The Creole Princess (18 page)

She also thought guiltily of the book hidden under her bed, a book which had irrevocably altered her thinking on subjects like freedom and equality. Her father, like Mrs. Dussouy, would be scandalized to know she’d so much as cracked the cover of such subversive literature.

“You must do as you see fit, of course,” she said calmly. “As I must do with my students. Again, I’m sorry Luc-Antoine disturbed you. Please forgive me if I return to our lesson.” She dipped a quick curtsey and turned to walk to the chalkboard.

“Well!” Mrs. Dussouy huffed, but after a moment Daisy heard the door open, then shut with a bang.

The children tittered. She ignored them and continued with her spelling list. Simon would laugh when she told him about the morning’s kerfuffle. Even the “mongrel pedigree” remark would strike him as funny, as his forbears had been ruling over a large chunk of New France when the Dussouys were still trapping furs in Acadia.

Not that that mattered. She loved Simon for his humor and good sense and strength of character. And a certain expression when he looked at her that could make her weak in the knees.

“Miss Redmond, I think you misspelled ‘attention,’” said Emée behind her.

“Oh, dear, I certainly did.” Red faced, Daisy corrected her mistake and scolded herself not to daydream. She was getting as bad as Lyse.

8

N
EW
O
RLEANS
M
AY
1777

Rafa, dressed in one of his more sober evening suits of black velvet decorated with black satin frogs along the cuffs and tail vents, handed his tricorn to the Pollocks’ butler with a smile. He took a moment to check his appearance in the fine Valencia mirror, which he himself had brought back from Havana in March, then climbed the stairs to the great salon which fronted Chartres Street.

As he waited in line to greet his host, Rafa reflected that everyone who was anyone must be here tonight. Governor Gálvez held court beside his chosen lady, the beautiful widow María Feliciana de St. Maxent d’Estrehan, near one of the magnificent French windows. The windows stood open to the mild spring breeze, spilling the light of a thousand candles onto the street below. As usual forgoing the finery due his exalted position, Gálvez had favored a uniform even more severe in lines than Rafa’s own, a restraint that served as a deliberate contrast to his lady’s extravagant Gallic beauty.

With his heart firmly in the possession of a certain other Creole lady, Rafa found himself inspecting the exquisite Doña d’Estrehan
with the detached admiration one might accord an expensive painting: wondering how much it cost and how long it had taken to compose. Her dark curls had been piled over some towering contraption and threaded with ribbons and silk flowers, with a few long ringlets allowed to cleverly trail along the low neckline of her golden voile gown. Amber and ruby jewels twinkled from her small, dainty ears and about her throat, and the large, tip-tilted dark eyes had been subtly enhanced by a faint rouging of her high cheekbones.

Small wonder that Gálvez scarcely took his eyes from the lady’s face.

“The governor is clearly smitten, is he not?”

Rafa turned to find Pollock’s wife, Margaret, smiling as she stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. He grinned. “Without doubt. It is but a matter of time before she becomes Doña Gálvez. Wagers say before Christmas.”

“Oh, well before that,” Pollock said, firmly shaking Rafa’s hand. “And one hopes that she will give him an answer soon, so that his attention may be focused on the business at hand.”

“I’ve noticed no lack of discipline.” Rafa rubbed his shoulder, just now becoming free of the ache from the scrap-iron wound.

Pollock leaned in, touching the side of his large nose. “Gálvez may bark, but he’s pleased with the intelligence you brought. In fact, the king has authorized us to send more blankets and gunpowder up the river.”

Before replying, Rafa looked around. Mrs. Margaret had turned to the next guests in line, an indigo merchant and his well-dressed wife. There were spies everywhere, and he had to believe that if he had been so easily able to infiltrate Pensacola, the likelihood of the British returning the favor was great. Gálvez had sternly warned them all not to speak out of turn.

