The Creole Princess (32 page)

He held her elbow as they mounted the stairs up to the first-floor entry. They were both weary, a bit short-tempered, and hungry, as the journey from Mobile had been beset by contrary winds, stormy seas, and general bad luck. Half his crew had been struck by a bout of food poison, which he himself had avoided only because he’d been too busy writing reports to eat for the last twenty-four hours.

Lyse’s lack of appetite came, he suspected, from sheer anxiety. She’d asked once about a bath before meeting anyone, and he’d had to explain that there was no time. After that, she’d kept her lips buttoned tightly, responding to his attempts at cheering her with monosyllabic replies and veiled expression.

Not good.

He had to admit, there was a small lump of dread in the pit of his own stomach. His mama would not be happy that Lyse had traveled for two days with no chaperone. He’d been able to give her a berth in a little cabin of her own aboard the
Valiente
, but Mama would not consider that proper at all.

He gave the door knocker a rap and, as they waited, studied Lyse’s pinched mouth. She looked beautiful as always to him, but she kept tugging at the long, thick plait of wavy hair hanging over her shoulder, and brushing at the stains she’d been unable to remove from her skirt. Women were built for mystery and delight, but no man could navigate the labyrinths of propriety.

The Gálvezes’ houseman answered the door before Rafa had time to talk himself into leaving. “Don Rafael! The governor was just about to send a man to find you. We heard the
Valiente
arrived this morning.”

Rafa swallowed against a dry throat. “Yes, I stopped at the Cabildo first. They told me he’s here. Does he have time to see me?”

“’Course, sir.” The man’s eyes flicked to Lyse. “Should I announce the young lady as well?”

“Ah. No. That is, I’ll announce her myself.”

“Very well, sir. This way.” The houseman turned to lead the way past the grand front salons, where guests of state were received, then up the curving staircase to the family rooms.

Rafa followed with Lyse on his arm, mentally rehearsing what he was going to say. By the time he stood before Gálvez and the new Doña Gálvez, he felt as though a cyclone had torn through his brain, stripping away every logical and coherent thought.

Before he could do more than bow, Doña Gálvez said, “Really, Rafael, another one?”

His mouth opened and shut. Finally he said stupidly, “Señora?”

But Doña Gálvez was inspecting Lyse with interest and a good deal of amusement. “This one is a deal prettier than the other, and at least she isn’t with child.”

“Feliciana,” the governor said mildly, “the boy has only just arrived, and clearly is not up to your teasing.” He rose, took Lyse’s hand, and lifted it to his lips. “Welcome, señorita. You are Miss Lanier, I presume.”

Lyse managed a confused smile. “Yes, sir. I am Lyse Lanier.” She curtseyed and looked at Doña Gálvez. “Madame, I apologize for appearing without proper courtesies. I have been rather . . . rushed.”

“I can well imagine.” The señora gave Rafa a disapproving frown. “Could you not give the poor girl a chance to sit down for a cup of tea at least, before you dragged her in to be interviewed by strangers?”

Rafa felt his ship go upside down once more. “Señora, my orders—” He looked to Gálvez for rescue. “I assumed I should report at once.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Gálvez said. “We’ll get to that. Here, the two of you sit on the settee there, and Eduardo will bring tea—wait, Eduardo, chicory for Don Rafael and me as well. Yes? Thank you. Now—” he turned to Rafa—“my wife’s jesting aside, you will please explain what has transpired during this last jaunt into West Florida, particularly the unexpected appearance of your lovely companion.”

Rafa had told the governor a bit about the Lanier family, but this invitation to speak his mind in Lyse’s presence gave him pause. As he and Lyse sat down, he mentally picked through several ways to start the story. “Well, sir, as you know, Captain Willing created a bit of difficulty for us, by haring off to Mobile without leave. By the time I got there, he had already started a riot in the town’s largest tavern—an establishment in which I have sojourned on many occasions.”

Gálvez sighed. “I see. Go on.”

Rafa looked at Lyse. “And . . . Miss Lanier’s father and grandfather, apparently being sympathizers, got embroiled. Major Redmond arrested them both, and then brought Miss Lanier in for questioning. Perhaps, Lyse, you should give your side of the story.” He wanted to hear her tell Gálvez that she was a rebel. Then, he would be free to—

He could hardly think past that.

