Chapter 13
The first thing Lochranza did once she got her hands on the book and the paints securely hidden in her luggage was to sketch the Marquis.
Whilst Mrs Mackintosh flapped her hands and bewailed what would become of them, Lochranza sketched in charcoal, then coloured in enough detail with the driest touch of paint.
The next thing to consider was a secret place to store her pictorial message until such time as she could find the means to get it to one of her uncle’s agents and back to England.
She lifted her eyes to the wrought-iron bars, spiked leaves and metal roses twisting up their length between the glass and the closed shutters.
Then she bent her head and drew them both: lady and lady’s companion.
On top of that she painted bars across and bars down, a criss-cross of iron grille.
She also wrote a short note outlining her predicament.
She would send that separately to the picture.
If one was discovered, the other might not be. Her uncle would understand.
Two days passed. They were fed highly spiced food, French wine and fresh water flavoured with limes and lemons. Fresh water was brought for them to wash and they changed their clothes.
The Marquis had not put in an appearance since their arrival. Eugenie brought the things they needed. She spoke not a word, never answering any of Lochranza’s questions, a wary contempt in her eyes.
Try as she might, nothing she did or said had gone any way to loosening the slave woman’s tongue. And that wariness, the simmering jealousy… Jealousy?
It was the first time she’d considered it was jealousy she saw flashing in the indomitable eyes and felt a rush of enlightenment. The woman wasn’t just his slave and possibly his bed partner; she was in love with him.
If they were ever to get out of here or at least find out what was to be done with them, it wouldn’t hurt to try gaining her trust. She started by complimenting Eugenie on the food she brought to them.
‘This really is quite delicious, Eugenie. Does it have a name?’
She repeated the compliment for everything Eugenie did. One compliment after another.
‘Eugenie, this soap has the most delicate perfume…’
‘Eugenie, what delicious wine…’
‘Eugenie, my dear, how beautiful you look. The Marquis must be very proud of you. Are you man and wife? Sweethearts?’
Reference to the Marquis and Eugenie’s standing with him was the straw that broke the camel’s back, altering the look in Eugenie’s eyes.
Lochranza pressed home her advantage.
‘Supper was quite delicious… What is it? What is it called?’
‘Jambalaya.’
‘There are shrimps in it. Is that right?’
It was hard to maintain an amiable manner, especially with Moira sitting stiffly upright and pulling a face with each forkful she poked into her mouth.
Lochranza detected only the smallest of softening in Eugenie’s face.
‘Yes. Shrimps. Ham. Other things… It’s lovely. Very different to what we used to eat in England. Don’t you think so, Moira?’
Looking surprised at being asked her opinion, seeing as she’d already remarked that she hated spicy food, Moira was slow in answering. Lochranza was grateful for that. Foreign muck, she’d stated with a contemptuous snort when the two of them had been alone.
‘Have you been here long… with the Marquis?’
‘Some time.’
Words. At last.
‘Did he bring you to this country?’
There was hesitation. ‘Non. He bought me.’
So. She was a slave.
‘He must be very rich. Does he have estates in France or only here in Louisiana?’
Eugenie did not answer.
‘Where did he buy you?’ Lochranza asked softly.
Something almost triumphant shone in Eugenie’s eyes. A knowing smile curved her lips. ‘The same place where he will sell you!’
* * *
A man with a stealthy manner and eyes that missed nothing stood across the road from the house with the wisteria climbing in profuse splendour up the wrought Spanish trelliswork.
He’d watched the house since the first day when Lady Kildare had been roughly handled into its shady interior, noting the accents of the coachman and the big oaf with the meaty hands.
He’d made enquiries of who owned the house, his business and likely whereabouts from dawn to dusk.
By the time he’d accumulated every piece of information worthwhile to achieve Lady Kildare’s release, he knew the status of the scoundrel he was dealing with.
The man who was arrogant enough to call himself the Marquis had once been a pirate, though had called himself a privateer. Although he’d adopted an aura of respectability, the way he made his money was still linked to piracy and, most of all, to the trade in human flesh.
In the deep confines of his coat pocket, he fumbled for and found a folded bill – a poster secretly circulated and advertising ‘choice white flesh’.
The notice had been given to him by the man who was paying his wages, a strange-looking man, his face a patchwork of brown and pink skin.
Lady Kildare had to be rescued and although he’d considered storming the house, he didn’t know in which room she was being held. Neither could he chance the Marquis slicing her throat rather than handing her over.
No. The attempt at rescue had to be out in the open and he would need help. Money talked and he had plenty.