The ride home was torturous, Philippe suffering every bit as much as Justin. He was terrified that Justin would die.
“Why did you want to fight Louis?” Philippe asked in bewilderment when they were halfway home. “Do you hate him that much?”
Now that the bleeding had stopped, Justin was feeling more clear-headed. “I just wanted to fight,” he said, his voice weak. “It feels so good. I want to fight all the time.”
“Why?”
“It satisfies something inside me— I don’t know what it is.”
“Something inside that wants you to destroy yourself,” Phillipe said. “But I won’t let you, Justin. I can’t lose you.”
Justin knew that Philippe said more to him, but suddenly the words became indistinguishable sounds, and he felt his eyes begin to roll back in his head. He drifted in and out of a strange dream. They were at the house and hands were reaching up to him, and he was falling into a deep purple sea, being carried away on the crest of a wave. His head ached, his side hurt. He felt like a little boy again. Gently he was lowered to his bed, his head dropping to the pillow, and he rested for what seemed to be hours until he was awakened by a terrible sense of aloneness.
“Mon père,” he whispered, moving his hand restlessly until it was enfolded in a large, strong one. The vital force of that grip seemed to bring him back to his senses. He saw his father’s tense face, and the tenderness in his eyes. It made no sense, but it seemed that as long as his father held his hand, he would be safe. Sensing Justin’s need, Max did not let go of him, not even in the presence of the doctor.
Justin writhed in pain as the wound was being cleaned, but he kept silent, sweat dripping off his face. It felt as if a burning poker were twisting in his side. “Aren’t you finished yet?” he asked when he could stand no more. His father held and soothed him while the doctor finished. They gave Justin a foul-tasting medicine after he was bandaged, and he insisted on taking the glass in his own hand. His father slid an arm behind his neck and lifted his head up, helping him to drink. Justin found it utterly humiliating.
“Aren’t you going to shout and give me hell?” he croaked when the last of the bitter medicine was gone.
“Hell will arrive tomorrow,” Max said, carefully rearranging the covers over him. “Right now I’m just relieved that you’re all right.”
Justin yawned widely, the medicine making him sleepy. His eyes flew open as he felt Max’s weight shift. “Are you leaving?”
“No, mon fils.”
“You can if you want,” Justin muttered, even though he yearned for him to stay.
“I wouldn’t leave you for any reason,” came his father’s quiet reply, and Justin relaxed in relief. He reached out for his father’s hand once more, and fell asleep holding it.
Chapter 12
“How is he?” Alexandre asked, starting to pour Max a drink. Max gestured for him to put the bottle down.
“He’ll be fine.” Max had just come from upstairs, where Justin was sleeping comfortably, to join his brothers in the library. Lysette and Noeline were busy helping the distraught Irénée into bed, giving her liberal doses of brandy-laced coffee. “The wound isn’t bad, thank God.” He shook his head, his face pale and strained. “I can’t believe this happened to my son.”
“This was a surprise to you?” Bernard asked. “I am only surprised it hasn’t happened before now.”
“Justin is following in his father’s footsteps, isn’t he?” Alexandre added.
Max sent them both a cold glare.
“Well, it is true,” Bernard said. “Max, you know what the boy is like. You cannot say you weren’t expecting this. And you are a fool if you don’t expect it again.”
Before Max could vent his fury, Lysette’s calm voice interceded.
“Max,” she said, coming into the room and taking his arm, “I do not wish to deprive you of such brotherly compassion and sympathy, but Berté has warmed some food for our supper. Come, have something to eat.”
“I’m not hungry—”
“Just a little something, bien-aimé,” Lysette entreated in a winsome manner. “You would not have me eat alone, would you? Please… for my sake.”
With a low grumble, Max turned to accompany her, the quarrel discarded for the moment. As they reached the doorway, Lysette looked back over her shoulder and gave the brothers a quick, shaming glance before serenely following her husband from the room. The glare was such a contrast to the sweet expression she had used with Max that Alexandre couldn’t help chuckling.
