Magnolia Nights

by Martha Hix

  “I don’t know anything about it.”

  “That’s not true. My husband told me he got it back from you. He’s Paul Rousseau. Do you recall him?”

  Katie’s hazel eyes rounded. “You’re married to Monsieur Rousseau?”

  Emma smiled despite herself. “Yes. As of yesterday.”

  “Congratulations. Um, I mean best wishes. My mother would be ashamed that I made such a blunder.”

  Emma was baffled. There was an elegance to this woman, a sheer majesty that belied her thieving ways. Why would she—young and beautiful and possessed of the social graces—have aligned herself with such as that old pickpocket Packert? And why had she become a party to his misdeeds?

  Emma Frances, don’t be naive, she chided herself. This Katie could very well be the instigator rather than the follower.

  “Could we sit down and talk?” she asked.

  Katie nodded, and they walked to a bench in a nearby garden. Bougainvilleas, just-budding roses, and evergreens surrounded them.

  “This is a beautiful place,” Katie commented.

  “I agree. But—”

  “Your husband is a very handsome man.”

  A thread of jealousy tightened in Emma. “How well do you know him?”

  “Don’t look at me askance. I met him but once.” Katie smoothed the skirt of her tattered gown. “When he came to the house I share with Packert and discussed my fa—When he came to visit Packert.”

  “What was the purpose of Paul’s visit?”

  “I . . . I don’t know.”

  Emma figured she wasn’t getting the entire truth. “Who was my husband discussing before he claimed the brooch?”

  “My father. An evil man.” Katie’s breath quivered. “The talk had to do with his misdeeds against the Texas Navy, I believe.”

  “Who is your father?”

  Nervously Katie fiddled with her hands. “If you don’t mind,” she murmured, “I’d rather not discuss the man who caused my birth.”

  Realizing that this woman’s history was none of her business, Emma didn’t importune Katie, but she was startled when the beautiful brunette suddenly said: “Your husband isn’t guilty of setting the Oliver Factor House aflame.”

  “Wh-what do you mean?”

  “I read the charge in the Picayune.” Katie wet her lips nervously. “But I know he didn’t set fire to that warehouse. Packert did it.”

  “Packert?” Emma repeated incredulously. Paul wasn’t guilty! Paul wasn’t guilty! Her heart sang with that knowledge. Oh, my beloved, I wronged you, and you told the truth.

  “Tell me the particulars,” Emma urged.

  “I don’t know them.” There was sincerity in the brunette’s voice. “I only know what Packert told me later. He has . . . he has reason to hate the man who owned the factor house, and he was set on destroying the building.”

  Why would Packert hate Uncle Rankin? Telling herself not to be foolish, Emma realized that no person, no matter how strong in character, was without enemies.

  “We’ll have to go to the authorities. The culprit must be punished.”

  “That’s impossible. Packert sailed away from Louisiana. But if he returned and found out I’d . . . I’d served him ill, I shudder to think what he’d do to me. His temper is violent.”

  “If you fear him, why did you tell me about my husband’s innocence?”

  “Because . . . I . . . I like Monsieur Rousseau, and I yearned for a way to clear his name without accusing the man who owns me.”

  “Owns you?” Emma shook her head in bewilderment.

  “I am a woman without rights—the blood of Africa runs through my veins. My white father sold me to Henry Packert.”

  “Oh, Katie . . .”

  “I don’t want your sympathy; I just stated a fact.” The lovely brunette held her head high. “Despite his temper, Packert has treated me well, all things considered. In his own way he cares for me, and that is the first loving emotion I’ve known in my life.” She paused. “As for Monsieur Rousseau, I—”

  Emma baited her by saying, “If my husband’s name can’t be cleared, he’ll most probably receive a prison sentence . . . if not the gallows.”

  “My conscience plagues me, for I don’t want to see an innocent man suffer for a crime he did not commit.” Katie sobbed. “I don’t know what to do. I cannot tell the police, but if there were some way—”

  Emma could taunt her no more. “Paul will not pay for Packert’s misdeed. I am his accuser, or I was until our marriage.”