But just then the ever efficient Eduardo returned with the tea cart, and the conversation shifted to mundane topics such as the weather, the quality of the seafood available in the Gulf, and the constant threat of flooding near the fort at Bayou St. John. By the time the butler bowed himself out of the room, Rafa had relaxed somewhat.

“And now, Miss Lanier,” Gálvez said, “if you are suitably refreshed, I would hear your version of recent events.”

Rafa’s every hair stood on end. The reprieve was over.

Pulling her bottom lip between her teeth, Lyse met his eyes.

The governor continued, “But please know that anything you say will stay in this room. Spain remains a neutral party in England’s conflict with her citizens, and I have pledged no harm to those who respect King Carlos’s interests inside our own borders. You may speak freely, without fear of reprisal.”

“Thank you, sir,” Lyse said softly. She paused, gently swirling the tea in her cup. “For a long time, the conflict didn’t seem to apply to me. I’ve only ever known British sovereignty, though my family remains French in language and culture. Perhaps you know that my father’s older brother was involved in the Rebellion of ’68. Then I met Rafa—Don Rafael—and I began to see that perhaps my view of the world had been very small. My grandfather is a great reader, and he encouraged me to take advantage of his library.” She looked at Rafa, eyes suddenly fiery. “So it wasn’t so great a leap, when my friend Daisy gave me books written by the instigators of the current revolution, to sympathize with their desire for freedom and independence.”

“
Daisy
gave you those books?” If she had slapped him, Rafa couldn’t have been more surprised.

“Yes. And that’s the reason I agreed to—that I couldn’t—”

Suddenly he saw it. She had been about to refuse his precipitate offer of marriage until she realized that Daisy would implicate herself to save Lyse. A red wave of chagrin climbed from his chest to his ears and over his scalp.

She had been trying to tell him that she didn’t return his regard. In fact, she had never admitted any affection for him beyond friendship.

“So you are a rebel sympathizer?”

The governor’s calm voice brought Rafa back from the verge of rushing from the room like the fool he was. He forced himself to
lean back in his chair, cross one knee over the other, as if he got his heart smashed into a thousand pieces every day.

Lyse raised her chin and said steadily, “Yes, sir. I am.”

M
OBILE
M
AY
24, 1778

Daisy waited patiently, the empty basket propped against her hip, as Tully unlocked the gate with a clanking of keys. She had been given special permission to leave the fort, as long as the adjutant accompanied her during his off-duty hours.

Papa had not backed down from his pledge to keep Antoine Lanier imprisoned until he recanted his public support for the American rebels. Daisy had argued in vain that no one cared what a confirmed drunk thought. And her pleading that the little Lanier children needed their father had gone no further. Antoine in gaol was no harder on his family than Antoine lying under a table three sheets to the wind, and probably a lot less embarrassing.

In fact, as she and Tully slipped through the open gate and saw Justine Lanier, baby Rémy propped on her hip, waiting for her in the narrow shade provided by the stockade, Daisy had to admit Antoine’s incarceration might just be the salvation of his family. Justine’s blonde hair gleamed with health, her dress was neat and pretty, and the baby was fatter and cleaner than Daisy had ever seen him.

Justine’s face lit as Daisy approached, and Rémy clapped his little hands. Justine set the squirming toddler down so that he could stagger toward Daisy.

Daisy crouched, setting the basket aside, and caught him just before he tripped. “Give me kisses, sweet boy,” she cooed, burying her nose in his sweaty little neck.

He giggled and grabbed fistfuls of her hair, mashing his face into her cheek. “Day-day!”

Daisy looked up in surprise. “Goodness, is he talking already?”

Justine flushed with pleasure. “I’ve been teaching him your name. The other children wanted to come, but I couldn’t manage them all by myself. Grandpére took them fishing,” she added, at Daisy’s inquiring look.

“I’m so happy you brought Rémy,” Daisy said, rising with the baby in her arms. “Corporal Tully, isn’t he handsome?”

