Merline Lovelace (9 page)

“My son says her husband could trace his roots back to Louis the Fourteenth of France.”

Imperceptibly, Daniel relaxed his tense muscles. The general didn’t appear to be interested in what Louise might know, but in who she was.

“Is it true?” Wilkinson asked curiously.

“I don’t know. We met up with an English trapper
who knew Chartier. Robert McFarlane. He’s the one who spun out that tale. And…”

“And?”

Daniel shrugged. “Chartier spoke of ‘that upstart Napoleon’ with contempt, as though the man who’d crowned himself emperor was far beneath him.”

“Hmm.”

Rubbing a finger along the side of his nose, the general thought for a moment. “My son also writes that she cared for him most tenderly in his illness. I would like to meet with her and express my thanks.”

“She’s lodging with a business associate of her husband, Bernard Thibodeaux.”

“I know Thibodeaux. I shall invite him and his wife for dinner tomorrow night, along with his guest.”

The idea of Louise sitting down to dinner with this schemer raised a damp sweat on Daniel’s palms.

“No, it can’t be tomorrow night,” the general said with a frown. “I’m dining with Governor Claiborne and the bishop of Orleans parish. It will have to be next week. I’d intended to give a ball to celebrate Fat Tuesday. Such a ridiculous name for a festival, is it not? But one must humor these Catholics.”

Since the comment obviously required no response, Daniel sat silent.

“Due to my wife’s death, I’ve curtailed the Fat Tuesday festivities to just dinner. I’ll instruct my aide to send an invitation to Madame Chartier and the Thibodeaux family. He has two daughters, I believe.
Quite pretty girls, as I remember. At one time, I thought about one of them for my son. But now—”

He caught himself. It wasn’t appropriate for a major general to discuss intimate family matters with a mere rifle sergeant, Daniel knew.

“You must come to dinner as well, Morgan. My staff and guests will be most interested in hearing a firsthand account of your adventures.”

Daniel was trying to find some way to decline for both himself and Louise when the general stood and signaled the interview was at an end.

“Next week, then. Dress uniform.”

Hell! The quartermaster didn’t issue dress uniforms and Daniel’s was in the clothespress back in St. Louis. He’d have to borrow one from another sergeant. He’d also have to give Louise some understanding of the quagmire they’d both have to pick their way through.

The mere thought of seeing her again quickened his pulse. Saluting, he performed a sharp about-face and left the general’s office.

He was only going to warn her, he told himself as he closed the door behind him. To advise her to tread carefully when dealing with the general. But despite the stern admonition, he couldn’t keep his blood from racing.

When the door thudded shut behind Morgan, Wilkinson walked slowly back to his desk.

He was a man of unlimited talents and supreme confidence, who’d survived many setbacks in his ca
reer. Hadn’t he disproved accusations of the scurrilous subordinate who’d all but charged him with treason during the Ohio Valley campaign? Hadn’t he weathered the enmity of Secretary of War Knox, who’d labeled his promotion to major general a disgrace to the military reputation of the country?

He would survive this business with Burr, too.

Oh, he’d heard the rumors that blew through the city with every breeze off the river. How could he not? The citizens of New Orleans, who’d welcomed him as their savior a few short weeks ago, now chafed openly against the restrictions he’d imposed on them. They retaliated by gossiping over their disgustingly bitter coffee and sugar-dusted beignets. They also speculated openly about the military governor’s various business ventures with Daniel Clark, rumored to be in league with Burr.

So openly that Wilkinson had been forced to write Clark’s partner, Daniel Coxe. In it he assured the man that he’d betrayed Burr to President Jefferson only because Burr had already betrayed himself. The former vice president’s railings against the Federalist government in Washington had roused suspicion enough. His blatant attempts to enlist others in the capital to their cause had opened the floodgates. The trickle of rumors had become a torrent that looked to drag Burr and all who consorted with him under. Wilkinson had seen no choice but to cover his part in the scheme by turning on his friend and coconspirator.

True, he’d used somewhat incautious language in
his letter to Coxe, branding Jefferson a fool and Governor Claiborne a contemptible fabricator. Unfortunately, he’d also made reference to some very private business dealings with the Spanish and the French. He’d never imagined Coxe would pass the letter to Vice President Madison, who professed himself astonished by General Wilkinson’s duplicity. Now Jefferson was breathing fire and threatening to call his senior general to Richmond to stand trial alongside Burr.

