CHAPTER EIGHT
“Broken ribs, a broken collarbone, fracture of the humerus,” Favian said. “Perhaps a concussion. But he’ll live.” He sipped his coffee, a certain satisfaction coming into his voice. “Mr. Lovette will live, A story to tell his grandchildren, if he has any.”
“Praise God,” said Gideon. “His countenance doth behold the upright.”
They sat in Gideon’s parlor, the remains of their dinner spread before them, Gideon’s steward Grimes— Favian was slowly getting used to the idea of Grimes as a cousin— standing by attentively with the coffeepot.
“I hope it will make the Creoles less likely to challenge sailors,” Maria-Anna said. Her dish of coffee was propped elegantly on three fingers; she blew to cool it, Gideon and Favian drank their coffee from mugs, a habit encouraged by life on a rolling sea where drinks stayed better in tall containers. She sighed..
“It’s a touchy thing. A man is shunned by the entire community if he declines a fight, even on the most frivolous of pretexts. If a man won’t go out, he has no alternative but to sell out and move. Captain Fontenoy is hiding on the Franklin now, not wanting to fight Listeau. Though from what I’ve heard,” she said, a mischievous smile on her face, “he deserves at least the horsewhipping Listeau wants to give him.” Favian remembered he had not yet spoken to Campaspe and vowed to catch her alone before the evening was over.
“It is a wicked thing,” Gideon said. “The papists permit their flock to live alongside sin, their priests allow it. Madame Dufour’s, er, establishment,” he said, with a careful, sidelong glance at Maria-Anna, “is right next to that little chapel on St. Philippe Street— and it’s a blatant place, very fancy; all the Creole planters go there. But that is only the sins of the flesh, not murder. In Portsmouth it would be a man like Levesque who is shunned and exiled, not his victims.”
“There have been duels in New Hampshire,” Favian said.
“Aye,” Gideon said. “But the men who won them did not stay— they ran one step ahead of a murder charge.”
Favian nodded: true enough, no one had fought a duel in New Hampshire in recent memory and been able to escape without inconvenience, though some of them had been able to return later. It was difficult to convince the public to prosecute because their sympathies were easily engaged by the survivor of a duel, who had, after all, faced his enemy’s weapon in a fair fight. The victor of an encounter, so long as he was able to present a fair and modest face to the public, would almost always go free. Luckily, Favian thought, remembering Captain Brewster. New York had declined to extradite, Brewster having a bad reputation..
Unpleasant memories crawled up Favian’s spine. Time to change the subject.
“I’ve taken your advice, Gideon, and bought a sword cane, a nice little weapon,” he said, “but there was an interesting disagreement in the shop beforehand. Over a curious cane, with a lathed head, so.” He sketched the handle on the tablecloth with the blunt end of his knife and told the story of the shopkeeper refusing to sell the first cane, and of seeing others in the hands of de la Tour d’Aurillac and of the gray soldierlike man in the Place d’Armes.
“I’ve never noticed anything like it,” Gideon said, shaking his head.
“A secret society, I suppose,” Maria-Anna said. There was a faint abstraction to her eyes; her hands were linked over her belly as she sat on her birthing stool, the unborn child kicking. “The Creoles are riddled with them. Conspiracy is in their blood.”
“A society of Napoleon’s veterans?” Favian asked. “De la Tour d’Aurillac was a colonel of hussars, and that man in the Place d’Armes had a military bearing— he looked so military he could have been one of the Chasseurs à Pied de la Garde Imperiale. In fact,” he said, growing enthusiastic, “that would explain the storekeeper saying it was reserved for the Guard. Was de la Tour d’Aurillac a member of the Guard Hussars?”
“Were there Guard Hussars? I don’t know,” Gideon said. “But I think if de la Tour d’Aurillac were a guardsman he would have let the city know.”
Favian shrugged. “Perhaps it’s just a coincidence. I suppose it doesn’t matter.” Grimes filled his coffee mug, and Favian thanked him. How to get to Campaspe? he wondered. He hadn’t seen the girl all day.
He left early that evening without seeing her, and declined Maria-Anna’s offer of some instructions in poque: he had other plans for the evening. His thoughts lingered on Maria-Anna as he stepped down to the hotel lobby, and he realized he had been outside the company of women for too long.
