Gallant Match

by Jennifer Blake

  “Something puzzles me, Mademoiselle Bonneval,” he said in quiet tones. “You’re not exactly hard on the eyes. You have family background and I suspect your papa can afford a good dowry. How is it you’re come to—what was it, two-and-twenty—without being leg-shackled?”

  “It’s a dreary tale of little interest.” The words were short as she summoned anger to combat her discomfort.

  “We’ve nothing else to fill the time.”

  He was right, she was forced to admit. What harm could there be in relating these few details of her past, after all? They might soften his attitude, if such a thing were possible. Certainly, they would deflect her thoughts from the odd effect he had on her as he moved with lithe ease beside her, effortlessly buffering the wind off the water with his wide shoulders.

  She looked away with deliberation, slowly plying the fan in her hand. “I was promised in the cradle to the son of our near neighbor in the country, Papa’s best friend. Bernard was his name, Bernard Savariat. He and I grew up together, almost like brother and sister. He was, in fact, my father’s godchild and intended heir.”

  “His heir?”

  “Oh, Papa would not have disinherited me in a legal sense. He does care for my welfare, in spite of—” She stopped, began again. “Nonetheless, in his view a female isn’t capable of attending to the business of a plantation. Bernard would naturally have taken control of whatever came to me.”

  Kerr gave her a keen look, perhaps for the carefully neutral tone of her voice. “I suppose Rouillard will do that now?”

  “As you say.” The words were stiff with distaste for the idea. Dismissing it after a moment, she went on. “Anyway, Bernard was always at our house or I was at his. We did everything together, played house under the big tree in the courtyard, rode our ponies on the levee, fished in the river, swam, ate, napped—we were inseparable. He sometimes let me borrow his pantaloons and shirts so I could join the games played by him and his cousins—who were my cousins as well by grace of some common ancestor, in the usual way of such things among our people.”

  “A habit that came in handy, I see.”

  She inclined her head without looking at him, banishing once more the image of his hands upon her in her thin boy’s pantaloons. With her gaze on the low houses of the town across the river, actually on its west bank as they neared the stern of the ship, she went on. “But then we grew up, or at least grew older. Bernard was an idealist. He had such exalted ideas about freedom and independence and the need to throw off tyranny. He thought everyone should be able to choose who should govern them, where they would live and how they would plan their lives.”

  Kerr Wallace tipped his head in a considered nod. “I knew someone like that once.”

  “A lot of young men feel these things, I suppose, and young women as well.” She frowned a little, disturbed by the thought that the man at her side might have a dreary story in his past as well.

  “So they do. But you were saying?”

  “Yes. Bernard. One of his uncles had fought in Texas during their War of Independence against Mexico. He’d brought home Mexican silver dollars that he melted down to make a plantation bell, and often told stories about the land and the men who had opened the Texas frontier. Bernard was wild to see it before he settled down with a wife and family. He talked his father into letting him go off to join the Ranger company set up by President Lamar, the leader of Texas at the time.”

  “Yes, I recall.” As she sent an inquiring gaze in his direction, he waved a hand in dismissal. “Nothing. Go on.”

  “There’s little more to tell,” she said with a shrug. “The company marched from San Antonio across the vast western reaches of the so-called Tejas country. Their object was to take Santa Fe.”

  “The luckless Mier Expedition.”

  “What?”

  “So some name it, after the town where they fought the hardest, though it’s labeled the Santa Fe Expedition as well.”

  “If you know that, then you surely know the rest.”

  “I prefer to hear your version.”

  She gave a small shrug. “Lamar was convinced those who lived in that part of the country, maybe even the commandant of the Santa Fe fortress, would join the Rangers in revolt against Mexico. It didn’t happen.”

  “He died in Texas, your Bernard.”

  “He was one of those forced to surrender at Mier. The group was marched into the Mexican interior, but made a daring escape. They became lost, were recaptured. General Santa Ana decreed there must be reprisal, that one man in ten would be shot in ritual decimation. A pitcher was filled with a hundred fifty-nine white beans and seventeen black ones. Bernard drew a black bean when the time came to decide who would pay for their mistake, so was taken from the line of prisoners and—”

  She stopped as tears rose to close off her throat. How very strange. She’d thought she had moved past the aching grief of that loss. Apparently she was wrong.

  “My brother Andrew didn’t have to face that ordeal,” the man at her side said without looking at her. “He was one of those who died during the escape attempt.”

  She stopped, turned to him. “Your brother? I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

  “Could be they knew each other, your fiancé and Andrew.”

  “Perhaps. Jean Pierre, the man I am to marry, was also a member of that terrible expedition. It was he who told me about Bernard, making me a condolence call just after his return. He also gave me the message Bernard sent before he died. That—that was the only time I ever had what might be called a conversation with my future husband.”

  The Kentuckian gave her an odd look, opened his lips as if he meant to contradict her. Instead, he only said after a moment, “Not much to build a marriage on.”

  “No.”

  “The Mier Expedition was some time ago now. You’ve met no other man in the four years since? That is, you’ve formed no other attachment?”

