Gallant Match

by Jennifer Blake

  To walk at anything approaching a natural pace was difficult with him so close on her heels. Why that should be was a mystery. It wasn’t as if she cared what he thought.

  Perhaps the problem was merely that he was always near at hand, or so it was beginning to appear, always aware of where she was and what she was doing. He was conscientious in his job; she had to give him that much. Her father was getting his money’s worth. Too bad he wasn’t there to appreciate it.

  Or perhaps it was just as well. One of the few advantages she could find in her approaching Mexican exile was that she need no longer be under his thumb. Kerr Wallace was acting as his proxy for now, to be sure, but even that would end in time. And then…

  Yes, and then?

  She didn’t know. It would depend on what she found when she reached Vera Cruz. She only knew it would not include a wedding, no matter what Kerr Wallace thought.

  Sonia rounded the prow of the ship and paused to gaze down the river’s winding channel. They had left all habitation behind other than an isolated trapper’s shack or two with a pirogue bobbing in front of it. A thick growth of trees still crowded the waterway, but was beginning to be broken by small islands of shell where oaks grew, draped in their mourning rags of gray moss. Something inside her longed for the first glimpse of the gulf, as if freedom might lie beyond its blue waters instead of behind in New Orleans. What contradictory creatures people were that she should feel that way.

  At the railing opposite where she stood was a slender gentleman. He appeared sunk in melancholy, drooping over the railing as he contemplated the water. As he caught sight of her, however, he straightened. Executing a creditable bow, he wished her and her companions a good-morning.

  He was young, hardly passed into his majority, Sonia thought. Handsome in the traditional French-Creole fashion, with olive coloring that indicated a dash of Spanish in his bloodline, he yet had the fresh, open countenance of one who had not yet succumbed to cynicism. His soft brown hair curled back from a wide forehead, his eyes were dark, tender and intelligent, deep-set behind luxurious black lashes. His mouth was full and mobile, and appeared to smile as easily as it turned down in ennui. Attired in the most outré of current male fashion, in a buttercup-yellow frock coat edged with leather and tan d’or pantaloons, he wore the artfully careless cravat of the Bohemians, one dotted in yellow on tan and pinned in place by a Zeus-head cameo in the style made popular by the renowned Mulatto sword master Croquère. For all his casual elegance, something about him reminded Sonia of a puppy anxious to be noticed.

  His appearance also seemed just short of effete, a result of the contrast with Kerr Wallace, she was sure. Compared to the undiluted masculinity of the Kentucky swordsman, every man in sight seemed too refined, somehow lacking in power and authority. It was not a comfortable insight when it should have been the opposite, with him appearing crude compared to the rest.

  “Well, monsieur,” she said to this fellow passenger with determined brightness, “are we progressing as we should, do you think? Can the pilot be trusted to see us safely out into the gulf?”

  “As to that, I could not say, mademoiselle.” He gave her a bashful smile. “We seem to be making good time.”

  “Always something to be wished, I agree. Do you travel alone?”

  “With my mother, rather, Madame Marie Pradat. I am Gervaise Pradat, à votre service.”

  Sonia, on an impulse of kindness and with the delicious knowledge that Kerr was unlikely to approve, presented the Kentuckian and Alexander Tremont then introduced herself.

  “My mother will wish to make your acquaintance,” the young man said. “I’m sure we have friends in common, and she will delight in discovering them. She was making ready for breakfast when I spoke to her, though not without difficulty.”

  “She isn’t unwell, I hope?”

  Gervaise shook his head. “Just not in the most robust of health, you understand.”

  “What a pity. So you are alone.”

  “As you see.” He inclined his head, his gaze hopeful.

  To invite the young traveler to join their perambulations seemed the only course possible. When she began to stroll again, Sonia had three gentlemen in her entourage.

  “I trust your aunt isn’t under the weather, mademoiselle,” Kerr said in a deep growl from behind her.

