Love Story on Canal

by Angela Lee

  The half-smile was back, no teeth, just a corner tweaked up in amusement. He was trying to make her uncomfortable. It was working. He furthered his pursuit by lazily dragging his eyes from hers down her face, pausing at her lips, moving on along the line of her neck. His lazy gaze traveled to her hands where one finger remained holding a place inside the now closed book.

  Pan forced a dry, indifferent response, “It has the usual bits, really. Risqué joke books, collections of French postcards, bawdy novels. By all means, there is probably something on the shelf to appease your tastes. Certainly not the most obscene collection one might find.”

  There. She was no silly miss. She had read her share of naughty books and had seen a handful of the nude photographs known as French postcards. She wasn’t going to have vapors over his innuendo.

  He smiled. A full, toothy smile. Mother in Heaven! This man was even more gorgeous when he smiled. Too late, she jerked back as he flipped open to the page her finger marked. Covering her hands with his own he turned the book to face him as he came to stand alongside her. He wore no gloves. Her eyes fixated on those large, tanned hands. His fingers were long, and he wore a single onyx signet ring on his right ring finger.

  In the tone of a stern governess she asked, “Did you follow me here?”

  He stepped closer into her skirts. His thumb rubbed along the side of her palm in his maddeningly relaxed manner. “I was already here, belle. I have been visiting the merchants along the block. Perhaps you followed me?”

  “That’s absurd. Why would I follow you?” she sputtered.

  The sly look returned. She chanted to herself to maintain control and not follow the impulse to lean in closer and inhale his delicious scent as she truly wanted to do. Everything about this man was sending her feminine senses into overdrive. Pan’s usually already cluttered mind was a manic mess.

  His tone turned gravelly, making her ears tingle, “You’re a beautiful Northerner with eclectic reading habits and you work at a children’s home.” His luscious eyes seemed to darken as he watched her. Pan’s breath caught at the simple truth of his observation and the intensity of his gaze.

  “I don’t work at the orphanage,” she admitted in a breathy voice.

  “And you are not a nun. Perhaps you can solve another mystery. Your name?”

  “Weathers?” The shopkeeper’s voice called from the front. “Weathers? Saw you head back there. Looks like your cousin is about to get into a scrap with some Billy Yanks.”

  A look of irritation passed as he moved the book to one hand and used the other to take hers. He lifted it to his mouth and pressed a lingering kiss to her gloved knuckles holding her gaze all the while.

  “Unfortunately, duty calls. I will see you again, belle.” Her turned her hand over, pushed her glove up with his thumb before kissing the bare skin of her wrist. Releasing her hand, he winked and then turned and walked away.

  Chapter Four

  Since he had abandoned the beautiful Yank in the bookshop on Thursday, Fin Weathers’ life had been in utter chaos. His mind had repeatedly returned to thoughts of the lovely and curious brunette. Her French had been fluent but lacked the conversational fluidity of daily use. Until the city’s occupation, French had been the primary language of New Orleans. Her diction and dress suggested that she was of the upper class, but her lack of a chaperone contradicted it. Fin was definitely intrigued.

  It mattered little since he had barely had a moment’s peace since that day. The argument his cousin had picked with Union soldiers had come to blows. Fin thought that he had skirted political disaster when they weren’t arrested on the street. However, an hour later, two soldiers had arrived at his shipping office to escort him to the man in charge.

  The robust man sitting behind the large desk had eyed Fin seriously, “Weathers, you are a community favorite for the open city council seat. I’d like some assurances that we are in accord.”

  “Accord?” Fin kept his demeanor relaxed. The general’s intent was clear, and though Fin was obligated to appease the man, there was no way he was going to allow the Union leader to bully him.

  “I want your assurance that you plan to lead with Union loyalty. I need to know that you are not intent on inciting further rebellion,” Burns responded with fervor.

  Fin’s rebuttal was firm but calm, “General, perhaps if you relaxed a bit on the numerous strong-armed policies that have been enacted on New Orleans’ citizens, you would find that there is little resistance left in the city. No one has any desire to see the city ransacked or razed.”

