Gypsy Lady (53 page)

Jason
raised his eyebrow quizzically, and spurred by the glimmer of interest in Jason's
green eyes, Guy continued, "The French and Spanish are intolerant of the
Americans, and considering how some of the latest arrivals lord it over the
city and look with scorn and contempt upon the Creoles, it's not unreasonable
of them to do so."

Guy
risked a glance at Jason, and almost indifferently Jason prompted,
"So?"

"Well,
you know how it is! Claiborne has had some sticky moments trying to bring
together both elements of the city. I can give you, if you like, two examples
of the luck he
's
had
lately."

Jason
grunted an assent, and making light of it, Guy said, "Claiborne attended a
ball recently, and as usual the French guests began to dance a quadrille. Some
of the Americans made a few snide remarks about it and a few requested, less
than politely, that an American dance be done. No one was particularly
offended, but there were quite a number of nasty glances exchanged. That might
have been the end of it, except that an American surgeon angrily demanded that
the musicians play another selection—an American selection. Naturally the
Creoles were incensed. Claiborne stepped in hastily and calmed things down. But
later, another American insisted peremptorily that they do away with the French
dances and all the ladies, being French, naturally refused to dance and en
masse swept out of the ballroom. It was very embarrassing for the governor, I
can tell you!"

"I
can imagine. But what did you expect? After all, New Orleans has been French at
heart from the beginning. You can't expect them to take lightly to American
ways," Jason retorted.

Guy
ignored the interruption and went on, "That was only one incident. To make
matters worse, when General Wilkinson attended another gathering shortly after
that and when his staff began to sing 'Hail Columbia' the French were highly
affronted, and one began to sing 'La Marseillaise.' Tempers got out of hand,
and the fracas ended with each group trying to out shout the other."

Looking
at his son levelly, Guy said, "It is amusing in some respects, but you can
see why Claiborne needs someone like you—accepted by both sides and in a position
to smooth over and help avert such contretemps. Claiborne is trying very hard,
but it's not easy for him. The Creoles refuse to learn English, and
it's
chaos now in the courts because they're American. The
French don't understand the Americans, the Americans don't understand the
French, and when you throw in a Spaniard it adds to the confusion. It'll be
years before just the language barrier is resolved, let alone the
customs." Reflectively Guy added, "I didn't realize how very different
we must appear to
them—or they
to us!"

"We?"
Jason questioned sarcastically.

"Well,
Americans at any rate. Fortunately, having been in and out of the area for
years, I'm accustomed to New Orleans and wouldn't change it for the world. But
some of the Americans can't understand the love of gambling, for instance, that
predominates, and the way bets are placed on the waterfront and along the
streets." Guy shook his head, smiling slightly. "The New Orleans
people enjoy life, their liquor, their food, and their music, but the Americans
look only to their businesses and are too busy making money to relax and enjoy
the easygoing life of the Creoles. The Creoles can't understand that type of
attitude, and to them, it's all very perplexing."

Rising
to fix himself another drink, Jason remarked, "All you say is true, but my
return isn't going to solve anything."

"I
know that!" Guy returned waspishly, becoming angry with Jason's
indifference. "But your presence would help. You know these people, you
know how hot-tempered they are—you are yourself, so you
should
know! There are many ways you would be of use to
Claiborne in helping him not to blunder in dealing with the Creoles—and you
did
promise Jefferson!"

Frowning,
Jason stood staring into his drink. "True," he finally admitted.
"I
suppose, considering
Catherine
's
condition and the news you
bring, the sooner we return to New Orleans the better. She won't be able to
travel in a few months, and it would be best if we arrived and settled in
before—" he hesitated and finished lamely— "well before."

Both
men turned to look at Catherine, who was sitting silently on a green damask
couch. There was an unspoken question in the air, and Catherine said woodenly,
"It makes little difference to me when we go. But then," she added
bitterly, "my wishes have never been particularly important to Jason's
scheme of things."

Jason's
hand tightened on the glass, and his green eyes were snapping with anger as he
snarled, "Well, that settles it then! As my wife's wishes are unimportant
to me, I see no reason to discuss it with her. Come father, we can continue
this conversation privately!"

Guy
had no choice but to follow his son from the room, but he did take time to
squeeze Catherine's hand reassuringly and throw her a commiserating look. She
sat there a few minutes after they had left and then numbly made her way to her
bedroom. But the numbness left her almost immediately, and appalled at her own
silly thrust at Jason, she was trembling with reaction as she prepared for bed.
How could she have been so stupid and rude to say such a thing in front of Guy?
Especially after he had so painstakingly made the evening bearable, why did she
have to let her unruly tongue spoil things? Damn, damn, damn!
she
thought viciously, at first angry with herself but then
furious with Jason. Why the hell should she
be
careful
of what she said—he certainly wasn't!

Guy
intimated as much to Jason as they strolled outside in the direction of the
stables. "You know," he commented quietly, "you shouldn't be too
upset. After all, you were pretty brutal to her this afternoon."

Tautly,
Jason retorted, "We'll leave my wife out of this, if you don't mind!
Considering the state of your own marriage, I really don't think you should
attempt to give me advice about mine!"

Guy
smothered an angry answer and asked instead, "Were you serious about
returning to New Orleans?"

