Magnolia Nights

by Martha Hix

Wariness etched a line between her brows. “So you’ll give yourself and your money selflessly to that nation of misfits and lawbreakers—”

  “Spoken like a true Oliver.”

  Wondering about it but ignoring the comment, she went on. “Till death do us part is a long time, husband.”

  “I married you for better or for worse. You’re just getting a taste of what’s to come.”

  “And what is that?”

  “Who knows? Maybe I’ll go back to sea.”

  Emma felt as if she had been slapped. The ring on her finger was a reminder of the vows they had spoken. Why would he give her this heirloom, his name, and protection if he was so eager to go back to sea?

  She forced herself to face whatever truth he was, in his drunken ramblings, trying to convey. “Are you asking for a divorce?”

  “What’s”—he lifted a shoulder—“the use of staying married?”

  “I seem to recall you’ve found several uses for me,” she bit out, lacing each word with emphasis.

  “So right, chérie. Many uses. But the one I married you for is . . . well, it’s in ruins.”

  “Get to the point, Paul.”

  “I needed a wife to inherit this property.” His voice was surprisingly sober. “It’ll take a year to get the title. In the meantime I’d planned to mortgage it. Now it’s not worth a plugged nickel.”

  Through a haze of emotional agony, she asked, “You married me . . . for a year? And just to get your hands on this place?”

  “That’s what I said. Just to get my hands on this place.”

  Hurt turned to fury. “You’ve not been trustworthy since the day we met,” she retorted, “but I never dreamed you had no respect for the vows we spoke before God.”

  He ducked his head. “I never said anything about divorce. You can go back to Virginia or New Orleans or wherever you please, and tell everyone you’re a widow.” He tossed down the half-inch of whiskey remaining in his glass. “I’ll stay out of sight.”

  “How convenient. You’ve got it all signed, sealed, and delivered.” Chilblains seemed to throb in her hands and feet. “And if I do take off for parts unknown, what does that do to your neat little scheme? Won’t you need a legal wife for the next year?”

  “Scheme’s over.”

  Emma’s fury turned to disgust. “Uncle Rankin tried to warn me about you. I should’ve taken the word of a good man.”

  “Good man? Ha! You wouldn’t know one if you saw one. Your uncle, paragon though you make him, is nothing but a murdering traitor.” Paul chuckled mirthlessly. “He murdered my father in cold blood. Conspired with Papa’s second to tamper with the pistol’s firing mechanism. I couldn’t prove it—Rankin hustled the man out of town that same day. Thirteen years, Emma—thirteen long years I’ve been out to get him.”

  She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Paul did bear a grudge against her uncle!

  “Last January in Sisal I thought I had him,” he was saying. “Your darling uncle’s mistress was gathering evidence to prove he’d sold arms to the Centralists. But he smashed her skull to keep her quiet.” His face and fists whitened. “I held her dying body, and her blood mingled with my hatred. She looked into my eyes and murmured ‘Oliver’ just before she died.”

  Emma abandoned the desktop and backed away. “Lies! You’ve made a mistake. Those things can’t be true.”

  “Oh but they are, chérie. And someday I’ll prove them.”

  Immediately, he regretted those last words. He had promised himself not to seek revenge as long as he stayed married to Emma, which might be forever. On second thought—muddled though his thinking was—wasn’t he releasing her from this farce? But in the depths of his soul he didn’t want her to leave.

  “What do you plan to do?” she asked in a hoarse voice.

  “Nothing right now.”

  “Well, that’s obvious. Right now you’re not capable of doing more than passing out!”

  He deserved that jab. “Emma,” he said quietly. “You’re my wife, and I don’t want to hurt you. I promise I won’t seek to discredit your uncle.”

  “What if you don’t have to search for evidence?” she asked, believing such would not be the case. “What if it falls into your lap?”

  “I hope that doesn’t happen.”

  “I’ll tell him. I owe him that much.”

  “Be my guest. But rest assured, Emma, he knows. As we speak, I’m sure he’s covering his tracks.”

