7

Enchanté à St. Pierre

They stayed at the Hotel République, welcomed in grand fashion by the entire staff, who lined up in front. The hotel was the town’s finest and overlooked the Caribbean on Rue Petite Versailles in the heart of St. Pierre. The first reception of the evening would be held in two hours, and anticipation was in the air as workers put together the last-minute touches.

Aboard the ship early that morning, Wake picked Second Engineer Les Partington and Ensign Ed Davies to accompany him to St. Pierre, the explanation being that he wanted as many of the Omaha’s officers as possible to sample French hospitality while the ships were visiting Martinique. Besides, he admitted to himself, he was more than a little apprehensive about bringing Laporte and Grimsrud along on an overnight excursion after their obvious social success with the ladies of Fort de France.

Wake was tired but content after an amazing all-day ride through the mountains of the interior. Sights unlike any he had seen before were indelibly imprinted in his mind. Martinique was a tropical paradise and the American naval officers spent most of the ride wide-eyed, commenting on the exotic beauty of the scenery. Fortunately, their transport was a newly imported carriage with good suspension, unlike the old one used at Antigua, so the trip was not nearly as physically stressful. Though it took all day, it seemed as if it had only lasted a few hours.

Each curve of the road through the interior of the island had provided a vista that outdid its predecessor. Silvery waterfalls, verdant jungle, quaint pink villages, ragged three-thousand-foot peaks, and colorfully clothed people of every shade of skin, from pasty white to the darkest blue-black, were seen along the way. Wake’s senses were overwhelmed. Music heard while passing through villages ranged from ominous African to elegant French, the pastries they had for lunch at a plantation house were delicately exquisite, and the language was a wonderful jumble of patois from three continents. Even the air was a mixture of powerful scents, from flowers to bakeries to fetid earth.

As they passed through the villages of Balata, Absalon, and Fond St. Denis, the Americans heard stories from the driver of bravery and treachery among the island’s various inhabitants over the centuries, and marveled at how those hearty souls managed not only to survive, but to keep their French culture alive and thriving. They also heard tales of the most dreaded animal threat of the island, a blackish-brown snake called the fer de lance, that lived in the humid tropical forest, could kill with a single bite, and claimed several unwary human victims each year. Wake had a terror of snakes and his imagination started seeing them at every turn.

When the carriage had rounded the top of Morne des Cadets in the mid-afternoon after a steep two-thousand-foot climb, the travelers were treated to the breathtaking sight of Montagne Pelée, its base covering the entire northern horizon and its ridges reaching up beyond the clouds. Descending through cool mists to the valley of the Riviére Roxelane, they followed the south bank to the coast, emerging at St. Pierre as the sun lowered over the sparkling Caribbean, turning the sea from dark blue to shimmering gold.

***

“Sir, it is my honor to introduce to you my daughter, Audrey,” announced the Hotel République’s proprietor, Raoul Jason, with pride when Wake arrived in the bar after dark to meet the others before heading to the first reception. Partington and Davies looked decidedly uncomfortable in their full-dress uniforms—young Davies had to borrow half of his from other officers—and they stayed in the background as Wake took the social lead and spoke with Jason’s daughter as the guests moved into the salon.

In modest light blue dress, twenty-year-old Audrey was one of the most beautiful girls Wake had ever seen—the blood of her French father and Creole mother combining to create a lithe young woman with creamy milk-chocolate skin, long shiny black hair, and perfectly alluring brown eyes. She was scented with a delicately flowered perfume he couldn’t place. But Wake thought her physical appearance was only half her attraction.

Audrey was also a very gentle and charming person, as he found out in the ensuing conversation, for she was fluent in English and had a delicious laugh and fresh, natural smile. He found her quiet self-confidence quite attractive as she told him about the history of the hotel, the town of St. Pierre, and the island of Martinique. She told him how her father had raised her alone, since her mother had died of smallpox years earlier. It was fascinating, and before Wake realized it, almost an hour had gone by. Everything was so completely and pleasantly alien to him—a world away from the life of men aboard a warship. And a respite from depression over his marriage. Realizing he had been with only the hotelier’s daughter the whole time, his face flushed with embarrassment. He knew he had to circulate the room and talk with other guests.

“Audrey, thank you so much. You have been a wonderful guide to St. Pierre for me and we haven’t even left the room!” he said, looking into her lovely smile.

