Guarded Heart (9 page)

T
he rain continued to hold off the following morning, though it seemed the respite might be short-lived. Gray, scudding clouds littered the sky and a cool wind blew from Lake Pontchartrain, bringing with it the smell of brine. Ariadne was determined to take advantage of the break to stretch her legs. Persuading her hostess to join her was not easy given Maurelle's natural indolence, but they finally set out.

She and her hostess were not the only ones attempting to escape the indoor stuffiness. The banquettes were crowded with men intent on business concerns, servants on errands for their masters, and ladies with baskets on their arms and veils of common green
barèges
over their faces to protect them from chance sun rays. Vendors plied their wares on every corner so the air was alive with the cries of the knife grinder and rag man, and offers for shelled nuts and green vegetables, pralines and yams. Moving more than a few paces at a time seemed impossible as it was constantly necessary to stop and pass the time with one acquaintance or another of Maurelle's. Even when they were able to make progress, they must still exchange bows with passing gentlemen, smile and nod at the priests and nuns they met, wave to older ladies enjoying the air on their balconies and sidestep the children playing around doorsteps. At Maurelle's suggestion, they turned in the direction of the river and the levee promenade that was usually less crowded.

The promise did not hold true since half the town seemed to have hit upon the same solution. More than that, the masters of the sailing vessels and steamboats tied up at the docks along the river were using the break in the weather to load and unload cargo. Ariadne persevered in spite of the hubbub around the loading sheds of wagons and drays, rumbling barrels and shouting stevedores. She would not be denied her walk nor a look at the river, swollen by rain and awash with debris brought down by the storms, that hurled itself toward the gulf on their water side.

“Look,
chère,
” Maurelle cried after some few minutes. “Your sword master and his friends. What felicity.”

“Hardly
my
sword master,” she murmured, leaning close.

“You know what I mean. They intend to stop, I believe, so do cease scowling and be pleasant or they will think you hold yourself above them.”

“They can't be that sensitive, surely.”

“You have no idea.” The words were spoken quickly and under her breath as Maurelle moved forward with both hands held out. “Monsieur Gavin, the handsome brother Nicholas and charming Juliette, my friends, well met! Ah, and you have young Monsieur Squirrel with you as well.
Bonjour, mon petit.
Is this crush not amazing? I was reluctant to set out when Ariadne mentioned it, but wouldn't have missed it for worlds.”

Ariadne smiled valiantly as she was presented to the couple she had not yet met. She had heard much from Maurelle about this handsome Italian and his wife who had been a nun, or very near it, before their marriage, so felt she knew them well. The boy she addressed was actually called Nathaniel, rather than the old
petit nom
of Squirrel. A young man of some seventeen or eighteen years, it transpired that he was serving an apprenticeship of sorts at Gavin Blackford's atelier.

Even as she sorted out the newcomers, she was aware of the close scrutiny of the Englishman. So distracted was she by it that it was an instant before what Maurelle had said penetrated her consciousness. “Pardon? What was that? Monsieur Blackford's brother?”

“Just so, and his sister-in-law, our own Juliette, née Armant.” Maurelle smiled upon the couple as if nothing could be more commonplace than an Italian and an Englishman being related.

“I didn't realize you had family here,” Ariadne said, surprised into speaking directly to Blackford.

“We are half brothers to be exact,” Nicholas Pasquale answered in his stead, giving her a smile of exceeding charm. “Our father was widely traveled, you see. Not that it matters a particle—blood alone is not the thing that makes a brother.”

He was a fantastically attractive man, the Italian, in a tender yet masculine fashion. For an instant, Ariadne could see no resemblance between him and Gavin Blackford, one being so dark and the other of lighter coloring. On second glance, she could see the similarity, not only in their height and the width of their shoulders above narrow waists and flanks but, most of all, in the deep set of their eyes behind barricades of thick lashes.

She suspected a story behind the coincidence of their joint residence in the city. Before she could inquire into it, a hail came from behind them.

The arrivals turned out to be more of the swordsmen and their wives, this time the two couples Maurelle had pointed out to her at the opera the evening before, the O'Neills and the Conde and Condessa de Lérida, along with the mulatto sword master, Bastile Croquère, and another Italian, Gilbert Rosière. The two groups merged without noticeable effort. No constraint seemed to trouble any of them and certainly no formality, Ariadne thought, as they exchanged greetings and quips, queries and friendly insults. Among these swordsmen and their wives, and even Maurelle, was such easy friendship and complete trust that nothing said one-to-the-other was meant in anything except the most pleasant conviviality. They chattered and laughed and touched each other with casual gestures and warmth in their faces while the wind whipped the skirts and bonnet strings of the ladies and the gentlemen held on to their hats. Now and then a strong gust made it necessary for a man to give his wife a protective arm. This was done instantly, with the briefest of conspiratorial smiles that whispered of quiet and passionate intimacy.

Only Ariadne was left out of the charmed circle. It was oddly disquieting to find it so. Somehow, she had never been quite among the chosen, never secure in her place there. Yet she had longed to be, longed for the comfort of such unquestioned acceptance.

A species of angry despair shifted inside her, settling around her heart. It wasn't that she had any desire to join the select circle of the
maîtres d'armes
and their women. Oh, not at all. No matter how inviting it might appear, or how comforting, she knew it was built on the unhappiness and grief of others. It must be that way. Still, the sense of isolation remained.

“Dazzling, daunting and with blooms in your cheeks—you can't, I think, be expiring of blood poisoning.”

The comment came from Gavin Blackford as he moved to her side, speaking beneath the continuing discussion around them. She tipped her head to see his face from under her bonnet rim. “Did you think I might be?”

“Not after last evening. May I?”

