CHAPTER TWELVE
Favian, after writing his instructions to Midshipman Stanhope, returned to Jackson’s company, automatically receiving another cup of tafia punch from the servant as he entered. “There is a ball planned in your honor this evening,” Claiborne was saying. “Do you think you are well enough to attend?”
“I will be there for a time, at least,” Jackson answered. The werewolf look was gone; he leaned back in his chair, a weary gray man once more. “Tomorrow I think I will visit Fort St. Leon— the reports concerning its readiness seem a little contradictory. I would like, as well, to see your boats, Captain Patterson. Would seven o’clock tomorrow morning be suitable?”
Patterson seemed a little surprised at this show of energy— Favian wondered if Patterson had ever received a visit from Claiborne during the man’s entire tenure as governor— but he rose to the occasion. “Of course, General,” he said.
“If General Villeré and Major Plauché,” Jackson said, “would like to accompany me on my tour of the fort, they are most welcome.”
“I shall extend an invitation, General,” said Claiborne.
“Thank you, Governor. I would like to review the New Orleans troops, by the way, sometime soon. Would the day after tomorrow be convenient. Governor?”
“Certainly, General.”
“Gentlemen, I hope you will excuse me. I would like to dictate a few orders and then retire for some hours before the, ah, the occasion this evening.”
Jackson rose to bid them farewell. He clasped the hand of each of his visitors, a polite Tennessee planter saying his adieus. “I hope for all our sakes, Commodore Markham,” he said as he shook Favian’s hand, his eyes flashing into Favian’s, “you are good at judging buccaneers.”
“I hope so, too, General,” Favian said and made his exit.
Patterson was rushing toward the levee, ready to set his crews to preparing Carolina and Louisiana for Jackson’s visit. Favian put on his cocked hat and boat cloak and made his way through the muddy streets to Gideon’s hotel; he cleaned his boots on the scraper by the door and sent up his card. “Will I see you tomorrow?” Favian asked as Eugénie Desplein led him to Gideon’s room on the second floor.
Eugénie gave him a wry look from under one arched eyebrow. There was a little redness around her nostrils, Favian saw— he should be thankful, he reflected, that a cold was the worst infection Marie had spread..
“The way Campaspe’s been talking,” Eugénie said, “I’m not sure I want to take you away from her.”
“What,” Favian asked carefully, “has she been saying?”
She gave a short laugh and took his arm. “Nothing alarming, my dear. You’re just her beau sabreur, that’s all, everything grand and chivalrous. She is writing a poem expressing her devotion.”
Harmless enough, apparently. Favian breathed a little easier. “I hope you will be free,” he said.
“I hope so, too, my Favian.” Outside Gideon’s door she stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek, then opened the door to let him in.
Grimes had just opened a bottle of wine, and with it Favian, Gideon, and Maria-Anna toasted the success of the Cat Island expedition. Favian was beginning to feel a little light-headed— years of attending public banquets had accustomed him to round after round of drinks, but the tafia punch and wine on a nearly empty stomach were having their effect. There was supper afterward, fortunately, but with supper came another bottle of wine; and then there was brandy following.
“Do you realize we have had two of the local beaux here, sending up their cards for Campaspe?” Maria-Anna asked as they ate. “I turned them away saying she was much fatigued and could not receive anyone— but what can I do, Favian? I can’t have planters’ sons coming to call on my maidservant. Next Mrs. Desplein and the other servants will be receiving their callers, and then where will the household be?”
“No doubt a much more cheerful place,” Favian said.
“Hah!” she sniffed. She rearranged the pillows set behind her back on the birthing stool. “What do you know— you’ve never had to run a house.”
“Just a ship,” Favian reminded her.
“And how efficient would your ship be,” Maria-Anna asked, “if all the sailors could receive their Jills on board?”
“It would be,” said Favian, “more cheerful.” He was feeling quite cheerful himself; it was a fine thing to be indoors out of the mud and rain, with wine wanning his stomach and Maria-Anna for company. “I said nothing about efficiency or tautness,” he said. Gideon looked at him, frowning: there was nothing frivolous about ship’s discipline.
After brandy the entire household marched to the public ballroom for Jackson’s reception; the occasion was sufficiently extraordinary for Eugénie and Campaspe to be allowed to accompany their master and mistress. Maria-Anna was wearing the dramatic lace veil that Campaspe had worn the night of the ball, but Campaspe, on Favian’s right arm, still wore her gown and red spencer and had borrowed another piece of headgear, an elaborate pleated turban of gray, scarlet, and golden spangles— old-fashioned, the Orient having gone out of vogue, but suiting her very well. On Favian’s left arm Eugénie was dressed much more conventionally in a white gown, blue cloak, and an embroidered veil over a wickerwork bonnet. Grimes followed behind, carrying the ladies’ slippers.
