The Emerald Queen (A Vieux Carré Romance)

by Karen Jones Delk

  On the third deck, they found themselves at the doorway of the unfinished space that would become the casino. Amid the sawdust and unvarnished timbers, Simone tried to imagine what it would look like.

  “Do you want to see your new home?” Tom asked, guiding her up another companionway to the open hurricane deck that covered half the length of the boat. Forward were spacious cabins and toward the stern, the pilothouse rose yet another floor.

  The January wind whipped at Simone’s clothing and made her veil flutter wildly in front of her face. Removing her bonnet, she gazed about, thinking she had never been so far from the ground. She could see the river stretching out for miles in either direction, and behind her were acres of marshland.

  “I’m going to live up here?” she breathed, enchanted by the thought of all she would see as they cruised the river.

  “This deck is reserved for officers, and owners. It’ll be very private. Come tell me if you like the cabin I chose for you.”

  She followed him to the forwardmost cabin, which looked out over the bow of the great boat.

  “What do you think?” he asked, watching her with pleasure.

  “I think it’s wonderful.” She turned her face to the wind. Her hair came unbound and whipped around her flushed face.

  “I don’t know when I would’ve—if I would’ve—finished her without you,” Tom said. “I’d like to name her for you. I want to call her Emerald Queen . . . for your green eyes. That is, if you don’t mind,” he finished shyly, as if embarrassed by his sentiment.

  “I’d be honored.” Tiptoeing, she kissed him on the cheek, backing away before the flicker of longing in his sapphire eyes could kindle a deeper burning.

  In the days and weeks that followed, their life settled into a busy routine. Simone turned her attention to furnishing the boat, quickly realizing that completing construction would account for only a small part of the Emerald Queen’s expenses. She worked hard, determined to make the boat a success from the beginning. Tom met with the shipbuilders and chandlers and hired the crew, stewards, maids, cabin boys, even an orchestra.

  Simone usually spent her evenings in Lisette’s suite, alone if the madam was busy. She had banned Tom from visiting every evening, disturbed by the restrained passion in his sleepy blue eyes and confused by her reactions to it.

  Sitting with Serge before the fire one evening, she was pondering the emotions Tom roused in her when the maître’s voice interrupted her reverie.

  “I’m sorry, what did you say?” she asked, shifting her distracted gaze to him.

  “I asked whether you wanted to finish our game or not,” he repeated patiently, gesturing toward the chess board between them. “I think perhaps your mind is too full of your ‘méricain.”

  “He’s not my américain.” Simone focused on the pieces with exaggerated interest.

  “He would like to be.”

  Giving up her pretense, she gazed at her friend with tears in her eyes. “I know,” she answered. “But I cannot forget Alain.”

  Leaning back in his chair, Serge regarded the girl seriously. “I know you grieve for Alain, ma petite, but you’re so young. I think even he would want you to live—and love—again.”

  “Perhaps,” she whispered with a sad smile. “Someday.”

  Near the end of March, Tom and Simone went to dinner at the Andersons’ apartment above Hiram’s law office. They had often visited with the older couple and their shy daughter, Barbara, in the past two months. Simone had taken a special liking to Hiram’s wife, Dulcie, a vigorous, big-boned woman.

  When the party was assembled in the parlor, Hiram lifted his glass and said, “I believe tonight is something of a celebration. According to my calendar, construction of the Emerald Queen should be at the halfway point. Is that right, Tom?”

  “Should be,” Tom clarified gloomily, “but I can’t see how she’ll be done in time.”

  “Don’t look so sad, Capitaine,” Simone chided, laughing. “Haven’t I told you? In New Orleans, pleasure sometimes pauses for business.”

  “She’s right,” Hiram affirmed. “And somehow, business still gets done.”

  “Well, I wish the work crew would pause more often for business and less for lunch. I’d like the boat in May, as promised, but at the rate they’re going, it’ll be Christmas before we can take to the river.”

  Aside from that moment of gloom, the evening passed pleasantly, and in the dark cab on the way home, Tom put his arm around Simone, pulling her against him so she fit in the crook of his arm, her head on his shoulder. For a time they were silent, the only sound the clopping of the horses’ hooves on the cobblestone streets.

