The Emerald Queen (A Vieux Carré Romance)

by Karen Jones Delk

  In the dark garden, Simone made her way surely to the back gate. Her hand was extended toward the latch when it opened and Guy la Roche stepped through, his sword drawn, fog swirling around him. Unarmed, she looked around for a weapon, but she found none.

  Smiling, la Roche cajoled, “Where is the girl, little boy? You tell me and I will not harm you, non.”

  “Simone!” Lisette appeared in the door from the parlor and tossed her a fireplace poker. “This is the best I can do.”

  Marcel’s bodyguard looked puzzled when the boy caught the tool and, using it as a sword, began to advance. La Roche met the attack with surprising agility, but still his small opponent advanced.

  Simone tried to circle, to reach the gate. If she could slip into the alley, she could outrun the thickset man. Dimly she was aware of Marcel’s frustrated pounding on the door he had found locked. Her back against the brick wall, she fenced desperately, knowing she was tiring. The poker was clumsy and unwieldy, and it was becoming harder and harder to block la Roche’s thrusts.

  Suddenly she felt a searing pain in her side and a spreading liquid warmth soaking into the wrapping she wore beneath her flapping shirt. The poker felt so heavy in her hand, she could hardly hold it. Lifting her eyes to her opponent, she saw the triumphant spark in his eye abruptly extinguished when Lisette felled him with a well-aimed flowerpot from across the garden.

  “Merci!” Simone called and ran out of the gate.

  Unaware the girl had been wounded, Lisette waited until she was certain she was gone. Then she went to the door and unlocked it. Marcel nearly toppled into the courtyard when the door opened.

  “Where is she?” he choked in rage.

  “Where is who?” Lisette looked around the dark garden.

  “You know damned well I mean Simone.”

  “There is no one by that name here, m’sieur.”

  “You’ve been hiding her. I ought to kill you!” he screamed.

  “I would think twice before making such a threat, especially in front of so many witnesses.” Lisette gestured upward.

  Marcel turned. The blood rushed to his head, roaring when he saw, in nearly every upstairs window, curious faces peering down at the courtyard. The pounding in his ears was so great he nearly did not hear the madam speak.

  “None of them is sure what happened here tonight,” she said softly, “but if you don’t go and take your friend, I’ll be happy to tell them.”

  The pounding eased, and Marcel realized she was waiting for an answer. “I will go,” he said, “but I’ll be watching you”

  “Do not bother,” Lisette said, her gray eyes cold. Then she turned and went inside.

  Simone staggered, staying close to the shadowy buildings. The fog was becoming thicker; it could not be far to the river. She had come this far unnoticed, but she feared she would faint before she could reach the boat. She was light-headed and her thinking was becoming more and more muddled when she stumbled into the ropewalk that angled toward the wharf. With relief, she recognized it. Only a little farther to Canal Street.

  Placing one foot in front of the other with effort, she lurched toward the lights at the other end of the passage. She blinked, trying to clear her vision, as a shape materialized in the darkness some distance away.

  “Obie,” Simone croaked just before her legs gave out.

  The Negro boy raced to the fallen figure, facedown in the swirling fog. His eyes widened when he turned Simone gingerly. “Jean-Paul! And you ain’t a boy at all,” he breathed wonderingly. “You’re hurt. We gotta get you to a doctor.”

  “Must get . . . to . . . the Emerald Queen,” she whispered, her pale face rigid with pain.

  “The new boat? At least it’s close. Come on.” Pulling her to her feet, Obadiah looped her arm around his neck and gripped it tightly, his other arm wrapped around her waist. Half-carrying, half-dragging Simone’s limp body, he took her to the wharf.

  “Help, somebody! Anybody!” he shouted as they neared the gangplank.

  Tom emerged from the engine room, where he had been inspecting the mechanical marvels of his new steamboat. When he saw the pair on the dock, his smiling face grew taut with shock.

  “Simone!” He raced down the gangplank and scooped her into his arms. She looked as if she were bleeding to death, but she was conscious. “What happened, darlin’?” he nearly wept.

  “Hard to parry with a poker.” She smiled weakly. “Get Batiste. He’ll know what to do.