Tully cleared his throat in noncommittal fashion. “Ma’am.” He retreated a yard or so away, to give the women some privacy.

Smiling, Daisy scanned Justine’s face. “You look wonderful. How is Mr. Chaz? Recovered, I hope, from his not-so-felicitous stay with us.”

“Yes, he’s well.” Justine bent to pick up the lumpy satchel she’d brought. “Sorry this is a bit smelly. He insisted on sending a cheese and some sausage. The blackberries are ripe, so I made a tart too.”

“All right. Just put it in my basket. I’m going to the market to buy some oranges and a few other things to put in too. Corporal Tully won’t tell.”

“Is Antoine well? No one believes this, but I miss him.” Justine looked down, her cheeks flushed.

Daisy, to her chagrin, felt tears sting the backs of her eyes. No one understood why she still missed Simon, either—least of all herself. Did that make her as pathetic as Justine? At least she hadn’t made babies with the man who deserted her. On the other hand, Antoine had finally stood up for something more important than a bottle of rum. She had no idea what Simon had run off for.

She pulled herself together by rubbing noses with the baby. “Yes, he’s in remarkably good spirits. Tully and Niall McLeod keep the other men from abusing him, and now that he’s sober . . .” She shrugged. “He’s a Lanier. As you know, he can be quite charming.”

“Yes, I know.” Justine sighed. “Have you heard from Simon?”

Daisy stilled. “No.”

“Daisy, he’ll come back. Simon is the most stubborn man in West Florida, and he loved you. Loves you, I mean.”

“He told me to wait a year.” She felt her eyes drown as she held onto Rémy so tightly that he squealed. “I don’t even know what that means, Justine.”

Justine put her arms around both Daisy and Rémy. “It means he’s coming back.”

Daisy let herself melt into the other woman’s motherly embrace. Oh, how she missed Lyse. How she missed the closeness she’d had with her father. “Thank you, Justine,” she whispered. “I’ll take good care of Antoine.”

“I know you will.” Justine sniffed.

“Are you crying too?” Daisy grinned through her tears. “Corporal Tully is going to refuse ever to come with me anywhere again.”

“I can’t help it. I think I’m pregnant again.”

“Oh, Justine!” Daisy laughed. “I’m not telling Antoine that. You’ll have to tell him yourself.”

“Daisy, what’s going to happen?” Justine stepped back, wiping her eyes, and took the baby. “Is your father ever going to come to his senses and let my husband go? What possible difference can it make for one Frenchman to be kept locked up?”

Daisy shook her head as she picked up the basket. “I don’t know.” She looked to make sure Tully wasn’t paying attention, but lowered her voice anyway. “I’m worried that the war may be coming our way. There are letters flying back and forth between Mobile and Pensacola, more and more frequently. I hear that the French are making raids into the Gulf and the Spanish don’t do anything about it. I know Papa is anxious.”

Justine hugged Rémy. “Can you—will you let me know if there’s anything I can do? Maybe your father will let me come in to see Antoine sometime?”

“I doubt it. But I’ll try.” It was the best she could do. “Let’s go
to the market, so I can buy those oranges. Maybe Rémy would like one too.” She turned and called to Tully, “Corporal, would you carry this basket while Justine and I visit the market?”

With a resigned sigh, Tully complied. “Just what I wanted to do on my afternoon off.”

16

N
EW
O
RLEANS
M
AY
25, 1778

Lyse wiped her pen and capped the inkwell, then reread what she had written in her journal. How boring. Grimacing, she shoved the book away and went to the window to twitch aside the curtain and stare down at the street traffic.

In two weeks she had gone from waiting tables and serving ale in an English public tavern, living as a servant in a tiny attic bedroom, to being the honored guest of the governor of Spanish Louisiana. She had enjoyed her stay with the Gálvezes, but she was becoming restless with the necessity of staying indoors. She had willingly told the governor everything she could think of that might be pertinent to Spanish success in taking Mobile from the British—apparently the war was about to take a twist shocking only to those who had been isolated on some deserted island—but for some reason no one would divulge to her, the governor and his lady had deemed it necessary for her to remain indefinitely incognito.