Another Small Kingdom (11 page)

Chapter Nineteen

N
ew Orleans greeted Macleod as it greeted all who came to it from the sea, with clamour, noise and bustle.Under a clear blue sky and an already hot sun Macleod stood looking at the waterfront where ships were tied to massive piles driven into the river bed at the edge of an expanse of heavy wooden decking which stood barely a few feet above the river, and under which the dark waters lapped and gurgled. The dark, heavy timbers of the decking were covered with bales and barrels, sacks and chests, boxes and bags, constantly on the move, carried and dragged, loaded and thrown, manhandled somehow, anyhow, by an army of toiling, sweating workers. Here sea-going ships exchanged cargoes with the Mississippi boats which moored further upriver. The bounty of the interior, once so small but now grown prodigious, the cotton and the tobacco, the hides and the furs, all that the world wanted, was piled up ready to begin its journey. And the manufactured goods from the great world were piled up waiting to be taken up the Mississippi to make the life of those who lived alongside that great river highway, and relied on it, almost civilised.

What could not be laden, or was not ready, was carted off to be stored in the great, new, stone-built warehouses which stood behind the docks and hid the city from its new arrivals.

Beyond the warehouses the streets began. As Jones had said, they were straight and at right angles to one another, and those nearest to the docks were no more than a jostle of people, carts, horses and mules, all blurring into one another in the smog of dust thrown up from the dry dirt of the roads which lay between the buildings lining either side. At first these buildings were not so different from the warehouses, drab, functional places of business. But as Macleod walked on holding a handkerchief over his mouth and nose against the dust, the furious activity of a city learning how to get and gain gave way to a more relaxed atmosphere. Small houses stood on either side of the streets and the pavements were clear of caked mud. For the most part they were single-storey terraces with pitched roofs and comfortable verandas behind whitewashed fencing.

Jeremiah Jones had been right, that part of New Orleans which serviced the docks was indeed much of a rough-house. But beyond the warehousing, the taverns, the whorehouses, above the river on a gentle hill there was another New Orleans, a place of refinement and beauty, of elegant houses with bright stucco frontages with upper-storey French windows which opened on to elaborate wrought-iron balconies and verandas. Here the aristocracy of the city, plantation money, slave money and most honoured of all, old money, maintained a luxurious and cultured idleness. And it was among these lordly ones that Macleod was ordered to introduce himself, to become accepted by them and mix with them on terms of easy intimacy, the better to learn their secrets.

Macleod, when he had first walked through their streets, didn't know whether to laugh or cry. His new Georgetown wardrobe might be a vast improvement on his severe, practical Boston attire but, in contrast to what he saw in New Orleans, he felt like a country clod and knew that here he looked like one. His overwhelming impression was that he might stay in New Orleans till hell froze over before finding any acquaintance who might introduce him into the houses where he needed access. But he had been sent to this city on duty, so he spent his days in reconnoitre, and by the end of his first week felt he had made progress. Strangely enough it was his lack of fashionable attire that gave him his idea for breaching the defences of the formidable fortress to which he secretly laid siege.

He found the most suitable bank, one favoured with much business from the best of society. Here he deposited letters of credit, opened an account and announced his business intentions. The manager was impressed not only by the size of the deposit and the promise of more funds but also by the spaciousness of Macleod's plans. The way Macleod described them it seemed either he was going into tobacco by buying up Virginia or going into cotton by buying up one or other of the Carolinas and, if the market was favourable, perhaps both.

Through the good offices of his new bank manager he found and rented some rooms on the Faubourg Ste Marie side of Rampart Street, not actually within the French citadel but close enough to serve his purposes. He found where he could eat, where he could drink and where he could idle part of the day and, in doing all three, achieve the most publicity and be noticed. He knew he was not sufficiently practised to play the easy socialite so he had decided his part would be something to which he was, for the moment, better suited – a man of mystery. Someone who bought himself the best, didn't count the cost and kept himself very much to himself. Most importantly of all he finally spied out on Bourbon Street his first point of engagement, the best tailor the city had to offer.

