Archibald Leggett never seemed to notice Susanna beyond the formal greetings he gave her at social gatherings, and now as usual he forgot her and turned to Julienne. “As you’re in excellent company, Julienne, I’m sure you won’t mind if I join some of my associates over there.”
“Certainly, Archie, go ahead.”
With an awkward bow to the ladies, Archie hurried back to the group of men standing close to the entrance of the dining room. Susanna watched him, then with a start turned back to her sister and Julienne with an air of exaggerated carelessness.
Felicia was saying, “He called you ‘Julienne.’ This is an important step, especially for Archie. It only took him a year to come around to it.”
“If you only knew,” Julienne said mischievously.
Felicia’s winged eyebrows shot up. “Knew what? Bigger news than that Archie has taken such liberties as to call you by your given name? What is it? Tell, tell!”
“Yes, tell,” Susanna echoed with much less enthusiasm.
The three girls huddled close together and Julienne murmured, “He asked me to marry him tonight. That is, I think he did. You know him, it took him a paragraph or two, and it ended with something about talking to Papa.”
Susanna looked downcast, but Felicia smiled delightedly. “Of course he proposed! That’s just Archie’s way. So when is he going to speak to your father? When can we expect the big announcement?”
“Mmm, not any time soon. I told him I had to think about it.”
Felicia sat up straight again and burst out, “Not again! What is this, the third time?”
“I suppose it would be the fourth, if you count Rich Darden,” Julienne said, concentrating. “Of course, he never actually proposed, but—”
“That’s because out of nowhere one day you tossed him over for Jonathan Nesmith, and he didn’t last six months,” Felicia interrupted her.
“Four marriage proposals,” Susanna said wistfully. She looked so woebegone that her sister reached over and patted her hand.
“Don’t worry, Susanna, you’ll find a man perfectly suited to your tastes and that’s as smart as you are, so you won’t be bored,” Felicia said. The hard truth of the matter was that no man would pursue Susanna while Felicia was unmarried. But the Moaks were so wealthy that one day it was inevitable that young men would be lining up for Susanna’s hand too.
As they talked about the grandeur of the Columbia Lady, Felicia confirmed that her father was indeed having entirely too much fun on his excursions to New Orleans and her mother had put a stop to it. Julienne admired the dozens of Negro servants lining the walls, all in livery, and the china and silverware. “And I am so excited about the dance and fireworks!” she gushed.
“We’ll probably set fire to ourselves and half a dozen other boats too,” Susanna said glumly.
“Of course we won’t,” Felicia said, then turned to Julienne. “Wait until you see the promenades. Father brought all the children from the plantation and dressed them up in livery. There are over a hundred of them, and they’re lining the decks, tending to the lanterns, and each of them have a bucket of water in case any sparks land on the deck. They’re so cute!”
After about half an hour, the two Negro butlers simultaneously struck three tings on small silver bells as a signal for dinner to start, and everyone began to take their seats. Archie was seated by Julienne. Felicia’s current admirer, a fine-looking, easygoing man by the name of Terrell Catlett, and whom everyone called “Lucky,” came in from the card room and was seated by her. To Julienne’s surprise her brother Darcy was with him and joined them as Susanna’s dinner partner.
“Hello, Jules. Good evening, Miss Moak. Miss Susanna, I see I have been chosen to be your dinner partner this evening, it’s an honor.” He seated himself and smiled at Susanna winningly. She blushed deeply and dropped her head. He was a very handsome young man, with thick dark hair and blue eyes, his features clean and striking. He was of average height and build, but he had a lean, sinuous grace. Susanna always blushed when she was around him, partly because he was so good-looking, but he also had a somewhat cruel streak and teased her sometimes. As in his greeting to her, he idly pointed out that she had no escort.
“Evening, Leggett,” he said shortly.
“Mr. Ashby,” Archie said stiffly. The two men despised each other.
