“Then we’ll just ’ave to see to it that they end up in one together … or at least in rooms that are side by side.” Foster grabbed the handrail. “I’ll go on up and bring ’er down for supper. You ’ave something in the taproom. I’ll join you there, and after we eat we’ll start lookin’ for Cordero.”
Edward shook his head and started down the stairs again. “I’ve a feelin’ we’ll be gettin’ reacquainted with the seamy side o’ Baytowne tonight.”
It was too humid to eat. After the first few bites of sautéed fish in hot pepper sauce, Celine didn’t even make an attempt to have more as she sat at a small table in a closet that passed as a private dining room in the Tavern Inn. Her dinner companion was a lean, older gentleman with ruddy skin, thinning hair the color of burnt nutmeg and sharp blue eyes. The bookseller had come to St. Stephen for the statue dedication.
Although at first she wished she’d been dining alone, she soon found Mr. Howard Wells to be a gentleman, well-spoken and entertaining. After commiserating with Celine about her seasickness, he had launched into a long soliloquy detailing the hazards of sea travel in general. Finally, he paused long enough to drain his mug of ale and leaned back in his chair.
“You said your husband has returned to St. Stephen after years of absence?”
“Yes, that’s right.” She paused while a round of boisterous laughter echoed through the taproom next door. “He was raised in New Orleans.”
“That explains it.”
He appeared so sympathetic she had to ask, “Explains what?”
“Your lack of invitation to stay elsewhere. Obviously your husband has no connections here in Baytowne. No family?”
She shook her head. “Not that I know of.”
A young, buxom waitress walked in and took their plates, promising to bring Celine coffee and Mr. Wells another mug of ale.
“The planters here in the English islands are a close-knit group, and have been since the first aristocrats among the colonists banded together and excluded everyone else. Had your husband’s family been well friended, you would not have had to suffer this place tonight, but would be the guests of someone here in Baytowne. With the dedication festival in progress, there are numerous parties and soirees going on tonight and through the week.”
“I’m sure that once word is out that my husband has come back, he will be included.”
“You say he was born here?” Mr. Wells asked.
“He was. His mother’s family owned the plantation Cordero has inherited. His father was a Creole from New Orleans.”
“And you?”
“I’m from New Orleans also.”
Celine had more than enough to concern her; she didn’t need to worry about not having been invited to rub elbows with the landed gentry. The serving girl brought her coffee, heavily laced with chocolate as Celine had requested. She stirred the steaming brew and waited for it to cool. As they sat in companionable silence, Celine’s thoughts drifted to the matter she had been pondering all evening—was there any way she could help Cord make Dunstain Place profitable again?
“Mr. Wells, do you know anything at all about raising sugar?”
“Anyone who’s spent his lifetime on Barbados can’t help but know something about raising sugar. Why do you ask?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know a thing about it, and I’m about to set off to live on a sugar plantation. I’d like to be of some help when we get there.”
He looked at her as if she were some new species. “Now there’s a novel idea. A planter’s wife actually wanting to become involved?”
“Is that so outrageous?”
“From the one’s I’ve met it’s highly unusual.”
“That may be, but then again, I’ve always been a bit on the unusual side, Mr. Wells.” It was an understatement, she knew.
He smiled at that. “What do you want to know?”
“Does it take much money to get a plantation up and running?”
“A small fortune in slaves. Not so much for equipment, though—that is, if you already have a mill, a boiling house, a curing house, a distillery and a contract with a storehouse.”
Celine wondered how Cord would ever come up with the money to get Dunstain Place producing again.
Howard Wells continued. “The slaves need to be fed and housed and clothed, and a doctor must be provided for them, along with a seamstress, a carpenter, a smith, a mason, coopers to make casks and barrels, food …” He paused and then said, “My dear, you are looking quite befuddled.”
“I don’t know how Cord will do it all.”
“One step at a time, I’d imagine. He can start with obtaining credit, as most planters do.”
“But the debt …”
“Debt is the foundation of the sugar industry. Everyone is in debt to someone. Only the inept planter loses money, even in the worst of times. With any luck, the land won’t be worn out.” He held his mug in his lap as he stared up at the ceiling. “There are a few perils involved. There’s yellow blast, an insect that bores into the roots of the sugarcane and saps the life out of it. Or there’s black blast, a swarm of insects that ruin the crop. There are hurricanes, too much or too little rain, rats …”
Celine propped her elbows on the table and her chin on her hands. There’d be no stopping Howard Wells now.
“Your mill roller could break, the furnace hearth could crack, boiling coppers might burn out or cistern pipes snap. Any of those disasters could spoil a year’s worth of output. If you delay the cane processing by a day or two, that’s all it takes for the juice to deteriorate, and the sugar crop is lost.”
“It all sounds overwhelming.”
“I’m sure your husband knows what he’s facing.”
She knew Cord probably did know what he was facing and had most likely decided he wasn’t up to it. His grandfather had made certain he had no faith in himself. In the face of everything Cord just might do what he had threatened—sit beneath a palm and drink rum with the Caribs all day.
“Well, my dear, I’m an old man and must be away to my bed, such as it is. Might I see you upstairs so that you won’t have to walk through the taproom alone?”