  He posed the question to allow some small distance from what was a painful subject, she thought, perhaps for both of them. She was grateful for it, though she preferred he not know it.

  “Marriage being the whole reason for a woman’s existence?” she asked with deliberate acerbity.

  “It’s usually seen as something to be desired.”

  “It appears a trap to me.”

  He turned to look at her. “That’s how you see this match with Rouillard, as a trap?”

  “One sprung by my own father.” Her smile was brief and without humor.

  “Why is he so set on the match? He think maybe you and Rouillard have something in common because he was supposed to be on hand when your fiancé was killed?”

  “My father’s thought processes are unfathomable. He has simply decreed it and expects obedience.”

  “Could be he’s still after that heir.”

  “A grandson, yes. His lament since Bernard died has been that I didn’t persuade him to marry me before he went off to Texas.”

  “Might have been better.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You could have avoided marrying Rouillard, not to mention this trip.”

  “There is that.”

  “Of course, you’d have been young for it, I’d say.”

  “Eighteen.” She gave him a dark look. “Young marriages are quite common here. Any number of my friends have been wed since they were fifteen or sixteen.”

  “Too young to know what they were getting into.”

  “That’s the point of parents arranging matters,” she said with precision. “They are presumed to have the necessary age and experience to make the right choice.”

  His frown remained. “That can hardly be the case now. What I mean to say is, you’re old enough to know your own mind.”

  It could not be denied. What she could have told him, however, was that a French-Creole woman still unmarried at her age was considered a crone who might as well abandon hope, tossing her corset up on top of the armoire, as the saying went. She had r
efused so many proposals that her father had lost all patience. This alliance was his last chance, at least by his lights, to have her off his hands. To explain that aspect of the matter to the man at her side seemed an unnecessary humiliation, however.

  “I was…reluctant to accept a substitute for Bernard,” she said finally.

  “It must have been hard for you, not knowing what had happened to him out there in Mexican territory, only learning of his death afterward.”

  “It was surely the same for you and your family.”

  He tipped his head in acknowledgment, his face set as he turned his gaze out over the yellow-brown water that raced past in flood beyond the railing, spreading its smells of mud and decaying vegetation.

  After a moment, she spoke again on impulse. “The betrothal, mine and Bernard’s, was merely understood between our families. It was never official, never celebrated with the usual gifts and parties. I could not go into black for him as my father would not permit the two years of seclusion that went with it.”

  “Two years of being out of the market for marriage, you mean.”

  She inclined her head by way of an answer since it seemed her voice might break. She had never mentioned that aspect of her grief to anyone else. It was peculiar that she had chosen to confide in this man. Or perhaps not. He was nothing to her. Their paths might never cross again after this day.

  Ahead of them, Monsieur Tremont and her aunt paused to glance back. “I am told the captain has taken on a seaman with a talent for the violin,” the sugar planter called, “one who may provide music for dining and dancing once we are at sea. Your aunt has agreed to do me the honor of a turn around the floor, Mademoiselle Bonneval. Perhaps you will do the same?”

  “I am betrothed, you understand, monsieur,” she replied.

  “But your fiancé is not here.” His eyes were bright with audacity and he kept one brow lifted in inquiry.

  “We shall see.”

  Beside her, Kerr Wallace gave the other man a hard stare. Sonia observed it with irritation that was increased in some manner by the odd rapport between them just moments before. His duties did not include the right to approve or disapprove of her dance partners, she thought.

  At the same time, she felt a certain satisfaction in the knowledge that the Kentuckian was not happy in the association with Monsieur Tremont. She could see no reason for him to think everything would go his way. Besides, if Kerr Wallace was concentrating on separating her from what he believed to be unsuitable company, he would have less time to consider her other actions. And if he thought her in danger of being captivated by Monsieur Tremont’s addresses, might he not feel she was becoming resigned to the voyage and her fate?

  Sonia increased her pace, deliberately closing the distance that had opened between the four of them. Shaking off her introspection, she summoned her liveliest manner in the effort to appear charmed by the company of her aunt’s newly met escort.

  Seven

  Tante Lily always swore she seldom closed her eyes at night, being a martyr to insomnia in its many forms. Sonia would not have contradicted her for the world, but had never found this to be true. Nor was it so on this, their last night at their mooring before an early-morning departure. Within minutes of blowing out the lamp, her aunt’s gentle snores could be heard from the lower bunk.

  Sonia had depended on that instant oblivion since it seemed her last opportunity to leave the ship. Kerr Wallace had been entirely too much on guard throughout the day. Every time she approached the gangway, he was there. If she attempted to join some group departing after seeing off a family member, he appeared at her side. She had come finally to realize that she was always under his eye so was forced to watch the Mobile packet sail without her. If she was going to escape him, these night hours promised to be her best, perhaps only, option.

  Moving with the greatest stealth, she pulled out the pantaloons, shirt and boy’s jacket she had secreted under her pillow and dressed in the dark. She climbed down from the upper bunk and pushed her feet into her borrowed boots, then felt for the small drawstring purse she had left under her discarded petticoats. With it thrust deep in her jacket pocket, she tiptoed to the door. She turned the key with care and peered out into the passageway.

