from their shelves like sentinels.
The bulk of Max’s staunch mahogany desk, with all its mysterious drawers and cubbyholes, stood between the draped windows. The sight of it sent a shiver down Justin’s spine. How often he had seen his father sitting at that desk, his head bent over documents and books. The drawers were filed with keys, receipts, papers, and strongboxes—and, Justin hoped, the object he was looking for. Swiftly he moved to the desk and searched it, his fingers peeling through the contents of each drawer.
Justin used the hairpin purloined from Irénée’s room to unlock a small document box. It opened with a protesting click, and he threw a wary glance over his shoulder before looking inside. More receipts, and a letter. An unopened letter. Justin’s eyes glittered with triumph. Carefully he tucked it inside his shirt, closed the box, and put it back where he found it. “This,” he muttered to himself, “will square my account with you, mon père. ”
* * *
Lysette slept well past the supper hour, and Irénée saw to it that she was not interrupted. When she awoke, the room was dark and the coolness of evening had settled. Sluggishly Lysette dressed in a light yellow gown and went downstairs.
“Ah, you have finally awakened,” came Irénée’s buoyant voice. “I thought it better to let you sleep as long as you wished. You must be hungry now, hmm?” The older woman took Lysette’s arm and squeezed it affectionately. “The twins and I have already eaten. Max arrived just a moment ago and is having supper. You may join him in the salle à manger. ”
The thought of food made Lysette nauseous. “ Non, merci ,” she managed. “I am not hungry.”
“But you must have something.” Irénée propelled her toward the dining room. “We have delicious gumbo, and pompano stuffed with crab, and hot rice cakes—”
“Oh, I can’t,” Lysette said, her throat clenching at the thought of the rich food.
“You must try. You are too thin, my dear.”
As they went into the dining room, Lysette could see Max’s reflection in the gold-framed mirror over the marble fireplace. He was seated at the table, the lamplight gleaming on his raven hair.
“Good evening, mademoiselle.” With the innate courtesy of a Creole gentleman, he stood and assisted her into a chair. “Maman tells me that you have slept for a long time.” He gave her an assessing glance. “Are you feeling well?”
“Yes, quite well. Just not particularly hungry.”
Irénée clucked her tongue. “See that she eats something, Maximilien. I will be in the next room with my embroidery.”
Lysette smiled after the older woman as she left. “Your mother is very strong-willed, monsieur.”
“There is no disputing that,” he agreed wryly.
A housemaid came to set a supper plate before Lysette. Staring at the steaming fish arranged on fried rice cakes, she felt bile rise in her throat. She reached for a glass of water and took a small sip, hoping it would calm her unruly stomach.
“I’ve heard that you met with your friend Mr. Claiborne today,” she remarked.
“Yes.” Max’s white teeth bit into a piece of golden-crusted bread.
“What did you discuss? Or would it be too complicated for a mere female to understand?”
Max grinned briefly at her gibe. “Claiborne’s administration is under siege. He is trying to gather all the information he can before his enemies destroy him.”
“Who are his enemies? The Creoles?”
Max shook his head. “No, not Creoles. Refugees from France and Santo Domingo, and a small but very noisy handful of Americans. Including Aaron Burr, who is in Natchez at this very moment.”
“The former vice president of the United States?”
“Yes. There are rumors that Burr is on a reconnaissance mission to enlist men in a plot to take possession of the Orleans territory.”
“That must make the governor quite agitated.”
Max leaned back in his chair and regarded herwith a
The bulk of Max’s staunch mahogany desk, with all its mysterious drawers and cubbyholes, stood between the draped windows. The sight of it sent a shiver down Justin’s spine. How often he had seen his father sitting at that desk, his head bent over documents and books. The drawers were filed with keys, receipts, papers, and strongboxes—and, Justin hoped, the object he was looking for. Swiftly he moved to the desk and searched it, his fingers peeling through the contents of each drawer.
Justin used the hairpin purloined from Irénée’s room to unlock a small document box. It opened with a protesting click, and he threw a wary glance over his shoulder before looking inside. More receipts, and a letter. An unopened letter. Justin’s eyes glittered with triumph. Carefully he tucked it inside his shirt, closed the box, and put it back where he found it. “This,” he muttered to himself, “will square my account with you, mon père. ”
* * *
Lysette slept well past the supper hour, and Irénée saw to it that she was not interrupted. When she awoke, the room was dark and the coolness of evening had settled. Sluggishly Lysette dressed in a light yellow gown and went downstairs.
“Ah, you have finally awakened,” came Irénée’s buoyant voice. “I thought it better to let you sleep as long as you wished. You must be hungry now, hmm?” The older woman took Lysette’s arm and squeezed it affectionately. “The twins and I have already eaten. Max arrived just a moment ago and is having supper. You may join him in the salle à manger. ”
The thought of food made Lysette nauseous. “ Non, merci ,” she managed. “I am not hungry.”
“But you must have something.” Irénée propelled her toward the dining room. “We have delicious gumbo, and pompano stuffed with crab, and hot rice cakes—”
“Oh, I can’t,” Lysette said, her throat clenching at the thought of the rich food.
“You must try. You are too thin, my dear.”
As they went into the dining room, Lysette could see Max’s reflection in the gold-framed mirror over the marble fireplace. He was seated at the table, the lamplight gleaming on his raven hair.
“Good evening, mademoiselle.” With the innate courtesy of a Creole gentleman, he stood and assisted her into a chair. “Maman tells me that you have slept for a long time.” He gave her an assessing glance. “Are you feeling well?”
“Yes, quite well. Just not particularly hungry.”
Irénée clucked her tongue. “See that she eats something, Maximilien. I will be in the next room with my embroidery.”
Lysette smiled after the older woman as she left. “Your mother is very strong-willed, monsieur.”
“There is no disputing that,” he agreed wryly.
A housemaid came to set a supper plate before Lysette. Staring at the steaming fish arranged on fried rice cakes, she felt bile rise in her throat. She reached for a glass of water and took a small sip, hoping it would calm her unruly stomach.
“I’ve heard that you met with your friend Mr. Claiborne today,” she remarked.
“Yes.” Max’s white teeth bit into a piece of golden-crusted bread.
“What did you discuss? Or would it be too complicated for a mere female to understand?”
Max grinned briefly at her gibe. “Claiborne’s administration is under siege. He is trying to gather all the information he can before his enemies destroy him.”
“Who are his enemies? The Creoles?”
Max shook his head. “No, not Creoles. Refugees from France and Santo Domingo, and a small but very noisy handful of Americans. Including Aaron Burr, who is in Natchez at this very moment.”
“The former vice president of the United States?”
“Yes. There are rumors that Burr is on a reconnaissance mission to enlist men in a plot to take possession of the Orleans territory.”
“That must make the governor quite agitated.”
Max leaned back in his chair and regarded herwith a
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