Louisiana History Collection - Part 1 (118 page)

The French anthem came to an end. O’Reilly, signaling for the general dancing to start, made his apologies. “You must excuse me from commencing the festivities, if you please,” he said, his voice carrying effortlessly to every corner of the large room as he gestured briefly toward one of his limbs. “My infirmity makes me an unlovely sight upon the floor. I would prefer to wait until I can become lost among the crowd. Pray do not stand on ceremony, but enjoy yourselves.”

It seemed to Félicité that as the governor-general finished speaking he looked with particular significance toward his officers. There was a stirring along the scarlet line, and one by one the men detached themselves and moved across the width that separated the two groups. The faces of a few mirrored eagerness, others embarrassed reluctance, while still others appeared grimly determined. None, however, hung back.

Tension was suddenly a palpable thing in the room. The musicians faltered into a minuet. Young French girls, with Spanish officers bowing before them, cast agonized glances at their mothers. A few of these matrons gave slow nods, and a number turned their backs, pulling their female offspring away to safety, though some had the presence of mind to claim a prior promise while commanding with imperious glances the instant attendance of older sons, nephews, or the sons of bosom friends. Slowly the floor filled, though the proportion of red uniforms was not large.

A man with a thin mustache and dancing black eyes came bearing down upon Félicité. He was, she thought, one of the soldiers who had stood in the street to serenade her. It was difficult to be certain, of course, since she had only had a brief glimpse of him through the louvers of the shutters.

There was no necessity to make her excuses or insult the man. Valcour took her hand and, holding it high over the wide width of her panniers, led her out onto the floor beneath the nose of the crestfallen officer.

They bowed and postured through the graceful minuet, with Félicité’s skirts sweeping the crude rubbed boards of the floor and their faces set in the prescribed expressions of polite boredom. From the corner of her eye as she pointed one satin slipper, Félicité caught the movement of a messenger between O’Reilly and the musicians. When the minuet came to an end, the string quartet, without pausing, began a stately pavane, the dance of the Spanish court.

A second pavane followed the first. Félicité and Valcour joined Monsieur Lafargue at the refreshment table, where a wine punch was being ladled out by a liveried servant.

“You and Valcour make a handsome couple, ma chère,” the older man said, saluting them with his glass. “Easily the most accomplished on the floor.”

“La, that is no great compliment,” Valcour said with an airy gesture, “when clumsy Spanish officers in their jackboots are the competition.” From the pocket of his coat he took a snuffbox shaped like a coffin, with a skull and crossbones enameled in black and silver on the lid. His movements precise, he flipped open the lid with one hand, took a small pinch, and lifted it to his nostrils. On a long, slow breath, he put the box away, took out his handkerchief, and only then gave a quiet sneeze into its snowy, perfumed, lace-edged folds.

It was at that moment a man Félicité recognized as Braud, the court printer of documents, spoke to her father in a low voice, drawing him off to one side. After a moment, Monsieur Lafargue turned to beckon to Valcour. A feeling of disquiet assailed Félicité. It was well known that Braud was involved in the activities of the revolution. It had been he who had printed the broadsides handed out on street corners and the placards that had gone up everywhere stating the aims of the rebels. He had also inked the documents entitled Decree of the Council, circulated the year before in October of 1768, and the Memorial of the Inhabitants of Louisiana on the Event of October 1768, both of which had put forth the grievances of the population and the means the conspirators meant to use to redress them. If Braud wished to speak to her father, it must be concerning the business of the conspiracy.

“Mademoiselle, we meet again.”

Félicité whirled to face Lieutenant Colonel Morgan McCormack. She had not seen his approach in her concern for what was happening with her father, and she was caught off guard. That he realized her dilemma and knew she had until now sought to avoid contact with the Spanish officers was obvious from the mockery that glinted in the depths of his green eyes. Under the circumstances, there was no point in being gracious.

“Not,” Félicité said plainly, “by my design.”

“It seemed best not to wait on that event.” He inclined his head.

“I am happy you understand that much.” His hair was powdered for this formal evening, the queue covered by the usual black satin bag. Félicité surprised herself by entertaining the thought that he was better without that stark white contrast to his bronzed, almost swarthy coloring.

“Regardless, our acquaintance must be pursued, Mademoiselle Lafargue.”

“I don’t remember giving you my name.”

“An oversight, I’m sure, one I made it my business to correct.”

“Why so?” Félicité spread the fan that dangled from a silken cord at her wrist, using it to cool her heated cheeks.

“For the purpose of furthering our acquaintance.”

He was not going to allow her to ignore the opening he sought to create. “There can be no point. We are of two different nationalities. Moreover, you serve a master I cannot like!”

“My master is now yours also, something you would do well to remember.” His voice was quiet with an undertone of steel. Reaching out with a smooth, controlled gesture, he twitched the lace handkerchief, the white cockade of Bourbon France, from the low bodice of her gown. It fluttered from his fingers to the floor, and he bent swiftly to retrieve it, presenting the bit of white lace. “Your handkerchief, mademoiselle. I believe you dropped it.”

It happened so quickly it was unbelievable. No one else seemed to have noticed. If it were not for the hard impudence that gleamed in Morgan McCormack’s eyes, she might almost have thought it an accident, that he had brushed against her, dislodging the cockade. It would not be wise to create a scene, but the effort it cost her to accept the handkerchief, to speak a few frigid words of gratitude, was a drain on her composure.

“Where was I?” he went on. “Yes, I was speaking of my reasons for seeking you out. My commanding officer, the representative of Spain in Louisiana, has decreed that there will be pleasant social interchange between his men and the community. It is my duty to carry out his orders.”

