by Martha Hix
The man, who was wheezing and coughing, was indeed ill. Holding a blood-streaked handkerchief to his mouth, he was doubled over in a straight chair. Sweat beaded his wrinkled forehead.
“You Miz Rousseau?” he asked, croaking.
“Yes.” She led him to the examining couch and began to check his vital signs. “How long have you suffered with phthisis, Mr. . . . I don’t believe I caught your name.”
“Dyer. Simon Dyer.” He hacked out another blood-spittled cough. “Had this consumption nigh on two years.”
Emma blended a tonic of honey, lemon, and laudanum. She held a spoon of it to his lips, but he forced her hand away.
“Elixirs don’t help,” he said.
“If I’m to treat you, you must follow my advice.”
He nodded and quit resisting. “Your husband home?”
There was no menace in his weak voice, so Emma had no reason to fear such a question. “No, he’s in New Orleans.”
Paul had left Feuille de Chêne four weeks previously. Since Ben was overseeing the fields, Paul spent much of his time away. Business, he told her. Neither of them had mentioned it, but Emma knew he was looking for excuses to go afield. A man’s pride—and Paul was full of it—wouldn’t allow him to stay in the proximity of his wife’s locked bedchamber.
“Do you know my husband?” she asked, while bathing Simon Dyer’s clammy brow.
Dyer closed his eyes. Should he lie and say no? he asked himself. He had been the accomplice in Étienne Rousseau’s death. Étienne had been his best friend, and he’d betrayed him. Paul Rousseau had searched far and wide for Rankin’s second in the duel’s aftermath, but Oliver had spirited Simon and his wife out of the country for two years. By the time he and Lois had returned to their Feliciana Parish cotton plantation, Paul had bid farewell to Louisiana.
’Tis folly, your being here, you old lackey for Rankin Oliver. If Paul were to catch him, Simon figured the young man would finish off what Providence seemed to be set on doing, taking his life. Simon gave consideration to purging his soul, but if he told Paul—or his wife—all he knew . . . No, he couldn’t yet. Not until he had dealt with Rankin Oliver. If he lived that long . . .
“No, I don’t know your husband. I’m here in St. Martinsville on business.” Simon felt the familiar clawing in his lungs. “Heard about”—he expelled phlegm—“about the painless lady sawbones. Take my suffering away, good lady.”
Emma loosened his shirt buttons. Could she comfort this helpless old man? The properties of sulfurous ether brought painless intoxication before total somnambulism. Could the brew soothe Simon Dyer? She thought it could.
“Maybe I can help you,” she said, “but there are no guarantees, and I’ve never tested my theories.”
His pleading, rheumy eyes beseeched her. “If you’ll try, ma’am, I’d be thankful.”
She placed a gauze mask over his nostrils and mouth, and unstoppered a small vial of ether. Holding the bottle away from her face, she poured one drop of the alcohol-and-sulfur distillate onto the mask.
Dyer’s eyes widened at the rotten-egg odor, and he flailed his arms, catching Emma’s forearm with the side of his wrist.
The ether flew out of her hand. She tried to catch it, but the bottle shattered at her feet. The powerful stench overwhelmed her, and she swayed. For a drunken moment she half focused on Dyer, who was slumped back on the couch.
Then she fell backward as induced sleep brought blackness.
Paul was in a dark mood as he shouldered his way toward the O’Reilly box at the Orleans Theatre. His fund-raising activities for the Navy had so far been for naught. During intermission at the opera, he had explained the cause to several of the gentlemen in the narrow lobby, but the stigma of “torcher” still clung to his name, even though he had been cleared of the charges.
It figured. His place was not here, it was at sea. Would he ever get back to his first love? And what was his first love? The sea or Emma? For the first time in his life, Paul was in a quandary.
He seated himself in the box. Marian and Howard—now Paul’s aunt and uncle by marriage—sat next to him. Damn, he’d never have thought the Widow Oliver would become his aunt! Well, several months ago he had never imagined a lot of things.