Jefferson could threaten and bluster all he wished. He held no evidence against anyone but Burr, and that evidence had been supplied by Wilkinson himself.

Yes, he’d survive this swiftly unraveling conspiracy. And perhaps, just perhaps, concoct a new scheme in the process, one centered around the wife of a French trapper who’d fallen into his lap, like a ripe apple from a tree. The niece of a great chief, his son had written. An Osage princess of sorts. Widow of a man who could trace his line back to the Sun King of France.

His mind still imbued with the grandiose dreams he’d shared with Burr until just a few months ago, the general dipped a sharpened quill in the inkstand and began to scratch out an urgent letter to the Spanish governor in Florida.

“R
ifle Sergeant Morgan! How good to see you again.” Helene Thibodeaux welcomed her unexpected visitor with a gracious smile and twinkling black eyes. “You look very changed in your uniform.”

And very, very handsome!

Helene had married Bernard Thibodeaux right out of the convent school and dutifully produced two daughters in three years. She’d grown to love her husband dearly, but even a plump-cheeked matron wed for close to two decades could feel a flutter around her heart at the sight of a tall, broad-shouldered sergeant with smoky gray eyes and skin tanned to the hue of old oak.

“I’m surprised you allowed me in your house when I brought Louise—Madame Chartier—to you,” he answered with a grin. “We both looked like savages.”

“Neither of you much look like a savage now,”
Helene returned complacently. “I suspect you’ll be quite surprised when you see Louise.”

“I suspect I will. Is she at home?”

“No, she’s out visiting the shops with my daughters.”

“When will she return? I need to speak with her on a matter of some urgency.”

“I’m sure they’ll return shortly. You’re welcome to wait and take a dish of tea with me. Or coffee, perhaps?”

“Coffee would go down well, thank you.”

She led the way to the sitting room and tugged on the bellpull. A stately manservant came up the stairs.

“Oui, madame?”

Rattling off an order in French, she sent the man back down the stairs. Daniel hooked his sword to one side and lowered himself into a chair covered in rose damask.

“I’d like to thank you for your kindness to Madame Chartier,” he said. “She had a rough time of it, losing her husband the way she did.”

Helene nodded. She’d met Henri Chartier only once, many years ago, when he’d come to New Orleans to work arrangements with Bernard to sell his furs. She’d thought him a rude sort of man, and the artless confidences Louise had let drop in the short time since she’d arrived hadn’t changed Helene’s opinion one whit. Fifteen thousand gold louis were all very well and good, but every time she tried to imagine one of her daughters lying under Henri Chartier she could barely repress a shudder.

What a shame Sergeant Morgan already had a wife. It hadn’t taken Helene long to discover the place this man held in Louise’s heart. Although the young widow claimed Morgan had merely served as her escort, Helene was too old and too wise to miss the signs of a young girl in love. After all, she had two daughters.

Feeling a maternal responsibility for her houseguest, Helene decided it behooved her to drop a gentle warning in the sergeant’s ear. “Louise will be quite sought after when word leaks out about her inheritance.”

Morgan’s eyes lost a little of their warmth. “Yes, I imagine she will.”

“With her fortune, her youth and her beauty, I don’t doubt she’ll have every bachelor in New Orleans at her feet.”

He took the hint. His eyes met Helene’s and he acknowledged the truth of her statement with a brief nod.

Oh, dear! Pity settled in Helene’s chest. Morgan ached for Chartier’s widow as much as she ached for him. Pray God her daughters never longed for a man they could not have!

A cheerful babble of voices on the stairs spared her from further comment. Sinking back in her chair, she watched as Rifle Sergeant Morgan caught his first glimpse of Madame du Clare’s creation.

His jaw didn’t drop as it had when Bernard announced the amount of Louise’s inheritance, but his glance certainly did. In one stunned sweep, he took
in the lustrous black curls, the poke bonnet lined with straw-colored silk, the moss-green caped pelisse and red-heeled shoes.

“Daniel!”

Joy suffused Louise’s face as she crossed the room, hands outstretched. “I am so glad you have come. I have such things to tell you. Such things to
show
you. But look at these stockings! Are they not beyond all things foolish?”

Lifting her skirts, she wagged her foot to show him the embroidered clocks decorating her ankle.

“They are to catch a gentleman’s eye, Bertrice says. But they remind me of the watch you give my uncle as a bride price. I ask Bertrice and Marie to go with me to the shops so I may buy you a new watch.”

