Day Dreamer

by Jill Marie Landis

  Just as the girl had predicted, the driver paid no attention when she ran up to the carriage. He settled back and let Celine open the door and climb into the dark interior. Before she had time to settle herself squarely on the seat, she was nearly tossed to the floor.

  The damp cloak offered her warmth, but she continued to tremble from more than the dampness. The carriage turned right at the corner and headed for the levee road. When one of the back wheels hit a mud hole, Celine nearly flew through the roof before she came down again with a sharp thud. She braced herself on the cold, hard seat, too drained to do anything but slump against the wall.

  It was a while before she realized tears were flowing down her face. She wiped them away with the back of her hand and then shrank into the corner of the seat and leaned her head back.

  There was no relief from her sorrow. She felt as weak as a kitten now, but earlier she had somehow found the strength to move Persa’s body to the small bedroom in the back of the house, lay her out on the bed and gently cover her.

  Before she left the room, Celine said a hurried prayer, hoping to speed Persa’s soul on to wherever it might be bound. Then, just as she was about to begin packing, she had heard the loud sound of men’s voices as they shouted to each other in the street. A glance out the front window told her it was the police pounding up the walk. She had raced out the back door.

  There had been nothing left to do but run. She had been intent on escaping New Orleans, whether by flat-boat or with travelers going up the Natchez Trace, when she’d paused at the cathedral. And then the blond angel of mercy had appeared.

  The carriage had by now left the city behind, traveling at what Celine considered breakneck speed. She could not recall ever having ridden in a carriage before, but if this were the norm, she was thankful she had missed the experience. Every so often she heard the whip crack over the horses’ heads. There was a wild sway and bounce whenever the carriage hit a mud hole as they bowled down River Road and along the levee.

  Praying that she had not exchanged one horrible situation for another, she was thankful that at least she was putting miles between herself and the city. While she was bouncing along, she decided that when she reached her unknown destination she would explain that her mysterious benefactor could not make the trip, then ask for shelter and employment.

  She would not refuse any opportunity. She would willingly work alongside house slaves for room and board just to have a place to hide until she could be certain she was not wanted in the death of Jean Perot.

  The carriage rumbled on for what seemed like hours. Lightning flashed. One loud clap of thunder forced her to cup her hands over her ears.

  Just as she was certain the carriage was about to tip over, she realized the vehicle was merely turning right. She pulled back the leather window shade. They were moving up a long, oak-lined drive toward a grand house, whitewashed and ghostlike, that was barely visible through the moss hanging from the trees.

  Even after the carriage wheels ground to a halt, Celine had the sensation that she was rocking. She fought back nausea, started to open the door, then put off revealing herself to the driver for as long as possible. She drew the hood of the cloak around her face and waited, perched on the edge of the seat with her hands pressed together between her quaking knees.

  Rain beat down on the roof of the carriage. Above the din she could hear the driver as he dragged something heavy off the roof. She recognized the sound of a door knocker and waited, listening intently. She heard voices, but it was impossible to make out the conversation over the rain. Then, without warning, the carriage door flew open. The driver, whose features were barely visible between his hat brim and his coat collar, reached in without looking at her and offered his hand. With her face averted, Celine took it and climbed down. He let go of her as soon as her foot hit the ground.

  She clutched the edges of her hood close to her face as the driver walked beside her. A balding, portly man stood waiting at the front door, permanent worry lines etched on his brow. He wore the clothing of a servant.

  “Come in, Miss O’Hurley. Do come in out o’ the rain. What a night, eh? We’ll have you right and tight in a minute, though, won’t we? By the way, I’m Edward Lang.”

  As he ushered her into the hall, Celine looked around to see who “we” might be, but the room was empty.

  Her driver, a lumbering dolt if she ever saw one, hovered somewhere behind her for a moment or two and then walked out. When he came back a few seconds later, he shoved a huge leather trunk inside the front door. Celine kept her back to him and the hood of the cloak up over her head.

