Chapter 7
The Mississippi did not flow so much as it moved with a heavy, indifferent weight, a mass of silt and melted snow from the north that pressed against the levees of New Orleans.
It was a brown, swirling force that carried the trunks of trees like broken matches.
Mr. Darcy sat in the bow of a shallow-bottomed skiff, his eyes fixed on the point where the water met the dense, tangled wall of the cypress swamp.
The air was palpable, a wet blanket that smelled of mud and rotting vegetation.
He pulled a linen handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the moisture from his forehead. It was the third time in an hour.
"The current is stronger today," said Baptiste, the boatman. "The rains up in the territory have reached us at last."
Darcy nodded. He did not look back at the man. His attention was on the bank, where the land turned into a maze of knees and moss-draped branches. He was mapping the access points, the places where a column of men might find purchase if they were to land north of the city. It was a bleak prospect.
"Is there any ground that stays dry through the summer?" asked Darcy.
"There are a few ridges," Baptiste said. "The Indians know them. We stay in the channel."
A long dugout canoe emerged from the shadows of a narrow inlet ahead.
It moved with a grace that the skiff lacked, propelled by six men with broad shoulders and dark, painted faces.
They wore deerskin leggings and trade shirts of bright calico, their hair shorn or braided in the manner of the Choctaw.
When the two vessels drew closer, Baptiste slowed his stroke.
"It is a trade party," the boatman murmured. "They come from the northern villages with skins and oil."
The leader of the Choctaw stood in the center of the canoe.
He held a long paddle with easy strength, his gaze moving over Darcy with a scrutiny that was sharp and knowing.
He noticed the cut of Darcy's coat, the quality of his boots, and the way he held himself against the motion of the water.
The man spoke a word to his companions, and the canoe glided alongside the skiff.
"You seek the high road, Englishman?" the leader asked. His English was accented but clear, the vowels elongated.
Darcy kept his expression neutral. "I am a traveler looking at the country."
"Travelers look at the birds and the flowers," the leader replied. "You look at the mud. You look at the depth of the channel. You have the eyes of a scout."
"I have an interest in geography," said Darcy.
"Geography is the word for where the cannons will go," the man said. He reached into his belt and produced a small, silver coin. He tossed it into Darcy's lap. "It is a Spanish bit, found near the old fort. You may have it for your collection. It is no use to me."
Darcy picked up the coin. It was worn, the profile of the Spanish king nearly erased by time and friction. "Thank you. What do you ask in return?"
"We ask nothing today," the leader said. "The river belongs to no one. But if the red coats come to the swamp, the water will turn black with their blood. Tell your masters that the Choctaw do not forget the last war."
He signaled to his men, and the canoe surged forward, disappearing into the mist that hovered over the surface of the river.
Darcy watched them go, the silver coin cold in his palm.
He had come to New Orleans to find the weaknesses in the American defenses, but he was finding instead a web of alliances and animosities that he did not fully understand.
"They are smart people," Baptiste said. "They see more than they say."
"They see quite enough," said Darcy.
They turned back toward the city, the current pushing them along with a speed that felt like a retreat.
The spires of the cathedral and the low, flat roofs of the French Quarter appeared through the haze, a fragile thumbprint of civilization on the edge of a wild continent.
His task weighed heavy. He was a gentleman of property, a man of honor, and yet he was spending his days in the company of rivermen and scouts, hiding his purpose behind a thin veil of curiosity.
* ? * ? *
A letter from Jane had arrived that morning, its pages crossed and recrossed in the economical hand that Elizabeth knew as well as her own. She read it by the window where the light was strongest.
Dearest Lizzy,
Longbourn is much as you left it, though the garden has grown ambitious in your absence.
Papa's roses have overtaken the south wall entirely.
I walk there most evenings and think of you in that strange, beautiful city.
You must tell me everything when you return—the flowers, the river, the people who have become your friends.
I miss your voice at breakfast and your opinions at supper.
The house is quieter without you, which is saying a great deal.