  The narrow corridor lay dark and empty in the pale light filtering down from the top deck. She sighed with relief, since she would not have been surprised to discover Kerr Wallace sleeping across the threshold like some servitor of times gone by. No doubt he had thought her aunt’s presence would act as sufficient restraint upon her movements. That was his mistake.

  Pulling the cabin door shut behind her, she stood a moment, allowing her eyes to adjust to dimness, listening for movement. All she heard was heavy snores from farther down the passage, the quiet creak of rigging and the lapping of the river along the ship’s beam.

  She should have been satisfied, even glad. Instead, a hard shiver of dread rippled down her spine. It was, just possibly, too quiet.

  What was she doing? Was anything worth the acid doubt that poured along her veins? Was it really possible that she could make her way unnoticed along the dock with its piled crates, boxes and barrels, its tangles of rope and baling twine, its mounds of baled cotton creating tight alleyways where anything, anyone, might be hiding? Could she hide away until after the Lime Rock sailed, or until the Mobile packet returned? And what then? What then?

  She would be free.

  Free.

  Free to go where she pleased, do what she wanted, live as she preferred without thought of anyone else’s wishes or disapproval. She would be her own mistress, answerable to neither father nor husband but only to herself. That was surely an end worth striving for.

  Swallowing hard, she lifted her chin and started toward the dim companionway. She kept close to the wall, stopped often to listen. At the bottom step she paused again.

  Nothing, she could hear nothing, though it seemed she caught the faint whiff of tobacco smoke mingling with the dank odors of the ship’s bilge and the muddy river. Could the smell linger from earlier in the evening, or might it be fresh? She couldn’t tell which.

  A watch would be posted. Where was he? That guard must be avoided at all costs, at least until she could make a run for the gangway.

  Wherever the man was, he was making no sound. Perhaps he was patrolling at the stern or had fallen asleep. The last was surely too much to ask, but she could hope.

  She could not discover the situation while cowering below. She closed her eyes, gathering her resolve. With careful steps and her back to the wall, then, she began to climb toward the deck.

  The cool freshness of a night breeze reached her as she emerged topside. It was welcome after the stale air below. It brushed the tendrils of hair that had escaped from her long night braid so they tickled her cheek. She reached up to rake them back behind her ears as she looked toward the stern.

  It was then she heard the whisper of cloth against cloth from behind her. She whirled to run. A hard, rough hand clamped down on her wrist, pulling her up short.

  “What has us here now? Such a purty boy. I likes purty boys, I does.”

  It was the seaman she had noticed that morning, the one called Baptiste. In the gleam from a rigging lantern she caught the yellow-red gleam of his teeth, inhaled the foul odor of his body. She bit down hard on the scream that rose in her throat. Chest heaving, she wrenched back against the grip on her arm.

  His hold tightened, radiating pain from her wrist to her elbow as the bones ground together. Sickness washed through her. She gave an instant to the throbbing ache.

  Her captor used that momentary weakness to drag her against him. “Oh, ho, not a boy a’ter all,” he said on a crude chuckle as he bucked against her softness. “Foine by me. Ol’ Baptis’ ain’t partic’lar.”

  Disgust boiled up from inside her, sweeping aside caution and fear. “Release me this instant,” she demanded in a hissing whisper.

  “Now, why’d I be doin’ ’at?”

&
nbsp; “You can’t molest a lady and hope to get away with it.”

  His laugh was obscene yet low, as if he was no more anxious for noise than she was. “I thinks maybe I can. Some ladies ’ould rather die nor say a hand was laid on their private parts by such as me. Knowed it to ’appen, I’ave.”

  He might well be right. The shame of admitting such a thing could be worse, for one was soon over and the other unending. The knowledge only added to the sick fury inside her.

  Abruptly, she lifted a foot and stomped down on his instep with a booted heel, then swung a fist at his grinning mouth.

  It was a good effort, but his experience with rough-and-tumble fighting was clearly wider and more deadly than her own. He grunted and jerked his head back so her blow glanced over his cheekbone. In the same movement, he came around with a backhanded slap.

  She caught the blow with a raised wrist, but stumbled back with its force. He came after her, slamming her against the bulkhead. Shoving against her, he pressed her to the grooved wood as he ground his lower body into the juncture of her thighs. Groping at her shirtfront with one hand, he tore its buttons free and pushed a hand in the opening to catch and squeeze a breast while his fetid breath assaulted the air between them.

  “Now, my pretty, wha’ think you of ’is?”

  She stood rigid while a blood-red haze of pain and loathing clouded her vision. Furious impulses raced through her mind. Shifting her weight, bracing against the wall behind her, she made ready to ram her knee up into his crotch.

  It was then that the slithering slide of metal on metal rasped the night air. “Release the lady, friend,” a deep voice instructed in biting command. “You have two seconds before I carve your scrawny throat into a whistle for Davy Jones.”

  The seaman locked every muscle, going as stiff as the ship’s mainmast. With virulent curses in a half-dozen languages and an abrupt, shuddering wrench, he pushed away from her. Slewing around, he faced the sword leveled at his neck.