Josephine_Bride of Louisiana

by Cindy Caldwell

  “But something has changed,” she said, watching his eyes turn dark, confusion as well as concern in them.

  He hung his head and then looked up at her. “I am ashamed to say that I don’t know. I have done nothing differently. In fact, for the past few months, Jerome has been here to help me. We should be doing even better with two of us.”

  The pain in his voice tugged at her heart. She looked out at the workers in the fields, the finely kept plantation house and the friendly people in the village, and couldn’t even imagine what it must feel like to have things change.

  She pulled her wrap around her. “Is it bad, Pierre? Things are not going well?”

  He stopped the buggy and turned to her. “You may as well know the truth. I certainly don’t want to put any more pressure on you, Josephine, but if I can’t claim my inheritance, there is a risk that we may lose the plantation. Father has turned it over to me and enjoys his new life in France. I can’t bear to tell him what’s happened.”

  Josephine let out her breath and patted her chest with her hand. She’d wondered if he would ever tell her what she’d overheard earlier. She didn’t think she could handle anything more at this point. She reached out and placed her hand on his arm.

  He looked up at the large white house in front of them. He looked out toward the smaller plantation cottages and the people busily working, all for the sake of the plantation. His eyes rested on the small cottage that housed the young woman she’d seen him with and her daughter.

  “If we can’t keep the plantation, there will be other casualties besides myself,” he said as he turned and looked back up at the big house. “This is all I have ever known, but it is the same for many here. Not just me.”

  She followed his gaze toward the house and her heart tugged at his kindness toward the people who worked the plantation.

  While he still hadn’t answered her question about courting, she could clearly see what the plantation meant to him, and she vowed once more to help in any way she could.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Josephine shivered as she took off her clothes and stepped her foot into the warm water that Bernadette had insisted be brought up after Pierre had explained they’d been caught in a storm.

  She sighed as she sunk all the way in to her neck. She’d been cold on the way back but there was nothing to be done about it. Pierre had pulled his coat tight around her on the return, even though she’d insisted he take it.

  Thoughts of his kindness warmed her along with the water, and her heart tugged once more as she remembered how he’d looked lovingly at the plantation and his pained expression as he talked about his mother. She shook her head and sat up, water dripping off her warmed skin as she reached for the towel Bernadette had set nearby.

  Her stomach fluttered--actually, it hadn’t stopped fluttering since Pierre had asked her if she’d dine with him this evening. She couldn’t seem to forget about all of her mistakes the previous night, and he eventually did confess that he’d like the opportunity to show her what all of those forks, spoons and dishes were for. She cringed at the memory of how she’d been such a novice and hoped that he would be as kind to her with this learning as he had been with the picnic.

  She stopped in front of the mirror as she passed by. He hadn’t answered her question about courting, and she blinked hard, trying to see herself as one of the elegant, French ladies that she’d seen in town--the ones who’d stolen sideways glances at her and Bernadette as they’d shopped for clothes. They were so elegant...long, velvet dresses, beautiful gloves and fans--always fans.

  A conversation with her mother tugged at her memory and she crossed to the wardrobe. She stood on tiptoes and reached up for her dingy, green bag. She’d transferred the things that she needed into the wardrobe when she’d first arrived, stowing away several other items she thought were useless, but that her parents had given her.

  She sat on the bed and opened the bag, reaching inside. Her fingers closed around the item she’d been looking for and she grinned as she pulled it out.

  Her mother’s fan. Well, her fan, now. She opened the clasp and flipped it open as her mother had taught her to. She’d always loved the beautiful colors--the red flowers, the bronze, shiny outline, the poem.

  She stood and held it in front of her, looking at it in the mirror. Her mother had told her that there was some sort of fan language, a way to communicate with things you did with fans, but she’d never understood it. Either way, she loved the bright colors, and if she was trying to appear as an elegant French lady, she may as well do as they did--and bring the fan.

