Gallant Match

by Jennifer Blake

  She frowned as memory stirred. Hadn’t Hippolyte, on the night of the ball at the Hotel Saint Louis, suggested Kerr might be in search of some man in a personal vendetta? The sword master himself had made some reference as well, something about a sworn oath.

  “It may be he has reasons of his own,” she said finally.

  “So we must suppose.”

  “And the question exercises your mind because you have so little else to occupy it?”

  “As you say,” he answered, then hesitated a moment before he went on. “I also had it in mind to…to issue a word of caution.”

  “Did you.” Her tone was not encouraging, but he was not deterred.

  “Men such as Wallace are not always bound by the rules that constrain the rest of us. They are too used to putting their lives on the line for a whim or misspoken word, carving their own paths by main force, so matters turn out to suit their ends. They have little regard for the tender or the innocent. In short, Mademoiselle Bonneval, your protector on this voyage could become your greatest danger.”

  “It’s kind of you to trouble yourself.” The comment was perfunctory as Sonia’s thoughts moved in rapid surmise about the purpose behind Tremont’s warning. She acquitted him of mere flirtation; his manner was too serious, his face too grave.

  “You are a lady to whom it’s impossible for a true gentleman to be unkind.”

  She inclined her head in acceptance of that bit of gallantry, but walked on without reply. Nor did her frown lighten.

  It was peculiar, but serious regard on the part of the gentleman at her side left her unmoved. Her heart kept to its sedate beat and her breathing remained even. Though she was aware of him, it was merely as a person with whom she felt reasonable accord. Unlike the devil of a sword master, he stirred nothing inside her, no doubt or alarm, indignation or fury—certainly not the near-unbearable exhilaration of battle.

  It was disconcerting. She had not thought the physical presence of two men unrelated to her could affect her in such different ways. Was it possible that women stirred men in a similar fashion? Was there some basic difference that called to one and not to another?

  Oh, she had known the thrill of secret infatuations during her teenage years, had whispered of such things with her friends in retiring rooms at house parties. All had agreed they soon passed, could have nothing to do with the enduring love between husband and wife which must be based on shared expectations, mutual respect and consideration. These were things that came with time, or so they had been told, and would be felt for whoever was chosen for them as a partner for life.

  What if they were wrong?

  What if Alexander Tremont felt something for her regardless of her response? His purpose in speaking to her of Kerr, then, could be to discredit him so he might take his place.

  Yes, but to what purpose? He knew any acquaintance between them must be short-lived. What could he expect of her once they reached their journey’s end? That was, if he expected anything at all.

  Her pace slowed as her mind ranged in wider circles. Suppose Tremont knew Jean Pierre and had set himself to look after the betrothed of his friend. It was not impossible since they both had business interests in Mexico—or so Tremont had said, though Tante Lily still insisted he had the look of a wastrel. Yet if it were so, would he not have claimed the acquaintance and spoken of their good fortune in traveling to Vera Cruz together?

  It occurred to her, abruptly, that the munitions the gentlemen had noticed being loaded before they sailed might have been on Tremont’s mind. Did he suspect some connection to Kerr? It was a startling concept, but not impossible on the face of it. The qualities that made the swordsman a formidable opponent on the fencing strip would stand him in good stead should he turn to criminal activity.

  What a farce it would be if her father had sent her off on her wedding voyage under the protection of a traitor. She was almost willing to believe it was true for the fine jest it would make.

  Anything was possible as a cause for Tremont’s concern, including genuine distrust of Kerr, genuine concern for her well-being while in his company. If that was his position, might it not be to her advantage? An ally in eluding Kerr’s escort when they touched land would be most welcome.

  “I am grateful for the warning,” she said after a long moment, “but fail to see what use I’m to make of it. Monsieur Wallace was chosen by my father, so stands in his stead. Added to that, we are fixed on board here until the ship reaches port. Naturally, I shall be safeguarded from that point on by my future husband.”

  “Forgive me, but you don’t seem overjoyed at either prospect.”

  “How discerning of you.” She could not prevent a dry note from creeping into her voice.

  “Am I to assume you would escape both if you could?”

  “Readily, though I have little hope of it.”

  “Your future groom is quite unknown to you, then. Or is it rather that he’s known but not highly regarded?”

  “My father esteems him.”

  “A telling indictment if ever I heard one.” He gazed out to sea an instant before turning back to her. “I should think it would be almost intolerable to know you must marry a virtual stranger.”

  “You can have no idea.”

  “Being a man, you mean. It happens. Though not, generally, without some…some fault in the matter.”

  If her aunt had been there as chaperone, he would never have spoken of such a possibility, never ventured a hint at such misconduct. Sonia was torn between appearing worldly enough to understand his allusion to unwed passion between men and women and a disinclination to encourage more of the same. Uncertain how best to answer, she allowed silence to speak for her.

  “Arranged marriages are not unknown where I’m from back East,” Tremont went on, apparently oblivious to her reticence. “Still, they seem to happen more often in New Orleans.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Wealth and position tend to marry wealth and position the world over. It’s the way dynasties are formed.” He lifted a neat shoulder. “Men on the western frontier post notices in news sheets for wives, too, and women answer them. Now, there is courage, to risk everything on a mere printed notice.”