  Fin stood and walked over to a map of the city that was tacked to the wall. He pointed to an area on the northern bank of Lake Ponchartrain. “Your strongest resistance lies across the lake on the sugar plantations. I will not encourage rebellion. But I will not be supportive of continued martial law and curfews, random arrests and the looting of civilian homes. You would gain support if you stopped some of the embargo. We have a city of starving people to feed! The population has increased with the stranded sailors who now have nowhere to live, no employment opportunities, and no one supporting them.”

  “What do you suggest we do?” Burns gave none of his emotions away with the question.

  “There are battalions of freedmen desperate to serve, let them join your ranks. That will get some people off the streets and to work. Put the portmen on public works detail. Give them a job,” Fin kept his voice firm, sincerely hoping his listener might take him seriously. “Open up some shipping lanes so we can start moving cargo and start feeding people.”

  “Weathers, your ships are not blocked from trade,” the general snarled.

  “My ships, as you well know, are primarily transporting Union supplies. That’s not benefiting the citizens here in any way,” Fin cautiously argued.

  “But not solely,” Burns eyed him.

  “No, not solely.” What was Burns about? He already knew the ins and outs of Weathers Shipping and every business still allowed to operate in New Orleans, especially businesses with ships that were passing through the Naval blockade.

  “Right. I’ll need to know when you are receiving cotton shipments for transport,” the general ordered.

  “Cargo manifests are public.”

  “I’d consider it a favor if you provided me with advance notice when the deliveries are expected,” Burns had dropped his attention to the paperwork on his desk. The man’s tone suggested that this was an order, rather than a favor. Fin’s mind furiously tried to decipher what the General was up to. He had no doubt that requests for such favors would keep coming if he didn’t check them from the beginning.

  Fin was careful to keep his own response neutral, “As this impacts my livelihood, perhaps some details should be forthcoming.”

  “Calm down, Weathers. Your intelligence may be incorrect. There have been reports of some resurgence of separatist conspiracy from the cotton, not sugar, plantations. I’d like to inspect those deliveries and make sure that your company is not being used as a mule for rebel cargo.” The two men stared at each other silently.

  Finally, Fin gave a curt nod before making one last political plea, “At least stop sending well-bred ladies to Ship Island as a prison sentence for fussing at Union soldiers and wearing rebel colors. Let them be. The women are mourning their lost sons or sweethearts for Christ’s sake.”

  The General slammed his fist down. “I can’t do a damned thing to open those lanes or put those boys to work because of those gals fussing at soldiers. I can’t do a damned thing to help when one of their community leaders is picking fistfights with my patrol!” Burns pounded another angry fist on his desk. “I like you Weathers, but if you want support from this office, you’d better toe the mark. Set an example. If the community sees one of its leaders cooperating with soldiers they will, too. Rebellion is still present. Any small act can light an inferno. Are we clear?”

  Fin Weathers was a shipper. He had built up his father’s fleet in the last ten years. Politics had never be
en his ambition. Fin had been in his St. Louis office when the war had begun. New Orleans had fallen to the Union last Spring and Burns had quickly been planted as a military governor. Fin returned home to face the challenges of negotiating his cousin’s release from a Union prison and the ever-growing volume of military edicts imparted by General Burns. Those challenges had steered Fin on the course of civil service.

  The general barked again, “Weathers, are we clear?”

  Fin wanted to help return peace to New Orleans. He needed to ensure the safety of his family and friends from the growing power of an over-zealous general.

  Fin had no choice but to agree. “Yes. I understand.”

  The general gave a curt nod and turned his attention to the stack of papers in front of him. Without another word to Fin, the military man began signing document after document. Their meeting was finished.

  Chapter Five

  Creoles as a rule loved to dance. New Orleans might be under Union control, but the city refused to surrender its Friday night balls. Fin shook his head at the irony.