“It is my pleasure, Lieutenant. We on Martinique are great admirers of Americans and enjoy spending time with them. You are so open, without pretenses.”

Audrey’s face suddenly stiffened and her voice lost its gaiety. “Hmm. . . . Here come the Fabers. Including Catherine, I see. I will go and find my father to introduce you to them. Please excuse me, Lieutenant.”

Wake glanced around to see who she was talking about. A distinguished older couple were entering the room, accompanied by a petite woman in her mid-twenties expensively gowned in forest green. Her long brown hair was swept up in the latest Paris coif and the glittering diamonds in her earrings and necklace accentuated a sad-eyed face, as if she held some dark grief. Wake wondered if a loved one had died recently and, if so, why she wasn’t wearing black according to custom. She was the precise opposite of Audrey, more fragile and unsure but stunningly beautiful also, and every man in the room watched her glide across the floor behind the older couple.

“Ah, yes,” called out Raoul Jason as he emerged from the crowd. “Monsieur et Madame Faber, et Madame Catherine. How very lovely you ladies look this evening. Thank you for gracing our humble reception.” The older man mumbled something in French, then abruptly departed the room as his wife went to a woman friend in the corner, leaving the young lady alone in the middle of the room. Jason deftly guided her toward Wake, who couldn’t retreat and wondered what to say.

As Jason introduced Catherine Faber de Champlain to Wake the young lady’s face slowly creased into a smile, more of duty than enjoyment. Wake learned that she was the wife of Monsieur Faber’s younger brother and had been visiting for the last month from France before returning to Europe to join her husband in Genoa, where he was newly posted as the French consul general. Jason further explained that Catherine spoke English, Spanish, and Italian in addition to her native tongue and therefore he hoped they could take pleasure in a conversation. Having fulfilled his social responsibility, Jason moved on around the room.

“Enchanté, Madame Faber,” Wake said, trying to look and sound more elegant than he felt. He felt the urge to make her smile, a real smile, so he tried to make a joke.

“I am headed to the European Squadron of our navy, so perhaps you can teach me some things to say in those languages that will not get me in trouble.”

Another forced smile fleetingly crossed her face. “Just never say the following, Lieutenant, unless you truly mean it—Je t’aime.”

Her tone was sadly serious and Wake realized his joke had fallen flat. “I’m afraid you already have me at a disadvantage, Madame Faber, for I don’t know that particular phrase.”

“It is French for ‘I love you,’ Lieutenant. It is cruelly overused as a ruse de guerre between men and women and too often believed by the intended victim.”

He instantly knew she was speaking for herself, explaining her apparent melancholy. He replied gently, “Then I promise to stay with the words I know, madame. They all start with bon. Like ‘bonjour, bon appetit, and bon voyage.’ I don’t think they could hurt. Would that be safe for both people in the conversation?”

He was rewarded with a genuine giggle as her face softened. “Yes, Lieutenant. I think that you will be quite safe with those words, and depending on where and when you say them, you may very well inject a little good humor into the conversation. You Americans are so wonderfully naïfs. So different from Europeans.”

“Naïve, madame? Sometimes it is better to be that way. At least it’s more comfortable to not know what’s impossible before you attempt it.”

Her eyes held his as her hand touched his arm. “You Americans are becoming famous for accomplishing the impossible. But I must warn you about being naïf, Lieutenant . . .”

He felt himself being drawn into her dark blue, almost indigo, eyes. “Yes, madame?”

“When you go to the Continent the women will love you for being naïf, but the men will despise you for it. They will think you weak and vulnerable. They try to take advantage of the weak and vulnerable, Lieutenant. Be very careful.”

Wake nodded his acknowledgment, so surprised by the change in her tone and sincerity of her warning that he couldn’t form a reply.

“And, Lieutenant,” she said as her smile returned, this one gentle, “it would please me greatly if you called me by my given Christian name of Catherine.”

“All right, Catherine,” Wake answered, still mesmerized by her eyes. His words seemed to come from someone else. “Please call me Peter.”

He dimly heard dinner being announced by a man in the doorway, then felt Catherine’s arm entwine around his. Without a further word they walked amid the guests to the banquet room, oblivious to the observations being made about the Yankee naval officer and the diplomat’s wife.

