Tears of Gold (47 page)

“Actually I’m Irish, but cream will be fine,” Mara explained as she accepted her cup of tea.

“And she happens to be very proud of that heritage, and pity the poor fool who makes light of it in her presence,” Nicholas added with an almost affectionate look in his eyes as they met Mara’s.

Françoise noted the intimate exchange of glances as she watched Nicholas and the Irishwoman and wondered just how good a friend this Mara O’Flynn was to him. “And how did you know where to find me, Nicholas?” she demanded curiously.

Nicholas shrugged. “I thought if you were not living permanently in Paris, then you would most likely be living along here somewhere, so I asked of you from the woman selling flowers on the corner.”

Françoise sighed in exasperation. “That old woman knows everything that goes on around here. I cannot go out without her—” Françoise was saying when she was interrupted by a small child who came running unannounced into the room, her dark braids flying out behind her as she jumped across the carpet and came to a breathless stop before Françoise.

“Mama! Mama!” she cried as she backed up a step. “
Regardez-moi!
” she commanded as she executed a perfect pirouette.

Nicholas’s clapping hands disturbed the silence and for the first time the little girl became aware of her audience and blushed a bright pink that rivaled the pink satin of her dancing skirt.

“
Très bien, ma petite danseuse
,” Nicholas complimented the little girl. She couldn’t have been more than five years old.

“Chérie, how many times have I told you it isn’t ladylike to charge into a room like a wild Indian?” Françoise scolded gently as she smoothed back a stray curl from the miniature ballet dancer’s forehead. “Now say hello properly to your cousin Nicholas and Miss O’Flynn,” Françoise instructed her.

“
Bonjour, monsieur, mademoiselle
,” she said softly, her dark blue eyes hidden beneath lowered lids as she hunched her narrow shoulders.

Françoise smiled, her blue green eyes glowing with pride as she looked into Nicholas’s face and said, “My daughter, Gabriella, who is just back from her dancing lessons and must demonstrate her newest step for her mama. Now,
ma chatte
, run along and change,” Françoise told her.

“Au revoir,” she said politely as she curtsied, then ran from the room in a flurry of pink petticoats. “She is a charming little girl,” Nicholas said as he watched her disappear. “She reminds me of you at that age, Françoise.”

Françoise smiled. “And you were always teasing me, and Gabriella has two brothers who see to it that she is reduced to tears whenever they are around,” Françoise said disapprovingly.

“I would like to meet them,” Nicholas told her, gesturing away the plate of cakes she offered him.

“It is a shame. I would have liked that,” Françoise began with a regretful look, “but they are studying in France and will not return until the spring. But perhaps you will still be here then?”

At Nicholas’s slight frown Françoise continued, afraid that he would think her too inquisitive. “Jean-Pierre, my eldest, is very musical and has already composed several pieces of music. But Henri, he is the wild one, much like his papa. He shows much brilliance with words, also like his papa,” she laughed. Then, catching the politely quizzical look in Nicholas’s eye, she answered his unasked question. “They are de St. Jaubert’s.”

“Armand de St. Jaubert is their father?” Nicholas asked, a smile of pleased recognition at the name.

“Oui, and I have been Armand’s
placée
for almost fifteen years now,” Françoise spoke quietly and with great dignity.

The truth dawned slowly on Mara. Françoise’s was saying that she was this Armand’s mistress. Mara cleared her throat uncomfortably, drawing Françoise’s attention to her. “This is really a private conversation and I know you would prefer to be alone with Nicholas,” Mara began as she started to rise. “After all, it has been many years and you must have much to discuss. I’ll step into the garden.”

“Please, it is not necessary,” Françoise argued, then added with the same cynical look Mara had often seen on Nicholas’s handsome face, “unless of course you find this conversation embarrassing and would prefer not to sit in my presence?”

Mara opened her mouth to hotly deny such an accusation, knowing full well that she herself was in no position to make judgments on Françoise Ferrare, but before she could speak Nicholas spoke for her.

“I’m sure Mara thought nothing of the sort, Françoise,” Nicholas explained in her defense.

“I merely desired to give you a chance to be alone,” Mara said as she began to retreat behind a wall of cold reserve.

