Moon Flower (Gone-to-Texas Trilogy)

by Shirl Henke

  MOON FLOWER

  By

  SHIRL HENKE

  Previously published by Warner Books

  Copyright 1989 by Shirl Henke

  All rights reserved. No part of this ebook may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic means without the written permission of the publisher.

  Other electronic works by Shirl Henke:

  * * * *

  A FIRE IN THE BLOOD

  * * * *

  “Billie Jo and the Valentine Crow”

  * * * *

  The Blackthorne Trilogy:

  LOVE A REBEL…LOVE A ROGUE

  WICKED ANGEL

  WANTON ANGEL

  * * * *

  House of Torres Books:

  PARADISE & MORE

  RETURN TO PARADISE

  * * * *

  The Cheyenne Books:

  SUNDANCER

  THE ENDLESS SKY

  CAPTURE THE SUN

  * * * *

  The Texas Trilogy:

  CACTUS FLOWER

  MOON FLOWER

  NIGHT FLOWER

  Prologue

  Boston, 1829

  “Deborah Faith Manchester, what are you doing?” Adam Manchester thundered at his thirteen-year-old daughter, who was seated comfortably on the cushions in the library's big bay window, book in hand.

  Making no attempt to hide the title, Deborah held the volume securely as she looked at her father. “Why, as you can plainly see, Father, I'm reading.”

  Adam Manchester was a tall man with iron-gray hair and an austere face that frequently made subordinates at his bank quake in terror. “I can see that you're reading, but why read that degenerate book?”

  Deborah smiled with a serenity that belied her tender years and challenged her father. “You don't object to what Mary Wollstonecraft says, only to the fact that she's related to the scandalous Shelleys.”

  “And just what does a gently reared young lady know about such libertines as that disgraceful Englishman Shelley?” Adam asked indignantly.

  “I know about their free-love notions, and I don't approve of them.”

  “Well, heavens be praised for that!”

  She went on calmly, “When I marry a man, I expect it will be as binding on him as on me. A woman can believe in equal rights for her sex, even if she doesn't advocate free love.”

  “Where have you learned to discuss such unladylike subjects, Miss Manchester?” Adam demanded, admiring her intelligence in spite of himself.

  Deborah's lavender eyes danced, reminding him of her mother, dead for over ten years. “You know perfectly well Lisette sends me books. After all, Father, it was you who wanted me to learn French.”

  “I wanted you to learn to speak French, not to read radical tracts.”

  “But I read them in French—and understood every word,” she added impishly.

  “That insane tutor is at fault. I should never have hired a Frenchwoman.” Adam inspected the stack of books: some in French, some in English, all dealing with the rights of the lower classes, blacks, and women.

  “Don't blame Lisette, Father. She may have brought me the books, but I began thinking for myself at an early age. After all, I'm Adam Manchester's daughter.”

  Replacing William Godwin's “Political Justice” on the window cushion, Adam put his hands on Deborah's shoulders and looked wistfully into her eyes. “Yes, you undoubtedly are, but I do wish you had inherited your mother's quiet, biddable nature as well as her beauty.”

  Deborah frowned. Looks were always a sore subject for her. “I'm hardly bound to be a beauty, so I'd best be a bluestocking, don't you think? I'm far too tall and gangly and my hair is lank and colorless. I—”

  Adam gave her a gentle shake of reproof. “You are the image of your mother with her beautiful eyes and silver-gilt hair. Just wait until you mature. You'll not be thin and gangly at all. I'm sure I'll be dealing with lovesick young swains by the wagon load.”

  “I may have Mother's coloring, but I'm afraid I've your considerable height. You should have had a son, not a misfit daughter,” she replied forlornly.

  “You will be no more than five feet seven inches, I'm certain, and as striking as a platinum Athena.”

  “Don't you remember, Father, Athena was fated to remain a spinster? And I'm certainly not Aphrodite!” Deborah added with a gentle laugh. “If a man ever appears who would make me a good husband, I'll recognize him and he'll understand he's getting no simpering little puss for a wife.”