The last seat was empty, and it seemed to say to him: “This chair should be for your wife. You’ve no business being here without Emma.” It dawned on Paul that he was growing weak in the mind.
“I say, old chap, news doesn’t sound good from Texas. I read an article in the Tropic today, said San Antonio’s fallen to General Vasquez. Made mention that Sam Houston moved the capital from Austin, too.”
“That’s what I hear. Apparently Houston’s not taking any chances on the capital falling into enemy hands.” Paul rubbed his eyes. “Yet he still refuses to stand by the fleet.”
“My guess would be,” Howard said, “he’s furious because you and Moore haven’t followed his orders.”
“You may be right. But there’s a chance you’re not. He’s sent no arrest party, so I take that as a good sign.”
Marian pursed her lips. “You two hush all that war talk. Let’s enjoy the opera. I’m feeling awfully mistreated.”
“Now, now, sweetheart. You know we don’t mean to ignore you, but our nephew and I have so few opportunities to chat.” Howard patted her hand before proceeding. “And, Paul, there’s a rumor Commodore Moore has quit the Yucatecan waters.”
“True. Governor Barbachano thought we were impeding Quintana Roo’s peace treaty, but Ed departed for another reason as well: our ships are unseaworthy. He couldn’t stay in tropical waters any longer.”
“Is he tacking for New Orleans?” Howard asked.
“No. For Houston. He and I are going to make a last-ditch appeal to the President for money—and his support.”
“Meeting Houston in Houston. Formidable. Good luck.” The attorney reached into his frock coat and brandished a check. “In the meantime, I’ve something for you. Do use it for the Navy.”
Paul was taken aback at the figure. By no means would this money cover refitting the fleet, but it would provide food for the men. The aid was appreciated.
He bent his eyes on his benefactor. “You are a friend, indeed. Thank you. This is going to help.”
“Call me benevolent. Marriage to Marian”—Howard brought her hand to his lips and was rewarded with a giggle—“has softened me, I’d say.”
“Isn’t he wonderful, Paul darling?”
“And how is marriage treating you?” Howard asked quickly.
Marian put in: “You’re treating our Emma famously I trust?”
“She’s getting along.” Rousseau, you’re really a bastard. She’s miserable, and you’re the cause of it. “Not a word of complaint has escaped her lips.” That’s because she’s just too proud to complain. “Seems to be taking bayou life quite well.”
Paul was too embarrassed to admit that he had failed Emma. Though he refused to think beyond the next nine months, when the title to Feuille de Chêne would be cleared, he hadn’t wanted Emma to suffer. Yet she had. Oh, she hadn’t gone hungry, but her circumstances weren’t those to which she was accustomed. Revitalizing the plantation had taken Paul’s reserve of funds, and there was much yet to do. Still, Emma hadn’t complained about the lack of finery and glitter. Ah hell, he thought sourly, what is the matter with me? He felt he was going soft in the head thinking about her, that he was in quicksand of the soul.
“Well,” Howard said, “I do believe you two are as happy as”—he suddenly gasped as Marian touched him intimately—“as Marian and I.”
“Stop that blushing,” she cooed.
Paul fidgeted in his seat. His aunt-by-marriage had no compunction about displaying her ardor for Howard. In truth, Paul was jealous. He wanted Emma to be touching him with the same unbridled ardor. He ached to have her stroke him, soothe him, take him past the point of awareness.
But he realized that wouldn’t happen unless their lives changed. She had
little regard for his vehement leanings toward Texas. He didn’t expect her to love the place—no strings bound her there—but to give up his work was unthinkable. He was tied by choice to the Republic.
Leaning back in the chair, he closed his eyes as operatic strains filled his ears. In addition to her doctoring, Emma wanted a husband at her heels. At least that was what she thought she wanted. Paul remained convinced she wouldn’t be happy without a challenge, and he’d rely on that until his own mind was clear. But deep down he wondered just what in hell he was going to do about Emma.
“Folk’s be calling our Emma a witch doctor. You gotta do something with her.”