His mistress Caroline had been left behind in New London when Macedonian had broken the blockade in October, and he would probably not see her again. She had loved him, he suspected, and not loved wisely. He had enjoyed her zestful company, her warmth, her playfulness, but the Navy demanded its officers live its code on land as well as on sea, and to marry a professional courtesan would have been to put his career at risk. Knowing this, he had treated Caroline well, and as fairly as he could; he’d left her with enough money to live honestly for years, to marry well if she wished, or to fulfill her dream of going to Europe and pursuing a stage career. She had understood: marriage had never been mentioned.
If only, he thought, Emma Greenhow had married him. He had known New Hampshire-born Emma all his life, and she had been so perfectly suitable. For years, when Favian had been a lieutenant living in poverty between the wars, he and Emma had an informal sort of understanding— not an engagement precisely, knowing old Greenhow would never have approved, but a commitment of a sort. But something had gone wrong after Favian had returned from the Narrow Seas of England. Emma, in the end, had refused him, marrying instead Benjamin Stanhope, the widowed father of Midshipman Phillip Stanhope, a leader of the Peace Federalist faction to which the entire Markham family— and for that matter his son— was bitterly opposed..
Now, Favian supposed, Emma was in transit with her husband to Hartford, where the peace faction would try to bring New England out of the war, presumably under the protection of the British, undoing all the work of the War of Independence. From undeclared fiancée to political enemy; Favian would never understand why. After all his calculations...
He left the hotel and saw, as he stepped into the street, another figure entering the hotel through the women’s entrance. Mrs. Desplein, he thought, and there, some distance behind, was Campaspe, following with a shopping basket full of material: someone, Maria-Anna probably, was getting a new gown. He called her name.
She came, but he saw wariness in her eyes, and her body was tense as if ready to bolt. “I saw the duel from the levee today,” she said, giving her head a careless shake meant to throw him off the scent. “Mrs. Desplein told me I couldn’t, but she was upset all day and I managed to get away from her. Her husband died in a duel, you know. I’m glad the Navy won.”
“I’m sure the Navy is grateful for your support,” Favian said. “Tell me, have you seen M. Listeau today? With or without his whip?”
Campaspe covered her alarm well; there was only the merest flash of guilty knowledge behind her smile. “I don’t know any Listeau,” she said.
“But you know Madame Listeau, do you not? Two nights ago you asked me to give her message to Captain Fontenoy. And that was very curious, because your mistress told me that Madame Listeau was not at the party.”
“She sent a messenger,” Campaspe said quickly. “Do you think there will be a horsewhipping?”.
“I don’t know whether there will be or not,” he said. He narrowed his eyes and scowled, assuming what an old shellback would call his quarterdeck face; she took a step backward. “But I know what will happen if there is a horsewhipping. Captain Fontenoy can’t allow himself to be horsewhipped in public, not without either challenging Listeau or leaving the country. Either he loses all he’s built here, or he’s in a fight for his life. In a duel anything can happen: both men could be killed. And all over a misunderstanding.” He fixed her with a rigid stare. “Do you think you would enjoy knowing, for the rest of your life, that two men died because you wanted to play a prank?”
Her eyes widened; she took another step back. “No,” she said quickly. “No, I didn’t think of— I thought it would be amusing to make Captain Fontenoy think— everyone knew he was following Madame Listeau around Madame de la Ronde’s party. I didn’t think anyone would be killed.” The thought seemed to terrify her.
“Perhaps there won’t be a duel,” Favian said. “But if there is word of any more trouble between Captain Fontenoy and Listeau, I want you to give me your word on something. I want you to promise you will send M. Listeau and Captain Fontenoy a letter telling them what you have done. Will you give me that promise?”
Campaspe stared at him for a long moment, and then swallowed hard. She nodded dumbly. Favian unshipped his quarterdeck face and permitted himself a thin smile. “Very well,” he said. “You may not have to write that letter. But better you face embarrassment than two lives lost.”
“Yes, Captain Favian,” she said. She looked up in sudden alarm. “Have you told Captain Gideon or Madame Markham?”
“Nay. I did not.”
She brightened, her smile flashing out. “Thank you, Captain!” Campaspe cried and threw her arms around him. She stood, jumped up to kiss his cheek, then ran into the hotel, dragging her bundle. Favian looked up in alarm to see if any passersby were looking; he caught an indulgent look from a strolling Creole gentleman, perhaps a father of daughters himself, used to similar scenes.