Digging into the tasseled reticule dangling from her wrist, she pulled out a small velvet pouch. “It is gold, like the one your wife gives you.”

Louise was too busy pressing the pouch into his hand to catch the gray, wintery look in his eyes, but Helene didn’t miss it. The artless reminder of his wife had struck a raw nerve with the sergeant.

Biting back a sigh, she pushed out of her chair. “Come, girls, let’s go to your room so you can remove your coats. Rifle Sergeant Morgan has come to speak with Louise on matters that don’t concern you.”

“Open it,” Louise begged as the girls departed. Untying the ribbons of her bonnet, she tossed the hat on the chair Helene had just vacated and knelt at
Daniel’s knee. Impatience and eagerness filled her face.

Slowly, he parted the strings. The timepiece slid into his palm. It was finer than the watch Elizabeth had given him. Far finer. The familiar ache started just below his ribs.

“It cost fifty louis,” Louise told him, laughter in her eyes. “My uncle would be greatly surprised to know I am worth that.”

He closed his fingers around the watch. “You shouldn’t have spent so much.”

“The feathers on that so-silly hat cost almost as much. Oh, Daniel, never would I have imagined such a city as this.”

“Tell me.”

“It is a place of constant noise! Wagons clatter over the cobbles before the sun rises. There are dogcarts filled with the leavings from chamber pots. Flat-sided drays. Carriages with high perches and every sort of vehicle.”

Shaking her head, she sank back on her heels. “And the people. There are so many! Bernard says more than eight thousand people live in the French Quarter and the back city. They crowd these raised walkways Madame Thibodeaux calls banquettes. Men in coats with long tails like swallows. Girls draped in fringed shawls. Street sellers singing every kind of ware. Voodoo women chanting charms. Some women carry this—this so strange object. A parasol, Helene says it is. To shield the sun from one’s face.”

Her merry laughter rippled through the room. “Me, I think it very odd that the women of this city must shield their faces from the sun, yet wear thin robes that all but bare their breasts. But look at this gown!”

Fumbling with the buttons of the pelisse, she peeled it back. Head cocked, she surveyed the swell of creamy flesh she’d just exposed.

“Henri, I think, would like these fashions.”

“I don’t have a doubt about it,” Daniel said, more brusquely than he’d intended. Those mounds of ripe flesh had hit him like the kick of a mule.

She looked up at him, startled. He damned himself for a fool and begged her to take a seat.

“I spoke with Lieutenant Wilkinson’s father this morning. He wishes to meet you.”

“Me? Why?”

“Because of the service you rendered his son.”

“I do little, but if the general wishes to meet with me, I will gladly do so.”

“Have a care what you say to him, Louise.”

“Why?” she asked again.

He hesitated. “Has anyone spoken to you about the Burr conspiracy since we arrived in New Orleans?”

“Pah! It is all I hear. Even Bertrice and Marie, they speak of nothing else.”

In truth, Louise had heard the name of Aaron Burr on the lips of everyone from slaves to shopkeepers. Some branded him a traitor. Others hailed him as a savior, particularly those who chafed at the restric
tions the Americans had imposed on their city. They spoke with real regret of his impending trial, and speculated wildly about why General Wilkinson had supplied the evidence against him.

It was this general, the father of the lieutenant Louise had traveled so many miles with, who now wanted to meet with her. She might find the ways of the people of New Orleans strange and confusing, but she was no fool. She would not walk into a wolf’s lair unarmed. Neither would she meet with the general unprepared.

“Tell me why I must have a care what I say to him.”

His brow creasing, Daniel tried to explain the tangled web surrounding General Wilkinson and the man he’d betrayed.

Nine days later, the Thibodeaux carriage rolled down the long tunnel of gnarled oak trees that led to the plantation where General Wilkinson had taken up residence. February had given way to a cool, blustery March. A breeze rustled through the still-bare tree branches and caused the carriage lamps mounted beside the driver to flicker and sputter.

Louise sat between Bertrice and Marie, taking care not to crush their skirts or the shimmering crimson folds of her own. Bernard and Helene squeezed their comfortable girths together on the forward-facing seat.

“This curfew has put such a damper on the traditional celebrations before Lent,” Bertrice grumbled
to Louise. “Usually we have such parties! You can’t imagine.”

“The Quapaw, too, have ceremonies where they feast and sing and dance.”

“Not like they do on Fat Tuesday, I’d wager!”

“What is this, ‘Fat Tuesday’?”

