by Martha Hix
“You scared the life out of me,” he yelled up the lawn, all the while shaking and staring at the light that poured from one lone window of the big house. “You could’ve been killed!”
Stomping up the incline, he gave serious thought to shaking Emma until her teeth rattled. He yanked the front door open and continued his march toward her. But the moment he opened the library door, irritation left him. He wanted to take her into his arms and rain kisses of joy on her face.
“Emma . . .”
She sat at the desk, calmly making notes with quill and paper. “You’ve returned, I see.”
The icy chill of her voice brought Paul back to their problem. He had a lot of explaining to do. Cutting across the rug, he said, “About the brooch, I—”
“I’d rather not discuss it.” She put the quill down. “There’s something I must tell you.”
“We are going to discuss that damned pin. It was—”
“Pardon me for interrupting, Paul, but I really don’t care what you do, or don’t do, with your personal property. And that’s what I’d like to discuss with you. Personal possessions. This afternoon you asked me why Uncle Rankin was in town, and now I’m going to tell you. He and my father have given me twenty-five thousand dollars.”
The figure hit Paul like a ton of bricks. “You can’t be serious,” he said in French, then caught himself and repeated it in English.
“But I am. The money is mine, to do with as I please.”
Deciding he’d return to the brooch later, Paul asked, “How do you plan to spend it?”
“After taking care of necessities and indulging in some luxuries here at home”—she wanted to hurt him, bruise him to the core of his being, just like he had wounded her—“I’m sending a tidy amount to the government in Mexico City, with the proviso that it be used for the poor,” she lied.
“Traitorous Oliver bitch!” He’d be damned before an explanation about the brooch would pass his lips now.
The words he had pridefully heard her say in defense of Texas had been nothing but lies. She had been trying to make up for the afternoon’s disaster. That was all. He was totally disgusted.
“You’d do that, wouldn’t you? You’d send money to our enemy.”
“Your foe, not mine.” She despised herself for continuing this farce, but she couldn’t control her temper. Avoiding his angry eyes, she said, “I fail to see how the poor of any country could be tagged as the enemy.”
“If that’s the way you feel, why don’t you send an equal sum to Texas?”
“Perhaps I will, but maybe I won’t.” She lifted her shoulder in forced nonchalance. “I fear some of my money might fall into the hands of war-thirsty Texans.”
“You speak in paradoxical terms. Perhaps you should listen to yourself,” he gritted out, then cleared the desk’s edge to capture her elbow. “You’re a naive fool if you think your money won’t fall into Antonio López de Santa Anna’s coffers.”
She pulled away from his grasp. “Drat you! Yes, I’m a naive fool. What else could you call a person who is foolish enough to base her future on the likes of you?” Her chest was heaving. “But you, dear husband, have played me for the fool for the very last time! You’ll never—ever—get your hands on my money. Not one red cent of it will go to the Texas Navy!”
“I wouldn’t take your filthy lucre if you begged me to do it,” he said, meaning those words. “Why would the hungry and ill-armed but courageous men of Texas need alms from a vicious, self-centered seed of the Olivers?”
“You’re one to talk, spawn of Étienne Rousseau!”
“That’s right. I’m his son and proud of it. But your tainted blood runs thick through your veins, Emma Oliver. You’re no better than your slime-hearted uncle who slayed my father, cracked the skull of an innocent woman, and sold arms to the bastards who, among their other heinous deeds, marched my fellow Texans in chains.”
Emma drew her hand back to slap him, but he caught it, twisting it behind her. She cried out in pain.
Furious, he fastened his lips to hers. She squirmed beneath him, and as quickly as he had seized her, he let her go. She fell to the floor, her legs sprawled before him. Paul fought the urge to place himself between those thighs, to bury himself deep within her.
“Leave me alone,” she said with a hiss. “Don’t put your filthy hands on me.”
Towering above her, he said, “You needn’t worry. I’ve no wish to lay a finger on your comely flesh. If I did, you might get the child you fear so much, and I won’t take the chance of poisoning Rousseau blood with an Oliver’s.”
