Surrender in Moonlight

by Jennifer Blake

  Slick did a marvelous balancing act to save the other cup. Charlotte gave a small scream, dancing out of the way with her skirts pressed down in front. Lorna, stepping back instinctively, received no more than a few drops on the hem of her gown. Nate cursed, then turned to glare at the executive officer as if he suspected Slick had done it on purpose. Glancing at the look of exaggerated concern on the north Louisianian's face, Lorna was not certain he was wrong.

  Ramon's timing, then, was perfect as he joined them. "Charlotte," he said, a trace of mockery in his tones, "if you are done with checking for spots, you might signal for a servant to attend to the mess and detail someone to sponge down your father's guest. The punch you still hold, Slick, shall be your reward. Mrs. Morgan, Lorna, may I escort you both to a less sticky neighborhood?"

  "Hold on a minute, Cazenave," Nate grated. "This polka is mine."

  "Now, don't tell me you expect a woman to permit herself to be clasped to your damp apparel?" Ramon surveyed Nate with a lifted brow that was an insult in itself.

  "We can sit it out. I have a thing or two to say to my…to Miss, uh, Forrester."

  "Later," Ramon answered, giving his hand to the woman in black as he helped her to rise and step over the sticky puddle on the floor, "when you are in better condition for the debate."

  Offering his other arm to Lorna, he swept them away. They skirted the dancers, moving toward the long windows at the front of the house that opened onto the terrace. Mrs. Morgan, after a brief glance at Lorna, broke the silence. "It was good of you to come to our rescue, Captain Cazenave."

  "My pleasure," he answered, dividing a smile between them, and my gain. I saw your trunks brought on board this afternoon. I assume you are ready to sail?"

  "As ready as I'm likely to be," the woman answered. "It's not a voyage I look forward to."

  "That would be too much to ask, but I hope it will prove uneventful, for your sake."

  Lorna had not realized that Mrs. Morgan would be leaving tonight, though she should have expected it. On that first day that they had seen her, Charlotte had mentioned she was looking for a runner willing to take a passenger.

  "For all our sakes," the woman said, her voice low. "I trust I will not be a hindrance to you."

  "It seems unlikely," Ramon answered, the smile that carved indentations in the bronzed planes of his face warmly encouraging.

  Envy, dark and blighting, caught at Lorna. She wished with a fervor that was astonishing that she was going to be sailing with the Lorelei, that she could be a part of the adventure of the run. It was going to be so hard to watch the ships steaming out of the harbor and into the night, one by one, gray ghosts that might, or might not, return. Then would come the waiting, the watching. That had always been the woman's part in times of war, but now it seemed beyond bearing. Sara Morgan would not have that idle endurance forced upon her, not she.

  A turn in the night air was suggested and accepted. They strolled up and down the terrace, inhaling the scent of flowers from the gardens and of freshly scythed grass, mixed with the omnipresent salt sea tang and the smell of cigar smoke from where two men had retreated to smoke near one wall. While the gay strains of the polka issued from the room behind them, they talked of this and that. Lorna, oddly disinclined toward the exchange of social commonplaces, allowed the widow and Ramon to carry the conversation. Her attention was snared at last, however.

  "I understand," Mrs. Morgan said, "that there will be two ships carrying gunpowder on this run. Will your vessel be one of them, Captain Cazenave?"

  Lorna stifled a gasp, swinging to stare at him. There was no more dangerous cargo. If the ship were struck in the wrong place, if a spark from a detonating shell reached the hold, the vessel would explode into a hundred pieces, leaving little more than debris floating on the water.

  He flung Lorna a quick glance before he turned back to answer the widow. "Your information is correct as far as it goes. Surely you know the answer to your question also?"

  "Then, it will be," the woman returned with composure. "I had hoped my informant was right, but one cannot take these things for granted. President Davis and his generals will be pleased. A modern army can fight without many things, but gunpowder isn't one of them."

  "As a passenger, the knowledge doesn't disturb you?"

