18

NEW ORLEANS
FEBRUARY 1779

Christmas came and went in the Gonzales household, in a flurry of gift-giving, dancing, and singing of carols. The weather was mostly rainy and mild, with intermittent blasts of wind cold enough to freeze puddles and make walking to the market a hazardous adventure.

Lyse would have enjoyed the festivities, had she not been uncomfortably aware that everyone in the family seemed to expect a betrothal announcement at any moment. She and Rafa had settled into an uneasy friendship. Sometimes she caught an odd expression in his eyes, but whenever she probed, he would make some joke, effectively quashing intimacy. Avoiding the subject of betrothals, they worked on the letter to Daisy; he delivered it safely and brought back a message, the details of which seemed to please the governor so much that they took time to put together another.

Most days, Rafa immersed himself in business activities that took him to Oliver Pollock’s office or the waterfront—activities which involved much haggling, consumption of ale, and inspecting of goods. Rafa was good at both layers of his job, the overt and the clandestine, and he clearly enjoyed the mental and physical exertion. Often he arrived home in the wee hours of the night, long after the rest of the family had gone to bed, then awakened with the roosters crowing in the market and departed to begin the cycle again.

One evening toward the middle of February, Lyse, Sofía, and the elder Gonzaleses had been invited to a Mardi Gras ball at the Chartres Street home of Rafa’s colleague, Oliver Pollock. The carriage stopped, its door opened, and she stepped down to find Rafa waiting to escort her up the stairs to the grand front entrance. She took his arm, gave him a searching look, and said quietly, “You look tired. Or ill. What’s wrong?”

He gave her an amused glance. “Did anyone not teach you that pointing out bloodshot eyes and gray complexion is not the most tactful way to start a conversation, Miss Lanier?”

She smiled. “True, but I never have time to talk to you anymore. If I want to know something, I must ask when I get the chance.”

He glanced around at the crowd of guests ahead of and behind them in the receiving line. “I’m sorry if you’re feeling neglected.”

“I’m not neglected,” she said irritably, “but there are things we need to talk about. There are expectations—not mine, of course, but your sister keeps asking me—” She stopped, wishing she hadn’t started this conversation. It was humiliating. She began to have a glimmer of what Isabelle Dussouy had been through with her father—except in that case, there had been a beautiful woman named Cerise who had created the distraction. To her knowledge, Rafa had no liaisons on the side.

But what, really, did she know about what he did all day and night? There was an intelligent, brave, warm man inside him . . . somewhere. But she had seen no sign of him for so long, she was beginning to wonder if he was a figment of her imagination.

“She asks you . . . ?” Rafa’s tone was gentle.

“Never mind. It’s not important.” She gave him the brilliant, coquettish smile she’d learned from Sofía. “We are here to have a good time and learn all the juicy gossip we can. When we get inside, you must introduce me to someone you want me to pump for information.”

They had paused just inside the Pollocks’ grand foyer, waiting for their turn to speak to the host and hostess. Rafa looked down at her for a moment, his jaw shifting, his eyes unreadable.

“Don’t ever say that you are not important to me,” he finally said under his breath. “I know it’s been . . . difficult. My sister must be hectoring the daylights out of you, wanting to know when we will announce our betrothal, but she is just going to have to be patient. The French fleet under the comte d’Estaing is even now gathering in the West Indies. There are events coming that will change the shape of the world as we know it. Events that keep me from—from speaking what I want to. But I have to say—” He suddenly grinned, the old Rafa clearly in evidence. “I’m glad you care. There’s nothing sadder than being away for a period of time and coming back to find that nobody noticed.”

NEW ORLEANS
JUNE 1779

Rafa made two more trips to Mobile, one in March and another in April. Both times he came back with word that Daisy was holding her own—had, in fact, won some degree of freedom from her father. She was teaching again, free to visit Lyse’s family in Spring Hill—the Bay Minette property had been abandoned, since Antoine remained incarcerated in the guardhouse of Fort Charlotte—and she reported that Luc-Antoine, now eight years old, was growing beyond all recognition.

More importantly, at least in Gálvez’s view, was her documentation that the British were refitting defenses and building infantry in Pensacola, as well as the Mississippi River forts at Manchac and Natchez. Forces in Mobile, however, had been allowed to lapse into a baffling state of disrepair. Daisy had heard her father express his fear that the Americans would attack downriver from the Ohio Valley. She also confirmed information from other sources that British strategy involved a preemptive pincer invasion south from Detroit and up the Mississippi from Pensacola and Jamaica, encircling the rebellious North American colonies.

