Louisiana History Collection - Part 1 (80 page)

It was ridiculous of her to be relieved, but that was how she felt. She turned her face toward the water to hide it. “No?”

“No. Is it too much to ask what made you think I had?”

She told him, though with some reluctance.

“Because an Indian girl is caught dallying in a hut, I am immediately suspect? You give me too much credit. Or too little.”

His words were dry, carrying scant expression. Cyrene could not tell if he was amused or annoyed, or perhaps both. “Too little?”

“By assuming that I make no distinction between women.”

“And do you?”

“I have a reputation, I believe, for being selective.”

She sent him a flashing glance. “Am I supposed to be flattered?”

“Now what,” he said softly, “made you think I was referring to you? If I remember correctly, I was chosen, not the other way around.”

“That’s very true,” she said through the tightness of mortification in her throat. She would have given anything to take back her words. They had the sound of pique entirely too much, and that was too close to jealousy for comfort.

“I have to tell you, however, that if I had been free to pursue you, without the restrictions of gratitude and hospitality, I would have done so from the moment you dragged me aboard the flatboat.”

She stopped and turned to him, the look in the depths of her eyes suspended, vulnerable yet skeptical. “Would you?”

“I give you my word.”

She wanted to believe René; that was her problem. Her female vanity required that sop. It didn’t matter that she had little respect for him or liking for the kind of man he was so long as she could think he found her desirable, so long as she could think he had not agreed to her wanton request of him out of mere gratitude or excessive courtesy. It was a sad failing in her as a person, one she must set about remedying.

“It makes no difference,” she said, keeping her gaze level with an effort as she summoned a smile, “but it’s nice to know.”

It made a great deal of difference to René, how much he was only beginning to understand. But he was in no position to say so. He inclined his head, and together they moved on again, back toward the encampment.

The feasting and dancing began as darkness fell. Drums beat and the drummers hummed in accompaniment while the Indians sang, now in wild harmony, now in determined discord. Cane flutes shrilled and gourds rattled in a mind-numbing, spirit-raising rhythm. Children ran and yelled, and dogs barked. The smell of roasting meat rose with the wood-smoke that hung in blue and gray layers in the air. Pipes filled with tobacco passed from hand to hand, as no Choctaw would think of smoking without offering every man within sight a puff. Kegs of tafia were broached and cups made the rounds, each man drinking according to his need but with respect for those who were still thirsty. The food was parceled out in much the same manner, with each serving himself from the common pots.

Only the men danced on this occasion, which was one of celebration for the conclusion of fine trading, plus a farewell to the Bretons and the English bringer of goods. The Choctaw would be returning to their village when daylight came the next morning. They had enjoyed their brief time away but had to return to their log lodges before others claimed them.

The Indian women ate and laughed and chattered and showed off their new finery: their cloth chemises or their beads, which they had sewn upon their bosoms or strung into necklaces, and the small mirrors of polished steel that hung on chains around their necks. Little Foot in particular seemed unusually bedecked, wearing not only a new silk skirt but a fine hat with a feather plume and a silver chatelaine from which was suspended a thimble, a tinder box, and a pair of scissors as well as a mirror.

The night was clear and just cool enough after the warmth of the day to make a fire feel good. The flames leaped high, reaching with licking tongues for the stars that hung low and bright above them. The faces of those sitting around it reflected the flickering red and yellow light. Joyous and somber, they gave back its glow while the fire danced in miniature in the pupils of their eyes. It drew them to its comfort, emphasizing the vast reach of the marshy land and untenanted waters around them, holding them in a warm circle of brotherhood.

Cyrene sat among the Indian women while she ate and afterwards for a time as they all watched the dancing displays of the men. There was much comment on the strength and endurance, the muscle development and the agility of the various dancers, along with approving or disparaging remarks about the music. It was as if the women considered the exhibition for their benefit, and perhaps it was.

After a time, the younger women with babies strapped to their backs or children at their skirts began to slip away to make the younger ones ready for bed. Cyrene got to her feet in order to help up a heavily pregnant girl with a two-year-old slung in a blanket on her back, then changed her own position, moving to the edge of the woods, which lay on the outer perimeter of the women’s circle. She leaned her back against a tree with her hands behind her. The smells of food and smoke and warm human bodies were less here, and the fresh night wind in the branches of the tree overhead made a softer, more soothing music.

From where she stood, she could see René. He sat between Pierre and Captain Dodsworth, near the place of honor held by Drowned Oak. She wondered how he was enjoying the savage banquet and if he compared it in his mind with the more sumptuous occasions he had partaken of at Versailles. He certainly appeared to be in fine fettle as he leaned back, braced on one arm with his wrist on an upraised knee, drinking, listening to the jokes around him. Now and then he laughed with his head thrown back and his teeth gleaming white in his face. But then his kind was infinitely adaptable.

