Magnolia Nights

by Martha Hix

  His anger rising, Paul snapped, “Shrew.”

  “Snake!”

  He chuckled then, and grinned. “Beautiful . . .”

  “Handsome,” she replied, far too quickly, but meaning it at any rate. What was wrong with her that she continued to be attracted to him?

  He slipped his palm to her nape, and his fingers slid through her hair. “Chérie, about the brooch . . . I told you the other night to forget it. I thought that’d be sufficient. That was an error in judgment on my part, and I apologize.”

  “For the error in judgment or for blackmailing me?”

  “For both,” he replied in a low timbre. His thumb, now at her shoulder, began to caress the dip above her collarbone. “I know you were, and are, angry with me over the brooch,” he said. “So furious, I believe, that you cannot, for the glare in your eyes, see the truth about the fire. But I did not start that blaze.”

  “I beg to differ. You are the only suspect.”

  “Between black and white there are shades of gray.” His thumbs bit into her flesh. “Search your heart, Emma. What reason would I have had to torch that factor house?”

  “Because you still hate my uncle for defending his honor against your father.”

  “Think back to the night you appeared in my quarters. I told you I was set on righting the wrongs of yesteryear.”

  “And perhaps you have.”

  “Rest assured, Emma Oliver, I don’t stoop to felony. Never. Dammit, I’d just left you at the hotel. Why would I want to set fire to your uncle’s place of business?”

  There was credence to Paul’s words, but Emma was not entirely convinced of his innocence. Something didn’t ring true. “My heart tells me you’re not telling the entire story of what happened yesterday morning.”

  “Bien entendu.” He removed his hands from her neck and shoulder. “The calaboose has many interrogators. You needn’t add your name to the list.”

  “Fine.” She gathered her cloak and reticule. “I’ll leave it to the courts.”

  “It may not come to that,” Paul said. “Not everyone in New Orleans believes I’m guilty. My attorney certainly doesn’t; Howard O’Reilly is on my side.”

  Emma rounded on him. “He’s my mother’s brother—my beloved uncle, just as Uncle Rankin is. Did you know that?” When Paul nodded she continued. “When he used his influence with poor departed James to get you off that ship, I had no qualms about it. But this is different. You stand accused of arson committed against Oliver property. Haven’t you done enough without setting the Olivers against the O’Reillys?”

  “Too bad you didn’t inherit some of the O’Reilly mercy.”

  “O’Reilly idiocy you mean!”

  “Are the Olivers so thirsty for my blood that they’d turn against Howard for performing a professional duty?” Paul’s lip curled back. “Or should I replace the plural with the singular? Are you thirsty for my blood?”

  “Yes!”

  She swept out of the office, closing the door behind her. After whispering politely to the policeman who guarded the room, she made her way outside and past the Place d’Armes. Once inside her carriage, she fell to reflection.

  What would she do if the Paul Rousseau matter caused a rift between her maternal and paternal families? Since Howard was only fifteen years her senior Emma didn’t address him as uncle, but that was no indication of her feelings for him. She loved Howard. He was family, and kith and kin were an important aspect of Emma’s life.

  After all, Uncle Rankin was the wronged party in this miserable affair. He had suffered a major financial loss, and a good many people he’d employed had lost their source of income. Furthermore, were it not for the swift action of the fire brigade, the fire would have spread—and the city of New Orleans could have been leveled.

  Her conscience reminded Emma that Paul had seemed sincere in declaring his innocence. But the odds were stacked against him. When it came down to it, Emma was an Oliver.

  “You Olivers are all alike,” Marian said while adjusting the mourning veil around her shoulders. “Too pigheaded for your own good. I don’t believe Paul is guilty.”

  On this somber occasion Emma thought her topic of conversation uncalled for.

  Rain, steady and cold, darkened the afternoon as the black-draped carriage pulled away from Christ Church, lurching to the right in the muddy street, to follow the funeral coach to Girod Cemetery. Seated opposite from Marian and Howard, Emma was doing her best to ignore her uncle.

  Howard observed his niece’s frown, and wanted to tell her about the surprising development in Paul’s defense, but professional ethics forbade it. “There’s more to the story than meets your eye,” he said evasively.

