Creole Fires (10 page)

Nicki felt an ache in her throat. Alex had been thinking about her, concerned for her. She smiled at him, hoping it would tell him more than her words. “Thank you. That was very thoughtful.”

“You’d better hurry.”

Nicki nodded and headed toward the house, grateful he’d asked the one person who knew her secret. She would love the childish outfits, even if they did look silly, and Mrs. Leander would see they were loose enough in the bodice to hide her curves.

She reached her room to discover the dresses were even worse than she’d imagined. There was a soft-yellow muslin and a pale-pink bastiste, each with matching wide-brimmed bonnets. The dresses would
have been lovely, except for the excess of ruffles on the bertha, which covered the front, and the too-short skirts, the youthful length emphasized by an underskirt of frilly white lace. Beside them on the bed, a pair of long white pantalets, trimmed with ruffles at the bottom would show beneath the hem.

Nicki grimaced at the thought. How she yearned to dress like a woman again, to feel like a woman. Her bindings seemed tighter and more uncomfortable than ever. Then she noticed the simple navy-blue riding habit at the opposite end of the bed. The bodice was loose, but only narrow rows of tiny self-tucks decorated the front. It was short, but no ruffled underskirt emphasized the fact. And there was a small, matching narrow-brimmed navy-blue hat to complete the outfit.

Nicki held it up to her and twirled in front of the small wood-framed mirror above the simple oak dresser. These were the first new clothes she’d had in years. Alex had been thoughtful enough to buy them.

Hurriedly, she put on the riding habit, the jaunty little hat, and headed down the back stairs. Alex had the horses saddled and ready. Hers was a tall chestnut gelding.

“I thought you might find Maximillian more to your taste than Orange Blossom.”

“He’s beautiful,” she said, stroking the horse’s sleek dark neck.

Alex cleared his throat.
She’s too young for what you’re thinking
, he reminded himself, discovering the horse wasn’t the only thing of beauty he could see. He almost wished he hadn’t ordered the dresses. This one set off Nicki’s smooth complexion, the shiny copper color of her hair. She looked young, and then
again she didn’t. He shouldn’t have asked her to go along, he realized, deciding he wouldn’t again make that mistake.

But she was smiling at him with such anticipation that he couldn’t back out now.

“Thank you for the dresses,” she said as she climbed atop the big stone mounting block and situated herself in the sidesaddle as if she’d done it a thousand times. “They’re the first new clothes I’ve had in years.”

“You’re welcome.” Alex swung up on Napoleon’s back. They moved off toward a road that skirted the swamp behind the big plantation house.

“Belle Chêne means ‘beautiful oak,’ “Alex said. “My father named it for that huge tree near the entrance.”

“It’s a lovely name. Perfect, I think.”

Alex seemed pleased. “Most plantations front a river or bayou,” he explained as they rode along. “The refined sugar is transported from here by boat into the docks at New Orleans. The price is negotiated by a man called a
factor.
He gets the best possible price and manages all the money.”

“Sort of an accountant.”

Alex smiled. “Yes, but with a lot more responsibility.”

Nicki nodded her understanding. The
whir
of birds winging up from the swamp drew their attention to a great white egret, his graceful neck and beak extended, his wings flapping in slow precision as they carried him aloft.

“The swamp is as necessary to the sugar business as the river,” Alex went on. “It’s where we get the wood we need for the fires that burn beneath the
sugar vats. We also use it to drain the excess water from the fields.”

Nicki smiled at him encouragingly. She hated to pretend she didn’t know these things, but Alex seemed to be enjoying her interest so much she didn’t want to stop him. “How do they go about planting?”

“It’s done in the springtime. The workers plow rows about six feet apart. Stalks of seed cane are laid in six-inch-deep furrows. New cane comes up from each joint of the cane.”

“When do they harvest?”

“Not until fall. Between October and December, depending upon when the sugar content is right. But if you wait too long, the frost can be ruinous.”

