Tears of Gold (44 page)

“You’re right, of course,” Nicholas agreed easily, masking his irritation, “for it will be a relief for once to have no jealousies and sad partings when the time comes. But I insist upon paying your fare from New Orleans. After all, it is due to me that you find yourself in this predicament. I won’t take no for an answer,” he added as Mara started to speak.

Mara shrugged, giving in to him on this at least. Indeed, it was his fault that she found herself in this position. He was the one who’d had the vendetta against her. She hadn’t asked to fall in love with him. In fact, her life had been perfect until he’d stormed into it, she lied to herself. It was the least he could do for her, she decided as she graciously accepted his offer, making Nicholas feel as though he’d been granted an honor of some kind.

The next couple of months passed all too swiftly for Mara as she found their more intimate relationship more satisfying than she had ever dreamed of. She grew even more alluring as she matured with love. Nicholas was a demanding lover who could be fiercely passionate, bringing her to the heights of sexual awareness, and possessively tender, catering to her every need. Mara came to envy the woman who would one day be given his heart. But for now, Mara savored each day she spent with Nicholas, her golden eyes glowing with love. She refused to think of the day they would dock in New Orleans.

By the time that day came, they had entered a new year, major repairs on the ship having kept them anchored in Rio de Janeiro for almost two months. Mara hadn’t resented the continued delays, for they had prolonged the sweet agony of having Nicholas as her lover, a part of her life she would always remember and cherish, but one that would come to an end. Mara stood on deck now, watching as their ship docked along the crowded miles of levee. The docks bustled with activity as ocean-going ships, keelboats, and flatboats from upriver docked to unload one cargo and load another. The double stacks of the steamboats, their triple decks decorated with fancy, carved scrollwork and painted a gleaming white, stood tall above the buildings of the city. Their paddle wheels rested quietly in the still water. Bales of cotton were piled high along the levee, while heavy drays, low carts pulled by mules, were piled high with goods before setting off at a reckless pace through the city. Pedestrians and fellow dockworkers, curses trembling in the air, jumped for safety out of their way.

Their ship docked at the landing on Canal Street and while the crew and dockworkers fell headlong into the business of unloading the ship, Nicholas hired a carriage and made arrangements to have their luggage picked up later.

Jamie and Paddy were settled in the open barouche. Although the air was cold with the nip of winter in it, there was a brave sun shining down from a bright sky of vivid blue. Wrapped in their warm coats, they would find the drive through the city in the open carriage far more enjoyable than sitting in the stuffiness of a closed one.

Nicholas handed Mara inside. Then, turning to the black driver awaiting instructions, he asked casually as he lit his cheroot, “Which hotel do you recommend?”

“Well, reckon that depends on how much a gent’s willing to pay, sir,” he answered seriously as he rubbed his chin and eyed Nicholas with professional scrutiny, thoughtfully taking his measure and not missing the casual elegance of the man nor the natural arrogance that almost always denoted a wealthy, aristocratic background. He also didn’t miss the beautiful woman sitting inside the coach, and there was nothing cheap about her, he thought as he recognized not only the quality in the small amber velvet cap she wore and the matching velvet jacket with its gilt buttons, but also the way she held her head, showing a definite air of breeding. Yes sir, here was a lady of quality, he decided with approval.

“The price is unimportant as long as I get quality,” Nicholas told the man carelessly.

“Well,
in that case
,” the coachman grinned as he thought of the large tip he would most likely be receiving, “either the St. Charles or the St. Louis in French Town. Both are mighty fine hotels, yes, sir, although the St. Charles is fancier and uptown. See the white dome in the distance? That’s her. Can see for miles across the city and river from up there—or so they say. Got fourteen columns running across the front. The St. Louis only got six,” he informed them, the fact obviously impressing him.

“I assume when you speak of
French Town
,” Nicholas asked softly, “that you are referring to the Vieux Carré?”

The coachman’s eyes opened wide with surprise. “Yes, monsieur, that’s what some folk call it,” he explained. There was a new note of respect in his voice, for the man must be a Creole—he had to be, the way he’d pronounced his French. And they were the true gentry of New Orleans, not like these rough Americans who ordered a fellow around without any idea of proper manners and didn’t tip much either.