“That is certainly complimentary, colonel!” Félicité snapped her fan shut, and with fingers that trembled with the anger that gripped her, tucked the handkerchief into the elbow-length sleeve of her gown.

“Is it my compliments you want? I was sure you would disdain them, but it is not always possible to judge these matters.” His grave words were shaded with irony.

“You deliberately mistake my meaning. That being so, you will not be surprised if I hold myself excused from this conversation.” With a proud tilt to her head, Félicité swept around, preparing to depart.

He put out a hand to catch her arm. “I think not, Mademoiselle Lafargue.”

There was something in his voice and in the emerald glitter of his eyes that held her. His touch, the warm firmness of his grasp with its hint of much greater strength than he cared to exert, was oddly disturbing. Her tone as cold as she could make it, she said, “I am not accustomed to being manhandled, Colonel McCormack.”

“Nor am I accustomed to having ladies turn their backs while I am requesting the honor of their presence on the floor.”

“Is that what you were doing? Your technique could use improvement.” She looked pointedly at his strong brown fingers still closed around her forearm, but he did not release her.

“I doubt my technique has any bearing on your answer. Perhaps you would be more reasonable if an inquiry was to be opened into the incident of the chamber pot?”

His expression did not waver as she stared at him. There could be no doubt that he had the power to do exactly as he said. “You — you would do that, simply because I am unwilling to dance with you?”

“I am vindictive by nature, it seems. Lamentable, but true.”

“I don’t believe you.” The words were defiant, as was the look in her eyes, but her tone was not as strong as she would have liked.

“Shall we put it to the test? Or will you swallow your spleen and admit that taking the floor with me is preferable to a day in the stocks?”

The prospect of being forced to stand bent over at the waist with her neck and arms clamped rigidly between the wooden boards and her face and posterior unprotected targets for the mud and filth flung by every street urchin was not something Félicité could contemplate with equanimity. The stocks in the Place d’Armes were temptingly close to the levee markets, and missiles of rotted fruit and fish entrails were too often the lot of the unfortunates sentenced to them. There was every likelihood that she could find herself in that position. It would probably be considered a light punishment for the crime she was supposed to have committed.

A bitter smile curved Félicité’s lips. “Is this an example of the magnanimity of the Spanish crown O’Reilly promised—to grant reprieves, then snatch them away when it suits the purpose of those in power?”

“Magnanimity is for those who earn it, those who accept their fate without waiting to have it forced upon them,” he answered, a shadow of grimness on his features.

His words were ominous, but there was no time to consider their import. His grip was slowly tightening. The feeling had left her fingers, and she was being drawn irresistibly toward the dance floor. “Why me, Colonel McCormack?” she demanded, trying to pull back. “There are other, more compliant ladies in the room.”

He sent her a quick, encompassing glance from under thick, rust-tipped lashes. “None who look as you do, none whom it would give me so much pleasure to annoy with my attentions.”

The compliment, if it was one, was oblique, and yet she had caught the glint of admiration in his eyes. “At least you realize their effect!”

He inclined his head without answering, indicating an open space in the shifting, posturing dancers with a gesture of one hand. She had the clear choice of defying him, of jerking free, and causing a stir that might well fan the tensions of the gathering to a fever pitch, even bring on an official investigation of the chamber-pot affair that could embroil Valcour and her father; or she could capitulate, appearing to support her part in the dance with willingness, if not pleasure. It was only as she made her decision, lifting her chin and moving easily beside the officer into the pavane, that she glanced to where Valcour and her father stood. Her brother was staring at her with stunned disbelief on his face and the dawning of fury in his eyes.

It was some few minutes before Félicité could collect her composure. The movements of the dance separated them, then brought them back together. She glanced at the set face of the man leading her through the figures. As they came closer, their shoulders touching as they met beneath their raised hands, she could not resist a soft gibe.

“You are a ruthless man, colonel, but I suppose that is no more than is to be expected of a mercenary.”

“You say the word as if you find the profession distasteful,” he answered in a direct challenge.

“Fighting the battles of others for pay instead of personal conviction, regardless of who is right or wrong? That doesn’t sound like something to be proud of.”

“And yet it is an honorable road to advancement.”

“That is your purpose then, advancement? And under a foreign king? That appears to make you in some sense an adventurer.” Félicité sent him a look of limpid inquiry from under her lashes as she delivered this additional insult.

“Is that supposed to be worse?” A muscle tightened in his jaw, but there was no other sign he was aware of her intent.

She pretended to consider. “Why, I don’t know. I suppose it depends on your motive.”

“Would poverty and virtual enslavement help my desperate case?”

Did he dare to laugh at her low opinion of him? It was difficult to be certain as they were parted once more. “Louisiana has been plagued by more than her share of men who come to make their fortunes and get out rather than staying and building their lives here.”

He lifted a brow at her serious tone. “They have until now been French adventurers, of course — doubtless a more noble breed?”

“Their manners were better, certainly,” she said with vinegary sweetness, and dropped a brief curtsy as the pavane came to an end.

“Wait,” Lieutenant Colonel McCormack said as she started to turn away. “There will be another dance in this set.”

“If I remain on the floor with you overlong, colonel, you might find yourself leg-shackled to me.” The asperity of her reply was caused as much by resentment of the easy command in his tone as from reluctance to do as he bid. It was true, however, that in ordinary times two dances in succession could be tantamount to the announcement of an engagement between a couple.

“That would be social interchange with a vengeance, would it not?” he answered, a smile curving his firmly chiseled lips. “Though I don’t doubt O’Reilly would be pleased at the establishment of such friendly relations.”

“I would not have thought that would be an object with him,” Félicité said tartly.