  She smiled. "You have the reputation of running a lucky ship, Captain; I can think of no other I would rather trust myself to. And if I should cavil at taking passage along with so valuable a contribution to the cause, I would not count myself much of a rebel."

  The polka jolted to a stop inside the ballroom. Pleading fatigue, Mrs. Morgan turned back into the house. As she was seated in a chair near the windows, she turned to Lorna. "Perhaps we may talk about New Orleans a bit later, Miss Forrester. For now, I'm sure there is an anxious man somewhere searching for his partner."

  "The man is here, Ma'am," Ramon said with a small bow.

  The widow laughed. "Then do not let me keep either of you."

  It was indeed Ramon's waltz. He led her out onto the floor, drawing her into his arms as the opening measures of a Strauss melody began. They circled in silence for a moment. She looked up at him finally to find him watching her, his dark eyes black with intensity as his gaze rested on the gentle curves of her mouth. Did he realize, she wondered, quite how overpowering was the aura of his masculinity, the sense of strength and purpose that he exuded. Did he have any idea of how easy it would be for him to reach out and take her, if he wanted her, easily overcoming her halfhearted resistance? He must, for he had done just that once. A tremor ran over her.

  To banish the tenor of her thoughts, she said in silken tones designed to bait, "How very gratifying it must be, to be sure, to find yourself carrying such a valuable cargo tonight."

  "Someone has to ship it."

  "Doubtless it will pay well, being so dangerous?"

  "The regular rate plus a large premium."

  "A few runs like that, and you could turn the Lorelei into a fishing boat, or wind up at the bottom of the ocean. Too bad I didn't accept your proposal; I might have been a rich widow in no time!"

  "Tell me," he said, his accent growing more marked, "have you read this lecture to Peter?"

  "Peter? You mean he-"

  "His Bonny Girl is the other ship with a consignment of arms and ammunition for Messieurs Trenholm and Fraser, representing the Confederate government."

  "Oh."

  "What is the matter? Did you think our English friend was in this for the glory only, with no concern for so mundane a thing as the money?"

  Stung by the lash of his sarcasm, she flung up her head. "At least he is not a southerner, draining the wealth of his own country!"

  "I provide a service badly needed, for which I am paid. What is wrong with that?"

  "There are thousands of men in the South who are doing the same in less comfortable circumstances and without hope or expectation of gain."

  "They are fools; courageous, I will grant, and generous with their substance and lives, but fools nonetheless."

  "Would you have them accept the dictates of the North, or allow a foreign army to remain on Confederate soil in defiance of repeated requests to leave it?"

  "Do you think that is the cause of this war? It isn't. The cause is money. The North, fearful, and rightly so, of the wealth and aristocratic position gained by the South using the slave system, seeks to dismantle or at least curb it. The men of the South, especially those small famers just starting out, coming from Europe where advancement is impossible, are determined to protect a system that offers them the chance to use their own endeavors to move up in the world, to build something of substance in a generation. The rest is patriotic and moralistic nonsense."

  "What of states' rights?"

  "The constitutional amendment setting forth the right of secession is simple enough for a child to understand. Anyone denying it is spitting in the face of the men who drafted it. Doubtless Lincoln is correct is expecting chaos to follow o
n the division of the union, but, if he manages to preserve that union, it will be at the expense of true freedom."

  "The slavery question?"

  "Any southerner knows, if he will admit it, that the institution is morally wrong, but the precedent for it goes back as far as recorded history, and so enjoys quasi-respectability. The climate in the lower states makes it a necessity, if the fields are to be made to yield, while the investment in it is too great to be liquidated easily, too large for fair recompense from the United States Treasury. It will be abandoned naturally when the time comes and some other form of labor, such as the immigrants in the northern states, becomes cheaper than buying and keeping slaves. More, the practice is still legal in several northern states, including the District of Columbia itself-which seems a little like a man sneering at his neighbor's dirty linen while his own filthy nightshirt hangs out the back of his trousers. Raising slavery as an issue for this war is mere hypocritical drum beating."

