Day Dreamer

by Jill Marie Landis

  “You don’t look Irish,” he said.

  “I’m not. I’m English on my mother’s side. She told me that my father was a dark-eyed gypsy she met one night when—”

  “Your father is Thomas O’Hurley and is as Irish as they come. I’ve met him, don’t forget.”

  Celine sighed. “I’m not—”

  He quickly cut her off. “You have already become tedious, my dear. Cordero will have to put up with this behavior, but I don’t need to suffer it.”

  He gazed over her head, toward the door. “We can begin at last.”

  Suddenly Celine found herself standing alone in the middle of the room in a dress that was not hers, about to wed a groom who was not hers. Doubt and fear snaked up her spine. She was terrified to see what manner of man she was willing to wed to escape the hangman’s noose.

  The sound of footfalls and the scrape of a heavy shuffle echoed off the walls of the sparsely furnished room. She slowly faced the doorway.

  The twins had already entered the room, half guiding, half carrying a man between them. Severely attired, he wore knee-high boots of black leather, black trousers and black coat. The only white on him was a linen shirt that was stained, open at the neck and unbuttoned halfway down his chest.

  As he shuffled between the handsome twins, he raised his head for a moment. His vacant gaze swept the room. Like the twins, he was blessed with finely drawn features, clear skin and a strong jaw. His hair was fathomless ebony, shoulder-length and tied with a thin black ribbon.

  Blindness, Celine reasoned, would account for the emptiness in his sky blue eyes, startling in contrast to his dark hair and olive complexion. The poor soul, she noticed, barely possessed the strength to stand. He staggered between the twins as they led him the rest of the way across the room. When Cordero was almost beside her, Henre Moreau stood up.

  “Over here, Miss O’Hurley,” he said. He did not take her arm, merely leaned heavily on his cane.

  She joined Henre and they stood before Father Perez, who was waiting patiently behind a table draped with an altar cloth adorned with a silver chalice and two tall tapers burning in sterling candlesticks. Outside, the rain continued to pour. The long windows behind the priest were shuttered to keep the wind from blowing out the candles but air still seeped through the shutters, ruffling the altar cloth, fluttering the candle flames.

  One of the Caldwell twins stepped aside and one remained to support the groom. Celine took a deep breath and prayed for God’s forgiveness. She would atone for killing Jean Perot by wedding the blind and stumbling Cordero in Jemma O’Hurley’s stead, sincere in the hope that in doing so, the Irish girl would be free to serve God. She only hoped that He would overlook her saving her own neck in the bargain.

  She turned to look at her future husband, prepared to treat him kindly until they parted ways in the West Indies. She was ready and willing to be his helpmate throughout the voyage, bound and determined to do whatever she could to make the trip easier for the poor creature.

  She was prepared for anything and everything but the rank odor of red wine that tainted the very air around Cordero Moreau. On closer inspection, she could see that his shirtfront was stained with enough wine to drown a rat.

  “He’s drunk!” she blurted.

  “Not quite ’nuf,” the groom mumbled. “ ’M still standin’.”

  Henre Moreau stood to her left. To her right weaved her groom and beside Cordero stood Stephen—or perhaps Anton; she wasn’t certain.

  “Please begin, Father Perez.” Henre’s command brooked no argument.

  The priest’s bald head glistened with a light sheen of perspiration. Father Perez buried his nose in the open missal in his hands and intoned the words of the wedding ceremony in Latin.

  Lost in lingering panic and the utter absurdity of the situation, Celine did not pay close attention until Father Perez put a question to her in English. She hadn’t realized they’d all been awaiting a response.

  “Miss O’Hurley?” Henre prodded.

  “What?” She glanced around. They were all watching her expectantly. All of them except the groom. Cordero Moreau was hanging on his cousin’s arm, bent double, apparently staring at his boots.

  “I’m not Miss O’Hurley,” she reminded them one last time. The effort was in vain.

  Father Perez cleared his throat and tried again. “Do you take Cordero Moreau for your wedded husband?”

  “Yes. I do.” For a while at least.

