But this woman he had married was Irish American. Her father had recently moved to New Orleans from Boston. At the Latrobe house, Celine had expressed sympathy for the children, but how long, Cord wondered, would she have approved of Alex’s continued allegiance to Juliette, Liliane and Alan, had she married him?
When Cord thought of little Alan and the broken, hopeless look in Liliane’s eyes, he was reminded all too well of his own childhood. He knew what it was to have one’s life turned upside down because of the death of both parents.
He took another drink. The alluring woman beside the rail, his wife, had begun to stroll along the upper deck. The entire poop deck had been set aside for their pleasure, for there were no other first-class travelers. Cord watched Celine walk slowly along the rail and then pause in the stern and look back before turning her attention to the two sailors manning the wheel. The helmsman rang the bell marking ship’s time and another bell in the bow above the sailors’ quarters immediately echoed it.
The sailors smiled at her and before she proceeded on her way, Celine smiled back. The breeze off the river molded her gown against her, outlining firm breasts and shapely legs. Cord could see that the sailors were admiring her form just as he was and felt an unexpected surge of anger and a tug of possessiveness.
Finishing off the last of his drink, he realized that even though she might have been meant for Alex, this Jemma-Celine O’Hurley was now his. And in that stunning instant, Cord decided there was no reason why he should not take full advantage of his marital rights.
He stood up, empty glass in hand, and headed toward Celine, adjusting his stride to the motion of the ship. They were nearing the open sea. He felt a curious anticipation and was surprised, for any emotion other than anger had been foreign to him for so long. He did not know if he was more excited at the thought of returning to St. Stephen or of bedding his new bride.
Celine was leaning against the rail, intently watching a sailor climb the rigging with the agility of a monkey. Cord took a place beside her.
She glanced over at him, at the empty glass in his hand, and then looked away again. “I see you have taken up your favorite pastime.”
“I see you are still a nag.”
He could also see that she was fighting a smile. “Have you sailed before?” he asked.
“When I was a child.”
“Did it agree with you?”
She nodded. “For the most part it did. There were some bad days, though. I remember spending them in bed.”
“Then I’ll pray for rough weather.”
Her gaze flashed in his direction and locked with his.
“What do you mean by that?” she asked.
“Just that I’d be content to spend the entire voyage getting to know you—as my wife.”
She stiffened and looked away. Her fingers tightened on the rail. “How do you mean?”
“I think you know exactly what I mean, Jemma.”
“Celine.”
Cord edged closer until they were shoulder to shoulder. If she was frightened by him, she didn’t show it by trying to scoot away. Instead, she pretended to ignore him, but the stiffness in her back and shoulders told him she was all too aware of his nearness.
“We are husband and wife. Our wedding night might have been a disappointment, but you can rest assured I intend to make up for that tonight.”
“Don’t go to any lengths on my account,” she said softly, content to stare ahead and avoid his gaze.
Cord reached out and, half expecting her to pull away, looped a wayward strand of dark hair behind her ear. He traced his thumb along her cheek, down her throat, over her collarbone. She shivered.
“Why did you agree to this marriage?”
She turned toward him. She bit her lip and frowned, searched his eyes and then said, “I wanted to get out of New Orleans. I did not marry you because I wanted a husband.”
He felt an odd sort of relief. “At least neither of us suffers from delusions of love.”
In the center of the main deck below them, three sailors put their backs into rotating the capstan to raise more sail. Yards and yards of canvas snapped full and billowed as the ship cleared the final shoals. Freed by the wind, the Adelaide split the water as they headed into the open sea.
Cord watched Celine push back from the rail, extend her arms before her and stretch. She turned to him with a slight smile.
“Since both of us had reasons other than love for entering into this arrangement, then you must agree that it would be absurd to assume we should sleep together.”
“I wasn’t talking about sleeping,” he assured her.
“You know very well what I meant. I do not know you at all.”
“That is probably to your advantage. Besides, what does that have to do with marriage? Don’t tell me you believe in all that hogwash about romantic love?”
She blushed.
“You do,” he said, appalled.
She was watching him closely, looking up into his eyes, searching them as if she were trying to see into his soul. Cord felt a twinge of discomfort.
“In Louisiana arranged marriages are an everyday occurrence. Few Creoles marry for love.”
“But I’m sure the participants have at least met before the wedding,” she argued.
“Probably,” he admitted grudgingly.
“We never laid eyes on each other before last night.”
“Correct.”
“I had hoped you would grant me some time before expecting me to perform my … my wifely duties.”
Cord turned around and found her staring at him in wide-eyed horror. He leaned back with his elbows on the rail and smiled. He tried to imagine trade winds carrying the scent of the tropical waters as he closed his eyes and tipped his face toward the afternoon sun.
“I will grant you some time,” he conceded.
“Thank you.”
She sounded so relieved that he tilted his head toward her and raised his eyelids just enough to see her reaction. “You can rest assured I won’t press you until tonight.”
