Gypsy Lady (38 page)

Jason
was pensive for some minutes after Blood Drinker departed through the open
window, but then he determinedly shook himself free of the melancholy mood that
threatened to overpower him and turned his thoughts to the plans he and his
grandfather had discussed this evening. He was looking forward to the coming
months, and hoped that the plantation would offer some relief from the thoughts
that racked him so often lately
,.
He
did
need
Beauvais more than it needed him; his grandfather had said it was so, and he
was wise enough to realize it himself. When he finally fell asleep, his mind,
for the first time since Catherine had disappeared was filled with enthusiasm
for' the coming day.

Beauvais
ran itself smoothly, as Jason discovered in the following months. The
crops—cane, a little Indigo, and rice—grew easily in the rich, dark soil and
ripened rapidly under the bright sun. His grandfather's competent overseer saw
that the slaves harvested and loaded the crops for the trip down the
Mississippi River to New Orleans, At New Orleans, the Beauvais business agent
saw to all of the necessary storing and selling as well as the accompanying
paperwork.

It
would appear at first glance that Jason would have little
to
do. But capricious
or
unconcerned masters make for capricious or slovenly servants, and so Jason
worked as hard and as unceasingly as his lowest slave. There were decisions to
be made concerning next year's planting, trips to New Orleans for the
selection of the finest seeds and grains, and a multitude of other problems to
be solved. Even Beauvais with its greased-wheels operations was not above such catastrophes
as a levee bursting and flooding a newly planted field or grain growing moldy
in the humid heat; and as with all thriving businesses, there were, sharks and
charlatans ready to move in and snatch what they could for themselves. And so
Jason's careful glance traveled over every detail, small or large, that
affected Beauvais in any way, from the buying of a new slave to the selling of
the harvest la New Orleans in the fall.

Armand
stayed in the background and watched with affection
_s
satisfaction,
and sometimes a faint prickle of uneasiness, his tall grandson's progress. It
was not good for the boy to drive himself so hard. Such hard-working diligence
could only be followed by an attack of revulsion from the harness
in
which he had placed himself. One does not take a newly broken
mule—Armand smiled to himself at: the comparison—and plow an entire field,
non
!
One
gradually accustoms the animal to it! So Armand gently suggested that Jason
travel up the Mississippi River to the Red River Valley and observe the
condition of Terre
da
Coeur, the lands his mother had
ceded to him on his twenty-first birthday.

Jason
agreed with alacrity, but not for the reasons Armand thought. In assuming that
his grandson would tire of
his
responsibilities, he did
Jason an injustice. Jason had changed, and he took his duties very seriously;
but Beauvais was his grandfather's, and even the knowledge that someday it
would be his couldn't change the fact that it was not his now, and that it was
already a working plantation.

Terre
du Coeur was a different story. There was a house nearly as grand as Beauvais
and several attendant outbuildings, but the land itself was wild and untamed—
acres and acres of grassland where cattle grazed, as well
ss
stands of pine trees, thickets of wild blackberries, and woods that provided
hiding places for game and fowl. When the lands had come to Jason years before,
fee had installed a
manager,
End washed his hands of
the matter. But now, the need was on Him to make for himself his own
Beauvais—and to create his own future.

The
hot summer months were a thing of the past by this time. As October approached,
Jefferson had not written, and Spain still outwardly owned the Louisiana
Territory.
It
worried Jason slightly that the United States had not yet ratified the
discreetly worded secret treaty. News took so long to travel from one place- to
another that it was possible that a letter from Jefferson was already on its
uncertain way to him. And for this reason alone, he debated the wisdom of
leaving Beauvais, bat then, he decided, if a message arrived, his grandfather
could pass it on. Before leaving, he did write to Jefferson explaining that he
would be at the northern plantation.

As it
was, his letter must have passed Jefferson's, for he had barely unpacked and
begun to organize at Terre du Coeur when a rider arrived from Beauvais with the
expected summons. Thoughtfully, he read Jefferson's large, untidy handwriting
and then ordered a thoroughly scandalized Pierre to pack up—they were headed
for New Orleans!

New
Orleans was humming with the news of Spain's cession of the Louisiana Territory
to France. Jubilant Creoles accosted one another on the streets with the
amazing news.

"Isn't
it
merveilleux
,
Alphonse? Now we are truly Frenchmen again!"

"It
is amazing, to be a French colony!
Vive la
France!"

Listening
idly to the buzz of speculation, Jason wondered what their reaction was going
to be when they discovered that the French rule was to be short—very short,
indeed!—and that soon France, who had solemnly agreed to return the colony to
Spain if she no longer wished to keep it, was to relinquish it to the United
States, very neatly selling it out from underneath its rightful owners. A grin
slashed across his face as he visualized the baffled fury of Spain and the
thunderstruck wonder of the Creole population when the brash Americans arrived
and took over.