He had been in New Orleans about three weeks before he made his way to this tailor. The shop contained only two dandies who gave him a look and turned away, their expressions eloquent commentary on what they thought of his manner of dress. An elderly man came out of a back room, saw Macleod and came across to him.

‘Good day, sir. Can I be of service?'

His accent told Macleod the man was French so it was in French that he responded.

‘M'sieur, if you can be of service it will be in one of two ways.'

The elderly man raised his eyebrows questioningly.

‘I beg your pardon?'

‘Either you can dress me so that I'm fit to be seen, sir, or you can put a pistol ball in my head and put me out of my misery.'

For a second the tailor paused looking at Macleod's serious face. Then he laughed and Macleod smiled.

‘Eh bien, M'sieur, as I would rather not kill a new client I must see what I can do for you in the other way.'

Macleod stood back and opened his arms wide.

‘I urge you to look well, mon ami, before you commit yourself and see what you're up against.' He turned round once and dropped his arms. ‘If you admit defeat I shall attach no blame. London or Paris might take on such a challenge but I doubt, sir, yes I very much doubt that anywhere
but
London or Paris can effect a cure for such an extreme case as mine.'

The tailor continued to laugh, but more from good manners than anything else. He was somewhat stung by Macleod's assessment of what he could do.

‘Well, if M'sieur cannot go to Paris …'

‘No, alas, I cannot. Business prevents it, more's the pity.'

‘Then you are fortunate that Paris has come to you.'

Now it was Macleod's turn to affect emotion. He registered surprise.

‘Paris come to me? In what way come to me, sir?'

‘In me, sir. I trained in Paris and was, some were kind enough to say, perhaps the foremost tailor in that fair city. Fair, I say, until the arrival of that infamous lady, Madame La Guillotine. Too many of my clients died under that lady's blade, so I decided that the safest thing for me would be to put the deep Atlantic between myself and their revolution.'

‘Sensible fellow. No sense in losing your head over something as paltry as politics, eh?'

‘C'est vrai, M'sieur. My thoughts entirely.'

‘Yes, but are you in touch, that's the question? I don't want to look like something on its way to the court of the late King Louis. I want to wear what Paris and London are wearing today, not what they were wearing ten years ago.'

The shop wasn't a large one and Macleod had been speaking loudly enough to ensure that the two exquisites busy examining handkerchiefs by the window couldn't fail to hear his every word. One of them crossed to Macleod and the tailor.

‘M'sieur, I can assure you that if Philippe dresses you,' and here he paused to take in the full horror of Macleod's garments, ‘you will be, in the deepest sense of the word, dressed.'

Macleod made a slight bow of acknowledgement.

‘If you and your friend are examples of his handiwork then I take you at your word, sir.'

The man smirked at the compliment, then addressed the tailor.

‘Look after him, Philippe, I see he needs all your skill. Do not spare yourself.'

‘I will do my best, Your Excellency.'

His Excellency was about to turn back to his friend when Macleod spoke.

‘Thank you. Perhaps when I'm fit to be seen in public I can return your kindness by inviting you to take some refreshment with me.' His Excellency paused. He did not know the man. He was not at all sure he wanted to know him. Macleod read the doubt in his face. ‘If you will permit me to say so, even dressed by Philippe I doubt I would believe I was fit for company until I had achieved your complete endorsement.'

This raised a self-satisfied smile. Macleod had guessed he would be an easy man to flatter. He also guessed that it would not be the same way with the man still by the window who stood scowling at Macleod with unconcealed dislike.

‘Well, let me know when Philippe has finished with you and I might cast an eye upon you. I make no promises you understand. You may, as you say, be beyond even Philippe's help, but I may cast an eye over you.'

Macleod gave a bow and pulled out a small rectangle of thick pasteboard and held it out.

‘My card.'

His Excellency looked down at it with disdain.

‘I'm sure it is,' and turned away, ‘come, St Clair, there's nothing here for us today.'

StClair dropped the handkerchiefs he had been holding on to a small table.

