Love and Adventure Collection - Part 2

by Jennifer Blake

  Certainly, it was for reasons of economy that they had not been permitted to attend the wedding. The four girls, ranging in age from nine to sixteen, had outgrown their best dresses, and materials suitable for the occasion were dear now, with the war going on, since they had to come to New Orleans through the blockade. Lorna’s gown had been procured, heaven alone knew how, by Nate Bacon, but he had not seen fit to furnish apparel for her cousins. It was just as well. The girls would be much better off at school, a select academy run by a lady in Baton Rouge, than preening at Beau Repose, or so their mother said. Lorna’s only attendant would be her aunt, since someone must be there to hold her bouquet as she received her ring.

  Lorna turned, so that her aunt could reach the hooks that closed her gown. She hesitated, then spoke the thought that had been lingering for hours in the back of her mind. “I don’t suppose you have heard what has happened to Ramon Cazenave, what will be done to him?”

  “That is no concern of yours.” Her aunt’s fingers pinched as she fastened a hook with vehemence.

  Lorna flinched a little, but made no sound, so intent was she on what she was saying. “He needs a doctor, I think. More than that, Mr. Bacon has no right to hold him. He has done nothing wrong.”

  “Nothing wrong?” her aunt gasped. “He has shamed and defiled you, used you as a harlot for his pleasure, and you say he has done nothing wrong?”

  “That is only a moral view.”

  “Only!”

  “Yes, Aunt Madelyn! He is not a criminal, he … he didn’t hurt me. I’m afraid of what will be done to him.”

  “Whatever it is, it will be no more than he deserves,” her aunt said in scathing tones.

  “It will be petty vengeance!”

  Her aunt finished the last hook, then moved to the pull-knob set into the side of the fireplace mantel and gave it a yank, summoning the hairdresser brought by Bacon from New Orleans at great expense for the occasion. That done, she returned to stand before Lorna. “If you will take my advice, something I am aware you have seldom done, my dear niece, you will put this entire episode from your mind. You will think no more of Ramon Cazenave, considering him as one dead to you.”

  The coldness of the words sent a tremor of apprehension along her nerves. She stared at her aunt, her gray eyes silvery with distress. “Dead?” she whispered.

  A knock fell on the door. Her aunt swung without answering to let the French hairdresser into the room.

  Lorna’s hair was drawn back in soft waves from her face and coaxed into a cascade of loose curls failing from the crown of her head. Small nosegays of white rosebuds were set among the waves, and beneath them were pinned the forward edges of a veil of sheer blonde.

  Aunt Madelyn’s lips were tightly pressed as she attached that symbol of purity, but she said nothing in front of the hairdresser. From the pocket of her voluminous skirts, she drew forth a velvet jewel case. Opening it, she brought out the bracelet of sapphires and diamonds that Nate Bacon had tried to present to Lorna the day before.

  “Mr. Bacon asked me to see that you had this to wear for the ceremony. It is a fine gift, one you should be proud to have.” She caught Lorna’s wrist and fastened the bracelet around it with quick movements. It felt cold and heavy, like a shackle.

  “But, yes,” the hairdresser exclaimed, her eyes growing wide at the richness of the stones. She whisked away the combing cape that had protected Lorna’s gown during the arrangement of her hair, and handed her the bouquet of orange blossoms and white rosebuds that lay on the corner of the dressing table. “Stand up now, ma chére, that we may see you.”

  Obediently, Lorna rose to her feet. Moving to the center of the room, so that the enormous. width of her gown would not be encumbered, she turned slowly, her skirts belling around her, their pleated flounce softly sweeping the Turkish carpet. In grudging tones, her aunt said, “Very nice.”

  “Trés magnifique!” the Frenchwoman corrected, clasping her hands together before her. She tilted her head to one side. “Though is she not a little pale? One small moment!”

