She would feel it. He must be alive. He must.
As the predawn light crept through the louvered windows on deck, Simone opened her trunk and took out the dress on top. One was much the same as another. She had brought ordinary clothing, refusing to pack her mourning costume. She would not even contemplate grieving for Alain. She could not conceive of his death.
Unable to bear the confinement, she decided to walk on deck, but when she opened her cabin door, she tripped over Batiste. Half-asleep, her mighty guard was on his feet in an instant, thrusting her behind him and swinging to block any possible assault.
“Batiste, wake up.” She shook his arm gently.
Blinking at her, he said gruffly, “Don’t scare me like that,”
“I only wanted to go for a walk.”
He tossed his blanket just inside the cabin and closed the door. “All right,” he rumbled, yawning, “let’s walk.”
Batiste peered at Simone with concern as they strolled. Even in the dimness, he could see she was pale and listless. He knew she had not slept much last night, for he had heard her crying when she thought no one could hear, and it had nearly broken his heart.
“How long before we get to Paradis?” she asked suddenly.
“Three or four days, if this ruin of a boat doesn’t strand us somewhere.” The big man grimaced when the curses of the engineer reached them over an abrupt clanking of the engine.
“So we may have word of Alain in as little as a week?” she asked when the ruckus died down.
“Perhaps,” he answered, “but I think you must prepare yourself for the worst, petite amie.”
“You think he is dead, too, don’t you?” Simone stared out at the rosy sunrise, her hopeful smile fading.
“I don’t want to think so, but something has happened to him.”
“I know,” she agreed with a sigh, “but I cannot give up.”
“Then don’t.” Batiste smiled reassuringly. “We’ll trust that all will be well soon.” He had more than one reason to hope so. If Alain had been murdered, he, as a black man with ready access to de Vallière, would almost certainly be suspected, and he had worsened his situation by leaving New Orleans. Not that it mattered. He would keep his promise to care for Simone.
From up in the pilothouse, Tom saw his passenger’s face for the first time. Even from a distance, he could tell Mademoiselle Simone Devereaux was young and beautiful and very sad. Beside her giant black servant, she looked fragile, but there was pride and mettle in her bearing. Though the captain watched for her through the day, he did not see her again.
Simone woke late the next morning, but she felt rested for the first time in days. Then she realized what had awakened her. The boat was not moving.
She dressed hurriedly and went out on deck, opening her door carefully, but Batiste was not at his post. Momentarily blinded by the sun’s glare, she paused to allow her eyes to adjust. Down on the riverbank, she saw her big friend laboring with a gang of men to cut and load wood.
“Good day, Miss Devereaux,” a pleasant voice said from nearby.
Simone’s first impression when she turned was of a winning smile and a pair of sapphire-blue eyes that crinkled at the corners. The young man’s face was handsome and likable. Below the engaging smile with its even white teeth was a dimple in his chin.
The captain had removed his cap to greet her. His black hair was thick and curly, and one unruly tendril dipped down on his bronzed forehead, giving him an even more youthful appearance. He was not as big or solid as Alain, she thought, unconsciously measuring him against the Creole, but he was taller than average, and the body beneath his sturdy work clothes was lithe and trim.
“Bonjour.” She could not help but return his infectious grin.
“Captain Franklin, at your service, ma’am,” he introduced himself. “We met briefly when you came aboard.”
“Oh, yes, Thomas Jefferson Franklin, a very American name. I remember.” She extended her hand uncertainly. She was not sure how a lady greeted a Kaintock. She had never met one, as a lady.
Tom’s smile widened even more, if that were possible, and he kissed her hand politely. “Are your accommodations to your liking?”
“They’re very nice, thank you.”
“And are you enjoying your trip?”
“Oui, merci. I take it from your accent, Capitaine, that you are not from Louisiana?” she inquired before he could ask another question.
“No, ma’am. I’m from Virginia. I take it from your accent that you are?” He joined her at the railing, oblivious to Batiste’s dark stare from the shore.