  Topping the nightmare that had been the rest of his week, Fin had to sponsor and now attend the Saturday night cotillion. Wealthy bachelors from the oldest families, were expected to co-sponsor dances at the hall by forming committees to raise funds, plan, and sell tickets for the weekly community dances.

  The grand ballroom of the French Opera house had been decorated with flowers and lace. The cotillions opened the door for unwed daughters to dance, wear their Parisian frocks, and socialize with eligible bachelors. Fin, as one of the eligible bachelors, usually danced once or twice before moving on to the cardroom. With a shipping business to run and a city council election to win, changing his bachelor status was not a priority at present.

  This ball had begun as every other, a watered-down entertainment; his unwanted obligation every Friday for most of his adult life. Midnight approached and the ball was getting into full swing, dancers filled the floor, servants moved about with trays of champagne, and for the first time in years Fin was in no rush to leave.

  She was here. His bookshop beauty. Fin’s every sense was alerted to her nearness. How could he not be completely aware of this goddess? She was the most beautiful woman in the room.

  Her silk dress of royal blue highlighted her unconventionally, sun kissed skin. Her mahogany locks were pulled up off her neck, with ringlets cascading down her back and over her shoulders. Small white flowers crowned her coiffure. He admired the inches of ivory, feminine neck that he could see, remembering how goosebumps had spread as he had stood behind her at the bookstore.

  Her delicate ears were adorned with pearls. Fin’s eyes travelled her neckline to the exposed edge of her shoulders. The sleeve began there and capped around her upper arms. His eyes travelled back across her clavicle and down over the swell of her breasts to the edge of her fitted gown. It was a simple dress, a contrast to the heavily accessorized gowns that adorned the other women in the room. Everything about this lady evoked a sense of classical beauty.

  This was the first time he had seen her at one of the balls. Creole events were exclusive, outsiders no matter their lineage or wealth, were never welcome. Her presence baffled him. She had been alone outside of the Vieux Carre. Besides that, she had been working in the kitchen of an orphanage.

  The beauty had escaped before he had returned to the bookstore. He had stood captivated listening to her seduce the coffee mill, surprised that such a seemingly innocent miss could make kitchen work sound so alluring. In the bookstore before his approach, he had noted how seriously she studied the medical journal, tracing her own anatomy as she read. He found the contradictions in this woman’s personality to be oddly provocative.

  His eyes narrowed as her partner twirled her across the dance floor. This was her fourth partner of the evening. Another surprise. She was lovely, but he would have expected her to be a wallflower of sorts. In his experience, women who preferred books to lace preferred sitting to dancing.

  “Heard you got into a bit of a scrape, son.” A firm clap on the shoulder pulled Fin’s attention to the man beside him. Paul Trevigne was his best friend’s father. Fin’s own father had died when he was still a boy. Over the years he had acquired a collection of surrogate fathers in his uncles and family friends.

  “Me, no. Alex?” he shrugged, and Uncle Paul nodded with a smirk.

  “Still can’t be wise for you. Heard you got called in for a talking to,” Trevigne’s eyes were shrewd. This was not just fatherly concern, the man owned two major newspapers and was the city’s most successful publisher. Trevigne rolled an unlit cigar between his thumb and forefinger.

  “Burns wanted to make sure I knew to toe the mark,” Fin continued in a deeper, slower tone meant to mimic the Union commander, “Set an example. If the community sees one of its leaders cooperating with soldiers they will, too. Rebellion is still present. Any small act can light an inferno.”

  “Indeed. Tread carefully, Fin. Burns is cautiously respectful of your status. Just because Weathers Shipping is based in a Union stronghold does not mean he’ll tolerate any defiance. Let Alex fight his own battles. You toe the mark.” He paused to nod at Fin’s approaching cousin before inserting the still unlit cigar between his teeth and walking away.

  Before Trevigne had even moved away, Fin’s attention was back on the dance floor. He caught sight of his beauty in a heartbeat. His jaw clenched in irritation. She did not just partner with the cads who took her to the floor, she participated. She enjoyed dancing. Conversed with her dance partners. Smiled at them. She had not flirted with him the day at the bookshop. The bastard who twirled her had just made her laugh.

