The Creole Princess (9 page)

This was a terrible idea.

Don Rafael clearly had no concept of the wasp nest he had stirred into a noisy, stinging disaster, and Lyse had just as obviously lost every scrap of sense she’d ever possessed to have agreed to it.

She could feel every eye following her as the two of them progressed through Madame’s gold-and-green salon, could literally hear the volume of conversation drop to scandalized whispers as hands covered mouths and mouths went to ears. She gripped her escort’s forearm as if it were a rope and she drowning in a surging sea of outrage. Even the fine dark-green Aubusson carpet beneath Daisy’s gilt-painted slippers seemed to drag at her like an undertow.

To be sure, the Dussouys’ rheumy-eyed old butler had offered no resistance to her entrance with Don Rafael, but he would hardly have recognized tomboyish Lyse Lanier in the frilled-up doll Daisy had created that afternoon out of whole cloth. Indeed, she feared to turn her head, lest her hair come tumbling down from its tower of curls pinned to a padded contraption Daisy called a
toque
. Lyse had refused to wear powder, but the gold-and-cinnamon-colored ribbons threaded here and there were
très à la mode
.

Daisy had fretted that her only dress long enough for Lyse’s
tall frame was years out of date. But in the cinnamon brocaded robe à la française, with its low-cut, fitted bodice and voluminous folds of satin draping from the shoulders to drag behind her like a train, Lyse felt like a veritable princess. And Don Rafael’s eyes had widened comically when she had descended the Redmonds’ stairs, her wide, panniered skirt filling the breadth of the stairway. He had bowed low, then kissed her hand before tucking it into the crook of his elbow.

Now, promenading with him through the finest salon in the city of Mobile, surrounded by people no more finely dressed than herself, she understood for the first time the depth of her family’s poverty.

“My Creole princess is perhaps in need of refreshment?”

At the sound of Don Rafael’s voice, she blinked, startled to realize they had come to a stop in the center of the crowded candlelit room. His expression was quizzical, his dark brown eyes kind.

“Not really.” She wrinkled her nose. “I’m afraid my bum has twisted sideways.”

His laughter, infectious and uninhibited, rolled over her. “Señorita, if that means what I think it means, that is perhaps one difficulty I cannot help you with.”

Heat bloomed in her face, but a surreptitious glance around told her that people had gone back to their own conversations. She leaned in to whisper, “It’s just that I’m not used to wearing so many . . . appendages, under my dress and on top of my head! Besides the, um, bum problem, there is a ribbon tickling my neck, and I can’t lift my arm to reach it. Please, Don Rafael, I would be so grateful if you would just yank it out.”

“I’ll be happy to oblige, if you promise to leave your wicked little knife in its sheath.” Still chuckling, the Spaniard turned her so that he stood behind her, his hands cupping her shoulders. He leaned down so that his voice rumbled deep in her ear. “But if we are to be cousins, then you must call me Rafa instead of the
so-stuffy Don Rafael.” He moved the offending ribbon, tucking it into her curls.

She held her breath as his lips hovered close to her neck. He would not be so improper as to . . .

She jerked around to face him, in the process using her elbow to shift the padded bum under her skirt back into its correct position around her hips. “Thank you,
Rafa
,” she said, dipping a saucy curtsey. “And you need never fear my knife, so long as you keep your . . . waistcoat out of reach.”

He gave a great sigh and once more offered his arm. “To borrow one of your so-apt French words,
touché
, cousin Lyse.
Touché
.” He tilted his head as the music changed from a stately allemande to a lively reel. “Would you care to dance, or would you prefer to tweak the Harpy’s nose and see how long it takes her to recognize you?”

Lyse had almost relaxed into forgetting her terror. The knot under her rib cage suddenly tightened. “I really don’t think—”

But it was too late.

“Don Rafael!” came the cultured, but carrying tones of their hostess, rapidly approaching. “I was so afraid you would forget to come!”

Rafa patted Lyse’s hand, which had suddenly gripped his arm again, and murmured, “Courage, infant!” His blinding smile bloomed as he towed her with him in the direction of Madame Dussouy’s ostrich-feather coiffure, which waved above the crowd. “Of course I remember to come, Madame Señora! And I bring my little
prima
with me, because I know it will make my Grandmama the Doña Magdalena de Ibanez y Rippardá so happy that our Lyse has been presented to your fine company.”