“I’m from New Orleans. But tell me,” she requested hastily to forestall further questions, “how did you come to be named for a great president?”
“The Franklins always name their sons after Revolutionary War dignitaries. Thomas Jefferson was a great hero of my father’s. He saved the best for last.”
“So you’re the youngest?”
“Yep. I have three older brothers.”
“And they’re also named after Revolutionary heroes?”
“George Washington, John Hancock, and Samuel Adams,” he confirmed. “My father is Paul Revere. And I have a cousin Ethan Allen.
“You laugh,” he accused teasingly when she giggled. “Our family reunions sound like roll call at the Continental Congress.”
The sound of the whistle drowned out their laughter as the men on shore began to file up the gangway.
“If you’ll excuse me, looks like we’re about done here.” Tom nodded politely. “I’d be honored if you’d join me in my cabin this evening for dinner, ma’am.”
Simone’s vivacious face sobered. “Thank you, but no.”
“Perhaps another time,” he suggested. Then he strode forward to oversee the crew’s work.
“Perhaps,” she murmured, awash in remorse. For a moment she had put aside her sorrow and enjoyed a lighthearted chat with the captain. But somehow she feared that if she forgot Alain for an instant, all hope would be gone. And that must never happen.
Joining her, Batiste asked, “Did the captain bother you?”
She looked up at him in surprise. “No, he was just making conversation. Why?”
“Alain asked me to look after you. If a man pays you unwanted attention, I’ll chase him away.”
“The captain only talked to me. Save your protection, mon ami, until there’s something to protect me from.”
The next morning, Simone stood beside the railing outside her cabin. She breathed deeply of the scents of the river and the wood smoke from the steamboat.
“Good morning, ma’am,” Tom called. “Join me for a stroll?”
Simone considered refusing, but the morning was sunny and warm, and Tom Franklin smiled so appealingly. She took his arm, and they set off around the deck.
While they walked, she learned Tom was something of a black sheep in his family. Realizing he was more interested in westward expansion than in farming, his father had given him a choice: Stay and inherit acres of Virginia farmland, or go and accept a small bequest. To Paul Revere Franklin’s dismay, his youngest son had chosen the money and gone to seek his fortune.
Tom had gotten as far as the Mississippi. At his first sight of the broad river and the rudimentary steamboats that plied her, he had fallen in love. Taking a job on one of the boats, he had labored to learn the river.
“After several years,” he concluded, returning Simone to where Batiste waited, “I was able to buy this boat. And the Bayou Queen is just the beginning.” His blue eyes shone with enthusiasm. “A couple of months ago, I bought another packet, the Cajun Queen. She isn’t in as good shape as this one.” He glanced over his shoulder distractedly when Batiste snorted behind him. “I’ll have her running soon, though, and we’ll double our cargo capacity. One of these days there’ll be a whole fleet,” he said, gesturing toward the crown painted on the smokestack, “the Queen fleet. We’ll run the lower river from St. Louis to New Orleans.”
&
nbsp; When the attractive captain took his leave, Simone feared he would ask her to dinner again, but his behavior remained exemplary and he left her in peace.
In the days that followed, she did not forget her problems, but the farther the Bayou Queen steamed from New Orleans, the farther they seemed to recede. Tom’s contagious good humor was a welcome respite after months of turmoil and unhappiness, and his effortless charm seemed to put even the wary Batiste at ease.
When they left the river for the Bayou Lafourche, the mood on the packet became slow and easy. During the sultry days, alligators and snakes swam lazily underwater and waterfowl took to the air, disturbed by the chugging steamboat.
One day, unwilling to swelter in her cabin, Simone walked on the deck with the young captain.
“See those planters?” He nodded toward several passengers who loafed on the stern, pitching coins at bubbles churned up by the paddlewheel. “They always do that when they’re bored,” he chuckled. “I figure if I rigged up some sort of basket underneath the wheel, I could rake in the coins at the end of each run, and in a year or so, I could probably buy another steamboat.”