  “All I want is your happiness, Deborah,” Adam insisted, “and whether or not you believe it now, it does mean searching for the right husband.”

  * * * *

  New Orleans, 1829

  It was Rafael Beaurivage Flamenco's sixteenth birthday and he was very nervous. “I still do not see why this must be arranged now, Papa,” the youth protested as he stepped down from their family's gleaming black carriage onto Orleans Street.

  His father, already standing on the banquette beneath a flickering gas lamp, stared up at his son. Although he was five foot ten himself, Claude Adrien Flamenco was dwarfed by his boy, and both were much taller than the average Creole gentleman.

  “You are a man grown,” he rejoined in precise French.

  Rafael sighed. He knew what the older man was going to say.

  “What do you think will happen if you continue your irresponsible behavior? I will tell you—disgrace!”

  The shadowy lights from the street lamp cast the youth's face in sharp relief, coolly haughty and cynically handsome for one of such tender years. “Hardly such disgrace, Papa. After all, Sally Drewery is only an overseer's daughter. You carry on as if I had seduced the daughter of Prospero d'Valmy or Pierre LeJeune.”

  Claude guided the angry youth toward an arched doorway and into the wide passageway where stairs curved upward. “I realize you are a man now and must indulge the appetites of a man. That is natural. I also realize you know enough not to touch the young women of our class. That is laudable—and sane,” he added with irony. “However, you are too young to marry and too careless in choosing whom you bed.”

  “So that means I must take on the responsibility of a mistress,” Rafael finished his father's speech. “I like variety, Papa. Placing a girl on Rampart Street means almost the same thing as marrying a girl at the cathedral—the same woman, the same boring face, year in and out, not to mention children.”

  “Yes, we should consider children,” Claude interrupted. “A gentleman takes responsibility for his actions, unlike some crass American who breeds indiscriminately and then walks away from his obligations. Consorting with cheap harlots or seducing white trash is not our way, any more than is lying with slaves and having our issue born into perpetual servitude.”

  “I have never taken advantage of a slave wench, Papa,” Rafael replied, stung by the implication.

  “I never said you had,” the older man replied. “As to the young women you are about to meet,” Claude continued with a smile, “I do not think you will find them in the least boring. They are educated and charming, yet full of vivacity and fire. Perhaps therein is the problem, eh? To an impoverished girl like Sally Drewery you are a paragon of a lover and a gentleman. A beautiful octoroon may not be as impressed.”

  Rafael stiffened. “I shall impress them, Papa,” he replied arrogantly. “After all, I am your son.”

  There could be no doubt of that fact. The two were much alike—only the gray at his temples and a few facial creases marked Claude as twenty-four years the elder. Besides their physical resemblance, they also shared an uncertain temper, fierce Latin pride, and an unflagging interest in the opposite sex. And now, as his own father had once done for him,
Claude was taking his son to a Blue Ribbon Ball to choose an octoroon mistress.

  “I do not think these belles kissed by the tar brush will find me unappealing,” Rafael reassured himself.

  Amused by his son's rejoinder, Claude expanded on the etiquette of the business they would transact tonight. “Remember, after I make the preliminary arrangements with the girl's mother, it will be your responsibility to pay all your mistress's household expenses; and, in time, I am confident, see to the children's education.”

  Rafael grimaced, dropping his mask of sophistication. “It still sounds like marriage to me.”

  His father laughed tolerantly. “You will have a beautiful, undemanding woman at your command. Caring for the offspring of such a discreet liaison is a small price, believe me. What if you had gotten that Drewery girl with child and had to marry her? That would have been a far worse bargain, I assure you!”

  Rafael looked genuinely aghast. “You're actually serious!” He paused to consider, shaking his head to clear it of the horrible vision. “Marry an American? Barbarous! I've always found them overly tall and pale, with appallingly forward ways. No, not for me, Papa.” Both men laughed.