  Fin’s eyes narrowed. He took a sip of the tepid champagne, more water than spirits, and told himself to relax. Look away. For the love of Christ, stop remembering the smell of vanilla on her skin, and how badly he had wanted to trail his tongue along her neck to see if she tasted as sweet as she smelled.

  “She the one you chased into the bookshop?Thought you said she was a Yank,” his cousin, Alex, offered in a conspiratorial tone. “She is a beauty. Why is she here?”

  Fin looked over and furrowed his eyebrows before answering, “I don’t know. I’ve never seen her at a cotillion.” He lifted both hands in question.

  “Nor I,” Alex grunted. “Some officer’s daughter perhaps?”

  Fin nodded, “Or some officer’s wife. Must have been doing some charitable work at the orphanage.”

  “Wife or daughter, why would any Anglos be here?” Alexandre expressed what both men were thinking.

  “Maybe she’s engaged to one of these bastards,” Fin motioned toward the assembly, gritting his teeth in irritation at the thought.

  Alex shrugged, “No one from our set would’ve brought her to this unless he was already married to her.”

  Fin considered that with a frown. Even before he had been a political candidate, Fin avoided seducing other men’s wives. At any rate, a dalliance with an Anglo’s wife was a forgivable offense. Creole wives, on the other hand, no matter how unhappily married they were, were absolutely off limits.

  Alex continued when his companion failed to respond, “You may have the right of it though. Seems she doesn’t really enjoy the dance.” How had he missed that? The dance had ended, and his beauty was being escorted back to a woman who was obviously her mother.

  “Definitely a daughter then,” Alex quipped noting the mother’s telling features.

  Fin ignored him, watching his goddess as she looked over at her partner and smiled. And then, just like that, he saw what Alex, ever the observant gambler, had noticed first. Her pretty smile was forced. That adorable dimple that had filled his fantasies since he had noticed it at the orphanage was absent. He watched as her face flooded with relief as her partner walked away. This was interesting.

  Alex laughed and patted him on the back. “Christ, man. You’re making an ass of yourself. You don’t stare after one of the debs like you’re a man starving unle
ss you plan to duel her father or marry her. If you survive the duel, you’d have to marry her anyway.”

  Beauty was making her way to the balcony. Fin shrugged at his cousin and began working his way forward. The other man put down his drink and chuckled, “Okay. I guess we’re following her then. A duel and a wedding it is.”

  Chapter Six

  Pan could not wait to get out of the room. Breathing was becoming more and more difficult. The doors were always open but there was never enough clean air at balls. Too many bodies, too much perfume, too many burning candles. Corsets too tight and skirts too heavy. It was all too much for her.

  Pan was trying. Trying to dance and converse and remember their names. She did all the things she was supposed to do, but none of it came naturally. She wondered if everyone here recognized how uncomfortable she really was.

  A few weeks after settling into the family’s New Orleans home, Pan had formed a plan. She had decided that aside from assisting her father with his patients, she would let go of her medical aspirations. Her parents deserved to be grandparents. The only way that could happen was if she buckled down and presented herself as a suitable wife. Of course, that was before she had stumbled into the prison.

  Nevertheless, husband hunting was a bad idea. Marriage was a ridiculous plan.

  Things were different when Gigi was alive. Gigi could handle the ballroom by herself, carry the conversation, whisper a name to Pan when she forgot, dance all night and cover when Pan and their best friend Libby scooted off to a corner. Not that it mattered. No one had ever expected much from Pan; she was the other twin, that was it. She no longer had the shelter of her twin.

  The trick to getting out of the room was to move slowly but steadily and avoid eye contact, otherwise one was sure to get dragged into a conversation or back out on the dance floor or even escorted onto the balcony. The worst outcome was being followed to the balcony by a gentleman with less than gentlemanly intentions.