  The tall woman shook her head in confusion. “I don’t understand.”

  “Rankin Oliver is my uncle. It was I who witnessed Paul running around the corner of the building.”

  “That would make you . . . I read in the newspaper. . . You must be . . .” A veil fell over her eyes. “You’d have to be Emma Oliver.”

  “Yes. Now Mrs. Paul Rousseau.”

  “Life has many strange twists and turns,” Katie said with a touch of irony as she stood. “In spite of your connection to the Oliver family you’ve taken Monsieur Rousseau to husband, so you must have believed in his innocence.”

  Emma flushed.

  Katie reached down to take her hand. “I know him not well, but I perceived his character at our one meeting. Your Paul is a man driven by his convictions, and he is relentless in his pursuits. But there is a gentleness within him, a kindness, as it were. Return his kindness, and you shall be rewarded with a lifetime of happiness.” She smiled, but it was a melancholy expression. “I offer my congratulations, and this time there is no apology. Any woman who captures the heart and soul of Paul Rousseau has won herself a prize.”

  Poised and graceful, the unfortunate woman departed.

  Emma walked back to the clinic to finish her rounds. That accomplished, she collected her reticule and thoughts. Katie had been right about Paul. Beneath his arrogance and his drive, he was a prize worth holding. Making for the St. Charles Hotel, she felt guilty for doubting him.

  Now it was time to eat humble pie.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Humble pie turned out to be quite satisfying. Emma was astounded. When she had confessed to Paul, saying, “I know you’re innocent, and I’m sorry for doubting you,” she had expected harsh words, at the very least.

  But he smiled and said, “I forgive you.”

  That had been a week ago.

  Now aboard the Virgin Vixen for the trip to the plantation, Feuille de Chêne, she took an adoring look at her husband. His hands on his waist, he stood before the mast. The breeze blowing through the secret bayou pass into south Louisiana swampland plastered the soft material of his loose-fitting shirt to his muscular torso and arms, and ruffled his curly hair. His tight breeches outlined his trim hips in a most alluring way. From the top of his head to the heels of his boots, he looked every inch a rakish, swashbuckling pirate.

  Marriage, she thought as he bent to man the anchor, was the grandest situation on earth.

  Paul thought so, too. How easy it had been, though strange to his inner makeup, to forgive Emma when she had blamed him for the fire. In a way he hadn’t faulted her. She had believed him guilty, and had done what she thought right.

  His callused hands stinging from his efforts to lower the anchor, he stood erect. Swamp, dark yet fascinating, surrounded the pass, and warblers’ sweet songs mixed with the loose-banjo-string croaks of green frogs. Cypress stumps littered the banks, along with gently swaying Spanish moss. It had been years—possibly forever?—since Paul had felt such peace.

  He turned to his wife. He could have, time allowing, stared at her for hours on end. She wore simple clothing today—a white blouse of soft cotton and a green linen skirt. And only the very minimum of underpinnings, he knew, was beneath those outer garments. Though he enjoyed unlacing her corset, he disliked the contraption for the discomfort it gave her, and had requested that she toss it overboard; she had been pleased to comply.

  Mussed hair blowing in the breeze, Emma was leaning ba
ck against the rail, her breasts and slightly sprawled legs beckoning him. Vixen! Unvirgin vixen. God, how he adored her. She was the stuff fantasies were drawn from. But she wasn’t a figment of his imagination. Emma was a wonder.

  “I feel sorry for Katie,” she said, slamming him out of his musings. “She seems to love that vermin Packert.”

  “Ah, my sweet, stranger things have happened.”

  One of them happened immediately when Emma said, “She said you’d called on that rat to talk about a man who was undercutting the Texan cause. Why did you meet with Packert to discuss Katie’s father?”

  Katie’s father? Paul dropped the line he was holding. He had visited the old sea rover to get the goods on Rankin Oliver . . . who had to be the octoroon’s father! Apparently he was the one who’d sold Katie to Packert. Paul had difficulty swallowing his anger, and he now understood why the pirate hated Rankin. Did that murdering traitor have any good traits?