  Hurt and anger ran rampant throughout her heart and mind. She ached to strike out at him, to inflict a modicum of the pain she was suffering. But regardless of her threat, she couldn’t go to Uncle Rankin. To do so would damn her husband. And her pride wouldn’t allow that. Furthermore, that same pride wouldn’t allow her to give up. She’d stay here, and she’d help Paul come to grips with his insanity.

  He wanted the property, and it would take twelve months to clear the title. She had a year to change his mind. But now she had one more question that begged an answer.

  Folding into a chair, she asked, “Feeling the way you do, why didn’t you run him through when you had an opportunity?”

  “I couldn’t.” He raked unsteady fingers through his curly hair. “We’d just made love for the first time. You’d broken through my guard, and touched me in a way my heart doesn’t care to be touched.”

  Her spirits rose. For all the ugliness of the situation, maybe it was salvageable. Her eyes blazing into his, she watched him, seeing sadness, deep and tormented, reflected in his eyes. The proud lift to his shoulders sank, and he buried his chin against the wide chest she had taken comfort from over the past few days.

  “What do you mean?” she asked. “About me breaking through your guard.”

  He yearned to shout out the truth. He loved her. It had to be love, this strange mixture of heaven and hell that had been with him since the moment they’d met. But he couldn’t be honest. She needed to be protected from him and from the miserable existence he offered her.

  He spoke slowly. “What I feel for you is like this bottle of whiskey. In the beginning it’s full and fulfilling, but when you get to the bottom it’s empty. I just haven’t gotten to the bottom of you.”

  “You rat!” Her heart was shattering into a million sharp pieces. She wouldn’t cry—wouldn’t! It took all her strength not to. “Well, at least I have one thing to be thankful for,” she said facetiously. “You certainly didn’t marry me for my silence in court.”

  He lunged to his feet, the chair toppling behind him. “Right. Now leave me the hell alone.” Spinning around, Paul slammed the heel of his fist against the bookcase. “Leave this place, Emma. Go home. I won’t stop you.”

  She brought a shaking hand to her lips. Lies. Deceit. Manipulation. Paul was guilty of those three sins. Despite the vow she had made to herself only minutes ago, her instinct was to run, to flee as far as possible from this nightmare. But she wasn’t going to run.

  “I won’t leave,” she stated. “I’ll give you a year, and I won’t stop you from selling Feuille de Chêne. But when you’ve sobered up I think you’ll see there’s something here, be it our relationship or the fields, worth cultivating.”

  “Don’t be a martyr. Show some of that independence I admire in you.”

  “I wear no crown of thorns.” She jumped to her feet and advanced toward him. “I told you not long after we met that I don’t run from anything or anyone. I’m not going to start now, either. You wanted a wife, Mr. Rousseau, and you’ve got one. Now reap the harvest.”

  Forcing composure on herself, she left the library and made for the master suite. Once inside, she turned the lock, to be alone with cobwebs, dust, and inner anguish—except for Paul’s fierce pounding at the door.

  Huddled into the musty sheets, she squeezed her eyes shut. What had she agreed to! She had promised to remain his wife for the next year. Anything might happen in a year. Including—God forbid—a child. Perhaps one grew in her already.

  That realization lash
ed through her with the sting of a cat-o’-nine. When she had made her pledge in the library, there had been only three points to this triangle of misery: herself, Paul, and Uncle Rankin. She wouldn’t bring a fourth, an innocent child, into this!

  For what seemed an eternity she listened to fists hammer against the door. Finally Paul ceased to torment her, and a nightmare-laden sleep took her away from the burning caldron of reality.

  His head pounding and his stomach queasy, Paul awoke on the library’s faded satin sofa. Empty bottles lay around him, his mouth tasted like dirty cotton, and his knuckles were scraped and sore. He took a moment to clear his head. Where was Emma, and why wasn’t she with him? A partial replay of the previous night dawned on him. Mon dieu, he had told her everything!

  “No,” he moaned, despising himself.

  Had she left? He fought for remembrance and recalled pounding on the bedroom door until his fist bled. Serves you right, he told himself.

  Staggering outside, he inhaled restorative air. You’re a bastard, Rousseau. You’ve just ruined the only good thing that’s ever happened to you.

