CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“HOW MUCH FURTHER to zee cathedral?” Mr. Guiraud flipped up the collar of his coat.
“Only a short way,” Eva said. Even in such horrible weather, this was home and she was happy to finally return. The first thing she would do when she got into the abbey would be to retrieve her long woolen cloak. She curled her hands under her tunic for warmth and released a relieved sigh.
True to his word, the captain had provided guards. They accompanied Sister Beatrice earlier, lifting the tremendous weight of worry. At least, as far as the relics were concerned.
The shadow of war approached, and now there were worse things to create concern.
“I did not expect eet to be so cold here!” Lady Guiraud drew a thick gray shawl closer around her shoulders. It didn’t help their carriage was missing a door, allowing the chilly December wind into the coach.
“Mr. Sauvage said this has been the coldest winter in the past twenty years,” Drago said.
“I should like to light a candle for my dear pére.” The petite brunette rummaged around in her reticule. “Will zee church accept francs? I have not yet traded for American currency.”
Eva smiled. “All forms of tithe are accepted. There is a bank nearby, however.”
“Excellent we shall go after we visit zee cathedral.”
“When do you depart for Cincinnati?” she asked.
Mr. Guiraud shot a glance at his wife, who ignored him. “We board ze first steamship once we have prayed over the sacred bones of Saint Louis,” she replied, with a fleeting smile. “I am very happy to soon see my sister.”
They dropped Eva at the gate, then continued to the church. A comforting warmth tugged at her heart at the sight of the Ursuline convent. It was indeed wonderful to be back, even under such dreadful circumstances.
She was greeted by the sturdy and stoic Mother Marie Francis. She tilted her head, her snappy hazel eyes traveled over Eva’s face and roughly mended robe and tunic. “I did not expect your return until spring. Are you well?” There was warmth in the crinkles of her eyes alongside the concern. She reached for Eva and she stepped into the circle of her arms.
“The Port Royal Abbey is well-tended.” She savored the warm hug from her mentor and friend. She couldn’t keep from smiling. She broke the embrace and gripped the older woman forearms. “Did Sister Beatrice tell you about the danger?”
The Mother Superior folded her hands. “If you are here to warn us of the impending invasion of the British, we are well aware. General Jackson is assembling an army to defend the city.” She swept her arm indicating the convent. “We are in the process of converting much of our space into a hospital.” She smiled and patted Eva’s shoulder. “I’m happy God brought you back to us. Your healing skills shall be most welcome, child.”
Had Beatrice said nothing? “There is another threat,” Eva gripped her arms tighter. “Did Sister Beatrice inform you about the relics? Three French agents of the crown have been assigned the task of stealing them from St. Louis Cathedral and taking them back to France. It’s possible they will arrive with the British and use the battle as a diversion.”
“Hmmm.”
Hmmm? Their most precious and sacred artifacts were in jeopardy and she said hmmm?
The elder nun linked arms with Eva and they began to walk toward the church. “God will protect us and the sacred bones in the manner he sees fit. The greater danger is to the residents of New Orleans. We must focus on preparing hospital space in the convent to treat those wounded in battle. We need beds, blankets, and supplies.” Her usually erect stature drooped a little and the pleasant crinkle in her eyes faded. “I fear there will be much bloodshed.”
Drago’s prediction rang in her ears. “It will be a bloodbath.”
Every single resident could march to the battlefield, and those fifteen thousand redcoats would not even be slowed.
Mother Superior’s attention seemed so committed to the upcoming confrontation with the British, she didn’t completely comprehend the seriousness of the French plot. They should at the very least do what they could to protect them. “Can we move them in a safer place until the battle is over?”
“It would be difficult, but not impossible.” Mother Superior squeezed Eva’s arm. “Tell me about your time in Jamaica,” she said, smiling.
Eva related her observations and experiences with the Jamaican people, their culture, and their landscape. If she’d been able to suitably plan her return voyage, she would have brought back some breadfruit. She also talked about Kalia and the old woman’s strange healing practices and stranger intuitions. She told her about the captain, the twins, and how she ended up stowing away in the sail closet.