  Opening her wardrobe, she held the fan up to the dresses she’d brought home yesterday and ran it alongside them, searching for a perfect match.

  “That’s it,” she said as she rested the fan next to the beautiful, caramel-colored dress, its velvet incredibly soft to her touch. The white lace lining the sleeves and covering her décolleté was dainty, quite lovely, and she pulled it out and placed it on the bed.

  If she was going to make this work, she may as well try her best. She slipped on her knickers and reached for her corset, wondering how she could tighten it as much as she wanted to on her own.

  As if in answer to her prayers, Bernadette knocked softly on the door before asking, “Josephine, I thought maybe you could use some assistance.”

  She ran to the door, forgetting entirely that she was undressed. She threw the door open and pulled Bernadette in. She let out a sigh and said, “I was just wondering how I could do this on my own. I’ve never had a corset like this before.” She fumbled with the strings that laced down the back of the garment and couldn’t imagine how this was supposed to be worn.

  “Ah, my dear, I assumed that might be the case. Here, let me show you.” She pulled Josephine over to the four-poster bed. “Hold onto this,” she said as she wrapped Josephine’s hands on the tall, mahogany post.

  Josephine gasped as the corset closed tighter as Bernadette pulled. “I...how did you...” She tried to ask a question, but lost her breath every time the laces cinched tighter with each pull.

  Bernadette laughed and gave another tight tug, tying the remaining laces in a small bow. “Hard to breathe?”

  “Yes,” she said, almost unable to speak.

  Bernadette walked over to the vanity and picked up a brush, patting the seat for Josephine to sit.

  “I used to do this for Pierre’s mother. She always said the same thing, but I have to say, she may have used some different words at times.”

  Josephine’s hand flew to her mouth, hiding her smile. “Oh, I can’t imagine any of the French society ladies would do such a thing.”

  Bernadette removed the pins from Josephine’s hair and began to brush, long even strokes down her honey-colored locks.

  “You’d be surprised, Mademoiselle,” Bernadette said, catching Josephine’s eye in the mirror as her eyes sparkled. “You know, you remind me a lot of her.”

  Josephine stomach clenched. “I don’t use colorful language. Should I?” She still didn’t know much about Mrs. Bernard, and the curiosity was growing by the moment.

  Bernadette twisted Josephine’s hair for her and wrapped it at the nape of her neck, leaving a few tendrils loose as she pulled them forward to frame her face. “No, my dear. That’s not what I was referring to,” she said as she fastened a tortoise-shell comb into the back of her chignon. “Do you like to dance?”

  Josephine sighed as heat crept into her cheeks. Her mother had been a wonderful dancer, and she’d spent many evenings watching her parents dance around the parlor. Her father had tried to teach her, but she hadn’t done well at it. He’d stopped after she’d stepped on his feet a number of times, and she’d always been ashamed that she couldn’t share that with him.

  “No, I’ve tried, but I’m afraid I’m a little clumsy at it.”

  “Oh, goodness. Then Pierre will have his hands full this evening,” she said, laughing as she reached for the dress laid out on the bed.


  Josephine swallowed as a lump formed in her throat. Surely, after all of the food, silverware and clothes she was to learn about, dancing could not be added. It was impossible--she’d tried.

  “What do you mean? Please tell me that’s not something I need to learn. I can’t,” Josephine said as she watched Bernadette pick up and brush smooth the skirts of the dress she’d chosen.

  Bernadette sighed as she gazed at the dress. “This is a perfect choice. It’s lovely,” she said, crossing over to Josephine. “Yes, Vivienne loved to dance, and she taught Pierre. They enjoyed spinning around the room after supper most nights, and his father joined them regularly. Something they did as a family.”

  Her stomach dropped at the thought of adding the shame of stepping on Pierre’s feet to dropping her spoon and almost fainting when she’d learned what she’d eaten.

  She caught Bernadette’s eye in the mirror, her eyes pleading. “Bernadette, I can’t. I’ve tried. I’ll do anything else but that.”