“Thank you. I’m afraid our servants have found other duties to attend to,” she said.
Foster had assured her that they would be back as soon as they had found Cordero and made certain he was all right. Obviously, they had not had much luck.
She let Howard Wells accompany her through the crowded taproom. As they climbed the precariously sagging stairwell, she tried to converse over the noise that echoed around them. The hallway was dingy and dark, the wooden floor scuffed and marred, the paint peeling from the walls. There were rust-colored stains in the plaster where rain had seeped in.
He saw her to her door and bid her good night. Hoping Cord would not object, she extended an invitation to Mr. Wells to visit them at Dunstain Place if he found the time. He assured her it would be a pleasure and wished her luck.
Celine walked into her room and closed the door. Leaving the lamp dark, she moved to the open balcony and stood at the rail, watching the boats in the harbor sway at anchor. The Adelaide was still docked across the wharf, a solitary seaman walking its deck. Only one or two of the ship’s running lights were lit. The naked masts rose against a starless sky draped with low-hanging clouds.
A gentle rain began to fall, sending her back to the shelter of the open doorway. She listened to the rain as it began to stream off the tile roof, the atmosphere a painful reminder of hot summer nights in New Orleans.
Celine gazed though the rain, past the masts and rigging of the ships in the harbor toward the dark horizon. She knew that the memories of her years with Persa would be forever written on her heart. She could only hope that her past would stand her in good stead in the days to come.
* * *
“Go ahead and knock.” Edward nudged Foster with his elbow as they stood together in the dimly lit hallway of the island’s most renowned whorehouse, Madam Fel
icity’s Hotel.
“I don’t see any way around it, do you?” Foster asked for the third time, as if repetition would somehow change his friend’s answer.
“No, I don’t. If we’re going to get ’im back to the inn and Miss Celine, there’s no other way. Knock.”
Foster looked over his shoulder and glanced down the hall. There was no one in sight. A loud giggle followed by a squeal of delight issued from the room next door. Edward pursed his lips, grimaced and shook his head in disgust. Foster delivered a short, rapid burst of knocks.
“Are you sure it’s the right room?”
“Twenty-four.” Edward pointed to the gold numerals painted on the bright fuchsia door.
“No one answers.” Foster was ready to turn away when Edward reached past him and knocked again.
Suddenly the door flew open to reveal a frowsy blond in her early thirties. She stood a good head taller than either man. Her hair frizzed out in a wild nimbus. Her breasts were quite unforgettable—if one was interested in such things. Her legs, of which there was far too much showing, in the servants’ opinion, were long and shapely. Her expression revealed her impatience.
“What is it?” The woman demanded.
“We’ve … that is, you see … we thought …” Edward couldn’t find the words.
Foster stepped up and took charge. “We need to see Cordero Moreau. We were told he was here.”
They could both quite clearly see the object of their search holding a glass of amber liquid, reclining fully clothed across a bed that nearly filled the small room. But the amazon stood between them and Cord, who acted as if he were stone deaf.
“Nobody’s supposed to give out the room numbers,” she complained.
“Madam Felicity herself told us ’e was ’ere,” Foster said, not bothering to explain that for a hefty bribe, Madam Felicity, a mountainous black woman swathed in yard upon yard of crimson silk and Belgian lace, had been more than willing to give up Cordero’s room number. She would have given up much more had he been at all interested.
“Let them in, Bonnie,” Cord called out. “And do say hello to my two consciences. I’m lucky—most men have only one.”
When they stepped into the room, Cord raised a glass and toasted them.
“Gentlemen. What brings you here on this muggy, rainy night looking so harried and slightly conniving? Nothing urgent, I hope.”
“I think you know, sir,” Foster said.
“On the contrary, I have no idea what you want.”
“We just think, sir—”
“You two aren’t paid to think … but I would be interested in hearing what you have to say.”
“We don’t think it’s safe for Celine to be alone at the inn.”
Cord polished off the rum left in his glass, looked down into the bottom of the tumbler to be certain he had drained every drop, then stared up at Foster.
“If you hadn’t left her, she wouldn’t be there alone, would she?” Cord frowned. “Did you see that she had supper?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Then why don’t you go back and take turns guarding her door or whatever it is you feel should be done until I get back tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” Edward cast a wary glance in the direction of the whore, who stood with her hands planted on her ample hips, waiting impatiently for them to leave.
“I’ll be back tomorrow morning and not a minute before. And don’t start in on me. You know as well as I that this marriage wasn’t my idea.”
While Edward stood mute, looking crestfallen, Foster could not let the subject go without one more comment. “It weren’t her idea either, if you don’t mind myself sayin’ so. She told us what she ’eard about Dunstain Place. We’re as upset as you are about it—”
“I’m not upset about it. I half expected it. Now get out. I’ll see you two in the morning.” As Cord watched the men leave, Bonnie walked toward him, swinging her hips provocatively. When she reached the side of the bed she knelt down beside him, took his empty glass and set it on the table, then began unbuttoning the front of his linen shirt.
“I take it this Celine they spoke of is your wife?” She leaned forward and placed a kiss on the pulse point just above his collarbone.
