Jemma felt increasingly desperate. “Don’t you see? I don’t want to be tied down by marriage yet. I’ve just spent nine years at convent school. I don’t know anything about the world. I want to see things, do things I’ve only imagined. I have my own dreams, Father. I want a taste of adventure.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
His cold reaction to her heartfelt plea was like a slap in the face.
“Ridiculous? Why is it all right for a man to want to experience the world, but a woman must quickly settle down and give up her freedom?”
“Damn your grandfather’s eyes!” Thomas slammed the snifter down on the desk so hard that the remaining liquor sloshed all the way to the rim.
He had not been enthusiastic about taking in her maternal grandfather when the old man had come knocking on the door nine years ago, but she hadn’t realized the depth of her father’s resentment until today. Theodore Hall had come to Boston to live out the last few months of his life, forced to accept his son-in-law’s charity or die alone on the streets. A penniless adventurer, Grandpa Hall had spent most of his life at sea or roaming through foreign ports. Since her father measured a person by his wealth, in his eyes Theodore Hall had been worth nothing. To Jemma, Grandpa was a hero, a spinner of tall tales who owned more than riches. He possessed a treasure trove of memories and he had shared them all with her before he died.
“If I were a son, not a daughter, you’d expect me to sow wild oats, wouldn’t you? But no … I’m cursed. I’m a woman, so you’ve gone ahead without consulting me. Did you know that Grandpa once told me that his one regret was that Mama died so young, without having really lived, without having seen anything but this one little corner of the world?”
At first she thought he was not going to say anything, but when he did respond, the words were so softly uttered that she barely heard them.
“We were young and in love, your mother and I. She died having you. I don’t think she would have traded one moment of her life for adventure.”
It was the first time Jemma had ever heard even a touch of love and reverence in his voice. She watched Thomas set the empty snifter on the desk. His eyes seemed incredibly bright. Jemma caught her breath. Perhaps this was the miraculous moment she had been praying for, for so very long. She had finally reached his heart and he had heard her.
Now he would ask her to forgive him and tell her the marriage contract was all a big mistake. That she didn’t have to marry a stranger. They would work together. She would be his right hand. He would be the father she had always wanted.
Now he would open his arms to her and show his fatherly love.
But when he looked back up and met her gaze, there was nothing but cool determination in his hard, uncompromising stare.
The moment for miracles had vanished.
“Jemma, don’t make this any harder than it has to be,” he told her. “I’ve done this for you. In time, you’ll see I’m right. You’ll come to love Alexandre Moreau. I hear he’s handsome, charming, and quite an honorable man.”
“So, you honestly expect me to marry a virtual stranger? Some man you had to pay to marry me?”
“I didn’t have to pay him,” he sputtered.
“There is no dowry involved?”
Cornered, he shrugged. “A small one.”
“Knowing you, this small dowry could probably keep an entire family living modestly for years.”
“I’m not about to back down. I can’t. I made this agreement with the Moreaus and I need your cooperation. I’ve never asked anything of you before, have I?” He took a deep breath and let out a long, ragged sigh. “I’ve never begged anyone for anything in my life, but I’m begging you now, Jemma. If you love me, help me keep my good name and secure the future of the company. Please do this for me. Promise me that you’ll marry Alex Moreau.”
This was a nightmare. A bad dream she prayed would end. Jemma dug her nails into her palms, hoping the pain would awaken her. It only proved she wasn’t dreaming. Her father was still standing there with perspiration beading his forehead, waiting expectantly for an answer.
He’d said he had never begged anyone for anything in his life, and she knew that was true, just as he had never asked anything so important of her either, until now. But this—
“Well, Jemma?”
His voice called her back. “What, Father?”
“Please make me a solemn vow that you’ll marry Alexandre Moreau.”
Don’t do it, Jemma gal!
“I—” The words stuck in her throat.
“I need this. I need you to uphold the O’Hurley name and see this through.”
He had made a promise to the Moreaus, had signed his good name to an official document. He could be ruined before he even began in New Orleans. No matter how much she wished the circumstances away, she could never be the cause of his dishonor.
Fight it, Jemma gal. Don’t give in.
Her grandfather was only a memory. Her father was flesh and blood and he was standing there expectantly, waiting for her to do as he asked, willing her to do the honorable thing.
“But I promised Grandpa Hall….”
“He would only want what’s best for you, too, Jemma. You know that, as a woman, this is really the only course you can follow. Do this for me and I promise you’ll never regret it.”
Deep down, she knew there was no way she could refuse; still, he was asking her to pour her hopes and dreams onto thirsty sand and watch them evaporate.
“Must I give you an answer today?” She knew it would only prolong the agony; still, she hoped—
“I’ve booked passage for you on a ship bound for New Orleans at the end of the week.”
“But you’re sailing to London in two days.”
He looked away. “I can’t be there to see you wed. You know the settlement of the London assets can’t wait. Finlay was deep in personal debt. I have to try to save what I can of his portion of the partnership; everything I have depends on that. I’m counting on you to sail to New Orleans without me and see this marriage through, Jemma.”