  Diving to where her box containing combs and pins and pomade sat, she removed the lid from a compartment to reveal tiny, silver-lidded pots of rice powder and rouge. She chose a hare’s foot, dipped it into the rouge pot, and, ignoring Aunt Madelyn’s scandalized exclamation, brushed it with extreme care across Lorna’s cheekbones. She stepped back with a sigh of satisfaction. “There, now. Smile for the love of le bon Dieu! It is not a tragedy, this!”

  Lorna tried, but her lips were trembling. In distress, she looked to her aunt, who stood with such uncompromising stiffness before her. “Aunt Madelyn—”

  “Yes, in a minute, Lorna. Madame Hélèn, my niece and I are grateful for your services. You have done a fine job, but I’m sure that you would like to find a place to view the ceremony now.”

  “But, of course,” the hairdresser said, accepting her dismissal with a shrug. At the door, she gave Lorna a wink. “Good luck, ma petite.”

  When the panel had closed behind the woman, her aunt turned back to Lorna. “Now, you wished to say something?”

  “I … I can’t go through with it. I can’t, not now!” Her voice was low and husky, with a note of desperation.

  “I expected some such melodrama; that’s why I sent that woman away. I suppose you would have made her a gift of this piece of folly, something to gossip about all over New Orleans, had I not!”

  “What would it matter? Everyone will know, soon enough.”

  “That they will not!” her aunt stated, her voice hard. “Oh, I know. You are thinking of your own embarrassment when you have to face the man you are to marry, or else the whispers that may go on behind your back in spite of Mr. Bacon’s efforts to stop them. It’s typical of you to consider your own comfort instead of your uncle’s well-being.”

  “No, it isn’t that. Have you spoken to Franklin at all since we have been here, Aunt Madelyn? He’s … he’s an imbecile, with no more intelligence than a child. Yet two nights ago on the gallery he tried to — he put his hands.…”

  An expression of distaste pursed her aunt’s mouth. “The passions of men are unaccountable. You must accept them as one of the many obligations of being a wife.”

  “He wasn’t my husband then!”

  “He was your affianced husband, which is much the same thing. But, no matter. You will be able to rule Franklin absolutely, if you use your head. You will have wealth and position far beyond your deserts, and regardless of the stupid way you have behaved. You should thank your lucky stars that Franklin has some small weakness of the intellect, my girl, or you might have found yourself returned to your uncle as unfit merchandise.”

  “I would much prefer that to this marriage. I haven’t told you everything. Yesterday afternoon, I saw Franklin with one of the maids. They were in bed, and—”

  “Stop! I forbid you to speak of such things to me. It is not a fit subject for a bride and, indeed, none of your concern.”

  “Not my concern?” she echoed in amazement.

  “Enough, Lorna. You will go downstairs and pledge yourself to Franklin Bacon as arranged. You will smile and do your best to look the virginal bride. Any other course is unthinkable.”

  “But I can’t!”

  “You can, and you will, for if you do not, you will be the cause of the ruin of your uncle and your cousins, not to speak of myself. Nathaniel Bacon has the power to take our land, our slaves, the roof from over our heads, even the clothes from our backs and the food from our mouths. He has been extraordinarily forgiving; why, I can’t imagine. But, if you try him further, I have no doubt that he will act to destroy all your uncle has worked to accomplish these last years. I do not think you would like to be the cause of that destruction.”

  “It would not be my fault!” Lorna protested. “If Uncle Sylvester had not borrowed from him in the first place—”

  “Or the cotton crop to be used for repayment had not burned? Wishing will not help. Come. It is time to go.”<
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  “If I were your daughter, you would not be so unfeeling,” Lorna cried, her gray eyes dark.

  “If you were my daughter, you would have no cause for such ferment of the mind, since you would never have left my side to be alone with your fiancé on the gallery, never have left the safety of your room when you were supposed to be resting, and certainly never have allowed a strange man to take liberties. If you think me unfeeling now, then hear this: If you disgrace your uncle and myself by further scenes and misbehavior, then, you will never again be welcome in our home. I mean it. Quite literally, my dear niece, there is no place for you now other than Beau Repose.”

