When Strangers Marry (17 page)

“Elias?” Lysette questioned, glancing back and seeing the tense set of the boy’s thin frame. He was staring, not at her, but at the house, his eyes wide and nostrils flared.

“You want to go there, madame?” he asked softly.

“Yes, just for a minute or two,” she said, urging her horse a few steps. “
Allons
.”

The young boy did not move. “We can’t, madame. There’s ghosts in there.”

“I will not ask you to go in with me,” Lysette said soothingly. “Just wait outside until I return,
d’accord
?”

But as she met his eyes, she saw that he was deeply upset. A suspicious brightness had sprung in his eyes, betraying the fact that he was torn between his fear of going near the house and his reluctance to displease her. He remained silent, looking from her to the ominous structure before them.

“Elias, stay right here. I will be back very soon.”

“But madame—”

“Nothing will happen to me. I’ll only be a few minutes.”

Lysette went to the dilapidated house and tethered her horse to the cankered wooden railing of the tiny porch. Absently she untied the ribbon streamers of her glazed straw hat and set it on a swaybacked step. The house was braced a foot or two from the ground in deference to the nearby bayou’s occasional wont to flood its banks. Gingerly she set her foot on one of the steps, wondering if it would hold her weight. It creaked loudly but did not break. Cautiously Lysette went to the door, which hung askew, its edges covered with slime. An air of gloom and oppression hung around the place. It was as if the crime that had occurred there had become a part of each board and beam.

She tried to imagine what the house had been like a decade earlier, when Corinne Vallerand had slipped inside for her clandestine meetings with Etienne Sagesse. How could Corinne have betrayed Maximillien in a place so close to the home they shared? It was almost as if she had wanted to be discovered.

Pushing the door to the side, Lysette crept into
the house, ducking under a mass of cobwebs. It seemed like a tomb. The room was dank and foul-smelling, its walls shaded with moss. Inches of dust and yellowish matter caked the tiny-paned windows, blocking out most of the sunlight. Spiders scuttled into the corners and cracks of the walls, fleeing from her intrusion.

Driven by curiosity, Lysette picked her way through rubble to the back room. As she looked around, the hairs on her arms stood on end. Although nothing tangible set this room apart from the other, she knew somehow that this was where Corinne had been murdered. A feeling of devastation gripped her, and she froze where she stood.

She heard footsteps, the sounds of someone kicking aside a shard of broken pottery. Her heart leapt in her throat and she turned swiftly.

“Elias?”

“No.” It was her husband, coming to the doorway of the small room, his gaze riveted on her.

Max’s features seemed to be carved in granite, but his gaze was haunted. He did not ask why she was there. He seemed to find it difficult to speak, his throat working violently. His face was pale, and she saw the remnants of horror in his eyes as memories broke from the dark corners of his mind.

Making her way to him, Lysette lifted a gentle hand to his face. Her compassionate touch seemed to unlock the barricaded words. Max licked his dry lips before speaking in a rusty voice. “I found Corinne over there, in that corner, on the floor. I knew at once what had happened…the color of
her skin…the bruises on her neck. Strangling is a lot of work, I’ve heard. It takes a great deal of anger, or hatred, to kill someone that way.”

Lysette stood very close to him, stroking his chest with the flats of her hands. “I know that you didn’t do it,” she said quietly.

“I could have, though,” Max whispered. “I wanted to. Corinne did and said unimaginable things…. She made me feel poisoned. It wasn’t hard to hate her. I don’t know what I would have become, had I lived with her any longer.”

“Why was she like that?” Lysette asked softly.

“I don’t know.” His eyes were those of a drowning man. “I think there was something wrong with her, inside. There were rumors of madness in her family, but the Quérands always denied it.” His gaze arrowed to the rubble-filled corner. “When I realized that Corinne was dead, I was stunned. Sorry for her. But at the same time, part of me felt…relieved. The thought that I was rid of her, that she was gone for good…” Max stopped, his face flushing, his jaw shaking. “I was so damned glad she was dead,” he said in a raw whisper. “Feeling that way made me just as guilty as her murderer, don’t you think?”

Overwhelmed with sympathy, Lysette hugged herself against his rigid body. “No, that is nonsense. Is that one of the burdens you’ve carried for so long? Feelings are not the same as actions. You didn’t harm her. You have no reason to feel guilty.” Although Max did not respond to her touch, Lysette pressed her head to his chest. “How did you know
that I was here?” she asked against his pounding heart.

Max strove to steady his voice. “My meeting in town was canceled, as Claiborne had more pressing business elsewhere. When I returned to the plantation a few minutes ago, I saw Elias, riding home as fast as that sorry mule could take him. He told me where you were.”

“I’m sorry,” she said sincerely. “I didn’t mean to distress him. Or you. I was just curious.”