“You’re incorrigible,” Simone reprimanded, laughing.
“Yes, ma’am, but I’m told all I need is a good woman to straighten me out.” He smiled, but his eyes were serious.
Uncomfortable, Simone looked away, toward the pilothouse. “Is that your friend, Zachary, who glares so fiercely from up there?”
Tom’s eyes followed the direction of her gaze. “That’s him, all right.” He waved at Zack and received a nod in return. “He’s not really fierce. He just looks that way.”
“You’ve known him a long time?”
“He taught me what I know about the river. He’s been traveling it since he left Kentucky nearly forty years ago.”
“In New Orleans, we call all Americans Kaintocks, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen one who was really from Kentucky.”
“Well, Zack is the real thing,” Tom said, chuckling when Simone glanced up at the man apprehensively. “Kaintocks are a little rough by Creole standards, but we’re not so much different than anyone else. Though I haven’t been able to get many folks here in Louisiana to believe it.”
“Perhaps they’d understand it better if you told them in French,” Simone suggested.
“They might,” Tom conceded. “Think you might teach me some?”
“I could try.”
He grinned unabashedly. “The pretty phrases, too? You never can tell when I could need to woo a Creole gal . . . for business reasons, of course.”
“Of course.” She tried to hide a smile.
“Since we reach Paradis in the morning, you’d better start my lessons right away,” he recommended lightly. “It’s going be a strain, even for a fellow who learns as fast as I do. You may have to work straight through to bedtime.” His teasing ended on a tentative note. “Will you have dinner with me tonight?”
Feeling unexpected regret that the trip was so near its end, she surprised herself by agreeing.
When Tom called for Simone that evening, he had dressed carefully in an elegantly tailored broadcloth suit, and he thought her resplendent in a rose-colored gown. Proudly, he escorted her to his cabin, stopping just short of the door to glare at Batiste, who followed.
“Is there something you want?” Tom asked mildly.
“Just to be near if Mam’selle Simone needs me,” the big servant rumbled.
Scowling, the captain opened the door for Simone and watched her guard post himself on the deck outside.
“Batiste is very protective of me,” Simone apologized as Tom closed the door.
The good-natured Virginian had already forgotten his pique. “I know it’s not customary for a gal to be unchaperoned,” he said, leading her to the most desirable seat in the cabin, a threadbare easy chair. “Would you care for some wine?”
“Merci,” she accepted. Loath to explain the reason for Batiste’s vigilance, she sipped her wine and encouraged Tom to talk.
He delighted in her presence, and their dinner conversation was lively.
The hour was late when they emerged from the captain’s cabin, and although Batiste was no longer in sight, Tom knew he was close by. Unperturbed, he took Simone’s hand and walked her to her cabin.
Outside her door, Tom stopped. “I don’t know what you’re running from, darlin’,” he said softly, “but if I can ever help you, all you have to do is ask.”
“Merci,” she whispered gratefully as he politely kissed her hand and bade her good night.
As Tom strolled back toward his cabin, Batiste watched with approval from the shadows. He had heard the captain’s words and was pleased at their new ally.
Dusk was falling over Paradis as Simone bent over her sewing. She did not mind helping around the house; it passed the time and seemed to please her hostess, Dominique’s aunt, Marie-France.
Simone remembered the day two months earlier when the Bayou Queen had tied up at the landing here. Rotund and frowning, Marie-France had met them on the dock, accompanied by Remi, her aged black scarecrow of a butler.
Without a doubt, the old woman had found her unexpected guest objectionable. Her disapproval had been visible on her face as she turned her cold, slate-colored eyes on the girl with the unladylike hair and the huge black manservant. Why had Dominique sent them to Paradis?
Marie-France had found the answer in her nephew’s letter, but she hadn’t liked it. The American captain provided an excuse for her annoyance. Because he had performed a service for her family, she was obligated to invite him to dinner, but she clearly did not want to.
Tom had refused the woman’s grudging invitation, adding, “But I’d like to say good-bye to Simone and Batiste, if you don’t mind.”