  “Do you, Cordero Moreau, take—”

  Father Perez halted and stared at her, then at Cordero. His gaze shot to Henre Moreau, who was glaring at him. The priest’s cheeks were blotched, either from embarrassment or too much drink. From somewhere inside his cassock he withdrew a handkerchief, wiped his brow, then mopped his bald head. He continued.

  “Do you, Cordero Moreau, take … this woman … to be your wife?”

  When Cordero failed to answer, the twin nudged him hard enough to send the groom reeling into Celine. With his eyelids half shuttered, Cordero Moreau righted himself but did not answer.

  “Do you?” the twin shouted in his ear.

  “Sure,” Cordero mumbled.

  “The ring?” Father Perez asked. “Does he have one?”

  The twin elbowed Cordero again. “Ring?”

  “No. No ring.”

  She closed her eyes. It was not the wedding that dreams were made of. There was no grand cathedral, no orange blossom bouquet or flowing white veil. No family to wish her well. No love.

  There was only a drunken groom and an uncomfortable silence that stretched on and on until Henre Moreau impatiently tapped his cane on the floor.

  “I now pronounce you man and wife.” Father Perez snapped the missal shut and waved his hand in the age-old sign of the cross, blessing them.

  As an afterthought he mumbled, “God be with you.”

  Four

  “The girl’s got spirit. You can say that for her.”

  Edward Lang slipped out of his coat and hung it in the standing closet on the side wall of the room he shared with Foster Arnold. Years ago, when they had first arrived with their young charge, Henre Moreau had banished them to one of the former slave quarters in an outbuilding that housed the kitchen. A second room was shared by Peony, the old slave who oversaw the cooking, and her daughter. Moreau obviously thought the two servants would be dismayed by the cramped quarters and lack of privacy. They found the arrangement perfect.

  “I think she may be just the wife our Cordero needs.” Foster took off his coat and handed it to Edward, who began to meticulously brush lint off the wool fabric.

  Foster had liked the girl on sight, taken as he was by her bohemian looks and spirited quality. He thought the way she kept insisting she was not Jemma O’Hurley was quite humorous, really. She was certainly not at all like any of the fashionable Creole women old Henre might have chosen for his grandson. Miss Jemma O’Hurley, Foster felt, just might provide Cord the challenge he needed to put the past behind him, pull himself together and set his life to rights.

  He walked to a small table covered with a white linen cloth on which a cold supper was laid out, along with two glasses and a bottle of wine, and waited for Edward to stop fussing over the coats and join him. Two candles were lit in the center of the table. Between them, a sprig of dogwood in a chipped piece of crockery added a touch of color to the simple setting. When they were both seated, Foster filled the glasses and then raised his in a toast.

  “To Cord and Jemma. To a long and happy life together.” They each took a sip and then he added, “And to us. ’Ere’s to doing everything in our power to make this marriage work.”

  Edward nodded. “Cord certainly don’t need another disappointment in ’is life.” He took another sip of the red claret and held the glass up to let the candlelight shimmer through the wine.

  Foster reached for a roll and broke it apart.

  “ ’E’ll hardly be disappointed if this marriage don’t work. I think ’is perfo
rmance tonight were to scare ’er off entirely.”

  “She didn’t much object to leavin’ Louisiana.” Edward tucked his napkin beneath his chin and lifted his knife and fork.

  “No, she didn’t, did she?” Foster picked at a cold chicken breast with his fork, thinking about what his companion had just said.

  “I’m beginnin’ to wonder if she really ain’t O’Hurley’s daughter.”

  “Who else would she be? Besides, I for one don’t care who she is. I like her, Eddie. There’s something in her eyes … did you notice?”

  “No. But I will say she seemed to be thinkin’ of somethin’ b’sides the wedding. Why’d she kept claimin’ not to be Jemma O’Hurley but then agreed to get on with it? Don’t make sense, if you ask me.”

  “Her father told old Henre not to believe a word she said about anything,” Foster reminded him. “O’Hurley paid good money to see his daughter married right and tight to a Creole, ’oping it would ’elp his new business ’ere in New Orleans.”