With a tilt of his head, he invited Pollock to follow him to a quiet corner where they could converse with their backs to the
wall, in no danger of being overheard. Rafa folded his arms and said softly, “Gálvez may have forgiven the loss of the gold, but I’m going to get it back.”

“The governor is both fair and practical. He will never penalize a man for what is outside his control—and pirates are parasites who unfortunately ride the tails of any coastal political conflict. We’re lucky that’s the first major cargo we’ve lost to this point. And to have escaped with no loss of life—” Pollock shrugged—“that is truly a blessing. How do you plan to recover it?”

“I’ve thought about it. As I reported, the people of Mobile and Pensacola are not eating well. Their stores of flour are all but depleted, and summertime fevers will soon be setting in.” Rafa met Pollock’s sharp gaze. “What if, as a gesture of goodwill, I take them some of the quinine that just came from Peru and a hundred fifty or so of those barrels of Brazilian wheat? I could also take a fully armed crew, poke around the docks, pretend to carouse a bit.” He grinned at Pollock. “You know. Take it from there.”

“In other words, everything that young Don Rafael is so good at.” Pollock rolled his eyes. “I think it’s a brilliant idea, and if I were a younger man, I’d go with you. I’ll outfit you, because I think it’s worth trying to get that cache of gold back in our hands. The Americans need every scrap of help we can send their way.” He paused, said in uncharacteristically diffident tones, “What did you think of the Adam Smith treatise?”

Rafa straightened. “I read it. Compelling stuff, and you add that to Thomas Paine’s work . . . well, I’m not ready to renounce my Spanish citizenship, but I want to see this American experiment work out.” He looked away. “I know people who don’t now have the freedom to make their own choices, and they deserve better.”

“People?” Pollock, always discerning, had an uncanny knack for prying information out of Rafa. “People in general, or people in particular?”

He didn’t answer for a moment. The dancers’ rhythmic patterns
in the center of the room made him think of Lyse and the way she had anxiously followed the touch of his hands, the direction of his gaze, as he guided her in the minuet. Her guilt that she could enjoy a party when her cousin Scarlet could not—and her valiant efforts to keep her poverty-stricken family afloat. “Rather more specific than not,” he said with an oblique smile.

Pollock laughed. “I understand the need to be careful, given the present company. Speaking of which, look who has just arrived. I must go speak to your mama—and perhaps, in your father’s absence, you might come with me to fend off the young puppies who’ll be sitting up to beg for your little sister’s favor.”

Rafa turned just in time to witness the grand entrance of the two most powerful women in his life—Mama, still beautiful, even with her black hair beginning to gray in delicate wings above her ears, and Sofía a younger copy, looking like some exotic little bird in a dress decorated with the lavender lace Lyse had selected for her. They were quickly obscured by the onrush of uniformed men seeking to fill Sofía’s dance card.

“Ay,”
he muttered, gave Pollock a rueful glance, and took off toward the crowd.

He pushed through to Sofía’s side just as a young adjutant, notable for a prominent Adam’s apple and a nose the approximate size and shape of a mast in full sail, claimed her hand for the next country dance.

After retrieving her dance card and dismissing the poor adjutant with a careless wave, Sofía seized Rafael in an enthusiastic hug. “Rafa! You must see how beautifully your Mobile lace has made up! Am I not adorable?” She stood back to pirouette for his benefit. “You must go back and find more, only perhaps you might look for that delicious shade of celery that I saw in
Fashionable Miscellany
.”

Trying not to wince at the clench of pain in his shoulder—or her unfortunate use of the word
delicious
in the same sentence
with
celery
—he took her hand, tucked it into his elbow, and whisked her away from her disappointed cadre of admirers. He guided her toward the refreshment table. “You are of course adorable, little sister, and naturally I exist to provide your modiste with dress materials. I hesitate to remind you, however, that further travels must wait until I have enough merchandise to fill another ship.”

