Destiny's Magic

by Martha Hix

  Forget the explosion, at least for now. Revel in the moment.

  “I’d still love to have a baby.” She brushed a forefinger on the black down. “I don’t need a husband, just a man. No one in England need know how or why I increased. Mama Loa! I’ll have to lie anyway, explaining Pippin.”

  Susan did not like the idea of lies. One led to another, as she’d learned.

  She heard Burke before he ambled down the veranda. The scowl setting his lean face dissolved into almost-dimples. If only he were even-tempered, if only his love were available, if only he weren’t a New Orleanian. If only Orson were dead.

  Burke swung into the rocker next to her and bent over to play with Pays’s fingers; they curled around his so-much-larger forefinger. “When I first saw you”—he looked up at Susan—“my mind’s eye drew a picture of you with babes.”

  Tender emotions flowed through her heart. Yet she had to be practical. “Pippin is enough for me.”

  “How do you keep a straight face and say that?”

  “Go away, Burke.”

  “Not until you and I have a chat.” He reached for his niece, settled her on his shoulder, and patted Pays’s diapered behind. “You and Pip getting what you need? Clothes, shoes.”

  “You’ve been more than generous. And I was touched that you took time from the tragedy”—he’d conferred with the sheriff, had sent telegrams back and forth to New Orleans, and any number of other business matters—“to shop for me.”

  “You needed a Spanish fan. And fou-fou powder.”

  “That’s quite kind of you.” Orson had never given her anything but trouble. It touched her, Burke’s thoughtfulness amid chaos. “I know it’s a struggle, your fortune blown apart.” Along with her twenty dollars.

  “Susan, I’m not without influence. It doesn’t take me long to put cash together.”

  She hoped her influence would come as easily once she reached Seymour Hall. Please let my money be available!

  Pays roused from sleep, looked up at her uncle, and smiled. They both laughed at the wee coquette.

  As she snuggled back against his broad shoulder, Burke turned solemn. “Susan, I understand you’ve asked after Throck’s whereabouts when the Yankee Princess went down. Why?”

  Since he’d asked, she wouldn’t lie. “A big man with gray hair jumped overboard right after the first explosion. I think—thought—he was Throck. But Throck was with Pippin and Winn, so it must’ve been someone else.”

  “Could be Storey. He wears a gray cap. But he left in the skiff.”

  Wasn’t he the fellow gone north to Natchez? “Whoever it was, I think he detonated . . . dynamite.”

  Burke went pale. He shifted Pays to his other shoulder and stood. “You’ve got too active an imagination. Must come from being the daughter of a wizard. You’re too accustomed to things that go blast in the night.”

  Recalling his mention of dynamite, Susan studied the tense planes of his face, saying, “When my father returned from Sweden last year, he brought Mr. Alfred Nobel’s formula for the new explosive with him. Father and Beeton took the product to the swamps. I followed them. It can be detonated at a distance.”

  “So can gunpowder.” Burke announced, “I’m going to take this young lady for a walk.” He marched off, but not before adding: “I’d appreciate your keeping dynamite to yourself.”

  Why did her theory bother him? A cold chill ran down Susan’s spine. Was Burke in some way involved in the disaster?

  Thirteen

  On the fourth day after the Yankee Princess was no more, Pleasant Hill Plantation turned on its end. Phoebe O’Brien, still shunned by her middle nephew, took leave. The riverman Throck went with her. Destination, a cabin at Barataria Bay.

  That afternoon Susan, suspicious over the reason for Throck’s leaving, bent over a table and cut muslin to fashion a peasant blouse. She put down the scissors when the man with answers entered the sewing room.

  Handing over a glass of tea, Burke sipped from his own. “Pip says you think I sent Throck away. Not true. He left on his own. Wants to spend time at his cabin.”

  “I thought you might’ve had words over . . . what I saw.”

  Brow furrowing, Burke replied, “No need to. The last person who’d do me wrong is Throck.”

  “Why are you shy of my dynamite theory?” she asked boldly.