Françoise smiled, realizing she had misjudged the Irishwoman. “Please, forgive me, but you are not a Creole and do not understand the system we have here in New Orleans. It is a time-honored one, and one which works quite well for us. I live quite openly as the mistress of Armand de St. Jaubert. He supports me and our children, and will continue to, throughout our lives. He will always provide for his sons and daughter, even though they are a second family for him. You see, he has children by his legal wife. It is really most civilized,” Françoise said with a slight laugh. “But I do not expect the Americans or British to understand.”

Mara bit her lip. “Oh, but I do understand.” Seeing the doubtful look on Françoise’s beautiful face, Mara made a quick decision and defiantly uttered the truth she and Brendan had always kept to themselves. Now she wished to shock, especially Nicholas, and so she said bluntly, “I am the product of such a union myself. The difference is that when my father grew bored with my mother, he abandoned us, leaving my aged mother, my brother, and myself to fend for ourselves. So you see, I find your system has certain advantages. Of course, it all depends upon the manner of man one chooses, doesn’t it? My mother chose a rich, titled Irishman, but I think she would have done better by a farmer or perhaps a fisherman. I have found it far wiser not to depend upon anyone—just myself,” Mara finished as she stared challengingly into Nicholas’s eyes. If she had expected to see disgust written across his face, she was disappointed. Instead, she encountered a gentle expression that confused her.

Françoise shook her head and smiled sadly. “But, mademoiselle, that is not always possible. One cannot explain the ways of love. Why should one be attracted to a certain person? But me, I have been fortunate, for I have found the man I love.”

“My mother thought the same,” Mara said, unable to hide the furious resentment she still felt after all those years.

Françoise smiled pityingly as she gazed at the defiant young Irishwoman whose wounds hadn’t healed. Suddenly, she felt so much wiser than this child. Mara seemed so young to her now, with her attempt to appear indifferent to that which she didn’t understand. “One always takes a chance when one gives with the heart, mademoiselle. It is not always a wise move, nor one that ends happily. But it is a chance one must take sometimes if one is to know love.”

“And are you happy, Françoise?” Nicholas inquired.

“And why shouldn’t I be? I have lived in great happiness with Armand, and I have two fine sons being educated in Paris and a small daughter who will grow into a beautiful woman one day,” Françoise spoke proudly. “I may only be the placée, but Armand loves me, and that is more than can be said by his wife. It was a
mariage de convenance
, and so there has never been any love between them. In fact, they dislike the very sight of one another. She is always traveling to Europe on one of the ships he owns, and so is seldom here to make demands upon him. She would do so just to annoy him,” Françoise said with a shrug. “More tea, Mademoiselle O’Flynn? It’s still hot. But what I want to know,
mon cousin
, is just what you are doing here in New Orleans?” she demanded with an arch look as she poured Mara a fresh cup. “Oh, your papa, of course,” she sighed.

Nicholas frowned at her tone. “You know of the letter?”

“
La lettre?
Non, I know nothing of this,” Françoise said thoughtfully, “although I suppose they could have written to you about his death through your sister.”

Françoise glanced up to see a shocked expression spreading across Nicholas’s face and she gasped in dismay, her hand pressed against her mouth. “Oh, Nicholas, I am so sorry, but your papa,
il est mort
.”

“When did he die?” Nicholas asked quietly.

“Ah, let me see, it is so hard to remember exactly,” Françoise said reflectively as her slender fingers tapped the table. “Why…it was over a year ago. It was in the autumn and I remember thinking that it was a time for dying, so somber and bleak a season it was.”

“How did he die? Did he suffer any?” Nicholas asked gently, finding it hard to believe that his father was dead. He remembered the vigorous lust for living that had made Philippe de Montaigne-Chantale one of the most admired Creoles in Louisiana.

Françoise avoided Nicholas’s steady gaze as she answered his query with a strange hesitancy. “It was a tragedy, one of those senseless accidents. He fell from the levee and into the river. He drowned, Nicholas. It was too late. When they found him, he’d been carried downstream from Beaumarais. A fisherman caught sight of his body along the river bank.”

“My God,” Nicholas breathed.