  “Because she isn’t here to act as chaperone?” She sent him a sparkling glance over her shoulder for his rather heavy-handed intimation that she needed such a thing. “No, no, it’s her habit to lie abed until noon, and she was exhausted after rising so early yesterday. I saw no reason to disturb her. Though my dear aunt is as serene as any could wish under most circumstances, she can be most uncivil before she has her morning coffee.”

  “That’s hard to believe.”

  “She would be delighted to hear you say so. You are free to wake her, if you like.”

  His reply was no more than a grunt, but he made no move to leave their little group. Exultation at the small victory ran in Sonia’s veins like fine wine.

  Contrary to her expectations, she could not feel entirely downcast this morning. A part of it was because she refused to give up hope, was too stubborn to accept her fate. The main reason, though, was the gentleman following on her heels. He made her so furious she had scant time for despondency. Matching wits with him was stimulating even when she could not win. It defied belief, much less understanding, but she was very close to enjoying their verbal exchanges.

  Behind her, Kerr was engaging Gervaise Pradat in idle conversation. It seemed good sense to listen since it might reveal some piece of information that could be useful.

  “You have business in Vera Cruz?” the Kentuckian was asking.

  “Not at all,” came the answer with all the proper horror of a Creole gentleman who would never think of turning his hand to trade. “My mother’s brother is there. His wife, being from an old Spanish family, inherited a considerable amount of property in Mexico. They have investments on the coast, so keep a house in Vera Cruz.”

  “Your uncle looks after his wife’s interests.”

  “Naturally.”

  Noting her attention to their exchange, Kerr sent Sonia an ironic smile. Undoubtedly, he was recalling their discussion on the subject of a husband’s prerogatives. She rolled her eyes for the predictability of it.

  “Naturally,” Kerr repeated to Gervaise in grave acknowledgment. “You’ve made this journey before?”

  “Several times. My aunt is the soul of hospitality, so makes us, Maman and myself, welcome every year. Vera Cruz, like New Orleans, is infernally hot and pest-ridden in summer. We travel with them to the mountains of the interior where it’s much cooler.”

  “A pleasant escape. You go by carriage, I suppose.”

  “Alas, no. The roads are too bad. The usual mode is by litter for the ladies, while the gentlemen ride saddle horses.”

  Kerr’s inquisition was not entirely idle, Sonia suspected. She could not be certain what was in his mind, but wondered if it might have some connection to the shipment of arms residing in the ship’s hold. A gentleman such as the uncle of Gervaise Pradat would have the means and opportunity to engage in such commerce. She could see, as well, that the annual visit of a doting sister and nephew would make excellent cover for transporting the merchandise.

  “And what of you, monsieur?” the younger man asked with the lively curiosity of those who preferred investigating people to exploring ideas. “You have affairs of business in Vera Cruz?”

  “He is in charge of a prisoner,” Sonia answered for the Kentuckian. “He escorts me to a wedding with a bridegroom I barely know.”

  Kerr gave her a hard look that she ignored with ease since she was becoming practiced at it. Gervaise clapped a hand to his heart while staring at her in comic dismay. “I am desolated, Mademoiselle Bonneval. Just when I become acquainted with a lady who might come to mean everything, I discover it can never be. For a picayune, I would make away with you before the wedding.
”

  “For a picayune, I would allow it,” she said at her gayest.

  “May I inquire as to the man lucky enough to be your intended?”

  “Certainly, if it’s of interest.” She gave him Jean Pierre’s name and direction.

  “Ah.”

  That single syllable held a wealth of meaning. Sonia could not let it pass unchallenged. “You know the gentleman?”

  “I believe I’ve heard my uncle speak of him. He cuts quite a figure in Vera Cruz, particularly in more cosmopolitan circles.”

  “Is that not a good thing?”

  “It isn’t a bad one by any means.” The boy’s face carried a plum-colored flush and he refused to meet her gaze. In an obvious attempt to turn matters in another direction, he said, “So Monsieur Wallace stands as protector in lieu of your father? The two of you are related, perhaps?”

  Sonia’s laugh was hollow. “Hardly. He is a maître d’armes of most fearsome reputation. You must be careful not to give offense.”