“The St. Louis then, and tell the man over here to send our luggage there,” Nicholas instructed as he climbed up into the barouche beside Mara, his hard thigh touching hers on the leather seat. “Would you care for the rug across your lap?” he inquired politely, but Mara shook her head and placed it across Paddy’s and Jamie’s knees. Paddy had sneezed twice. He couldn’t find his own handkerchief and Mara handed him hers. As he loudly blew his nose she watched him with a worried look, afraid that he was coming down with another of those foul colds that would no doubt last for weeks.

As they drove along the crowded thoroughfare, Nicholas looked around him curiously. “It would seem as though a few things have changed since I’ve been away,” he commented. On one side of the avenue he recognized the narrow streets and pale yellow, green, and peach stuccoed houses of the Vieux Carré. On the far side of Canal Street toward the Faubourg Sainte Marie, however, were large ornate mansions set within lush grounds, their gardens full of tropical plants and colorfully blossoming shrubs.

“This place has certainly grown since I last saw it,” Nicholas remarked, loudly enough for the coachman to overhear. Not wishing to appear lax in his job, nor being above enjoying a bit of conversation, the driver replied, “Yes, sir, there’s a lot of money in the Garden District. Real big homes in there. Want to drive through?” he questioned, carefully hiding his eagerness to increase his fare.

“Why not?” Nicholas acquiesced. He glanced at Mara who nodded in agreement as she looked around.

They drove along the wide, tree-lined streets where grand mansions with imitation towers, rococo gingerbread trim, and stained-glass windows were partially concealed behind grounds as large as a city block, full of live-oak, magnolia, and palm trees. The carefully laid out gardens were full of roses, camellias, and jasmine.

Where once there had only been swampy ground, now stood a small town of theaters, hotels, churches, and private residences.

“This is Lafayette Square,” the coachman told them, “and that’s the city hall facing the square.”

“You don’t even recognize it, do you?” Mara spoke suddenly as she watched the surprise and disappointment reflected on Nicholas’s face. They continued into the Vieux Carré in silence. Mara caught the sounds of the names, Bourbon, Chartres, Dumaine, and Royal, as they traveled up and down the streets bordered by quaint houses with ornate iron grillwork decorating their balconies.

Mara heard Nicholas’s gasp as they emerged on a beautiful square where an old cathedral with three spires rose with stately dignity into the blue sky. In the middle of the flower gardens and walks stood an equestrian statue. The square was flanked by twin brick buildings with lacy ironwork.

“What a lovely square,” Mara remarked with pleasure as they traveled past. She was reminded of some of the small parks dotting London.

“The Place d’Armes. I don’t know why I should be surprised that it too has changed a great deal since I last strolled through,” Nicholas said, a sadly reminiscent look on his hard face.

“’Fraid not, sir,” the coachman corrected Nicholas respectfully. “It’s called Jackson Square, now. Statue of the old general himself right there.”

“Seems I was indeed wise in hiring a guide,” Nicholas added wryly. “I never thought to be a stranger in the city of my birth. There used to be a double avenue of sycamores along there. At least they didn’t tear down the St. Louis Cathedral, or the Calbildo and Presbytère,” Nicholas commented as he gestured to the buildings adjacent the cathedral.

“It was the Baroness who did all of this. Just finished it too,” the coachman informed them. “The Baroness de Pontalba, that was her name. And my, my, but she was something to watch, yes, sir,” the coachman chuckled. “Riding her horse through town every day to oversee the rebuilding of the square, that red hair of hers catching fire in the sunlight.”

“And why did she rebuild the square?” Nicholas inquired curiously.

“Well,” the coachman paused a moment as he carefully considered the gentleman’s question, “reckon ’cause the place was near to ruins. Most folks had moved and all the businesses had gone on up to Canal St. where they could do some real selling for a change. Yes, sir, the place was deserted, excepting maybe for a few rats. Then the Baroness comes along and changes all that, and now, as you can see, the square is a real fine place once again.”

“And where is the Baroness?” Mara asked as she looked around, hoping she might see this extraordinary woman.