  They made their way up the wide, curving staircase with its intricately worked, wrought-iron railing. At the top of the steps stood an enormous black man dressed in maroon velvet. He nodded politely to Monsieur Flamenco as he took his tickets and opened the door to the Salle d'Orleans.

  The grand ballroom above Toto Davis’s gambling establishment was vast, with large double doors opening onto a gallery that circled the building on three sides. The polished hardwood floor and huge crystal chandeliers glowed with the light from thousands of candles. There were brass-railed loges with velvet upholstered seats against the far wall.

  Although it was early, the enormous room was already filled with people. Gray-haired Women of Color sat in the loges and watched the scene with pride and predatory interest, while rich white men of all ages laughed and talked in carefree enjoyment. The center of attention was the group of beautiful quadroons and octoroons of pale complexion and midnight tresses who flitted among them like silken butterflies.

  Rafael surveyed the dozens of bewitching creatures dressed in Paris gowns as he sipped the finest French champagne, but he was too excited to taste any of the delectable food spread before him. One girl, with an exquisite, tiny face and voluptuous figure, smiled demurely at him, then looked quickly away. She was very young, dressed in a pale rose gown that set off her ivory skin and red lips magnificently. Her features were cameo perfect, and he found himself hypnotized by her enormous golden eyes. Rafael walked unobtrusively over to his father, and soon an elderly Creole gentleman, Armand Ferrier, was making introductions.

  “Rafael Flamenco, may I present Lily Duvall…”

  Chapter One

  Boston, 1835

  “Really, Deborah, I don't think you should do it,” Lydia Beecher declared. She and her friend had been riding in companionable silence for several minutes on their way to the Bon Marche Modiste.

  “Do what?” Deborah pulled herself from her reverie.

  “I don't think you should go through with the wedding,” Lydia said. For once her bubbling, flighty mien was subdued.

  “Not marry Oliver! The engagement party is tomorrow night. We've planned this for months. We are in every way suitable—family backgrounds, religious beliefs, mutual interests and philosophical—”

  “Oh, pooh to philosophy,” Lydia interrupted her friend's familiar litany. “What about love? Has he ever held you in his arms, ever kissed you?”

  Deborah's pale complexion flushed. She'd already argued with her father on numerous occasions since she had agreed to become Oliver's wife. “Such romantic drivel, Lydia. You read too many novels.”

  Before she could say anything more, Lydia pounced, “There, you see! You evade the question because you don't even want to think about touching Oliver. I always thought he was a cold fish.”

  “That's not fair,” Deborah defended her fiancé, but she did have some qualms about the nature of their relationship. As if to allay her misgivings, she began to go over her reasons for accepting his suit once more. “You know how strongly I feel about a woman's position in marriage, Lydia. By law, she loses all rights to her property—even her children are totally under her husband's control. I could never play the simpering, fainting belle to please the vanity of some man. I think women and men should have equal rights. Oliver agrees with me. He respects my mind and will treat me as an adult.”

  “I can see it now.” Lydia rolled her large blue eyes in exasperation. “There you are, on your honeymoon, all alone on a cozy winter's evening, sitting before a roaring fire. He takes your hand in his and looks deeply into your eyes, sighs, and says, ‘Deborah, my darling, how shall we while away the hours tonight—discussing Mr. Smith's ‘Wealth of Nations or Mr. Malthus' ‘Essay on Population’?”

  Always lurking beneath the surface of her seriousness, Deborah's sense of humor burst forth as she let out a hearty chuckle. “Why, Lydia, I never knew you were such a bluestocking! When did you read Adam Smith or Thomas Malthus?”

  Lydia shrugged disgustedly. “I never did, thank God! I just picked up the names from all those boring books you leave lying around. Don't you see, Deborah? You may resent social conventions. Lord knows, Boston is a stuffy, prudish old place, and women's lives are dull and rigid. But that's all the more reason to find an exciting man, one who'll cherish you, dote on you and let you have your way because he loves you, not because of some abstract philosophical ideas. I'd never trust a man who thinks too much, especially if he's not handsome either.”