Favian walked toward his hotel, but was halted on the sidewalk for a few moments by a religious procession, worshipers parading the statue of a saint. The priest led the procession gravely, ignoring the fact his parishioners were parading past a bordello. The papists permit their flock to live alongside sin, Gideon had said: true enough. The Roman religion, old and cynically wise in its fashion, understood the needs of the body as the New England faith did not; Favian had been in enough papist countries to know that.
The parade passed, and Favian stepped on the way to his hotel. He would change his clothes, dress a little less conspicuously, and then go to his appointment at the vaulting academy.
*
Two days later, Favian was drinking amontillado with his chaplain when a package was brought up by the hotel porter, who called him Mr. Markham because he had avoided giving his rank at the desk. “One moment, Doctor,” he said, tipped the porter, and cut open the package with his pocketknife. There was an overwhelming scent of eau de cologne springing from the package, and then Favian saw three embroidered handkerchiefs, monogrammed FM, with a neat little fouled anchor stitched in each corner. There was also a card.
Dearest Captain Markham:
A gift from your devoted servant. Thanks for saving my life!
A thousand kisses, Campaspe.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX PS: O Love! Has he done this to thee? What shall (alas!) become of me?
C.
The Lyly couplet again, one word altered. Favian read the card with an indulgent smile and put the package away.
“I had some linen made,” he said. “There is a good tradition here— French lace and so forth.”
“Is there?” said Dr. Talthibius Solomon. He was a youngish man, still under thirty, enthusiastic, ingenuous, and a late convert to martial virtues. He had led the boarding party during the Carnation fight— Lieutenant Stone had said he couldn’t hold the chaplain back..
“I shall have to investigate, sir,” said Solomon. “It is a various city, to be sure.”
“To be sure,” Favian said.
“I hope you are not displeased by my arrival,” said Solomon. “My flock seemed to need little tending; I had always wanted to see this Creole city— when I joined the Macedonian, Captain Jones promised me exotic sights, you know— and there was a pilot boat headed upriver. I can be back at the Macedonian for my next service, if need be. And I discovered pastoral work here, comforting the afflicted Mr. Lovette.”
“Enjoy the city while you can, Doctor. I think we shall be at sea soon. As soon as I can speak with General Jackson.”.
If Solomon had been a line officer Favian would have bitten his head off for leaving the frigate in that fashion, but staff officers were most often supernumerary anyway, and best indulged. Favian had neither served on a ship with a chaplain before nor wanted to— and if Solomon decided to fall in love with New Orleans and remain here preaching to the papists, Favian would cheerfully bid him farewell.
“General Jackson!” Solomon said. “Would that be the same Jackson who was connected with the Burr Conspiracy?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“Burr. Such an interesting man. A Princeton man, you know, like myself.” Solomon launched himself into a long discourse in which an analysis of the character of Aaron Burr was oddly mixed with a description of the history and curriculum of the College of New Jersey. Favian’s attention waned rapidly, and the scent of eau de cologne brought his mind back to his appointment, two nights before, in the elegantly appointed sporting palace of Madame Dufour.
Dressed as discreetly as his six-foot four-inch frame would allow, Favian had gone to the place and picked out a slender, auburn-haired girl named Marie, with the intention of staying the night. She reminded him slightly of Caroline in the way she moved, in the way her auburn hair was pulled up to reveal the curve of her ears and nape. Marie was delighted to have only the one customer for the entire evening, and eagerly led him upstairs by the hand. Her room was filled with heavy, ornate furniture, a carved teak bedstead, a mahogany wardrobe; it was scented and lit by a pair of discreet rose-colored lamps.
It was not until he faced her on the bed that he realized she was not well; she turned away from his kiss to cough, and he saw the pink tinge around her nostrils. “Just a cold, mon cher,” she said. “It’s almost gone now.” She slid onto his lap, her hands playing with his shirt buttons. There was a narcotic taste on her tongue: laudanum, he thought, cough medicine.
Somehow the night had been off-key, not entirely satisfactory. Her moans of pleasure were professional enough, but had a rehearsed quality that he found a little disturbing— not unexpected, of course, just somehow not right. The whiskey she offered had been watered. During a critical moment of the second engagement she reached for a handkerchief on the bedside table and blew her nose. This demonstration of her lack of attention to the task at hand led Favian to call an early end to the evening. Afterwards, while she was dosing herself with more laudanum, he began to dress; she stopped him with a hand on his thigh.