  One side of Emma’s upper lip quivered at Howard’s smug words. The traitor! Even Uncle Rankin, who had returned only for the day to attend the funeral and to assess the damage to his cotton enterprise, was peeved at Howard’s alliance with Paul Rousseau.

  “Howard dear, I’m so thankful you agreed to help poor Paul.”

  I’ll just bet you are, Emma thought angrily. “Marian,” she scolded, “we’re on the way to your brother’s burial. Surely you shouldn’t be talking, or even thinking, about that man.”

  “You fear I’ll fuss at you for going to his room.”

  Emma was taken aback. This was the dreaded moment! “How do you know about that?” She shot a dirty look at Howard, who had apparently informed Marian, but he merely lifted a hand.

  “Now don’t give Howard the evil eye.” Marian reached under her veil and blew her nose on a handkerchief. “I overheard you on the morning when Paul and I were going to join you for a ride. I’d gone to check on Tillie, remember? When I came back to the stable, the two of you were arguing.”

  Her defenses on alert, Emma asked, “How long did you lurk about?”

  “Long enough to find out that you and Paul are made for each other.” The widow waved the handkerchief dismissively. “Oh, don’t give me that round-eyed stare—I swear, Emma dear, you’d never make a poker player.”

  “Then I’ll have to work on my expressions.”

  “Well, anyway, I’m not mad. Paul’s too much for me. Too—I don’t know—volatile? Though I do think he’s an intriguing person . . . and so virile.” She cast a sidelong glance at Howard. “I’m more inclined toward a gentler man.”

  This brought a satisfied look to Howard’s face, and Emma wondered about that, but not for long.

  “Shall we tell her, darling?” Marian asked Howard. “I know you told me to wait a respectable length of time, but—”

  “Don’t fret, sweetheart. Emma is special to both of us, so I see no reason to keep it from her.” He covered the back of Marian’s left hand with his right palm before locking eyes with his niece. “Marian has agreed to be my wife.”

  “Well, that’s wonderful,” Emma exclaimed, forgetting her irritation with Marian and her fury at Howard. She was caught up in the good news.

  “Oh, pooh, Howard O’Reilly! Tell the truth. I didn’t agree to be your wife; I asked to be your wife.” Marian dropped the handkerchief onto her lap and linked her right arm with his elbow. “On Carnival night.” Her words were addressed to Emma, but her eyes never left her fiance’s. “He was finally paying attention to me, so I seized the moment. Oh, I was so happy! I couldn’t wait to tell James, and—” She withdrew her arm and leaned back. “Poor James . . . God rest his soul. He was so pleased . . . and now he’s gone.” Her shoulders heaved, and she began to cry. “Those awful men—I hope Paul hangs them from the yardarm!”

  Howard’s tone was soothing as he patted her hand anew. “Don’t fret, sweetheart. I’m sure justice will be served.”

  It surely will, Emma thought. But Paul won’t be the one to hang the mutineers, if that in fact does come to pass. He’ll be visiting the gallows long before James’s murder is avenged!

  On Liberty Street the carriage pulled to a stop at the gate to Girod Cemetery. Emma peered out the window to the white-plastered br
ick tombs. They were eerie, those above-ground crypts. Regardless of her position, she shuddered to think of Paul’s body being shoved into one of those ovenlike places.

  Perhaps his punishment won’t be that severe, she told herself. But why was she worrying about him? Had he concerned himself with her? No! That cad was the devil’s own right-hand man. A person of that caliber didn’t deserve sympathetic thoughts! It shouldn’t be forgotten that he was a Rousseau, something she had forgotten of late.

  She felt the carriage list as her companions alighted.

  “Miss Emma?” Jeremiah offered a hand and held an umbrella in the other.

  “Oh . . . uh . . . yes.” She lifted her black skirts and stepped down to the muddy street. The heels of her shoes immediately became mired.

  “Let me help you,” a slightly Gallic-sounding voice offered.

  Emma’s anger rose in a billowing black cloud. “Get away!”

  In full military regalia Paul Rousseau moved in front of her and took her arm, which she jerked away. His eyes met hers, and he doffed his hat, revealing his black hair. How, she wondered, had he gotten out of jail?