  “Simone,” his voice was a whisper in the night.

  “Oui?” She tilted her face toward him slightly and discovered his lips were close to hers, so close she could feel his warm, sweet breath on her face. His eyes were shadowed as he gazed down at her. Dipping his head, he kissed her with aching sweetness.

  When his mouth left hers, he whispered against her ear, “I love you.”

  “Tom . . . ” She stirred in his arms.

  “Shh.” He drew her close so his chin rested lightly on top of her head. “I don’t expect you to say anything. I know you’re confused. I can see it in your eyes.”

  “I don’t know what I feel,” she confessed. “I don’t think I’m ready to love or to be loved.”

  “There’s not much you can do about the latter.” He chuckled ruefully. “Maybe not the former either. I keep telling you, you love me, honey. You just don’t know it yet. Guess I’ll put off proposing again to give you a little longer to think.”

  Simone was grateful that he did not press her, but her relief battled unexpected disappointment the rest of the way home. Though Tom held her close, he did not try to kiss her again.

  Hand in hand, the couple walked to the garden gate Simone continued to use as her entrance and across the dark patio into Lisette’s empty apartment.

  Tom waited until Simone lit a lamp. “I suppose I’d better go. We have a lot to do tomorrow.”

  As he started to leave, she said softly, “Tom, thank you for understanding.”

  He turned to her, his pleasant face somber. “I don’t understand,” he said distinctly. “I just know things between us are the way they are for a reason. If I could change them, I would. As it is, I’ll just love you and wait.”

  Her green eyes filled with tears. “I don’t mean to hurt you.”

  “You haven’t hurt me, Simone.” He was beside her in one stride, his hands on her shoulders. “The last two months, working on the boat with you, have been the happiest of my life.”

  The end of his declaration was lost against the tempting softness of Simone’s mouth. Though he had not intended it to happen, when he stared down at her, he could not resist. As he pulled her to him, his lips seeking hers, she was rigid for an instant, but then her resistance began to melt, leaving her body soft and yielding in his arms.

  Tearing his mouth from hers with effort, he held her close. His forehead pressed against hers, he cast about for his composure.

  “Unless you’ve changed your mind about loving and being loved, I’ve got to go,” he muttered. “Now.” Drawing a steadying breath, he released her and stepped back.

  Simone also retreated, shaken. “I-I’m sorry.”

  “I’m not.” Tom smiled wryly. Simone’s lips were puffy from his kiss, and her eyes were dark with desire, but the turmoil she felt was clearly visible on her face.

  Touching her cheek, he murmured, “See you tomorrow, darlin’.”

  She watched him disappear through the garden gate and fought the urge to call him back. What kind of woman was she? she agonized. She had given herself once to a man, certain she could feel such yearning only for him. But a moment ago, in Tom’s arms, she had felt a stirring she had never expected to feel again. She did not love Tom as she had loved Alain, but she could no longer deny her feelings. She wanted the American captain as much as he want
ed her.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The night sky glittered with stars, and the May breeze carried on it the scent of the river as a slight figure in loose clothing and a straw hat passed through Exchange Alley. Though it would be her last visit with Serge for some time, Simone was pleasantly excited. In two days, the Emerald Queen would leave New Orleans.

  At the Canal Street Wharf, the great steamboat waited, rising above the waterline like a floating white palace trimmed in gilt. Her paddleboxes were painted bright green, and a golden crown was affixed between smokestacks fifty feet high. She was splendid, even more beautiful than the partners had imagined.

  Absorbed in her thoughts, Simone paid little notice to her surroundings as she walked along rue Conti until a voice hissed her name from nearby.

  Her heart pounding, she was on her guard immediately, if belatedly. A man stood before her on the banquette. Lit from behind by a streetlight, his face was not visible. A tall opera hat and an elegant cloak further masked his identity.

  “I thought it was you,” Fabrice growled. “Where have you been?”

  Simone relaxed slightly and snapped, “Keep your voice down, Fabrice.”