“Cheri,” she said. “You will go now? Are you unhappy with your Marie?”
“Not at all.” He kissed her shoulder. “I just don’t want to catch your cold.”
“Too late for that, I think,” she said. There was a silence; perhaps she sensed his lack of enchantment. He left her a moderate tip on the bureau and stepped out of the room, shrugging into his overcoat, and saw for a startled second a blue Navy undress coat coming up the stairs, single epaulet on the left shoulder, the badge of a junior lieutenant. Instantly he turned and reentered the room, amazed at that lieutenant’s lack of discretion— the Navy permitted their junior officers to sin in secret, and so Favian had always done, but flaunting one’s carnal habits before the population was more than the Navy would tolerate. Was this the usual practice on the New Orleans station?
Even if it was, Favian thought, he would be damned if he’d let some whoring lieutenant catch him at Madame Dufour’s. He was not about to be the subject of gossip at the Carolina’s wardroom table.
Marie, reclining on the bed, one leg drawn up as she scratched her calf, looked at him incuriously. “Did you forget something, cheri?” she asked.
“I changed my mind,” he said, slipping out of his overcoat. She summoned a smile and lay back on the pillow, one arm over her head, showing him her body, flexing the muscles of her belly as she pointed her raised leg at the ceiling, a lascivious danseuse. “I’m so glad you want me again,” she said.
He managed to summon the desire for a third complex embrace; it was better this time, more prolonged; Marie paid attention and perhaps enjoyed it. Afterwards he felt drowsy; Marie swallowed more laudanum as a sleeping-draught and slept like a stone until morning. There was an early morning encounter, Marie a little groggy but smiling; her tip was increased and Favian was off to his hotel, making certain there were no epaulets on the stair.
Since then he had been awaiting the first sign of Marie’s cold. It had not yet appeared, but Favian realized he might have a need for Campaspe’s embroidered handkerchiefs some time in the next few days.
Dr. Solomon was winding up his analysis of Burr and Princeton, concluding that Burr was an atypical product of the college and no real blot on its escutcheon: no other graduate, to the doctor’s knowledge, had ever been convicted of treason.
“Aye,” Favian said. “Nor was Burr, remember. He was acquitted.”
“An extraordinary man,” said Solomon. “This amontillado is quite good. You know, the midshipmen have been playing Captain Porter’s game every day, now the frigate is anchored. Mr. Stanhope is missed; he was a very good player.”
Porter’s game, the wardroom full of model ships every day. The lieutenants must be annoyed. “I think,” said Favian, “they should practice engaging an entire British fleet with the Macedonian alone. That, unfortunately, is likely to be our task.”
The chaplain looked up at Favian with curiosity. “You have been in a great many battles for so young a man. Thirty, are you not?”
“I am.”
“And you helped to burn the Philadelphia in Tripoli harbor. Participated in the bombardments. Served as Decatur’s lieutenant when the Macedonian was taken from the British. And then there was Markham’s Raid.”
Plus three duels, numerous skirmishes, and a small battle with spies on Groton Long Point near New London. Favian thought that should be enough blood for one lifetime. But more would be spilled, he knew— spilling blood was his profession.
“Aye,” he said.
“That fight between United States and Macedonian must have been exciting,” Solomon said, enthusiastic. “United States was hardly hurt at all, and Macedonian suffered such a great many casualties. I remember the papers at the time: prodigious casualties. I wonder, sir, if you could tell me the details. I only know the fights we have had on this voyage, the running fight with the blockading squadron, the capture of the Carnation. Lieutenant Hourigan told me the Carnation fight was quite unusual. Was it really the case?”
“It was a surprise attack at night, and they weren’t keeping proper lookout. Didn’t see us till we were on them. And then we had twice their weight in guns— I had to take care not to fire too many broadsides and sink them by accident, when all we wanted to do was take them. I won’t testify as to typical— no sea fight is typical, in my opinion— but it was certainly not a fair one.”
Solomon frowned slightly; perhaps he was disappointed. “There are very few sea fights that are ever fair,” Favian explained. “Matched fights are rare. Perhaps it is better thus: the inferior ship will have a better knowledge of when to surrender.”