She faltered at the tale of Razin’s attack and the punishment Drago dealt. Too many conflicting emotions were tied to that night. The freedom of lifting her bare face to the setting sun, the thrill of the race with the dolphins, the steely warmth of Drago’s arms...
“Tell me more about this captain,” the Mother Superior said.
A strange tingle fluttered in Eva’s chest. His kiss was forever burned into her memory. Silver eyes smoldering with interest, lips moving against hers. A twinge of guilt tried to elbow its way into her stomach, but she shoved it aside. Plenty of time for that later...like during confession.
“Capitaine Gamponetti brought us here from Jamaica. He’s also the guardian for the twins, one of whom I treated when she was ill. He’s a...hard man, but I believe he has a good heart. He’s a strong leader and his men are loyal to him. I asked him to assist me in protecting the relics and he gave me his word he would.” No need to relay every single detail of that oath. She suffered through the inner cringe at the image of the massive man tied to the bedposts.
Eva gave abbess a sideways glance, but her expression was rather blank. How could she tell her that Drago Gamponetti was the most handsome man she’d ever seen? True, he had battle scars, but his face was as chiseled as a sculpture. Silver eyes rimmed in with the thinnest ring of midnight blue sparkled when he was amused, became thundercloud gray when angered. The iron bands of his arms gave her the softest shelter of comfort when he held her and stroked her hair. Her heart clenched with longing.
“He’s a good man then?” Mother Marie Francis gave her a soft smile.
Her voice broke into the turbulent thoughts and images twirling and bouncing in Eva’s head like beads in a drum. Good? She thought for a moment. “He has a tender heart for children but wields a harsh sword of discipline. I think, deep in his heart, he desires to be a good man. He was a pirate, then a privateer for many years, and it seems that type of life prodded him in a direction he has come to despise.”
What had he said?
I’m unredeemable.
She disagreed.
“In times of duress, he steps behind a brigand façade--part dark-hearted pirate, part loyal privateer of the French crown. But, I have seen him show tenderness and devotion, too. Even love.” The words hung in the air like a flock of gulls.
Where did that come from?
She tried to surreptitiously peek from around her veil at the older nun’s face. Her mouth was pressed together in a firm line, yet the corners curved up. “It sounds as if you care for him.”
Of course, she cared for him. But certainly not in the way, the Mother Superior was insinuating. She shook her head baffled. “He is a complicated man.”
“That was not my question, child.” The nun tilted her head to look at Eva, who could not attempt to meet her gaze, uncertain how she felt. Or why.
Finally sighing she nodded her head. “Yes, I care for him.” That was true. “He took orphaned children under his protection and asked nothing in return. There is a distinct line he draws between following orders and breaking rules. He protected me from a man who tried to attack me. He allowed us to journey with him without requiring payment of any kind. Even though it would have been within his rights to do so.”
The abbess wove her fingers together. “Do you think he truly is an honorable man? Attacking enemy ships and stealing their cargo to deliver to the French King does not sound honorable to me.”
“It is his obligation to his employer,” Eva objected. “The letter of Marque granted to him from King Louis XVIII states he is to capture English vessels and bring them to France. In exchange, he and his crew are paid a set share of the value of the ship and her cargo. To not do his duty is to betray his sovereign.” It sounded suspiciously like she was trying to defend the man, which she was not. Simply reciting the facts as she knew them. “While I do not like the role of privateer he’s played, he’s taken his duties quite seriously. Before I pressed upon him my urgencies to return to New Orleans, he had plans to join a fleet of merchant ships and become part of a trading company.”
The thought needled a slight stab of guilt through Eva’s chest. She looked at her hands, unable to meet her mentor’s gaze. “He wants to lead a more honest and honorable life.” Somewhere far away, like Cartagena.
“Does he care for you as much if you do for him?”
Even as she shook her head, a trickle of uncertainty invaded her thoughts. She thought back to the captain’s affections, his kisses. That didn’t mean he cared for her. It just meant he desired to kiss her. The fact her heart gave a desperate lurch at the memory didn’t imply anything.
“You think I have fallen in love with him,” she whispered.
Marie Francis stayed silent. And stared straight ahead.