  “I shouldn’t dream of it,” Monsieur Pradat said with mock alarm, though a small frown remained between his eyes.

  “It’s the incessant talk of war, you see,” she went on. “My father felt something more was required in the way of protection for the journey.”

  “Other than your aunt as your companion, I comprehend,” he said. And perhaps he did, for his face was grave and his dark eyes liquid with sympathy.

  Kerr understood as well, for he met her eyes, his own shaded a forbidding, storm-cloud gray. The smile she gave him in return was guileless. Still, it seemed a distraction was in order. Deliberately, she released her grip on her fan and let it fall for the second time.

  She expected a small melee as her various escorts vied for the honor of retrieving it. Instead, Kerr leaned with pantherlike grace to catch it as it fell. In the midst of that swift move, he plunged a hand into the fullness of her skirts, skimming over her leg at the level of her garter.

  She caught her breath at his audacity, the sound perfectly audible in the morning quiet. For an instant, they remained in frozen tableau, gray eyes locked to lavender blue, while the world slid past around them.

  “So this is where you have hidden yourself, ma chère Sonia!” her aunt said as she descended upon them with brisk steps and a froth of windblown skirts. “Such a pleasant promenade, really—I quite see the attraction. Oh, you’ve made contact with Monsieur Pradat. How very providential as I’ve just been speaking to his mother. We were at convent school together, you know, though I’ve not seen her in an age. She quite longs to meet you, chère. Come, let us all walk together. I’m sure we will meet up with Madame Pradat again at the back of the ship where it’s less windy.”

  There was nothing to be done except fall in with Tante Lily’s wishes. Sonia had no real objection since matters had become a little strained. Still, she hesitated, waiting for the return of her fan, preparing a gracious acceptance of the courtesy that would put Kerr in his place as her servitor rather than her jailer.

  The words went unspoken. The Kentuckian stared down at the silk trifle in his big hand while a smile curled one corner of his mouth. Lifting it to his lips then, he slipped it into an inside pocket of his frock coat as if secreting the most precious of love tokens.

  She could have demanded the return of her property. She could have made a scene, refusing to budge from where she stood until the fan was in her possession again. Instead, she ignored it, taking the arm of her aunt and walking on beside her.

  It was for the best, that retreat, she told herself. She wasn’t confused by his unexpected gesture, wasn’t misunderstanding it, and certainly wasn’t acquiescing to it.

  No, it was simply that she had no wish to call attention to something that had no meaning beyond the gentleman’s annoyance at being treated like a hired servant.

  It was only common sense.

  That was all.

  Eleven

  Aboard the Lime Rock, meals were served for the convenience of the officers and crew rather than for the passengers, so timed to the changing of the watch. Breakfast was at sunrise or shortly thereafter, the midday meal at noon and that of the evening at dusk, with a scratched-up supper at midnight for those who required it. There was some grumbling at the change from more fashionable mealtimes, but the passengers soon grew accustomed.

  Kerr had no preference himself. Though he was as fond of eating as the next man, he’d not yet developed the constant French-Creole preoccupation with the timing and composition of his next meal.

  The dining salon was a long room with a coffered ceiling and an Axminster carpet woven in a green-and-brown pattern taken from Moorish tiles. A series of tables set in a row like one long board centered the space. Padded benches lined either side of them. Whale-oil lanterns swung on gimbals overhead, casting a swaying yellow light, or else were attached to gimbaled girandoles along the walls. Between large windows were gilt-framed mirrors, and more of them faced the center support posts, endlessly reflecting for a sense of spaciousness.

  Dinner on this first official evening aboard consisted of a bouillabaisse followed by pasta heavy with butter and garlic. This was succeeded by baked fish with steamed vegetables and tournedos of beef in a wine sauce. Plain cake improved by a side dish of dried cherries flamed in brandy served as dessert, along with the usual cheese and nuts. The seaman doing double duty as a violinist gave them several lugubrious tunes designed to aid digestion. While they ate, they sometimes noted the red spark of another steamer passing upstream, or else saw the wavering lights of a settlement clustered near where a winding bayou emptied into the river.

