another country. Nicolas' hazel eyes gleamed with anger as he drew himself up stiffly. The moments stretched out as the two men faced each other. Then Nicolas took a deep breath and visibly relaxed, forcing a laugh. He gestured at the gold on the table in front of Guy.
"Every man knows the saying. Lucky at dice, unlucky at love. I don't believe you'll marry her, before or after Mardi Gras."
All eyes swung to Guy. A quiver of fury swept through him. Dieu , how he hated this man. Nothing but a challenge could satisfy him now. He started to speak but his words were lost in the roar of cannon. Everyone started.
"The guns!" Gabriel shouted. "We must drink the toasts."
Abandoning the gaming tables, the men hurried to the dining room where candles gleamed in the silver chandeliers overhead. Wine sparkled in crystal decanters and stemmed glasses. Gold braid glinted on military uniforms.
Luis Cirillo raised his glass of white champagne. "To the First Consul of France, Napoleon Bonaparte," he said. "To the French Republic."
The two land batteries and the Argo's cannon boomed through a twenty one gun salvo while the men drank, standing.
After all the glasses were empty, Pierre de Laussat picked up a goblet of rose champagne. "To King Charles of Spain," he said. All drank again while the guns roared.
De Laussat's eyes fastened on his young aide and Guy frowned. What toast did the prefet expect of him? De Laussat inclined his head toward the wine on the table. Guy took a deep breath, realizing the toast must be to what was to come.
Guy reached for a glass of white champagne and raised it. "To President Thomas Jefferson," he cried. "To the United States of America.”
There was a moment's silence. He saw de Laussat's approval, Andre Lafreniere's sardonic glance, Gabriel's raised eyebrows and the mocking smile of Nicolas Roulleaux. Then everyone lifted their glasses and drank as the cannon continued their salute.
Nicolas grabbed a glass. "To the fair and lovely ladies of all countries," he said.
With wild shouts of approval, the men drank, glasses raised in complete agreement.
For the moment.
Chapter 2
The day was clear, the weather mild after the rain. Guy sauntered down along the banquette, the plank sidewalk, past delicately colored two story houses of blue and peach and pale green stuccoed over brick. Across the street a Negro woman, a slave, emerged from one of the tall glass doors onto the lower gallery.
The contrast of dark skin with her red tignon , the madras handkerchief tied over her head, was pleasing to the eye. The Spanish hadn’t succeeded in humbling the Creoles of color with Governor Miro’s ordinance twenty five years before that forced tignons onto the heads of Louisiana women of color, free or slave. None had dared to appear in public without a tignon since then, but female ingenuity had made them ornaments to enhance the beauty of the women.
The slave sloshed water from a bucket across the wooden floor, once, twice. Through the iron scrolls of the carriage gate, Guy caught a glimpse of a banana tree rising in a courtyard. A small yellow bird flew through the space between the tip of the gates and the archway above and soared into the washed blue of the sky.
Blue as the Spanish eyes of Senalda Gabaldon. Guy’s steps slowed as he remembered dancing with her last night, for one dance only. Ah, how beautiful she was, but how aloof. She wished to return to what she called the "civility of Madrid."
He'd have his work cut out convincing her she should stay in New Orleans and marry him. Before Mardi Gras. Not merely because he'd openly announced his intentions, but because he wanted Senalda for a wife. After seeing her, only she would do. He hadn't seriously considered marriage before meeting her.
"Un bon placage vaut mieux qu'un mauvais manage ." A good placage is better than a bad marriage. He muttered the words under his breath. Wasn't it possible for both to be good? He was no
"Every man knows the saying. Lucky at dice, unlucky at love. I don't believe you'll marry her, before or after Mardi Gras."
All eyes swung to Guy. A quiver of fury swept through him. Dieu , how he hated this man. Nothing but a challenge could satisfy him now. He started to speak but his words were lost in the roar of cannon. Everyone started.
"The guns!" Gabriel shouted. "We must drink the toasts."
Abandoning the gaming tables, the men hurried to the dining room where candles gleamed in the silver chandeliers overhead. Wine sparkled in crystal decanters and stemmed glasses. Gold braid glinted on military uniforms.
Luis Cirillo raised his glass of white champagne. "To the First Consul of France, Napoleon Bonaparte," he said. "To the French Republic."
The two land batteries and the Argo's cannon boomed through a twenty one gun salvo while the men drank, standing.
After all the glasses were empty, Pierre de Laussat picked up a goblet of rose champagne. "To King Charles of Spain," he said. All drank again while the guns roared.
De Laussat's eyes fastened on his young aide and Guy frowned. What toast did the prefet expect of him? De Laussat inclined his head toward the wine on the table. Guy took a deep breath, realizing the toast must be to what was to come.
Guy reached for a glass of white champagne and raised it. "To President Thomas Jefferson," he cried. "To the United States of America.”
There was a moment's silence. He saw de Laussat's approval, Andre Lafreniere's sardonic glance, Gabriel's raised eyebrows and the mocking smile of Nicolas Roulleaux. Then everyone lifted their glasses and drank as the cannon continued their salute.
Nicolas grabbed a glass. "To the fair and lovely ladies of all countries," he said.
With wild shouts of approval, the men drank, glasses raised in complete agreement.
For the moment.
Chapter 2
The day was clear, the weather mild after the rain. Guy sauntered down along the banquette, the plank sidewalk, past delicately colored two story houses of blue and peach and pale green stuccoed over brick. Across the street a Negro woman, a slave, emerged from one of the tall glass doors onto the lower gallery.
The contrast of dark skin with her red tignon , the madras handkerchief tied over her head, was pleasing to the eye. The Spanish hadn’t succeeded in humbling the Creoles of color with Governor Miro’s ordinance twenty five years before that forced tignons onto the heads of Louisiana women of color, free or slave. None had dared to appear in public without a tignon since then, but female ingenuity had made them ornaments to enhance the beauty of the women.
The slave sloshed water from a bucket across the wooden floor, once, twice. Through the iron scrolls of the carriage gate, Guy caught a glimpse of a banana tree rising in a courtyard. A small yellow bird flew through the space between the tip of the gates and the archway above and soared into the washed blue of the sky.
Blue as the Spanish eyes of Senalda Gabaldon. Guy’s steps slowed as he remembered dancing with her last night, for one dance only. Ah, how beautiful she was, but how aloof. She wished to return to what she called the "civility of Madrid."
He'd have his work cut out convincing her she should stay in New Orleans and marry him. Before Mardi Gras. Not merely because he'd openly announced his intentions, but because he wanted Senalda for a wife. After seeing her, only she would do. He hadn't seriously considered marriage before meeting her.
"Un bon placage vaut mieux qu'un mauvais manage ." A good placage is better than a bad marriage. He muttered the words under his breath. Wasn't it possible for both to be good? He was no
Similar Books
The Whole of My World
Nicole Hayes
Death of an Old Sinner
Dorothy Salisbury Davis
Divine Invasions: A Life of Philip K. Dick
Lawrence Sutin
Stripped Bare
Susan Mac Nicol
Waggit Forever
Peter Howe
Back In His Arms
Kay Brody
End of Eternity 3
Loretta Lost
New Beginnings
Brandy L Rivers
The Vampyre
Tom Holland
Gemini Summer
Iain Lawrence