Magnolia Nights

by Martha Hix

  “A fracas developed between some of the men.”

  “Can’t say I’m surprised.”

  “Watch your insubordinate tongue, Lieutenant Rousseau. Might I remind you that I’m your commanding officer?”

  “I need no reminder of my position . . . sir.”

  “Good!” Throckmorton grabbed an apple from a bowl of fruit that had been left by a chambermaid the previous day. Biting into it, he said around a mouthful of pulp, “Go out there and take care of it for me.”

  “What’s the problem now?” Paul asked, as if he couldn’t guess. Clearly the men wanted more than decent food to keep them satisfied. They needed to assuage their lusts for women. Paul could identify with that, at least as far as one particular woman was concerned.

  “Those no-goods threatened to hang Ensign Stewart from the yardarm!”

  Those so-called no-goods are mighty handy during skirmishes with the Mexicans, Paul was tempted to say as he hurried to collect the rest of his uniform. He felt that sorry excuse for an ensign probably deserved the punishment, but now was not the time for petty bickering.

  “I’ll take the longboat shipside.” Paul finished buttoning his shirt. “What concessions are you willing to make, sir, to the men?”

  “An extra ration of rum all around ought do it.”

  Paul hiked a black brow. “I’d say a ration of woman-flesh all around would be more apropos.”

  “Spoken like a true Gaul.” Throckmorton wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “Be that as it may, I speak the truth.”

  “Well, I won’t allow any harlots aboard!”

  Paul drew on his coat and stood his ground. “Then grant me authority to give our men shore leave.”

  “No!” Throckmorton shook his head vehemently. “Why, Houston might send sailing orders any tide. An extra ration of rum for each man and that’s all.”

  “Are you looking to see me swinging from the yardarm?”

  “Of course not, Mr. Rousseau!” Sneering, Throckmorton asked, “You’re not afraid of those rascals, are you?”

  “Not in the least, sir. But I fear what will happen if we aren’t lenient.”

  “It’s my place to concern myself with that. I issue the orders, and I’m ordering you to take care of the matter.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain.”

  Within an hour Paul was in a longboat, headed for the San Antonio’s anchorage. A chilled, salt-scented breeze whipped against his face as, feet spread wide and rooted to the deck, he crossed his arms and looked southward. A wicked grin stole across his features when he glanced at the cargo. Throckmorton would more than likely court-martial him if he discovered the contraband being taken aboard the schooner, but Paul shrugged away his concern.

  Singing bawdy lyrics, six members of the world’s oldest profession sat atop six casks of rum.

  As the boat cut across the river, between their songs, they tried to entice Paul into sampling their wares. He didn’t partake. The only woman he wanted to assuage his heat was Emma Oliver, and he wondered what she was doing at that moment.

  His thoughts of her were cast aside, however, when Coxswain Merritt yelled, “Mr. Rousseau, sir, look port side.” He lowered his scope. “It appears to be Captain Throckmorton!”

  Paul uttered an expletive as the captain’s longboat approached them at fast clip. Fearing it was too late already, he nonetheless bellowed: “You women, hide!”

  And that’s what Throckmorton’s going to have of mine—my hide! he thought wearily.

  Chapter Seven

  Rustling through the moss-draped oak trees, the wind gave a mournful cry as cold mist fell on St. Martinsville cemetery and twilight deepened into Sunday night. The French settlement along the Bayou Teche was quiet, peaceful; her inhabitants resting before another week of work in the sugar country of south Louisiana. St. Martin de Tours Church shadowed the graveyard where a lone figure cut around the stone crypts.

  Rankin Oliver shook off the eerie feeling of being alone with the dead. His demeanor in public didn’t lend itself to the morose, but now in private . . . Still, this hour of evening was the only time he could go undetected, could be alone with the grief that hadn’t diminished with the passing of time.

  His Angélique rested in the Rousseau family vault. No, Rankin thought, Angélique wasn’t his. He had claimed her maidenhead, but she had not taken him as husband. At the time he’d been but an Englishman, a tinker without a pot to call his own, which had mattered not to Angélique. It was her parents who had been against him. Royalists who had escaped from the guillotine in France, the de Poutrincourts wanted their daughter wed to one of their own background, their own way of life, their own religion—and to a man with money.