  “Merci, Obie,” she murmured, then her head lolled over Tom’s arm.

  Tom stared down at her, panic-stricken until he saw the pulse fluttering in her throat. “Come with me,” he told Obadiah grimly. “I want to talk to you.”

  The urchin followed as the captain carried the wounded girl the length of the huge boat and up three flights of stairs without slowing an instant. And as he went, Tom bellowed for Batiste.

  On the hurricane deck, he shouted up toward the pilothouse, “Tell the engineer to start building steam. We’re taking her out.”

  “Tonight? But, Tom, we’ve only got a skeleton crew and no provisions,” Zack leaned out the window to argue.

  “We’ve got all we need for this run,” Tom yelled. “Get on that speaking tube and get some steam. I want to leave within an hour.”

  “You’re the captain.” Shaking his head in exasperation, the old pilot pulled his head back inside the wheelhouse.

  “Wait here,” Tom ordered Obadiah.

  In his cabin, the man laid Simone on his bed, unmindful of the velvet spread. Taking a knife from his pocket, he cut away her ruined shirt, paling when he saw the blood-soaked wrapping beneath. Carefully, he slid the blade under the bindings and sliced through them and the camisole she wore.

  The wound was a long gash in the smooth white skin of her side, but it was not deep. Yanking a handkerchief from his pocket, Tom attempted to stem the flow of blood until Batiste could arrive.

  The big black man entered without knocking, evidence of his distress. “Where is she? What happened? This is my fault,” he groaned, seeing his mistress’s still figure outstretched on the bed. “I should’ve been with her.” Wasting no more time with recriminations, he knelt beside her and examined the wound.

  “Is she going to be all right?” Tom asked hoarsely.

  “She will be when we get the bleeding stopped and clean the wound,” Batiste answered, reaching for the wooden case of medicines he had brought with him. “But she won’t be doing any more sword fighting for a while.”

  “Thank God,” Tom said, nearly weak with relief.

  “Don’t worry, Cap’n,” Batiste reassured him, his competent hands already at work. “The blow was lessened by the binding she wore, and it looks as if the blade glanced off a rib. She will be sore, but it’s not a bad wound. Biggest problem is that she’s lost a lot of blood.”

  “If you won’t need me for a minute, I have to see to a few things.” Tom paused at the door. “Batiste, I have to know. Simone isn’t running from the law, is she?”

  “No, Cap’n. She’s running from something over which the law has no control.” The girl moaned then, and Batiste turned his full attention to her.

  Pondering the big man’s words, Tom went to speak to Obadiah.

  “She’s gonna be all right, ain’t she?” the boy asked anxiously the moment he saw the captain.

  “Yes. Thanks for bringing her here. Did anyone follow you?”

  “Didn’t see nobody.”

  “I’m grateful to you, Obie. That is what Simone called you, isn’t it?”

  “Simone. So that’s who she was all the time.” Obadiah grinned. “I knew Jean-Paul wasn’t ‘xactly what he seemed.”

  Tom laughed in spite of himself and offered his hand. “I’m Captain Franklin.”

  “Obadiah Prejean.” The boy’s toothy smile widened as they shook hands.

  “How can I repay you, Obadiah?”

  “I . . . I’d like a job, sir, on the Emerald Queen. I’m a free person of co
lor,” he added quickly. “I figure there ain’t much of a future blackin’ boots and doin’ card tricks.”

  “Did Simone teach you the tricks?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then there’s no future at all. You’re liable to end up a young, good-looking corpse.”

  “Oh, you’ve played cards with her, too,” Obie said knowingly.

  “Took me for every button I had,” Tom answered cryptically. “All right, Obadiah, go get your things, but make it fast. And, Obie . . . ” He delayed the lad long enough to hand him a coin. “Send the first urchin you see to Lisette Dupré. Have him tell her her friend is all right.”

  “Yes, sir.” Obie saluted smartly and clattered down the companionway.

  A little later, Tom descended from a hurried conference with Zachary in the pilothouse and returned to Simone’s side. Her face was ashen and her breathing shallow, but she slept peacefully. Batiste was gathering his vials of medicine and placing them in his case when Tom entered.