At dinner, Wake was seated at the table with the governor and admiral, with Catherine beside him. Her brother- and sister-in-law were to her other side, Monsieur Faber occasionally studying the American next to his brother’s wife. Wake became engaged in conversations with every man present, mainly about political situations in the United States and in Europe, but he couldn’t help now and then stealing a glance at Catherine next to him.

The French naval officers wanted to know about his wartime blockade assignments, and an artillery colonel was eager to hear how Yankee ships had defeated the Confederate forts. They asked his assessment of the Spanish navy, which he politely dodged, changing the subject instead to steam machinery. When Wake was able to speak with her, he saw that Catherine had the disconcerting habit of looking directly into his eyes. Her smile melted him inside.

He also saw that Audrey, seated at another table, was watching him with a look of concern. Wake knew he was on the verge of trouble, but he couldn’t stop glancing at Catherine. Worse, he did not want to stop.

After dinner, the third locale of the all-night gala was the theater—a block’s stroll down the street in the moonlight. The mass of gaily tipsy people arrived at the theater and noisily filed inside for a performance by the local symphony. Catherine and Wake were still together, arm in arm, an hour later while Paul Mas introduced Wake to various dignitaries and artists during the intermission, lastly bringing him to a large-framed man with darting eyes named François Lessere. He was patron of the theater and owner of the most well-known plantation and rum distillery on the island.

“Bienvenue á Martinique, Lieutenant. I trust that you are having a good time?” said Lessere perfunctorily while staring Catherine’s bosom with undisguised lust.

“Yes. I have found most of the people of Martinique to be as enchanting as the scenery,” said Wake, angry at the man’s indecent leering.

“Yes, our scenery is very beautiful.” Lessere’s gaze shifted to Wake. “But only most of the people, Lieutenant? We pride ourselves on the beauty of our women and on the strength and honor of our men. You evidently have met some who did not measure up? They were probably not from here. Probably foreigners.”

“I’ve met only one man who acted less than honorably, Lessere. And yes, he is from here,” Wake replied evenly, deliberately omitting Monsieur.

Lessere leveled his gaze and cocked his head. “I hope then that you do not underestimate that man as an enemy, Lieutenant. You Americans are unfortunately known for that.”

Wake smiled. “Yes, well, so were the Mexicans until eighteen-sixty-two—on Cinco de Mayo if my memory serves well, when they proved themselves superior to some Europeans who had occupied their country. You know, Lessere, we Americans greatly admired their ability in that particular war.” He turned to Catherine as Lessere’s face darkened. “Would you like to get some fresh air, Madame Faber? It’s a bit musty in here suddenly. Smells badly.”

As they walked out to the balcony she squeezed his arm. “Perhaps you are not as naïf as I first thought, Peter Wake. Lessere is a pig whose only protection is his money. You understood that immediately, did you not?”

“Catherine, Americans may be naïve but we aren’t stupid. A pig acts the same in any culture, my dear.”

“Just remember, Peter, that some pigs have tusks. Lessere is one of them.”

***

During the fourth reception Wake danced with her three times, when the local dandies weren’t trying to get her attention and cutting in on him. They finally sat at a table, where their talk centered on his wife and children. He spoke of how he and Linda had met and eventually married during the war years, but he avoided the current crisis in his marriage. Catherine listened closely, expressing empathy for a woman whose husband was gone from her so much. She added that someday she would like to meet the lady who had captured his heart so many years earlier.

She did not speak of her husband, his work, or her new home in Genoa, explaining that those were boring subjects and she wanted to know more about him. She seemed to be genuinely interested—not in the war stories most women asked him to tell, but about his personal opinions and hopes and regrets. Wake knew he was talking more than usual, having never drunk that much wine and cognac before. He also knew he should stop drinking as well as stop talking, but just couldn’t bring himself to end the euphoria. It was such a wonderful feeling to have a beautiful woman to look at, to care about what he had to say, to softly touch his arm. He missed feminine company far more than he had realized during the incessant work aboard ship.

The designated clock for the countdown to midnight was the governor’s pocket watch, and while he loudly led the guests in calling out the descending time, stewards snuffed out the candles. At the moment of midnight the last of the candles was extinguished and the hall became completely dark. Everyone embraced the nearest person of the opposite gender as they shouted, “Bonne année and bonne santé.”

In the cloaking darkness Wake held Catherine initially at a polite distance, until she pressed nearer, placing her hip against his. Then he surrendered to the effect of the wine and the moment and his loneliness—pulling her close and savoring the caress of her soft warm body, her head against his shoulder.

