Magnolia Nights

by Martha Hix

  “. . . I’ve received President Houston’s recall order, and I choose to ignore it. My reasons are twofold.

  If the fleet sails back to Galveston, he will, using the excuse of lack of money, dismantle the Navy. Of this I am confident, even though I have Governor Barbachano’s assurances the $8,000 per month will continue until the Quintana Roo treaty is ratified in Mexico City. Secondly, I refuse to leave our ally at the mercy of Santa Anna. (The Yucatecans are fools to trust him, just as Houston is a fool not to see his threat.)

  We sailed the Austin by Vera Cruz, and the harbor is rife with Centralist warships. Though they did not engage us in battle, they know, by God, we are here.

  They are setting the stage for war, against we Texans and their own rebel Peninsulares. Santa Anna, I believe with all my heart, only wishes to placate the Yucatecans with Roo’s treaty; he’s waiting for the right moment to squash a foe, all foes, under his heel.

  If our fleet is placed in ordinary, the Centralist Navy will bombard our coastal towns and blockade the entire Gulf. While our Army has been cashiered, Santa Anna’s stands ready to capture our inland cities and slaughter the citizenry.

  Use all your influence, my fellow patriot and friend, to secure financial backing in New Orleans. This I cannot stress too strongly, for without money we have no ammunition to fight our enemies in both camps. May God protect us.

  Yours faithfully,

  E. W. Moore”

  Paul was glad that he had sent the San Antonio back to the commodore. Though both he and Moore were in jeopardy of being court-martialed for dereliction of Houston’s orders, Paul felt the end would justify the means.

  And he had a mission: find money for the fleet. Where, he didn’t know. With the arson trial pending, he had a blight on his reputation. No person of wealth, American or Creole, would trust an accused torcher with their gold.

  His own resources were minimal, since he had purchased the little sloop. But what he had, he was more than willing to use for the Navy’s benefit. Money was not important to Paul.

  Crouching back on his heels, he hanked a forestay.

  “You’re a fine-looking one,” a female voice said from wharfside. “Bet you’ll make pretty babies.”

  He stretched to his full height of six-two and peered across the dock to the wrenlike woman standing on it. “What are you doing here, Cleopatra?”

  “Came to see you. Mind if I come aboard?”

  “Sorry. I’m leaving in a few minutes.”

  “That’s all I need—a few minutes.”

  Paul lifted a shoulder. “As you wish.”

  “Funny name, Virgin Vixen,” Cleopatra said after boarding. “Where’d you get it?”

  “Who said I named her?” Paul had of course rechristened the sloop. The name had seemed appropriate for Emma.

  “Never did cotton to a man who’d answer a question with a question.” Cleopatra shook her head, then shot him a sly look. “Why ain’t you been calling on my baby?”

  “If you’re referring to Emma Oliver, you ought to know why. Left up to the two of you, I’d swing from a tree.”

  “Wasn’t right, you burning that warehouse, but Master Rankin hisself’s done wrong by many. Ain’t it funny, too, that he stays clear of New Orleans now that you’re back in town?”

  Paul inwardly agreed. “Do I detect a faint note of disenchantment from the Oliver slave quarters?”

  “I ain’t no—” Cleopatra kicked her slippers away. She was, it seemed, settling in for a long visit. “I seen enough of the master to know he’s got two sides to his mouth. Couldn’t be sweeter to those he loves, like my Emma, but he’s got another side. Ain’t mentioned it to her, though.”

  This was an astute woman. She knew Emma would even banish her mammy for disloyalty. “So, you’ve come here to tell me you don’t like Rankin Oliver. Interesting.” Warily he asked, “But what makes you think I have a problem with him?”

  “Hmmph. I didn’t just fall off the turnip wagon. I seen the vengeance in your eyes, Frenchie, that day you come out to Magnolia Hall. Day after your daddy died, remember?”

  “That was a long time ago.”

  Cleopatra wiggled her toes and leaned her head back to take full advantage of the sun. “Told my Emma you was ugly back then. Tee-hee. You weren’t though. Needed a little drying behind the ears, but I got a feeling for men. You be one of those hot-blooded kind that keeps a woman sore between the legs.”