Jason's
first act on reaching New Orleans had been to open the Beauvais townhouse. He
did not wish to live with his mother, and indeed, that coldly sophisticated
woman would have been horrified if he had suggested it. Antonia Beauvais Savage
preferred to ignore her marriage and her son. She had her own elegant house
and her own circle of friends; and she adamantly refused to speak of Guy or
Jason, much to the hidden amusement of the New Orleans Creole aristocrats.

Despite
his mother's attitude, Jason was welcomed back with open arms by everyone else.
The women were especially delighted to see his broad-shouldered, lean-hipped
figure moving about the town, and the men enjoyed his engaging and charming
company at the many places of masculine amusement that made New Orleans famous.

"Young Savage is a magnificent fellow, isn't he?" one
of the men remarked.
"So
droll and amusing, so proficient with the pistol or sword!"

Without
effort Jason slipped easily into New Orleans society once more. It was an
attractive, frivolous existence: arising late, strolling around to one of the
many coffee houses to join his friends; attending a horse race or a cockfight
in the afternoon; and then, after dinner, gambling, drinking, or seeing what
new delight madame had imported to her house. But Jason found himself
exceedingly bored by such activities and felt chained to New Orleans by
Jefferson's letter and his own knowledge of what the coming months would hold.
He would have preferred to be at Terre du Coeur.

Jason
took to remaining home many evenings, preferring his own company to an evening
spent out on the town. He was this evening wandering restlessly around the
library, not quite able to bring
himself
to choose a
book and settle down like an old man by the small fire, when his butler entered
and announced that a Senor Davalos wished to see him. On the point of ordering
Williams to tell Davalos to go to hell, he changed his mind. Why not? He might
discover answers to some questions—and fencing words with Bias was preferable
to wearing a path in the fine woolen rug of the book- lined room.

It
was nearly a year since they had met near his father's home in Virginia, but
Jason felt the familiar sweep of dislike as Davalos bowed formally and composed
himself
comfortably on the high-backed couch placed
before the fireplace. Jason offered him a brandy, and at Davalos's uncertain
look he said sarcastically, "It isn't poisoned. When I kill you, I'll do
it with my own two hands. I would not choose the coward's way of disposing of
you. You should know that!"

Davalos
flashed him a tight-lipped smile, his cold black eyes glittering with emotion.
"So, you begin again the argument,
si?"

"Why not?
Did you expect me to kiss
your cheeks affectionately?"

"No.
But I remember a time when we were
amigos.
A time when you would have been happy to see me,
amigo."
There was a softly accusing tone to the words, but Jason, his
green eyes veiled, murmured quietly, "Ah, yes. But that was before you
murdered one of our mutual friends."

"Diablo!
Will
you always bring up Nolan's death between us? He was a spy, I tell you! My
orders were to stop him. It was an accident that he was shot," Davalos cried
passionately.

Jason
was unmoved by the words. For a long, unnerving minute Jason stared coldly at
his uninvited guest before shrugging and saying indifferently, "So you
say. Is that why you came?
To protest your innocence once
more?"
Before Bias could answer, he added ruminatively, "It
makes little difference, you know. I, too, have my spies, and I know it was you
who incited Gayoso against Nolan and you who urged the sending of troops after
him. Would you care to tell me why?"

A
muscle twitched in Davalos's cheek. Guessing Jason would remain unconvinced no
matter what he put forth, he said resentfully, "I think you know."

A
black eyebrow lifted lazily. "You're not telling me it was because of
Fannie, are you? I know you were paying her a good deal of attention before
Phillip appeared in Natchez, but no one ever stood a chance with her once she
had laid eyes on him. And if you thought she would accept the man who killed
her first husband as her second, you greatly misunderstood the lady! She's much
more likely to slit your throat!"

"Dios!
You
think I would kill over a woman? Puf! They are less than nothing!"

Grimly
Jason demanded, "Then why?"

Suddenly,
a slight smile curved Davalos's thin lips, and crossing one leg casually over
the other, he said, "For the same reason you had such a highly secret
meeting with the banking firm in England."

Jason
stiffened and carefully put down his crystal goblet. "And what do you know
of
that,
mon
ami?"
he
asked softly.

Davalos
seemed to study the design of Jason's waistcoat a second before his eyes met
the narrowed stare of the man across from him. "Did you think I wouldn't
learn of it?" Davalos asked sarcastically. "Did you think that after
the only other man who knew its location was accidentally killed—and it was an
accident, believe me. Nolan was no good to me dead!—I would let you arrange
for an expedition to steal it from underneath my very nose?" Giving a
harsh bark of laughter he added, "Oh no,
ami go!
I am not stupid! But you, I think, were stupid
enough to try to borrow enough money to go after it. Didn't the conservative
bankers trust your map?"

His
face carefully blank, Jason asked, "My map?"

"Si!
You
have to have some way of finding your trail back. And you must have it—Nolan
did not!"

"And,
of course," Jason said conversationally,
"you
hired Horace to search my lodgings. Might I know
how soon you followed me to England?"