  Bernadette rested her hand on Josephine’s shoulder. “My dear, are you feeling all right? You feel warm to me,” she said as she moved her hand to Josephine’s forehead. Her touch felt cool, but aside from shivering a bit in the bathtub--which was to be expected--she felt fine.

  “Aside from being terrified about dancing, I believe I’m all right.”

  Bernadette pulled Josephine up and took the dress off its hanger. “There is nothing to be terrified about, my dear. I’m sure Pierre will be a good teacher.” She unbuttoned the back of the dress and held it out for Josephine. “He is your future husband, after all.”

  Josephine winced at the words. Her future pretend husband, she wanted to say, but she bit her tongue, stopping the words before they sprang out. She smiled at Bernadette as she reached her arms into the soft, warm velvet dress and turned for Bernadette to hook the buttons.

  “There’s no telling that I’ll be able to do this well enough that we ever will get married,” she said, her heart tugging as she looked around the room and ran her hands down the smooth velvet of her bodice. No, she still had more to learn, more to prove. And if she stepped on Pierre’s feet too many times, she might lose this all in the blink of an eye. And he’d lose the one thing he truly loved. The plantation.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Pierre’s chest tightened as he folded his napkin and set it on his empty plate. He stood and pulled Josephine’s chair back, offering her his arm as she stood. As she placed her delicate hand through and placed her hand on his wrist, he blinked hard as the warmth of her hand made his tingle.

  He hadn’t noticed when they’d sat down to supper--one that included no French delicacies--but as they walked around the mahogany dining room table, the candles flickering as they passed, he inhaled the scent of--what was it? Magnolias? Vanilla? It was oddly familiar but he couldn’t remember smelling it before.

  As he reached to open the heavy, walnut door for her he laughed at the memory of her expression when he told her he looked forward to dancing with her.

  She’d paled, and looked down at her plate. “I really don’t think that’s a good idea, Pierre,” she’d said, her cheeks crimson.

  “Nonsense,” he’d told her, confident that anyone could dance. It wasn’t that difficult, and he’d enjoyed dancing with his mother--what he could remember of it. He would be pretty rusty himself, so they might make a good pair.

  Now, as he led her into the parlor, he actually wondered if he could remember how, himself. It had been years--except for some very occasional situations he’d been forced into by his father--since he’d danced with a woman with any interest.

  “Bernadette mentioned that your mother loved to dance. And she taught you?” Josephine sat down on the settee.

  He looked up at her, his heart tugging at the memory. They’d spent hours in the parlor, his mother counting--one, two, three, one, two, three--while they’d laughed at his own awkwardness. It had taken many attempts, but he’d never forget her joy the one time they’d been able to dance together at a society ball in town--their first and last.

  “I apologize that we have no music to dance to. I do play the piano,” he said as he motioned to the baby grand piano in the corner, “but I can’t do that and teach you to dance at the same time.”

  Josephine laughed as she stood, setting her fan down on the table next to the settee. “I do believe, kind sir, that I can count for us as you try to keep your feet safe from mine.” She lifted her skirts and walked toward him, her smile bright.

  Before he reached out for her hand, he stopped for a moment. He watched her as she walked toward him, her skirts rustling, the velvet catching the light. Her hair--the most beautiful color he’d ever seen--shone in the glow of the lamps as well.

  His heart pinched and he shrugged the feeling away as he reached out for her hand. He ignored the smell of magnolias, or vanilla, or whatever it was he couldn’t place as he reached out for her, her cheeks crimson as she put her hand in his and her other on his shoulder as he wrapped his around her waist.

  “If you count, I will show you how to waltz. Just follow what I do, except in reverse.”

  He grinned as Josephine looked at both of their feet for the better part of an hour. He couldn’t help but grimace slightly when she stepped on his feet but was careful to smile again by the time she looked up at him, her eyes wide in apology.