  French losers they had been, Rankin thought sourly, like ol’ Louis XVI and his queen, Marie Antoinette.

  Yet Rankin had been determined to become socially acceptable. He’d even considered taking up papist ways, as his brother Quentin had done to marry that cripple Noreen O’Reilly. But he hadn’t.

  Money, he’d figured was the key. Money had the power to cross the line. But before Rankin had earned his fortune, Étienne Rousseau had asked for Angélique’s hand, and she had bowed to family pressure.

  They were all gone now, the de Poutrincourts and the Rousseaus. With the exception of Angélique’s son. Thankfully Paul Rousseau had let Rankin be, for the most part, after Étienne had been put out of his misery. But the stripling had been nobody’s fool; he had guessed correctly that there was foul play involved in the duel between Rankin and Étienne. Still, he hadn’t been able to prove it. Ha! Once more Rankin had triumphed.

  Rankin laid a bouquet of flowers before Angélique’s resting place. This wasn’t his first visit to his beloved since her death in 1828. On many occasions he had journeyed up the Bayou Teche to pay homage to her. Indeed, his holdings in the area had been expanded so it would be easier to do that.

  “Awgh,” he cried all of a sudden, and swiftly brushed ants from his leg. “Blast ye, ye bloody bastards!” Rubbing his ankle, he moaned, “Ye never allow a man one moment to his grief without feeding on his flesh.”

  “Ants love cemeteries, didn’t you know?” a croaking male voice called from ten feet away. “’Tis a feast that lies ready for them.”

  “I’ll not have ye talking such, Simon Dyer! Ye’ve no respect for the dead.”

  Moving forward, the diminutive man ignored the comment. “Well, at least you’re hearing what I have to say now, old man. I called your name twice.”

  “I heard ye not.” Rankin straightened. “And I’ll not have ye calling me an old man. My years are three less than yer fifty-eight.” Glancing at the expensive clothing that covered his trim frame, he reaffirmed that he could still turn a woman’s head. “Not bad for my age, either.”

  “You’re nothing but an old peacock. Listen to the truth for once: your blond hair’s gone gray, and you’re old and wrinkled.”

  Rankin hunched his shoulders as he shook a fist at the shriveled shadow of a man. “Be gone with ye.”

  “Why, old fool? So you can fall to your crypt-talking?” Simon scratched his thin beard. “Ha! I’ve heard you yammering to Angélique as if she were still breathing.”

  “Enough!” Rankin raised a hand to strike Simon, but it was caught between the man’s bony fingers.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” Simon dropped his hand to his side. “I got the goods that could put you behind bars, remember? ’Twas me who fixed the firing pin so’s Étienne’s pistol wouldn’t discharge, remember?”

  Rankin drew back. “I remember it well. The guilt falls on yer shoulders as well. Ye were his second . . . his trusted friend.”

  “My memory hasn’t departed me. But you’d do well to recall another point: I’ve nothing to lose. You do.” Simon picked a tooth with his thumbnail but stopped when a deep cough racked his body.

  “Look at ye—sick! Ye’ll be worthless next Tuesday night.”

  “You’re . . . wor
rying for . . . nothing.” Simon took a restorative lungful of air. Recovered from his spell, he waved a hand. “My health’ll hold up. And there’s something I need to tell you,” he wheezed. “In case word leaks out about the shipment, I’m sending phony crates to your factor house. The Ransomed Princess’ll pick up the cargo in Baton Rouge and carry it on to Vera Cruz.”

  “The factor house? I don’t like the idea of it. I don’t like the idea of any of this.”

  “Well, it’s too late to stop it now.” Simon snickered. “For all my extra work I believe I’m entitled to another thousand in gold.”

  Rankin’s plans for Simon and for the Mexican government vanished at those last words. “Ye blackmailing leech! I ought to kill ye and be done with it.”

  “But you won’t. I still have my uses.”

  “Ye do, Dyer. Ye do. Damn ye to hell.”

  Dyer had first become useful when Rankin wouldn’t leave the duel between himself and Étienne Rousseau to fate. Though he was the better shot, he’d wanted to make certain he, not Angélique’s widower, walked away from the confrontation. For years he had waited for that duel, and had done everything humanly possible to provoke it.