Without waiting for permission, he took her hand and, shielding his purpose with his broad back, peeled down the cuff of her glove. Ariadne jerked against his hold; he was too close, his grasp too disturbing. She was far more aware of the masculine force of him than she wished to be. He did not release her, but whispered an imprecation as he saw the angry red slash across the top of her wrist.

“It heals,” she said, her voice tight. “I removed the bandage just last night.”

“And used garnets in gold as a substitute. At least the stones are said to promote healing. Or is that amethyst? I can never recall. I would have presented myself at Maurelle's door to inquire after the injury, except it seemed best not to call attention to it.”

“For the sake of your reputation.” She would not allow herself to think about how closely he must have watched her across the theater that he had noticed her bracelets. Nor would she consider the conundrum that flashed through her mind—a swordsman so disturbed by a cut to his opponent that he called it a soul wound but who killed without compunction on the field of honor. What if he was equally as penitent…No, no, such reflections had no bearing.

“Yours, rather. How can you think otherwise?”

“Oh, yes, you keep your fencing salon as a whim rather than necessity.”

“Is that what Maurelle told you? It's true only in part, though I am no less serious in the pursuit of true expertise. And you?”

“The same,” she said shortly as she realized he was questioning her dedication to gaining skill with a sword. “I am ready to resume lessons when your schedule permits.”

“My whole design in speaking to you—to make our plans. Need I say that my time is wholly yours?”

What he was saying was that flirtation had not been his aim. She might been more annoyed except for the bright amusement that lurked in the blue depths of his eyes, as if he dared her to doubt him or to comment on the hidden messages beneath their polite discourse.

How very odd that moment seemed, with the yellow-brown river lapping against the levee mere feet from where they stood, the gray winter light in the sky and the wind brushing her skirts against his polished boots. Her bonnet brim bent in the gale and his eyes were narrowed to mere slits while his cravat slapped across his lapel, torn loose from its tucked place and anchored only by its sapphire pin. A tenuous connection greater than her hand in his seemed to tether them to the spot. Ariadne could not look away from his steady gaze as the laughter faded from his eyes, could think of nothing to say to break it. For this moment, there were only the two of them in the windy world and nothing but rare concord between them.

Abruptly, she drew a deep breath. This would not do.

“Excellent, then,” she said in brisk tones while tugging against his hold once more. “We will continue tomorrow evening.”

“
À votre service, madame,
as always.” His eyelids came down, closing off his expression. He released her as he bowed his head. When he straightened, his features were somber again.

Just moments later they heard the strident scream of a steam whistle. It was no ordinary blast, but continued in long bursts, as if the captain hung on the chain that operated it. They swung around to see a steamboat with funnels streaming black smoke making toward the levee at full speed. It was the Natchez packet, the
Mary Jane,
not due on her regular run until much later in the afternoon. Something had caused her to race downriver ahead of schedule.

“The captain wants the way cleared for a fast berth,” Caid O'Neill said with a considering frown.

“A problem on board,” Gavin answered while running his gaze over the passengers who crowded the steamer's rails and the crewmen who stood ready to run out the gangplank the instant the boat landed.

“Shall we?” The Conde gathered the others with a quick glance and tilt of his head toward the spot where the craft must land. “Ladies?”

The last was an indication that the women were expected to join them rather than remain behind unattended. Ariadne was just as pleased since she had no intention of hanging back.

By the time they reached the spot where the oncoming steamboat approached the levee, drays were being hitched up and hastily moved and barrels rolled out of the way. Men crowded close, reaching out toward the gangplank, ready to fasten it to the dock stanchions the instant it was run out. On board, the captain, white-faced, his hair blowing in the wind, called out to the shouting, rumbling crowd, gesticulating behind them toward the town.

“What's he saying?” Maurelle asked, frowning as she lifted a hand to her ear.

“A doctor,” Ariadne answered above the waterfall rush of the boat's paddle wheel, the continuing blast of the steam whistle and the rumble of the growing crowd. “He wants a doctor sent for at once.”

“It's cholera, I suppose. Or yellow fever. Perhaps we should back away a bit.”

“I don't believe that's the problem,” Caid O'Neill said, his voice grim.

Ariadne could only agree. They could see more now as the boat eased closer to the dock and was made fast. Behind the captain, where the passengers shifted out of the way, could be seen rows of people lying on makeshift pallets—shapeless bundles of humanity with skin exposed, raw and hideously eroded, as if boiled from the bone. The odor of cooked flesh drifted, swirling on the wind. Cries of pain could be heard as the boat bumped the levee.

“Mon Dieu,”
the Condessa de Lérida whispered, raising a hand to her mouth. “It must be…”

Her husband completed the thought for her. “A steamboat has exploded and these are the survivors. The
Mary Jane
must have picked them up on her downriver run.”

Not only the survivors. Beyond those who still lived was a long row of covered forms that were apparently rescued bodies of those killed in the accident.

The occurrence was not that unusual. Contracts to transport goods and passengers were awarded to the steamboats with the best speed records between ports of call. Personal competition between boat captains was high as well, with frequent races between rival boats. Corners were sometimes cut to gain speed, including tying down safety values to increase the pressure in the boilers and adding lard, bacon and other combustibles to their furnaces for increased heat. Sometimes the risks paid off. Sometimes they ended in tragedy.

The sword masters needed no explanation and waited for none. Moving as one, they took charge. One pair of them commandeered carriages and wagons and directed them into a line, ready to take the injured, while another pair began to gather grass sacks, canvas, sails, poles and planking from the dockside to construct makeshift litters. Gavin and Nicholas jumped to the Natchez steamer's gangplank before it was fully seated, moving among the rows of hurt and maimed. As one doctor arrived, and then another, the
maîtres d'armes
called out, indicating the moaning figures with the most pressing need of medical attention.