Six
By late afternoon the Louisiana coastline had disappeared. The swells increased with every passing hour, but the Adelaide sailed valiantly over each crest and climbed every trough. Celine remained at the rail long after Cord left her, trying to acquaint herself with the pitch and roll of the ship. She stared off at the far horizon, wondering what was in store for her.
One word played itself over and over in her mind.
Tonight.
Tonight Cord would expect her to perform her conjugal duty. The very idea of it filled her with dread—not because of ignorance of the act itself, for she knew far more about that than most girls her age, but because too many firsthand recollections of her mother plying her trade had been burned into her memory. The groaning, the panting and sweating, the feigned cries and whimpers of false passion were all elements of sordid scenes she never would forget.
Persa had once told her that Jane Winters had shared far too much with a curious five-year-old.
“Your mother, rest her soul, was a whore,” Persa had said. “And by the grace of God, you will never become one.”
“Then what will I do?” Celine had asked.
“First, you will learn to survive on your own, and then—but only if you desire it—you will marry. A woman should have the right to choose. Some women, for one reason or another, are not suited for marriage.”
Persa’s eyes had misted, and Celine recalled how the old woman had absently rubbed her crippled hip.
“Remember this well, Celine: I will see to it that you never have to whore like your mother.”
She was only five when Persa had taken over her care, and from that day on Celine’s life had changed forever. There had been no more squalid rooms in back alleys. No more fear of hunger. Nothing remained of the sordid life her real mother had led. Persa had seen to it that Celine’s was a life of pleasant routine. The old gypsy understood her better than anyone. Persa
had never made fun of Celine’s gift or recoiled in fear of her touch.
Fate had thrown them together, Persa had always said, because Celine needed to learn when to use her gift and how to close her mind to the visions, how to guard her touch and use her second sight only when needed.
True to her word, Persa had taught her to survive. Before she was old enough to work in their shop selling potions, Celine had hired out as a companion to an old woman down the street. She knew the pride of counting the coins she had earned from long hours of work. Thanks to Persa’s training, she was able to get the most for her money at the market. She learned how to save and knew the difference between things she needed and things she merely wanted.
But nothing she had learned about the men who visited Persa’s shop had prepared her for marriage. She knew with certainty what a good whore did in bed, but not what a good wife did.
Tonight, by law, she would have to give herself to Cord. Without love, would she be any better than her mother? Any better than a whore?
The ship’s bell sounded, forcing her to set aside her dark thoughts. She had but a quarter hour to freshen up before dinner. Two members of the crew were in the saloon as she passed through to get to her cabin. They were bustling in and out of the open pantry, tending the covered pots of food that had been carried from the galley in the bow of the ship. All of the cabin doors were closed save for one that belonged to Josiah Campbell, the ship’s surgeon superintendent. He was a spry, thin-faced gentleman with white hair and deep smile lines that bracketed his mouth and creased the corners of his eyes. Dr. Campbell acted as go-between for the captain and the crew and passengers. Since there was far from a full complement of travelers this voyage, the doctor had time on his hands.
He was seated on a cane chair just inside his cabin door studying the pages of a book in his lap. He paused long enough to look up and smile as Celine made her way across the saloon. She nodded and then gently knocked on the door to her cabin. She didn’t relish walking in on Cordero unannounced, and catch him unawares.
The door to the adjoining cabin opened and Foster, dressed far more like a gentleman than a servant, poked his head out and smiled.
“Can I be of ’elp, ma’am?”
“I was just going to freshen up and I wondered if … if my husband was inside.”
Foster shook his head. “ ’E’s in the captain’s cabin. Said to tell you ’e’ll join you for dinner. I’ve taken the liberty of laying out a gown for you.”
Celine looked down at the traveling outfit she was wearing and wondered why he expected her to change. She was still uncomfortable wearing Jemma O’Hurley’s clothes. It was one thing to take a woman’s unwanted fiancé, but quite another to wear out her clothes.
An hour later she was seated on a bench at the long dining table, wedged between her new husband and the captain’s mate, both of whom seemed content to do little more than stare down the gaping front of yet another ill-fitting bodice. Celine was so nervous she was not certain she could manage at all. Aside from the fact that her husband had insisted he would claim his rights later this evening, she was the only woman in the presence of Cord, the mate, the surgeon superintendent and Captain Isaac Thompson. She had been disappointed when she’d learned that Foster and Edward would be taking their meals with the steerage passengers, where they would apparently feel more comfortable. When she’d protested, Cord had assured her it was their choice and not his.
A set of fiddle rails ran the length of the table to keep the china from sliding off onto the floor. The sea had become so rough that the plates slid from side to side between the rails. The table and benches were bolted to the floor.
“Are you finding your accommodations to your liking, Mrs. Moreau?”
It wasn’t until Cord nudged her that Celine realized the captain was addressing her. The man seemed to be totally oblivious to the fact that the ship was groaning and straining at every seam. Isaac Thompson was a congenial sort who looked to be in his midforties, with brown hair and eyes and the beginnings of a paunch at his waistline.