“Of course you were. I knew it was only a matter of time before you found this place. I’m going to have it torn down, if I have to do it with my own hands.”

Lysette glanced around the room, suddenly anxious to leave the ramshackle house and the ugly memories it held for her husband. “Max, take me home. Please.”

Max didn’t seem even to have heard her. “Come,” she urged, beginning to step away from him. Suddenly he startled her by seizing her, burying his face in her hair, pulling her close until her toes left the ground. A shudder wracked his body. “Why aren’t you afraid of me?” he asked raggedly. “You
have
to have doubts…. I’m still a stranger to you. You can’t be certain that I’m innocent. Sometimes I don’t even believe—”

“Hush, not another word,” she whispered, turning her mouth to his. “I know you. I know exactly what kind of man you are.”

Max let her kiss him for just a moment, then pulled back, clearly not wanting to share an intimate
moment with her in this place. “Let’s leave,” he muttered, taking her arm.

Seeing how troubled and quiet Max was for the rest of the day, Lysette regretted her visit to the overseer’s house. She would never have intentionally caused him such distress. Although Max kept to himself, working in the library for the rest of the afternoon, his dark mood seemed to have infiltrated the rest of the house, the atmosphere becoming quiet and uneasy. However, no one mentioned a word to Lysette…until Bernard cornered her after dinner. They happened to pass in the hallway, as Bernard headed to the small guest house where he resided. Glancing from left to right to make certain they would not be overheard, Bernard spoke to her in a cutting voice.

“I’ll say this once, Lysette, not only for your sake but for Max’s. Rid yourself of this curiosity you have about Corinne. It is dangerous, do you understand? Leave the past alone—or it will come back to ruin you.”

She was too astonished to reply.

After staring at her with dark eyes that for the first time held an expression of dislike, Bernard strode away.

“A
nother letter to your mother?” Max inquired, coming to the tiny satinwood table where Lysette sat.

“I can’t find the right words,” Lysette grumbled, indicating several crumpled sheets of parchment.

Max smiled as he noted that her personal writing table and matching clawfoot chair had been mysteriously moved from her bedchamber to his. It was yet another sign of the feminine invasion that seemed to be taking place.

Wryly he supposed he should be grateful for the considerable size of his room. Despite their agreement to keep separate bedrooms, Lysette had moved more and more of her possessions into his territory. Every day he discovered new articles strewn over his dresser and bedside table. There were bottles of scent and boxes of powder, fans and
gloves and flowered hair ornaments, pins and combs, stockings, garters, and laces.

When Max retired in the evenings, he found Lysette in his bed, contrary to the Creole custom that a wife should remain in her own bed and allow the husband the choice of visiting her. He didn’t dare say a word to her about it, however. Not only did he want to avoid hurting her feelings, but in a strange way, he liked the situation.

After years of isolation and loneliness, he found himself enjoying the companionship that Lysette offered him, and the attention she lavished on him. He would have expected the sudden lack of privacy to be difficult, but it did not annoy him. And there were distinct benefits to having Lysette so close at hand. He had an unlimited view of her bathing, tending her hair, dressing…and undressing. He enjoyed watching the rituals of a wife’s toilette, the sight of Lysette trying on earrings, braiding her hair, unrolling her stockings, applying perfume behind her ears.

Returning his attention to the matter at hand, Max braced his arms on either side of her and leaned over the table, reading the unfinished letter.

“Neither Maman nor Jacqueline answered the first letters that I wrote,” Lysette told him. “Perhaps Gaspard won’t let Maman write to me. Perhaps he won’t even allow her to
receive
anything from me…but I did expect some sort of a reply from Jacqueline!”

Max brushed his lips over the top of her head. “Give them time. It has been merely a month since
the wedding. And you did marry one of the more notable scoundrels of New Orleans.”

“You’re too modest,
mon mari
. As a scoundrel, you have no peer.”

He grinned and tilted her chair back in revenge, causing her to gasp with surprised laughter. She clutched at his arms. “Max!”

“Relax, sweet…I wouldn’t let you fall.”

“Max, behave yourself!”

Slowly the chair was raised to its original position, and she jumped to her feet with a wary smile.

Holding her gaze, Max advanced to the desk and crumpled her letter in one hand.

Lysette’s mouth fell open. “Why did you do that?”

“Because I didn’t like it,” he said without remorse. “I won’t have you begging and pleading for their favor.”

She glared at him wrathfully. “I’ll write whatever I wish to my mother.”

Max scowled back at her, and then looked away, taking a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” he finally said. “I didn’t mean to be arrogant. But I don’t want anyone to hurt your feelings. Especially your own family.”

Lysette’s anger faded. “Max,” she said in a softer tone, “you can’t protect me from everything.”