Oh, this was such a ridiculous charade, and nobody was going to believe his lies, because everyone here had known her family since before she was born. Even as she dropped into an awkward curtsey, Lyse wanted to dash out of the house, skin back into her own comfortable clothes, and never show her face in town again.

But Madame Dussouy was staring at Don Rafael with her stupid mouth ajar. Her eyes darted to Lyse, then back to the Spaniard. One could clearly see her inability to reconcile this outrageous dilemma. “Ah, of course,” she said at last, looking stricken by rigor mortis. “You are most welcome, and I pray you will avail yourself of refreshments. In fact, here comes Scarlet with hors d’oeuvres right now. Scarlet! Set that tray down, and bring mint juleps for Don Rippardá and . . .” She flapped a hand. “Mademoiselle Lanier.”

Lyse rose jerkily and whirled to meet her cousin’s—her
real
cousin’s—astonished brown eyes.

“Lyse?” Scarlet squeaked, juggling the teetering tray. “What are you doing here?”

Madame rounded on her. “Girl, how dare you address the guests directly. Obey me instantly!”

Scarlet managed to land her heavy tray on a nearby table and, after one more frightened look at Lyse, hurried away toward the butler’s pantry.

Lyse wanted to run after her, but she felt Rafa’s long fingers gently squeeze her hand. A slight shake of his head and a sly wink kept her from flying to pieces. She forced herself to smile at her hostess with composure. “It’s kind of you to accept me, Madame. As you can see, Don Rafael is . . . difficult to resist when his mind is made up.”

“Yes, indeed,” Madame said with a frosty smile. “Besides, I would never have it said that my charity is lacking.” With Lyse firmly set in her place, she turned to Rafa with a flirtatious flip of her fan. “Don Rafael, I believe you have not met my husband.” She turned to call to a tall, stooped gentleman in a powdered wig holding forth nearby in a cigar-smoking circle of men. “Monsieur Dussouy! Come here, sir! There is someone I would have you meet.”

Lyse had met Michel Dussouy on a number of occasions, usually at church, and she had found him to be kind, absentminded, and yet a remarkably astute businessman. Whatever his wife’s
personal prejudices, his business dealings with the Lanier family had generally been conducted in fairness and without rancor.

Dussouy shook hands with Rafa, acknowledging the introduction, and when his gaze lit upon Lyse, he simply bowed courteously over her hand without even a raised eyebrow—for which she would have liked to kiss his pocked cheek.

Instead she smiled and dipped a curtsey. “Monsieur, I wanted to thank you for giving my stepmother your seat at mass on Sunday morning.”

“Please do not mention it. At the rate she’s going, Madame Justine will soon need a whole new pew to seat the Lanier clan!” As Lyse laughed, Dussouy turned quizzical gray eyes on Rafa. “My wife has told me all about the young Spanish don marooned in our city for ship repairs. I hope you have secured what you need, but if there is aught I can do to assist, you have but to stop by my offices just down on St. Francis. We deal in ship repairs and merchant marine supplies of all sorts.”

“Kind of you, sir,” Rafa said. “It looks to be nearly a week before the necessary materials can be pulled together. In the meantime, my partner, Señor Pollock, has given me leave to dispense with all cargo likely to spoil before we reach New Orleans.”

Dussouy’s face creased in a smile. “Are you indeed associated with Oliver Pollock? I met him once on a trip to New Orleans, back before the American rebels took to blocking trade between our cities. Capital fellow! Hair as red as a rooster’s comb!”

Rafa laughed. “Indeed, sir. And a temper to match. He’ll have my head if I can’t make it back to port by the end of March.” He paused and leaned in. “Are your ships indeed having difficulty reaching their markets? I would have thought the British military presence enough to keep pirates and privateers at bay.”

Dussouy’s thin lips compressed. “You didn’t hear it from me, but there’s a shadowy devil based out of the islands near Mobile Point, who has chased my lads into shipwreck more than once.
Some say he’s American, others claim he’s a Frenchman, looking for Spanish gold.”

Rafa looked skeptical. “So shadowy that the lines of the ship cannot be identified? I find that hard to believe.”

“She’s small and fast, and according to my men, the captain’s disguise bars any discovery of his identity.”

