Titine had not inherited her mother’s legendary looks, and because her father had made no provisions for her in his will, she had accepted the position as Andrew Preston’s housekeeper, and perhaps more. Hannah had the idea that Mr. Preston would require some kind of payment for taking in two old black women who could be of little practical use in his household.

Gaetane, it was very clear, disliked Pensacola and wanted nothing more than to go back to New Orleans, but she would not leave her mistress even if she had the means to do so. No doubt she would have escorted Valerie Maurepas to hell, if solely to make sure the devil showed her the courtesy she deserved. And Gaetane had quite a lot to say about Honoré Poiterin. Some of it was amusing, and all of it was alarming.

“Everybody know Michie Honoré, the same way everybody know the gator and the gar. I like the gator better, me, M. Caïmon. Câlice! We got one back there in the ciprière long as two men standing one on top of the other.” She looked toward the tangle of green that started beyond a pasture where a few horses grazed in the shade of a stand of cypress trees. “Old M. Caïmon don’t make no bones ’bout what he want, and don’t pretend to be something he ain’t.”

Hannah thought for a moment. “What does Honoré Poiterin want?”

The three women looked briefly at one another, and then Mme. Valerie answered in an elegant, musical, and quite old-fashioned English. “Honoré cares about two things. The first is amusing himself. The second is pleasing his grand-mère Agnès, because she controls the money he requires to amuse himself.”

Gaetane sniffed loudly. With one small, red-painted clog she crushed a yellow jacket crawling over the cobbles.

Hannah said, “Is it Agnès Poiterin’s idea or her grandson’s to try to claim my nephew as their own?”

Mme. Valerie crossed her hands on her lap. “That is a very good question, but there is no simple answer. My guess would be that once Agnès saw the boy, she decided she wanted to keep him, and Honoré went along with it.”

“Mme. Agnès, she like pretties, her,” Gaetane said. “And that boy of yours the prettiest child I ever seen in all my long years.”

Jennet jerked and righted herself. “You’ve seen him? You’ve seen my son?”

“Mais yeah, we see your boy, your Nathaniel,” said Gaetane. She pronounced it in the French way, Nah-taan-i-el. “See him just about every day. Jacinthe, she bring him by here and sit right there where you are, madame, with the boy in her lap while she pass the time with us. The boy got a smile like his papa’s, like your man’s.”

Jennet stood, hands pressed to her mouth, and then sat again.

Titine said, “I would have told you, but you were so unwell when you arrived.”

“Jacinthe is his nurse?” Hannah asked.

“Mais yeah.” Gaetane rocked her whole body from side to side in approval. “She got sweet milk, Jacinthe, and a good heart. Deserve better than that devil Honoré, that for sure.”

Titine said, “The boy is well taken care of with Jacinthe, Madame Scott.”

Hannah saw the sharp look Titine’s mother sent her. She said, “You disagree, madame?”

“I have no quarrel with Jacinthe, but it’s not the girl who will have the raising of the boy. It’s Honoré’s grand-mère.” She seemed to come to some conclusion, because she held up a hand to quiet Gaetane.

“Honoré might have turned out differently, if it hadn’t been for the fact that Agnès raised him in her own image. I wouldn’t put a good dog in her care, much less a boy. You had best go straight to New Orleans, and do what you must to get your son back. If you’re fortunate Honoré will be away on business and you’ll find a way around Agnès.”

“And how do we do that? Can you tell me?” Jennet’s voice was steady but she was trembling.

“If I knew how to get the best of Agnès Poiterin I would not be here,” said the older woman. “I would be where I belong in my cottage on the rue Dauphine, in New Orleans—where you must go, without delay.”

The hour in the garden had drained Jennet of the little strength she had, and she retired to her bed without argument. She allowed Hannah to wipe her face and throat with a cloth dipped in water sweetened with cloves and mint.

“Tomorrow,” Jennet said.

Hannah hesitated, and then nodded. “Tomorrow, yes.”

“You’ll arrange it with Luke?”

“If you like. If I must.” It was an invitation, but Jennet turned her face to the wall. Hannah was about to leave her when Jennet spoke again, her voice clogged with unshed tears.

“I can only fight one battle at a time,” she said.

Hannah sat again. “You aren’t at war with Luke.”

“No.” Each breath Jennet produced was short and harsh. “Of course not.”

Jennet slept fitfully for much of the day, starting up out of dreams to find herself drenched in sweat. It was dim in the chamber and crossed by breezes that felt good against the dampness of her skin. Often someone was sitting beside the bed, Hannah or Titine or another young woman with skin the color of molasses who held a baby to her breast. The smell of her milk filled the air, and it made Jennet’s own breasts ache.

She dreamed that her brother Simon was sitting beside her bed. He had died long ago as a young boy, but in her dream he was a man grown, with a shock of red hair and a deep voice he used to tell her news of home. I watch over them, he said. I watch you all. She dreamed of Honoré Poiterin, his laughing smile and the flash of an earring against black hair. A young man of some talents and many sins, who feared nothing and demanded everything. She dreamed of Moore’s face across the table, his mouth forming the question When will I get me a good wife? While the white scar on his forehead twisted like a snake against red flushed skin. When he showed himself next he was reciting the marriage rites with the exaggerated care of a man who has drunk too deep.