  It was hard to believe that Emma was of the same blood. Though he had misjudged her at times—and she could be a true viper at others—he admired her ability to forgive and forget, as well as her stalwart convictions. No, he wouldn’t hold her lineage against her. He would hold himself against her. . . .

  “Ma bien-aimée, don’t trouble yourself with Texas Navy business.” Paul approached from behind, and wrapped his arms around her waist. “Warm enough?” He bent to nuzzle her ear. “I could make it warmer.”

  Her shiver was elicited by his nearness, not the chill evening air. “Please do.”

  She turned into his arms to accept, and return, his torrid kiss. As if there were no tomorrow, as if they didn’t have a lifetime for lovemaking, he lifted her into his arms and carried her to the cabin below, to their honeymoon haven, where they were immediately enveloped in arousal, ardor, and wild loving. And, a long time later, breathless satisfaction.

  Amid satin sheets spiced by the scent of them both, and to the gentle lap of water against the sloop, Emma awoke the next morning. Sunlight radiated through the portholes; and Paul, dressed in black woolen breeches and soft shirt of cambric, stood with his back to her, one hand bracing the opposite elbow.

  “What are you pondering?” she asked.

  He turned and smiled. It wasn’t his usual grin; it seemed rather grim. Stepping to the bed, he leaned down to brush a lock of hair behind her ear. “Today, Madame Rousseau, we arrive in St. Martinsville.”

  From his tone, she knew something was amiss. “I thought you were pleased to claim your grandfather’s estate.”

  Paul sat on the edge of the wide bunk. “I vowed a long time ago never to return to Feuille de Chêne.” He paused. “I disliked Grandpère.”

  “Tell me about him,” she prompted as he fell to silence and studied the ceiling.

  “He was unfair to my father.”

  “And to you?”

  “I held my own with old Remi. But I blame him for turning away from my father when his help was needed most. Papa had lost heavily at the faro tables, and we were forced off my maternal grandparents’ plantation. My mother was dying, so Papa asked Grandpère if he’d take us in. Old Remi wouldn’t do it. I’ll never forget the look of despair on Papa’s face.”

  This vulnerability in Paul, so out of character for him, drew her closer. “You loved Étienne a lot, didn’t you?”

  “That goes without saying.” Paul blew a stream of breath upward. “Anyway, since you’re my wife I thought you had a right to know about my grandfather.”

  She ached for her husband, yet she had never felt so close to him. “There’s something . . . You know, we’ve never truly discussed what happened between your father and Uncle Rankin.”

  “Some things are better left unsaid.” He turned to straighten clothing that did not need such attention.

  Pressing him on the matter wasn’t timely, she realized. But he had been willing to talk about Remi Rousseau. “The way you feel about your grandfather, I can’t help wondering why you took the plantation over.”

  “Il me faut de l’argent.”

  “Paul! Speak English. What do you mean?”

  “Money. I must have money.” He grinned. “Anyway, you’re in French-speaking territory, Emma. You’d better get used to a foreign tongue.”

  “The only foreign tongue I want is yours.”

  He leaned over to tweak her nose. “You hussy!”

  She started to make a fitting retort, but it was not often that they enjoyed such moments of communication; she’d make use of this one. “What do you mean about money?”

  “I’m not a rich man, Emma. I hope you didn’t expect wealth.”

  “I didn’t. Wealth wasn’t a consideration.” She’d married him because she loved him. Basically.

  “Enough of this maudlin talk.” Tenderly he slapped her derrière. “Rise and shine, madame. We need to make Feuille de Chêne before sundown tonight.”

  “Wouldn’t you rather make love?”

  On the brink of acceding, he stood stock-still. Half a minute later, he said, “Woman, you’ll be the undoing of me, I swear. And what a sorry excuse for a second mate you are, lying abed all morning when we need to weigh anchor.”

  “Your sensitivity floors me,” she shot back, laughing, and threw a pillow at his head. “And what happened to appreciation?” She held her palms aloft. “Just look at these poor hands. Surely I’m deserving of a little reward for helping you sail here.”

  He surrendered. “So appreciation and reward are what you’re after?” Tickling her naked breast, he said, “Oh, insatiable temptress, I do believe I can handle that. . . .”