  By the second hour, she was doing much better and he enjoyed the feeling of her in his arms as they twirled around the room. She began to look up at him from under her lashes, tearing her eyes from their feet as she gained confidence. Each time she did, he smiled down at her, hoping that she was at least enjoying herself.

  As they took turns counting, laughing as they had to begin again, Josephine started to hum. He stiffened at the sound, something in his memory tugging at him.

  “What is that song?” he asked and she looked up from their feet and smiled.

  “Au Claire de la Lune. It’s a lullaby, actually, but I thought maybe it would be better than one, two, three.”

  As she continued to sing and they swirled around, he was flooded with a sense of recognition and he blinked at the memory. It was so utterly familiar that he closed his eyes and could see his mother--hear her voice as she sang that song.

  He shook his head and focused on the matter at hand. They practiced for hours, and collapsed onto the settee after a bit, both turning toward the open door as Jerome leaned against the doorjamb, clapping his hands slowly. His wry grin sent a quick chill through him. His cousin had been known to mock people when they were boys and, although he hadn’t seen him for several years, he hoped that this would not be a case where he continued his previous behavior.

  “Well, wasn’t that lovely?” Jerome said as he crossed over to the table and poured himself a Grand Marnier. He lifted his eyebrows and held up an empty glass toward Pierre.

  “None for me, thank you,” Pierre said as he stood.

  “But of course Josephine would, wouldn’t you?” Jerome said, pouring another glass and handing it toward Josephine.

  Pierre looked from his cousin to Josephine, who was looking at him, her eyes questioning.

  “Something else you’ve never had?” Jerome cut in, lifting the glass up again. “Might as well try it. It’s French and all that.”

  Pierre nodded at Josephine. Jerome was right. This was something that Josephine would have knowledge of. Even if ladies didn’t partake often, they definitely knew what it tasted like--and what it smelled like on their husbands after a long night of poker. In fact, as he approached his cousin, it was plain that this had been one of those nights for Jerome.

  “Are you well, cousin?” Pierre hadn’t seen Jerome all day, but had assumed he’d be riding the plantation like they were, as he said he’d take over business for him while he helped Josephine. “Is everything as it should be on the plantation?”

  Jerome waved his hand in the air as he filled his glass again. “Oh, don’t worry so much, Pierre. Everything is fine.
And it will be very fine as soon as you get your inheritance.”

  Josephine shot a glance at Pierre, and he gave in to his urge to move closer to her, his hand protectively around her waist. She squeezed his hand as Jerome passed by, his eyes not leaving Josephine.

  “Now you, fair lady, should get back to your education.” He raised his glass in their direction and turned, closing the parlor door behind him.

  “Should I drink this, Pierre?”

  He shook his feelings off as he turned from the door. “If you’d like to,” he replied, smiling as Josephine brought the small glass to her nose and inhaled.

  She wrinkled her nose and looked up at him, her eyes wide. “Oh, I did it again, didn’t I?”

  “Yes, you have an unusual habit of smelling things before you taste them. We’ll have to work on that.”

  She shivered as she drank the potent, orange-flavored liqueur, one he’d been accustomed to for a long time.

  “Oh,” she cried. “It’s burning my nose.” She coughed as she set the glass down.

  He tried not to laugh as he watched her. He’d known her for just a short time, but as he’d gotten to know her, he wondered if there ever could be anyone for him. That he could have any kind of love like his parents had known.

  He knew one thing for certain, though. He’d never seen anyone as beautiful, and his eyebrows rose as he realized that for the first time in his life, that included even his mother. Yes, she was even more beautiful, her humor, kindness and generosity radiating from her with every step.

  He cleared his throat and vowed to tell her the remainder of the truth he’d started to tell her earlier. That he had no room in his heart. No room for anything but the plantation. He knew that the entrance to his heart had snapped shut when his mother died and he turned all of his affection toward the planation. He couldn’t afford for anything to sidetrack him now--not even this beautiful young woman who was giving her all to help him.