  “Desperation, rather. Such women must be destitute or have abandoned all hope of finding a husband in the normal manner.”

  “Many are alone in the world, granted, or else moral condemnation forces them to leave everything behind.”

  He meant to suggest these desperate brides were often in a family way. Did he think, perhaps, that was her condition? “I can assure you the last is seldom the cause in New Orleans. Nevertheless, I agree it’s a great gamble.”

  “Yes, which leads me to suggest…”

  “What, monsieur?” She stopped walking as she waited for what he might say, waited to see if he meant to offer her succor.

  At that moment, Kerr stepped from the companionway ahead of them, paused for a moment, looking up and down the deck, then came toward them. Glancing at him, then back to Sonia, Alex Tremont shook his head. “Nothing for the moment, mademoiselle. But if I may be of service in the future, I hope you will call upon me.”

  With that she had to be satisfied, for he inclined his head in farewell, nodded briefly to Kerr and left them. After so abrupt an abandonment along with all else, Sonia wasn’t at all sure she could rely on him. Nor could she hold too firm a belief in his concern.

  “Setting up a tête-à-tête with Tremont?” Kerr inquired, his gaze sardonic as he watched the other man’s retreat.

  “Enjoying a civil discussion for a change.” She could feel the annoying heat of a flush rising in her face, a direct result no doubt of her thoughts moments before. Or it might have been her sudden recall of being pressed against the hard body of this man while his heartbeat pounded drumlike against her breast. She had not enjoyed that instant of acute vulnerability, certainly not, yet it threatened now to turn her bones to water.

  What to do with her hands suddenly became
a discomfiting problem since she had no fan, no parasol, no book or handkerchief to occupy them. The best she could do was inspect her gloved fingertips for signs of soot from where she had clutched the railing earlier.

  “I’d like to have heard that,” he said, the words shaded with caustic amusement.

  She met his eyes for a tried instant. “It might have proven educational.”

  “Or not, for those of us who are less than civilized. I wouldn’t put too much dependence on anything he may have told you.”

  “Why should I not?” That he had come so close to echoing her own thought made her voice sharper than she intended.

  “If I tell you he is less than trustworthy, will that make you determined to add him to your conquests?”

  “I hope I am not so unreasonable.”

  “So do I, since that’s exactly what I mean to say.”

  “You have a good reason, I suppose.”

  “An excellent one.”

  She waited, but he did not go on. “Which you don’t intend to impart to me?”

  “I prefer to keep my own counsel for the time being.”

  “A fine excuse.” She surveyed the hard planes of his face, wondering at their grim cast. “It might surprise you to know he feels much the same about you.”

  “Said I wasn’t to be trusted, did he?”

  “He did.”

  “Since he spoke first, and we are at outs, you believe him.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Unnecessary. I can see it’s so.”

  “What an infuriating man you are.”

  She turned her head, staring out over the shifting waves that buffeted the steamer, throwing themselves against its prow and surging through the paddle wheels. He could have tried to convince her at the very least, she thought. The contradiction of wanting to be persuaded she was wrong in spite of preferring to think the worst did nothing to relieve her temper.

  His gaze rested on her face, for she could almost feel the heat of it. She longed to know what he was thinking, if he cared at all for how she might view him or had revisited at all the moment when he had held her close.

  It was unlikely she would ever know.

  Stifling a sigh, she began to walk again. Kerr Wallace, ever the faithful escort, fell into step beside her. They circled the deck until they were enticed inside by the wafting aromas of the noonday meal.

  Since the indisposition of her aunt left Sonia without a female companion, she gravitated toward the table that had been claimed by Madame Pradat and her son. As she approached, Gervaise half rose from his bench seat with an expression of shy welcome on his face. The urge to respond to the admiration in his eyes, flouting Kerr’s warning, was strong. She had no wish to be the cause of a confrontation, however. Still less did she care to play upon whatever feelings Gervaise might have conceived for her. Kerr might think her heartless, but it was not so. Well, except toward those who had given her cause.

  She changed directions, taking a place farther along the extensive board, across from young Madame Dossier who had her babe on her lap and a youngster on either side of her. Kerr waited until she was settled, then stepped over the bench and seated himself next to her.

  From the corners of her eyes, Sonia saw Gervaise’s olive skin turn dusky red and his teeth press into his bottom lip. Her chest ached in sympathy with his obvious embarrassment, but it could not be prevented. Better that than having his death on her conscience. She only hoped no further discouragement was required, for she wasn’t sure she had it in her to accomplish it. Swallowing hard, she reached for the water glass at her place, taking a sip to help dissolve the knot in her throat.

  “He will recover,” Kerr said in low tones. “You’ve only blighted his morning, not his life.”

  “It was not my intention to injure him at all.” She plunked her glass back on the table so hard that water slopped over the rim to wet her fingers.

  “It can’t be helped. That is, unless you would expect to marry every gentleman who yearns after you.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous!”

