like one delirious. The May night was thick and
cloying, the merest of breezes drifting in the upstairs window of her room at
the parish house. An eerie silence had descended, interrupted only by the sound
of Sister Clarabelle’s snoring, which drifted through the thin wall from the
next room.
Mercy realized that, by now,
Philippe had surely challenged her guardian, Julian Devereux, to a fight to the
death. The two might be dueling even now. More likely, however, the event would
occur sometime tomorrow, as the necessary time had to elapse for the seconds to
make the arrangements.
Mercy was well aware that Julian
would never decline Philippe’s challenge. To do so would mean that he would be
publicly posted a coward. Indeed, Mercy had seen such notices in the New
Orleans Crescent —neatly boxed advertisements proclaiming some local or the
other a “craven” for refusing to duel. To back away from an affaire
d’honneur meant social ruin. Creole men were a hot-blooded lot who took
their pride and their honor most seriously.
At last, Mercy tossed off her
covers, got up from her narrow cot, and began to pace her small room in the
wide beam of light slanting in through the window. Her bare feet were soundless
on the old, scarred floor, and her lush red curls caught silvery highlights as
she swept to and fro in her plain linen gown.
She clenched her fists and ground
her jaw in helpless frustration. How she wished her schoolmates were still here
to offer some comfort or advice. But since the term had just ended, the other
boarding students at St. Mary’s School had gone home to their families at
plantations along St. John’s Bayou, or at mansions along River Road to the
north of the city. Mercy particularly missed her three best
friends—stouthearted Lavinia, who had the unfortunate face of a horse, but
possessed a stalwart spirit to match; beautiful Clarisse, with her wild
laughter and mischievous ways; and sweet little Emilie, with her kind eyes and ready
smile. All of Mercy’s friends were far, far away, and she suddenly felt like a
lost, lone child faced with a woman’s agonizing, life-and-death dilemma.
What was she to do? She mustn’t
let Philippe die, yet she well knew that Julian would have no qualms about
killing him. Asking for the nuns’ help was out of the question, since they
would never let her interfere in a matter between men. Besides, Julian had
Mother Anise and Sister Clarabelle totally intimidated; the sisters had
perpetually bowed to his every whim regarding her upbringing.
Yet unless she did something, and
soon . . .
She would have to go to
Julian’s town house and beg him not to duel Philippe.
The instant the reckless,
desperate thought sprang to Mercy’s mind, she shuddered in horror. Had she
completely taken leave of her senses? She knew she had already thoroughly
provoked her guardian by meeting with Philippe without a chaperone—not to
mention by planning for her own marriage without Julian’s counsel or consent.
Now he would surely boil her in oil if he discovered she had taken to the
dangerous streets of New Orleans alone at night.
Yet Mercy quickly realized that
she had no choice. As much as it rankled, she knew she would have to go to
Julian, humble herself to him, do anything necessary to save Philippe.
She did know where he lived.
Several times in the past, when she and Sister Clarabelle had run errands in
the Quarter, the nun had pointed out Julian’s stylish town house on Royal, not
far from the parish house. Invariably, Sister Clarabelle would say, “That is
where your guardian, M’sieur Devereux, lives. You are indeed fortunate to have
such a fine gentleman sponsoring you, Mercy.”
Fortunate! Fortunate to be at the
mercy of the madman who had killed her father and might well shortly murder her
fiancé?
Mercy sighed heavily, chiding
herself for her useless anger. She must act, and act quickly.
***
Moments later, Mercy hurried to
the west along gaslit Chartres
cloying, the merest of breezes drifting in the upstairs window of her room at
the parish house. An eerie silence had descended, interrupted only by the sound
of Sister Clarabelle’s snoring, which drifted through the thin wall from the
next room.
Mercy realized that, by now,
Philippe had surely challenged her guardian, Julian Devereux, to a fight to the
death. The two might be dueling even now. More likely, however, the event would
occur sometime tomorrow, as the necessary time had to elapse for the seconds to
make the arrangements.
Mercy was well aware that Julian
would never decline Philippe’s challenge. To do so would mean that he would be
publicly posted a coward. Indeed, Mercy had seen such notices in the New
Orleans Crescent —neatly boxed advertisements proclaiming some local or the
other a “craven” for refusing to duel. To back away from an affaire
d’honneur meant social ruin. Creole men were a hot-blooded lot who took
their pride and their honor most seriously.
At last, Mercy tossed off her
covers, got up from her narrow cot, and began to pace her small room in the
wide beam of light slanting in through the window. Her bare feet were soundless
on the old, scarred floor, and her lush red curls caught silvery highlights as
she swept to and fro in her plain linen gown.
She clenched her fists and ground
her jaw in helpless frustration. How she wished her schoolmates were still here
to offer some comfort or advice. But since the term had just ended, the other
boarding students at St. Mary’s School had gone home to their families at
plantations along St. John’s Bayou, or at mansions along River Road to the
north of the city. Mercy particularly missed her three best
friends—stouthearted Lavinia, who had the unfortunate face of a horse, but
possessed a stalwart spirit to match; beautiful Clarisse, with her wild
laughter and mischievous ways; and sweet little Emilie, with her kind eyes and ready
smile. All of Mercy’s friends were far, far away, and she suddenly felt like a
lost, lone child faced with a woman’s agonizing, life-and-death dilemma.
What was she to do? She mustn’t
let Philippe die, yet she well knew that Julian would have no qualms about
killing him. Asking for the nuns’ help was out of the question, since they
would never let her interfere in a matter between men. Besides, Julian had
Mother Anise and Sister Clarabelle totally intimidated; the sisters had
perpetually bowed to his every whim regarding her upbringing.
Yet unless she did something, and
soon . . .
She would have to go to
Julian’s town house and beg him not to duel Philippe.
The instant the reckless,
desperate thought sprang to Mercy’s mind, she shuddered in horror. Had she
completely taken leave of her senses? She knew she had already thoroughly
provoked her guardian by meeting with Philippe without a chaperone—not to
mention by planning for her own marriage without Julian’s counsel or consent.
Now he would surely boil her in oil if he discovered she had taken to the
dangerous streets of New Orleans alone at night.
Yet Mercy quickly realized that
she had no choice. As much as it rankled, she knew she would have to go to
Julian, humble herself to him, do anything necessary to save Philippe.
She did know where he lived.
Several times in the past, when she and Sister Clarabelle had run errands in
the Quarter, the nun had pointed out Julian’s stylish town house on Royal, not
far from the parish house. Invariably, Sister Clarabelle would say, “That is
where your guardian, M’sieur Devereux, lives. You are indeed fortunate to have
such a fine gentleman sponsoring you, Mercy.”
Fortunate! Fortunate to be at the
mercy of the madman who had killed her father and might well shortly murder her
fiancé?
Mercy sighed heavily, chiding
herself for her useless anger. She must act, and act quickly.
***
Moments later, Mercy hurried to
the west along gaslit Chartres
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