  “Really, Lydia, Oliver may not be the most dashing man in Boston, but he suits me. I don't want to wheedle my way around a husband! I certainly don't want him to dote on me. I can't abide weakness.” Her eyes were dark with anger now and a bit of ill-concealed hurt.

  Lydia was instantly contrite. “Oh, Deborah, I didn't mean to disparage Oliver, or you either. I just wish you'd get over your feelings of inferiority. You are beautiful—why, I'd give anything to have your silvery hair, violet eyes, and statuesque figure.”

  “You're beginning to sound like Father. Statuesque, indeed! I'm too tall, and men are put off by me. I suspect it's my mind and my manner as much as my looks, but I can't change my ideals any more than I can my height. Be satisfied if I tell you I'm marrying Oliver because he's tall enough for me. Or because he's the only one who has asked me,” she finished on a note of grim humor that silenced Lydia's protests.

  Just then, they pulled up at Learned Street, which housed the best dressmaker and tailor shops in the city. Deborah's trousseau was being assembled here. She alighted from the carriage with a sigh, thinking of the endless fittings. While Lydia reveled in such frippery, Deborah never had. She had learned the social graces, and how to dress to accent her striking coloring; but she had never exerted any effort to make herself attractive to men.

  They spent the next two hours at the dressmaker. By the time they left the shop, Deborah was smarting from pin pricks and stiff from posing. “I positively hate fittings. If only one could walk into a shop and select from large rows of gowns already made up and nicely arranged by size.”

  “What odd notions you have, Deborah.” Lydia skipped a step as they were strolling down the street, heading toward the milliner's shop in the next block. “It's such a lovely day, let's take a stroll through the park across the way,” she said impulsively.

  “What are you up to, Lydia? I know you never walk when you can ride. You'll get your curls mussed in the breeze.” Deborah looked around as they stepped across the street and began to walk toward the small tree-shaded common, ringed by elegant tradesmen's shops.

  Suddenly, her soft lavender eyes locked with a pair of liquid black ones, staring intently at her from a scant fifteen feet away. “Oh,” was all she could manage before her throat seemed to collapse on itself and her heart started to thud. Quickly, Deborah looked down a
t the walk. She forced her feet do her bidding and take her swiftly away from the tall, foreign-looking stranger who was lounging against a light post, watching them—no, watching her, she amended. She could still feel the heat of his black eyes scorching her back.

  Before they were even out of earshot, Lydia was giggling. “Slow down. We're just out for a stroll in a public park, after all. Now, that was a specimen I'd think you might consider taking on a honeymoon!”

  Deborah gasped and blushed again at her friend's teasing, walking faster as if to escape.

  Lydia grabbed Deborah's arm. “He's heading toward the central path. If we walk slowly around the corner at Jacobs Street, he'll cut across our path before he leaves the park. Honestly, Deborah, isn't he the most gorgeous man you've ever seen!” Lydia looked at her friend's flushed face and continued with a superior smirk, “Don't bother to deny it. You thought so, too. Do you suppose he's a foreigner? The clothes, that dark, mysterious air about him. Maybe he's a count or a duke.”

  “Oh, will you stop it. He's simply some French or Italian dandy, looking for a rich and foolish young woman to charm. Anyway, I don't like his forward manner! No gentleman stares at a lady that way!” Deborah could still picture in her mind the sardonic arch of those black brows as the jet eyes bored into her, dancing with mirth at her flushed discomfiture.

  “Don't look now, but he's crossing our path again and he really has his eye on you,” Lydia hissed, half-amused, half-jealous; for the handsome stranger was indeed strolling across the park on a collision course with them, his gaze fixed unwaveringly on Deborah.

  Just as he stepped onto the paved sidewalk in front of them, he stopped and removed the flat-crowned white hat from his head of curly black hair. Making a sweeping bow, he flourished his hat in a courtly manner as he allowed them to pass. He smiled but made no attempt to speak.