“I didn’t know you were back,” Julienne said. “How long have you been back? Why haven’t you been home?”
Darcy shrugged carelessly. “Living on the Columbia Lady is like living in a grand hotel. I’m staying until she’s sold.”
“I would imagine that paying a stateroom fare every night would be a much more exorbitant cost than staying in any fine hotel,” Archie sniffed.
“Yeah, you just go on and imagine that, since it’s not really your concern, is it, Leggett?” Darcy said coolly. The truth was that Elijah Moak, and in particular Winnie Moak, didn’t know that Darcy was on the Columbia Lady every time she sailed. He had been staying in New Orleans with their son Stephen, and Stephen indulged Darcy and let him go on the cruises without paying the fare. The Columbia Lady had an elegant card room, always filled with wealthy men, and Darcy loved gambling.
The first course was served, a bowl of steaming turtle soup, followed by the fish course, a specialty of the house, a casserole called Peppered Oysters Gruyere. The main course was a steak filet with a thick, rich cognac sauce, with bacon-wrapped asparagus spears on the side. Dessert was Italian brandied pears with heavy cream.
As they finished up Julienne told Felicia and Susanna, “I believe this has been one of the most sumptuous meals I’ve ever had. You must tell your father, and thank him for me.”
“You should thank him yourself, Julienne, I know he’ll want to say hello to you,” Felicia said.
As the diners had finished, most of the men had again stood and gathered in groups, and Elijah Moak was surrounded by men, including Charles Ashby. Julienne said, “He’s so busy, but perhaps I will get a chance to speak to him this evening.”
Darcy rose and gave a cursory bow. “If you’ll excuse me, ladies and gentlemen, I’m sure I’ll see you all later.” He left, weaving his way between the tables to the door on the starboard side of the dining hall. Julienne knew that led to the card room and the smoking room, which was also a bar. She sighed, but then her attention was caught by a man standing in the group with Elijah Moak and her father. He was very tall, well over six feet, and as brawny as a bare-knuckle boxer. But he was dressed elegantly, and as he talked he gestured with one thick hand that had a large twinkling diamond pinky ring.
“Who is that gentleman that’s talking to your father?” Julienne asked curiously.
Felicia turned to take a discreet look, then answered, “His name is Lyle Dennison. He lives in New Orleans, but he’s moving here. He’s a widower, I understand, I believe his wife died four years ago. Father says he is the most likely buyer. He’s very wealthy.”
Seeing Julienne’s intent expression, Archie said with ill humor, “He’s nothing but a slave trader. He owns the second-largest market in New Orleans, and he’s buying into the Forks of the Road. He has no people, he comes from nothing, Julienne. He’s not our sort at all.”
“I just wondered who he is, Archie,” she said impatiently. “I wasn’t going to go ask him to buy me a drink and give me a cigar.”
“Of course not,” Archie said, shocked. “It’s not seemly to even joke like that, Julienne.”
“You sound like my maid,” Julienne retorted.
Felicia stood and everyone else stood up with her. “You two argue all the time, you’re like spoiled children. Everyone come along, it’s time for the fireworks up on the hurricane deck. While we’re all up there, they’ll clear the tables out and set up the musicians, and then we’ll dance!”
THE FIREWORKS WERE MAGNIFICENT, and
luckily none of them managed to set fire to any steamers, though they were, as always, close-packed at Natchez-Under-the-Hill.
When the crowd returned to the ballroom, Julienne was surprised to see that quite a few men, obviously not of the wealthy planter class, were standing around. Some of them wore evening dress, but in some indefinable way they looked flashier, more vulgar than the men in the highest circles of society. Intently Julienne tried to define the difference and decided that it was for several reasons. Generally they had much more brilliantine on their hair; Julienne noticed that first because in fact the ballroom had that sweetish odor wafting about. Their waistcoats were in garish colors and loud patterns, and she saw with disdain that they wore heavy, ostentatious watch chains. A man of quality didn’t wear a watch and chain with formal evening wear. Their voices were louder and somehow more coarse than the men of her acquaintance.
