She sneaked surreptitious glances at the boy standing next to the waiting buggy. Much to his chagrin, she’d seen to it that he received a bath the previous day, and she’d paid one of the service women to mend and wash his dirty clothing. He now wore the spare chambray shirt he’d brought in the knapsack holding his meager belongings. Although the sleeves were so short his bony wrists stuck out like sharp little knobs, the shirt was at least clean, pressed, and free of tears.
Though he flatly refused the use of brilliantine to tame his hair’s unruliness, Lilly herself had cut his shaggy mane prior to his bath, and it now fell short of his collar and barely brushed his dark eyebrows. At least, she thought with a sigh, she’d seen no signs of head lice, and the thick, unruly mop was out of his eyes.
“What are ya lookin’ at?” he asked, catching her staring at him.
It was no secret that even though he understood Cade’s rules about the two of them getting along, he had little love for his new “sister.” By no stretch of the imagination could his attitude toward her be described as anything beyond tolerance.
Very aware of the tension between them and determined to do her best to bring him around, she smiled. “I was just thinking we look like a nice family, and that I hope the housekeeper thinks well enough of us to hire us.”
Robbie made a sound that could have been derision or agreement.
She stifled a little sigh. She’d apologized and done her best to explain to the child that her reactions when she’d first seen him in her doorway had been surprise and a simple loss as to how to deal with the situation. She did not tell him that once her shock had worn off, she had come to the realization that had it not been for Pierce and Rose taking her in, she herself might have wound up like Robbie.
Her heart had gone out to him, though she hadn’t spoken a word of those tender feelings or shown him any overt kindnesses. Some innate instinct told her that, like Cade, Robbie would not appreciate any foolish, sentimental overtures. He was a tough little character, used to being on his own, living by his quick wits and quicker hands. He claimed he could take care of himself and that he needed no one “fawnin’” over him.
But he needed Cade, Lilly thought as she watched the boy’s avid brown gaze fasten on his mentor as he stepped through the doorway of the telegraph office. He needed a father to guide him. In fact, the two were like father and son in many ways. No, Cade wasn’t nearly as strict as she felt a father should be. He treated Robbie more like the indulged younger brother they pretended he was.
She was still skeptical about how his addition to their little family would work out, but Cade insisted it would be fine, that Robbie was quick as a steel trap and he’d seen the boy whip his weight in wildcats on more than one occasion—to which Lilly had intoned that Cade should not encourage such behavior. Instead, he should see to it that the child was taught Biblical principles and some semblance of manners.
To her surprise, her partner had offered her one of his rare, true smiles and said, “Ah, but that would be your job, dear wife.”
She knew they all needed to get to know each other better if they were to fool the residents on Rampart Street, and since she was determined to successfully complete the job William Pinkerton had sent her to do, she tried once more to break through the child’s armadillo hide.
“Were you scared riding in the boxcar from Chicago to St. Louis?” she asked, doing her best to draw the strange, adultlike child into a conversation. “I’d have been terrified.”
Robbie gave her a look of disdain. “Weren’t no picnic,” he admitted. “It got a bit cold at night, and me with no coat and nothing but my knapsack for a pillow. Me and another kid snuggled together to keep warm, we did.”
“There was another boy with you?”
“Aye, Tommy McDougal. He was goin’ to St. Louis.”
Genuinely troubled by Robbie’s circumstances, she said, “I’m sorry you’ve had to live in such a way.”
He shot her a sharp glance. “No fault of yours,” he said. “I didn’t have to come. I should have stayed with Seamus and Meagan like I was told ta do. Seamus is Cade’s brother and a policeman, if you’re a mind to know,” he added. “But Meagan favors nagging more than a wee bit, and I couldn’t let McShane leave me behind again. He needs me to look after him.”
“Look after him?” Lilly echoed in amazement. “What do you mean? It seems to me that he should be looking after you.”
“Isn’t that what he’s doing, then?” Robbie asked, cocking an eyebrow at her. “Isn’t that why I’m here instead of on the next boat going upriver?”