There was the soft sound of footsteps in the sand. Cyrene turned her head to see the man Touchet coming toward her. He made her a small bow as he drew near. “A fine night, is it not, mademoiselle, and a fine celebration?”

“Fine, indeed.” She could not be rude without direct cause, but there was no encouragement in the words.

The dark and supercilious little man needed none. “The good Bretons have had a most profitable journey from New Orleans.”

“And you also, I trust.” It was a reminder that he was apparently on the same errand, if it was needed.

He shrugged away her comment. “But what of yourself? One hopes such a devastating creature has gained from the venture also.”

“You needn’t worry about me.” In fact she had not yet spoken to Captain Dodsworth about her own trading transaction. She was waiting for the right time and somehow it had not yet seemed appropriate. Perhaps she would go out to the ship with Pierre and Jean in the morning when they traded the furs they had gained this afternoon for more goods.

“No? But some men are so unreasonable; they do not like to share their gain. Now if you were allied with me, I would see you decked in pearls and gold baubles, in silk and satin and perfumed lace.”

Cyrene turned her head sharply to look at him. The expression she saw in his eyes made the skin on the back of her neck creep. Her voice was cold as she answered. “I assure you, I have no need of those things.”

“Don’t you? But they would suit you so well. You are like a rose in a dung heap with Pierre and Jean Breton. You deserve a much sweeter and more luxurious setting. I could give it to you.”

“I don’t desire any more than I have.”

She would have moved away then, but he put out his hand to catch her arm. “Take care. There may come a time when you will regret refusing my offer. For it is an offer, you know. I would enjoy very much having you as my woman.”

There was something in the intensity of the man’s black gaze and the fierce bite of his fingers into her arm that disturbed her more than she wanted to admit. She sought in her mind for something that would deter him, and the words rose unbidden to her lips. “I already have a protector.”

He released her arm, a smile twisting his thin lips. “Lemonnier? The interest of that one will not last long.”

“That may be, but I hold it for now, and I doubt he would wish me to accept your gifts.”

“A pity. I do hope he is generous?”

“That is none of your affair.”

“Unfortunately. When he is through with you, you might come to me, to see if I’m still interested.”

The arrogance of the man grated on her nerves. “I would advise you not to wait. Hired lackeys have no appeal to me.”

He gave her a thin smile for the pleasantry. “What of gold? A great deal of it, enough to make you a fine lady with a fine and independent future?”

She had already started to move away when he spoke. Now she turned back, her attention caught not by his extravagant promise but by something like a threat she heard in his voice.

“What are you talking about?” she said sharply.

“The subject was gold.”

“For what?”

“For becoming my… ally.”

“Your ally,” she repeated.

“You could be very helpful to me, as well as most dear. The reward for bringing in your former companions, the Bretons, on charges of smuggling could be high.”

He was watching her closely, and there was a message in his eyes that was also the answer to the innuendo in his words. She saw it clearly, and cold anger settled in her stomach.

“You expect me to inform against Pierre and Jean, to join with you in handing them over to the authorities?”

“Why not? What are they to you?”

“My friends, something you would not understand.”

“I understand a great deal more than you know, mademoiselle.”

“Then understand this: I won’t do it. Not now. Not ever.”

“That is a decision you may live to regret, my fair one.” But he called the words after her retreating back, for she left him in a whirl of skirts, striding away with clenched fists and clamped lips.

She did not stop until she reached the shelter she shared with René. There she halted abruptly with the leather curtain of the low doorway crumpled in her hand. She was shaking with sick rage and at the same time she felt unclean, as if she had been touched by something loathsome.

What exactly did Touchet want of her? Why should he need her to inform against the Bretons when he himself knew what they were doing? The answer seemed to be that she would provide proof of their activities, would be a witness to their guilt.

Never. She wanted security, but not at that price. If Pierre and Jean and Gaston were utter strangers she would not be able to betray them; how much less could she do it when she owed them everything. Her friends, she had called them, but they were so much more, as she had come to know in the last days. They were the nearest she might ever come to a family.

She drew in a deep breath and turned to look out over the bay with the shimmering glow of starlight dancing on its dark surface. Regardless of everything else, there was one good thing about the offer Touchet had made her. If the little man was looking for an ally in her, then it followed that he did not have one in René. She had not known how strong that fear was until it was removed or how much pain it had caused.

9

THE FEAST CONTINUED, increasing in noise and frenzy as the cups of tafia made their third and fourth rounds. There was no hope of sleep until the last drummer and dancer had sought his bed of branches. Despairing of rest while the drums throbbed in the night, Cyrene returned to the fire.

Pierre had moved away from the inner circle around the flames. He was watching as she approached. As she caught his eye, he motioned to her and indicated a seat beside him on the sand. She made her way toward him, threading among the men and women who lay about on their blankets.