Celine watched as a halo of light from the lamp swinging above the center of the table momentarily highlighted his features, then answered, “The cabin is fine, thank you.”
“I understand you are newly wed.” He smiled over at Cord. “My congratulations to you both.”
When the captain lifted his wineglass in a toast, Celine watched the cabernet slosh with the motion of the ship. Its rhythm matched that of the lanterns swaying above them. She tried to concentrate on the man’s smile rather than the constant rolling motion of the ship.
Cord acknowledged the toast with a nod and drained his wine. Celine wondered if it would help to match him glass for glass. She might very well pass out and he would be forced to wait to press her into doing her wifely duty. She took a gulp of wine, came up sputtering and decided she would leave overindulgence to her husband.
Captain Thompson signaled one of the sailors in the nearby pantry to refill his plate with mutton and boiled potatoes. Celine glanced down at her food, which she had barely touched, and felt faintly nauseous. She swallowed and tried to concentrate on what the captain was saying.
“Seeing you two together reminds me of my wife. She comes along whenever she can, but she’s near the end of her confinement and had to stay at home.”
He forked a slice of mutton, piled potatoes on top of it and lifted the concoction to his lips. Celine looked away as he shoveled the food into his mouth. Cord had eaten one helping of everything and seemed now to be content with just wine. He did not comment on the captain’s statement.
“Is this your first child?” she asked.
The captain washed down his food with another hearty swallow of wine and shook his head. “Got five already. You would think that would be enough, but my wife loves babies. About the time we’ve got the last walking, she’s after having another.”
He cut another piece of lamb and paused with his fork halfway to his lips. Winking at Cord, he said, “I can’t say as I mind having to oblige.”
Celine dropped her fork, which clattered against her plate. She set down her knife and folded her hands together in her lap.
“Where do you make your home, Captain? In the West Indies?” she asked, trying to change the subject.
“No. Heavens, no. My wife hates the islands. Too hot, too humid, still too uncivilized for her,” he said, laughing. “I understand your husband is returning after a long absence, but have you ever been there, Mrs. Moreau?”
Celine grabbed the stem of her wineglass to prevent it from tipping over. “No. I’ve not had the pleasure.”
Cord deftly took the glass from her. The blood red cabernet sloshed near the lip, threatening to spill. He leaned close and murmured in her ear, “You should drink this. It’ll take the edge off.”
She ignored him, but her heart began to beat double-time. He drank the wine for her.
Dr. Campbell had finished his dinner and appeared to be asleep, but suddenly he spoke up. “The islands aren’t for everyone, that’s for certain. Some people don’t take to the tropical heat, especially Englishwomen. I’ve seen some who cover themselves completely, head to toe, kerchiefs tied about their heads and faces, hiding under parasols to keep every bit of sun off their fair skin. Don’t go out at all during the day; they say it’s—”
Cord cut him off effectively. “My mother was English. She never even wore a hat.”
“I’d say she defied convention,” Captain Thompson said.
“You might say that,” Cord replied. Then so softly that he was almost speaking to himself, he added, “She liked to dance beneath the stars, too.”
Celine reminded herself to ask him more about his mother.
The doctor looked over at Celine. “You’re not English, I take it, Mrs. Moreau?”
“She’s Irish,” Cord volunteered.
“I’m not,” she said. “Actually, I am English. I was born in London.”
“Quite exotic features for
an Englishwoman,” Dr. Campbell noted to no one in particular.
The ship lurched, and Celine nearly fell off the bench. When Cord reached out to steady her, she quickly righted herself.
“My father was a gypsy,” she said, hoping to shock Cord. With his Creole background, she doubted he wanted a wife whose blood was tainted in any way. She hoped the disclosure would keep him from wanting to bed her. But when she glanced up at him, she could see that her admission had not disturbed him in the least.
“You’ll stand the heat better than a fair-skinned woman. Extreme heat doesn’t bother the slaves, they say,” the doctor noted sagely.
“That’s merely an argument made in favor of keeping them toiling in the hot sun during the heat of the day,” Cord told him. “It’s been my experience that they drop from the heat just like anyone else.”
The first mate, a redheaded man, younger than the others by far and even younger than Cord, had been silent up to now. He tore his gaze away from Celine’s breasts long enough to comment.
“Are you against slavery, then, sir, if you see them as men? If so, you are going to meet opposition on St. Stephen.”
Cord let the captain fill his wineglass again and took a sip before he answered. “I have no idea what awaits me on St. Stephen.”
“But you have land there?”
Celine listened with interest.
“Dunstain Place. A plantation of nearly two hundred and fifty acres.”
“I assume that, as an absentee owner, you have an overseer?” the captain asked.
“A manager,” Cord replied.
“Do you intend to grow sugar? That requires quite a labor force. You may have to change your views on slavery.”
“I’m not sure what condition the plantation is in at this point. There were fields and fields of sugar when my father was alive. I’ll have to see what it will take to put the place back into production. Most of my plans are still quite indefinite, in fact. I live one day at a time.”
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