  “No, only making a point. You’d have had to let him down before we make landfall. It might as well be now.”

  What he did not say, but she knew well, was that it had been wrong of her to encourage Gervaise Pradat in the first place. She would not have except for Kerr’s presence on the ship. Giving him the satisfaction of admitting it, however, was more than she could face at the moment.

  “I take it you have never been disappointed in love,” she said, the words quiet as she dried her fingers on her shawl fringe.

  He was silent so long that she finally looked up to meet his eyes. Their steel-gray depths held a brooding expression before his thick lashes came down to conceal it. “Why would you say that?” he asked in curt tones.

  “It would undoubtedly have given you more consideration for the feelings of others.” Her answer was a moment in coming and the words had a random sound, as if she’d almost forgotten their import.

  “Take heart,” he said in stringent irony, “you may yet live to see it.”

  “I should doubt it, since we are unlikely to be in each other’s company so long.”

  “You’re right. How could I forget?”

  How indeed? That they would part in Vera Cruz was engraved on her mind. She could not wait for that moment to arrive.

  Thirteen

  The fine weather did not last. By midafternoon of that second day out, the Lime Rock began to wallow through an endless series of swells. Its smokestack waved back and forth against a leaden sky and the sails billowed and strained overhead. A gray bank of clouds gradually took away the light, draping everything in gloom. The sea, tinted by sky reflections, became a dull blue-gray as it shifted in troughs around them.

  Nor did matters improve. Walking became difficult, a matter of lunging from one handhold to another. Lamps burned day and night in passageways and in the common rooms. And so it continued without let up.

  Tante Lily burrowed deeper into her bunk, taking a few sips of water now and then but moaning at any mention of food. Sonia urged her to dress and come above decks with her embroidery or a book as it seemed fresh sea air would be better for her than the rank miasma below. Her aunt could not be convinced. Any attempt to set foot on the floor brought on another bout of retching, she said. It was a calamity that there was no priest on board to hear her confession. And, no, the Reverend Smythe would not do. She had no faith in the man, no dependence on his prayers to get her into heaven.

  Nor was Tante Lily the only person to succumb to the movement. Madame Dossier and her children were absent at mealtimes, as was the American commissioner and a half-dozen others. Even one or two of the crew took to their bunks or hung over the stern with a green tint to their faces.

  On the morning of the third day, the captain gave it as his opinion they were being overtaken by one of the northerners that plagued the latitude from winter through late spring. Accordingly, preparations for it began. Lines were strung along the passageways and across the dining salon, and seamen went from cabin to common rooms to make certain the lower portholes were securely battened down. Buckets half filled with sand were set out at all doorways. Condiments and other unnecessary articles were removed from the dining tables. Cuspidors vanished from beside the chairs favored by gentlemen, forcing any man using snuff or chewing tobacco to go topside and spit carefully downwind.

  Sonia was only marginally affected by the motion. She didn’t feel actively unwell, but her appetite deserted her. That was no great cause for concern since she had not felt really hungry since her first sight of Kerr Wallace.

  That gentleman was faithful in the pursuit of his duty, appearing at regular intervals to see how she fared. Sometimes he lingered for a question or two, though more often he retreated again to the gentleman’s parlor. A card game of some duration seemed in progress there, one only postponed for meals instead of being brought to a close.

  Monsieur Tremont sometimes sat i
n on this game, but more often found his way to her side. Sonia might have been flattered at the attention except for being well aware that she was the only female of even semi-unattached status on the vessel. Add to that the fact that most of the exchanges between the two of them revolved around Kerr in one way or another, and she could be forgiven, she hoped, for suspecting it was the Kentuckian’s activities that held the planter’s interest.

  There were gentlemen, she well knew, who doted on the maîtres d’armes of the Passage. Their prowess, muscular strength and ability to face death with sang-froid roused intense admiration. To be admitted to their company for an hour was a prize that might be talked of for weeks. Young boys trailed after them on the streets, the beaus and bloods about town aped their manners and articles of dress, and older gentlemen considered it a high honor to be allowed to stand them a drink or a meal. Rather like the heroes of one of Scott’s novels, they were endowed in imagination, if not in truth, with ideal strength, power, courage and honor.

  It was difficult to accept that Alexander Tremont could succumb to that kind of awe, especially given his misgivings about Kerr. Nonetheless, she could fathom no other reason for his fascination.

  She did little to discourage Monsieur Tremont’s attentions, but was friendly in a noncommittal fashion. It seemed appropriate to have a sympathetic admirer in reserve for when she might require aid. The run from New Orleans to Vera Cruz took no more than a week in the normal course of events. Soon, too soon, she would have to decide what she would do when she arrived.

  The uncertainty was maddening. It shortened her temper while making her listless and inclined to headache.

  She wasn’t alone. The general malaise and outright illness caused by the surging rise and fall and side-slipping of the steamer set everyone’s nerves on edge. The captain snapped at the officers, the officers shouted at the seamen, and the few passengers left upright ran the gamut from chill politesse to irascibility and downright surliness.