“In her own soft little way,” he commented with a smile, “she’s rather a despot.”
“It is not amusing,” Bernard said.
“Why not? Lysette is obviously good for Max.”
“I wouldn’t say so.” Bernard took a long drink, staring at the empty doorway.
Alexandre tilted his head thoughtfully. “You don’t like her, do you? I never realized that before now.”
Bernard’s voice was flat and cold. “No, I don’t. I don’t like the effect she has on Max, or the trouble she stirs up in the family. Things were better before she came.”
———
When Justin awakened the morning after his duel, he found his room invaded by his brother, father, and stepmother. Lysette fussed over him like a mother hen, arranging his breakfast tray and tying a napkin around his neck as if he were five instead of fifteen. He was grateful for her presence, for their unspoken understanding that Lysette would use her influence with his father on his behalf. Justin wasn’t certain when or how Lysette had become his ally, but as he stared into her steady blue eyes, he felt a rush of adoration.
His father, of course, started the morning by demanding a full explanation of the previous day’s events.
“Tell me your part of it, Philippe,” Max said from the side of the bed, where he sat in a mahogany chair with a curved back.
As always, Philippe chose his words carefully. “I was having a confrontation with three boys, one of whom wished to provoke me into a duel. I refused, and that was when Justin appeared—”
“And eagerly picked up the gauntlet,” Max said ruefully.
Justin scowled. “They called him a coward,” he said defensely. “No one insults a Vallerand and gets away with it.”
“Was that all that was said?”
“No.” Justin’s gaze fell to the counterpane over his lap. “They called me a bully, and you—” He stopped suddenly, while a tide of red swept over his face.
“And me what?” Max asked gently, although it was clear that he already knew.
The heat spread to Justin’s neck and ears. “The same thing,” he said tightly, “that you’ve always been called.”
“And what is that?”
“Why ask? You already know!”
“I want to hear you say it.”
Justin dragged his hands through his hair several times, feeling as agitated as a caged animal.
“Say it,mon fils,“ Max prompted quietly. “Please.”
Lysette and Philippe might not have even been in the room. The tension gathered until none of the four of them dared to move or breathe.
Suddenly tears shimmered in Justin’s blue eyes, and he gritted his teeth in humiliation and anger. “They called you a murderer. It’s what they’ve always said. Everyone. And you ask why I fight? I’ve never known what it is to have a friend. Neither has Philippe.” He turned his head to glare at his brother. “Tell him!”
Max moved to the bed and sat beside him. “Listen to me, Justin. I understand everything—”
“No—”
“By God, don’t interrupt me! You’ll never be able to change what they say. You’ll never be able to stop them. The rumors will go on, and you can’t crush them, you can’t silence them. You can even kill a man, Justin, dozens of them, but the past will not change, and you’ll still be my son. Curse that fact if you wish, but you can’t change it. You’ll die trying… and that would break me as nothing else could, Justin.”
“Wha
t happened to my mother?” Justin demanded, the tears sliding down his tanned cheeks.
“There isn’t much I can tell you,” Max replied gruffly. “I married your mother because I loved her. But the marriage turned sour, and not long after you were born, I realized that Corinne was having an affair with another man.”
“Who?” Justin demanded.
“That doesn’t matter—”
“Was it Etienne Sagesse?”
“Yes.”
“Why?” Philippe asked from several feet away. “Why would she do that?”
“I believe she thought that she was in love with him,” Max said with outward calm. Only Lysette knew of the effort it took for him to speak of the past. “I was not able to make Corinne happy. That, in part, drove her to someone else.”
“There is no need to make excuses for her,” Justin said. “I’m glad she’s dead.”
“No, Justin. Pity her, but don’t hate her.”
“Did Etienne Sagesse kill her?” the boy demanded.