  “Because it’s preposterous. Here at Pleasant Hill, you and I are the only people who even know about it. That makes you and me suspect if dynamite talk gets around.”

  Her spine stiffened. “You’re not accusing me of piracy?”

  “No. I’m not. Must admit I thought about it. Then I dismissed it. I know you aren’t involved. If you were, you wouldn’t have mentioned dynamite in the first place.” Burke got the look of a guilty boy. “Have to admit I did go to that great source of truth, Pip, before reaching my conclusion. Hope you won’t hold it against me.”

  Somehow she couldn’t be angry over his suspicion. It was only natural to comb any clue, any possibility. Besides which, she’d been quick to question. The space of days having distanced her from that question, she believed in her heart that Burke was in no way involved in the explosion. He loved his shipping line, it anchored him, and he’d do nothing to jeopardize it.

  “No hard feelings,” she replied, and smiled.

  The tension eased from his face. “Thank you.”

  As long as they were being confessional, she wanted the whole truth. “It’s no secret Throck and your aunt left together. I find it difficult to believe you aren’t angry over that.”

  “That’s their business.” Burke walked over to glance down at the sewing project. “If they want an affair, or marriage, or whatever—so be it. They’ve both been lonely.”

  Susan assessed his relaxed features. “Am I to hold out hope you’ll forgive Phoebe?”

  “She never had a suitor. Devoted herself to Fitz and Son, and raising a tribe of hellions. It’s her turn for romance.”

  “I’m pleased to hear you say that. I know it would mean a lot to her, should you two make peace.”

  “I do have regrets. But I’ll reserve judgment on peace.” Burke set his glass aside. “Susan, my freighter Edna Gal will be along Saturday morning. You and Pip pack up.”

  Regrets meant something, and Susan was pleased. The O’Briens weren’t her problem, yet she wished them peace. They both had her sympathies. Hopefully, someday she’d receive a wonderful letter from Phoebe, telling all about a grand reunion.

  Friday evening Susan and India took mint juleps and went to Susan’s room. Packing and sipping, Susan eyed Connor’s wife.

  India had rather plain features. Her olive skin tone might not be appreciated by most men, but her radiance bordered on beautiful. Furthermore, Susan liked the petite brunette, and found her easy to talk with. “I’ll miss Phoebe. I’ve grown quite fond of her.”

  India picked up her mint julep. “How do you feel about Burke?”

  “I wish him the best.”

  “I think I know your appeal, apart from the obvious.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You’ve got Burke on the run.” India flicked open a fan to cool her face. “Many an eligible miss would poison her favorite granny to walk in your shoes.”

  Susan arranged toiletries in a valise. “My heart has long been in the British Isles. America holds too many bad memories.”

  The olive-complected Mrs. O’Brien said, “Make new memories. Burke will do right by you. If he doesn’t love you, he’s on the verge of it. And he’s fond of your boy. Burke deserves to be happy. He can make you happy.”

  “I do not want a husband.”

  “There’s no use fighting the magic lamp. It always gets what it wants. You were chosen for Burke.”

  “Being the first recipient, did you fight it?”

  “Goodness no. But Connor did for a while. I thought he would strangle Burke in his ardor to get the captain of the Delta Star to perform the ceremony. Burke proved more
stubborn.”

  “But they aren’t at odds. Not like Burke is with Phoebe.”

  “The O’Brien brothers stick together, at least Connor and Burke. They had to. Their parents died when they were young, you know. There was an awful scandal attached to it, one I won’t speak of. You can ask Burke about it.”

  But of course. Susan knew he’d just love to blab scandal! “What happened to the third brother?”

  “Ah, the elusive one. The black sheep. Apparently he had a falling-out with Grand Fitz. Jon Marc was eighteen. Connor and Burke sided with their grandfather, so there’s been a rift ever since. But I’ll tell you something if you promise not to tell. My little sister Persia lives in Texas now, so I wrote her to ask after him. He’s become a cowboy. Can you imagine? A cowboy punching cattle to the markets in Kansas.”

  Susan tried to draw mental pictures of the frontier. “I never met a cowboy.”

