by Beth White
“Papa was killed at Horseshoe Bend. Mama got so weak from hunger that she didn’t make it. I didn’t want to go to Oklahoma, and I—I didn’t know where else to go but here.” She paused, sending an anxious glance at Léon, then Fiona. “That is, if you’ll have me. I know it’s a lot to ask—”
“Of course you’ll stay.” Fiona looked at Léon, daring him to object.
Her brother nodded without hesitation. “Fiona will be glad to have another woman in the house, won’t you, Fi?”
“Yes, there’s only . . .” Fiona glanced at her open bedroom door. “We’ve got our guest in my room—”
“Who will be moved into the storeroom.” Luc-Antoine jabbed his pipe in the direction of the kitchen. “Not proper for him to be in your room anyway.”
“A guest?” Sehoy blinked. “I didn’t know—”
“It’s been a topsy-turvy day.” Fiona sighed. “We go for months with nothing to interrupt the monotony, then all of a sudden . . .” She opened her hands and laughed. “The roof all but falls in.”
“But who is it?”
And that was the question that Fiona must decide how to answer. Lying wasn’t in her nature, but she had to protect Charlie, at least until he was on his feet once more. “He says his name is Charlie Kincaid. I found him on the beach this afternoon, unconscious from a head injury, all but drowned, and he doesn’t remember much more than his name.”
Sehoy’s big brown eyes widened. “My goodness. How can that be?”
“I don’t know.” Fiona shrugged. “He keeps falling asleep before I can get anything out of him. Which reminds me, I’d best check on him again. If you’ll excuse me?” She rose, avoiding the menfolks’ eyes and setting her teacup on the tray, and ducked into the room where Charlie lay asleep.
But his mismatched eyes were open, watching the doorway, and when she stopped just inside, his mouth curved in a smile. “Hello, Fiona,” he said softly, his voice burred with sleep. “I was dreaming about mermaids, and there you are. Perhaps you’d like to dance?”
AUGUST 14, 1814
MOBILE, WEST FLORIDA TERRITORY
“Mommy, I want a yellow lure with a red feather. Uncle Rémy says the fishes thinks the feather is another itty-bitty fishy-wishy, and they tries to bite it and gets hung up on the hook. ’Cause then I can cook you dinner. Can I?”
“Yes, darling, you can have a red one—if Mr. Counselman has made one, that is.” Maddy smiled down at her little son, whose spiraling dark curls, dimples, and big brown eyes gave him a deceptively cherubic appearance, even with his nankeens ripped at both knees and a large smear of mud beneath his nose. She didn’t like to think how the mud had got there.
Madeleine Gaillain Gonzalez Burch was the daughter of a diplomat and the wife of a soldier. Half Spanish, half Creole, and one hundred percent American, she was also the granddaughter of a slave and blessed to have been educated at one of the finest female finishing schools in the nation’s capitol.
A study in contradictions, she thought, hurrying to keep up with four-year-old Elijah as he skipped along the bumpy brick streets of downtown Mobile toward the Royal Street market. Elijah was determined to spend the real given him by Uncle Rémy Lanier as soon as possible.
Uncle was good to the boy, and Maddy was grateful. But her life bore little resemblance to the dreams she’d once spun to entertain her younger cousin Fiona during the year she’d danced her way across Europe—before she’d met Stephen and before war with England recommenced. Mama had warned her that marrying a career soldier would mean long separations, but she’d been so in love—mostly, she now had to admit, with Stephen’s dashing uniform and roguish grin—that she had cajoled Papa into giving them his blessing. And then she’d merrily followed the drum, reveling in playing house in tents and barracks all over the western territories.
Until, that is, she found herself with child. Perpetual morning sickness turned adventure into misery, and tending to a colicky infant made her long for her mother’s godly wisdom. And worrying about Stephen brought her father’s crazy jokes to mind at the oddest moments.
Ironically, she’d go back to those anxious days in a heartbeat—the days before she knew the truth about her husband.
Determined not to eddy into the abyss these sorts of thoughts generally produced, Maddy took Elijah’s hand and pulled him away from the puddle he showed every intention of jumping straight into. “This way, ’Lijah,” she said firmly. “Unless you want to go home for a nap.”