"What for?
It matters not! All that
is important is that I
did
follow you and that I know of your meeting with Hope and Baring. I have been
extremely curious of your movements since then. You disappeared so quickly from
England that I assumed the bankers were willing to invest the money. Believe
me," Davalos went on coolly, apparently unaware of the dangerous
stillness of Jason's form, "I was so certain you had slipped my net and
were already ort the way to New Orleans that I took the next ship to
Louisiana. You can imagine my confusion when I discovered you had not arrived.
You have led me a sad chase,
amigo.
I
have been searching for you all over,
Mexico,
and what
do I discover when I return empty-handed but that you are here in New Orleans,
obviously enjoying yourself."

"Where
else would I be? And why would I go to Mexico?" Jason replied carelessly,
slowly picking up his brandy glass.

Frowning,
Davalos watched the casual movement suspiciously, and as Jason continued to do
nothing, Davalos gave an angry laugh. "You do not fool me! I know what you
and Nolan discovered."

"And
what did we discover?" came the silky question.

Intensely
annoyed by the continued fencing, Davalos snarled, "Cibola, the seven
cities of gold!"

Rigid
control was the only thing that prevented Jason's jaw from dropping open in
stunned surprise. And then when the full impact hit him, he nearly burst out
laughing. Here he had been as nervous as a cat with kittens that Davalos was
on the point of somehow upsetting the entire treaty, only to discover that the
fool was chasing after some legendary nonsense! He sobered quickly enough,
realizing that the Spaniard actually believed in the story of the seven cities
of gold.

A
bitter taste in his mouth, Jason stared unblinkingly at the angry man across
from him. Davalos had murdered one of the two people who had been like another
half of his being, and the knowledge that it had been for greed nearly made him
tremble with the desire to slowly crush Davalos into nothingness. Hiding his
rage behind a taut, white smile, Jason said softly, "Leave, Davalos! Leave
now if you wish to live another minute!"

Bias
didn't think he had heard the words correctly. Then, looking into the
glittering green eyes, he
knew.
Without a word he rose swiftly and walked to the door. His hand on the crystal
doorknob he turned and bit out, "Always, it will not be thus! Someday,
amigo,
you will go after the gold, and I shall be not far
behind you. You cannot escape me forever, and be warned—you shall not cross
the Sabine River without my knowing it. Don't make Nolan's mistake!"

Jason
rose in one lithe, menacing movement, but Bias, his moment of bravura over, hastily
fled the room and as hastily hurried out the front door past the startled
Williams.

Thoughtfully,
Jason gave the library door a slight shove to close it. He was in control of
himself again, but, toward the end, if Bias hadn't ceased his threats and left,
he would have torn him from limb to limb.

So.
The knowledge he had
gained brought him little satisfaction. Tonight's conversation only confirmed
that the map mentioned must have been the same one Catherine had spoken of.

Finishing
off his brandy in one gulp, he poured another and prowled about the quiet room.
The seven cities of gold! Cibola! My God! He almost couldn't believe it. That
Bias could be so foolish and blinded by greed to believe there was such a place
and that he and Nolan had discovered it!

Jason
knew the old story well enough. Everyone did. The rumors about the cities with
their gold and turquoise had led the first conquistadors north from Mexico City
in search of it. In spite of the fact that in the middle 1500s, Coronado's
expedition had discovered the rumors to be untrue, stories and tales of
Cibola's unfound wealth persisted.

Biting
his bottom lip, he absently lifted a leather-bound volume from the shelf and
vacantly flicked the pages, his mind still stunned by Davalos's words.

The
cities could exist—it was possible. Didn't scholars and men of knowledge claim
there was a mountain of pure white salt hidden somewhere in the unexplored
regions of the Louisiana territory itself? Didn't they also state that there
was a tribe of white Indians who spoke Welsh? Jefferson, attempting to fire up
enthusiasm for the territory, had even said as much to the newspapers. And it
was true that there were miles and miles of Spanish territory where no white
man had ever walked. Who really knew what was out there? Maybe the cities did
exist.

Unconsciously,
his hand slid up his arm to touch the gold and emerald band hidden beneath his
velvet jacket. The band was one of two; the other Nolan had possessed. If Bias
had found Nolan's, it would only confirm his wild suspicions that they had
indeed discovered the legendary cities. Convincing Bias otherwise would be an
impossible
task,
a task Jason had no thought of
attempting.

A
grim smile curved his mouth—now he wouldn't bet on Davalos having a cat's
chance in hell of escaping him! Throwing his head back against the chair, he
pushed Davalos to the back of his mind and slowly drank another brandy, his
gaze riveted to the flickering yellow flames, his thoughts slipping
unrestrainedly from his control and drifting down dangerous paths. He appeared
fascinated by the fire, but it wasn't the flames that held his attention —it
was the memory of a pair of violet eyes and
a be
-
witchingly curved mouth that danced before his intent stare.