  “Neither have I.”

  “I’ve heard they’re terribly rough and uncouth.”

  India sipped her drink. “Rather romantic, the idea. My sister’s spy told her about an interesting cut to that particular cowboy. He reads poetry to the cows! Can you imagine?”

  “One can’t say the O’Briens aren’t an interesting lot.”

  “You haven’t scratched the family surface.” India smiled. “The aunts say Jon Marc is quite good-looking.”

  “Does he resemble Burke and Connor? They favor.”

  “He’s rangy, russet-haired. I guess he gets the red hair from Aunt Phoebe. I understand he’s craggy. Not stunning, like our men, but, you know the type. So ugly they’re pretty.”

  Both ladies laughed. After which, Susan asked, “All right, ’fess up. What made you ask after Jon Marc?”

  “I owe him a large favor. He helped me through a scrape once. I wanted to write and thank him, which I have done. In fact, I’ve invited him to visit, but haven’t gotten a reply.”

  “If he does return, don’t you suppose it will be when he’s ready to reconcile?”

  “I hope that day isn’t too far in the distance.”

  Susan sighed. The O’Briens were certainly a feuding bunch, which probably harked back to Scottish ancestry. But who was she to judge? One hundred percent English, the Seymours of New Orleans had their own problems.

  Oh, Burke, what of you? More than curious, she wanted to know what shaped him into a tortured man.

  As if reading her mind, India championed, “Burke has many fine qualities. The folks in Memphis always favored him. He was the good little boy, the helpful and dependable man.”

  “I see the good in him. He is most kind during jolly moods. But he wants marriage for the sake of magic.”

  “Marriage by magic.” India picked up a bonnet from a hatbox to smooth its ribbons. “Like mine. Did you know Connor and I visited London last year? Such an exciting city. Truth be told, we started our Pays there. My husband wanted to name her London, but I’d have none of that.”

  Having got quickly accustomed to India’s forthrightness, Susan didn’t pale at the intimate shrift. “I should imagine you have, shall we say, choice memories of the fair city.”

  “My, yes.” India winked. “What a delightful time we had in a particular carriage, riding through Hyde Park.”

  Susan’s memories of that fine common weren’t of the same caliber, but she vowed to show Pippin the park. Strange. All of a sudden the urge to return home didn’t have its old appeal. Was the magic getting the best of her? Or was it simply Burke?

  “Connor and I toured Europe,” India disclosed. “We even visited the Marseille carpet shop where Aunt Tessa bought the magic lamp. We tried to make sense of the magic.”

  “Did you?”

  “Goodness no. There’s no sense to it. Matter of fact, the shop was boarded up, abandoned.” India laughed throatily. “Did you know the genie cohabits in Memphis with Aunt Tessa?”

  “The O’Briens are indeed an interesting lot.” Curiosity rampaged. “Antoinette. What was she like?”

  India left the chair to glide to a window and stare out. “She was my friend, and I had a deep and abiding sympathy for the poor girl. But I’m not simple when it comes to her. She was lost before she ever set foot on the Delta Star. She, and I hope I exclude present company, was like most beautiful women. She believed beauty would save her, would bear her along. Burke responded to the aesthetic, was infatuated to a high degree.” India chuckled dryly. “Not being a beauty, I’ve made an objective study of the mating dance of slavering males.”

  “You make sport. You’re quite lovely.”

  And she was.

  Long lashes closed over indigo-blue eyes. “Antoinette used him, when he needed to be needed. Burke enjoys being powerful. That he couldn’t be the dashing knight to save her, well, that hurt him more than anything. When the final tears were dried, I wonder if they were for the loss of love or the loss of honor. Be it whichever, know something well. Antoinette was the air. He needs fire to warm his waters.”

  “He is cross. And much too tangled with that wretched girl. Yet I do believe in magic. I was reared on hoodoo and weaned on astrology. But I am also a realist. I will not breathe the same continental air Orson Paget drags into his lungs.”

