The Emerald Queen (A Vieux Carré Romance)

by Karen Jones Delk

  Alain’s eyes clouded and he relinquished his hold.

  Simone looked at him, her green eyes brimming with tears. “Tom was my husband,” she blurted out. “He was your friend.”

  “So that’s what this is about? You think we betrayed Tom last night?”

  “Don’t you?” she accused.

  “Non, ma chère, I do not. Our feelings now have nothing to do with Tom. I’ve always wanted you, Simone. You know that. After I knew Tom, I did not begrudge him his wife, but I never stopped wanting you. You were a good and faithful mate while he lived, ma petite, but he is dead now, and you’re a living, breathing woman with needs and desires. And last night you wanted me just as much as I wanted you.”

  She did not answer, but Alain saw the spasm of pain cross her face.

  In her heart, Simone knew it was true that her life must go on. But what had she done, taking a man to her bed who spoke only of wants and needs and not of love?

  “This cannot happen again, Alain,” she said unsteadily. “We must have this clear between us, for I’ll be returning to New Orleans soon.”

  “What will you do there?” he asked.

  “Manage the Franklin Steamboats office.”

  “Manage the office?” he repeated, aghast. “What about Ethan?”

  “He’s in St. Louis, rebuilding. You know about the waterfront fire there?”

  “Oui, I was sorry to hear of it. But you can’t mean you plan to operate the office yourself.”

  “Why not?” she demanded.

  “Because you’re a woman,” he said simply, rising. “It’s not right. I cannot allow you to run a business.”

  “You cannot allow . . ” Simone’s eyes blazed and she sat bolt upright. “What makes you think you can tell me what to do?”

  “I’m concerned about your reputation,” he answered illogically.

  “Not so concerned that you did not spend the night with me,” she snapped.

  Alain blinked in surprise. “That’s different. I plan to marry you. You shouldn’t have to worry about business anymore.”

  “They are my businesses to worry about,” she countered tersely.

  Alain’s jaw worked as he struggled to hold on to his patience. “Haven’t you learned yet that a woman has no place in commerce? Why can’t you marry me and spend your time taking care of me and Rory?”

  “I take care of Rory. I take very good care of Rory,” Simone informed him hotly. “Further, you have not asked to marry me, and I have certainly not accepted. I have no desire to be a proper Creole wife, and I don’t want a proper Creole husband.”

  Alain’s face darkened, and he said, “Whether you marry me or not, I promised Tom I would look after you, and I will.”

  “So that’s it!” She jumped from the bed to face him, dragging the sheet with her as she rose. “You would marry me because of the promise you made to Tom? No, thank you again!” she shouted without giving him a chance to respond. “I will not be an obligation fulfilled. Unlike my father, my husband did not charge you to marry me off—to yourself or anyone else.”

  Alain glared at her, out of patience at last. “This is where I came in!” he roared. “And, I find, after all these years, you’re just as stubborn and prickly as you ever were!”

  The woman followed as he stormed out onto the gallery. Wrapped in the sheet, she stood at the railing, uncaring that someone might see. “Just a minute, Alain de Vallière!” she yelled after him. “I haven’t finished!”

  “Oh, yes, madame, you have.” He strode furiously down the allée toward the front gate. The last Simone saw of him, he was marching up the River Road toward Hideaway.

  Simone sat for a moment in her carriage, taken aback by the changes in Franklin Steamboats’ yard in just one year. On the adjacent lot she and Tom had bought just before his death, the Queen Enterprises office was already finished.

  “Miss Simone, welcome home.” Obadiah escorted her to the office.

  “Merci, Obie.” Standing in the doorway, she surveyed the big, drafty room with its marred, ink-stained wooden counter and rickety chairs.

  Some things never changed, she thought gratefully. The anniversary of Tom’s death had just passed, and it was difficult to return to the business they had built together. Comforted somehow by the grimy, familiar office, she asked, “How are things here?”