“I can try, though.”

She laughed and shook her head. “I suppose this is what I deserve for marrying a Creole.”

“Do you plan to begin another letter this very moment?” he asked.

“Probably not.
Pourquoi
?”

“Because I would enjoy it if you would accompany me to town. An important visitor arrived this morning, and I expect to hear some interesting speechmaking at the Place D’Armes.”

“Oh, I would enjoy leaving the plantation,” Lysette exclaimed. “I haven’t set foot off it even once since I first came here. But it will be another week before I can properly be seen in public, and I don’t wish to start all of New Orleans gossiping—”

“We’ll stay in the carriage,” Max interrupted, amused by her excitement. “We would have to in any case—it will be too crowded for us to move about freely. Cannon fire, parades, music. All to celebrate the arrival of one Aaron Burr.”

“Who is he? Oh, yes, that man you and Governor Claiborne don’t like.” Flying to the dresser, Lysette rummaged through his top drawer for her gloves.

The Place D’Armes, the town square built to face the river, was filled with a noisy crowd that had gathered from miles around to see and hear the notorious Colonel Burr. This morning, the twenty-fifth of June, he had arrived in New Orleans after a long western tour through Ohio, Kentucky, Tennessee, and Natchez, paying visits to powerful allies and making speeches to approving crowds.

Burr had been received everywhere with hospitality and acclaim, for he stated that he had the interests of the West at heart, and that he only wanted to help the territory grow and flourish. Few people suspected the more sinister purpose behind his journey.

It was remarkable that in the upheaval of the festivities, the distinctive black and gold Vallerand carriage drew almost as much attention as the sight of Aaron Burr himself. The rumor that Maximilien Vallerand’s new wife was there spread quickly and soon there were swarms of people surrounding the vehicle, both American and Creole, craning their necks to see inside. Even Max had not expected the attention Lysette’s presence would attract.

Lysette stayed away from the windows of the carriage, concealing herself from view, but she could still hear the excited voices outside, referring to her as
la marièe du diable
…the devil’s bride. She looked at Max in amazement. “Why do they call me that?”

“I warned you what to expect,” he said. “You’re married to me, which is reason enough. And no doubt your red hair causes people to assume that you have a volatile temperament.”

“Volatile? I have the mildest disposition imaginable,” she said, and frowned at his sudden snort. Before they could debate the issue, however, Governor Claiborne began to make his welcoming speech. Lysette leaned forward in the carriage seat, wishing she could be outside.

There was a world of alien sights, sounds, and smells just beyond the walls of the carriage: abrasive calls of vendors selling fruit and bread, the barking of dogs, the cries of chanticleer roosters and dunghill fowls.

Occasionally she caught a whiff of strong French perfume as fine ladies passed by, and the smells of
salt, fish, and refuse carried on the breeze from the riverfront. Boatmen strolled by chattering in languages she had never heard before. And as always, whenever Creoles and Americans were in the same vicinity, there were scuffles, arguments, and swift challenges to duel.

Above the melee, Governor Claiborne struggled to be heard. As the speech progressed, Lysette accepted a glass of wine from her husband, and rested her foot on his lap as he removed her shoes and massaged her soles. His hands were strong and thorough, making her squirm in pleasure as he worked the soreness out of her feet.

Lulled by the wine and the gentle manipulation of her feet, Lysette let her mind wander as the governor detailed many of Burr’s past achievements. “He’s rather long-winded,” she remarked, and Max chuckled.

“That’s the kindest description of a lawyer I’ve ever heard,” he replied.

“It sounds as though Governor Claiborne admires Colonel Burr very much,” Lysette said.

“He despises Burr,” Max replied with a grin.

“Then why—”

“Politicians, sweet, often find themselves required to pay homage to their enemies.”

“I don’t understand—” Lysette said, and stopped as she heard a dull roar that began on the edge of the crowd and grew until it became a great wave of sound. Her eyes widened. “What is it?”

“Burr must have stepped into view,” Max said. “Thank God. Claiborne will have to end his speech
now.” He moved to the door and opened it. “I’m going to stand outside to listen.”

“Max, may I—”

“You’d better stay in here.” He threw her an apologetic glance. “Sorry.”

Lysette folded her arms resentfully as he left the carriage. “Well,” she muttered to herself, “what good is leaving the planation when I have to stay in here the whole time?”

The tumult outside increased, and she sidled to the window, sticking her head outside in an effort to see past the mass of people, carriages, and horses. She heard a new voice in the distance, a strong and forceful one that cut through the hubbub, greeting the crowd first in French, then Spanish and English. The congregation erupted in hearty applause, shouts, and whistles.

The cheering lasted through the speech’s prelude, but gradually Lysette could hear Aaron Burr’s voice again.