  The worried servant glanced at the driver. “If you need to stay the night …”

  The other man waved off the offer. “I was paid to deliver the goods and see that she didn’t pull any stunts along the way. I’ll be heading back to town before the road’s flooded. You can keep this blasted bog.”

  Undeterred, Edward turned back to Celine as soon as the door closed. He was eyeing her speculatively, circling her, taking in everything: the ruby-colored velvet cloak and gold clasp, her filthy, waterlogged shoes, the uneven hem of her muddy skirt. Celine choose her words carefully.

  “I realize I’m not what you expected, but I can explain …”

  “No need to apologize, mum. It’s a ’ellish night out there. We’d all look like somethin’ the cat dragged in after bein’ out in that storm. The driver should ’ave taken more care to see that you didn’t get so wet.”

  Before she could explain that she was not the expected Miss O’Hurley or make mention of employment, three more men came strolling along the wide hall from the back of the house. Two of them, obviously gentlemen, were tall, blond, young and uncommonly handsome. They halted just inside in the doorway and stared at her curiously. As if that weren’t bad enough, a priest walked in behind them with a glass of red wine in one hand and the last bite of a beignet in the other. He, too, stared.

  Celine stared back at all three of them.

  Edward politely made introductions. “Miss, may I present Stephen and Anton Caldwell? And of course, Father Perez.”

  “Bless you, my dear. Bless you,” the priest said, then washed down the sugared treat with a swallow of wine and belched.

  One of the twins nudged the other with his elbow and whispered. “Go get Cord. I can’t wait to watch his face when he sees this.”

  Celine stiffened and avoided looking at either of the cocky young men. They might be American, but like most of the Creoles she knew, they appeared never to have done a day’s labor in their lives. Good looks meant nothing to her. She had learned that lesson very young, when she had seen the cruelty of some of the handsome men who had paid for her mother’s services. Some of the best-looking had been the most perverse.

  Edward must have sensed her discomfort. “I’ll see you to a room where you can freshen up and change before the ceremony.”

  “What ceremony?”

  “This is going to be good,” one of the twins said. He crossed his arms and lounged in the doorway, watching the proceedings with such a sarcastic twist to his lips that Celine wanted to slap it off him.

  His identical match was more sober. “Maybe someone should get Grandfather.”

  “I sent Foster after him,” Edward informed them.

  Celine, wondering who Foster might be, quickly assessed her surroundings. The hall, lined with doors, ran the length of the house. It was toward one of these doors that Edward now led her, the others trailing behind.

  “I would really like to explain,” Celine tried again.

  “I’ll take your cloak, Miss O’Hurley.” Edward paused just inside the door of what appeared to be a grand sitting room.

  “Thank you, no. I’ll keep it for a while if you don’t mind.”

  Celine clutched the cloak tighter. It was of far more worth than what she wore beneath it, far more appropriate to the elegant surroundings.

  She became more uncomfortable when the young gentlemen and th
e priest joined them in the sitting room. One of the twins took a chair near a rose-colored marble fireplace. The other was content to stand and watch her. The priest looked for a place to set his empty wineglass.

  “I should explain to all of you that I’m not Miss O’Hurley,” she began.

  “Is this the girl?”

  Celine whirled around at the sound of an unfamiliar voice and came face-to-face with a gray-haired older gentleman leaning on an ebony cane. He was dressed entirely in black. His piercing, hawkish, dark eyes were set deep beneath straight black brows.

  “I’m Henre Moreau. I take it you are Thomas O’Hurley’s daughter?” When he looked her up and down as if she were a prime racehorse, Celine hugged the cloak tighter.

  “No, I’m not, but I’d be happy to explain. She couldn’t be here, but when she found out I was longing to leave New Orleans, she insisted I take her carriage. I hoped to find employment outside the city.”

  She tossed a worried glanced in the direction of the priest and then looked up at the silver-haired gentleman again.

  “I’m glad your father warned me ahead of time not to believe a word you said,” Moreau told her curtly. Dismissing her, he turned to Edward. “See that she’s cleaned up and back here in a quarter of an hour.”