And there were several other men, too, that were not wearing white tie and tails at all. They wore plain long coats, black, gray, or dark blue, with white shirts and thin black ties. Their trousers were not cut to a perfect fit, and often seemed to be plain wool, which did not retain a knife-crease.
In particular she noticed one of these men, standing in a group of men talking animatedly. He was tall, with very broad shoulders, and a bronzed strong face with longish thick brown hair. He was staring at her with unabashed admiration. Quickly she looked away, but then she sneaked a look back at him, and he was still watching her just as avidly, but now with an expression of slight amusement. She lifted her chin and turned to Archie. “Felicia said they’re going to open with a quadrille. I don’t suppose you want to dance the first dance?” Archie was not a very good dancer, and he continuously complained that learning to dance was a frivolous waste of time and he couldn’t see any enjoyment in it.
“No, I don’t want to, but it is my duty since I escorted you,” he said with ill humor.
They took their place in a square with three other couples, and began the slow ceremonious steps of the ancient quadrille. Archie missed a turn and once took the wrong lady’s hand, and Julienne could barely contain her impatience. He danced as if it were a chore, like chopping wood, and he was never embarrassed when he danced poorly. He truly thought it was beneath him.
At last the first dance ended, and the next two were lively polkas. Acquaintances claimed Julienne for both dances, and as she whirled around the gleaming dance floor she occasionally caught glimpses of the man she had noticed before. He stood alone now and never took his eyes off her. It made her uncomfortable, at the same time she was flattered. His expression, though very intent, just seemed to be one of deep admiration. Instinctively she knew there was nothing threatening about his regard.
The next dance was the varsouvienne, a stately, slow dance with precise steps. To her delight, Etienne Bettencourt appeared and claimed her.
“Alors, cherie, vous semblez magnifique ce soir,” he said admiringly.
“Merci, Etienne,” she replied. “Don’t speak any more French. I seem to have completely lost the language.” Etienne was a Louisiana Creole from one of the first French families to settle in New Orleans.
“Then I must speak to your father and offer my services as a French tutor,” he said, his blue eyes alight. “Ladies of the haute ton must always be able to speak the most beautiful language in the world.”
Julienne laughed. “Somehow I can’t see you as a tutor, Etienne. Non, non, c’est impossible.”
“There, you still speak French with an impeccable accent, Julienne. You’re just too lazy to practice it as you should.”
“To please you, sir?” she asked merrily. “No more than we see each other you can hardly blame me for dedicating myself to your language.”
“Ah, I see you’re displeased with me,” he said with mock gravity. “I haven’t been to call on you for awhile. But that’s because you have broken my heart, cherie. You won’t marry me, and I am désolé, tres désolé.”
“You are not desolated. You would be horrified if I took your silly proposals seriously,” Juliette said mischievously. “I happen to know that you talk such foolishness to practically every woman you meet. You’d better watch out, Etienne, someday some innocent little girl will actually think you’re sincere and then you’ll be in big trouble with her family.”
“And then we must fight the duel,” he said with a theatrical sigh.
“You wake up every morning trying to think of someone to duel,” Julienne teased. “I would think that, since you had to leave New Orleans because of that last duel, you wouldn’t be quite so eager for that particular pastime.”
“In matters of honor a gentleman cannot be denied his right to a fair and just settlement,” he said grandly. “It just seems that somehow I have always been involved in quite a few matters that had to be settled that way.”
“Yes, so I hear,” Julienne said. “It’s a wonder you can afford that many bullets.”
His fine face brightened. “If you would just marry me, cherie, I would have plenty of money for bullets.”
Julienne was still laughing when the dance ended. Etienne was taking her back to Archie, when suddenly the man who had been watching her stepped between them, put one arm around Julienne’s waist, took her right hand in a dance position, and positively swept her off in a stately waltz. The waltz was definitely the favorite dance of the time, so the floor filled up so quickly that she immediately lost sight of Etienne.