  “Been hard the last few weeks without Ethan. I’m glad you’re here, but you ain’t gonna be when you see the mountain of paperwork waitin’ upstairs,” Obadiah answered with a chuckle. “Have you heard how things are goin’ in St. Louis?”

  “Ethan’s last letter said we must rebuild from the ground up. It’s good that he took Gisèle and the boys with him, for it’s likely to take awhile,” she called, heading up the stairs to the manager’s office.

  Simone did not descend again until dark. Serenaded by the songs of the screwmen working at the dock across the road, she read the journal Ethan had kept for the past year, carefully recording new developments at Franklin Steamboats. When she had reacquainted herself with her business, she sorted through the paperwork, which was, as Obie had said, mountainous.

  She settled quickly into a routine, spending each day at the office, leaving Jupiter at home with Rory. She was cautious at the freight yard, seldom staying late. She had made the mistake of believing Marcel dead once before. The sheriff might assume he had perished in the swamp, but she assumed nothing.

  The evenings Simone spent with her daughter. Gradually, with effort, she became accustomed to living in the house on St. Charles Avenue without Tom.

  Simone sat on the terrace of Barbara and Jeremy Nash’s new home, sipping sherry and listening to the conversation around her. The female guests were seated at a small table, a citronella candle in its center the only light. The men clustered in the darkness at the top of the steps leading to the garden.

  The rather pregnant Barbara leaned toward her and said quietly, “Father told me our dinner party was your first outing, Simone. We’re honored to have you here.”

  “I am pleased to be here,” she answered with a smile. “Your new home is lovely.”

  “Doesn’t Simone look exquisite in lavender?” Dulcie asked the others. “I’m so glad your year of mourning is over, my dear, so you don’t have to wear black all the time.”

  “She looks very pretty,” answered Bernadette Cuvillion.

  “Très jolie,” Emilie Thibault agreed dutifully.

  “Merci.” Simone was uncomfortable with their well-intentioned compliments. She had not wanted to come to the soiree, but she could not afford to miss a dinner party held for William Clive Leighton, a representative of the company building Queen Enterprises’ screw propeller ship.

  When she had joined the women at the table, her spirits had sunk to see Emilie among them. Alain had been out of town for the past few days, and Simone had hoped he was still away. But if Emilie was present, he must be here, as well.

  She sensed his presence the moment he arrived. He stood in the doorway to the house, his back to the light, but she did not need to see his face to know he watched her.

  “Bonsoir, ladies,” he greeted them evenly.

  Suddenly Simone wished in earnest that she had not come. Though she worked next door to Alain’s office, she seldom saw him, and he had not entered the Franklin building since her return to New Orleans. She would have to face him sooner or later, but she was not sure she was ready to spend an evening in his company just yet. Though absorbed in her thoughts, she noticed the pain on Emilie’s face when he passed them without stopping.

  Alain stood at the edge of the terrace with William Leighton and Hiram, his mind half on their discussion. He was grateful for the concealment of the darkness as his gaze rested on Simone. He had known she would be present this evening, but he was unprepared for the rush of emotion he had felt at seeing her.

  Acutely aware of his eyes upon her, Simone was also having difficulty following the conversation around her. She was caught off guard when the
other women stood to take a quick look at the nursery Barbara was preparing. She rose, too, somewhat belatedly.

  “Pardon, but you ladies will not mind if I borrow my business partner for a few moments,” Alain requested, appearing beside them. “We have not had a chance to talk since her return.”

  “Can’t this wait?” Simone objected at once.

  “I don’t think so,” he answered pleasantly, capturing her arm.

  The women faltered as the partners glared at each other, and Barbara said swiftly, “We’ll be on the third floor, Simone. Why don’t you join us after you’ve spoken with Alain?”

  Her face rigid, Simone sat down and watched the others troop inside. Alain slouched in a chair beside her, his long legs stretched out in front of him, and regarded her closely.

  “I heard you were back,” he said after a time. “How are you?”

  “Very well, very busy.”

  “I’m sorry I haven’t had a chance to stop by the house.”

  “You needn’t trouble yourself.” Simone said coolly. “My office is a short walk across the yard from yours.”