  “But, sir, it will take at least—”

  “Fifteen minutes, Edward. Call on Foster for help.” Taking command of everyone in the room, Henre turned to the twin nearest him. “Stephen, go get Cordero. I want him down here immediately. We have put this off long enough. I want to get to bed. And you, Father Perez,” he said, turning to the priest, “should gather up your Bible and candles and whatever ceremonial trinkets you need. While you are at it, you might want to brush the sugar off your cassock.”

  Father Perez stared down at the front of his black cassock. It was dusted with sugar and beignet crumbs. He left the room brushing furiously at them.

  “This way, Miss O’Hurley,” Edward said again.

  Celine refused to budge. “I’m not going anywhere and I’m not Miss O’Hurley.” She turned to the old man. “I came here to seek employment. If there is no hope of such, please tell me and I’ll gladly leave.”

  “You really are very good at this, you know. Quite convincing, my dear. Jemma, isn’t it? Your father warned me when I signed the marriage agreement that you were a consummate liar. I see he was right.”

  “Marriage?” She felt a swirl of panic. “But I’m not Jemma O’Hurley!”

  “Did you or did you not arrive in the O’Hurley carriage, delivered by the O’Hurley driver? And is that not Jemma O’Hurley’s trunk I saw in the hallway?”

  “I did, and it probably is, but I assure you, I’m not the girl who should be taking part in this marriage to some … some …”

  If Jemma O’Hurley was escaping marriage to this forbidding man, Celine was happy she’d helped her escape.

  “To my grandson, Cordero,” he said.

  Henre Moreau appeared sullen, reluctant even to utter the groom’s name. Celine was too panicked to feel relieved that this ogre was not trying to claim her as his own bride.

  “Take her, Edward, and dry her off or something.” He turned away, leaning heavily on the silver-handled cane, and limped slowly toward the windows.

  “Anton,” Henre said to the remaining twin, who had watched the scene in silence, “go see what is keeping Stephen. He may need help with Cordero.”

  Help with Cordero? Could Miss O’Hurley’s intended be an imbecile? Was he insane or diminished in some way? What manner of man were they trying to wed to the angelic Jemma O’Hurley, a woman whose heart was set on becoming a nun?

  “Miss, this way, please.”

  The distress in Edward’s voice was unmistakable. Hoping that once out of the room she might find a way to escape and eager to get away from the older man’s icy stare, Celine obliged and followed Edward.

  He led her along the corridor to a comfortably appointed ladies’ parlor. A low, cheery fire lit to fight off the dampness burned in the fireplace, although the windows were open. She longed for nothing more than to collapse in one of the deep, upholstered chairs and sleep, but her mind was racing as fast as her pulse.

  Edward stood by expectantly. “Is there anything I can get from the trunk, miss? Your wedding gown? I can beg time and ’ave one of the women iron it. You’ll want to wear it for the ceremony.”

  “I’m not getting married.”

  “I’m afraid you are, miss, an’ if I might be so bold as to say it, Cordero ain’t all bad. Known him since the day he was born. It was Foster and I wot raised him ’fore we came to Louisiana. Given ’alf a chance, he could be as fine a gentleman as any—”

  “I don’t care what he’s like. I won’t be staying long enough to find out. I can’t go through with this.”

  “But you won’t have to stay here,” he said. A smile lit his face, erasing some of the worry lines. “We’re sailing for the West Indies by midday tomorrow, miss. You, Cordero, Foster and me.”

  Celine started to protest, and then the meaning behind his words registered. Sailing for the West Indies. Tomorrow. She snapped her mouth shut, waited a second more and then said, “Cordero, the groom, is leaving Louisiana tomorrow?”

  Edward’s smile faded. He began to wring his hands and cast worried glances in the direction of the door.

  “It’s true. Cordero’s made up ’is mind to leave old ’enre’s house for good. Leavin’ it all behind. Now, I know your father expected you t’ marry an’ settle down ’ere, but I can assure you, I think this’ll be best for all concerned. As I said, given ’alf a chance—”

  Celine had to be sure she had heard him correctly. “The bride and groom are sailing tomorrow?”