  Howard was probably to blame. Emma took the umbrella from Jeremiah, and lifted her nose before side-stepping her tormentor. She’d show him just how little he meant to her!

  In spite of his anger and her garb’s severity, Paul thought Emma was beautiful in black, even though her shocked expression had turned to one of disdain. He caught up with her. “Emma, wait a second. . . .”

  When he reached out, she blocked his arm with the umbrella.

  Paul chafed at her snub. If she wanted to be that way—fine! He had been truthful, for the most part, about the fire. She was just too much of an Oliver to accept anything other than what she wanted to hear.

  Paul watched her grab Howard’s arm and stand on tiptoe to whisper into the attorney’s ear. Then Howard looked Paul’s way, nodded, and turned back to Marian. Emma stomped off several feet.

  She was angry, Paul figured, because her uncle had freed him from jail. The witch.

  Well, two could play the snubbing game. He turned his attention to the carriage halting at the cemetery. Tillie Oliver, a woman of medium height and overabundant poundage, emerged. Rain soaking his high-crowned black hat and his equally somber cloak, Rankin Oliver was right behind her. With a flick of his hand, he dismissed his coachmen’s umbrella.

  It had been thirteen years since Paul had laid eyes on his father’s killer. For all those days and nights he had imagined this face-to-face meeting. His fist ached to plow into Rankin’s jaw, to inflict a modicum of the pain he himself had felt over those years. But his purpose was to gain justice, legally, against this miscreant. Bile rose in his throat, yet he forced it down as his archenemy marched toward him.

  “Monsieur Rousseau,” Tillie said, the courteous form of address coming out like mon-sewer, “isn’t it awful? I—”

  “How’d ye get out of jail, Rousseau?” Rankin cut in, his green eyes drawn to slits.

  Tillie pulled on her husband’s arm. “Oh, Rankin—”

  “Matilda Oliver, get over there to your daughter-in-law!”

  Tillie obeyed her husband’s edict, but shook her head and clicked her tongue as she did so.

  “I asked ye a question, Rousseau.”

  “So you did.” Paul swallowed the vile taste in his mouth. For too long he had waited to confront his father’s killer, yet he wouldn’t make a public spectacle of their meeting. “In view of the present circumstances, I’m sure you’ll agree that this is neither the time nor the place to discuss the, uh, fire. Shall we meet tomorrow?”

  “Can’t do it. Just came for the funeral. I’ll be leaving again in the morning. Answer my question now.”

  Unwilling to step to Rankin Oliver’s tune, Paul strode past his tall blond enemy and took his place with the mourners. For two days he had been grilled, but no more.

  The case against Paul had been strong before Lieutenant Seeger had come to his rescue. Before sailing for the Arcas the lieutenant had gone to the calaboose and had spoken with Detective Watson. Howard O’Reilly had been called in to hear his story, which the attorney had then relayed to Paul.

  “Just before the crack of dawn, Seeger went ashore with Throckmorton’s body,” Howard had said. “He docked at Rankin’s wharf. That had to be minutes before the fire.”

  “What does that prove?” Paul asked.

  “Nothing. But it weakens the case against you. Seeger said he saw a suspicious-looking character lurking about the factor house, and Rankin’s skiff was at its mooring when Seeger rowed back to the San Antonio.”

  “But it wasn’t there right after the fire,” Paul put in.

  “Exactly. So there’s a good chance it was stolen by the guilty party.”

  “A very good chance.” Paul paced the cell’s small confines. “But Seeger won’t be able to testify in my behalf. He’s on his way to the south Gulf.”

  “We have his deposition. I daresay it’s enough to free you until the trial, if not after.”

  “Then I can leave?”

  “Yes. You’re a free man, in a way. Until we go to court you’re forbidden to leave Louisiana.”

  “Half a loaf is better than nothing.”

  After his release Paul had given thought to not attending Throckmorton’s funeral, but he’d changed his mind. Though his views had not coincided with those of his late captain, he felt it was his duty to represent the Republic of Texas, and he owed Marian Oliver a few words of condolence. So he had come.