“No!” was the predictable wail.
“All right then. Come along.” She marched him past the enticing mud.
Uncle Rémy had entrusted her to retrieve the mail packet for Lanier Shipping. She wanted to complete the errand and still have time to look through any new dress materials available in the Emporium. She had been building a reputation as a skilled dress designer and needlewoman, and at a party last evening, socialite Anna de Marigny had requested an appointment for a fitting. It was an unbelievable opportunity, and Maddy could hardly wait to get started on the project. Madame de Marigny cut a wide swath of influence along the Gulf Coast, from her home in New Orleans all the way to Pensacola.
But first a fishing lure.
She and Elijah entered the open-air market and found themselves amongst a colorful crowd of businessmen, housewives, slaves, and sailors on leave. After ten minutes or so of patient dodging, muttering “Excuse me, please,” and yanking Elijah out of harm’s way, she reached the center of the market, where C. C. Counselman’s fishing lure stall had been drawing enthusiastic custom since the early days of the Spanish occupation of the city. Along with his beautiful and famous angling accoutrements, Counselman always kept a large iron pot of stew bubbling on the stove at the back of the stall. Maddy wasn’t sure which provided the greater draw.
Elijah slapped his coin onto the counter. “Mr. Counselman, I told you I’ma earn enough for a lure next time I come, and look! I gots a whole real!” He paused and wrinkled his short nose. “Is that enough?”
The elderly merchant put down his work and leaned over to peer at the coin as if he’d never seen one before. He adjusted his glasses and squinted. “Hm. I believe it might be. With a little left over for a lemon drop, if Monsieur Delucey hasn’t run out by now.”
“Mama! I can have a lemon drop too!” Elijah flung his arms around Maddy’s legs. “Thank you!”
Maddy laughed and met Counselman’s twinkling brown eyes. “You’d best remember to thank Uncle Rémy. And perhaps remove the mice from his traps again next week.”
While Elijah and Mr. Counselman poked through his colorful display upon the workbench and discussed the various merits of painted wood, feathers, beads, and bits of silk, Maddy’s attention wandered to a cluster of gentlemen holding a heated political discussion just a few feet away. Well, at least two were gentlemen, judging by the exquisite tailoring of their coats and the fine leather boots. Not many men in this backwater city could afford to dress with such expensive care.
Her curious gaze must have lingered a tad too long, for the younger of the two gentlemen, the handsome one with a mop of thick black hair, glanced around and caught her staring. Blushing, she turned back to the lure negotiations.
“Maddy? Madeleine Burch? I didn’t know you were back in Mobile!” The young man excused himself from his companions. Face lit with a smile, he approached Maddy, took her hand, and kissed it. “How are you?”
“I’m well.” She stared up at Desi Palomo, trying to find her old friend in this tall, dark-eyed stranger. Of course it was him, but he looked so . . . authoritative, so confident. He even used to stammer a bit, before he went to college. “I think the last time I saw you was at my wedding.”
He tipped his head in that familiar way of his when he was teasing her. “Yes, you married that bumpkin soldier and left your papa wishing he’d taken you anyplace but Washington that summer. Where is your so-fortunate husband?”
Maddy swallowed, groping for a way to get past the awkwardness of speak
ing aloud Stephen’s death.
“Mama!” She felt a tug on her skirt and looked down to find Elijah scowling at her in high dudgeon. “You said I’m not to talk nonsense, but you did! No fair!”
She blinked, realizing Desi had addressed her in Italian, and she’d unthinkingly answered in the same language. They’d learned it together as a way to pass the time when he’d traveled with her family from New York to Mobile for a visit. It had become a private joke, their means of secret communication.
She withdrew her hand from Desi’s warm grasp and ruffled her son’s hair. Switching to English, she said, “Elijah, please be polite to Mr. Palomo. Desi, this is my son, Elijah. His papa was killed in action at Crysler’s Farm last November.”
Desi’s smile collapsed. “Oh, Maddy. I can’t tell you how sorry I am.” He offered a hand to Elijah. “I’m very pleased to meet you, sir, and please accept my condolences. You must be a very brave young man to take such good care of your mama.”