Paul shook his head and lifted his palms, both gestures of exasperation. He raised his eyes to the summer sky. “Doing something with” his wife certainly had its merits. But that something had nothing to do with Emma’s medical practice. He was a man possessed by the need to break down the door separating them.
“Cleopatra,” he replied, “Emma’s the most stubborn woman alive. You’ve wasted your breath trying to talk sense into her, and I’ve done the same.”
“Well, something’s gotta be done.” The small explosive bundle stamped her foot. “She’s got the slaves scared outta their wits. They think she’s gonna sneak up on ’em with that stinky concoction she brews and put ’em to sleep.”
“And the people in town are divided into two camps,” Paul supplied. He looked across the sugar-growing brakes to the garçonnière cum doctor’s office. “Some of them want to try this miracle of ether, but the majority say she’s mixed up in voodoo.”
“If’n she don’t stop this business, she gonna be shunned by the people of St. Martinsville.”
“I doubt that would bother her. Emma doesn’t care what people say about her practice. She believes in what she’s doing, and we both should admire that in her. I know I do.”
Cleopatra swatted away a mosquito as if the pesky fly were a vulture. “Well, see if you admire this!” She clenched her hands on her hips. “Last week while you was in New Orleans she got too much of a whiff of that stuff. She was trying to ease the suffering of some old consumptive so-and-so. Fell down, she did, and hit her head on a table. Bled like a stuck pig and didn’t even know it.”
“Why didn’t you tell me before?” His concern was evident. “Never mind all the pestilent diseases she might contract from patients, she could’ve killed herself!”
“Said she’d turn me and Ben off this place if I told. But my conscience told me you needed to know, and I ain’t gonna let her temper get in the way of what’s right.”
“Believe me, I won’t either.” Paul tossed his wide-brimmed white hat to the ground, then stomped toward the neatly blocked sign reading Madame Docteur E. Rousseau. He was giving serious consideration to delivering a good spanking. “Anybody rides up here,” he bellowed over his shoulder, “you tell them the doctor is out!”
Emma heard the clomp of feet on the staircase and whipped around when the door nearly flew off its hinges. Paul yanked the curtain closed over the glass in the door.
At Emma’s side, Woodley, sensing a threat, raised his hackles and bared his teeth. It didn’t matter that he adored Paul and had spent many evenings curled on his lap, the dog was her protector.
“What’s the meaning of this?” she asked, her heart beating wildly. There was murder in her husband’s eyes. What had she done now? And what was he planning to do?
Head forward, Paul started for her. “You and I have to talk.”
“’rrrr!” The half-grown pup leaped across the room and went for Paul’s ankle, fastening his fangs around the bottom of his left leg.
“Get off!” Paul tried to shake the ball of white fur away, but Woodley growled around his tusks and held on for dear life. “Call off your damned dog, Emma Rousseau!”
All she could do was laugh. A small pup was getting the better of her big, tall husband!
Paul changed tactics. “Good doggy, good doggy,” he crooned to no avail.
In a swish of voluminous skirts, Emma stepped to the rescue. At a gentle word from her, Woodley eased up, and she took the pup in her arms. “Naughty boy. You scared Papa.”
“I’m not that dog’s papa, and I wasn’t scared.” A frown pulled at his features. “Put Woodley outside.”
She did, and he scratched the door after Paul slammed the bolt into place and charged over to the long sofa.
He dropped like a sack of potatoes onto it, and folded his arms over his chest. “Come here.”
“No.”
“Come here.”
She was determined not to do as she was bid, and kept distance between them. “You look just like Woodley when you bare your teeth like that.”
“The trouble with you, dear wife, is that you’ve put too much emotion into that dog.”
“Why shouldn’t I? He’s the only living thing on this earth that loves me, as you French would put it, sans peur et sans reproche.”
“Don’t start spouting chivalry, madame. I’m not going to be put off by a damned canine’s attributes.”
“Jealous?” she goaded.
Paul’s eyes blazed. “You put too much of your time into this doctoring thing.” He leaned forward, ready to spring. “Now you get your derrière over here right now, or I’ll come get you.”
“Why should I?”