“No, I don’t believe he did.”
Justin’s chin trembled. “Then you did?” he asked, his voice cracking.
Max seemed to find it difficult to speak. “No, I found her, already dead. I don’t know what happened to her.”
A mixture of anger and disbelief crossed Justin’s face. “But you have to! You must know.”
“I wish I did,” Max said. “And most of all, I wish you had not grown up in the shadow of all this. I would do anything to change that, Justin. I want your happiness above all else.”
Justin closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the pillow. “Isn’t there anyone you suspected? Isn’t there anyone who might have wanted her dead?”
“Years ago I talked to Etienne Sagesse, thinking that he might be able to reveal something.”
“And?”
“He believes that I killed Corinne out of jealousy.”
“You should have finished him off in that duel,” Justin muttered.
“Look at me.” Max waited until Justin’s eyes opened. “You must choose your fights carefully. I would rather you be branded a coward than have you jump every time some little bantam throws a challenge at your feet. The more fearsome your reputation, the more others will try to provoke you— and the more you use your sword, the more you’ll have to. I don’t want that for you, or your brother. You mean too much to me, Justin. You must walk away the next time… for me. Please.”
Justin swallowed hard and lifted himself away from the pillows, leaning toward him. “Je t’aime, mon père,“ he said in a muffled voice. Max put his arms around him carefully, ruffling Justin’s hair, murmuring softly to him. Lysette noticed Philippe taking a halting step forward, then stopping as he realized the moment belonged to Justin and his father. How unselfish Philippe was, she thought, and reached out to take his hand, her fingers curling around his palm. The boy looked down at her, his frown disappearing as she stretched up to kiss his cheek.
———
Having accomplished all that he intended in New Orleans, Aaron Burr headed back to St. Louis to plot with General Wilkinson. His journey began overland toward Natchez, on horses furnished by Daniel Clark, the most influential and well-established merchant in the territory. Burr’s trip westward had been tremendously successful. By his reckoning, it would not be difficult at all to lead the populace against the Spaniards in order to secure west Florida and Mexico.
Burr was certain he had blinded the Spanish officials, especially Yrujo, as to his true intentions, and had successfully reassured them he had no designs on their lands. In less than a year, Burr reasoned, he would be able to launch an expedition and bring all his ambitions to fruition. And those who had tried to impede his plan— Maximilien Vallerand, for example— would beg to be in favor.
———
The messenger departed from the residence of Don Carlos, the Marquis de Casa Yrujo, early in the morning. As he headed southward out of the city at a circumspect pace, he was forced to rein in his horse suddenly. Two men on horseback, armed with pistols, were blocking his way. Turning pale with fright, the messenger began to splutter in Spanish. Certain they meant to rob him, he protested that he had no money, nothing to offer them. One of them, a large, dark-haired man, gestured for him to dismount.
“Give me the letters you’re carrying,” the dark-haired man said, his Spanish rough but serviceable.
“N-no puedo,” the messenger stammered, shaking his head emphatically. “They are private, highly confidential… I— I have staked my life on delivering them without—”
“Your life,” came the gentle reply, “is precisely what is at stake. Hand over the letters if you wish to preserve it.”
Fumbling in the inside of his coat, the messenger withdrew a half dozen letters, all bearing the official seal used by Yrujo. He wiped his sweating brow with his sleeve as the man leafed through them. One of them seemed to catch the man’s interest, and he kept it while handing the others back.
Max looked at Jacques Clement with an ironic half smile. “It’s addressed to a Spanish boundary commissioner who has lingered in New Orleans for unexplained reasons.”
“Perhaps he likes it here,” Clement remarked diffidently.
Max opened the letter, ignoring the faint cry of protest from the messenger. He scanned the contents, his smile fading quickly, then looked at Clement. The golden eyes gleamed with satisfaction. “I love the way the Spanish officials have of wishing a friend a fond farewell, and then— ever so politely— knifing him in the back.”