  What could he do to rectify his actions? Apologize and try to make a home for Emma. The best one he could manage. It would take time and money to set this place to rights, but he was up to the challenge. He’d find the money somewhere.

  If only Emma would forgive him . . .

  In the tall grass to his right, Paul heard a puppy whine. That sound roused his curiosity, and he set aside his recriminations, momentarily. Wetting his cracked lips, Paul descended the veranda steps and walked toward the pup.

  He parted the reeds to find a small white creature with long black ears. The pup quit gumming a piece of wood and looked up at him with limpid eyes. The dog appeared to be about six or seven weeks old. Paul picked it up by the scruff of the neck, holding it before his eyes.

  Looking about for its mother, he brought the pup close to his chest and began to stroke its floppy ears. “Been abandoned, huh, fella?”

  The dog found Paul’s finger and began to suckle it. “Let’s see if we can’t find you something to eat.”

  Remembering what Marian had said weeks ago, about Emma loving strays, Paul stared at the house’s upper floor. A dog wouldn’t be much of a peace offering, but at this point he had nothing to lose and maybe something to gain.

  “Put that smelly hound down,” Cleopatra ordered, wagging a finger at her husband.

  “You be an ol’ grunch, Cleo honey. He be cute,” Ben Edwards said as he cuddled Woodley even closer to his broad chest. The big man was rewarded with a fast-widening wet spot on his shirt. He grinned and set the pup on the ground. “Sorta cute.”

  Emma laughed. It felt good to chuckle. Since Paul had presented her with the young dog two weeks previously there hadn’t been much merriment at Feuille de Chêne. Then Cleopatra and Ben had arrived with the rest of her trousseau, and the medical equipment and supplies she had purchased with the remainder of her personal funds.

  Woodley curled up at her feet. Emma had wanted to take Paul’s gift of the pup as an affirmation that they still had a future together. When he’d gotten on his knees to apologize, she had been on the edge of giving in, but drunken truths were difficult to sweep under the rug.

  In the aftermath she’d maintained a cool facade, and had kept her bedroom door locked against him, but her heart was aching. If there was anything to be thankful for, it was her monthly. She had gotten it the morning after their argument. In a way, though, she regretted that there’d be no child, and that regret was selfish!

  “It be getting on noon, Ben,” Cleopatra said. She wagged her finger in the direction of the cane field. “If you want your dinner you’d better go help Frenchie out there—you know you been wanting to talk to him. And take that mangy dog. My baby don’t need no more messes around this house.”

  “You gonna pay for that bossy talk,” Ben said wryly, and scooped Woodley back in his arms. “Tonight I gonna teach you a little obedience.”

  Cleopatra smiled and grinned. In the blink of an eye, she kicked his behind. “You the one gonna be taught respect.”

  “Whoa-key.” He landed a kiss on his wife’s cheek and headed for the canebrake.

  Emma yearned for the kind of love Ben and her former mammy shared. Trusting, loving, teasing.

  Her eyes dancing, Cleopatra shook her head. “Gotta tell men ever’thing.”

  “Not so with Paul.” Emma turned to the pail of soap and water. Scrubbing woodwork with a passion, she knelt on the gallery floor. “He knows what he wants and goes after it.”

  “You ain’t happy, are you?” Cleopatra touched her shoulder. “I know you be disappointed about the state of this place, but it ain’t like you to let something get you down. What is it, baby?”

  “It’s not the place. I’ve no doubt that Paul’ll get it squared away in record time—he’s been working from sunrise to sunset with the field workers. And he spends the evenings repairing the house and working on the books.” Emma dropped her chin. “Cleo . . . he tricked me. Tricked me in the worst way. He was lying from the beginning. He honestly believes there was foul play involved in the duel between his father and my uncle, though he says since he’s part of the family now he’s not actively seeking revenge.”

  “Now listen here, missy. If your Daddy had been carried away from the dueling arena, you’d be saying the same thing. That’s human nature. Nobody be wanting to believe their blood kin less than perfect, or less than victorious.”