Chapter Twenty
Paul stared down at the floor, at his wife. Her sharp intake of breath shamed him. He hadn’t meant to be so harsh. But her pronouncement about furthering the Centralist cause had angered him beyond the point of rational behavior.
He had to free her, and himself, from the cruel web of deceit that had started when he’d deceived her into marrying him. Nothing in Remi Rousseau’s will stipulated that either of them had to be chained to Feuille de Chêne. Until those twelve months of marriage were over, Ben could manage the fields, Cleopatra the house.
“Go back to Virginia, Emma. Or New Orleans. Or wherever you wish to be. This place can never be our home.”
Her anger was suddenly replaced by anxiety. “What will you do?”
“Leave.”
“Please don’t.”
He left. Left Louisiana. Left his heart. His soul.
He needed time to think, probably lots of it, and in Emma’s presence clear thinking was not possible.
When he reached Galveston, the San Antonio was ordered to the Yucatán, and Paul, now Captain Rousseau, was at the helm.
Emma did not leave Feuille de Chêne. And she did not send money to Mexico City, although she anonymously gave a sizable sum to the missions of San Antonio.
She was tormented by Paul’s betrayal. He had slept with Aimée Thérèse, had given that strumpet the despicable brooch. Emma was too angry, too hurt, and too disgusted to put those thoughts out of her mind.
Summer waned to autumn. Each night she slept in her lonely bed, her arms equally empty. Thanksgiving passed. Christmas, that time for family and loved ones, came and went. She neither visited her relatives nor invited them to do likewise. To let them see how much she hurt was unthinkable.
Of course Cleopatra was full of reproval mixed with closely guarded compassion. Woodley, the mostly white pup, had grown into a fluffy dog, and proved a comfort. His limpid brown eyes seemed to understand Emma’s loneliness and sorrow, and he faithfully cuddled on her lap or followed at her heel. It was as if he wanted to take the hurt from her, wanted to make her whole again. Yet woman’s best friend was no substitute for husbandly love. But then, Paul’s love had never been a part of the bargain.
Through Howard’s letters, which held no mention of Paul, she was informed of the goings-on in Texas. A hurricane had battered Galveston, destroying two of Texas’s warships. The Zavala was so worm-eaten that she was an embarrassment, and the remaining vessels were fast deteriorating. Crews had been skeletonized, both by desertions and by lack of money to pay them.
In September General Adrian Woll’s Centralist troops had overwhelmed the city of San Antonio—its second capture in six months. There had been no easy recapture this time.
The people of Texas were in trouble. Congress had appropriated funds for a full naval campaign; then, strangely, President Houston had vetoed the bill, and had instructed Moore to apply for credit with New Orleans ship chandlers, though credit wasn’t their method of doing business. Sam Houston’s popularity in the Republic was next to nil.
The citizens, Howard had written, feared it was only a matter of time before the Mexican flag replaced the Lone Star.
Her husband, Emma realized, must be beside himself. What was he doing and what measures had he taken to stop the aggression she had scoffed at?
Where was he? Why hadn’t he at least sent a letter informing her of his where
abouts? Despite her anger, she longed for news—any news—about him. It was pure curiosity . . . wasn’t it?
The first year of their marriage was drawing to an end. Spring came early in the warm climate of south Louisiana. New leaves bloomed on the trees in which birds nested with their young. Flowers blossomed. The canebrakes grew higher.
Would Paul go through with his plans to dispose of Feuille de Chêne? If so, he’d be forced to return to St. Martinsville. Emma didn’t want to see the two-timer, yet he filled her thoughts. Drat him.
The sun was in descent when the supply boat arrived, to a round of Woodley’s barking, at the plantation dock.
“Have a delivery for Madame Paul Rousseau,” the captain said. “Two crates of medical supplies.”
“Please explain,” she implored, holding the dog’s velvet leash tight.
“Your husband bought medical supplies for you. Asked me to keep it a surprise till they were delivered.”
Emma was at a loss to understand. Why had Paul purchased medical supplies?