Mara watched him in silence, aching to reach out and comfort him. She had seen Nicholas livid with rage, laughing in boyish amusement, sarcastic and cruel, and sensual with desire, but never before had she seen that vulnerable and hurt expression.

“I don’t understand,” Nicholas said with a disbelieving frown. “He was a strong swimmer. Many times I’ve seen him climb from the river after a long, tiring swim. He was a powerful man and knew every inch of that levee. He wouldn’t fall in.”

Françoise shook her head sadly. “Nicholas, he was not the same man you remember. He had changed greatly in the years that you were gone. I think he still grieved deeply for the loss of his sons. It preyed upon his mind. It destroyed him, Nicholas. He was a broken old man the last time I saw him, just before his death. In fact, I remember thinking that this could not possibly be the once-great master of Beaumarais. He seemed troubled, but he kept whatever it was to himself. He was only in town that one day I think. The next thing I heard was that he was dead.”

Nicholas ran a hand through his dark curls as he tried to assimilate this new picture of his father, his old memories fighting the painful truth. “He wrote to me. He had forgiven me, Françoise, and said he knew what had really happened when my brother was killed,” Nicholas spoke in a hard voice as he looked up at his cousin, his eyes a shiny green. “He said he knew the truth at last. The letter must have been written just before he died. He knew who murdered François and he was going to tell me. I wonder…” Nicholas mused softly, leaving the rest of his words unspoken. The implication was horrifyingly clear to both Françoise and Mara.

“Oh, Nicholas, non!” Françoise cried. “His death was an accident. It must have been. You cannot believe that someone would…Oh, non. This I cannot believe,” she whispered, shaking her head in complete rejection of such an idea.

“It remains indisputable, Françoise,” Nicholas continued, “that my brother is dead. And now my father. Both under questionable circumstances, but this time I was not here to take the blame.”

Mara felt a shiver of dread spread through her as she recognized his tone of voice, knowing he was in a black rage.

“I should have realized something was wrong when I went to our old townhouse only to find it practically boarded up. But I suppose the family is still in mourning for him.”

Françoise busied herself with fixing a fresh cup of tea before saying delicately, “I’m afraid that the townhouse has been closed for longer than that. In fact, it has been unused by the family for many years.”

“And why is that, Françoise?” Nicholas asked, not allowing her to sidestep his questioning.

Françoise sighed. “It has not been so good a time for many Creole families, Nicholas. Your father, he was a proud man, and he would never have had it known that he was no longer the wealthy man he had once been,” she told him bluntly.

Nicholas stared at Françoise’s pitying expression in growing dismay. “What are you trying to tell me? That the de Montaigne-Chantales are beggars?”

“Non! Never that, Nicholas. Please, you misunderstand me,” Françoise explained desperately, not wishing to offend him, but knowing he would not like to hear what she had to say. “Not long after you left New Orleans there were several bad years for the sugar cane. Prices dropped drastically when the government reduced the tariff on imported sugar, and so there was not so much money anymore. As a result, many of the banks had to close their doors. Many large planters lost their plantations and their whole fortunes.”

“Beaumarais?” Nicholas asked quietly.

“It is still there, and still belongs to your family,” Françoise reassured him, “but things were never the same after that. The lost fortunes could not be completely recovered. Times change and now it is the Americans who have all the money in New Orleans.”

“I’ve already seen some of the more obvious changes around town,” Nicholas remarked as he remembered the new buildings uptown.

“Yes, there have been changes, Nicholas, not only in the way we live, but in the way we think as well. I’m afraid we have become very old-fashioned in our beliefs, and now it is the Americans who are so outrageous in their behavior. It is hard for the old ones to accept the changes they see in their New Orleans. You remember René Cabrole, who owned Carrefour near the Bayou Teche?” Françoise demanded.

“Yes, I visited there often as a boy. It was one of the most magnificent plantation houses I’ve ever seen. Why?” Nicholas asked.

“Because René Cabrole lost it all when the prices fell. He could not bear to lose Carrefour so he took his own life and now his family is living very quietly in an unassuming little house on Frenchman Street. All the beautiful furniture and silver, family portraits, and prized possessions are crowded together in a few rooms. And that has happened to many families, Nicholas,” Françoise ended, her smile bitter.