Julienne danced automatically, so surprised that for long moments she was speechless. She had placed her left hand on his shoulder, and now she became aware of the hard muscling of his arms and chest, and the strength in his hands. She stared up at him. He had strange eyes, a hazel color that had deep brown-green depths. He stared back.
Finally he said, “Hello, ma’am. My name is Dallas Bronte. I think you’re the most beautiful woman in this room. In fact, I’m pretty sure you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”
“Th-thank you, but-but, you’re very forward, sir,” she said, managing to dredge up some indignation. “I don’t dance with men when we haven’t been properly introduced.”
“But you are,” he said, grinning. He had a crooked smile, with perfect white even teeth. Julienne now noticed a long red scar that ran from his right jaw down his neck. He was roughly handsome, his deeply tanned features masculine and hard. His cheekbones were high and jutting, and he had a strong jawline.
“I didn’t exactly mean to,” she finally answered. “But since I obviously am dancing with you, I suppose I’ll have to introduce myself. My name is Julienne Ashby.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Ashby. And it’s a pleasure to dance with you too.”
“You’re a very good dancer, Mr. Bronte,” Julienne said with surprise.
“I like to waltz. But I don’t know any of those other fancy assembly dances. I had to wait a long time before I could waltz with you.”
Again, he stared down at her with such an intensity that Julienne was uncomfortable. “If you can waltz, you can polka, sir. There have been two polkas.”
“No, for you only a slow waltz,” he said in a deep voice.
They danced in silence for a few moments. Dallas Bronte seemed to be drinking her in, looking at her hair, deep into her eyes, searching her face. Julienne’s awkwardness increased, and she blurted out, “Bronte, I don’t believe I’ve heard the name before. Who are your people, Mr. Bronte?”
“I don’t have any family. My parents are dead, and I never had any brothers or sisters,” he said bluntly. “But I know what it means when a lady like you asks about my ‘people.’ My family were poor farmers in Tennessee, that’s all. I’m a nobody.”
Julienne was embarrassed, and it made her speak sharply. “Obviously you’re not a nobody, Mr. Bronte. You’re here, and nobodies don’t generally attend Moak parties.”
&
nbsp; “Oh, really? Have you seen that bunch of nobodies down on the main deck? It’s a bunch of river men, which is the only reason they’re at this party. Just like me. It’s because Mr. Moak is selling the Columbia Lady, and he knows that when the river men see her, they’ll be able to tell the buyers the truth about her.”
“Yes, of course. So you’re a river man?” Julienne hinted.
“I’m a pilot,” he said shortly.
She brightened. Pilots were the kingpins of the men who worked the river. They were considered, in the river’s particular hierarchy, even more important than captains. But that was about the extent of her knowledge of the workings of a steamer. “A pilot, that’s a very difficult job, I understand. Knowing how to guide a boat on the Mississippi River. What boat, or ship, or whatever you call it, are you on now, Mr. Bronte?”
“We call them boats. And I’m between jobs right now. Can we talk about something else? Tell me about yourself,” he demanded.
“What? What do you mean?” Julienne asked, mystified.
“I mean, tell me about yourself,” he repeated slowly, as if she were an inattentive child. “How do you spend your days? What do you like to do? What’s your favorite pastime? Things like that.”
Julienne was nonplussed. In her experience with men, she had found that they liked very much to talk about themselves and had very little interest in anything she might have to say, or the things that she was interested in. She was confused, and to her consternation she found that her mind had gone blank. “Well, I and my mother receive visitors in the early afternoon. Sometimes I go shopping. In the evenings there are balls, cotillions, dinners given by friends, sometimes the theater. My family has a very active social life.”
He looked puzzled. “But what do you like? What do you do when you’re not receiving callers or shopping or at a party?”
River Queen Page 4