  “That’s right, miss. To St. Stephen Island in the West Indies. If I might say so, miss, you’ll never be free to run this place like a real lady of the house as long as ol’ Henre is alive. Leavin’ would be the only way. That’s ’tween you and me, now, y’ ’ear?”

  Marry Cordero Moreau and she would soon be so far away that the Perots would never find her. All she had to do was stand in for Jemma O’Hurley and marry some mad, moronic idiot that no one else would have and then sail over the horizon. Tomorrow. If the situation proved too miserable, she could disappear as soon as they reached the islands.

  “I really am not Jemma O’Hurley,” she assured Edward again.

  “Whatever you say, miss.”

  “I didn’t come here to get married.”

  “No indeed, miss.”

  The door opened and Celine half expected to see Henre Moreau standing on the threshold glaring at her. Instead, a spry, carefully groomed servant with light brown, thinning hair stepped into the room and closed the door behind him.

  “I came as soon as I could,” he said in an excited, hushed voice. He crossed the room and stood close to Edward, who quickly introduced him.

  “This is Foster Arnold, Miss Jemma, Cordero’s other personal servant. Also from St. Stephen, by way of England.”

  She nodded. “Hello, Foster. I’m not Jemma O’Hurley.”

  Foster glanced over at his fellow servant, who merely pursed his lips and rolled his eyes. “It’s worse than we ’eard,” Edward said.

  Foster looked back at her and asked in a condescending tone one might use with a child, “Then who are you, miss?”

  “My name is unimportant. I took Miss O’Hurley’s place in the carriage with the intent of getting hired on here.”

  Foster turned to Edward. “At least we were warned.”

  “I’m not lying,” she said. She was beginning to wonder exactly what it was they had heard about Jemma O’Hurley.

  The two men eyed her pityingly.

  “Cordero’s not so bad, miss,” Foster said.

  “I tried to tell her that,” Edward assured him.

  “I don’t care if he has two heads. I must be losing my mind, but I am thinking of consenting to this marriage. But it’s definitely not because I am Jemma O�
�Hurley. I just wanted you both to know, I’ll not do it under false pretenses.”

  “She’ll do it!” Edward clasped his hands over his heart and beamed at Foster.

  Foster took Celine’s hand. “Thank you, Miss O’Hurley. And you’ll see. He’s not all bad.”

  “I’m not Miss O’Hurley,” Celine repeated with a sigh.

  “Whatever you say, miss,” Foster said.

  The men took her in hand. They found a coral silk gown carefully laid out on top of the clothes folded in the trunk. They held the gown up, shook it out and, after admiring every bow and stitch, insisted she must wear it, that it would be a crime not to. They hovered over her, giving advice and encouragement as one of the house slaves towel-dried her hair before the fire and then carefully fashioned it into an upswept style they all assured her complemented her eyes.

  Celine changed out of her faded serge garment into the gown the Englishmen had chosen, careful to keep her coins hidden. It was the loveliest gown she had ever seen, made of coral silk with sleeves puffed at the shoulders and fitted to her wrists. Although it was trimmed with an embroidered satin bow that tied beneath her breasts, Jemma O’Hurley’s gown was a good two sizes too large across the bodice.

  “It’s a shame it wasn’t properly tailored,” Foster commented.

  “It’s not my dress,” Celine explained.

  Foster and Edward looked at each other and shrugged. There was a moment of confusion when none of the shoes in the trunk fit either, and then, after trying in vain to clean the shoes Celine had arrived in, the men hurried her out of the room.

  Twenty minutes later, the two servants entered the large sitting room where Henre Moreau sat scowling like an irritated potentate who’d been kept waiting far too long. Except for the priest, he was alone in the room.

  “Monsieur Moreau,” Foster said, casting a proud glance in Celine’s direction, “she’s ready.” With a flourish, he made a courtly bow and presented Celine, who stepped into the room, forced to stand inspection once again.

  Without comment or compliment, Henre Moreau motioned her to step closer. She crossed the floor.