While the merchant and his wife tried to explain this confusing feast tied to another called Easter, their younger daughter craned around to peer through the carriage’s rear opening.

“There must be at least five or six carriages ahead of ours,” she reported.

“Obviously the general doesn’t hold to his own curfew,” her sister said with a touch of dryness.

“Belle Terre is lit up with dozens of flambeaux. And the soldiers! They’re wearing such splendid uniforms. Wait until you see them.”

“We’ll see them soon enough,” her mother scolded. “Do turn around, Bertrice. You’re treading on Louise’s slippers.”

Louise hardly felt the pain. The long, pointed tip to her shoes had already pinched her toes so much that they were numb.

If her feet were dead to all feeling, the rest of her was not. Anticipation shivered through her veins. She would see Daniel tonight.

He’d called at Doumaine Street twice since coming to warn her to have a care how she spoke to the general, but each time she’d been out. The invitation to Belle Terre had led to a flurry of visits to Madame du Clare’s shop. In preparation for the fete, Bertrice
had insisted on roasting Louise’s hair on hot tongs. A gold ribbon caught it atop her head in a cluster of curls. A length of the same ribbon circled her neck above the bodice of her gown.

And such a gown it was! The ruby silk shimmered as she walked. So thin, Louise wore petticoats to keep the dress from molding to her legs. So low at the neck, she dared not draw a full breath for fear her breasts would spill out. Tightly tied garters held up stockings spun as fine as a spiderweb. Gloves of the softest leather covered her hands, and a fringed shawl protected her from the evening’s chill.

She could not wait for Daniel to see her in such fine feathers.

When they entered the great lodge where the general had taken up quarters, his aide took their names and announced them to the assembled crowd. Several heads turned, including that of an officer in blue and buff. Threading his way through the crowd, he bowed before her.

“Madame Chartier?” His round, owlish eyes looked her up and down in admiration. “By George, I wouldn’t have recognized you!”

Louise hardly recognized him, either. The last time she’d seen him, he was gray-faced and shaking and lying in a pool of his own sweat. His skin still wore a sickly cast, but she had to admit he looked almost handsome in a uniform coat with a stiff-necked gold collar.

“My father told me he’d invited you here tonight.
You and Sergeant Morgan. But I couldn’t imagine—That is, I didn’t think—” He broke off, his cheeks flushing.

She took pity on his obvious astonishment and gave him a merry smile. “Me, I could not imagine this, either. When do you arrive in New Orleans?”

“Two days ago.”

“I am glad to see you well. Do you know my friends, Monsieur and Madame Thibodeaux and their daughters?”

“Yes, of course.”

While the lieutenant exchanged greetings with the Thibodeaux family, Louise searched the room. It was a great hall, as large as any Osage council house, and filled to overflowing with officers in brilliant uniforms and women in silks of every color. A few of the male guests wore high-collared frock coats in shades of black and gray and brown. Louise guessed they were men of business, like Bernard Thibodeaux.

Her nose twitching at the unfamiliar scents of fine wax candles, heavy French perfumes and the heat of many bodies pressed close together, she skimmed her gaze over the milling crowd. Nowhere did she see the broad shoulders of the man she sought. Frowning, she tapped a slippered toe and waited until the lieutenant had finished his brief conversation with the Thibodeauxs.

“I do not find Daniel.”

“Sergeant Morgan? He’s here somewhere. I spoke with him only a few moments ago.” He tucked her gloved hand in the crook of his arm. “If Monsieur
and Madame and their delightful daughters will accompany us, I have orders to bring Madame Chartier straightaway to my father. The general is most anxious to meet her.”

He led them toward a group standing at the far end of the hall. Even from a distance Louise could see the general was a great chief. So much gold lace and braid spilled from his uniform he could have blinded a hawk in flight. The circle around him opened when Louise and the lieutenant approached. She felt many curious eyes on her as she extended her gloved hand in the way Madame Thibodeaux had taught her.

The general grasped her fingers lightly in his, bowed and dropped a kiss on the back of her glove. He greeted the merchant and his family with similar graciousness before returning his attention to Louise.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Madame Chartier. My son informs me you provided invaluable assistance to him and his men in the last week of their expedition.”

“They assist me, as well, after Henri dies.”

“Ah, yes. Your husband. Tell me about him.”

Confused by the command, she tipped him an inquiring look. “What am I to tell? He traps the rivers for many years and dies when the cougar rips out his throat.”