  “I haven’t heard such a breast-pounding speech since I gave one myself. On a cold winter’s day in Illinois. Would it have made any difference if I had been meek and mild? I wonder. But I doubt it. The lamp prevails over all else. You’ll learn that you can’t win. You may wish for King’s Court and roaring hearths with peat fires and ‘God Save the Queen,’ but it is Burke O’Brien you will accept.”

  “You are wrong.”

  “Pish-posh.”

  “India, you’re in love. You see through the eyes of love. Your sight is tainted with roses.”

  “You think that is true? Susan, I am a woman who almost went to the gallows. I was tried for treason against the United States of America. I don’t know how much more serious or, if you want to call it that, sane it can get. I had every reason to doubt the magic. Until it saved me.”

  “Was it a magic lamp? Or the magic of love?”

  “Is there a difference?”

  That gave Susan pause. But she wasn’t in love with Burke O’Brien. She wasn’t, was she?

  India walked to Susan and put her hands on taller shoulders. “What I’m trying to help you understand is, don’t fight the magic. Accept it. Be happy. Believe me, there is nothing better on the face of this earth than having the love of a good man. Study your heart, Susan. If you were to be taken on a magic-carpet ride to your precious England, would your heart never beat for a handsome, black-haired pirate with green eyes who navigates the mighty Mississippi?”

  “Cease! He would be better served to fetch his adored Toni and install her at 21 rue Royale.”

  A moment went by. “You don’t know, do you?”

  “Pray, what?”

  “I suggest you ask Burke to tell you everything about Toni Lawrence.”

  Susan gave that some thought, but dismissed it. He would have to bring the subject up, or at least give her an entree. When he wanted to talk, though, she would listen.

  He offered nothing.

  The next morning he flagged down the Edna Gal, an inelegant freighter amazingly still in service after twelve years. A veritable dugout compared to the luxurious downed flagship, this little boat carried piled-high cargo on her outer decks. Burke led Susan and Pippin aboard.

  The Edna Gal, stuffed to the gills, chugged out of port without incident, if one discounted the grousing from her skipper and crew about realigned quarters that relegated them to lesser facilities and emplaced owner and party in the better quarters.

  Pippin made inquiries of Burke that evening. “Are we gonna see Throck and Aunt Phoebe when we get to New Orleans?”

  “I doubt it,” he replied, and gave Susan a sharp look that dared her to add to the inquiry.

  The freighter continued to steam south. She puffed her way past Baton Rouge, gasped pas
t Carville. The journey toward the Crescent City went without disturbance. Except for a young boy’s grief over a lost pet. And a woman’s confusion over the future and her unslaked passions of the present.

  Burke had had it with keeping a distance from Susan. He yearned to go to her, to spill his uncertainties about business and Throck. He needed to be himself. He wanted to get out of this uncomfortable hammock in the crew quarters and into the saddle of her charms.

  Listening to snores and holding his nose against a collection of flatulent men, he wanted change. Heliotrope and an English lilt.

  He thought about his brother’s advice on compromise. Martyred to the magic, his sunshine blonde could get bitter and cold. Or worse. Like Toni. Susan was different, delightfully different.

  He loved her.

  Better keep that under wraps.

  Did he love her enough to let her go? If Seymour surprisingly turned over the cash, she’d do her best to sail for England. If he didn’t, she’d be miserable. How could Burke make her happy?

  What if he gave England to Susan? Of course he couldn’t. The lamp wouldn’t abide it unless they were married. They didn’t have to stay married forever, but Burke didn’t like that idea. Too many complications. Such a Pip. And a river rat growing mighty fond of an Englishwoman.

  Fourteen

  In that hour before dawn, when Burke waltzed in half nude, Susan hadn’t been able to sleep. Uneasy about the call on her staid father in the wild and exotic city, she’d tamped the candle to plan her arguments.

  “I had that latch fastened,” she said to Burke at his interruption. “How did you get in?”

  “It was no hill for a stepper.”

  Susan could have throttled the cocky captain whose form she could barely make out in the darkened cabin—it was certainly no stateroom—she was supposed to be sharing with Pippin.