  Paul had never thought it could happen, but he felt his face redden. “You’re a wicked old tart.”

  “I ain’t old.” She kicked his shin. Solidly. “Forty, that’s all. I still got plenty of good miles left in this body.”

  He rubbed his sore leg.

  “Where you headed?” she asked out of the blue. “Before I showed up, that is?”

  “Barataria,” Paul answered. He wanted to see if Packert had returned. More than anything, he yearned for the roll of water beneath him as he sorted out his strategies.

  “Pirate’s kingdom . . .” A dreamy look settled in her eyes. “I ain’t a bad sailor, if’n a body needed one. Wouldn’t mind sailing those forty miles myself.”

  “If you’re hinting that I should take you out there, you can forget it.”

  But within five minutes they set sail. He was curious about her visit, so he decided to let her go along. And by the time the settlement’s coastline was in sight, Paul trusted Cleopatra. Damned if he didn’t like her, too!

  Shading his eyes, he surveyed the line of ships anchored in Barataria Bay. Packert’s wasn’t among them. Paul thought briefly about heading back to New Orleans, but reconsidered. After all, Cleopatra had expressed an interest in this pirate land.

  “Well, is you or ain’t you gonna say nothing about my Emma?” Cleopatra asked, arms akimbo.

  The back of her skirt was tucked in the front of her waistband, having been pulled between her bantam legs, and her tignon having flown away, somewhere between New Orleans and the bay, her nappy hair headed in all directions. She had the steely determination of the world’s wickedest freebooter in her brown eyes. Explosives, Paul knew, came in small packages. “All right, I give. What about her?”

  “You gonna marry her?”

  “Wh-what makes y-you ask that?” Paul queried, though he was not given to stuttering.

  “You deflowered my baby—I gonna see she’s done right by.”

  “Now wait a minute.” So that was why she had sought him out. “If she told you that, she’s lying.”

  “She tried to deny it, too. But I saw those bloodstains on your bed, Frenchie.”

  “My back was bleeding.”

  “Yes, and I’m white as snow.” Cleopatra eyed him critically. “She could do worse than you.”

  “Thank you, madame, your kindness overwhelms me.” He bowed low. “But there are considerations you’ve overlooked. I’ve no wish to marry, and, correct me if I’m wrong, the lady in question wishes to make medicine, not me, her career.”

  “A lady’s got,” Cleopatra said as haughtily as her name implied, “a God-given right to change her mind.”

  “I see. And what about you, wicked goddess of the Nile?” Serious now, he walked down the deck to stand in front of her. “Will you change your mind about testifying against me?”

  She picked up the mooring line. “If the State of Louisiana sees its way clear to call me, I wouldn’t lie about what I saw.” Raising a brow, she continued. “’Course I might be lenient if’n you was my baby’s husband.”

  “If I weren’t, would you give me the benefit of the doubt?”

  “May . . .” Cleopatra’s hand, the one which held the rope, froze. Watching the marshy shore, she stood straight and still. Then a wide grin split her face to expose beautiful pearly white teeth.

  Paul’s eyes picked up the object of her attention. At water’s edge was a Goliath-tall pirate, his mouth dropped open. Ben Edwards, known for sheer brawn and canny intelligence, appeared to be dumbfounded.

  “Don’t jus
t stand there, you big hunk of meat,” the small woman called to the big man as she perched on the rail. “Get me off this tub, and kiss me!”

  Never had Paul seen Ben move so fast, especially through three feet of water. Cleopatra yelped with delight when he caught her in his arms.

  Paul cast the mooring line to shore, waded after it, and twisted the ropes around a tree. He quit thinking about Cleopatra nagging him to take Emma to wife.

  Chapter Twelve

  “You need a wife.”

  Frowning at Howard’s statement, Paul reached into his coat to extract a cheroot. With slow deliberation he lit the thin cigar. Less than twenty-four hours had passed since Cleopatra had harangued Paul about marrying Emma. The mammy he could dismiss. His attorney was another matter. Of late, he had bombarded Paul with advice both legal and personal.