She didn’t love him. That would be terribly foolish of her to do. He hovered on the fringes of a life she had spent the last nine years avoiding. She couldn’t go back there. She wouldn’t. “I said I cared about him, not that I loved him. I do believe those to be two quite different things.”
Fine, she cared about him, but she didn’t love him.
She didn’t.
“Eva, I love you like I would a daughter, and I pray every day for your happiness. While I am glad you are here among us at the convent, I question whether you should stay.”
No! The tears pricked the back of her eyes, and her throat hardened until she couldn’t swallow. This was the one place that should never reject her. The only place she was safe and accepted.
Mother Superior paused and studied Eva. “Are you here out of obligation or fear? Are you serving or hiding? You can hide here from everyone except yourself and God. Search your heart, child.” She grasped Eva’s hands, squeezing them tightly. “If it tells you it would be happy if you never saw your captain ever again, if it assures you would be content with us more than him, if you don’t wonder what it would be like hold his baby in your arms, if the thought of creating a loving family does not bring you joy, then, by all means, stay with us. Take your vows and bind your heart and soul to God and His church.” She stared at Eva with eyes swirled with shades of green and caramel, and wisdom and love. “Be true to yourself. To lie to yourself is to lie to God.”
Mother Superior’s words stirred up a storm of emotions. Love, longing, obligation, failure, guilt, sadness, fear.
Questions drenched her mind like sheets of rain in a gale.
What manner of person would she be if she abandoned the church for a man?
What manner of person would she be if she chose to hide in the convent? If she stayed, would it sadden her to watch the opportunity to experience open, heartfelt love pass her by?
Tears burned the back of her nose; her voice came out rough and reedy. “Why are you saying these things to me?”
To have worked so hard to become valuable to the nuns, only to be driven away by the few who accepted her...
True, the captain accepted her. There were no horrified stares, no glances dripping with pity, no murmured words of disgust by his crew. It didn’t mean he loved her.
With the exception of Mr. Razin, all had been courteous, even kind.
The memory surfaced from several years ago, of the small child who awakened from a fever only to scream in terror when he saw her face. She was fourteen. She had to leave the room before his mother could calm him. She wore the veil after that.
The nun hummed a moment before speaking. “I should tell you, the captain came to see me earlier. He felt the need to explain why you returned with a torn tunic.”
He departed the ship and came directly here before joining them at Le Rue. It had been his first priority. Eva had assumed it was to place his men on guard at the cathedral.
Mother Marie Francis enveloped Eva’s hand with hers. “He also felt the need to tell me he cared deeply about you and asked me to send word to him if at any point you changed your mind about joining our order.” The nun gave a half snort, half smirk. “Then he had the gall to first tell me he would do what he could to dissuade you, then ask me to pray for success in the endeavor.”
Her heart jolted in her chest. He cared about her. Drago would come back for her if she changed her mind! But—
Mother Superior reached up and gave her a little shake. “He loves you, Eva.” She squeezed her shoulders before releasing them. “I believe that.”
He loves her? He loves her. Could it be true? Would he tell her if he did?
Suddenly she needed to know.
Reaching up, she drew the veil away from her face and wrapped it around her neck. “Then I would hear it truthfully face to face.”
Her horrid, scarred, exposed face.
Mother Marie Francis released a soft sigh and nodded her understanding. Henré had also proclaimed his love until she removed the shade.
They had arrived at the cathedral.
“Lend me your arm, child,” the abbess panted. “These steps never get any easier for my old knees.”
They entered the narthex, attracting the attention of a cluster of sailors gathered immediately inside the front doors.
“Where is the capitaine?” she asked, ignoring the smug smile from Mother Superior.
“He be in the nave with them Frenchies,” one of the men answered.
She slipped into the center of the church and looked about. Her heart was both light and jittery. Did he really care about her? Did he really want her with him? Did he really... love her?
Eva stopped in her tracks. The area was empty. Confused, she hurried toward the sanctuary alter; a cool breeze caressed her cheek. The back door always blew open unless the latch was correctly set. The normally serene air of the sanctum bristled with disquiet.