“Like the Macedonian when you took her?” Solomon asked.
Favian frowned. “Carden was a fool,” he said. “The man played his hand badly. Didn’t understand Captain Decatur’s tactics at all. Hung off at long range and took a pounding from our superior ordnance, then decided to charge in close and carry us by boarding— but by then it was too late. We tore him to shreds. He didn’t have much of a chance at the beginning, you understand, we overmatched him considerably with a bigger ship and more guns. But he could have played his hand better.”
“Such a cost,” Solomon said. “All those honest sailors paying for their captain’s errors.”
A picture of the beaten Macedonian flickered through Favian’s mind. He had been the first American officer aboard and had expected a beaten ship— he’d seen those before— but nothing like what had confronted him. All masts gone, the frigate was rolling its gunports under with each wave, bringing the sea in to create a lake in the well deck, a lake in which bodies and parts of bodies sloshed to and fro, staining the water red. The wounded had been stacked like cordwood in the dripping cockpit; their moans filled the ship like a flock of mad spirits. The survivors had broken into the spirit locker and drank to end their own pain and guilt; they staggered singing over the ship or danced insane hornpipes..
Defeat. Horrible. He had never spoken of it to anyone but his father, who had seen beaten ships in his own war; he had never told Emma Greenhow, though she had wanted to know. He had wanted to spare her the knowledge, the burden.
“Those lives are on Carden’s conscience, if he has one,” Favian said. He knew he was speaking too vehemently, too bitterly; Solomon was looking at him in surprise. “You have seen a little combat at sea; you know what roundshot and grape can do. You have seen nothing compared to what you will see if we are in a major fight with another frigate our size or larger. Neither we nor the British are used to defeat: we fight till one side is finished. There have been a lot of ships sunk in this war, and that is unusual. Warships are hardly ever sunk; usually they fight till it is obvious that they have lost and then surrender. But we Americans and the British are different. Diamond cut diamond: that is what Dacres of the Guerriere said. True enough. It is the honest sailors that will suffer if the officers guess wrong, but the honest officers are capable of suffering as well.”
“I don’t doubt it, sir,” Solomon said. His voice was unusually solemn. “It is a great burden, to have so many lives in one’s keeping. But our church teaches us that no soul belongs to another man— it may not be our own fault if we meet our death, but it is entirely each man’s responsibility to meet it as a Christian.”
“Just so,” Favian said, not believing it. He had no religion and did not believe in Dr. Solomon’s comforts. In a few weeks, perhaps days, he would be bringing Macedonian out against an entire fleet, and the lives in his keeping would answer for any wrong decision. He had been court-martialed once already for the loss of a ship, his Experiment brig that had gone on the mud of North Massachusetts, and did not want to go through it again..
Experiment had been lost in a capricious storm, and he did not believe it had been through his fault. If Macedonian was taken by the enemy, it would be a different matter. Another picture of the beaten frigate passed through his mind, the blood dripping from the scuppers, the wounded howling in the red-splashed cockpit, but this time it was Favian standing beaten on the quarterdeck, not Carden, handing his sword to a triumphant British captain..
The court-martial would go easier if there were a lot of casualties; the bloodier the battle, the more it would show the captain had done his best. Better still if the captain could arrange to die, like James Lawrence of the Chesapeake, gasping out some immortal last words like “Don’t give up the ship!” It avoided the bitter court-martial altogether. The Navy would prefer lots of blood, the captain’s included, and a ship so battered it would be useless to the enemy. The Navy was in business to gather glory, not to save lives..
Well. Favian would do his best to give the Navy what it wanted, as he had all along.
“I wonder, Doctor, if I might ask your advice,” Favian said. “It is a matter concerning an officer here, on the New Orleans station.”
“Of course, sir. That is why I am here,” Solomon said. His eyes were dancing; he always enjoyed moments of this sort.
“Two evenings ago, while I was admiring a little papish chapel on St. Philippe Street, I saw an officer leaving the house next door,” Favian said. “The Corinthian establishment, if you take my meaning, of one Madame Dufour. I am not,” he said hastily, as Solomon tried to speak, “concerned about the act itself. The officer was a lieutenant and a gentleman by act of Congress; there is no possibility of ordering him to keep chaste. Especially considering the, ah, the licentious atmosphere here in New Orleans. What concerned me was the fact that the officer in question wore his uniform, and therefore his behavior reflected on the Navy. I wonder, sir, if you might know some tactful way in which to make the officer concerned aware of his, ah, indiscretion.”