“I suppose it is,” she agreed. “What do you mean? How do you look after him?”
“You’ll have to ask him that, won’t ya?” Robbie said. “I figure if he wants ya to know, he’ll tell ya.”
He was loyal; she’d give him that. The notion of asking Cade about his past association with the tough little guy sitting next to her was not one that seemed appealing. She could still hear him telling her that she asked too many questions and that he confided his sins to no one unless he was drunk or in the confessional. She heaved a deep sigh. She would not be asking Cadence McShane anything more about his past in the near future.
* * *
They were soon rolling through the heart of the French Quarter, exclaiming over every new and wonderful sight they passed. The thriving city was filled with history. It seemed there was a vibration to it, a vital pulse of the many nationalities that had settled there, blending their cultures into one unique heart that beat with every rumble of wagon, every vendor’s call, every smile she encountered. She was glad she’d come and hoped she would have a chance to explore the city in more detail while she was here.
A quick lunch was something spicy called gumbo, filled with sausage, chicken, shrimp, peppers, onions, and a vegetable itself called gumbo, or okra, in a tasty brown sauce served over a bed of rice. Vastly different from anything she’d ever eaten, Lilly loved the blend of flavors. The hearty dish was followed with a deep-fried, fruit-filled dough called a fritter. Soon afterward, Cade instructed the driver to take them to the Fontenot home, which was situated on the edge of the French Quarter.
The driver turned onto St. Anne, took a left on Royal for one block, and then made another right at St. Peter, where he stayed for a distance before turning onto Rampart Street. The Fontenot home was somewhat narrow and deep, a perfect example of how well the front gable style conformed to the restrictive size of the city lots.
Having longed for a home of her own the past few years, Lilly had taken more than a passing interest in architectural styles and thought she recognized an Italianate influence. Its wooden façade boasted two stories, the upper supported by decorative brackets instead of posts or pillars.
The full-length windows were topped by flattened arches. The front porch steps spanned three quarters of its length, and the posts and upper railing were painted a pristine white that contrasted nicely with the sedate steel gray of the house. The lower porch had no railings.
Though narrow, the yard was shaded by several huge oak trees. A plethora of shrubs and flowers bordered the house and created a lacy edging down the front path. The driver pulled alongside the house and around back. When Lilly looked askance at Cade, he offered a wry smile.
“We’re here to interview as the hired help, Brona, and don’t you forget it,” he told her.
The back door opened as soon as he alighted. A tall woman, somewhere on the shady side of forty, exited the house. Clad in unrelenting black save for the pristine white apron covering the front of her simply styled gown, she stood in the aperture, her back ramrod straight, her blue gaze probing, and her thin lips downturned with what could only be described as disapproval.
Her graying blond hair was scraped into a tight bun atop her head. Lilly had the feeling that not a single hair of the woman’s head would have had the audacity to straggle. She also thought that with a different hairstyle and a smile she could be passably attractive.
Cade helped Lilly down; Robbie jumped down by himself. Donning the boxer’s persona, Cade approached the woman with a friendly smile, his hand extended. “Mrs. Abelard? I’m Bran Sullivan.” He gestured toward Lilly and Robbie. “This is my wife, Brona, and my little brother, Robbie. We’re here to see about the positions my brother said might be available.”
The woman ignored his outstretched hand. “I am Hedda Abelard,” she said with a thick German accent. Her stony gaze moved to Robbie. “Your brother made no mention of a child.”
“I am aware of that,” Cade said in his most apologetic tone, “but since I last spoke with him, our mother has died and there was no one in Chicago to look after the boy.”
He turned to Robbie, and Lilly saw the warning in Cade’s eyes.
“He’s a good lad and a hard worker.”
Lilly kept her eyes downcast. She fully expected a lightning bolt to come from the cloudless sky at the blatant lie and knock them all into eternity.
“If we are hired, I’ll see to it that he pulls his weight.” Cade gave Mrs. Abelard another of those bone-melting smiles.
The woman visibly softened, revealing a hint of that restrained prettiness. Lilly resisted the urge to groan. Even the seemingly inflexible Hedda Abelard was no challenge for a handsome, smooth-talking man.