So torn. A refusal was on her lips until he did the one thing she had never expected. He slowly reached out and laid his hand on her shoulder. With a feather-light touch, he gave her an awkward but gentle pat.
Jemma broke. She felt her lower lip begin to tremble and bit down hard to keep it still. Once more her father’s image was blurred by shimmering tears. The same love that had kept her hoping he would one day show his affection bubbled up from the wellspring of love that bound her to him and bid her to obey.
Don’t give in!
She could still hear Grandpa urging her to refuse, but the memory of the sound of his voice had begun to fade to a muffled hint of a whisper.
“I’ll do it,” she said quickly, softly, as if muting the words might lessen the strength of her promise.
Her father lifted his hand and smiled in relief. She had given him what he wanted, had given in, knowing as she did so that she would never go back on her word. Obviously, he wasn’t as certain of her honor. He pressed for more.
“Swear to me you’ll do it, Jemma.”
“Do you know how much this hurts me, Father?”
“I have to have your solemn vow.”
She met his gaze and swore. “I promise on St. Lucy’s eyes that I’ll marry Alex Moreau.”
Even with all the windows open, the air on the second floor was stifling. Jemma closed the door to her room and leaned against it, eyes shut, her heart hammering as if it were a creature trying to escape her chest. Her earlier bravado had evaporated the minute she left the study. Never had she known such confusion. She opened her eyes and pressed a hand over her lips, afraid an uncontrollable sob might escape. Slowly, by taking deep, even breaths, she eventually calmed herself—trying not to think of what she had just agreed to, but failing.
Often, when she had felt frightened and alone as a child, she would sneak down to the kitchen, sit on a stool near the hearth, and spin s
tories for the help that kept them all enthralled. There had been a closeness, a camaraderie among the servants that was now missing from her life. At times she had even pretended they were her family, until Mrs. Greene came to announce that her nanny was looking for her or that it was almost time for her father to come home and that she had best get back upstairs where she belonged.
Shortly after her return from school she had wandered into the kitchen looking for company, only to find that the one familiar face there was Mrs. Greene’s. The new staff saw her as an adult, as their mistress. She could tell that her presence made them uncomfortable. She wasn’t accepted among them.
Where did she fit in? Surely not in some swamp in Louisiana. What if she hated Alex Moreau? What if she hated Louisiana? By the time she discovered whether either one suited her, it would be too late to escape.
She crossed to the wide bank of windows. Unlatching them one by one, she swung them open, hoping to attract any stray wisp of breeze. Then, she walked over to the prie-dieu standing before a small altar on a side table. Votive candles burned in various shapes and sizes of stemware purloined from the pantry, all lined up before a collection of small likenesses of saints portrayed in various poses. The framed miniatures were hung in a gathering on the wall above the table.
She had collected the portraits at convent school. Some had been awarded to her for scholastic achievement. Others she had obtained as gratuities for her donations to the Save the Heathen Children collection. The familiar images had always been comforting, like a host of friends and family she could call on during times of need. In that way they were always with her, like the brothers and sisters she never had. She gazed up at the pictures of the men and women posed with their emblems, the symbols of each individual taken from stories of martyrdom or sacrifice.
Bowing her head, Jemma crossed herself and began a prayer devoted to a specific few, the virgin martyrs.
“Dear Ladies, if you could only find a way to save me from this marriage without breaking my word to my father, I would be truly grateful.”
She hastily reminded the saints that she had led a life of obedience that even St. Francis could not have faulted. An ordered, predictable, boring life.
“Now I’m facing marriage to a man I’ve never laid eyes on—a man who will expect me to vow obedience, bear his children, and see to his household, somewhere in a swamp full of alligators. The guillotine would be more inviting.”
Realizing what she had just said, she crossed herself and added hastily, “Forget that last statement. And if you’re up there listening, Grandpa Hall, I’m sorry I can’t keep my promise. I hope you’ll understand that there was really no way out.”
Jemma crossed herself, stood up and kicked off her slippers, then skimmed off her stockings before she went back to the window seat and sat down. Listlessly staring out at the heat clouds in the distance, she drew her skirt up until her hem rested across her thighs. She leaned back against the wall.
If her saints could not save her, then she had two months before she would arrive in New Orleans to grow accustomed to settling down and sharing a bed with a virtual stranger. After everything Sister Augusta Aleria had taught her students about the evils of lying with a man—any man, including a husband—the very thought of having to do anything of the sort made Jemma queasy. Yet, at the same time, it filled her with a titillating sense of curiosity and excitement. When it was time to sleep with her husband, would she be able to confine her desires to lovemaking for the sake of procreation, or would she cross the line into the evil realm of wanton sensuality? Would she run amok in the devil’s playground that Sister Augusta Aleria had so often—and in such very colorful detail—warned her students about?
Jemma’s gaze drifted from the open window to the wall opposite the framed saints. It was lined with the many framed samplers of proverbs and sayings she had embroidered. They showed a progression of her needlework skills from the age of six onward. Contemplating the varied pieces, she realized she had been groomed for nothing but marriage. She was educated, but had no real vocation. She was more than capable of overseeing a household staff, balancing household accounts, hostessing parties, and appearing on her husband’s arm, but nothing more would ever be expected of her.