With all my love,
Jane
Elizabeth folded the pages carefully and pressed them flat. Jane's letters were a compass that always pointed toward home, and home, at this distance, felt both precious and impossibly small.
Elizabeth stood in the center of the dressmaker's shop, her arms raised as Cécile pinned the hem of a gown made of deep emerald silk.
The room was filled with the scent of lavender and the soft rustle of expensive fabric.
Outside, the street was a riot of noise and color, the citizens of New Orleans preparing for the masquerade that would mark the height of the season.
"You must hold still, Elizabeth," Cécile said. "If I miss a stitch, you will trip during the quadrille, and everyone will think the English are as clumsy as the rumors suggest."
"I am as still as a statue," said Elizabeth. "But I often wonder why we are going to such trouble. A mask is a mask, regardless of the quality of the lace."
Cécile looked up, a pin between her teeth. She took it out and stuck it into the cushion on her wrist. "In this city, the mask is the only time one can be truly honest. When you do not know the face of the person you are speaking to, you listen to their words. You hear the truth in their voice."
"I find that hard to believe," Elizabeth said. "I should think a mask would encourage even more deception."
"Perhaps," said Cécile. "But it is a different kind of deception. It is a game we all agree to play."
She stood up and brushed the threads from her apron. Her expression turned serious. "My cousin works in the office of the Port Captain. He tells me things."
Elizabeth noticed a slight chill that had nothing to do with the draft in the shop. "What sort of things?"
"He says the papers for your Mr. Darcy are very interesting," Cécile said.
"He arrived on a merchant vessel, or so he claimed.
But there is no record of his name on the manifest of any ship that has docked in the last month.
And the bank drafts he uses—they are not drawn on a private house.
They come from a branch that handles the accounts of the British military. "
Elizabeth looked at her friend. "Are you certain?"
"My cousin is excellent with numbers," Cécile said. "He says the gentleman is no more a simple traveler than I am a nun. He spent the morning on the river, Elizabeth. Not looking at the sights, but measuring the distance from the bank to the trees."
"He told me he was interested in the agriculture of the region," Elizabeth said. Her voice sounded hollow to her own ears.
"Is that what he calls it?" Cécile asked. "He is a brave man to play such a game here. The Americans are nervous. They think the war is coming, and they do not like strangers who ask too many questions about their levees."
Elizabeth sat down on a velvet bench, the emerald silk pooling around her feet.
Her mind returned, with an uncomfortable precision, to the evening in his loft—the map, the soundings, the fortification notes she had so confidently attributed to speculation.
A land investor did not draw military batteries.
A man of commerce did not keep accounts with a branch that serviced the British Army.
She had looked at the evidence and seen what suited her first impression: a proud man made small by greed.
The truth, it now appeared, was a great deal larger and a great deal more dangerous than her comfortable dismissal had allowed.
The error stung, not because she had been deceived, but because she had deceived herself—and with such satisfaction.
"He must have a reason," Elizabeth said.
"Everyone has a reason," said Cécile. "The question is whether his reason will get him hanged. If Governor Claiborne finds out he is an officer of the Crown, he will not be invited to dinner again. He will be invited to a cell."
"He is a gentleman," Elizabeth said.
"A gentleman can still be a soldier," Cécile replied. "And a soldier in a city that is not his own is a danger to everyone."
Elizabeth looked at her reflection in the tall pier glass. The green of the dress made her eyes look darker, more intense. She saw a woman who was beginning to understand that the world was larger and more complicated than the drawing rooms of Hertfordshire.
"I will speak to him," said Elizabeth.
"Be careful," Cécile warned. "If you know his secret, you become part of it. At the masquerade, everyone wears a mask. Be sure yours is on straight."
* ? * ? *
The courtyard of the Cabildo was transformed into a flickering palace of gold and shadow.
Hundreds of lanterns hung from the arches, their light reflected in the polished marble floors and the silver trays of the servants.
The air was thick with the smell of jasmine and the sweet, heavy scent of orange blossoms. A small orchestra played a lively tune, the sound of the violins competing with the roar of a thousand conversations.