She loved the sound of his voice—low and resonant, and touched by a trace of the French he had been raised with. It was a masculine voice, one that made her warm inside just to hear it.

They rode along the dirt road between the four-foot-high rows of cane. As far as she could see up the road, cane stalks waved like an emerald sea, a curtain of green that shut out all who did not belong. Black-skinned workers toiled alongside Irish immigrants who were paid a dollar a day for their back-breaking labor.

“The road doubles back between the fields and winds up down by the river,” Alex told her. “The mill is built close to the water so that the sugar barrels are easy to load onto the steamboats.” They broke into an easy canter, Alex allowing her to practice her riding skills, and soon came upon the sugarhouse.

It was a great barnlike structure, bigger than the one at Meadowood, and a cluster of heavy machinery like nothing she’d seen stood off to one side. Half a
dozen workers swarmed around the machinery, while others hammered and nailed from inside the building.

“We’re doing some reconstruction,” Alex explained. “Modernizing the mill.” He dismounted and helped her down, his big hands circling her waist. Nicki tried not to notice how warm and strong they felt.

“By the time the cane is harvested, it’s over six feet tall. It’s quite impressive to watch the workers using their big billhook machetes—one stroke to cut the blades from the stalk, a sweep across the top, then one across the bottom. Afterward, the cane is loaded onto two-wheeled carts and brought to the sugar-house, where it’s dumped into the crushing press. Up until now, mules provided the power to turn the heavy stones used to squeeze the juice from the bagasse—that’s the fibrous material that’s left over. We’re installing a steam engine to take over the job. It should be a lot more efficient.”

“What happens after the juice is crushed out?”

“It’s drained into a series of vats where the water is boiled away and the impurities drained off. We’re planning some improvements there as well.”

Nicki smiled. “I’m quite impressed, m’sieur. Where did you get all these modern ideas?”

Alexandre smiled back. “Why don’t you call me Alex? At least when we are alone.”

“All right. Alex.”

He seemed to approve of the way she said it. “I spent a year at L’Ecole Polytechnique in Paris. That’s where I met Norbert Rillieux. He’s been working here at Belle Chêne, helping to oversee the changes.”

“Such as …?” By now Nicki was truly curious.
Her father had mentioned reading about experiments using charcoal to refine the sugar to a whiter color than they were currently able to produce, which would bring an increase in price. He’d also told her about the increasing use of chemicals—acids and bases—to more accurately predict when the sugar content was highest.

“M’sieur Rillieux has invented something called a ‘vacuum system,’ “Alex explained. “It’s still in the experimental stages, but he believes—and so do I—that it’ll make our whole operation more efficient, and therefore more profitable.”

“There would seem to be a certain risk involved in something still unproven,” Nicki said.

Alex smiled. “You have a good mind,
ma petite.
There is a risk, of course. But I’m convinced the plan will work.”
Nom de Dieu
, it had better. If the new equipment failed to increase production and the quality of the sugar itself, thereby bringing in more money, the du Villier family would lose Belle Chêne as well as their estates in France. Even François didn’t know how close they were to financial ruin.

“I hope I’m not interrupting.” The voice behind them, cold and reserved, belonged to Valcour Fortier. “I heard about the work you were doing here. Very innovative. Thought I’d drop by and take a look for myself.”

His eyes took in the two of them and a knowing expression crept over his hawklike features. “I compliment your … judgment, Alexandre. She was worth the money after all.”

“Back off, Valcour. It isn’t what you’re thinking.”
At least, not yet.
Alex felt a moment of guilt at his intentions, even if they were some years away.

“Whatever you say,
mon ami.”
Fortier chuckled softly, but his hard, dark eyes raked Nicki from head to toe.

There was no mistaking his thoughts. Unconsciously, Nicki stepped a little closer. It was all Alex could do to keep from putting his arm around her in a gesture of protection.

“Have a look, Fortier,” Alex told him, pointing toward the heavy equipment. “You might learn something useful.”

Fortier did not seem amused.

