LITMIR.BIZ

      Nine

      On a blistering-hot day in September, a tall, dark man stood on the wooden wharf in Havana, Cuba.

      Armand de Chevalier patiently waited his turn to board the cargo ship that would take him to New Orleans. Armand was smiling, as usual. He knew how lucky he was to be alive. Plucked from the sea by a small trader bound for Cuba late that fateful August afternoon, he hadn’t complained when he learned it was headed for Havana.

      “Sounds good to me,” he had said with a laugh, after having spent hours bobbing in the water under a burning summer sun.

      Now, after three long weeks of rest and boredom in Havana, Armand was as robust as ever and more than ready to go home.

      “Señor,” said one of the crewman, motioning him forward.

      Armand nodded and climbed the gangway, whistling merrily.

      The days were the drowsy ones of late summer. The weather in New Orleans stayed hot and muggy throughout the month of September. The hot mist off the bayous seemed to scald the skin.

      Along with the humid heat was the constant irritant of the buzzing, biting mosquitoes. The residents of the low-lying river city didn’t dare try sleeping without a mosquito baire protecting them.

      The mosquitoes had been worse than usual this summer, but Colfax Sumner told his niece it was a good thing, really. There had been very few cases of yellow fever this year, thanks to the mosquitoes. He was convinced that the swarms of mosquitoes purified the miasmic swamp airs that caused the deadly disease.

      “You actually believe that?” Madeleine asked, skeptical, as the two of them sat together in the shaded courtyard on a sweltering September afternoon.

      “Indeed. If the fever had been rampant this year as it was in ’53, I would never have allowed you to come near New Orleans. Or, if you had come, you’d have had to stay upriver at the plantation or else have shut yourself up inside this house and never have gone outdoors. You wouldn’t have liked that.”

      “Heavens, no. I do so enjoy going out.”

      As if she hadn’t spoken, Colfax mused, “I recall that the mosquito population was so sparse in ’53 one could sleep without the baire enclosing the bed. But bronze john swept through this city all summer and took countless lives. Barrels of burning tar constantly blackened the skies and burned our eyes and choked us. The cathedral bell tolled each time another poor soul died and it seemed that the terrible tolling never stopped. Night and day it pealed.”

      “You were in no danger since you had the fever all those years ago?”

      “That’s true. I’ve been immune ever since…since the summer of…” He shook his head sadly, fell silent, and his eyes clouded.

      Madeleine knew he was looking back into the past, to that dreadful summer of 1816 and the sad events that had changed his life forever. He had been a young man who was to be married to a beautiful Creole belle. The two had been madly in love, but a yellow fever epidemic had ended their dreams. Both contracted the fever, but Colfax survived. His beloved had not. Twenty-four hours before they were to be married, she died in his arms and was buried in her white wedding gown.

      As if there had been no lapse in the conversation, Colfax said, “Yes, thankfully, I am immune. That’s why I didn’t flee upriver to the safety of the plantation with Avalina in ’53. Many of the sick were good friends and they needed me. I did what I could for them, but in many cases it wasn’t enough.”

      “I know you did,” Madeleine said and affectionately patted his arm. Quickly changing the subject, she said, “Desmond is coming for dinner and afterward we are going to the theater. Why don’t you come with us?”

      “Some other time,” he begged off. “I’ve some reading and paperwork to catch up on.”

      “Well, don’t say I didn’t ask,” she said, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek before she hurried upstairs to dress.

      On those evenings when Lord Enfield wasn’t taking Lady Madeleine out to dinner or to the theater, he dined with her and her uncle at the Royal Street town house. Or else he invited them to join him for the evening meal at his own Dumaine Street home.

      Whether at the Sumner town house or his own home, the earl, ever the caring consort, was careful not to keep either of them up too late. He insisted that the countess should continue to get plenty of rest. Colfax readily concurred, pleased that Lord Enfield was such a thoughtful man.

      Madeleine, too, was grateful that Desmond was concerned for her welfare. A true blue-blooded gentleman, he expected nothing more from her than brief good-night kisses in the flower-filled courtyard. Which made her feel terribly guilty. What would he think if he knew how wantonly she had behaved with a total stranger?

      One such evening, Madeleine returned to the parlor after kissing Desmond good-night beneath the porte cochere. When she came into the room, Avalina looked at her, then looked at the French clock on the white marble mantel. Nine-thirty. Avalina pursed her lips.

      “What? What is it?” Madeleine asked, puzzled.

      The black woman shrugged. “Nothing.”

      “I know better,” said Madeleine. “Something’s on your mind. What is it?”

      Avalina made a face. “Seems to me it’s mighty early for a lovestruck gentleman to be leaving his fiancée.”

      “For heaven’s sake, Desmond’s only being considerate,” Madeleine promptly defended him. “And I appreciate it.”

      Avalina rolled her eyes heavenward and said, “Will you need me anymore this evening?”

      “No. No, I can undress without you.”

      “Then, good night, my lady.” Avalina turned and left the room.

      Madeleine stared after her. She had the distinct impression that Avalina did not like Lord Enfield. But why? Desmond was unfailingly cordial to Avalina and even brought her little presents on occasion. Which she accepted almost grudgingly.

      Madeleine sighed and climbed the stairs to her room. It was too early for bed. She wasn’t sleepy. She was hot and she was restless. The latitude and climate of New Orleans had a disturbingly potent effect on her. The tropical heat of the sultry summer days made her feel lazy and content.

      But the long languorous nights had the opposite effect. The New Orleans nights were powerfully provocative. The humid, heavy air. The moonlight on the Mississippi. The sweet scent of jasmine and gardenias. The faint sound of music from a street musician’s banjo.

      Madeleine wandered out onto the streetside iron lace balcony and inhaled deeply of the warm moist air. Almost wistfully, she looked out over the sprawling city.

      Under a beguiling tropic sky, carriages noisily rolled down the streets and laughing people crowded the banquettes. At 10:00 p.m., the Crescent City was alive with merrymakers hurrying to the restaurants and theaters and gaming palaces.

      Many were just now leaving their homes to go out for the evening. Avalina was right. It was early for Desmond to have gone. He could have stayed a while longer.

      She frowned and went back inside.

      Madeleine began to undress in the darkness, knowing that she would not sleep. It would be another of those nights when, tormented by the heat and the buzzing of mosquitoes and a shameful yearning for a dead, dark lover, she would toss and turn and sigh.

      Feeling edgy and irritated, Madeleine finished undressing. She

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