  The next day they sailed the last leg of the journey.

  Spiked cane, low-growing palmetto and moss-tented live oaks of mammoth proportions lined the banks. Everywhere were shadows as dark and mysterious as the deep waters of the Teche itself.

  Paul told her about the Cajun migration from Canada to the area over a hundred years previously, and about the influx of Royalists after the Reign of Terror in France. And she liked the bayou. Despite the occasional grand home and lawn that cut through its untamed beauty, it was an unspoiled wilderness of flora and fauna.

  An alligator sliced into the water, starting toward the sloop, but Paul, muscles straining, manned the sails and the Virgin Vixen outdistanced the reptile.

  Shivering, yet relieved that the reptile was almost out of sight, Emma asked, “How did this bayou get its name?”

  “The Attapakas Indians called it Tenche. Snake. Legend has it a huge serpent once terrorized these Indians, and they shot it full of arrowheads. When they ran out of those, they took to clubs. In its death throes the snake cut wide grooves in the soil that filled with water.” He grinned. “Must’ve been one hell of a snake.”

  “I’ll say.” Emma went back to her sailoring duties.

  Around the bend, Paul told her, was Feuille de Chêne. “I sent word to the overseer to put the place to rights,” he added.

  She was full of anticipation. This new home, so different from the James River of her past, was the start of a new life, but right now she looked forward to a good hot bath.

  As the sloop’s prow banked left to follow the wide, meandering river, shadows departed and sunlight fell on the Virgin Vixen. A weatherbeaten, sagging jetty angled into the water. Speechless, Emma eyed her new home and inhaled a sharp draught of air.

  “What the! . . .” Paul grabbed the rail. “The damned thing’s falling down!”

  They hurried to land. Indeed the brick mansion of Feuille de Chêne was no longer palatial. The paint on the columns and the wide veranda was chipped and peeling, windows were smashed, and shutters sagged like rejected lovers’ shoulders. Furthermore, vandals had sacked the house, stealing everything of value that could be carried away.

  The overseer was nowhere to be found, and they learned that he had been gone for months. All but twelve of the fifty field workers had escaped. The canebrakes had not been tended and were overgrown.

  Emma realized that making the home
comfortable and the fields profitable would necessitate taking time from her medical endeavors, but she was willing to make the sacrifice. She had to. It was her duty, and she would be proud to expend the effort for Paul and herself.

  Her spouse, it was glaringly apparent, wasn’t so optimistic. After unloading the Virgin Vixen, he refused to discuss the plantation. He even refused dinner, and wrapped himself in the embrace of alcohol.

  “Don’t want any light,” he said, his speech slurred, when she brought a candle into the library.

  The scent of dust long settled, as well as the aroma of rice paper and aged parchment, bit at her nostrils.

  Cobwebs hanging over his head, Paul sat behind a faded gilt desk, and his hands were clenched around a whiskey glass. “Go away,” he bellowed. “Wanna be alone.”

  Stepping over the books scattered on the floor, Emma went to her husband. “Come to bed, darling. I’m sure everything won’t seem so awful in the morning.”

  “Ha! It’ll be worse.” He poured spirits remaining in the bottle into his glass. “This place is worth nothing.”

  “We’ll put it back in order,” she said. “It’ll take time, but we’ll do it.”

  “I don’t have time.” Paul quaffed the bourbon. He was tired of subterfuge. She would know sooner or later about his intentions, and sooner was better than later. Yet he couldn’t look his wife in the eye. “Need to sell this place.”

  “I can understand your wanting to get rid of your grandfather’s property, but why do you need to sell it?”

  “The Texas Navy needs money.”

  “Come on, Paul,” she scolded, perching on the desktop. “Surely you don’t intend to give up your inheritance for some idealistic cause.”

  “Certainly do.” He didn’t expect her to understand. He didn’t want her to! He lifted his eyes and hated the crushed look on her face. Right then he regretted bringing Emma into this mess, but there was no quitting now. “Nothing will stop me from furthering the Texan cause. Not you, not anything.”