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.
Chapter 10
“Another 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 sou
nd. 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.
“Don Carlos,” Max said quietly, “I hope you won’t be deceived by any claims Burr might make that he is trying to serve Spain’s interests.”
They exchanged a glance of sharp understanding. “We are perfectly aware,” Yrujo continued after a deliberate pause, “that the only interests the colonel serves are his own.”
Max decided to take another tack. “Then perhaps you can see your way clear to tell me what you know about the letter of introduction Burr has given to one of the Spanish boundary commissioners here in New Orleans, the Marquis de Casa Calvo.”
“I know nothing about a letter.”
“It is suspected that several such letters have been delivered to those who might be sympathetic to Burr’s cause.” Max studied the tip of his boot as he added, “Including Casa Calvo.” Then his golden eyes surveyed the implacable Spaniard once more.
“I am certain I would have heard of it, had Casa Calvo received one. Lo siento.”
The finality in Yrujo’s voice left no room for deeper prying. Max stubbed out his cigar, annoyed even though he had expected nothing more than what he had gotten. He would dearly love to know what was in that letter, to have some written proof as to Burr’s intentions.
———
Twilight was fast approaching as Max rode home to the Vallerand plantation. He slowed his black stallion from an easy canter to a trot when he saw an enclosed carriage stopped at the side of the road. One of the carriage wheels was broken, and only one horse was harnessed to the vehicle. There was no driver in sight. Stopping by the side of the carriage, Max saw a movement inside. He lightly fingered one of the brace of pistols he always wore when traveling.
“M
ay I be of assistance?” he asked, reining in the stallion as it fidgeted.
A woman’s face appeared. She was young and reasonably pretty, and most definitely French, although Max did not recall having met her before. Evidently judging from his appearance that he was a gentleman and not a highwayman, she rested her forearm on the edge of the window and smiled. “Merci, monsieur… but there is nothing we require. Our coachman will return at any moment with help.”
“Do not speak to him, Serina,” came a voice from inside the carriage, a strident feminine voice filled with rebuke. “Don’t you know who he is?” A second face appeared at the window.
Max stared at the woman with a slight frown, knowing he had met her before, though he was unable to remember her name. She was at least his age, perhaps a little older, her dry white skin stretched over prominent cheekbones. Her pale green eyes were venomous, and her lips turned down at the corners as if they were anchored by invisible threads.
“Don’t you recognize me?” she hissed. “No, I suppose you would not. Vallerands have short memories.”
“Aimée,” the younger woman protested softly.
With a shock, Max realized the woman was Aimée Langlois. He had known her when they had both been in their teens. He had even courted her for a time, before he had met Corinne. Back then Aimée had been lovely. He remembered having teased her, drawing elusive smiles from her, even stealing a kiss or two when her nearsighted aunt had been less than vigilant.
“Mademoiselle Langlois,” Max said with unsmiling courtesy, remembering that Irénée had once mentioned that Aimée had remained unmarried. Now, glancing at those pinched-in lips, he knew why. No man would ever have the courage— or the incentive— to kiss her. But what had wrought such a change in her? What had made her so bitter?
Still staring at him coldly, Aimée spoke to the young woman beside her. “This is Maximilien Vallerand, Serina. The man who murdered his wife. You’ve heard the stories, haven’t you?”