The ballroom was packed with a cross section of New Orleans humanity, white and colored both: a delegation of Choctaws, standing stiffly in their uniforms from the Creek War, stood aloof in one corner. Campaspe craned her neck, eagerly looking for her beaux of the other night, then, seeing them, suddenly turned demure, hiding behind her fan. Favian smiled at this coquetry, then saw the unmistakable figure of General Jean-Joseph Humbert across the room. “I’m afraid I must leave you for a short while, ladies,” he said, bowing to Campaspe and Eugénie..
He shouldered his way through the crowd. “General Humbert,” he said. “I should have realized you would be here. I—”
“Here.” Gruffly, thrusting a cup into Favian’s hands. “Have some of this petite gouave.”
“Thank you, sir. I sent you a message earlier, to the Hotel de la Marine—”
“I received it and sent it on its way. Grailly received his message also.”
“I am grateful, sir,” Favian said. He sipped the drink Humbert had handed him and received a shock. “Good heavens! What’s in this stuff?”
“A mixture. Everything poisonous to mankind,” Humbert said placidly. “I hear that the British will be commanded by Sir Edward Pakenham, is that not so?”
“That’s what our reports indicated,” Favian said, cautious. The story that he’d captured dispatches with the Carnation was probably in wide public circulation, but there was no point in confirming it.
“I’ve met Pakenham, did I tell you that? He was with the Ulster Dragoons in ’98, a major I think, one of Crauford’s young men. They called him Ned.” Humbert gazed into his cup, no doubt seeing pictures of his old captors, his old prison. “A pleasant man, cheerful. Everyone liked him.”
“You’ve met him? You should tell General Jackson— I think the general would very much like to know about young Ned Pakenham.”.
Favian remembered Jackson’s wolfish eyes, his readiness to devour the enemy. A pleasant man, Ned Pakenham. Jackson would be happy to chew on Humbert’s old bones for a few hours, Favian thought.
“I will call on him tomorrow,” Humbert said. He drained his petite gouave and held out his cup for the servant to refill it.
“I hope you will. I’ve mentioned you to him, in connection with— with certain matters,” Favian said. “He will be inspecting Patterson’s squadron tomorrow morning, then join General Villeré and Major Plauché for a trip to Fort St. Leon.”
“I’ll remember,” Humbert said. “I will—” The room suddenly stilled as a drum rattled. A single trumpet gave a call, and General Jackson walked into the room, followed by Governor and Madame Claiborne.
Jackson had known just how far to push those battered traveling clothes, Favian thought as the crowd went mad with cheers: now he was dressed formally in a blue uniform coat with fire-gilt buttons, buff facings, and heavy bullion epaulets; he carried a cocked hat in his white-gloved hand, and his jackboots were lovingly polished. “Such a distinguished carriage,” Favian overheard from an iron-spined Creole matron. “And this morning I thought he looked like an ugly old Kaintuck flatboatman!”
There were a number of speeches and toasts; Favian emptied his cup of petite gouave in salute to the distinguished guests, and was given another by Humbert, who was tossing them down as if they were fruit juice. The majordomo announced the Virginia reel, and Jackson offered his arm to Sophronie Claiborne. Favian quickly drained his cup and set off in search of Eugénie Desplein.
“Honored, sir,” she said; they jostled for their places among the throng, and only Favian’s relative prestige— signified in this case by his twin epaulets, presentation sword, and the ferocious glare with which he fixed a cornet in the Francs trying to worm his way into line— secured them a place in the dance.
The orchestra commenced— Haydn, Favian thought— and Eugénie fixed Favian’s eyes with her own in a way that made Favian acutely aware that it had been two full days since he had possessed her last. The dance went on, thirty minutes at least, without a word spoken between them; but certainly communication was there— the Virginia reel, outwardly a lively, old-fashioned dance, had become intensely erotic. Much of Favian’s burden, the worries about the British, about the Cat Island expedition, the danger to Louisiana, vanished in the body-flame lit suddenly by Eugénie’s proud, triumphant stare. The petite gouave, the wine and brandy and tafia punch, had all concentrated Favian’s attention entirely on the woman he partnered— with whom he coupled, really, through the medium of the dance. Behind Eugénie’s flaming eyes he saw flashes of movement: the flashing fan and brilliant smile of a black dancer, the green jacket of a dragoon, a swirling line of white gowns, the brightly colored waistcoats of the male onlookers. By the end of the dance he was dizzy, intoxicated in more ways than one; he tottered as Eugénie took his arm..
The smile she directed up at him was one of knowing, intimate lechery. “I don’t know whether I will be free tomorrow or not,” she said. “But I know I am free tonight, following the ball.”
“Where is your room?” Favian asked.
“The servants’ stair is at the end of the hall. Ground floor, second door on your right as you come down the stairs. Or larboard, as you sailors say.”