  "According to you, then, we are right, but they must win,."

  "That is my assessment."

  It was one far different from those she had heard in the last year while men pounded tables and struck heroic poses. Irrefutable in its simplicity, it was also far more depressing.

  "You are something of a cynic," she said slowly, "but have you no feeling for the place where you were born, no impulse to fight to keep it untouched?"

  It was the custom, in waltzing to the Strauss tune the musicians were now playing, for the dancers to whirl clockwise to the first half, then, when the repeat came, for the room to "turn," or for those on the floor to stop and begin spinning counter-clockwise. Ramon waited until the turn was completed before he answered.

  "I feel it sometimes, yes," he admitted, a distant expression in his dark eyes as he gazed over the top of her head, "but if I ignore it, it goes away."

  What could she say in answer to such callousness? She made no reply. Perhaps it was as he intended, for he glanced down at her, changing the subject.

  "Has your father-in-law been a trial? Slick, and Peter also, report that he has not forced himself upon you at the hotel during the day."

  "They have been very good at keeping him at bay, Peter especially. He was a bit unpleasant earlier this evening, however. I confess, I was surprised to see him here."

  "He came with one of the cotton factors, who sent a note to Edward without giving the name."

  "I see." His words seemed to indicate that he had warned the Lansings against Nate. It was good to know that he had gone to the trouble.

  "There have been no other problems, at night for instance?"

  "None, which has been an unexpected blessing." The look of satisfaction that flitted over his face, then was gone, alerted her. "You wouldn't know anything about that, I suppose?" When he did not answer, she said, "Ramon?"

  "It…was only a precaution; I didn't want to alarm you."

  "What was? Since I know that much, you may as well tell me the rest."

  His lips tightened, then he said, "A healthy bribe to the desk clerks, both of them, not to give out your room number, and an effort to have whoever escorts you to your room be certain you are not followed."

  "And?" she persisted, as he paused.

  "A guard in the corridor at night, and another on the veranda."

  A sudden certainty gripped her. Before she could stop herself, she said, "And one with a guitar in the garden?"

  The darkness of his eyes was opaque and his frown faintly puzzled as he stared down at her. "A guitar?"

  "Do you deny it was you?"

  What reason could he have for doing so, if he had been doing no more than protecting her? True, she had first heard the serenade on the night before Nate Bacon had arrived. Possibly, then, his presence could be taken as an admission of interest in her. But, Ramon had made it plain enough that he desired her on the evening she had sent him from her room. Why should this be any different?

  "Don't tell me you have a lovesick fool who sits serenading you beneath your window every night, and you haven't even been curious enough to find out who he is?" The light in his face was mocking, daring her to accuse him.

  "I wouldn't want to frighten him away," she said with a coolness she did not feel. "I have enjoyed his playing too much for that."

  "If you had invited him in, you might have enjoyed his company more."

  She looked away over his shoulder. "So I might, but men seem to tire easily of what is easily attained."

  His grip tightened and she heard his swift-drawn breath, but, before he could answer, the waltz came to its abrupt, swinging close. Around them, couples began applauding with gloved hands, laughing, chatting, moving from the floor. As she drew away from Ramon, Lorna turned to see Elizabeth in her dark gown making her way toward them through the crowd of dancers.

  "Lorna, could you come with me? It's Mrs. Morgan. She has been taken ill, and she wishes to speak to you."

  "To me?"

  "She was most insistent that you should come to her as quickly as possible." That the request was a mystery, and something of an annoyance to the elder Lansing sister, was obvious from the stiffness of her manner.

  Lorna glanced at Ramon. His face was impassive, but the slight narrowing of his eyes indicated cogent thought. In answer to her glance of mute inquiry, he merely shrugged.

  Though the woman was virtually a stranger, it was impossible to refuse her appeal. With a brief gesture of assent, she followed Elizabeth across the floor and out of the room. They made their way along a long hallway toward the back of the house. At a door near the far end, the other girl paused, knocked softly, then ushered Lorna into a small sitting room.