Armed with this information, Gálvez had been preparing for Spain’s entry into the war—and he was convinced it was coming soon. In April, Minister of State Floridablanca had issued an ultimatum to Great Britain that she acknowledge the independence of the United States of America and cede Gibraltar and Minorca back to Spain or be willing to suffer the consequences of Spain’s alliance with France. In May, Britain rejected the ultimatum.

In early June, knowing it was likely only a matter of weeks before Madrid declared war, Gálvez called his staff together—including Rafa, to his utter surprise. He arrived at the Cabildo well before the appointed time and found his father already in Gálvez’s office, in conversation with Major General Girón, chief of staff.

Rafa’s father bowed to him, stiffly. “Good morning, my son. I do not have time for you now, as I am about to meet with the governor. Perhaps later—”

“Father, Governor Gálvez wanted to see me too.”

“What? I do not understand. This is a meeting of officers.”

Girón clapped Rafa on the shoulder. “The time has come to bring you out of the shadows. Tell your father what you have been up to for the last three years.”

Fortunately, since Rafa had no idea where to begin, Gálvez arrived, along with two other officers, and the meeting convened.

Gálvez stood behind his desk, tall, commanding, and remarkably young for one with so much responsibility. “Gentlemen, I expect within a very short time to receive official confirmation of Spain’s declaration of war against England. I intend to be ready to launch our attack when that happens. Troops have already landed in Havana, and they will arrive here shortly. We must be prepared to feed them. Girón and I have decided to send young Rippardá to Béxar, Texas, with authorization to drive two thousand longhorns here.”

Rafa had been given some odd assignments over the past three years. This one was a little outside his milieu—he understood ships much better than livestock—but he knew better than to argue with Gálvez. “Yes, sir.”

Apparently his father had no such qualms. “Gálvez, I love my son, but you’re giving this responsibility to a civilian?”

Amusement lit Gálvez’s eyes. “It’s time you learned, Colonel Gonzales, that your son is much more than a civilian. He has been serving his country without a word of credit or thanks since he returned from the academy, and I am now promoting him to lieutenant as an official member of my staff.”

“Sir? I don’t understand.” Poor Papa looked bewildered—as indeed Rafa felt. “Are you saying that Rafael has been performing some undercover assignment, gadding about at the behest of that Irish salesman, Pollock?”

“I’m saying that a great deal of what we know about British strategy and movement is a direct result of your son’s character, courage, and ingenuity. His performance has been a credit to his upbringing and training. You are to be congratulated.”

Rafa met his father’s eyes and found there a most peculiar expression. It almost looked like pride. Slowly the colonel stood. His hand rose to form a salute.

Rafa bolted to his feet and returned the salute, then faced Gálvez. “Sir, when do you want me to leave?”

“Be packed and headed out by daybreak tomorrow. Time is of the essence.” Gálvez handed him a sealed missive. “Here is your requisition for the commander at Béxar. If he asks about payment, tell him that Navarre in Havana will work that out with him later. Oh, and report to the supply officer for a uniform.”

Rafa nodded, saluted Gálvez, and quit the office, thoughts boiling. Tomorrow. He had less than a day to prepare for the journey—and another two-month separation from Lyse.

Pollock wasn’t going to like this new assignment either. The Irishman had grown accustomed to depending on Rafa to handle day-to-day errands related to the business when he was in New Orleans, as well as captaining periodic lucrative jaunts into ports along the Gulf of Mexico.

With Rafa’s responsibilities shifting from espionage to overt military operations, he no longer owed direct obedience to the American agent. But, as a friend, he did owe him an explanation. With that in mind, he directed his steps to Chartres Street. He hoped Pollock would still be at home, so that he could begin his new assignment with a clear conscience. Then he must go home to pack.

Surely Lyse would understand his new duties—as a lieutenant! He must begin to think of himself as an officer in the Spanish army.

He wondered how she would like being a military wife. The thought was amusing. She was such a funny mixture of fearless intellect, whimsy, and tenderness. In fact, he couldn’t wait to tell her about the look on his father’s face when the old man discovered the truth, and share a laugh.

His pace quickened. He would miss her, but two months would go by quickly.

Lyse stood in the center of her beautiful bedroom. She could have walked around and touched the accoutrements of a wealth and prestige that separated her from her family more effectively than did the hundred or so miles of coastline between New Orleans and Mobile. Sometimes the excitement and glamour of her life, the sense that she was part of something grand and world-changing, dulled the ache of longing to kiss Rémy’s damp cheek or smooth Genny’s hair. But six beautiful dresses in a mahogany wardrobe couldn’t erase the contents of the letter on the desk under the window.