An uneasy tingling swept up her spine.
“He be in the nave with them Frenchies...”
Mr. and Mrs. Guiraud.
She glanced at the altar as she passed and froze. The lid to the relic coffer was neatly aligned with the box, but there were fingerprints and smudges in the dust covering it.
The sacred bones!
Without checking, she knew they were gone. The blunt force of sickening dread thumped her like a punch to the stomach. How could she have been so naive?
How could she have been so stupid?
Three French agents were ordered to steal the relics.
The Guirauds.
Two.
And Drago Gamponetti worked for the French King.
He made three.
The blood drained from her face so fast her cheeks clenched as if pricked by a thousand needles.
She led them right to their target.
She couldn’t have made it any easier for them than if she handed them the bones.
Captain Gampo used her as a diversion.
He used her to complete his mission.
He used her.
Her heart jerked, just before it plummeted, crashing in a painful convulsion. Her lungs felt too tight, and she couldn’t swallow past the vise clamped around her throat. She staggered against a wall, unable to fend off the sting of betrayal skittering under her skin, forming an aching web that spread through the center of her body. Cracked through her very bones. The tears burned like acid and no matter how hard she tried to ignore them, they tore from her eyes anyway, leaving hot tracks all the way to her jaws. She choked out a hacking sob.
This wasn’t how this was supposed to be. She allowed herself to hope.
Had she wanted to believe so badly a man like Drago Gamponetti could be honorable? That deep-rooted desire blinded her. She tried to gain control of her breathing, but her lungs could scarcely open and her heart kept slamming itself against her ribcage like a panicked bird.
He told her who he was. His allegiances had been clearly identified. A French privateer.
But he was much more than that, wasn’t he? Bitter acid coated her tongue.
She coughed out a laugh. She clutched her arms around her stomach and slid down the wall. She wanted to curl into her own misery and stupidity.
She’d been foolish. Stupid.
All these years, she protected herself from this. She made herself valuable to the order, an important cog in the wheel, one that would jolt everything into a frantic panic, like frightened sheep, without her. She became their best healer for a reason.
Yet, just one moment she dared to hope.
More foolish, she.
Her heart slammed a thick black door on the next thought. The one involving a promise. An oath. A Bible.
A man with molten silver eyes.
A vow.
Because if she thought too long about it, those tiny pieces of glass forming a protective netting around her heart would splinter, flinging shards of pain everywhere.
A chill wafted over her. They’d gone out the back door. Anger boiled in her chest, and she scrambled to her feet and ran toward the rear of the cathedral. The door was still ajar. The Guirauds were to catch a ferry up to Cincinnati, but was that just another lie?
Think.
If that was just a story, where would they have to go to find transportation? Where would they run?
The ship. The river?
That was why Drago couldn’t commit to helping Bernard fight. He had to get the relics and the Guirauds out of New Orleans.
And he had to do it before the British arrived and cut off every escape route.
That horrible feeling, that twisted pain filled with Drago’s promises, threatened to envelop her. Shoving it aside, she dashed through the door, her brain tapping into the city map she memorized as a child. They would head down Toulouse Street, toward the river, then north along Levee until they reached the commerce section.
Larger piers.
The Dragon was docked there.
She wanted to scream and rail and shred something with her bare hands. Her fingers, out of habit, snatched her veil and twisted it over her face as her feet flew down the street, hugging the buildings, and avoiding the thick mud.
She recognized the surge of energy bolting through her body. She felt it many times before, long ago, before she was old enough to know the frigid grip of real fear. When she was young and almost invisible, quiet as a cat.
Who was she now? The meek marred nun swathing her horribly scarred face so children wouldn’t cry and women wouldn’t stare or was she the street rat so effortlessly slinking into the corners.
A movement, a shadow.
Two low booms shook the ground and her steps faltered.
Artillery blasts?
It was impossible to tell if it came from Lake Borgne or Fort Charles, but they could mean only one thing.
The British had arrived.
And they were attacking the American gunships on the lakes. Her pulse hammered a desperate rhythm in her ears. This was wrong. She was needed at the convent to prepare to treat the wounded. Still, her heart, still aching and fragile, dragged her toward the river and the relics and the man who had made a promise.