“Starboard.”
“Larboard, starboard, all the same,” she said lightly. “Madame won’t be wanting me tonight, so I hope you will.” Shouldering a way through the throng, he lurched against a Creole woman and apologized. Eugénie looked up at him critically. “How much have you drunk tonight? Love is better without rum, I think.”
“It’s Humbert’s fault, blast him. He kept feeding me petite gouave and reminiscing about his damned campaign in Ireland.”
Gideon and Maria-Anna had come in from the dance floor at the same time, Maria-Anna looking resentfully at a bootprint on her white gown. “Knocked me down and stepped on me,” she said. “Some little ruffian in a green coat!”
“He apologized, my love,” Gideon said.
“The oaf.” She made a face as another swarm of locals pushed into the room.
“It’s getting too crowded,” Gideon said, looking up at Favian. “There’s nothing more to see— Jackson has already disappeared into a back room to confer with the Choctaws, and that’s the last we’ll see of him. Shall we leave, Favian?”
“That suits me.” Favian’s body exulted.
“There’s Campaspe,” Eugénie said. “I’ll fetch her.”
Campaspe came under protest, but Maria-Anna ended her objections by promising to take her to one of the public balls later that week— the threat of British invasion, it seemed, was providing endless excuses for social events. Favian collected his hat and cloak and bought a cup of coffee from a vendor outside the ballroom, then was annoyed to find that the coffee had been spiked with tafia. He walked with the party to Gideon’s hotel, Campaspe on one arm and Eugénie on the other. The strange mixture of drinks and the torrid nature of the dance had the world whirling about Favian’s head, his body in a state of erotic madness— strange, he thought, drink in these quantities usually quelled desire..
Not tonight, it seemed.
Once in Gideon’s rooms Eugénie and Campaspe were dismissed. Eugénie left the room, her eyes demurely downcast, not daring to hint at a collusion with Favian— she was intelligent, Favian thought, and lovely; perhaps she would make a wife after all. No fortune would come with her, but then he was rich with prize money and had no need to marry an heiress. A Louisiana Creole, dark and lively; he could see her charming the eyes out of Portsmouth and the old men in Washington who ran the Navy..
But would she make a good sailor’s wife? Favian wondered. Her physical urges were strong, he knew; could she subordinate them during the long, inevitable absences, when Favian might be two years away from home on convoy duty to China? A cuckolded man had two choices, Favian knew; suffer in silent humiliation or issue a public challenge. Either way a Navy career could be ended. The matter would take some thought, he decided; and he’d think about it when he was less aflame with lust and drink.
Gideon ordered coffee and wanted to talk about the Cat Island expedition, but Favian, after two cups of coffee, made his excuses early. “Please come to the Louisiana tomorrow morning— I can have my own Lieutenant Eastlake and Midshipman Stanhope act as secretaries, and General Jackson may be present as well. And the pilot may have arrived by then.”.
The world spun on its heel as he stood; he gripped the back of his chair and waited until it stopped. Maria-Anna was looking at him with an indulgent smile, Gideon with a slight frown. “Beg pardon,” he said. “All General Humbert’s fault; he fed me all this petite gouave without telling me what was in it. Tomorrow, Gideon. Maria-Anna.” He bowed to kiss her hand and straightened without losing his balance, then stepped into the hall as Grimes expressionlessly opened the door.
Once he heard the door close behind him, he turned in the direction of the servants’ stair as he undid his cravat and neckcloth. The stair had been illuminated only with a candle, and that candle had gone out; he moved cautiously, the stairway illuminated only by the glow from the hallway below. Once on the ground floor he walked two doors down and hesitated. “Larboard, starboard,” he muttered to himself and slipped quietly through the door on the left.
The little room was black, but there was a reassuring female presence— a pleasant scent in the room, a little sound as Eugénie turned over in her sleep— on the narrow bed. She’d fallen asleep waiting for him; he hoped he hadn’t been too long. Favian undipped his sword and laid it in the corner, then got out of his heavy uniform coat and shirt; there seemed to be a little table of some sort behind him, and he laid his clothing on that. He knelt to take off his boots, then moved to the bed, reaching out, touching braided hair. Eugénie woke up with a start and a shocked intake of breath.
“I’m sorry I frightened you,” he murmured. “It’s your Favian, my darling.” He leaned forward to kiss her, feeling her lips unresponsive, and stroked her cheek. “I’m sorry I’m so late. I was delayed. I should have brought you flowers.” He kissed her again and felt a flutter of response, and that was enough to set off the tiger in him. If her hesitance, her naiveté, penetrated his whirling perceptions, he discarded them; perhaps it was nearing her time of the month, and she was uncomfortable..
It was not until it was far too late that he realized, when at last she spoke to him, that the woman in his arms was not Eugénie Desplein, but Campaspe.