“Thank you for being so kind and gentle tonight, Peter. I had forgotten how wonderful it feels when a man can be that way,” she whispered in his ear as her fingers went around his waist. “I can feel sadness in you, Peter. Sadness that you have not spoken of but is hurting you inside. I hope it goes away.”

The room was being reilluminated by the stewards as he tried to reply, his words jumbling together in his lightheadedness. “Catherine, I don’t know what to say or do right now, except that I don’t want to let you go.”

She made no reply, but she gently pushed herself away. As the revelers returned to their tables she said, loud enough for others to hear, “Lieutenant, you have acquitted the United States Navy as a gallant gentleman very well tonight. It is obvious how your navy has the reputation it enjoys. I thank you so much for taking time to dine and converse with me this evening. It has been very enjoyable and I wish you good fortune.”

Wake was taken aback at the change of manner, then noticed that Catherine’s in-laws, and Lessere, were watching them intently from the corner.

“It was delightful for me as well, Madame Faber,” he answered with a slight bow.

“Perhaps we shall meet again, Lieutenant. I shall hope to introduce you to my husband if you ever get to Genoa. And now I must leave and go home with my brother-in-law and his wife.” She gave him a parting neutral smile, but added a quiet aside before she turned away. “Au revoir, Peter.” Then she walked toward her in-laws as calmly as if they were all in church.

Wake stood watching them leave as he pondered what he was sure had been a fleeting personal message in her eyes when she uttered her last words.

Audrey appeared at his side, startling him as she nodded toward the Fabers. “You have no experience with French women, do you, Lieutenant?”

“Experience? Well, no, of course not. I don’t have . . . experience . . . with any, ah. . . You see, Audrey . . .” he stammered without finding the right words.

“Madame Faber did not say goodbye to you, Lieutenant. She said until we meet again.”

Wake felt a flush of warmth on his cheeks. He worried that he had made a fool of himself and that Audrey, and probably everyone else, had seen him. “Yes, well, of course that is totally impossible, Audrey. I leave tomorrow and she is going to Italy soon. Besides, she is a charming lady but married. And I am very married. I can’t imagine she meant it that way and am absolutely sure she didn’t mean anything improper at all.”

Audrey’s expression indicated that she wasn’t impressed by his remonstrations.

“St. Pierre has a way of enchanting people. The Creole people say it is the aura of Montagne Pelée that makes us do things we normally would not do, especially on a night such as tonight, with the moon and the wine and the music. It gives you thoughts that make you nervous. You appear nervous, Lieutenant,” she said ruefully. “I think you have come under that enchantment.”

“Audrey, that’s ridiculous. Really now. . . .”

She looked at him and shook her head slowly. “I don’t think it matters at this point who is married, Lieutenant Wake. At this point it only matters what Catherine Faber wants. And, as they say in France, we have only to wait, for time will tell what life will bring.”

Audrey waved to her father, then turned to Wake before walking away.

“Bonne chance, Lieutenant.”

He was standing there, attempting to understand what had happened when young Ensign Davies came up to him and draped an arm around one shoulder, breath reeking as he displayed a lopsided grin and slurred, “Helllloo there, shur . . . Looie-tenant friggin’ Wake! One hellova party, shur. Thansh sho mush for ashing me to come. These frog-eatin’ Frenchies may be panshies in a war, but by God the bashtards do know how to throw a great friggin’ party, don’t they, shur?”

Wake took Davies’ arm off his shoulder and leaned close to the ensign’s ear, growling, “Mr. Davies, you have five seconds to get yourself together before I determine punishment for conduct unbecoming an officer, insubordination, and public drunkenness.”

Terror instantly filled Davies’ eyes as he realized what he had just done and said. He quickly stood at attention. “Very shorry, shur! I’ll get Mr. Partington ready to get under way for the hotel, shur.”

“Do that right now, Mr. Davies, and get out of my sight.”

The ensign’s conduct angered Wake, but what really scared him was his own behavior with Catherine. It was as if something had taken over his mind and body. He had come close—very close—to crossing the line with her. He realized that perhaps Audrey was right about falling under the spell of the island. Suddenly the enchantment Wake had known ever since arriving at St. Pierre was replaced by a wary dread of meeting Catherine Faber again.

And he had the dismaying feeling that he would—and the even more dismaying feeling that he fervently hoped so.