She had to do something about it. She would do something. But what?

She walked toward the desk and stared at the letter as if it were one of the water moccasins that used to crawl under the porch of the Bay Minette cottage. Poison. Evil. Rafa had once called Isabelle Dussouy a she-devil, and the epithet wasn’t far from the truth.

Lyse had known the danger of leaving Luc-Antoine under the woman’s control, but there had been no alternative at the time. Now . . . now she might be far away, but she had powerful allies, and she had a powerful God who had already done great things for her. Slowly she reached for Daisy’s letter, understanding how Moses must have felt when commanded to pick up the serpent by the tail.

She closed her eyes for one more desperate prayer, then walked downstairs to the family sitting room, where Sofía and Doña Evangelina had been finishing tea while she went to her room to read her letter in privacy. She had to find Rafa, because she was going to need the governor’s help, and he would be the quickest way in to see the busy official. Her days of daily interaction with the governor’s staff had dwindled to a bi-weekly briefing with Madame Gálvez. But because she didn’t presume upon the acquaintance, she knew he would see her if she asked.

At the landing of the stairs, she stopped, heart thudding. Rafa was here. She’d know his voice among a thousand men. It came from the sitting room, so she hurried to the doorway and stopped there, suddenly uncertain, seeing him in conversation with his mother and sister. He never came home in the middle of the day. Something must be wrong.

As if he sensed her presence, he turned, his expression lighting and that beautiful crease in his cheek appearing. He didn’t look worried at all.

She walked toward him, drawn like iron filings to a magnet. “Rafa? What are you doing here?”

He took her hands and kissed one, then the other, drawing her apart from Sofía and Doña Evangelina. “I came to say goodbye,” he said cheerfully. “The governor is sending me off to Texas.” He laughed. “It seems I am to be a temporary vaquero, of all things. Just what I went to the naval academy for.”

“You’re leaving?” she said stupidly. “For Texas? How long will you be gone?” It didn’t matter how long. By the time he got back, it would be too late. Luc-Antoine could be dead. Maybe the governor would see her, but he was so busy . . .

Rafa must have seen her distress, for his smile disappeared. “What is it?”

She showed him the letter. Her hand was shaking so badly the paper rattled. “I got this today, from Daisy. All that information she gave us about the walls of the fort . . . She discovered it when Luc-Antoine started climbing in to see Papa. Madame Dussouy caught him leaving one night and whipped him, then went to Major Redmond to tell him what was going on. Now she won’t even let Luc-Antoine go to Grandpére’s house on Sundays, and Major Redmond moved Papa to a solitary cell and put him back on short rations. He also tightened up Daisy’s restriction to the fort again. She had to sneak this letter out through Corporal Tully—” Feeling as if she were drowning, she gulped for air. “There probably won’t be more letters after this.”

Rafa’s hands squeezed hers tightly, his eyes grim. “Don’t worry. We’ll do something.”

“Don’t worry? Rafa, you don’t understand how much she hates us. She’ll kill Luc-Antoine, by the slowest, most devious method she can think of! How could I have let him go to her to begin with—”

“It’s not your fault,” Rafa interrupted. “Lyse! Listen to me—I’ll see Gálvez again before I leave, convince him to send Simon back to get Luc-Antoine.”

“What about Daisy?” Lyse felt tears flood her eyes, hot and out of control. “Oh, her papa will be so angry! What if he finds out she has been writing to me?”

Rafa released her fingers to catch her face in his hands. “Simon will bring her out too, if that’s necessary. You’ve got to trust us.” He kissed her trembling lips, gently and briefly. “Now I really have to go finish packing, if I’m going to have time to speak to Gálvez about this.” He kissed her again, once on each wet cheek. “You’re salty,” he murmured, letting her taste for herself. “I love you, mi corazón.”

When she opened her eyes again, he was gone, leaving her alone with the other two women.

“Why does the woman—this Madame Dussouy—why does she hate you so much?” asked Sofía.

MOBILE
JUNE 6, 1779

Daisy could hardly breathe. She sat in the rocking chair in her quarters, listening to the rain beat on the roof and knitting a perfectly useless sock, which no one in his right mind would wear—except possibly Niall, and she couldn’t have said he was in his right mind, anyway. If she didn’t get outside soon, her own wits might go begging, like the Pelican girl Ysabeau Bonnet who, legend claimed, used to wander about the settlement of Mobile dressed only in her undergarments.