The tailor made a dash for the door and got it open just in time for the two exquisites to sail out into the street where an open carriage with a black, liveried driver waited and a black, liveried page-boy held the carriage door open. The sight caused Macleod to stand stock still and stare. For, sitting erect in the carriage and dressed in the height of fashion, staring straight ahead, was the most stunningly beautiful young woman Macleod had ever seen.

The carriage had certainly not been there when Macleod had arrived because if it had been he would have felt the blow then which he suddenly felt now. He stood, staring, almost gaping, as the two dandies got into the carriage. The boy closed its door, jumped up onto the back and the driver with a flick of his whip urged the pair of jet-black horses into a walk and the carriage moved slowly off taking the object of Macleod's gaze with it. Macleod and the tailor stood in the shop doorway watching, and, after what seemed like an age but in reality was only a second, Macleod, by an overwhelming force of will, hauled his consciousness back to the business in hand.

‘And the two gentlemen were?'

The tailor turned.

‘The one to whom you spoke was Etienne Henri de Valois, the youngest son of the Duke of Toulouse who, as the Duke and all his immediate family went to the guillotine, should now by rights hold the title, if there was still a dukedom or indeed if there was any sanity left in France.' They moved back into the shop. ‘His companion was Louis Antoine St Clair, they are said to be inseparable.'

Macleod steadied himself to make his next question as casual as possible.

‘And the lady in the carriage?'

He knew at once he had failed miserably when it drew a knowing smile from the tailor.

‘His Excellency's wife, Madame Marie Christine de Valois, and, as I see you have already noted for yourself, probably the most beautiful woman in New Orleans, and that is always bearing in mind that New Orleans is famous for its beautiful women. She turns many a head I assure you. You are by no means alone in admiring her.'

With an effort Macleod got his manner and voice back under control.

‘Yes, a fine woman to be sure. Admirable. But not the reason I'm here.'

‘No, of course.' The tailor took a thick, leather-bound book from under his counter and opened it out. From a glance at the number of pages used and the appointments already on the open pages Macleod could see that business was good. ‘Now, sir, when can I put you down to be measured? Shall we say Thursday morning at ten?'

‘Yes. I shall look forward to it.' Macleod went to the shop door, opened it and turned. ‘You'll have some designs to show me?'

‘Mais certainement.'

‘And they will be of the latest style?'

The tailor smirked.

‘You will see, I assure you M'sieur, nothing that would not grace the best houses in London or Paris.'

‘Good. Tell me, how do you manage to stay so up to date with your fashions?'

The smirk dropped away and a look of caution came into the tailor's eyes.

‘Ah, that is my little secret, and if I told anyone my secret, how long would I keep my clients? Not long I think. Goodbye, M'sieur.'

Macleod accepted his dismissal, left the shop and took out his watch. He was pleased with himself, very pleased. Now it was time to visit his rooms and begin to make a record of things. His first little campaign had been a total success. He had marked down his quarry and manufactured a meeting. The first skirmish had taken place and contact with the enemy had been made. Also he had picked up an extra cherry by finding out that the tailor, Philippe, had some secret way of keeping up with Paris fashions which meant a carefully guarded but effective line of communication. Also, if Philippe was right, he had found two men who were rich and influential, one of whom played the foppish imbecile. Could he have been so lucky so quickly? Macleod, with the memory of Madame de Valois undoubtedly colouring his vision, decided that the day had been a great success. He felt elated. He seemed to himself a changed man, a man who felt that life might offer something considerably more rewarding than merely a nightly path to oblivion.

Chapter Twenty

‘
I
miss the gin, I do, Molly. I know brandy's what the nobs all drink but I still miss the gin.It's what I'm used to.'

Kitty Mullen took another good pull at her glass and put it back empty on the table in front of her.

Molly O'Hara pushed the bottle across.

‘Well there is no gin, only brandy, so you'll have to suffer.'

And took a drink from her own glass.

They sat either side of a small table in the neat living room of the apartment which, to New Orleans society, was that of Molly O'Hara's alter ego, Madame de Metz.