  “I thought you wasn’t going to listen outside o’ closed doors anymore. It ain’t dignified.” Edward slathered butter on warm roll.

  They continued to eat in silence, the only sounds in the room that of flatware against china and the rain pouring off the hip roof and splashing in puddles around the perimeter of the building.

  “What if he don’t take to her?” Edward wanted to know. “You can lead a horse to water…”

  “We’ll just have to do what we can in that area.” Foster smiled.

  “That might be ’ard to do on a ship,” Edward speculated.

  “You know I’ve always wanted to play Cupid,” Foster admitted.

  Edward smiled at his friend and filled the glasses again.

  “ ’Ere’s to the newly weds.”

  Foster joined in the toast. “And ’ere’s to a swift voyage home.”

  Celine sat in an uncomfortable, straight-backed chair in Cordero Moreau’s bedroom. She hugged her knees to her breasts, her legs hidden beneath the silk skirt of her borrowed wedding gown. Her toes were curled over die edge of her seat, the dress hem tucked beneath them. Under the chair lay her discarded, water-stained slippers.

  Across the room, Cordero Moreau lay dead to the world, stretched out in breeches and shirt. His feet hung over the side of me bed. She studied the way his pant stirrups cut across his arches, black slashes against white stockings beneath. Foster, Edward and the twins had escorted them to the room after the ceremony. After depositing the groom on the bed, the devilish twins had offered smug smiles and speculating looks.

  Edward and Foster had efficiently removed Cordero’s boots and divested him of his jacket. Then they’d carefully put his things into a large, open trunk, one of two that stood ready for departure in the corner, and asked Celine if she wanted a lady’s maid sent up. When she’d declined, Foster had told her that they would come back in the morning to escort them to the wedding breakfast, and she’d wondered if her new husband was capable of getting anywhere on his own.

  A candle in a single candelabra threw shadows against the walls. She sat in the unfamiliar surroundings listening to this new husband of hers snore. Sorrow enveloped her the moment the servants exited the room. She had entered into a marriage with a stranger who according to law could treat her as chattel should he so choose. One glance at him assured her that she could not count on him for protection. More than likely she would have to look out for him.

  She sighed and stood up, unaccustomed to the hushed whisper of silk that followed her every movement. Fingering the coral material as she walked toward the galerie for a breath of fresh air, she silently approved of Jemma O’Hurley’s choice of gown. Celine stepped out onto the wide balcony that ran the length of the upper story and felt the kiss of a gentle mist. The storm had subsided, the downpour now just a drizzle. Through the mist and foliage she could see torches burning near the river’s edge.

  A horde of unanswered questions crowded her mind as Celine lingered outside and watched the torches flicker. But one question stood out from the rest: Why had Jean Perot killed Persa? What had the old woman done to incur his wrath?

  Exhausted, she rubbed her eyes and then her temples. For a fleeting moment she thought of making an attempt to use the shadows of the night to creep out of the house and escape the web of deception she had spun, but the steady mist and the murky darkness, not to mention the threat of predators, human and animal, held her there.

  When she turned to leave the galerie, she noticed two wine bottles, one standing, the other fallen beside it. She tried to imagine Cordero Moreau—her husband—tipping the wine bottles to his lips and draining them, one after another. What drove him to befuddle his mind with drink?

  Celine walked back into the room and closed the jalousies behind her. The cypress floors were cool against her bare feet. The air was permeated with lingering dampness and the fecund scent of the fertile soil carried by the swollen river. She paused at the foot of the bed to stare at her unconscious groom.

  Despite her past, she had dreamed that someday she might meet her heart’s desire and fill a hope chest for her wedding day. But she had never pined for just any husband. She had never doubted that she would know him on sight, just as he would know her. Theirs would be a love that would last forever.

  For her mother, there had been no such thing as love, merely self-preservation. According to Jane Winters, her father had been a dark-eyed gypsy, a master with horses and women who had charmed his way into Jane’s bed for free and then, after almost a month of monogamy, had disappeared forever.