Solomon smiled indulgently. “I think, sir, you might leave it to me. Was it one of the Carolina’s lieutenants? I need not know the officer’s name, sir, just his ship.”
“I do not recall the man’s name, Doctor, so that’s just as well,” Favian said. “But I believe he is one of the Carolina’s lieutenants, aye.”
“Then, sir,” said Solomon with a grin of impish glee, “I know precisely how to handle the matter. I am invited to dine with the Carolina’s wardroom tomorrow, and I shall mention the incident. Two nights ago, I shall say, I was walking on St. Philippe Street when I saw an officer leaving a disreputable house. The officer belonged to one of the local militia companies, as I could see plainly by his uniform. Whether a man patronizes such a place, I shall say, is surely between himself and God; but how could a man reflect dishonor upon his uniform and his regiment?” He wagged a finger. “I shall catch one of them in a blush, Captain! Then I shall know I’ve struck home!”
Favian looked at the enthusiastic chaplain with indulgent regard. Perhaps the man had his uses after all.
“Splendid, sir,” he said. “I think that will serve.”
They chatted for a time about the city, its attractions and polyglot inhabitants, and then Dr. Solomon rose to take his leave. They bowed farewell; Favian poured himself another glass of amontillado and went to stand by the window, considering what he was going to do for the rest of the day. He had paid his morning visit to Claiborne, urging as usual the declaration of martial law, that men be sent to supervise blocking the bayous, that the Navy be given powers to find crewmen for its vessels— he was careful not to use the word impress. Claiborne, as usual, had deferred all decisions to the next meeting of the Committee for Public Safety, or the arrival of General Jackson, but he had at least wavered on the impressment business. Favian and Patterson had decided between them to take it in shifts; each would visit Claiborne once per day, making the same pleas. Perhaps the governor would eventually say yes just to avoid the nuisance.
His only other duty, that of visiting Lovette in Louisiana’s sick bay, had also been performed that morning. Perhaps he would take a stroll through the city streets, a pleasure at any hour. He had made up his mind to change his clothes and leave when there was a knock on the door.
“A lady visitor, Mr. Markham.” It was the same lackey as before. “A Madame Desplein. She wishes to bring you a message.”
“I know the lady,” Favian said. “Tell her I will be down to see her directly.”
“Not necessary, m’sieur. She will come to your room.” The porter, expressionless, bowed and closed the door. Favian wondered if other New Orleans hotels permitted women to visit single men in their rooms: certainly this was allowed nowhere else in America, where most hotels, to avoid even the appearance of scandal, had separate entrances for men and women..
But of course Campaspe, he thought, might be with her as chaperon.
She was, he discovered, alone; she bobbed a curtsy in return to his bow. The porter closed the door behind them. “You seem a little out of breath,” Favian said. “Please sit down. Can I order you some tea or coffee? Or perhaps offer you a glass of wine?”
“The wine, thank you, Captain,” she said, glancing out his window at the rooftops. “Most New Orleans buildings, you know, don’t have a third storey; until recently they’ve been afraid to build high on this soft ground. I suppose I’m unused to the climb. Nice view you’ve got.” He handed her a crystal glass; she tasted the wine delicately and smiled. “Madame Markham sent me,” she said. “She requests the honor of your presence at dinner tonight, seven o’clock.”
“Of course. I shall be happy to come.”
“Good. There will be poque afterward.” She smiled and sat down on the bed, smoothing the coverlet with an inviting hand; Favian felt a taut, cynical grin tugging at the corners of his mouth and repressed it.
“Do they expect you back,” he asked carefully, “anytime soon?”
She shook her head slowly, the smile still on her face..
“Would you mind,” he asked, “if I sat beside you?” Another shake of the head, impatient this time.
“You’re so damned polite,” she said as he joined her on the bed. “A Latin would have raped me the second I stepped into the room. That’s what the porter thought; I tipped him for his silence.” She alternated the flavor of his kisses with that of amontillado.
“You understand,” he said, remembering that good but unscrupulous, “that this is not an offer of permanence? Proposition d’une affaire, not demande en mariage?”
