By the Bay (11 page)

He looked past her to the two
privateers
and his brow wrinkled with concern. “December
30
, 191
4
,” he said in the soft drawl that she connected with this part of the world.

“Thank you,” she said.

He looked at the three of them with concern, but seemed to decide considering all the strange things about them from Mac’s bright pirate’s clothes to the woman  in boy’s
garments
, that it might be best to mind his own business, he nodded and hurried on.

“The time is right,” she said. “We didn’t slip a hundred years anywhere
.
”

“Still, something is very
wrong
,” Philippe insisted
.

Mac agreed. “Don’t like this one bit.”

To Jillian who could find nothing familiar about the city she’d never visited before, they seemed to be making too much of this. “The only thing I know for sure is that I’m starving. The food on the Belle Fleur wasn’t exactly something to write home about.”

Still acting as though they were more caught in their thoughts than paying attention to her, they found their way to a small café where Philippe ordered for her, a meal of shrimp gumbo, fried bread, and white wine.

After too many days of ship’s meals of dried meat, beans and hard bread, everything was wonderful. She ate heartily, as did Mac, but she noticed that Philippe hardly touched the food on his plate.

She was nearly finished and contemplating desert when he finally broke into the chatter between her and Mac.

“If time ha
s
shift forward and backward as it did for us in the
Porte
de Isabelle, why can it not also move side-to-side.”

Mac scowled, totally befuddled. Jillian didn’t find herself on any surer ground. “Side to side?” she queried.

He picked up his fork, th
a
n put it down again. “I’m not certain exactly what I’m thinking. But every person, every event must count, and if things were changed around as they were when I stepped into another time and then again when I brought you here, then why can not other things have moved also. Perhaps everything changed and we have stepped into a different New Orleans with a past we do not know and a future even
with all your studies
you can not know.”

She stared at him. “But if you’re right, then
there’s no way of knowing if
the Americans win the battle of New Orleans.”

He nodded grimly. “I do not know if my friends even live and we can not count on those history books you studied
to
be right. The British could defeat
our people.”

Chapter Fourteen

Philippe installed her in a suite in a rather elegant rooming house in the quarter, only saying that the place where he’d previously resided no longer existed and that
this place
was totally new to him.

He forbade her to leave the apartment, telling her he would return by nightfall with proper garments for her to wear so that she could go out in public without being stared at.

The bed was possessed of a comfortable mattress and tall posters so she crawled into it feeling like a princess in a fairy tale, though she
wasn’t accustomed to seeing
the kind of netting that enclosed her in a mosquito safe
environment
of her own. Having eaten a quite substantial lunch, she felt she could stand a nap.

Much as she liked her boys’ clothing on board ship, she didn’t much like being stared at by the stylish residents of New Orleans, nor was she willing to risk the dubious approaches of strange men that she was sure to endure if unaccompanied by Philippe and his first mate.

She smiled at the thought of Bloody Mac. Though concerned about the changes he saw in his familiar world, he was
still
anxious to join his ship mates in their customary orgy on arriving at port.

Dozing
the lazy afternoon away she dwelt in dreamless sleep until Philippe returned, laying his purchases aside as he came under the net to join her in bed. The world might be coming to a
crisis
but that did not prevent them
from enjoying
an hour to themselves with very little speech being necessary to improve the occasion.

It was only when he was watching her bath
e
in perfumed water in the small tub the servants had brought into the room that he told her of his findings. 

After some searching he had
contacted
some old acquaintances, none of them
privateers
, and learned what he could of the latest news.

The
privateers
of Barataria had been cleaned from their favorite site in the bayous, Grande Terre, much as ants were cleared from their beds, and sent to swarming in all directions. Word was that with
that after
the attack of the Americans, many of them had joined their cause to the British and it was feared that both their armaments and their skills were to be sold to that distant nation for the price of amnesty for past crimes as well as a liberal promise of more substantial rewards.

This was bad news. Jillian knew well enough from her studies that the privateers had played a significant part in Jackson’s victory. With them allied to the other side, the prospects looked grim indeed.

He had to help her dress, work he seemed to enjoy as he told her how most young women of her class, whatever that meant since she figured a red-haired Texas girl was in
a class of her own, would have
ladies maid
s
to tighten
their
laces and do up
their
buttons. Since he expected a kiss for each button
fastened
, she accused him of having deliberately selected a dress with a long row of buttons down the back.

She had to admit, though, that what she could see of herself in the little hand mirror he had brought might turn a male head or two. The gown was shimmering apple green silk that left most of her shoulders and an indecent amount of her small breasts exposed. The slippers were covered with matching fabric and he’d bought fresh flowers for her hair, which she tried to pull into a loose knot at the back with soft curls on top and running down her foreh
e
ad.