“Gone back to France, ma’am. The St. Louis Hotel, sir?” the coachman asked after they had left the square.

Nicholas nodded, his eyes partially concealed by his thick lashes, his thoughts unreadable as he stared at this city in which he was now a stranger.

The St. Louis Hotel was, as the coachman had said, one of the finest in the city. Nicholas stayed with them only long enough to sign the register, not noticing the discreet lifting of the clerk’s eyebrows as he read the guest’s name, his smile obsequious as he assured Monsieur de Montaigne-Chantale that the rooms he had reserved were the very best in the hotel. The lady would be most comfortable.

Nicholas grasped Mara’s elbow as she would have followed the bellboy to their rooms. “I have to see some people, I’ll be back later, Mara.”

“You needn’t hurry on my account,” Mara told him carelessly.

“Later,” Nicholas repeated as he turned and walked through the lobby of the hotel, disappearing into the street. Mara watched forlornly, wondering if he would indeed return.

Nicholas stood on the street a moment, then hired a carriage and returned to the heart of the Vieux Carré, not noticing his surroundings this time. His thoughts centered on his next meeting.

The driver stopped before the house Nicholas had indicated, accepting his fare with a curious look. “Want me to wait, sir? Don’t look as though there be a soul around. No, sir, there sure don’t.”

Nicholas looked up at the quiet front of the house, the drapes drawn across the windows. Shaking his head, he signaled to the driver to go on. Nicholas stared at the pale peach stucco of the house and the ornate, wrought-iron grillwork that ran along the gallery and balcony above the street. He walked up wide steps to the entrance and, knocking on the white paneled door, received no answer. He had suspected he would not. He walked along the gallery to the side of the house and, without hesitating, opened the wrought-iron gate that led through an arched stone passage beneath the lower part of the house.

Nicholas stood in the center of the courtyard as he glanced around at the silent fountain and patio paved in brick, weeds now growing up between the moldings. Had it been summer, the double doors would have been standing open to catch the cooling breeze along the two levels of gallery that ran around three sides of the courtyard. The low building in back that housed the slaves was quiet. Several oleanders were still in bright bloom while a large tree with waxy green leaves would flower with creamy magnolia blossoms in the spring. Nicholas looked around sadly at the faded splendor of the once beautiful courtyard. Walking across to the double doors of the dining room, he tried the latch, knowing it would give if turned a certain way. The large mahogany dining table where his family had once dined en masse was now covered with a dust sheet, while the sideboards were thickly coated in a layer of dust.

Nicholas stepped from the dining room into the long entrance hall where faint light filtered in from the fan-shaped window above the door. On his right were three great square rooms. He entered the double parlor and gazed at the rosewood sofa with its pale green brocade cushions, the fireplace and marble mantel, the occasional tables and delicate chairs. The crystal chandeliers and gilt-framed mirrors reflected the neglected atmosphere. Across the hall was the long ballroom where the late-night soirees and masquerade balls had been held. Very formal affairs they had been, with an orchestra hired for the occasion.

But it was painfully obvious to Nicholas that there had been no balls in this house in a long time. No laughing, flirting couples had danced past here, he thought as he swiped at a cobweb dangling from a mirror frame.

He made his way back into the hallway and stared up at the curved staircase with its handrailing of smooth, dark mahogany, hearing the voices of his past.

“Betcha can’t ride all the way down to the floor without falling off,” François challenged him, his ten-year-old’s voice full of contemptible goading.

“My pony and new fishing pole says I can,” Nicholas heard his own eight-year-old’s voice challenging his brother, and he smiled slightly as he remembered that hair-raising ride down the slick banister that he’d negotiated successfully. He remembered looking up daringly at François, waiting for him to descend in a like manner. But François had landed off balance at the foot of the stairs, breaking his arm.

And then there had been the Sunday mornings when they were invariably late dressing for church and had been hurried down the stairs by a scolding maid.

“If yer mama could hear you now, Master Nicholas, why, whut would she say? And whut you got stuffed in that pocket, Master François? Mercy!” Nicholas could still hear her shriek of horror. “And whut were you goin’ to do with that frog? Lordie, but all hell would’ve broke loose in the congregation o’er that.”