  At Elkin’s Club one summer evening he’d got his chance. Rankin had insisted on joining Étienne’s table for a game of faro. For once the no-good gambler had been winning, and Rankin had accused him of cheating. The accused, being a spineless jellyfish, had laughed away the insult. Angered to the point of desperation, Rankin had then done the unthinkable: he’d sullied Angélique’s name.

  “Conscience hurting you?” Simon asked, mean as a striped spider.

  “No!”

  Rankin fell once more to recollection. By chance he had learned that Étienne’s best friend was guilty of bigamy. If that fact had become known, Simon Dyer would have been cast out of society, if not Louisiana, and he would have lost his beloved wife, who spent money as if it grew on trees. So Rankin went to Étienne’s trusted friend and threatened to expose him unless he agreed to tamper with the firing mechanism of Étienne’s pistol.

  Rankin had sweetened the pot with cash. Through his silence and his financial support, Simon had then been able to continue his seemingly monogamous life as a respectable sugar planter. The spendthrift Mrs. Dyer had gone to a greater reward some time ago, but Rankin still had Simon in his pocket. Money was power.

  Waving his hand in a gesture of dismissal, Rankin said, “Be gone. I’ll bring the money on the morrow.”

  “Figured you would.” Simon laughed before repeating his words. “Figured you would.”

  He disappeared around a crypt, leaving Rankin Oliver to delve once again into the grief that consumed him.

  “Paul Rousseau has caused me all the grief I’m going to allow,” Emma muttered to herself as she prepared on Tuesday morning for her trip into the city. Away from his mesmerizing presence, it was easy to be strong. Though she was attracted to him—and there was no denying that!—Emma was ready to put a stop to it. She wouldn’t allow fascination to rule over sound judgment.

  The only way to ensure that was to consult with Howard O’Reilly. This was not a decision made in haste. After mulling the problem through first on Sunday, then on Monday, and again this morning, and gaining a headache in the process, she had decided that although her reputation was going to take a further battering when her transgressions became common knowledge, she needed legal assistance—if not a buffer between herself and temptation.

  Marian, of course, would hear of the whole dirty business, but if that entailed another price for Emma’s impetuous acts, so be it.

  Funny though, she couldn’t help wondering why neither she nor Marian had heard one word from Paul since the masked ball the previous Saturday.

  Emma plucked a gray bonnet from the armoire in her bedchamber and placed it on her aching head. For a moment she wondered if she was making the correct decision about consulting Howard. Perhaps Paul had seen the light, in view of his absence.

  “Emma Frances,” she muttered aloud, “don’t be absurd.”

  Paul Rousseau wasn’t the type to give up easily. And why should he? At the masquerade ball she had admitted that she desired him. After her encouragement hadn’t he every reason to believe that she would meet him at the St. Charles by sunset that evening? He was simply biding his time.

  Miraculously she dodged Cleopatra’s chaperonage and traveled by carriage to the attorney’s Canal Street firm. Sweeping into the office, she slammed the carved door behind her with a resounding thud. The rooms were empty, save for Howard O’Reilly, and Emma was thankful for the confidentiality of her visit. The grandfather clock struck three as she faced the russet-haired senior partner of O’Reilly, Blake & Dupré.

  As Howard made welcoming chatter, Emma gave him the once-over. Her mother’s younger brother was tall and gaunt. His coat and trousers could accommodate additional pounds on his thirty-five-year-old frame. Despite her resolution, Emma couldn’t help comparing him to Paul Rousseau. That blackguard’s clothing always fit as if each stitch were tailor-sewn to his muscular physique, and he easily topped Howard by several inches. Her uncle’s eyes were brown, as were Paul’s, yet they lacked the spirit and expression of the naval lieutenant’s. No, Howard wasn’t one iota as attractive as Paul Rousseau. Funny how positive thoughts of Paul kept creeping into her mind at the most inopportune moments.

  “What a pleasant surprise,” Howard said warmly, his voice holding little of the Irish brogue of his childhood and quite a bit of an Englishman’s clipped speech pattern. He glanced at the clock. “I say, though, if you had arrived but five minutes later, dear niece, you’d have missed me.”