  His palms planted on his knees, Howard leaned forward on his carriage seat and turned his head toward Paul. “As I’ve told you before, the sooner you marry, the better. In order to inherit your grandfather’s sugar plantation near St. Martinsville, you must have a woman to share your name.”

  “I don’t want his land.”

  “Don’t be a fool, Paul. It’s—”

  “Why are you bothering me with this? We just left a hearing at the Cabildo, and in two weeks I’ll face judge and jury.”

  “I’ll thank you not to interrupt me, my good man. Now, where was I? Oh. At the end of one year, provided you’ve lived up to the stipulations, the property becomes yours in fee simple. To do with as you wish.”

  Paul chuckled with irony. “Ah yes, the terms of dear old Grandpère’s will. He never forgave me for those stolen moments of passion with the, um, shall we say, object of his affection.”

  “Far be it from me to second-guess Remi Rousseau’s intentions.” Howard grimaced as the carriage wheels hit a rut and jostled the two occupants. “My purpose is to see the terms of the will executed. And time is running out. If you’re not going to accept his challenge, then I shall be forced to relinquish the property to one Miss Aimée Thérèse Goyette.”

  “The object of his affection.”

  Howard adjusted his now-lopsided beaver hat. “Be that as it may, Paul, you must make a decision soon.”

  Neither the property, nor his grandfather, nor Aimée Thérèse meant anything to Paul. They were past forgetting. “Managing canebrakes would jeopardize my naval career, provided the State of Louisiana allows me my freedom, and planting is not one of my desires, nor is marriage.”

  “A year, old chap, isn’t forever.”

  “Marriage is.”

  “How many times over the past days have you said you’re in need of money?” Howard asked. “This might be the answer to your prayers. The mansion and fields are worth a great deal. You could sell Feuille de Chêne, after clear title is granted.”

  Paul realized that temporary ownership to Feuille de Chêne had advantages. The proceeds from its sale could be used to protect the citizens of Texas from Centralist aggression by keeping the Navy afloat, at least partially. But to wait a year for the money? Anything could happen in a year’s time. And where would he find a temporary wife?

  “Could the property be mortgaged?” Paul asked.

  “There’s nothing to say it can’t.” The attorney raised his eyes, making their whites evident. “Of course a year on the plantation might change a seadog to a landlubber.”

  “Not a chance. Not on Feuille de Chêne, anyway. Texas is the place for me.” Paul glanced out the carriage window, and took a leisurely puff of the cheroot. “It’s a new country, a good place to start over without the hindrances of the past.”

  “You’d know more about that than I, I suppose.”

  “No doubt. But that’s not the issue, is it?”

  “Not at the moment,” the attorney replied. “About the plantation, do I hear a weakening of conviction in your voice?”

  “Perhaps.”

  Howard raised a brick-red brow. “You’re going to marry Emma?”

  “Emma? What’s she got to do with this?”

  “Well, a marriage takes two people, and she seems to be the one dominating your interests.”

  “I didn’t say I was going to marry.” If Paul were to do so, she was the only person he could imagine sharing bed and hearth with. But . . . An awesome but. Emma had all the earmarks of a less than ideal wife. Setting his hesitation aside, Paul wondered why Howard was promoting such a match.

  “I’m surprised you’d mention your own niece in almost the same breath as a temporary marriage.” Chuckling, he ribbed Howard. “Is the family that desperate to get her off their hands?”

  “That’s hardly the case.” Howard grinned slyly as the carriage hit another rut. “As for myself, I have my reasons.”

  “Being?”

  “She couldn’t testify against you at the trial.”

  Paul bristled. If he married Emma it wouldn’t be for that reason. “I appreciate your help in handling my problems with the law, but I don’t think you should offer to sacrifice your blood kin.”

  Howard sighed and shook his head. Several seconds later, he eyed Paul. “All right, I’ll be honest—I think you and Emma could make a marriage that would last until death parted you.”

  “You sound like a romantic. Your engagement to Marian must’ve gone to your head.” Paul stretched his legs as far as he could in the close confines of the carriage. “There’s something you should know . . . in case I do take possession of the sugar fields. I’d mortgage them, sell them, whatever—and give the money to the Navy. That’s no situation into which to bring a wife.”