  Cloistered in the shop, Celine had never had close dealings with men, except for Persa’s clients. In a way, Persa used men just as she did women—for profit. She told their fortunes, sold them her potions, played upon their insecurities and desires until they were addicted to the advice she dispensed like opium. They would return again and again, desperate men like Jean Perot, hoping to use the knowledge she gave them to alter fate.

  What none of them had known was that most of Persa’s predictions came from her cunning knowledge of human nature and a very fertile imagination. Perhaps Jean Perot had suspected Persa of cheating him out of copious funds and then killed the old woman in a rage.

  Celine stared at her new husband from the foot of the bed. Dead to the world, Cordero Moreau had not stirred. She was tempted to know more about him, and the only way to do that was to touch him. She hesitated, let her hand hover over him, but then drew it back. He was unconscious and would never know the difference, but she would know, and now that her initial panic had subsided, she did not feel desperate enough to steal into his past.

  She stretched, aching all over from the jolting carriage ride. The bed looked all too inviting, with plenty of space for her to lie beside Cordero without touching him at all. Celine lowered herself gingerly to the edge of the bed. She waited, half expecting him to at least shift positions, but aside from a sigh, he didn’t react. Slowly, cautiously, she stretched out and lowered her head to an herb-scented pillow.

  Before she closed her eyes, she gathered the silk gown close and tucked it around her so that no part of it came in contact with him. Then, determined to awaken before him, she let herself relax and drift off to sleep.

  His mouth tasted like he had rinsed it with New Orleans gutter water.

  The bell which summoned the slaves to morning prayer rang twice more and then thankfully stopped before the sound split his head in two. Cord lay with his eyes closed, reluctant to increase the torture of what promised to be one of his more memorable hangovers. As he tried to piece together the events of the previous evening—the wedding he wanted to forget, the bride he had sought to outrage—his only recollections were of Stephen hauling him about and yelling in his ear and a pair of haunting amethyst eyes. The rest was a blur.

  His head hurt like hell. Cord rolled to his side and opened his eyes to discover he wasn’t alone. He stared curiously at the young woman stretched out beside him. When he’d agreed to
do the honorable thing and marry the girl in his cousin’s stead, Cord had never expected Jemma O’Hurley to be beautiful.

  For a man who with no expectations at all, he found himself wedded—and, it seemed, bedded—to a rare beauty. Perfectly still, she lay like a fallen angel with a riotous mass of long ebony curls that framed her face and draped across her breasts. Her eyes were closed, her dark lashes glossy half-moons against her cheeks. Her lips were full, lush and tempting.

  Slowly, so as not to set his head throbbing harder than it already was, Cord raised himself on an elbow to better study her. The coral gown enhanced the golden tone of her skin. Beneath the low neckline and ill-fitting bodice, her shapely breasts rose and fell with each breath. Her hands were perfectly cast, her fingers tapered. One hand, palm up and open, rested above her head on the pillow. He was tempted to stretch across the space that separated them and touch the vulnerable underside of her wrist.

  For the moment it was easy to forget that he did not want this marriage. It was easy to forget the world outside his door, and the real reason why he had agreed to marry her. All he could picture, and with the utmost clarity, was what a true bridegroom would be doing the morning after his wedding.

  Without warning, she opened her eyes. For an instant she stared at the ceiling, then she blinked and slowly turned her head in his direction. The strange, near-violet eyes he recalled so vividly from the night before stared directly into his. He felt as if she could see into his very dark soul.

  As if bewildered by his presence, she frowned.

  “Good morning, wife.” He managed a smile, although it pained him.

  Her gaze never wavered. “I think you’re still drunk.”

  “But you’re still here. I’m surprised.”

  He was content to study her. She appeared much younger than he had first suspected, not more than eighteen or nineteen years. Her skin was clear, almost glowing. Her thick curls were glossy and black. If she was nervous, if being alone with him frightened her in the least, it didn’t show. She possessed the confidence of a much older woman.