Sofía pouted, then giggled and leaned in to whisper, “Oh, I have missed you! Where have you been keeping yourself the last few weeks? Mama said Mr. Pollock undoubtedly had business matters for you to attend, but I can hardly believe you wouldn’t at least come by and take me driving of an afternoon. And Rafa, you haven’t been to mass at all! Padre Juan wouldn’t tell me if you’d been to confession, he says it is none of my concern, but truly it
is
my concern for your spiritual—”

“Take a breath, Sofi,” Rafa said, laughing. “I promise I have not put myself beyond redemption. In fact—” He stopped himself abruptly. How to explain the overwhelming urge he’d had, ever since returning to New Orleans, to pray about everything? His family would think him mad. And anyone who knew Don Rafael, merchant and man about town, would certainly not credit him with any serious engagement of the spirit. He let out another laughing breath as he picked up a glass of lemonade and handed it to Sofía. “In fact, I have tied up some loose ends which leave me free to join you and the parents for services tomorrow evening.”

“Really? Oh, Rafa, that is excellent! Mama will be so happy, and maybe Papa will stop growling about your selfish absences.”

Rafa suddenly regretted that lemonade seemed to be the strongest libation available at the party. He bit his tongue, then after a moment blurted, “If I were wearing a uniform as Papa wished, he would not see me even every three to six months as I manage now. I’d be serving in Peru or Dominica or some other godforsaken outpost, unable to do more than write the occasional letter.”

“I have hurt your feelings,” Sofía said, tears in her big brown eyes. “I don’t understand why you and Papa cannot forgive one another and cease this interminable sniping through me. I’m
glad
you’re not military! I don’t want you in danger of being shot at or—or run through with a bayonet or—Because it’s bad enough that Cristián and Danilo—” With a strangled sob, she crammed her gloved fist against her mouth and turned away.

Rafa cursed himself for upsetting her, particularly in a public setting such as this. His older brother Cristián had been absent from the family fold for nearly two years, and Danilo, younger than Rafa by a scant ten months, had shipped off to the southern colonies just after Christmas. He bolstered his determination that neither Sofía nor their mother should know how close to his heart the pirate’s iron had come.

He sighed and put his good arm round her shaking shoulders. “Come, Sofi, I’ll make up to Father, I promise. And we’ll light ten candles each for Cristián and Nilo tomorrow. I know God will keep them safe.”

Sofía wiped her eyes with her gloved fingers and gave a blubbering laugh. “
Why
do I never have a handkerchief when I start to cry? It is so aggravating!”

“That is why you have a dandy for a brother,” he said and handed over his large, lace-edged handkerchief. “Mop up, and I’ll let you go dance with your Roman-nosed adjutant. I’m sure he won’t notice how pink yours is.”

She blew her nose, then handed back his handkerchief with a watery smile. “Please don’t ever change, Rafael. I love you just like you are, dandified or not.”

It was a small comfort, but he took it. He escorted his sister back to her swain and went to work, circulating the room in search of spies and information. The governor had asked for a meeting in the morning, and if he expected approval for a return to Mobile, he had best be prepared to justify it.

M
OBILE
O
CTOBER
1777

Lyse pulled her shawl around her shoulders as she followed Daisy down the schoolhouse steps into the street. A sudden snap of fall had tugged brittle brown leaves off the water oaks, sending them swirling along with the breeze. In August the school had been moved to more spacious quarters on Conception Street to accommodate the children of Loyalist refugees fleeing the northern colonies, and Daisy had begged Lyse to help by teaching the youngest children.

When her father unexpectedly encouraged her to move in with the Redmonds, Lyse timidly broached the subject to Daisy and found herself smothered in a hug and all but deafened by her friend’s shrieks of joy.

With little further ado, Lyse settled into a contented routine for the first time in her life.

The only thing marring her peace came whistling round the corner of St. Peter Street with his tricorn pushed to the back of his red head and his musket propped on his shoulder. At the sight of Niall’s delighted grin—as if he didn’t know she and Daisy started the walk home at three o’clock every afternoon—Lyse turned to dive back into the schoolroom.