  Lorna stared at the older woman for long moments. There was no escape; she should have known. Holding her head high in unconscious dignity that also prevented the spill of tears over her lashes, she turned without speaking, moving toward the door.

  “One thing more,” Aunt Madelyn said. “Mr. Bacon has agreed to turn the mortgage papers over to your uncle following the ceremony. Mr. Forrester and I will stay long enough after that to drink a toast to your happiness, but word has come of a steamboat on its way downriver, one behind schedule due to this dreadful conflict, and we intend to have it flagged to take us on board. Needless to say, we have put forward our return home because of the unpleasantness last evening and the possible repercussions that may arise over the imprisonment of your … assailant. The reason given to the other guests for our failure to stay for the wedding dinner will be my anxiety as a mother to get home to my children.”

  “I understand.” Lorna pulled open the door, compressing her skirts with one hand as she passed through and out into the hall. From there, she could hear plainly the strains of the wedding march from Wagner’s Lohengrin.

  The ceremony, in deference to the limited time Franklin could be expected to lend his attention to the dry formalities, was short. Lorna went through it in a daze, staring straight in front of her, scarcely noticing her fidgeting groom at her side. Nor did she pay much attention to Nate Bacon, serving as his son’s best man and, by no coincidence, to compel his responses at the proper time.

  At last, it was over. Her father-in-law embraced her, placing a hard kiss on her lips. She forced the semblance of a smile, standing rigid as she shook hands and received congratulations. When someone thrust a glass of champagne into her hand, she drank thirstily; then another glass appeared to replace the first. With that aid to detachment, she was able to survive the round of toasts that followed, the endless introductions, the sly glances, and arch looks that came her way.

  From her vantage point at the end of the room, she was able to watch the white-coated menservants moving in and out of the butler’s pantry in a constant stream. In that small serving room were set the great wooden tubs of ice where the sparkling, golden wine had been plunged to chill. The ice had been brought down the river from St. Louis and the northern states months before, to be put down in sawdust in a special cellar. It was a bit of foresight for which Nate enjoyed much congratulations during the course of the afternoon; the sort of expansive gesture, careless of expense, that had been common only a year ago, but was now rare. Doubtless, everyone said, it would be the last ice they would see for a while; the last champagne until the war was over.

  The great silver urns of tea and coffee were much commented upon also; likewise, the sides of beef and roast pork sliced before the guests’ eyes and served on small rolls, the glazed meats in pastry shells, the sugared almonds and molded nougats and meringues and, of course, the towering wedding cake filled with the richness of nuts and dates and candied fruits. Of late, the blockade had made such things scarce, and incredibly dear.

  They had laughed at first at Lincoln’s “paper blockade,” as it was popularly called in the news sheets. With hardly more than one hundred and fifty vessels in the federal navy, fewer than two-thirds of which were serviceable, it appeared impossible for an effective watch to be kept over the three thousand miles of Confederate coastline, from Virginia to the Rio Grande, that was pocked with more than a dozen major ports. It was no longer a matter for amusement. In the months since the war had begun, the northerners had bought and outfitted double the original number of ships, snapping up every kind of fishing sloop and ferry and riverboat. Rumor said they had also rushed to build more than fifty ironclads and gunboats with which to restrict the trade of the South.

  It was working. Fewer and fewer blockade-running steamers made it up the river to New Orleans with each passing month. Many were sunk, many turned back. Those that arrived showed increasing damage from their dash through the federal fleet that was stationed beyond the mouth of the Mississippi River, steaming slowly up and down like hungry cats at a mouse hole. In the past weeks, fewer than two dozen had made it: those captained by the most daring of men, or those with the most urgent business in the city. It was being said of late that the businessmen who financed most of the blockade runners had not felt that the dangers of running into such a tightly guarded port justified the risks; a packet sent to the bottom of the gulf made no profit for its owners.