  This was Fat Tuesday, the final day of Mardi gras. Naturally he intended to celebrate the day before Lent’s onset. “I know you’re busy, Howard,” she said, “but . . . this matter is of the gravest importance. Please indulge me for a moment or two.”

  He lifted a brow. “Certainly I can spare a few minutes for my niece. Let me take your wrap; then have a seat—do have a seat.”

  Emma smoothed her gray woolen skirt and allowed him to assist her into a leather arm chair. She prayed that he’d be patient.

  After hanging her cloak on a rack, O’Reilly perched his thin frame on the edge of his highly polished desk. “Capital you came by, Emma, though I am in a rush. This morn brought a post from your mother. You’ll be happy to hear the news!”

  If Emma were to be happy about any news from Virginia, the letter must not include any reference to herself. When she departed the James River for these parts, her mother had been in a fit of motherly concern—and temper. “Oh?”

  Howard had the guileless look of a child. “Noreen informs me that your fiance has booked passage for New Orleans!”

  Oh no! Emma felt her blood rush downward. “Franklin is my former intended, and I couldn’t care in the least what he does or where he goes.”

  “I am sorry, Emma.” His hand reached out to squeeze her fingers. “I didn’t mean to ruffle your womanly pride. I’m sure Mr. Underwood wishes to atone for any wrong done to you.”

  “I couldn’t care in the least. Franklin and I are finished.” Drat him! It was just like Franklin to turn up and spoil her visit to New Orleans. Spoil her visit? Ha! By no stroke of the imagination had it been moonlight and magnolias. “Perhaps we should get to the point of my business.”

  “Of course!” Evidently Howard was pleased to change the subject. “Pray tell, Emma, what brings you to my humble office?” As was his custom, he minimized the sumptuous surroundings.

  “It concerns Paul Rousseau.” Her words were clear as a bell, belying the nervousness that quivered within her.

  “Decent chap, that fellow,” Howard said, clamping his mouth shut. Yet there was a cryptic cast to his eyes. “Always liked him, yes I have.”

  “Oh, Howard, how can you be so blind?” Her temper got the best of her. “That man has you hoodwinked as surely as he has Marian—” Emma flushed at this slip of the tongue. But on second thought
, maybe it was time Howard had his eyes opened. It was far beyond time for him to make his feelings known! “Rousseau has turned her head.”

  Howard stood, moved slowly around to his chair. Emma watched him brush shaking fingers across his thin lips. She knew he was shy in matters of the heart, and not given to discussing his feelings with others.

  “I’m aware she holds him dear.” He forced a benign smile. “Certainly she’ll do what she believes right.”

  “Certainly. But, my dear uncle, you don’t have me fooled. I know you love her.”

  He reached for a stack of papers, shuffling them as a mantle of red spread from his neck to his hollow cheeks. “Emma . . . Emma, you speak out of turn.”

  “Guilty.” Lifting a brow, she frowned. “But if you let him continue in his attentions, there’s no telling what will happen.” She received no response. “I fear she’ll be hurt by Rousseau. I believe his affection for her is but a figment of Marian’s imagination.”

  “That was not my impression.”

  “It is mine.” Emma prayed for courage to continue. “Howard, I’m in a terrible fix with Mr. Rousseau.”

  “What have you done now, Emma?”

  “It’s what Rousseau is doing.”

  Thoroughly disgusted with herself, she proceeded to explain the events leading up to her visit that afternoon. His eyes wide and his face white, Howard was clearly shocked, both by her impetuous visit to Paul’s hotel room and her inadvertent theft of the brooch. She hadn’t yet gotten to the details of the blackmail.

  Planting the heels of his hands on the desktop, he leaned forward. “Whatever the case, Emma, Paul is a reasonable man. Although his legal position is quite solid, I don’t think he will press charges.”

  “Don’t count on it!” She pounded the heel of a fist against her knee. “You must agree to be my emissary. I need a private detective on the trail of those thieves. Furthermore . . . well, I’m not without guilt over the brooch’s loss, so I’d like you to negotiate a settlement with Paul—I mean, with Mr. Rousseau. I cannot allow him to badger me any longer.”