For some reason, Lyse’s pulse jumped. “What kind of disguise?”

Dussouy waved a hand. “Scarf over the head, face blacking, indistinguishable clothes. Clever sort.”

“My brother fishes out of the islands near the Point. He’s not mentioned anything like that.” Lyse watched Rafa’s face, wondering if he’d seen any such pirate.

He merely looked vaguely confused. “Why would the French be this far north and west? Their ports are all in the Caribbean.”

“Laddie, this was a French port for sixty years. Just because a British flag flies over the fort doesn’t mean the French are gone completely to ground.” Dussouy spread his big hands. “Besides, as I’m sure you know, we—the French, I mean—entered treaty with the Americans some weeks ago. Lafayette himself has put on a uniform and come over to aid Washington.”

“Monsieur my husband.” Madame firmly took her husband’s arm. “Everyone knows
we
are loyal British subjects now and have no knowledge of what the French would be up to.” She gave Rafa a coy smile. “Though I wouldn’t be surprised to hear that our Spanish neighbors have thrown in their lot with those bourgeois continentals. King Carlos is notoriously interested in gaining back his control of Gibraltar and Minorca.”

Rafa laughed. “Madame, you are pleased to jest with your guests. Why would His Majesty give aid to a group of colonists rebelling against their monarch, when that would endanger his own God-given authority? Have you not heard about the American captain who took port in New Orleans? Captain Gibson was apparently selling rum in an attempt to cover purchase of clothing
and blankets and gunpowder for their little uprising. I assure you Governor Gálvez arrested him in short order.”

“And rightly so,” said Dussouy, frowning at his wife. “Women, as you will discover, have only a vague understanding of politics as it applies to the daily running of a household, and none at all of its international complexities. Monarchies aside, Carlos is far too fond of his treasury to risk it in such a fly-by-night endeavor as colonial self-government.”

Lyse had heard her grandfather and her papa arguing over just these subjects on many an occasion—and had been taught to vigorously participate.

Before she could object, however, Rafa smiled down at her and patted her hand. “One must agree that such topics are tedious in the extreme, when there is music to be danced to with the loveliest of partners. Señorita, would you honor me with the minuet?”

She had not noticed that the dancing had stopped, and the musicians were retuning. She cast a desperate look around. It was a test. A mild, but signally cruel test. The minuet—complex, dignified, and performed one couple at a time while everyone else watched—could establish one hopeful debutante and set another up for a future of obscurity and social ruin. What could it do, she wondered, to a girl who was neither debutante nor hopeful?

The Spaniard held her eyes with a lazy smile as she slowly dipped into a curtsey. Grandmére Madeleine had once taught her and Simon the dance, though of course they’d had little opportunity to practice. What if she forgot the steps? What if this stupid bum roll decided to shift again? What if her hair fell down from its tower?

The thought made her want to laugh. Rising from the curtsey, she went palm to palm with Don Rafael as they performed the opening honors to each other and then the audience. She would show him. She would show them all!

Dancing parallel to Rafa, she followed him in the lead-in figure. To her relief, she found the stately four-step, six-beat pattern
coming without conscious thought. Curving sideways, they met at the rear of the open space, then danced forward to the middle, where Rafa wheeled her in a three-quarter turn and danced her sideways to a corner. By the time they had completed the initial crisscross figure, her knees had stopped trembling.

Though there was nothing particularly seductive about the dance—except for her partner’s refusal to let his sleepy gaze drop from her face—this was far different from dancing with her older brother. By the time they came to the two-hand turn and ending, Lyse felt as if the blood beneath her skin might burst into spontaneous flames. She was aware of the calluses on the palms of his hands, the blood-red signet ring worn on his left index finger, the small moon-shaped scar at the corner of one eye. Together they honored the audience, then, turning face-to-face, she curtseyed to him as he bowed. She held the curtsey, heart thudding, breath coming in shallow gasps. Surely if she moved she would fall.

As if he had seen her terror, he reached down to grip her elbow. “Come,
prima
, don’t faint on me,” he murmured, boosting her to her feet.

“How could you do that?” she whispered, regaining her balance. “You know I’m no society girl.”

“What? Have you no faith in my leadership?” He guided her toward a corner of the room amid a patter of polite applause.