  “How is she?” the captain whispered.

  “Sleeping, but she’s already got a fever. Will you stay with her while I make a tisane? Only be a few minutes.”

  “Of course.” Tom pulled his dilapidated chair next to the bed and watched Simone while she slept. Who had done this to her? He had known she was in some sort of trouble, but who would want to harm her? She looked so small and vulnerable in the big bed that he wanted to hide her away where trouble would never find her.

  Feeling the vibration when the paddlewheels began to turn easing the gigantic boat away from the pier, the captain relaxed. Obadiah must have returned.

  When Simone moaned and thrashed in her sleep, Tom was on his feet in an instant, his hand on her brow. She was burning up with fever. Her breathing had become ragged, and she began to shiver. He chafed her slender arms between his hands, trying to warm her, and wondered where Batiste was.

  Just then the big man returned, carrying a cup. His brow furrowed with concern, Batiste bent over his patient and forced a little of the fluid between her lips.

  Simone opened dull green eyes. “Bat,” she mumbled, “he found me.”

  “It was bound to happen, petite amie, if we stayed in New Orleans.”

  “Thought I was safe at Lisette’s,” she said with effort.

  He put the cup to her lips again. “Drink this and rest.”

  She obeyed, then closed her eyes without seeing Tom nearby. But he saw a tear slip from the comer of one of her closed eyes and run down into her hair. After a moment, she said sleepily, “Do you think Alain would understand, Batiste? I’ve tried to be strong since he . . . but . . . I’m tired . . . of being strong . . . of being alone.”

  “You’re not alone, little one,” the big servant murmured. “You have me.”

  “And me,” Tom echoed quietly. Simone did not hear. She was already asleep.

  Simone awoke to sunlight angling through first one window, then another, as the boat followed the river’s course. She opened her eyes slowly and lay still, not daring to stir. Memories of the night before were hazy, but she felt a throbbing in her side that verified the nightmare.

  She looked around to discover Tom dozing beside the bed, unshaven, dark circles under his eyes. His weary, rumpled appearance and battered chair looked out of place amid the luxury of the Emerald Queen. She was aboard the magnificent steamboat, she knew that. But how?

  Hoisting herself up on her elbows in an attempt to sit up, Simone gasped aloud at the pain. Tom awoke and catapulted himself from his seat.

  “What are you doing, darlin’? Don’t try to get up.” Easing her back on her pillow, he sat on the bed beside her and held a cup of water to her lips. “Here, drink this. You must be thirsty. You ran a fever last night.”

  “How did I get here?” She frowned up at him as she tried to recall what had happened after she left Lisette’s.

  “Obadiah found you and brought you aboard.”

  “Obadiah Prejean?”

  “The one and only.” Tom nodded with a grin.

  “What a surprise I must have been to him.” She smiled wanly.

  “You’re a surprise to everyone, darlin’, especially me. You surprised me witless last night, when I saw you bleeding all over the dock.”

  “I’m sorry.” She reached up and smoothed his tousled black hair.

  Capturing her hand, he asked grimly, “Who did this, Simone? Tell me, and I’ll take him apart with my bare hands.”

  “That wouldn’t do any good.” She withdrew her hand. She would not let Tom risk his life at the hands of an expert New Orleans swordsman.

  “It would sure as hell make me feel better,” he fumed.

  “Please, can’t we put what happened behind us?”

  “I don’t even know what happened,” he said painfully, “because you don’t trust me enough to tell me.”

  “I trust you. I just do not want you to be in danger.”

  “God save us from stubborn women,” Tom muttered. “And you’re the stubbornest one I know. Listen, darlin’, nothing is more important to me than your safety.” He laid his hand on her cheek, his thumb tracing her lips. “I want to take care of you.”

  “It seems you’ve been doing that.”

  “It was my pleasure . . . mine and Batiste’s.”

  “Merci.” Realizing for the first time that she was naked under the blanket, she blushed and changed the subject. “Shouldn’t you be in the pilothouse? I can tell we’re moving. I’m glad I didn’t ruin our plans for a trial run this morning.”