  Rain continued to pour as the Anglican priest recited the appropriate chants over James Throckmorton’s body. “. . . ashes to ashes, dust to dust . . .”

  From the sidelines Paul, soaked but unmindful of it, glanced at Marian, who was clinging to Howard as if he were a lifeline. The three Olivers flanked them.

  Her gray ringlets bobbing beneath a sheer veil of black, Tillie Oliver sobbed as if her own child had departed this earth. She had a tendency to overdramatize situations, Paul recalled. Rankin Oliver, obviously bored with the formalities and just as obviously making it a point not to look Paul’s way, shifted from one foot to the other while holding an umbrella for his wife. Emma, Paul saw in profile only.

  No veil impeded his view, but a black bonnet, elegant and costly, almost covered her honey-hued tresses, which were upswept, save for an errant lock that lay curled on her neck. The aristocratic line of her throat was evident, for she held her chin slightly higher than normal. And though he had never thought much about it before, he found her straight nose to his liking. She held the umbrella high. Lowering his gaze to her breasts, he remembered how delicious they had tasted. He cleared his throat, hoping to turn his mind elsewhere, but was unsuccessful. As he took in the curves below her chest, he surmised she was wearing a whalebone—her tiny waist was cinched in to such minuscule proportions. Ah, corsets—an erotic time could be had with the unlacing. . . .

  Paul felt an uncomfortable, inappropriate sensation settle in his groin. There was no disavowing he craved her, but he mentally credited that weakness to lust. Damn! Why hadn’t he taken her when she had offered herself? Better yet, why couldn’t he forget her and get on with his life?

  “. . . in the name of our Lord, Amen.” The priest closed his book of prayers and turned to whisper with Marian.

  The pallbearers slid the coffin into the crypt. The mourners turned away. Rankin offered his arm to Tillie, and Paul ignored the curl of his archenemy’s lip as Rankin stomped past him.

  Marian extended a hand in Paul’s direction, and he went over to offer his sympathy. “The people of Texas mourn your loss,” he said, reaching out to hug her.

  “You’re very kind, Paul,” she whispered. “I know you didn’t get on with my brother, but I am certain your words are sincere.”

  “I wouldn’t count on it,” Emma muttered.

  “Heavens to Betsy,” Howard said, filling in the stony silence that followed. “Your skirts are sodden, ladies. I daresay if I
don’t get you back to the carriage, you’ll catch your death—I mean, you’ll catch a chill.”

  “I’m riding with my family—the Olivers—thank you, my dear Benedict Arnold uncle.” Emma stomped away.

  Go on and run away, Emma Oliver. But it’ll do you no good. I will have you, Paul silently railed. He was determined to let the little witch know who had the upper hand. In the meantime he’d let tempers cool—his and hers.

  Every time Paul thought of Emma, he envisioned an accusing finger pointed at him. Yet by the time two weeks had passed, his anger had gone from a raging fire to smoldering embers. Why couldn’t he get her out of his mind?

  Shore-bound due to the upcoming trial, he had made the best of his situation. Eighteen experienced sailors had been recruited to replace the mutineers, and they’d been sent to the San Antonio by way of a merchantman. And Paul had petitioned the court to place the remaining culprits under the jurisdiction of the Texas Navy. Unfortunately the governor of Louisiana had demanded Sam Houston’s signature before he’d release the mutineers.

  Henry Packert was another matter. According to Katie, he had gotten a tip on the real shipment of contraband, and had set sail from Barataria the day of the fire. Paul took a bit of comfort from the woman’s information. Packert hadn’t given up the fight to put Rankin Oliver in his place. Still, there would come a day when Paul would have to deal with that single-eyed pirate.

  Figuring the Navy could use a good dispatch carrier, Paul had purchased a single-headsail sloop. Now, as he checked the rigging, he gave thought to the letter that had been delivered to the hotel earlier that morning. Ed Moore had received Paul’s first dispatch. The commodore, uninformed of the mutiny, expressed his deep concern for the sailors of the San Antonio and he mentioned that he intended to relieve Throckmorton of command as soon as he could sail back to northern Gulf waters. There lay the problem.

  Paul retrieved the parchment from inside his shirt to reread the last part.