  Alain snorted, but did not take the bait. Instead he said, “I would have come for you at LaVictoire. Why didn’t you let me know you were returning?”

  “Because I did not want a scene like this one,” she snapped.

  “This is not a scene,” he contradicted mildly.

  “What do you call it?”

  “Either a business meeting or the surest way I’ve found to have the pleasure of your company. I want to talk to you, Simone,” he began tentatively, “about the night at LaVictoire . . “

  She felt nearly weak with relief when the butler appeared in the doorway to announce dinner. She fled to William Leighton, her dinner partner for the evening. She had met the fatuous middle-aged man when he arrived at the Vieux Carré wharf. Recognizing her as the widow of one of Queen Enterprises’ owners, he had greeted her patronizingly, unwilling to discuss any subject weightier than his voyage.

  Over dinner, she set out to learn as much about screw propellers as she could, and she did so, so innocently that, utterly charmed, the Englishman told her far more about his business than he realized.

  Across the table, Alain, moody and withdrawn, watched her. When her eyes happened to meet his, the storminess in their dark depths snatched her breath away.

  After dinner, Simone sat with Bernadette and Dominique for a time. Bernadette’s expression as she watched her cousin with Alain was troubled, and, sighing, she asked, “Aren’t Emilie and Alain a handsome couple?”

  “Oui,” Simone replied without a glance in their direction.

  “I cannot understand why Alain waits. I thought surely he would propose to her by now.”

  “You’ve been saying that for two years,” Dominique chided.

  “Perhaps he is just not the marrying kind. He is sometimes so cool and aloof, I think he doesn’t know how to love,” Bernadette mused.

  “I think he does,” Dominique murmured, watching Simone. “I think he loves very deeply.”

  Alain stood at the window of the Queen Enterprises office, frowning as he looked out. In the yard below, Simone, dressed in a simple gray gown, moved between bales of cotton and barrels of molasses with Obadiah at her side. Then, climbing the steps of the building across the way, she disappeared inside.

  Damn it, he needed to talk to her, he brooded. When he had stomped away from LaVictoire the morning after their lovemaking, Alain had been determined she would have her wish. He had even told himself that what had occurred between them would never happen again. He had tried to believe it, but he could not. He wanted her, and, despite her protests to the contrary, Simone wanted him. She had met his passion with a fiery intensity he could not forget.

  Since his return from the West Indies, he had striven to banish his desire for her. He had tried to hate her. He had become the family friend. He had even toyed with the idea of marrying Emilie Thibault and getting on with his life. But none of those ideas had worked, and they never would. Even though he and Simone were constantly at odds, he loved her. And he had to make her believe it.

  With a smothered curse, Alain pulled on his jacket and strode out of his office. No one was in Franklin Steamboat’s outer office when he marched through, headed upstairs to find Simone.

  Sitting in front of the huge rolltop desk, she looked up from a column of figures when he halted in her doorway. “Alain,” she breathed in surprise.

  “Bonjour.” He nodded. “As you pointed out last night, we are neighbors. I thought I would come over and say hello.”

  She smiled at his conciliatory manner. “Won’t you come in and sit down?”

  “Merci.” Stepping into the office, he looked around. How could someone as lovely as Simone belong here? Ill at ease, he sat down across from her and said, “It was good to see you last night.”

  “Was it?” Her eyebrows rose skeptically.

  He decided to ignore her incredulity. “Simone, I want you to know I’m sorry about . . .” He trailed off, uncertain where to begin.

  “The night at LaVictoire?” Her smile suddenly lost its good humor, and her expression became tight.

  “Non, the morning after. I said some things I didn’t mean.”

  “So did I,” she surprised him by saying. She heaved a gusty sigh. “I shouldn’t have lost my temper, Alain. You were only saying what everyone thinks about my managing Franklin Steamboats. But, try to understand, Tom and I built this company from three little bayou packets. With Ethan in St. Louis, someone has to run it.”

  “But you are a well-born lady,” he tried reasonably.

  “Breeding does not change because a person owns a business.”