She had given the letter to Lyse into Corporal Tully’s care over a week ago, and she had no idea if it had arrived or if it lay at the bottom of the Gulf of Mexico. Tully said he’d sent it on a Dutch mail packet headed for New Orleans, but there were no guarantees of delivery.

There were no guarantees of anything, she knew that. By some standards, of course, her life was comfortable. She had plenty to eat—should she ever develop an appetite again—and the room in which she was imprisoned was quite comfortable, if one discounted that incessant rattle of rain.

But she had gotten desperately tired of her own company since Papa had curtailed her movements and company. Only Tully and Niall were allowed to speak to her, and then only when they brought meals. Neither would give her any information about Antoine, Luc-Antoine, old Mr. Chaz, or Justine and the children—not even about her students, whom she’d had to once more give up teaching. Certainly nothing about what was going on in the outside world concerning the war.

The commander’s daughter was a prisoner in effect, if not officially.

She didn’t know why, unless they’d discovered her writing to Lyse in code. And how they would have known that was a mystery. Tully claimed not to know why she was contained to quarters, though he wouldn’t meet her eyes. Niall simply ignored her questions as if she hadn’t spoken. She’d gotten so hungry for information she’d begun exploring ways to get out of the officers’ barracks. Yesterday she’d started to climb out the window, but seeing a cadet lounging beneath, smoking a cheap cigar and paring his fingernails, she’d quickly pulled her head back inside, heart pounding. Perhaps she wasn’t as brave as she had thought.

Now she sat here as twilight fell, thinking about Luc-Antoine and Cain, and all the possible methods Isabelle Dussouy was capable of inventing to make them miserable. And she thought about Antoine, chained in a hastily constructed outhouse near the fort’s foundry, subject to suffocation from its smoke and fumes, as well as rising water from the torrents of rain they’d had in the last week. She couldn’t fathom what created the heartless stone that seemed to have come to rest where her father’s humanity used to reside. Duty was one thing, but every sense cried out at this relentless pursuit of retribution.

She sat praying and knitting until there was no longer enough light to see her work, and she was too tired to get up and light a candle. She must have fallen asleep with her head against the back of the rocker, for something, a thumping noise at the window, woke her with a jerk. There was another noise, this time a muffled groan, and she threw down her yarn and needles and jumped to her feet. The room was dark as Hades, but her pupils had adjusted after her nap, so she could see shadows where her bed sat against the wall and the white curtains she’d put up last summer.

“Who’s there?” She felt frozen, her feet blocks of ice incapable of moving. There was no answer, just the rain, now slackened to a soft patter. Her breath came in quick pants, and she could feel every pulse of blood in her throat.

Then she realized it was someone else’s breathing she heard. A moving shadow in the window.

“Daisy? Don’t scream. It’s me.”

She almost screamed anyway, keeping control of her throat with superhuman effort. Finally she choked out, “Simon?”

“Yes.” He had her in his arms, held fast against wet clothing, his heart thudding heavily under her ear.

She wanted to climb inside him. She clung to him, crying, incapable of understanding why he was here, what happened to the guard outside her window, what he was saying.

It was “I love you” that finally reached her. She tipped up her face, let him kiss her, fell into an ocean of joy that all but drowned her.

When she came to, she was sitting in his lap in the rocker. Her mouth felt bruised, but she didn’t care, and the rain from his shirt had seeped into her dress, but she didn’t care about that either, and he was holding her face, breathing hard, as if he’d run a long way.

“Daisy, stop,” he said for the third time.

“What?” She felt drunk, though she’d never been drunk before.

“We have to go. I hit the guard pretty hard, but he’s going to eventually wake up, and we . . . oh, Daisy. I mean, we really have to go.”

“All right. Let me just . . . do I have time to leave a note for my father?”

“No! For heaven’s sake, no! I found that place on the wall Luc-Antoine told you about. It’s still not guarded, can you believe it—so we’re going out that way, but you know they’ll come after us, so we have to make as much time tonight as we can.”

“All right,” she said again. Papa would just have to wonder where she’d gone. It would serve him right for the way he’d treated her.

Simon laughed softly and pulled her arms from around his neck, kissed her quickly, and pushed her off his lap. “You’re a handful, young lady. No wonder your papa kept you locked up.”

“Only for you,” she said with a giggle that felt very odd. She hadn’t laughed in a long time.