  “Is that all you have to say to me?” Her cousin scowled down at her. “I’ve looked everywhere for you. I was afraid Marcel had kidnapped you or killed you—before you deigned to send your cryptic little note to maman to let us know you were still alive.”

  “I’m sorry, Fabrice. I couldn’t let anyone know where I was.”

  “Not even your own family?” he exploded.

  “It was too dangerous,” she explained patiently. “How are Tante Viviane and Oncle Georges, and you?”

  “They are well. I’m engaged,” he answered grimly. “And I want you to come home to LeFleur, where you belong.”

  “I don’t belong there anymore, Fabrice, if I ever did.”

  “If you think I am going to allow you to resume your masquerade at the salle--”

  “I don’t,” she cut in.

  “Then why are you wearing those clothes?”

  “This is temporary. I am leaving town in a few days.”

  “I demand an explanation,” the young Creole said indignantly.

  “I’m not going to stand in the middle of the street and discuss our family business, Fabrice.”

  “Then come where we can discuss it in privacy.”

  “Aren’t you late for the opera?” she asked when the church bells tolled the hour.

  “What? Ah, oui.” Her cousin looked down at his formal attire as if surprised by what he was wearing.

  “Why don’t we meet tomorrow evening?”

  “Where?”

  Unwilling for anyone, even Fabrice, to know her hiding places, Simone named a discreet restaurant.

  “Très bien. I’ll arrange for a private dining room. Nine o’clock and don’t come dressed as Jean-Paul.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Perhaps I should walk you wherever you are going,” he suggested swiftly when she started to leave.

  “Non, merci.” She kept walking. “I’m a big boy. I can take care of myself.”

  Marcel hunched on a bench, the green-eyed prostitute he had engaged for the evening forgotten upstairs. He had excused himself for only a moment, but as he walked along the hallway between the private dining rooms, he had heard a disturbingly familiar voice.

  “Simone!” he whispered. But from which room had the voice come? He could not burst into a private room, so he positioned himself in the bar near the foot of the stairs to wait.

  He had been waiting for some time when Fabrice Chauvin ushered a cloaked woman through a crowd of new arrivals and out the door to the street. Her head was bent so her hood concealed her face, but Marcel knew it was Simone.

  A gleam in his pale eyes, he shoved his way through the crowd and followed. Fog rolled in from the river, wisps forming halos around the lamps along the narrow street. Not far away, Fabrice was helping his companion into a closed coach.

  “Chauvin,” Marcel called, striding toward him. “I’d like a word with you.”

  Fabrice’s face paled when he saw him, but he maintained his composure. Closing the carriage door, he greeted the blond Creole in a tight voice, “Bonsoir, Baudin.”

  “Bonsoir,” Marcel responded amiably. “I saw you inside, but you got away before I could say hello.”

  Fabrice realized miserably there could be only one reason Baudin wanted to speak with him: He had seen Simone. “How are you, Marcel?” he asked, trying to delay the inevitable, hoping his resourceful cousin would think of a way to escape detection.

  “I am well. I haven’t seen you for a while. I heard you are engaged. Is that your lovely fiancée in the carriage?”

  “Er, no,” Fabrice muttered glumly.

  “Une fille de joie then, perhaps?” Marcel asked with a knowing smile. “A last fling before wedlock?”

  Fabrice seized upon the insinuation. “You won’t say anything, will you? Zaza is so young, and her family is old-fashioned. I don’t think they would understand.”

  “I won’t say anything, if you’ll introduce me to your friend,” Marcel said slyly.

  “Another time perhaps.” Fabrice reached for the door latch.

  “Now.” Marcel laid a detaining hand on his arm.

  Unable to delay any longer, Fabrice opened the coach door and muttered, “Mademoiselle, may I present Monsieur Marcel Baudin.”

  When no answer came from the dark interior, both men peered inside. Simone had gone, leaving the door on the other side of the carriage open. It swayed silently on the breeze.

  “Where is she?” Marcel snarled.

  “I-I am as mystified as you, m’sieur,” Fabrice stammered.

  “Where is Simone?” the fair Creole roared.

  “You know she has been missing for more than a year,” her cousin countered.