Elijah shook hands with comical gravity. “I don’t want no c’ndolens, but I am brave, cuz my papa gave me a sword and I’m gonna get a fish for our dinner. Would you like to have supper with us?”
“Indeed I would, if I can complete my business with these gentlemen in time. But perhaps your mama has other plans?” Desi gave Maddy an inquiring look.
“Of course not—I mean, certainly you are welcome, but you don’t have to—”
“I would like it above all things.” Desi smiled. “Perhaps you could give me the direction of your home. The city has changed a good deal since last time I was here.”
She wanted to ask him where he’d been all these years, why he was here now, and above all, what had put those little creases of experience at the corners of his eyes. But he was coming to dinner, and all that would come out later. Excitement warmed her cheeks. She hadn’t entertained male company in a very long time. “You remember Uncle Rémy’s house on Conti Street? Elijah and I are in the little white cottage next to it.”
“Ah. Yes, I remember. And at what time should I present myself?”
“We eat early because of Elijah’s bedtime. Would six-thirty be too soon?”
“That would be perfect. I’ll be there.” He bowed, winked at Elijah, and returned to the other men.
They had all kept glancing at Maddy as she conversed with Desi. She recognized none of them, but that wasn’t unusual. To keep herself and Elijah fed, she spent a lot of time at home sewing, and outside of family and church-related activities, the soiree last night had been the first party she’d attended since her widowhood.
But now that she had a guest for dinner, she’d best think about what to feed him. Oh, and Uncle Rémy’s family must be invited as well. Desi had been a great favorite of Aunt Giselle.
She took Elijah by the shoulders and firmly turned him toward Mr. Counselman, waiting with an indulgent smile for his young customer to return to business. “Make up your mind, Elijah, if you want to have time to go fishing. We have lots to do before our company arrives this evening.”
Elijah poked at the lures laid out upon the table and chose one with alternating yellow and blue wooden beads and the obligatory red-dyed feather. “This one. I bet I could catch a shark with it!”
Maddy shuddered. “I certainly hope not!”
“Don’t worry, Miss Maddy,” Counselman said with a smile. “Every self-respecting shark in the Gulf of Mexico will be swimming to Cuba when they hear Master Elijah’s about to drop his line in the water.”
NAVY COVE
As bedrooms went, the storeroom could have been worse. Charlie gingerly sat up, one hand to his aching head, and propped his back against the soft, unpainted wooden wall of the storeroom. The hot, moist climate permeated every surface, and he found himself dragging air into his lungs with conscious effort. At the same time, there was something familiar and comforting about the humidity. He had no memories that would connect a lad from the craggy tors of Scotland to this tropical coast, and his brain hurt from trying to force them to resurface.
Perhaps if he concentrated on getting himself physically back to normal, his mind would correct itself.
Last night he had managed to endure the process of being moved to a pallet of blankets in the storeroom without groaning aloud. Fiona’s menfolk were a generally stoic, uncommunicative lot who clearly regarded Charlie with suspicion, but they tried not to jostle him too hard. The older one—Fiona and Léon’s uncle, father to the youth they called Oliver—had remained after the others left, squatting on his haunches and puffing on his pipe. He’d asked all manner of questions Charlie was unable to answer, all the while studying his face with a disconcerting glint of amusement in his dark eyes. Then with a cryptic “Never mind, laddy, she’ll make sure you know what you need to know,” Luc-Antoine rose and left Charlie to drift off into an uneasy sleep.
He’d awakened early, managed to stagger outside to relieve himself, and returned to his pallet for another long sleep. Once he thought he heard Fiona’s voice, felt her gentle hand upon his brow, but perhaps he’d been dreaming the mermaid dream again. Such an odd thing, that he couldn’t remember recent details of his real life, but that dream felt as familiar as the shape of his hands. He knew it originated in a story his nurse had told him as a child, but the fish-girl in his dreams was always the same, her iridescent tail spangled with shades of blue and gray and green the same color as her eyes, her long, sunlit hair floating in waves about her face. She seemed to have been dressed above the waist in a childish white long-sleeved nightgown, buttoned up to the neck—which made absolutely no sense. And was, frankly, a bit disappointing.