  It was an uncomfortable meal. Several times, Kerr caught Madame Pradat, Gervaise’s mother, staring at him with disapproval in the lines of her palely severe, aristocratic features. He noted also when she put her head close to that of the dispirited young mother traveling alone, one Madame Dossier, while speaking in a sibilant whisper. Afterward, they both glared at him before turning away with their chins in the air.

  He felt like a pariah. It wasn’t something he enjoyed, though he had learned to live with a similar isolation since putting out his shingle as a sword master. His kind was not, in the main, acceptable company at the tables of the crème de la crème. His skill with a blade usually prevented the more obvious expressions of disdain. At least from the gentlemen.

  What did these French-Creole ladies expect, that he would rise and turn tail, taking his meals with the crew for the remainder of the voyage? It wasn’t in the cards. They could get used to his presence, as could the lovely Mademoiselle Bonneval. He was going nowhere.

  Kerr looked down the long table to where Sonia sat, wondering if she had noted the success of her campaign to make him conspicuous. The glance of un-smiling satisfaction she sent him was answer enough. He gave a soundless grunt before turning his attention back to his food. She would have to do better if she hoped to get under his skin. Likely, she would be more discomfited than he was by talk of having him as her guard.

  Following dessert, the tables were cleared and set against the walls with their benches under them. The smells of food still mingled with the fishy reek of whale oil from the overhead lanterns when the dancing commenced.

  Kerr watched for a while as Sonia was steered around the floor by the captain, a ship’s officer or two, the American commissioner, Tremont and young Pradat. He considered joining the line waiting for the privilege, but was in no more mood for a public refusal than he’d been in New Orleans.

  He opted instead for a cheroot on the deck while watching the sparks that shot from the ship’s smokestack as they trailed across the night sky behind them. He didn’t often indulge in tobacco, but there were times when its soothing effect was required.

  They were coming close to the gulf, he thought. The terrain had grown more flat and watery, and the smell of brine came in windblown gusts. Gulls had appeared at dusk, following their progress in hope of scraps from the galley or a roost in the rigging. Captain Frazier, or rat
her the pilot he’d taken aboard, was using the more southwesterly of the various passages to the gulf. Word from the bridge was that they would emerge into open water by midnight, if not before.

  Kerr intended to wait up for it. He had little to do otherwise, and it was always a milestone. This time around it meant even more than on his coastal excursions. He could finally let down his guard since the open gulf heralded an end to any possibility of Sonia trying to swim for the riverbank. He’d have that worry off his mind once and for all.

  Contemplating the glowing end of his cheroot and the way its fragrant smoke was whipped away by the wind, he let his mind wander to the munitions in the cargo hold beneath his feet. They bothered him out of all proportion. He didn’t consider himself more than an average patriot. He’d signed up to march in the Legion, true, but more with the idea of fitting in with the swordsmen and young bloods of the town, maybe getting a lead on the bastard responsible for his brother’s death, than for any other reason. He cared little enough whether the border between Texas and Mexico was fixed at the Rio Nueces or the Rio Grande.

  Nevertheless, the idea of some yahoo selling weapons to Mexico that could be used against his friends in the Louisiana Legion didn’t sit well with him. Looking a bit deeper into the matter was, just maybe, a fine way to pass the time.

  Sauntering, pausing now and then, trying to look like a gentleman with time on his hands and an idle mind, he moved along the railing to the vicinity of the cargo hatch. When he was sure the watch was busy elsewhere and no passengers or off-duty crew were nearby, he opened the heavy cover and slipped inside, closing it noiselessly behind him.

  The hold was dark and close, the air heavy with the musty scents of old coffee, molding spice and spoiled fruit, of raw timber, cottonseed and wheat chaff. Bales and barrels, kegs and boxes were stacked to the ceiling, held secure against rolling seas by ropes and railings that formed narrow aisles barely wide enough for a man to pass through without his shoulders touching the merchandise. In this close space, the wash of seawater along the hull was an endless, sibilant rush, with the gurgle of the bilge and squeaking of rats joining in obbligato.