Already people of New Orleans were running, some toward Lake Pontchartrain, others toward the Mississippi. Merchants were closing up their stores. Militia patrols and Jackson’s soldiers trotted toward the square for orders. Groups of men pushed wagons and dragged carriages and crates to block the streets.
The Dragon was anchored and tied off near the docks, so she ran in that direction. Lady Guiraud had mentioned taking a steamship upriver to Cincinnati.
Everything happened on the river.
Drago would attempt to return to France. She clenched her jaw. She may have made it easy for them to steal them, but she wouldn’t make it easy to keep them. She tightened the ties of her cloak against the chilling bite of the December air. Clutching her skirts in her fists she ran as fast as she could until she caught sight of the three. Lady Guiraud clutched her reticule to her chest, the men each had a hand on her elbow, hauling her along at a pace that almost had the woman trotting.
Eva hopped over ice-crusted puddles and kept close to the buildings both for shelter and smoother footing, cutting through alleys when she could. By the time she reached the dock, her lungs were burning and her face was warm. She paused long enough to scan the area.
There! Just turning the corner across the street, the three hurried along toward the Dragon. If she crossed quickly enough, she could cause a small collision. She didn’t have time to construct a plan or decide what she would say. Instinct took over and she plowed into Lady Guiraud hard enough to knock the breath from the woman.
“Mon Dieu!”
“Oh, my!”
In that flash of a second, Eva slipped one hand into the reticule while grasping the woman’s other arm to steady her. Her fingers latched on to a silk pouch lumpy enough to be carrying the bones of Saint Louis. She twisted and stooped, pretending to lose her balance as she hid it under her tunic and tucked it behind her belt.
“Sister Eva?” Mr. Guiraud’s expression stuttered with alarm, then surprise.
For all the world she prayed she was wrong....prayed the Guirauds acted alone, even though she knew better.
“What in the world...” Mr. Guiraud sputtered, helping his wife regain her balance.
She hardly heard the Frenchman speak. The moment her gaze met Drago’s, she knew. The world slowed around her as if she was in a dream. His thundercloud eyes transitioned from surprise to horror to a cold, flat storm.
He realized she discovered his deception.
Her heart splintered, snuffing the last fragile flicker of hope she stupidly allowed to remain in case she was wrong. Her chest seemed to implode upon itself, and every thought of a life of love with Drago died, leaving nothing but a cold, stark wasteland. Even Henré’s repulsion had done less damage.
Everyone stood like statues. The caustic fingers of heartbreak clawed at her throat, making her words come out raspy and raw. “I wanted to bid you a safe journey,” Eva managed to choke out the lie to Lady Guiraud, “to Cincinnati.” To Drago, she added, “Goodbye, Capitaine Gampo.”
Unable to look at him another moment, she spun away just as a steely hand wrapped around her elbow. She jerked away and ran, He’d chase her; she couldn’t risk getting caught.
Tears blurred her vision as she raced across the street, narrowly dodging a moving coach. Ignoring the angry shout from the driver, she ducked down an alley and pressed against a recessed doorway. As she hoped, the wagon blocked her from view long enough for Drago to lose sight of her. It would be easy to disappear into the throng of people in Market Square; he’d go there and look for her.
Surely by now they would have checked Lady Guiraud’s reticule and noted the missing relics. It would have been smarter if she thought far enough ahead to have a hiding place in mind. The sanctuary coffer wouldn’t do, of course, nor would her room at the convent. She could hide them in an empty tin in the convent’s kitchen pantry. Perhaps she should avoid any place associated with the church altogether. Jacqueline would help her find a secure place at the hotel. No doubt there were dozens. She crossed to the next block, darted into another alleyway, and headed toward La Rue.
Lost in her thoughts, Eva cried out when her shoulder was gripped from behind. How had Drago caught up with her?
She stumbled and ended up face to face with a short, thick man.
His lip curled up in a humorless sneer. “I thought I recognized you.”
Eva’s heart jumped in her chest as she cast a horrified stare at the face of the one man she had hoped never to see again.