The apartment was not large but situated in a quiet yet convenient corner of fashionable New Orleans just off the Rue de Chartres. It had taken the newly arrived Madame de Metz a remarkably short time to find a kind gentleman friend who took her needs to his own heart. He was touched by her plight, a young widow of noble birth whom the wicked Revolution had cast adrift in a cold and indifferent world, left to survive as best she could on the kindness of strangers. He had held her hand to show his sympathy, she had allowed it to show her gratitude. She had nothing, absolutely nothing. The monsters had taken everything. She had but one maid, a few trunks of simple dresses and gowns, barely enough jewels to be seen in public and, as for money, less than nothing. His hand gently rested on her knee, “Please, dear lady, do not think of money, do not worry your pretty head.” She smiled at him and did not remove his hand or blush that it was not on her pretty head that his eyes rested but slightly lower down.

She found that he also had his cross to bear. He was a widower of some years, he lived alone. He was wealthy, but what was money when one had no one to share life's little pleasures? Some might consider him too elderly to consider … “No, no, sir, not elderly.” “Well then, perhaps not elderly …”

And so it had continued. Madame de Metz got a neat little apartment, an introduction into society, new friends, new clothes, new jewels, in short, everything she had set out to get. And her very good friend and benefactor got what he deserved, the gratitude of a very pretty young woman and the envy of handsome, younger men as she bestowed her smiles and caresses on him in public, and in private, coffee, touches, kisses and a hint of more tomorrow, if tomorrow ever came.

It was neatly done, the quarry marked down with the skill of an expert hunter, the kill quick and clean. Madame de Metz was now not only established in society but welcome in all the best houses. The husbands might ogle her, but what of it, so long as the wives didn't fear or resent her. And she was careful that they had no cause. She had a friend, a very generous and jealous friend, she neither needed nor wanted any other male interest. She was no threat to any lady whose husband might, given the slightest encouragement, stray.

Madame de Metz and her maid had both had a full day. They had visited, watched, listened and gossiped, Madame in drawing rooms, the maid in kitchens. Now a lamp burned between them on the table. Now the roles of Madame de Metz and her devoted maid had been put off for the day so they could sit in comfort and review their progress in the company of the bottle of brandy. They had let their hair down, taken off all their day clothes and were loosely wrapped in robes.

‘How did it go for you, Kitty? Anything?'

‘Nothing to speak of above the usual. For all their fine airs and graces they don't seem so very different here from London. Mostly they're so busy with their clothes and manners and la-di-da that none of them would have the time to be at anything else even if they had the brains for it. If any ramp is coming off among this lot, political or any other sort, it's too bloody well hidden for anyone back stairs to have got wind of it. God knows I've tried but I haven't had a sniff.' They both took a drink. ‘What about giving our Boston lawyer a closer look?'

Molly gave a snort of derision at the suggestion.

‘Boston? The mysterious Mr Macleod? That has to be a joke, Kitty.'

‘Well, who else have we got? Trent told you to watch out for someone at the same game and the only one I've seen who might fit the ticket is Boston.'

Molly threw her head back and laughed.

‘Good God, girl. What do you think we're looking for? A Drury Lane comic villain?'

‘Laugh if you like but as I say, who else is there? We've been here nearly a month, you've got yourself dug in, visit the best houses and go everywhere the nobs go, and up to now we've seen nothing of interest except Boston. So why not him?'

‘Because if he was here for the same reason as us, he'd behave like us. He'd dig himself in, he'd fade in among them and he'd do just as I've done. But no, not our Mr Macleod from Boston. He makes a great show of keeping himself to himself but while he's at it he goes everywhere and makes sure everybody sees him. If he wanted to attract any more attention he'd have to dance naked through the street.'

‘All right, so tell me what his game is then? He has to be up to something behaving like he does.'

‘I've thought about it and I reckon he's looking to try for a tumble with pretty young Marie de Valois.'

‘What! Madame de V.? She'd not give him a second glance. What makes you say it?'

‘Oh I've watched him, Kitty. He doesn't concern our little game but I've watched him just the same. He makes sure he goes where she's likely to turn up and then moons at her from a safe distance.'

