Queen of Swords
Page 83

“You’ve been a long while,” Hannah said.
“I have,” he agreed. “Long enough that I was hoping for more of a greeting.”
Hannah studied his face, and felt her resolve crumbling away. This was Ben Savard, who had given her every reason to trust him, who had saved her life. She loved him, that was clear to her now, and the oddest thing was that love made it all the harder to be fair.
She said, “You had a visitor just a little while ago.”
Ben shrugged off his wet cape and spread it out before the hearth. “A visitor.”
“Yes. A young woman called Nicole. She brought you a letter from Mme. Soileau.”
“Ah.” He sat down on a stool and took his time pulling off his moccasins. “So what does it say?”
“It’s your letter,” Hannah said, her temper flaring. “I wouldn’t open it.”
“But you look mad enough to throw it into the fire.”
“I am not mad.”
“No?” He held her gaze.
“How is it you know Mme. Soileau?”
“I don’t know her, the way you mean.” He grinned. “In the biblical sense. Don’t know any of her young women that way, either.”
“You do business with her of another kind?”
“I wouldn’t call it business,” Ben said. “Is this about Girl?”
“Yes,” Hannah said. “Your Mme. Soileau—”
“She’s not mine.”
“—as much as murdered that young woman. Why would you have anything to do with her?”
“You’re jumping to conclusions, chère. Open it up, read it to me before you decide I need tarring.”
Hannah paused, trying to make sense of the things she was feeling. She held out the letter to him.
“This is your business and none of mine. I needn’t involve myself.”
Ben took the letter, letting his fingers trail over hers. His skin was still cold, and the shock of it ran up her arm. He looked irritated and Hannah thought: Good. At least we’re both mad.
The wax seal gave a soft crack and he unfolded the single sheet. His eyes moved over the page, and then he handed it to her.
“It’s your business, too,” he said. “But you’re right, you needn’t involve yourself.”
The hand was firm and straight, the ink very black.
He goes to Le Tonneau after midnight.
Hannah looked at Ben. He was studying the fire, his face set in hard lines. He spoke without turning toward her.
“Poiterin has been hiding out at Noelle Soileau’s place since the night his grand-mère died in the fire.”
Hannah tried to make sense of the words. “And you knew where he was? Why didn’t—how could—” She broke off.
“I didn’t tell you and I didn’t turn him in for a couple reasons,” said Ben. “Mostly because Noelle asked me to hold off. She had her own plans for the man.”
Hannah took a deep breath. “We are talking about Honoré Poiterin, who put Jennet through such torture for so many months, who took Titine and sold her, who raped me.”
“You think I could ever forget about that?” Ben gave her a long and very sober look.
“No,” Hannah said. “But I don’t understand.”
After a moment Ben said, “As much as he’s done to you, he’s done that and more to Noelle and her family.” He ran a hand over his eyes. “You met Valerie Maurepas in Pensacola?”
It took a moment for Hannah to collect her thoughts. “Titine’s mother. Yes, I met her.”
“When Noelle was sixteen or so—about Rachel’s age—she was taken off the street. By one of the slave traders of the sort who isn’t fussy about where his stock comes from, or how legal it is. Noelle was free, born to free parents, but that didn’t matter to him. He took her north and sold her to a planter in Virginia, and she’d be a slave to this day if she hadn’t got word to Valerie. Valerie hired a lawyer and got the papers together and they sued, and eventually Noelle got her freedom back. She was nineteen by that time, and those three years—they took a toll.”
“I can see that they would,” Hannah said, her tone milder now. “You’re saying Noelle Soileau is connected somehow to Valerie Maurepas.”
“Noelle may be without mercy when it comes to business, and if you’re waiting for me to explain how somebody with her history would hold slaves, well, then I have to disappoint you. I don’t understand it myself, but she’s not alone. There’s more than one dark-skinned slave holder in this part of the country. But I can tell you this about Noelle: To her own people she’s loyal unto death, and her great-aunt Valerie Maurepas and her cousin Titine are two of those people she counts as her own.” And to Hannah’s blank look: “You didn’t realize that Noelle is colored, did you? Most folks don’t, but she signs herself that way: Noelle Soileau, FWC.”
Hannah said, “I should have thought to ask why Titine took me to that house, but I was too sick, and later I just—” She paused.
“It was the one place in the city she knew you’d be safe, because she asked Noelle to take you in as a personal favor to her.”
“My recollection,” Hannah said slowly, “is that rent was paid. And when the money was used up, I was thrown out.”
“Mais yeah, rent was paid. She’s a businesswoman first and foremost. And then Titine got snatched up and stole away—”