Not understanding their conversation, the messenger watched them anxiously, then dared to interrupt. “Señor, I cannot deliver the letter with a broken seal! What am I to do? What—”
“You’re not going to deliver the letter,” Max replied, “because I am going to keep it.”
A stream of volatile Spanish greeted this statement. It was too fast for Max to follow, but the man’s unhappiness was clear.
“He’ll probably be imprisoned when they find out,” Jacques commented. “They won’t pardon him for letting the letter be stolen.”
Max tossed a small bag to the messenger, who paused in his barrage long enough to catch it. It landed with a heavy clink in his palm. “That’s enough to allow you to disappear and live in comfort for a long time.”
Another rapid speech followed. Max glanced questioningly at Jacques, whose Spanish was more proficient than his. “What is he saying?”
“He needs more, for his wife and children.”
Max smiled wryly. “Give him what you have,” he told Jacques. “I’ll reimburse you later.”
“Is the letter worth that much?” Clement asked incredulously.
Max tucked the letter in his own coat with great satisfaction. “Oh, yes.”
———
Max enjoyed Claiborne’s astonishment as he read and reread the letter. “Are the Spaniards aware that we have this?” Claiborne finally asked.
Max shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. It won’t change their plans.”
“This is quite a piece of news,” Claiborne said slowly. “Not only do they not trust Burr, they’re starting a backlash against him. If this letter is accurate, they’ll discredit him completely!” He looked back over the letter. “And the clever bastards are using an American to do it! Have you met Stephen Minor before?”
“Briefly.”
“Did you know before you read the letter that he was in the Spanish pay?”
“No.” Max smiled casually. “But I can’t be expected to keep track of all the Americans in the Spanish pay.”
“Insolent Creole,” Claiborne retorted, beaming at him. “Are you implying that Americans are easily bought?”
“It does rather seem that way, sir.”
Claiborne contained his jubilation and assumed a more statesmanlike expression. “For now all we need do is wait. If this information is accurate, Minor will spread rumors throughout the territory that Burr is planning to separate the West from the rest o
f the nation, unite it with Spanish possessions, and claim it as his own empire. That should set the country ablaze all the way up to the Northeast.”
“The rumors should reach St. Louis at the same time Burr does,” Max agreed.
“I would give a fortune to see General Wilkinson’s face. It shouldn’t take long for him to disassociate himself from Burr completely.”
Max stood up and extended his hand. “I must be leaving now. If you require me for anything else…”
“Yes, yes.” Claiborne stood up and shook his hand, gripping it more warmly than usual. “Vallerand, you have proved your loyalty this day.”
Max arched a brow. “Was it in question?”
“I did wonder what you may have omitted when you described your meeting with Burr,” Claiborne admitted. “He is a persuasive man. You might have shared part of his glory by siding with him.”
“I have no desire for glory. I only want to keep what is mine,” Max said seriously. “Good day, your excellency.”
———
In an unexpected move, Max appointed Justin to supervise the destruction of the old overseer’s house. Lysette was pleased by the news, understanding its significance. The past was losing its terrible hold over Max and his sons. Justin took great pride in the responsibility, organizing a crew to help him pull the ramshackle structure to the ground and burn the rubble. Philippe preferred to apply himself to his studies, perfectly happy in his world of books.
Lysette found herself also facing challenges of a different nature. Although she and Irénée were undeniably fond of each other, there were the inevitable points of contention between a daughter and mother-in-law. Irénée was firmly attached to the old Creole ways while Lysette embraced the changing attitudes of their small society. Irénée had never been so horrified as she was the first time Lysette invited some of the young American matrons of New Orleans to visit the plantation.
“They are nice, well-bred women,” Lysette had told her gently.
“They are American women! What will my friends think when they hear of this?”
“Americans are part of New Orleans now, just as much as Creoles. We share many of the same concerns.”