“I understand,” she affirmed, her lips tightening for a moment, a fierce little V appearing between her eyebrows; Favian was suddenly glad to have made the distinction. Then she threw her head back and laughed. “Are you so cautious in combat with the British? What dull battles you must fight!” Teasingly, but a little forced.
“Good intelligence,” said Favian, “is a necessity to any successful engagement.”.
He kissed the hollow of her throat. She exclaimed as she removed his doeskin gloves, revealing the mutilated fingertips, mementos of the Experiment wreck, when he’d kept Midshipman Stanhope from being swept overboard at the cost of most of his fingernails. Some had never grown back; the others were black and horny. She kissed the hands, the scars, the ridged horn, and in an instant of swelling compassion Favian forgave her entirely the display of thwarted ambition.
Her modest gown and shift were disposed of; his own complicated layers of clothing took a little more effort. Her breasts were large in relation to her small body, entirely out of fashion; but when he cupped her breast with his torn hand, feeling the engorged nipple under his palm, her lively eyes half closed with delight, and he fancied he could almost hear her purr.
Madame Desplein’s small, white body was a joy: Favian found he could cover her entirely with his tall, lean frame, or pluck her easily from the bed, her limbs winding around him, her sex still gripping his priming iron as he whirled her about the room in a laughing venereal waltz. So much better than Marie with her sniffles, opiate-tasting tongue, and bored eyes. Favian and the amontillado were both near exhaustion before he realized that he didn’t know her forename, still thought of her as Mrs. Desplein. She smiled at his question.
“Eugénie,” she said. She rolled over, resting her chin on his pectoral. “I will have to drink some lemonade with mint. Otherwise Mrs. Markham will think I’ve been at the wine.”
“I can have some lemonade sent up.”
“No. We’d have to dress.” Eugénie kissed his chest, licking his little nipples. “I still have some time. I hope we can put it to use.” Fingers pursued his quiescent manhood, detecting a hesitant response. Her kisses tracked down his chest and belly, then began to warm and encourage his growing tumescence. Favian gazed down at her bobbing head, at his hands possessing her dark, scented hair, and thanked the goddess Fortune for the appearance of this lusty Creole woman, the current personification of New Orleans and its happy carnal nature. M. Desplein must have been mad to trade her for a bullet from some dragoon bullyboy.
Satisfied with the product of her endeavors, Eugénie rose to straddle his bone-thin body, her pelvis proudly outthrust: look what I’ve got here! He sat up to kiss her breasts, her throat; she sighed as she slipped down on his lap, fitting herself to him. There was a long and energetic coupling, ending with Eugénie beneath him on the bed, her hands clutching him to her as they spasmed to completion amid a bed littered with their clothing, the blankets and sheets and pillows scattered as if by a hurricane, and somewhere two crystal wineglasses that rang against each other with each bounding movement of the mattress.
Refreshed, Eugénie jumped to her feet, a laugh on her lips. “Late. Must go. Let ’em think I was drinking, a more permissible offense than this. Ooh.” She bent over suddenly, arrested in her movement toward where her shift was draped over the brass headrailing. “Handkerchief.” She snatched at the embroidered linen on the table, and Campaspe’s gift was baptized, Eugénie dabbing clinically, peering at herself while Favian watched; there was a little frown on her face, but no trace of modesty.
“Can you come tonight?” Favian asked. She shook her head, crushed the handkerchief into a ball, tossed it on the bed.
“Best not, my love,” she said. “I’ll be working late with guests tonight, and I’ll be expected to be up when Madame rings at dawn. But tomorrow afternoon . . .” She flashed him a smile of purest lechery. “Tomorrow afternoon I shall be free.”
“I will wait,” he said. “I’ll have them bring up luncheon.” She slipped the shift over her head, her movements brisk and energetic. “Can you help me with my hair? I’ll have to put it up.”
“Of course.” He assisted with the braiding of her sweet-smelling hair, the coiling of the braids about the crown of her head; he kissed her nape. She jumped up, took her bag, and stood on tiptoe to peck him lightly. After her departure, Favian assembled his clothing, straightened the bed, and considered ordering a bath. Her scent was heavy in the room. The sun seemed very low; there was probably no time for a bath as long or luxurious as the one he wished for. A sponge bath would have to do. He went to the heavy porcelain basin, picked up the pitcher, and splashed water into the basin..
New Orleans, he reflected, was beginning to fulfill its promise.