda walked along the row of white cottages.

"It be the last," the slave had told her, standing in the stubble of cut cane. His eyes had showed white all around the brown, like the eyes of a frightened horse.

He hadn't wanted to tell her, but he was afraid. Of her, maybe, and not the whipping she'd threatened, for when she'd seen herself in the mirror it was like looking at a stranger. How had she grown so thin and starey eyed?

The last cottage. What would she say to Aimee when she found her? Senalda's steps lagged. Could Aimee help her? Would she? No one talked of Aimee at La Belle, no one said who she was. Except Tanguy. He'd mentioned her name. If only her memory was better. What was it he’d said. Had he told her Aimee would help her find Denis? Yes, that must be it. Aimee would know where Denis was. Hadn't Tanguy said so?

Senalda's bare feet made no noise on the wooden porch. Her hand went to the door. Locked. She tapped at it, waited, knocked again, louder.

"Who is it?" a voice asked through the wood.

"I come from Tanguy," Senalda said, smiling at her cleverness, for Aimee might not know her name. "Let me in."

The locked clicked, the door opened. Senalda stared at the pretty woman in the doorway holding a lamp. Pretty, but faded.

"Aimee?" she said.

"Yes. Who are you? What does Guy want?"

Senalda started forward and Aimee fell back to let her come in. Senalda closed the door. "Where is Denis?" she asked.

"He's sleeping, of course." Aimee's glance took in Senalda's bare, bleeding feet, the shawl covering a night dress. "What do you want?" she asked, a twinge of alarm in her voice.

Senalda looked hard at her. A quadroon? Was Aimee Denis' nursemaid? But why did she keep him here in New Orleans, so far from La Belle, so far from his mother?

"I've come to take Denis home," she said.

"What? What are you talking about?"

"If Tanguy hadn't gone away, this wouldn't have happened," Senalda said. "What right do you have to hide my son from me?"

Aimee edged away, her yellow eyes wide. "I don't have any child of yours," she said. "Denis is my own son."

"You lie! Denis is mine and you've stolen him. Give him back to me immediately!"

"You're mad," Aimee gasped. "I know who you are now, they told me your mind was gone and they were right." She backed farther away. "Get out, get out of my house."

Senalda ran at her and Aimee ducked to the side, clutching at the lamp to keep it from overturning. Senalda hurried past her and into the tiny hallway. She peered into the gloom of a bedroom, heard a child cry out.

"
Maman, maman
!"

Senalda plunged into the room toward the sound of the child's voice. She stumbled against a cot, bent and felt warm flesh under her hands.

"Denis," she cried, "oh, thank God I've found you."

She snatched him up and turned to see Aimee in the doorway, still holding the light.

"Put him down," Aimee shouted.

Senalda looked quickly about, seized a poker from beside the tiny fireplace. "Let me by," she said.

The child in her arms began to struggle and cry.

"Give me my boy," Aimee sobbed, slamming the lamp onto a table and lunging at Senalda.

"Give him to me!"

Senalda slashed with the poker but Aimee's rush knocked her over backwards and the three of them crashed to the floor in a tangle. Senalda lost her grip on the boy.

"
Maman
!" Denis screamed. Aimee reached for him.

Senalda felt the poker still in her hand. She lifted it and swung at Aimee's head, once, twice. Aimee fell back and Senalda raised the poker and hit her again and again until her arm grew tired and the poker fell from her grasp.

She looked down at Aimee's bloody head. "It was your own fault," she said. "You shouldn't have taken my son." She turned to Denis who was shaking with convulsive sobs, kneeled down and picked him up.

"Come, darling,
maman
will take you home," she crooned.