He was just about to lever himself further upright when the door opened a crack.
“Charlie? I thought I heard you. Do you need anything?” Fiona’s voice.
“Just someone to talk to. I think I’m going mad.”
She stuck her head past the edge of the door. “Is it all right if I come in?”
Her hair was braided and wrapped in a neat coronet about her head, and he noticed for the first time a charming sprinkle of freckles across her nose. She looked tidy and normal and distinctly un-mermaidlike.
He pulled himself together. “Of course. I’m sorry to be such a slug-a-bed. I imagine you need something—”
“Oh, no, I was just worried that you might . . .” She blushed as she came into the room, leaving the door open. “That is, do you want me to get Oliver to help you . . . ?”
“Oh!” He laughed. “No, I took care of that myself earlier.”
She grinned. “Well, good. Then maybe you’re hungry. I kept some grits and biscuits hot for you, and I can poach an egg.”
“I’ve no idea what grits are, but the other sounds splendid.”
“Oh, you have to try the grits. They’re useful when one is ill.”
“I am certainly ill. So I shall bow to your wisdom.” He thought of Luc-Antoine’s prediction as Fiona ducked back into the kitchen and began to bang pots and pans. She had already begun to let him know what he needed to know.
He smiled and settled back into a half doze.
Sometime later Fiona returned bearing a tray loaded with the promised eggs and biscuits, steaming alongside a pile of yellowish cereal and a rasher of bacon, and a cup of coffee. With a smile she settled the tray on his lap.
He poked at the cereal with the fork Fiona had thoughtfully wrapped in a napkin. “It looks a little like mush.”
“It’s made from corn—hominy, to be precise.” She sat on the floor beside his pallet, arranging her skirts about her legs for modesty. “You won’t see it in England.”
Probably he had eaten worse things, he thought, shoveling a forkful into his mouth and chasing it with a swig of coffee. “Not bad,” he conceded. “I thank you.” There was enough butter and salt to make it quite tasty, and he discovered he was ravenous. He ate while Fiona sat looking at her hands linked loosely in her lap. Her silence made him uncomfortable. “Perhaps you could tell me more about the time when we met. I
swear to you I can’t remember it.”
The big sea-colored eyes lifted to his face, their expression troubled. “I couldn’t sleep last night for thinking about it. And wondering how you got here. Perhaps you’re a sailor. That’s all you talked about that summer.”
“Couldn’t be. My father wouldn’t have it.”
“Your father the earl. Is he still alive? Is it possible you’re the Earl of Scarborough now?”
“Fiona, I don’t know. I have two older brothers, so even if the pater is dead, I’m third in line. Little chance I’m anything but the black sheep youngest of the Kincaid brothers. More likely I’m a pirate got washed overboard from the Jolly Roger.”
Fiona laughed. “Now that’s a story. The British don’t make good pirates. Too starchy.”
“Do I look starchy to you?”
She tilted her head and surveyed him, head to bare feet. “With the bandage and whiskers, you do look a bit . . . scruffy.”
“I just imagine I do.” He rubbed his bristly face. “I don’t suppose you could scare up razor and soap, could you? Oh, and a mirror?”
She jumped to her feet. “I’ll be right back.”
By the time she returned, Charlie had finished his breakfast and set the plate aside. The headache had abated somewhat, and he thought if he could just shave and put on some clean clothes, he might even feel human again.
Fiona dumped the shaving accoutrements, along with a clean towel and a pile of garments, on the floor. “I raided my brother’s old trunk and found some things I thought you might be able to wear. There’s water in the pitcher over on the table. I’ll be in the kitchen. Call if you need anything else.” Picking up the tray, she backed toward the door.
“Wait! Fiona, you never told me about our meeting. You said you came to Riverton Farm with your relatives . . .”
She paused, biting her lip. “I was just a little girl then, not quite eleven years old. I was raised here on the Point with three brothers, and I’d become rather a hoyden.” She grimaced. “My mama convinced my papa I needed to see more of the world, spend some time with my older cousin Maddy. Her father, Uncle Rafa, is a diplomat, and the family wanted to take me with them to Europe that summer—it was 1805, I think . . .”