The captain ran his fingers across his bald pate. “Sorry we didn’t get these to you sooner, ma’am. The lieutenant, your husband, asked us to deliver ’em straightaway, but the suppliers up North delayed freighting ’em down here. Then I was down on my back till after Christmas. Started over here finally, but my boat sprang a leak and had to be repaired.” He flushed. “Well, excuses have a way of sounding hollow. But I pray you’ll accept my apologies.”
“No harm done,” she said, taking the letter he offered.
“Where do you want these crates?” the man asked as he reached down to pet a now tail-wagging Woodley.
Absently Emma motioned toward her second-story office. She was on pins and needles, so eager was she to open the letter inscribed “Emma” in Paul’s bold, manly script.
In the privacy of her bedroom she ripped a letter opener through its top. It was dated four days prior to the argument that had sent him away. As she read the contents, she choked out, “Oh no . . .”
“What’s the matter with you?” Cleopatra stuck her head through the doorway.
Emma dumped Woodley off her lap. “Read this.”
Cleopatra wiped her hands on her apron and picked up the letter, reading it. “Well, I tried to tell you.”
“Couldn’t you find a little mercy in your heart,” Emma pleaded, “this one time?”
“Oh, baby, I am sorry.”
“Read it aloud, Cleo. Read it to me. I want to hear it again so my foolishness will be reinforced.”
Reluctantly the tiny woman did so. “Chère Emma, I’ve racked my brain trying to think of a way to make up for the hardships you’ve endured since our marriage. I thought of giving you my mother’s brooch—she would’ve wanted you to have it, and I’d be proud for you to wear it—but you probably wouldn’t want the blasted thing. It might bring back memories best left in the past, right? So I’ve sold it (hope you don’t mind) to a woman in St. Martinsville whose intelligence stops at baubles and gewgaws. Anyway, I thought you might appreciate medical supplies instead. You’re a fine doctor, ma bien-aimée, and my fondest wish is for your success. I take that back. That’s almost my fondest wish, but we’ll get to my fondest desire after you’ve opened these gifts!”
Cleopatra wiped away the tear that rolled down her brown cheek. “‘I love you, Paul,’” she croaked.
Emma felt certain that this letter hadn’t been written by a man who’d cheated on his wife! “H-he didn’t give it to Aimée Thérèse. He sold it to her. For me. For what he thought I wanted. Oh, Cleo, didn’t he know I just wanted him?”
“You made it kinda hard to see at times.”
“He never said he loved me. But he wouldn’t have . . . wouldn’t have signed the letter that way if he hadn’t meant it.”
“Baby, baby, don’t cry.” Cleopatra hugged her close. “You ain’t cried since you was five and fell outta that big old mulberry tree and broke your arm.”
“This is a lot worse than fracturing an ulna.”
“Well, missy, what you gonna do about Frenchie?”
“If I knew where he was, I’d go to him.”
“Something that insignificant ain’t never stopped you before. Find out where he be, and even if you have to collar him, bring him back! Go on, girl, before I take a switch to your tail end!”
Emma stuck her tongue out. “I don’t need your prompting.” Cleopatra at her heel, she hurried to the storage room to find her traveling trunks and the dog’s wicker carrier. “You and Ben mind the store—Woodley and I are going after the merchandise!”
The obvious place to seek word of Paul was St. Martinsville. The home of Louis Carteaux, with its rococo furnishings, was where Emma headed. The old duke, whom she hadn’t seen since the night of Aimée Thérèse’s birthday fête, greeted her warmly.
Refusing to let foolish pride stand in her way, Emma said, “This is going to sound strange, sir, but do you know how I can get in touch with my husband?”
The white-haired nobleman swayed forward on his silver-handled cane. “Left the night I met you, right?”
“Yes, sir. We had words, and”—a flush spread over her face—“I haven’t heard from him since.”
“That’s not right of him.” Carteaux grimaced. “I’ve known Paul since he was a boy—knew his parents and grandparents, too, but that’s not important at the moment. Anyway, I’ve never known him to behave in such an ungallant manner.”