  “We left New Orleans last night. If we hold our speed, we ought to be in Natchez by early afternoon.”

  “We weren’t supposed to go all the way to Natchez. The Emerald Queen hasn’t even been christened yet,” she protested.

  “We’ll christen her later. We had cargo to deliver.”

  “What cargo?” Simone asked skeptically.

  “Some plows, some yard goods--”

  “That doesn’t sound like much.”

  “There’s an upright piano for a cathouse, too,” he added defensively.

  “No passengers?” Her green eyes were shrewd.

  “Not this trip.”

  “So I did ruin our plans,” she muttered. “You left early because of me, didn’t you?”

  “We needed a shakedown,” Tom countered reasonably. “You’ll be glad to know Zack says she handles like the jewel she is.

  “I’m going to go find Batiste now,” he said, rising, “and tell him you’re awake. He’ll want to change that dressing.”

  “Would you ask him to bring me a robe?”

  “Why?”

  “I’ve taken your bed. I’m not going to take your clothes. And I am not moving to my own cabin stark naked.”

  “You’re not moving anywhere, any way, until Batiste says you can,” Tom said stubbornly.

  She glared up at him. “I don’t know why you brought me to your cabin in the first place, Tom Franklin, but if you think I am going to--”

  “You might wait till you’re invited, Miss Devereaux,” he interrupted heatedly. “I don’t expect you to share my cabin, but I do expect you to get well. You’ll stay here until Batiste says you can be moved.”

  “I’m getting up as soon as I am able,” she announced with a defiance that belied her weakened condition. “We still have to put the finishing touches on Carnival.”

  “We won’t be opening the casino right away,” he informed her, “and I’m not sure you should be a part of it when we do.”

  “We made a deal,” Simone snapped, sitting upright, heedless of the pain, “a business deal.”

  “That was before I knew your life was in danger,” he argued. “Do you think I’m going to let you risk it for business?”

  “It’s my life.” Her expression was mutinous.

  Tom’s blue eyes narrowed, but his voice was mild, “You must be feeling better, sugar, or you wouldn’t be so damned cantankerous.”

  “Mere de Dieu!”’ she seethed. �
�You ‘méricain coquin . . .” Emerald eyes clashed with sapphire.

  “Damn it. Simone, if you’re going to holler at me, at least do it so I can understand.” Frowning, he left, closing the door on an impassioned outpouring of French.

  The Emerald Queen was moored in Natchez at dusk, swaying softly with the current and bumping gently against the wooden dock.

  Ensconced in her own cabin since the afternoon, Simone could be still no longer. She rose stiffly and went to the window in her small parlor to look out at Natchez-Under-the-Hill, the roughest town on the Mississippi.

  At the end of the pier was a huddle of rough wooden buildings brightly lit from within. They were backed by a high clay bluff, which seemed to curve over the rude settlement. Gazing upward, Simone saw what seemed to be another town perched above, separate and somehow superior. Over the water, Simone could hear faint music and the sound of a woman’s shrill laughter.

  A light rap sounded at her door, and Tom entered, staring in vexation toward the empty bed. Turning, he located Simone, her long nightgown a white blur in the shadows by the window.

  “What are you doing up?” he asked gruffly, leading her by the hand to her bed where he tucked the covers firmly around her legs. Then he sat beside her, his back propped against the headboard and his legs outstretched on the velvet coverlet. Crossing his arms on his chest, he asked, “Are you still mad at me?”

  “I wasn’t really angry with you,” Simone answered quietly. “I’m sorry I lost my temper.”

  “It’s all right.” He put a comforting arm around her, mindful of her injury, and pulled her to rest against his side.

  They sat in silence as the night deepened and the candle beside the bed guttered. Drowsily, Simone nestled with her head on Tom’s chest, listening to his even breathing. He was so still, she thought he had fallen asleep.

  “Simone, who is this Alain you spoke of while you were delirious?” he asked, his voice floating to her on the darkness.

  Her breath caught in her throat, but Simone forced herself to answer calmly. “He was someone I cared for very much. He was my . . . guardian when my father died.”