Guiding Nicki back toward the horses, Alex lifted her up on the sidesaddle, then swung up on Napoleon. Fortier headed toward the heavy equipment being installed as the two of them rode away.

“I don’t like him,” Nicki said when they reached the stables.

“Stay away from him,” Alex warned. “He’d like nothing better than to carry you off with him. He’s an unscrupulous bastard.”

“Surely he wouldn’t …” But the expression on Alex’s face said that’s exactly what he would do.

“His plantation, Feliciana, borders ours. He rides the boundaries quite often. Just be careful if you happen to be out there alone.”

“I don’t have a horse. How could I possibly—”

Alex pinned her with a glance. “That didn’t stop you before.”

Nicki didn’t answer. He was too damnable perceptive. She would ride again, and they both knew it. But next time she wouldn’t ride Napoleon—and she wouldn’t get caught.

“I’d better be getting back to work,” she told him after Patrick led the horses away.

Alex nodded, and she wondered at his thoughts. He headed off toward the house. Nicki took a different path leading in the same direction. When she rounded the corner toward the servants’ entrance, she glanced toward the wide front porch and stopped dead-still in her tracks.

Across the way, smiling up at Alex, the blond-haired woman in the modish green day dress had to be Clarissa.

Nicole stood transfixed at the side of the house. She knew she should keep on walking; it was dangerous for Clarissa to catch the slightest glimpse of her. Still, her feet refused to move.

Alex bent over Clarissa’s gloved hand, touching it briefly to his lips in gentlemanly accord. His posture was exactly correct. Gone was the easy grace, the almost arrogant nonchalance that had been his manner just a short while before.

Clarissa, a blond-haired, slender, proper-looking woman, laughed at something Alex said, then accepted the arm he extended, and they walked across the oyster-shell drive toward the veranda, where Danielle was busily sweeping. Engrossed in her task, the plump little maid didn’t notice the pair until her broom swept into the full silk skirts of Clarissa’s pale-green day dress.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Clarissa demanded.

“Pardonnez-moi, mademoiselle,”
Danielle squeaked, breaking out of her trance.

“Speak English, you fool.”

Alex bristled, though he often made the same request. “She said she was sorry. She just didn’t see us.”

“Why don’t you watch what you’re doing?” Clarissa railed at Danielle, ignoring the sharpness in Alex’s voice. “You may as well learn to pay attention now. In a few more months you’ll be taking orders from me. I won’t allow such slovenly behavior.”

“Clarissa,” Alex warned, his voice even harder. “Danielle said she was sorry. What more do you want?”

“Danielle?” she repeated, incredulous. “Just how well do you know this girl?”

“Her mother worked here for some years before she died,” Alex explained, though he seemed loath to do so. “Danielle’s engaged to one of the grooms at Feliciana. As soon as they marry, Valcour will make a place for her there.”

Clarissa appraised Danielle from top to bottom, taking in her overripe figure, the rosy hue of her pretty but slightly moon-shaped face, far less delicate than her own. Danielle’s fingers still clutched the broom, her knuckles white with tension. Careful to keep her eyes fixed on the ground, she dropped into a curtsy.

“I am a very hard worker, Mademoiselle Endicott. I will not be any trouble.”

“You’d better not be.” With a last warning glance at Danielle, Clarissa turned back to Alex, who looked none too pleased. “She just needs a little supervision,” Clarissa told him with a smile that said the subject was closed. Resuming her hold on his arm, she let him guide her into the house.

Nicki sagged against the corner of the building.
How in God’s name could Alex saddle himself with a woman like that? If he meant to bring Clarissa Endicott to heel, he certainly had his work cut out. Why, the lady was one of the most obnoxious, overbearing females she had ever seen!

One more thought occurred—Mrs. Leander was obviously correct. If Clarissa Endicott found out Nicole was a mature, unattached female, she’d be sold again. Nicki shuddered at the thought. Still, as she headed off toward the kitchen, she wondered just how meek and mannerly she could be when dealing with Alex’s wife.