"Yes.
And not because of those little bits of tittle-tattle you dropped in front of
Catherine! You were only laying groundwork for something else. Now tell me—
what is the
real
reason behind your visit,
and why does Claiborne really want me back?"

The
night was quiet except for the low hum of the evening insects and the strangely
soothing croak of the frogs, and Jason's words were clear in the night air. The
two men stopped near one of the wooden-rail fences, and Jason, resting one foot
on a bottom rail, laid his arm on the top and faced his father. Guy, leaning
back against the fence, his hands in his pockets, his head bent, openly
admitted, "I didn't want to say a great deal in front of Catherine, but
there
is
a more, serious reason
that Claiborne needs you. The marquis de Casa Calvo is still in New
Orleans!"

"The Spanish representative?"
Jason asked surprised. "I thought Spain and France both were to leave once
the Americans arrived."

"They
were," Guy replied. "But Calvo seems to have discovered an undying
love for Louisiana, and he can't bring himself to depart. Nor, I might add,
have any of the French troops or their officers left either. As you know, they
were to leave within three months after the exchange, and now within a short
while of being a year, they still remain!"

Jason
whistled softly to himself. "No wonder Claiborne is nervous. I knew they
were overstaying the time limit because they were still there when I left—but
there was talk that it was only a short delay."

A
snort from his father made him smile. "A short delay, ha!" Guy
snapped. "You're isolated up here, and you haven't kept abreast of things.
Calvo keeps smiling and dropping little poison barbs that don't help the
Spanish-American relations. And to make matters worse, Claiborne is constantly
receiving less than encouraging reports that the Spanish forces are amassing
and making mysterious marches to God knows where or for what reason. Beside
which, the French are very openly admitting that as soon as Napoleon trounces
the English in Europe, he'll march right into the Place d'Armes in New
Orleans!"

"And?"
Jason prompted, knowing
what was coming.

"Well,
you're related to a lot of the French and, equally important, to several
Spanish families. You can move freely among them without arousing
suspicion."

A
grim smile on his lips, Jason murmured, "I'm to spy on my relatives?"

Guy
looked pained. "Don't be so vulgar! You won't be spying precisely—just
keeping a watchful eye on events. Of course, if you hear of anything—"

"I'm
to run like a lap dog to Claiborne," Jason finished sarcastically.

"Are
you trying to be difficult, or are you doing it naturally?" Guy asked,
exasperated.

"But naturally,
mon pere!"

Responding
to the thread of laughter in Jason's voice, Guy smiled slightly and asked,
"Are you going to do it?"

Jason
shrugged.
"Probably.
Someone has to. And I don't
want to see Louisiana torn up like a bone between starving dogs."

A
companionable silence fell between the two men as they stood quietly in the
darkness, their white shirts a pale blur in the night. Presently, Jason lit one
of the long cigarillos made of fine Virginia tobacco that his father offered
him, and the fragrant smoke floated in the air while the glowing tips were
small dots of red in the blackness.

Finally,
Guy remarked, "Well, I'm for bed. It's been a long several days for me.
I'm getting too old to come running off into the wilderness like this."

"Why
did you come?
Besides the New Orleans situation."

Moodily,
Guy replied, "Roxbury!" as if that said it all, and to Jason it did.
Considering the letter he had received from his esteemed uncle, he could very
well imagine the one Guy would have received.

Damn
Roxbury, Jason thought, why couldn't he leave well enough alone? Yet, it made
him smile to think of the malicious glee the duke must have felt as he penned
those letters. Ah, well, Roxbury was Roxbury, and if he occasionally played God
with a spiteful touch, who was to blame him.

Together,
the two men made their way back
indoors,
parting at
the head of the stairs, and with lagging steps Jason approached his own room.
Stripping off his clothes, he put on the green silk robe. He hesitated a moment
before the twin doors that led to Catherine's room; but then remembering how
they had parted, his mouth twisted, and he went instead to his own lonely bed.

Catherine,
lying awake and dry-eyed, heard his movements, and if she needed any further
proof of his callous, coldblooded use of her, those retreating steps gave her
the answer. Unable to sleep, she slipped from the linen sheets. Like a pale
ghost in her green filmy nightdress, she wandered out onto the veranda.
Leaning her head against the wooden support, she stared out over the dark
expanse of lawn, her eyes lingering on the blacker, soaring shapes of the
encroaching pine trees.

Her
emotions were mixed as she stood there. She wasn't exactly happy about the
second child, but neither was she unhappy. She wasn't even angry at Jason any
longer. He had never hidden his reasons for marrying her, and if she had read
more into his actions than was warranted—the more fool, she!

Disillusioned,
perhaps, best described how she felt. She had been so full of hope these last
days, and now like a fragile, crystal goblet smashed against
stone,
all her dreams lay shattered about her feet.

A
shuddering sigh shook her slender body, and grimly she decided that one thing
was for sure—this would be her
last
child
by Jason. If he wanted more sons, he could father little bastards, but no more
would come from her body.

She
couldn't run away again, and deep inside she didn't want to. But within the
narrow confines, she had to live. From now on, she would make a life of her
own, and in time, involved with Nicholas and the unborn child, she could soothe
the ache in the region of her heart.