  “Oh, Cleo, I realize that. I’m not so simpleminded that I went into this marriage with my eyes closed. I figured, as an Oliver, there might be problems marrying into the Rousseau family. And I can sympathize with Paul over his father’s death, though by no stroke of the imagination do I believe Paul’s version.” Emma got to her feet and hugged her arms. “The most hurtful aspect is . . . He married me . . . Oh, there’s no easy way to say this. I thought he loved me. He never said it, yet I thought he did. But he needed a wife to get his hands on this property. He’s planning to sell it, and use the money for that ragtag Texas Navy.”

  “You gonna let him?”

  “I can’t stop him.” Emma cast her eyes toward the brakes where Paul and the others toiled. “But that’s not the whole problem. I need him to return my love. You know how he pursued me, and well . . . I was foolish enough to take lust for love.”

  “What about your feelings for him? Did you mistake lust for love?”

  “Of course not.”

  Cleopatra placed a hand on her hipless form. “Then tell me what you like about him.”

  The initial images forming in Emma’s mind could be attributed to sexual attraction. But that wasn’t the issue. There were a number of qualities she admired in Paul.

  “He’s brave—he doesn’t back away from a challenge. He can be kind. He’s lied to me . . . a lot, but I think he’s prone to telling the truth. And he’s not selfish; every cent he has, he’s spending on refurbishing the house, and on clearing and planting fields. Even if it’s only to make it salable, he’s not doing it for himself. He really has a feeling for Texas and its people, though I don’t agree with him. And he doesn’t complain about my cooking.”

  “He hasta be in love.”

  Emma ignored the barb. “He has the makings of a decent man.”

  “I got faith in Frenchie; he loves you, I know it, but he probably ain’t admitted it to himself yet. And lust ain’t a bad way to start out. Love’s been known to grow in the bedroom. Never knew nobody who started the other way around.”

  “What about my father and mother?” Emma tilted her head. “Their love didn’t grow in a bedroom.”

  “Hmmph. Maybe your daddy started out by pitying Miss Noreen, but I be there at the time. I can tell you, she had plenty of lust in her big blue eyes!”

  “Oh, hush. And I might as well, too. Arguing with you has always been an exercise in futility.”

  “You just know I’m right, but you be afraid to admit it.”

&
nbsp; Emma made tracks for the kitchen, which was separated from the big house by a breezeway. “It’s time to fix lunch. Are you going to help me or not? You know I’m all thumbs in a kitchen.”

  Catching her arm, Cleopatra said, “I ain’t much better. My job always been taking care of you. But I got something to say. Ben and I been thinking. Now that we’s married, he ain’t got the itch to take to sea. And I ain’t interested in going back to Virginia now that you be settled in Louisiana. We want to live here at Feuille de Chêne. My Ben be asking right now about it. Frenchie be needing an overseer, and you”—the usual superior look played across Cleopatra’s face—“you can’t run this place without house servants.”

  Emma called up a superior look of her own. “You run a house? Don’t make me laugh. You’re not a scrub woman.”

  “Didn’t say I was. I’ll fire up those two lazy gals in the quarters. You can get back to your doctoring—crazy though the very idea is.”

  “Oh, Cleo, you’re the best thing that ever happened to me.”

  “Second best thing. You just ain’t reconciled to the best thing yet.”

  Preparing the noon meal, Emma gave thought to her confidante’s words. She wanted Paul. Wanted his heart, his soul, his body. Was she cutting off her nose to spite her face by keeping him locked from her bedroom?

  Her monthly had given her a reprieve. She might not be as lucky the next time. But she wondered how long she could keep Paul at bay. How long would it be before he tired of a door separating them and enforced his husbandly rights?

  Chapter Seventeen

  Emma retired for the evening to ponder her predicament, but no sooner had her head hit the pillow than someone pounded against the bedchamber door.

  Woodley left his post at the foot of the bed and flew across the room. “’Ufff! ’Ufff!” He had a habit of dropping his Rs.

  “Come quick,” Cleopatra shouted. “There’s an old man in your office. He’s sick as a dog and be wanting you to help him.”

  “I’ll be right down.”

  Emma hurriedly got back into her clothes, and pulled her hair into a twist. Poking the last hairpin into place, she hurried past the dog and on to the quarters above the carriage house serving as her office.