“In name only,” Cord said, as he wrapped his arm around her waist and drew her to him. She was a good armful, not a petite package like Celine. When he had walked into the bordello he had told Madam Felicity that he required her tallest, most robust whore. She had to have blond hair and he didn’t care what color eyes she had as long as they weren’t amethyst. He’d paid for the entire evening.
As he lay back and let Bonnie strip off his shirt, Cord cursed Edward and Foster for bringing Celine to mind just when he’d thought there might be a glimmer of hope of shutting her out of his thoughts for a few hours.
He had insulted her in the hotel, and lied in trying to convince her that rum would numb the hurt he’d felt when she’d told him what she’d heard. He hadn’t lied to his servants—he had half expected the plantation to be in ruin—but hearing it confirmed had been a blow that hit him almost as hard as if Henre had delivered it himself.
Since he’d walked out of the hotel his head had been reeling with the ramifications of what lay before him. He had Celine’s dowry—which was half gone already, and certainly not enough to get a sugar plantation up and running—and the monthly stipend from his mother’s estate, which would barely cover living expenses for himself, Foster and Edward, not to mention a wife. Women needed things …
“Your wife must be half crazy not to let a man like you into her bed,” Bonnie mumbled as her lips trailed down his bare chest.
“Only half?”
“Entirely crazy …”
Cord stared down at the blonde laboring so ardently over his pectorals. What she was doing with her tongue and lips should have made him forget all about Celine and Dunstain Place, he said to himself. It should have made him hard as a rock, and have him conjuring up all the other delicious things she would do to him, instead of picturing Celine alone at the inn wearing the demure nightgown he had bought for her earlier. It infuriated him to realize that the luscious and expensive Bonnie, with her long legs, memorable breasts and talented tongue, paled in comparison to that image.
“Why don’t you get me some more rum?” Cord said sharply, as angry at himself for his lack of response as he was at Celine.
Bonnie drew away, unable to hide her irritation. As she tried to smooth her frizzy hair back out of her eyes, she told him, “I’m not a bleedin’ waitress.”
“I paid for you to be anything I want you to be tonight.”
The rum was on the floor on Cord’s side of the bed. She stretched out across him, provocatively rubbing her breasts against his thighs as she reached down for the bottle, then taking her time backing across him until she drew herself up to sit on her heels. She grabbed the glass off the bedside table.
“Here you go, your highness.” Bonnie tipped the bottle and poured rum into his glass. When the tumbler was full, she held the bottle against her breasts and stared down at his crotch. She knit her brow and then pursed her lips in a way most men would have found kittenish and quite provocative.
“Maybe you had something a little more stimulating in mind,” she said.
“Actually, what I have in mind is fairly boring. I’d like to finish off this rum and go to sleep.”
“Sleep? You mean, as in close your eyes and snore?”
“If you like to think of it that way.”
She shook her head, incredulous. “Sleep? That’s it?”
“Sleep. I paid for an entire night with you, but I wouldn’t even mind if you wanted to go downstairs and solicit another customer, as long as you stay out of here and leave me in peace.”
“But—”
“If this is a problem, I’ll talk to Felicity. She seemed an accommodating sort.”
“No,” she said quickly. Bonnie sat back and watched him closely, as if he had just spr
outed two heads and she was trying to comprehend exactly how he had done it.
“Now that I think about it, getting paid for a night of beauty sleep might not be a bad idea. It’s a novel one, I’ll give you that.” She filled his glass to the top and put the empty bottle on the floor, then scooted to the opposite side of the bed and stretched out on her side, facing him.
Cord polished off the glassful of rum in a series of long swallows. He looked down at the woman smiling up at him. It would take more than a night of sleep to restore any real beauty she might ever have possessed.
“You want me to hold you or anything? I could pretend I was your nanny. Maybe coo to you like you were a babe?” She reached out and ran her fingers through his hair and pushed it back off his forehead.
“What I want,” Cord said, stretching out half clothed and crossing his ankles, “is to get some sleep. You can stay here and do the same—just do it on your own side of the bed.”
“You don’t prefer boys, do you? Felicity just got hold of a little chap who was a cabin boy for a—”
“No, thank you.”
“How about a duck that—”
He almost laughed. “Not tonight.”
Before closing his eyes, he noticed that Bonnie was still frowning in thought, lying on her back and chewing on her thumbnail. He couldn’t tell if she was disappointed in her seduction skills or perplexed about his request to be left alone. He didn’t really care what she thought. He was more disturbed over his lack of enthusiasm than he was about what she might think of him.
When he did finally close his eyes, he was treated to a haunting vision of his wife’s amethyst eyes.
“Witch,” he mumbled. He felt Bonnie bolt to a sitting position beside him.
“Witch? Would you like me to cackle and pretend I’m riding a broomstick instead of your—”
“Blow out the light and then go to sleep, or get out.”
Eleven
The heat was close and stifling. Thick tropical growth crowded in on itself, creating a barrier that blocked the trade winds as effectively as a solid wall. Celine wondered if the interior of the dormant volcano that created St. Stephen was any hotter than she felt right now.
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