“I provoked it.”
The old man shook his snow-thatched head. “To leave and send no word, he must be very angry with you.”
For the first time since she had hatched this scheme to find her husband, Emma was assailed by doubts. Yes, Paul was angry. Very angry. Furious. He had written that he loved her, yet that was before . . . This was now. Had she destroyed his love? She had to keep her spirits up. They would be able to put the pieces of their marriage back together again, she told herself.
“Yes, he’s upset. But I love him very, very much and I seek to heal his wounds.”
“It pleases me to hear this, madame. Paul is dear to my heart—I’ve never had a grandson, you see. I do hope for the success of your marriage.”
Emma uttered the proper words of appreciation, then pursued her goal. “But I still need to know his whereabouts. Is he in Texas?”
Carteaux swayed. He studied the toes of his shoes. He was taking a long, long time to answer. Finally he raised his tired old eyes to her anxious ones. “Initially, yes. He was in Galveston. But he left for Sisal late in July. On the San Antonio I understand.” His cane shook under unsteady hands. “You’ve received no word from the Department of War and Marine?”
“None. Monsieur, please don’t keep anything back. Tell me what is going on.”
“Commodore Moore sent him down there to offer renewed help to Barbachano’s rebels.”
Fear sliced through Emma. “So long ago! Have they engaged in war?”
“I don’t believe so.”
“Please don’t hedge. Please tell me!”
The valleys in his face deepened. “There’s been no word from the San Antonio. It’s”—he closed his eyes—“listed as missing.”
“No! It can’t be true. Paul could be . . . could be dead.” The words sounded odd, as if they did not come from her. Emma sank onto a settee. Why, oh why, she railed silently, did I drive him away?
“He thought I didn’t love him.” Her voice was a monotone of grief. “Thought I’d taken the enemy’s side.”
“Don’t punish yourself.”
“I can’t help it. He gave his all for the country that embraced him after his own grandfather turned him away. Yet I degraded his convictions, and led him to think I’d turned against him.”
“There’s no proof the ship went down,” Carteaux was saying, evidently trying to infuse hope.
“If there’s been no communique from the schooner, there’s only one explanation—it sank.”
“You owe your man the benefit of the doubt. I
know Paul, and he wouldn’t wish you to give him up for dead. Not until it’s a proven fact.”
She stared at the wise old man. “You’re right. He wouldn’t want my sympathy. He wants my support, and I’m going to give it to him. I’m going to Galveston. When Paul returns, he’ll go there.”
“Well, give him my best regards,” Carteaux said, pushing aside his own inner doubts.
Despite her show of optimism, Emma feared for her husband. If I am lucky enough to have one more chance, she thought, he will know how much I love him. She was now determined to stand by his side, for better or for worse, and without doubts.
If she got the chance.
Chapter Twenty-One
This was a flat place, near sea level. No native trees like the majestic ones of south Louisiana. No points of prominence. But it was not without natural beauty. Lagoons and marshes boasted rushes and reeds, and tall grasses swayed across the flat horizon. Graceful pelicans and flamingos perched on the wharf.
Emma, with Woodley at her feet, held on to the rail as the merchant brig docked in Galveston Bay. She was holding her breath in the hope that Paul would be in the coastal town.
To her right, she saw a forlorn Texas Navy steam side-wheeler. The Zavala, weatherbeaten and tired-looking, and aground. Yet its red, white, and blue ensign waved proudly and brightly, as if to say, “I’m down but not out.”
That was exactly how Emma felt. Down but not out. She feared for Paul’s life. And if he was alive, would he forgive her? But she had confidence in his written words of love, and she’d never give up—on his life or his forgiveness.
“Mrs. Rousseau, will you be taking accommodations at the Tremont House?” Captain Faracy asked.
She turned to the middle-aged man. “I don’t think so, Captain. From what you’ve told me, that hotel is much too bustling for my taste. I hope to find my husband here, and we’ll want peace and quiet. I’ll search for a house to rent.”