“Because I’m going to take a look at your head. I’ve been told you fell down and cut it last week.”
“Cleo.”
“Yes, Cleo.” He squinted and eyed her menacingly. “Let me warn you. If I leave this sofa to get you, you’re going to get the spanking you richly deserve. Now, what’s it going to be?”
Five seconds later she was adjusting her skirts across his lap. His thighs were like bricks beneath her, his sex was even harder. Yet his hands were gentle as he parted her hair to expose the wound at the back of her crown.
His lips touched it, and he whispered, “My mother used to kiss away my hurts when I was a boy. It always made them better.”
Emma’s face was buried against the soft cotton of his shirt and the warm strength of his chest. The feminine part of her, the part that had been so long denied satisfaction, ached for him.
“Is your hurt better?” he asked, his voice deep and low.
“Yes. . . .”
She nestled against him, weary of holding her mate at arm’s length. Over these past months she had questioned her own wisdom. She yearned for him to love her and for them to reconcile their differences. Matters of the heart couldn’t be resolved with a closed bedchamber door between them. If there were only some way to prevent a child . . .
But maybe . . .
Just this once . . .
He had tantalized her before, often. He had given her every opportunity to change her mind. And, she thought, just this once . . .
If they conceived a babe, she’d love it. Raising a child didn’t frighten her, for she had a lot of love to give. But a babe deserved a father’s care. Although many children had been reared by one parent, Emma felt it was self-serving of her to yearn for Paul. The child would pay for any stolen moments of rapture.
Her mind overrode her passion, and she pulled herself to her feet. “We can’t. The result might be a baby.”
“Why, Madame Rousseau, shouldn’t we take a chance on a baby?”
“Because it would be selfish of us. Soon you’ll have title to this plantation, and it’ll be sold.” To further your idealistic cause! “You’ll have no more need for a wife. And I’ve no desire to bring a child into a world with neither a father nor a home to call its own.”
“That wouldn’t be the case.”
She doubted him. “I promised to remain your wife for a year. I didn’t promise to bear your children. If we settle our differences about Uncle Rankin and the Texas Navy, fine . . . we can then look to the future.”
“That’s blackmail, Emma.”
“I don’t see it that way.”
“There are a lot of things you don’t
see clearly.” He tucked his shirt into his breeches. “Which brings me to the crux of this little idyll.” He turned slightly to point a finger at her beakers and bottles. “This sleeping potion hocus-pocus is going to stop.”
“It will not! I am pledged to ease the suffering of surgery patients, and I won’t allow you—as I’ve told you several times before!—to stand in my way.”
“Surgery patients? Ha! Cleopatra said you were treating a consumptive with that god-awful gas.”
“I was trying to give a terminally ill old man just enough ether to ease his discomfort and get him giddy. Drunk, if you will. That’s all.”
“Yes, and you fell and hit your head.” Paul bent over her. “I’ve had one woman die in my arms from a head injury, and I won’t allow the woman I—” He swallowed the word love. “I won’t allow you to die that way.”
Emma was touched. If he didn’t care for her, he wouldn’t be concerned. “Are you talking about that woman in Sisal?”
“Yes. Karla. Karla Stahl. Your uncle’s mistress who died at his hands.”
Her breath caught at his sincerity. Was Uncle Rankin guilty as charged? She chewed her upper lip. No! He couldn’t be—he couldn’t! Yet a niggling doubt had been planted in her mind. It was best, she decided, to avoid this line of conflict.
Maybe she should make a few concessions on her doctoring. In truth, the accident had scared her. Ether was dangerous. She had to improve on its administration and in the meantime, she needed assistance.
“Sweetheart,” she said, not realizing she had murmured the endearment, “I’ll meet you fifty-fifty on my work with ether. I’m going to train an assistant to help me.”
“And who do you think would be crazed enough to fall in with your scheme?”
“Cleo.”
He rolled his eyes. “That’ll be the day.”
It took seven.
“How did I get talked into this?” Emma muttered under her breath. Weeks had passed since that confrontation in her office. Weeks of verbal sparring with nothing settled.