So relieved was Marie-France that he would not be staying, she overlooked his use of the girl’s first name and his camaraderie with a common slave.
“Très bien,” she agreed, “come up to the house when you are ready, mademoiselle, and I’ll show you to your room. Remi will see to your man.”
The captain had extended his hand to the powerful servant. “So long, Batiste. Take care of your little friend.”
“I will, Cap’n.” The black man smiled as Tom shook his hand. “Thank you for your help.”
Turning to Simone, the Virginian laid an awkward, calloused hand against her cheek. “I still don’t know what you’re running from, and I’m not sure what you’ve run to. But my offer of help stands. If you ever need me, tie this to the landing, and I’ll stop.” He thrust a fine linen handkerchief into her hand.
How often Simone had wanted to signal him in the days that followed. Once her unwanted guests were settled, Marie-France had informed them she had no time for entertaining. She lived at Paradis with a small staff of servants, keeping house for her bachelor nephew, which she would do until he married his betrothed, Bernadette Blanchard, a neighbor’s daughter.
Simone had tried from the first to be helpful, but Marie-France never seemed to approve. Dominique’s aunt was aghast to learn that Batiste was a free man and owned a shotgun. However, she came to accept his offerings to her table with a good appetite.
In the end, it was Simone’s skill with a needle that broke through the old woman’s reserve. She embroidered linens for her and mended a lace tablecloth. Now she was sewing winter clothes for the slaves while Marie-France canned, hot work even in mid-October.
A steamboat whistle sounded at the landing, and excited voices reached Simone all the way at the back of the house. Laying her work aside, she hurried to see who had arrived. Marie-France and Remi were already at the landing. Seeing that the smokestack rising high above the bayou was not painted with a crown, Simone felt a stab of disappointment that it was not the Bayou Queen.
While she watched, a gangly man disembarked from the boat and hugged Marie-France, Dominique! Perhaps he had brought news of Alain. Simone set off at a run.
When Dominique saw her skimming across t
he green lawn toward him, her skirt billowing, his heart stood still. She was even more beautiful than she had been in New Orleans. Fresh air had put the color back in her cheeks, and her face was animated with eagerness. Could it be that she was glad to see him?
“Simone!” He hurtled down the steps to meet her. Catching her hands in his, he smiled warmly. Then, remembering himself, he asked, “I may call you Simone, mayn’t I?”
“Oui.” Simone freed her hands, acutely aware that Marie-France’s rheumy eyes rested on her with renewed hostility.
“And you must call me Dominique. You look lovely.”
“Merci,” she thanked him almost impatiently. “Have you brought word of Alain?”
“Nothing that cannot wait, I’m afraid,” he said. Glancing back at his aunt, he missed the sorrow on Simone’s face. “Here comes my aunt with Capitaine Juneau. You and I will talk later.”
“Did you stop to visit Bernadette?” Marie-France addressed her nephew loudly as the captain escorted her across the lawn.
“Non.” Dominique was not eager to discuss his fiancée in front of Simone.
“You should have stopped, Dom. The Blanchards, the family of my nephew’s betrothed, are our closest neighbors,” the old woman explained, mostly for Simone’s benefit. “You know they would have lent you a horse to come the rest of the way home, cher.”
“I was in a hurry to be here,” the young man responded, hoping to pacify her.
“How sweet.” A pleased smile lit the old woman’s face. “You can always ride over tomorrow, oui?”
“If there’s time,” he answered uncomfortably. “This is to be a short trip.”
Through the long dinner, Simone waited miserably, but Dominique did not reveal his news. At last, when he escorted her into the parlor for coffee, she asked in a low urgent voice, “Please, Monsieur Cuvillion...”
“You agreed to call me Dominique,” he protested, patting the hand she curved over his arm.
Simone could feel her patience ebbing. “Très bien, Dominique. Will you please tell me what news you bring of Alain?”
The Emerald Queen (A Vieux Carré Romance) Page 18