  “Don’t lie to me,” Marcel snapped. “I know the slut was living with de Vallière.”

  “What?” Fabrice’s eyes were round with disbelief.

  At the other man’s obvious shock, Marcel scoffed, “Don’t tell me you are surprised by your petite cousine.”

  “I . . . I watched the house for weeks,” Fabrice answered in a strangled voice. “I never saw her.”

  “Non, she and her lover were very clever,” Marcel sneered. “But she doesn’t have de Vallière to protect her any longer. Where has she gone now, Chauvin?”

  “I don’t know,” Fabrice said weakly.

  Marcel scrutinized his face for a long moment, then, apparently satisfied, he snarled, “Tell Simone when you see her that nothing has changed. I will have her.” With that, he pivoted and marched away.

  Feeling shocked and betrayed, Fabrice got into his carriage and was driven away.

  Marcel paused on the banquette and looked around for his bodyguard. Perhaps la Roche had found the girl, he thought hopefully, though he doubted it. The stocky Cajun was strong, and he followed orders, but he was slow-witted. Presently Guy la Roche came into view, running down the street toward him.

  “Me, I think she’s the girl you seek,” he greeted his employer, puffing.

  “Where is she? Why didn’t you bring her back?”

  “I lost her,” the Cajun admitted, shamefaced. “But she ran fast for a girl, yes. I kept her in sight for a time, but when I turned onto rue Dauphine, it was as if she had vanished.”

  “Rue Dauphine?”

  “Oui.”

  “Come.” Marcel strode toward his carriage. “We’re going to pay a call on Mademoiselle Lisette Dupré.”

  “Perhaps Marcel didn’t see you,” Lisette suggested hopefully as she followed Simone through her suite, picking up garments as the girl shed them.

  “Perhaps, but I have a terrible feeling.” Simone stepped out of her petticoat. “I must go before I bring danger to you.”

  “I know you said Marie LeVeau told you you would bring danger to the ones you love, but--”

  “Look what happened to A
lain,” Simone interjected soberly as she secured her hair on top of her head. “I no sooner admitted I loved him than he vanished without a trace. You risked Marcel’s wrath when you helped me escape, and you do so every time you provide refuge for me. My family cannot protect me. Batiste and Serge have offered to fight him, but, as gens de couleur, they would hang if they lifted a finger against him.” Hastily, she donned Jean-Paul’s trousers over her pantalettes. “The sooner I’m aboard the Emerald Queen, the safer we will all be.”

  “What about Tom?” Lisette asked. “You care for him, I know.”

  Simone stared at her, her green eyes as hard as the jewels they resembled. “Tom doesn’t know about Marcel, and I don’t want him to know.”

  Wisely, Lisette did not pursue the subject. Tossing Simone’s clothes onto the bed, she helped her with the wrapping around her upper body. “Even though you’re leaving here tonight as Jean-Paul,” she said through a mouthful of pins, “I want you to let Jude walk you to the wharf.”

  Before Simone could answer, a great commotion came from the front of the house.

  “You can’t go in there!” Jude bellowed.

  “Try to stop me and die!” a familiar voice roared, nearly drowning out the pounding footsteps in the hall.

  The girl’s face blanched. “Marcel,” she whispered. “I knew it.” She shoved her bare feet into the heavy boy’s shoes and grabbed her shirt from the doorknob where it hung.

  Suddenly the door was thrown open and the wild-eyed Creole strode into Lisette’s suite. A slender form stood poised in the bedroom. Though partially dressed in a boy’s clothes, the figure was undeniably female . . . undeniably Simone.

  “No!” Marcel bellowed, his face flushed with rage. In a rush, everything became clear to him. The object of his obsession had been hiding right under his nose!

  As he charged toward her, Simone ducked through the French doors into the courtyard. Marcel tried to hurl himself after her, but his way was blocked by the willowy, determined Lisette.

  “Catch him, Jude!” the madam shouted to the doorman. Wheeling, Marcel met Jude’s assault with the strength of a madman, clubbing him with the hilt of his sword. Returning to the hall, he raced toward the door at the end, which opened onto the courtyard.