  “Money isn’t everything. Emma’s never been one to covet the all-mighty dollar.”

  “What does she covet?”

  “Being a doctor, having a home and—”

  “I understand the doctor part, but having a home?” Paul flicked an ash out the window. “She doesn’t strike me as the tapestry-by-the-fireside type.”

  “She might surprise you.”

  “Well, Howard, you’re forgetting one thing—Emma wouldn’t agree to it.”

  “Then you don’t know the woman who visited my office after Throckmorton had you lashed. But I do. She may not admit it, even to herself, but she loves you.”

  Paul’s suddenly weak fingers dropped the cheroot, and it burned a hole through the leg of his breeches. Grabbing the cigar and brushing away his pain, he said, “You’re crazed as a loon, Howard. The woman is out for my blood!”

  “Her Irish is up over this factor-house situation, but she’s not one to carry a grudge for long. Convince her you’re more important than Rankin’s warehouse. Shouldn’t be hard to do.” Howard took out a cigar. “You haven’t lost faith in your powers of persuasion, have you?”

  “No, I haven’t. But even if she did agree, and even though she couldn’t testify against her husband, what about her mammy?”

  “The courts won’t take her word over yours.”

  “She deserves better than that,” Paul said in defense of Cleopatra. “There’s something wrong with a country that won’t take the word of a good woman because of her race.”

  “You must admit it’s to your advantage this time.”

  Paul contemplatively drew smoke into his mouth. Should he give up his bachelor state for the sake of Texas? It was a small enough price to pay; it wasn’t as though he were giving up his life, and plenty of men had done that.

  Hell, why don’t you admit it, Rousseau? You want to be with her. Paul pushed that weak-hearted thought aside. If he went along with Howard’s suggestion, it would be for Texas, not for himself. Maybe he should marry her.

  But, like all major decisions in life, it wasn’t that simple. In order for the marriage to succeed at least for a year, Paul knew compromises would have to be made.

  He’d be landlocked when the Navy needed every man it could get. Still, Texas would have his financial support, and that counted for something. On second thought, there was nothing to keep him from his duties at
least part of the time. If the Navy needed him for a campaign, Paul would be there.

  The last part of the compromise was the most bitter pill to swallow. If the marriage were to work for at least twelve months, he couldn’t, in all conscience, overtly seek revenge against Rankin Oliver.

  No! He wouldn’t do it. For too long vengeance had propelled him. But could he sacrifice Texas? To do so would be selfish.

  “I’m going to marry Emma.” If he was making a mistake, Paul would worry about it later.

  “I think I should warn you. Like you, she’s a Catholic. Marriage is forever.”

  Forever? As in old and gray? As in a life contract? For several long moments Paul considered his predicament. His heart cried out, “Why not? You’re crazy for her.” His mind told him to pay no heed to that inner voice. This was a matter of national importance, pure and simple. He felt much more comfortable with that line of reasoning. “I’d better start convincing the Oliver side of your family.”

  “Capital idea.” The carriage stopped at the St. Charles, and Howard reached out to shake his hand. “By the by, Emma’s decided to forgive me, I suppose, for taking your case. She’s accepted my dinner invitation.”

  Paul nearly missed the step down from the coach.

  Tapping a cane tip against the carriage wall to alert the coachman to depart, Howard said, “Be at my house at eight. Rankin will be there, too.”

  “I look forward to the challenge.”

  It had been fourteen days since Emma had seen Paul. She had passed the endless hours studying and gaining practical experience by helping Dr. Boulogne. He had given her enough work to keep her busy, and it was fine therapy for a heart in jeopardy. Paul’s absence was a blessing, she supposed.

  She had even mellowed to the point of accepting Howard’s dinner invitation for that evening. Looking at it from her uncle’s point of view, she acknowledged that his career put him in contact with the wrong element at times. She shouldn’t blame him for taking the enemy’s side.

  “Mademoiselle Oliver, did you hear me?” Dr. Boulogne asked sharply, bringing her errant thoughts back to the women’s ward of his clinic.