“Normally,” Mrs. Abelard intoned, finding her professional persona once more, “I would not be so accommodating; however, the last couple who was here found higher-paying employment and left us more than a month ago without giving notice. We have been muddling through with part-time help, but we need reliable, full-time staff, especially since this is Holy Week and Easter Sunday is upon us.”
“It is unfortunate, but those things happen,” Cade said in a sympathetic tone. “But I can assure you that we are dependable employees. We have our latest reference.” He turned and held out a hand toward Lilly, who reached into her reticule and withdrew a sealed envelope. He passed it to Mrs. Abelard, who opened the letter and began to read.
Lilly knew exactly what the letter said, since it had been composed by William Pinkerton and typed up by Harris on his trusty Remington typewriter. Posing as the Sullivans’ last employer, Mr. Terrence Turner, William had recounted Bran and Brona’s hard work, their loyalty and honesty, ending with the tongue-in-cheek promise that Bran could “whip things into shape,” and Brona would “get to the bottom of things” and would do their jobs well. Finished, Mrs. Abelard sighed and divided a severe look between Cade and Lilly.
“Fine, then. Your wife will be helping Lamartine in the kitchen as well as with other household duties that I deem necessary. You, Mr. Sullivan, will be working with Amos, Lamartine’s husband, doing whatever needs to be done outside, as well as tending the horses and carriages.”
She looked at Robbie, whose sharp-eyed expression had been miraculously transformed into the countenance of an angel. Lilly wondered if he, too, had acting experience.
The housekeeper gave the boy a hard look. “Since I have nowhere else to put you, you will stay with Bernard, Amos and Lamartine’s son. You, Mr. and Mrs. Sullivan, will occupy a room at the top of the servant’s stairs, across from Amos and Lamartine.”
Lilly shot a wide-eyed look at Cade, who only smiled that infuriating smile, and told the housekeeper that it all sounded perfect.
Mrs. Abelard told them what they would be making per week, that they would be paid on Fridays, and that they would have Mondays off. “Come along to the stables,” she said, the matter settled to everyone’s satisfaction, “and I will introduce you to Amos.”
Amos Lagasse was a huge man, and as handsome as sin. Tall and broad and sleekly muscled, his dark skin had a definite copper hue, and his features were noble and finely wrought. His cheekbones were as high as those Lilly had seen in renderings of the proud Indian chiefs, his nose straight and chiseled.
He and Cade shook hands, and Amos introduced his son, Bernard, a lad of thirteen who was the spitting image of his father. Eager to see everyone settled, the housekeeper told Amos that as soon as Bran and Brona met Lamartine and Madam Fontenot and were settled in, Bran could come out and have his duties explained more fully.
“No doubt Madam is up from her afternoon rest,” the German woman told them as they made their way through a well-tended herb garden toward the kitchen. “She has been having some stomach issues from time to time, and she is getting on in years and tires more easily than she would like. Dinner is at seven. Brona, you will please do the serving for Madam and the doctor.”
“B-but I’ve never served dinner before,” Lilly blurted, remembering at the last moment to adopt an Irish accent.
Mrs. Abelard shot her a sharp look.
“I have only just cleaned and been a ladies’ maid,” Lilly told her. “I am quite good with doing hair and choosing outfits.”
Mrs. Abelard gave a sigh of exasperation. “Then you must learn. I will show you tonight, but from then on you will be doing all of those things—making the beds, cleaning, serving, and helping with whatever else Lamartine or I need you to do.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m a quick study,” Lilly said truthfully, as, with her hand tucked into the crook of Cade’s arm, they followed the older woman into the kitchen. “I’ll soon get the hang of what you require.”
The sweet aromas of butter and brown sugar blended in the afternoon air, wafting from the open doorway. Lamartine, the cook, was just taking a cake of some sort from the oven of a brand-new wood-burning stove. Turning toward her, his back to the housekeeper, Cade rolled his eyes in an imitation of swooning ecstasy that made Lilly’s lips twitch with the longing to smile. The boxer had made the briefest of appearances.