Lysette strained farther out of the window. Women scolded their husbands for staring at the flame-haired girl, youths abandoned their quarreling and watched her closely, old women gossiped while old men wished aloud that they were but a decade or two younger.

Standing a few feet away, Max became aware of the growing disturbance, and followed the gazes of those next to him. He sighed ruefully as he saw his wife leaning halfway out of the carriage in an effort to get a better view of Aaron Burr. Sensing her husband’s gaze, Lysette glanced over at him guiltily
and disappeared like a turtle retreating into its shell.

Smothering a laugh, Max went to the carriage, opened the door, and reached inside. “Come here,” he said, hooking an arm around her waist and swinging her to the ground. “Just don’t complain when everyone stares at you.

“Mon Dieu,”
Max continued beneath his breath as he heard Burr’s inflammatory words. “He’s treading on the edge of treason. He can’t think that Jefferson will turn a deaf ear to such statements.”

Lysette stood on her toes. “I can’t see anything,” she said. “What does he look like?”

“You’ll meet him later,” Max promised. “We’ll be attending a ball held in his honor next week.”

“We are?” She frowned at him. “When were you going to tell me?”

“I just did.”

They listened until the crowd showed signs of becoming unmanageable. Tempers always ran hot under the Louisiana sun, and inhibitions were weakened from the drinking and feasting that had already begun. And the sight of Lysette was attracting too much attention. People were staring and pointing openly, eager young men were gathering in groups, and boys were overheard daring each other to run up and touch a lock of her fiery hair.

“It’s time to leave,” Max said wryly, drawing his wife to the carriage. “Or in another few minutes I’ll be forced into a score of duels over you.”

*   *   *

Partly for his own reasons, partly as a favor to Claiborne, Max arranged a private meeting with the Spanish minister in New Orleans, Don Carlos, the Marquis de Casa Yrujo. Since Aaron Burr’s arrival in town yesterday, there had been many comings and goings between the Spanish officials residing in New Orleans. Max hoped he could persuade Yrujo to reveal some pertinent bit of information about Burr’s coconspirator, General Wilkinson.

Yrujo was an experienced diplomat. His sharp brown eyes, set deeply in his lean, olive-skinned face, gave nothing away. Despite the half hour of verbal fencing that had taken place, Yrujo had not said anything that exposed Governor Wilkinson as a Spanish agent, nor revealed what he knew of Burr’s treasonous conspiracy. However, there was no doubt in Max’s mind that Yrujo knew a great deal.

“To me it is an interesting puzzle, how Claiborne managed to enlist your support, Vallerand,” Yrujo remarked in a congenial way as the two men talked over drinks and thin black cigars. The conversation was coming to a conclusion as both realized that neither was going to learn anything from the other. “I have never believed you to be a fool,” the Spaniard continued. “Why, then, do you ally yourself with a man whose control over the territory is about to be stripped from him? You have much to lose.”

“Stripped away by whom?” Max countered, exhaling a channel of smoke to the side.

“My question first,
por favor.”

Max’s smile did not reach his eyes. “Claiborne has been underestimated,” he said casually.

Yrujo laughed, openly scoffing at the answer. “You will have to do better than that, Vallerand! What has he promised you? I suppose the retention of land grants that should have been abolished when the Americans took possession. Or perhaps you are merely hoping to store up political influence. Do you think it wise to bet that the Americans will be able to prevent the secession of Louisiana?”

“My question now,” Max said. “Whom do you think is going to strip away Claiborne’s control over the territory?”

“Colonel Burr, of course. The fact that he is hoping for disunion is no secret.”

“Yes. But Burr is doing more than merely
hoping.
” Max watched closely for Yrujo’s reaction.

The Spaniard’s expression gave nothing away. “That, my friend, is something no one knows for certain. Not even I.”

Max knew that was a lie. If Wilkinson was conspiring with Burr
and
remaining secretly in the Spanish pay, Yrujo had definite knowledge of Burr’s intentions.

Leaning forward in his chair, Max renewed the verbal assault. “Recently, Don Carlos, you refused to give Colonel Burr a passport to Mexico. Obviously you had misgivings about allowing him inside Spanish territory. What made you suddenly so suspicious of Burr?”

“I have always exercised caution in my dealings with the man,” Yrujo said abruptly.

“Not so. You once granted him permission to enter the Floridas.”

The Spanish minister laughed heartily, but there was little amusement in his eyes. “Your sources, Vallerand, are better than I suspected.”

Silently Max drew again on his cigar, wondering how much Yrujo really knew. Burr and Wilkinson intended to secure the Floridas for themselves and were undoubtedly trying to keep their true purposes from the Spaniards, who would never voluntarily relinquish the territory. If it were taken from Spain, Yrujo would be held responsible. That prospect had to alarm him.