  “But a lady doesn’t belong in business. You should not be exposed to the rough types who work on the docks.”

  “Like the roué from next door?” she teased unexpectedly, widening her green eyes innocently.

  “The very one.” He laughed, pleased that the ice was broken.

  “Will you have some café?” she invited. “Obie brews the best on the waterfront. He always makes sure I have a pot of my own in the mornings.”

  “Oui, merci.” Sipping the bitter black brew, Alain revised her boast with a grimace, “Obie makes the strongest café on the waterfront.”

  “It does well enough for us,” Simone said. “It’s like our office here—not fancy, but it serves our purpose.”

  “Why don’t you move into the new offices? There’s room.”

  Simone suspected he would like her to be where he could keep an eye on her, but she declined tactfully. “This is a shipping office. We don’t need the elegance of Queen Enterprises to impress clients. We don’t even sell tickets here. All we do is work.”

  “That’s something else I wanted to talk to you about.”

  “The office?”

  “No, work. Too much work,” he amended hastily, seeing her draw herself up defensively. “You need some time for pleasure.”

  To his amazement, she blushed.

  “I—I mean . . .” he stammered. “Damn it, Simone, you make me feel like a tongue-tied schoolboy. What I am trying to say is that I’d like to take you to dinner tomorrow evening. Strictly as friends . . .no business, no pressure . . .of any kind.”

  Simone stared at him in surprise before replying, “I would be delighted, if we can go late. I’d like to put Rory to bed first.”

  Before Alain could respond, a voice interrupted, “Pardon, since no one was downstairs, I took the liberty of coming up.”

  The couple turned to see a handsome young man in the doorway, his hat in his hands.

  “Bonjour, Claude,” Simone greeted the interloper graciously. “Do you know Monsieur de Vallière?” she asked innocently.

  “Alain de Vallière,” Claude Galvez greeted the other man with surprised affability. “I didn’t know you knew Simone.”

  Nonplussed, Alain rose and shook the younger man’s hand. “Nor did I know you did.” He glanced
at the woman, who smiled smugly.

  “We are old acquaintances,” Claude assured him. His eyes on Simone, he missed Alain’s look of shock. “I met her when she managed the company before,” he continued. “She was most gracious in assisting me, and we’ve been friends ever since, n`est-ce pas, Simone?”

  Alain watched tensely as the young man kissed the hand she offered. His face was alight with pleasure, but on it was no glimmer of recognition for his one-time protégé, Jean-Paul Sonnier.

  “I trust I am not interrupting anything?” Claude asked politely.

  “M’sieur de Vallière and I were just talking business.”

  “Mais oui,” Claude exclaimed, addressing Alain, “you two are now business partners. Have I interrupted an important meeting then?”

  Seeing Alain’s ominous glower, Simone said smoothly, “Nothing that will not wait. Won’t you sit down, M’sieur Galvez?”

  “Non, merci. I just stopped by to see if you have heard anything further about the construction of a railroad.”

  “Only that there will be another meeting here in New Orleans before the end of the year.”

  “Do you truly think Louisiana needs another railroad?” Claude’s brow was furrowed in thought.

  “Goods may be shipped upriver,” Simone responded, “but they must be hauled west. Why not an interstate railroad?”

  “You realize someday it could put your steamboat company out of business?”

  “Someday,” she acknowledged, “but if we work hard now, we can make a name for Queen Enterprises in international shipping.”

  “Ever ambitious, eh, chère?” Alain jibed.

  “You are fortunate to have such a partner a beautiful woman with the business sense of a man,” Claude said in her defense.

  “A man has never had such a partner,” Alain muttered.

  “I have taken enough of your time today, Simone.” Claude seemed ill at ease. “Good to see you, de Vallière. Au revoir.”

  “Au revoir,” Simone echoed as the young Creole departed. She turned to Alain, anticipating disapproval.

  His face looked as if it were chiseled from stone as he rose. “I will pick you up at eight tomorrow evening, Madame Partner,” he informed her coolly. Then he pivoted and was gone.