While she was doing her hair, she peeked around to watch him becoming even more elegant than usual in black
pants
and a ruffled, long sleeve shirt. She sighed. It was Errol Flynn all over again and she told him so  though he didn’t seem to appreciate the complim
ent
, being unfamiliar with the actor and only being acquainted with motion pictures from his very brief
sojourn
in Port Isabel.

It was only then that she thought to ask him to what grand event they were headed.

“The governor’s ball. The governor does not very much like privateers.”

“Then why are we going?”

“We are invited.”

He opened the door for her and she went out. A fancy carriage waited for them so she couldn’t ask any more questions until they were alone inside and the carriage was moving down streets still busy with revelers making the most of the holiday season.

It still seemed there was so much to figure out. “If they’re expecting attack at any time, how come everybody is partying
?
”

He sh
r
ugged. “This is New Orleans. Besides tonight, as
Owen
would say, is business.”

For a minute she didn’t take in what he was saying. “A ball! That means dancing, Philippe, and I won’t have any idea how to dance like they do here.”

“Do not fear. I will show you.” He seemed abstracted, but did not forget to kiss her hand reassuringly. “Anyway it does not matter.”

“I
suppose
.” She pressed her lips against his in a lingering kiss, then continued, teasing, “If they’re rude to me, you’ll run your sword through them.”

“I will challenge them to a duel.”

She had a feeling he wasn’t joking.”

“Do not worry. It will not happen. They have other things to  consider, the society people of New Orleans. Never before have they had time for me, they would not expect to see me in such a place. But now it is all different.”

He sounded angry. Finally what he’d actually said soaked in. “Business?” she asked. “What kind of business?”

For a couple of minutes, she heard only the clip clop of the horses
’
hooves. Then he spoke, “There is no Jean,” he said, “that is what they try to tell me. There is no Jean
Lafitte
and never has been.” His voice crackled with rage.

“Your family?” she asked in horror. “The people who took you in when your grandma died?”

“Pierre is still here and
others of them that I know less well
, but they say their brother Jean died when he was three years old. In this world, Jean
Lafitte
the
buccaneer
never existed.”

She took his hand in hers. “Then who led the privateers of Barataria?” she asked. “Or have they faded out as well?”

“No, they still exist and are working with the British invaders. As for who was their leader, they tell me I was.”

She sat in stunned silence, trying to understand. “You were the Jean
Lafitte
of this time. Then was it because you were gone . . .sent away .  . .whatever happened, that they abandoned the American cause.”

He stared straight ahead. “That is what Pierre says. It is why we are invited to the governor’s ball tonight.
The governor
hates me of all men, but still he is hopeful that I can find a way to bring the privateers and their store of weapons back to the American side.”

Chapter Fifteen

Owen
fried bacon
crisp
and scrambled eggs while
Florence
delivered orders to the customers out
front
. Sometimes
Florence
cooked, but
Owen
never waited tables unless the customer number had dropped down to a few old friends late in the evening or in the mid-morning between lunch and breakfast.

“I’d end up chasing all the customers off,” he explained for the dozenth time. “Grouchy as I am sometimes.”

“You just like to think of yourself as an old curmudgeon,”
Florence
accused, “It gives you an excuse to only do the things you want to do.”

He grinned at her. “Works for me.”

She grinned back. Actually she liked waiting tables because she enjoyed chatting with the customers, slinging witty barbs with those who liked
to
trade in kind.
 
Owen
always said two thirds of the popularity of the restaurant had more to do with
Florence
’s likability than it did with the quality of the food.

Today all the talk was about the war and how they’d hoped it would be over by Christmas and instead they were almost into a new year and things weren’t looking too optimistic.

Word of the death of a local kid had brought everybody down. That was the worst part of living in a small town, you knew everybody and a loss, particular
ly
of a youngster, was personal.

Owen
and
Florence
went on with their usual patter of mild insults as they crossed paths while they worked. Customers coming in and out asked about Jillian and Philippe,
wanting to know
if they’d heard from them yet and
joking
about how it was hard to keep up with family when you were honeymooning. Roy reported he’d been unable to trace the young couple, but reminded them that
there
was a war on and authorities had more to worry about the
n
a pair of runaway lovers, both adults and fully capable of looking after themselves.

In her quiet moments when she had a little time to herself,
Florence
was almost frantic with worry and even thought about setting out in her car and looking for
them herself.
Trouble was it was a very big world out there and they could be anywhere. Philippe had said
he was taking her to New Orleans
and
Florence had
given that tip to Roy, but somehow she couldn’t imagine herself searching the crescent city for Jillian and Philippe with any success.

All she could do was wait for word and look after Christine, who was more lost in her delusions than ever, convinced as she was that her late husband had returned and taken baby Jillian away.