  Sara Morgan lay on a fainting couch of rosewood covered in mint green brocatelle, her head resting on a bolster of the same material. Her eyes were closed and her face drained of color, almost gray. In one hand she clutched a small, silver-capped bottle of smelling salts; in the other, a stained handkerchief. A maid crouched at her side, holding a basin in which swirled the pale red of blood mixed with water.

  "Mrs. Morgan?" Elizabeth said, moving forward to hover over the couch. "Miss Forrester is here."

  The woman opened her eyes. Her colorless lips curved in a smile as she found Lorna. "So good of you to-come," she whispered. "I must talk to you-if we could be left in private."

  "Oh, really, are you certain you are well enough?" Elizabeth asked.

  "I…must be. If you please?"

  "Well, of course, if that is the way you want it. Come, Clara!" Elizabeth waited for the maid to open the door for her, then swept with her from the room. But not before she had sent Lorna a look of supercilious outrage.

  "Come closer, here beside me."

  Lorna moved at once to kneel in a billow of lavender blue skirts beside the fainting couch. "Tell me what I can do for you," she said quietly.

  Mrs. Morgan reached out to take her hand. Her hazel eyes searched Lorna's face with minute care, probing, meeting her gray gaze and holding it as if she would look into her mind. At last she said, "I must have someone I can trust. Can I trust you?"

  "I don't know, but I would hope so."

  A fleeting smile crossed the woman's pale face. "An honest answer, much better than instant reassurance, since you have no idea what I would ask of you. I-one moment."

  As Mrs. Morgan fumbled with the cap of her smelling salts, Lorna took them from her, opened them, and placed them in her hand once more. The woman took a deep breath with them under her nose, choked a little, then pushed herself up higher on the couch. She lay still, inhaling and exhaling slowly, evenly, then looked to Lorna once more.

  "I thought I was strong enough for this undertaking, but I was wrong. If only this attack could have held off a few more days-but perhaps it is better this way. I might have been taken ill on the ship, and that would have been most uncomfortable for everyone. I could not ask men intent on saving our very lives to play nursemaid to an invalid, and without that my mission might not be completed. It is vitall
y important that I succeed, you see.

  The woman waited, as if expecting some comment while she caught her breath. After a moment, Lorna said, "Am I to understand that you are…that you have a message to deliver, as you did with Mrs. Greenhow in Washington?"

  "You are quick; that is good." The woman closed her eyes for a moment, smiling faintly, then went on. "But, what I carry are dispatches from the Confederate envoys in Britain to President Davis concerning the negotiations for British recognition. You see how important it is that they be delivered?"

  The recognition of the Confederacy by Great Britain could mean international legitimacy and, perhaps, military aid, in much the same way that France had sent aid to the struggling United States during the Revolutionary War. The assistance of the British fleet would neutralize the blockade, even destroy it. That, plus adequate supplies of the materials of war, would mean almost certain victory.

  "Yes, I do see," Lorna answered slowly. "But, why me? Why could you not entrust them to, say, Captain Cazenave?"

  "He is a man and, in the event of the capture of his ship, would certainly be searched, then sent to some northern prison. You are a woman, and a most attractive one, if I may say so. You would not be molested and in all probability, if you asked it as a favor from gentlemen to a lady, would be put ashore, if not in the Carolinas, at least in the nearest northern port. From there, you would be able to make the contact that would see the dispatches into the right hands."

  There was a long silence. The woman waited, her eyes on Lorna's face while she struggled with the problem. In the quiet, Lorna thought she heard a rustling sound, as of someone breathing. She stared for a moment at the other woman, then pushed to her feet, moving quickly to the door. She hesitated, feeling slightly foolish, before putting her hand on the knob and jerking the panel wide.

  There was nothing, no one there. Behind her, Mrs. Morgan said, "It is best, always, to be sure."