Since she had left convent school she had felt adrift, a ship without a rudder. Her life had no purpose, no meaning. Although she had no idea then what destiny held in store for her, she had been convinced it would be something greater than more of the staid, ordinary life she had already led.
Was she ready to raise children? She didn’t know one thing about babies. Why, she had never even held one in her arms.
She bounded up off the window seat and went to one of two huge armoires that banked the far wall. The closet was filled to bursting, a cornucopia of silk and satin gowns with high waistlines and low-cut bodices. Capes and cloaks and riding attire. Fabrics embellished with the finest Belgian lace and shimmering ribbons. Casually tossed, mismatched piles of silk slippers dyed to match the various gowns, as well as an assortment of bonnets, gloves, parasols, and bags.
Her dresser held velvet-lined boxes of pearls and gem-stones set into drop earrings. There was probably not another young woman her age who would not change places with her. Now she was to be settled with a rich husband who would continue to keep her in style. She had spoken the truth earlier when she had told her father that she would trade all of it away if he could only spend more time with her.
As she stared at the abundance around her, she prayed for a miracle. Barring that, she prayed for strength and a sign from heaven. She even prayed that her father would change his mind, but deep in her heart she knew that he would not, that he could not go back on his word.
Just as she knew she could not go back on her own promise to him.
She stood before the armoire, trying to decide what to take and what to leave behind. One trunk would be enough for now. The rest could be sent later. One thing was certain in this time of uncertainty and doubt—she would have to decide what to pack, and act quickly to see that everything was ready.
As she sorted through the gowns, she felt no enthusiasm, no excitement. She felt more alone than ever. Even in this, her marriage, her father was distancing himself, putting O’Hurley and Finlay first.
He would not even be there on the most important day of her life.
Chapter 2
New Orleans, October 1816
Hunter Sinclair Boone knew he wouldn’t find the woman he was looking for in the Swamp.
The unsavory district was a favorite haunt of ruffians and rivermen who traveled down the Mississippi—a hellhole on Girod Street made up of slapdash structures of lumber salvaged from barges and flatboats that were broken up once they reached New Orleans. Twelve blocks from the French Quarter, the Swamp was a teeming den of iniquity that even the New Orleans police refused to enter after dark, a place where the only law was every man for himself. The dregs of the underworld—crooked gamblers, pimps and prostitutes, derelicts and criminals of every description—roamed the lawless streets and back alleys that provided the perfect setting for the gut-busting “frolics” the rivermen engaged in night after night without fail.
But Hunter Boone wasn’t looking to frolic. He was looking for Amelia White and although he knew better, she thought she was above the Swamp. He headed for the French Quarter.
With an eye out for Amelia, he was soon strolling through the Vieux Carré, rubbing shoulders with the Creoles and American merchants, the men and women of wealth and privilege. As he passed by, occasional comments were whispered in French, some just loud enough for him to hear. Although he couldn’t understand the words, he could tell by the tone that the utterances were about him and that they were none too complimentary.
It didn’t matter one bit to the damn Frenchies that he and others like him had served in detachments from Tennessee and Kentucky fighting alongside General Andrew Jackson to save this crowded, stinking city from the redcoats. To the Creoles, all of
the backwoodsmen who came down the Mississippi by flatboat, keelboat, or barge were “Kaintucks,” uncultured barbarians.
Granted, in his well-greased buckskin coat and leggings, a low-crowned, wide-brimmed felt hat, and moccasins, he certainly looked less than civilized. But most “Kaintucks” signed on as boatmen just to make sixty dollars working the perilous journey downriver so they could spend it on a hell of a drinking spree and a night of debauchery.
Hunter had come to New Orleans for two reasons: one was to sell off his brother’s latest batch of whiskey, and the other was personal. He had hoped by a wild twist of fate that he might run into the woman to whom he had quite a few things to say—none of them kind. After that, he would be free to get on with his life for the first time in all of his twenty-eight years.
A slight mist had begun to fall, illumined by the lamplight, creating a veil of damp gossamer that settled over the sidewalks and muddy streets. Now and again he paused before the open doors of the crowded coffeehouses and cafés and let his gaze scan the rooms, hoping to catch a glimpse of the woman to whom he had opened his home and his heart; the woman who had stolen his savings and disappeared without a word, leaving behind her own daughter by another man, a man she couldn’t even name.
Amelia White had the morals of an alley cat. He hoped fate might bring them together tonight; but on this one night he would spend in town, he wasn’t about to waste more than a few hours looking for her.
At midnight, a performance of the popular Two Hunters and the Dairy Maid at the Theatre d’Orleans let out. The glittering crowd of theater patrons joined others on the street to enjoy the evening’s usual pastimes. Women with parasols hurried along, trying to save their elaborate gowns and silk slippers from the effects of the rain.
Hunter stood head and shoulders above most of the crowd as he scanned the milling throng. Quickly becoming adept at ignoring offensive stares, he kept his long rifle in one hand and his lethally sharp knife sheathed at his side, and knew he presented a formidable figure. If Amelia caught a glimpse of him first, there would be no chance of an encounter.
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