‘Looking don't mean much. Plenty of the men would like to get under her skirts. Looks don't mean anything.'

‘Maybe not, but for all his keeping himself to himself he's trying damn hard to get on the right side of the husband and I'll give him his due, he's not making a bad fist of it. He's got the ninny tutoring him on what to wear. De Valois may have nothing but vacant rooms upstairs but he thinks he knows everything that's anything when it comes to fashion and he may not be far wrong. If I gave Mr Macleod credit for any brains I'd say he'd made a clever move.'

‘Except for one thing.'

‘What's that?'

‘If he ever gets into a bed in that household I hope he knows what he's in for, because chances are it'll end up being Mr de V. he'll be cuddling not Mrs.' And they both threw their heads back and laughed. ‘And if he scores a hit then he'll have St Clair chasing him.' They laughed again. ‘Does Boston know do you think?'

Molly gave the question a moment's thought.

‘No, I doubt it. De Valois and St Clair keep themselves pretty much clear of too much gossip. It's like you say, Kitty, no different to anywhere else, so long as no one pokes you in the eye with it no one gives a cuss.'

Molly picked up the bottle and refilled their glasses.

‘What do you think about St Clair and de Valois, Kitty? Them being so careful, like. What if it wasn't just the bum-pumping, what if they were keeping things close for another reason?'

‘It's a thought. It would be a clever way of keeping any nosey-parkers satisfied and out of their hair. Do you rate it, Molly? It's damn well done if it's an act.'

‘Oh they're at it all right, the question is, what else might they be at or, more to the point, what might St Clair be at? De Valois's the donkey he looks but St Clair, now there's a man I think it might be worth knowing better. What about his household, anything?'

‘No loose gossip from that quarter. You may be right about him. Maybe you should try to give him a closer look.'

‘Well, if I can't get at him direct …'

‘And you can't through your usual channels.'

‘… then I shall have to go the roundabout way.'

‘Which is?'

‘The wife of his lover boy.'

‘That's roundabout enough but as we've nowhere else to go at the moment, why not?'

They sat in silence for a moment, each thinking and drinking. Then Molly pushed her glass a little way from her.

‘I don't know whether it's me or the brandy but I've just had a thought, Kitty. What if you're not off the mark and our Mr Macleod is doing a sweet job of pulling the wool over our eyes?'

‘He hasn't the brains. You said yourself …'

‘No, listen. I was told some sort of political shenanigans were being cooked up here and Trent wouldn't be wrong about that even though we've not tumbled anything yet. He also told me to look out in case anyone else came looking.'

‘So?'

‘What if Macleod is here for the same as we are but somehow got wind of us before we saw him?'

Kitty considered it.

‘You mean he nailed us and decided to put on an act that would take him out of our reckoning.' They both took another drink and considered the mysterious Mr Macleod. ‘No, that's the brandy talking. All he wants is to get into her pants, it can't be anything else.'

‘I'm not so sure. I find I want to get into de Valois's house and cosey up to the wife, so does he, and he's already started. Makes you think, don't it?'

They both took another thoughtful drink. Kitty reached for the bottle and tipped it up. It was empty.

Kitty gave a quiet belch and finished what was left in her glass.

‘Let's sleep on it.'

Molly nodded and finished her glass.

‘Good idea.'

They stood up and let their robes drop to the floor. Molly picked up the lamp from the table and they made their way across the living room towards the bedroom door.

‘We'll think about it again in the morning.'

‘Good idea.'

Kitty's hand held on to Molly's free arm to steady herself indicating she had managed to overcome her earlier prejudice against the brandy. They left the living room and the bedroom door closed behind them. There was a brief silence which was broken by Molly's voice.

‘Hurry up, girl, don't be all night with that chamber pot, there's others waiting.'

‘Hold on to yourself, nature can't be rushed.'

‘Nor held back too long so get a move on.'

There was loud, coarse laughter followed by sounds of movement until silence fell once more and the light under the bedroom door went out. The agents of His Gracious Majesty, King George, had taken to their deserved rest.