  The war was coming closer to Louisiana as it entered its second year. Men from the state had died at Bull Run, at Fort Henry and Fort Donelson, and at Shiloh only weeks before. There was more than one woman in black in the room. Most of the men in attendance were young, scarcely more than boys, though already with the square set of heavy responsibility about their shoulders; or else, they were older men, grandfathers. There were a few who, like Nate and Franklin, had paid other men to go in their places, pleading family responsibilities. They had about them a defensive air, or so Lorna thought.

  Still, everyone drank the wine and ate the rich food with apparent pleasure, enjoying the viands bought dearly with the lives of men, the blockade runners who, if they had to die, should have done so for the sake of much needed arms and ammunition for the Confederacy, instead of luxuries for the rich.

  Lorna felt a trifle giddy. She moved to one of the long, food laden tables set up in the dining room, intending to find a bite to eat. Nate stood near its head in close conversation with another man, but she ignored him. She wasn’t really hungry. She was standing with a plate in her hand, trying to decide what to put on it, when her attention was caught.

  “That’s what I heard,” her father-in-law’s companion was saying. “The federals are supposed to have more than one of their new ironclads at the mouth of the river, some say even over the bar. It was young Cazenave who brought the news when he made his last run from Nassau.”

  “It would certainly pay the federals to gather their forces for a try at gaining the river, coming in on the South’s backside,” Nate answered, his tone expansive, indulgent, “but you and I both know they can’t hope to win past Forts Jackson and St. Philip at the mouth of the river. Their intelligence must tell them the same thing. I refuse, sir, to place credence in such an unreliable source.”

  “Unreliable? Why Cazenave has the name of being the best of the blockade runners operating out of Nassau. You don’t get that by being anything except fast, smart, and as good as your word.”

  “And lucky. Don’t forget that,” Nate said with a snort. “Who knows? Someday young Cazenave’s luck may run out.”

  With her back to the two men, Lorna heard the sound of heavy, retreating footsteps, as her father-in-law moved on to other guests; then, came the rustle of skirts as if a woman had joined the man left alone.

  “My dear,” came the quiet voice of an older woman, “was it wise to mention Cazenave to Mr. Bacon? You know how he is.”

  “I had forgotten for a moment,” came the first man’s voice with a tired sigh. “It’s been ten years, at least.”

  “Regardless, he is still touchy on the subject.”

  “You would think it was the Cazenaves, father and son, who had done him an injury, instead of the other way around.”

  “Discretion, my dear,” the woman, doubtless the man’s wife, said. “They say his servants are paid to bring the tales they hear to
him.”

  Their voices receded. Lorna turned to stare after the couple, her winged brows forming troubled lines over her eyes. There had been an undercurrent she did not understand in the words she had overheard. A hint of the same had also been evident in the brief exchange between Nate and Ramon. That it was connected in some way with the manner in which Ramon had behaved toward her had been made plain. That being so, the need to know more was a sudden ache inside her, a compulsion that would not be denied.

  Glancing around, she saw Franklin in the front parlor, beyond the portieres that, with the massive sliding doors now set back in their slots, divided the two rooms. He was laughing raucously, talking to a group of boys younger than he and spilling cake crumbs down the front of his tailed coat. She wondered if he knew the reason for the enmity between his father and the Cazenaves or, knowing, if he could be persuaded to attend to her long enough to impart the information. Taking a deep breath, she summoned a smile and walked toward him.

  He sent her a sidelong look as she approached, and a sullen expression came over his face. In answer to her carefully phrased request to speak to him, he only grunted.

  “It will be for no more than a moment,” she said and, with a great effort of will, forced herself to put her hands on his arm, drawing him away.

  “What do you want?” he demanded. “I was having fun.”

  “I want to speak to you,” she said soothingly.

  “I don’t want to talk, and I don’t have to have anything to do with you until bedtime. That’s what Papa said.”