Schooling her features to solemnity and digging her fingernails into his arm, she pressed her lips together and let her gaze roam the room, spying two freshly plucked chickens in a bowl of water, waiting to be plunked into one of the copper pots that hung from a rack on the ceiling, or cut up, dredged in flour, and fried in the huge cast-iron skillet sitting on the stove.
The cook was as tall as Mrs. Abelard, but where the German housekeeper was all angles and planes, with mostly unremarkable features, Lamartine Lagasse was all rounded flesh and curves and as exotically beautiful as her husband was handsome.
Her skin was the color of the café au lait Lilly had drunk with her fritter earlier. What hair that was not hidden by the brightly hued tignon wrapped around her head was honey brown. Her nose was narrow, with the slightest bit of a flare at the nostrils, and her eyes, a startling light gray-blue, were framed with thick, sooty lashes. Her lips were full and enticing. Without a doubt she was one of the most beautiful women Lilly had ever seen. No wonder Bernard was so handsome.
Despite her regal bearing and a strange expression in her eyes that Lilly could not quite place, there was a smile of welcome on Lamartine’s face when Mrs. Abelard made the introductions.
“We’re pleased to have you,” she said in the soft New Orleans patois they’d heard so much of in the few hours since they had docked.
While Mrs. Abelard explained that Brona needed some tutoring in serving, Lilly’s gaze roamed the spotless kitchen with its wood floors and round oak table with a bowl of brown eggs in the middle. A hand pump with a copper basin sat beneath the window that was draped with calico curtains, eliminating the need to go outside for water. It was truly the home of the wealthy.
Robbie, who had had a peek at his room, rejoined them. Lilly was pleased to see that he was still on good behavior. Satisfied that the Sullivans’ room was ready and that things were on schedule for dinner, Mrs. Abelard inclined her head toward a doorway and said, “Follow me, please. I will introduce you to Madam Fontenot. The doctor will not be home until just before dinner.”
They followed the housekeeper through a dining room with windows looking out over a sun-dappled side yard, where plump cherubs and stately angels played peekaboo from behind carefully trimmed shrubbery. An ornately carved table sat in front of the window. A huge black cat sp
rawled across the delicate needlepoint runner next to a jade-green vase filled with sweet-smelling roses.
As they entered the room, the feline raised its head and considered them with narrowed eyes. Its left ear was missing a chunk, and a jagged scar ran from the ear across an eye to the bridge of the feline’s nose. The injury had left the eye milky white. Deciding they were not worth expending any further energy on, the beast lay its massive head back down on its paws and began to pu r.
Taking it as a sign of acceptance, Robbie reached out to give the fellow a pat. The feline instantly lifted his head, hissed a warning, and made a flashing slash with his right paw. Robbie jerked back his hand just in time to avoid a nasty scratch and turned to look at Cade and Lilly with wide eyes. The cat was quick.
“Have a care for that one, young man,” Mrs. Abelard said, pointing at the cat. “That is Lucifer, and he does not take kindly to anyone but Madam.”
“Yes, ma’am.” For once, Robbie looked as if he would take the warning to heart.
Sliding aside pocket doors that were at least ten feet in height, the housekeeper ushered them through the drawing room and down a hall to a library where a tiny woman with snow-white hair sat at a desk, the skirts of her eggplant-hued gown spread over the Oriental carpet as she pored over a book of some sort, a quill in her right hand that glittered with rings.
“Madam.”
The woman jumped. “Damnation, Mrs. Abelard, must you sneak up on a body?” the old woman asked, blotting at a large spot of ink.
“I beg your pardon, Madam. I didn’t mean to startle you. The Sullivans have arrived, and as you suggested, I’ve taken the liberty to hire them, since their referral appears impeccable and we are so near Easter.”
LaRee Fontenot rose in one smooth motion, the grace of her movements belying her age. As she approached them, Lilly took the opportunity to study the woman who had requested the help of the Pinkertons.
Though This Be Madness Page 5
