The street in front of the theater was congested as dark-skinned carriage drivers vied for curb space and the audience hurried to seek shelter from the light rain. Not far away, the cathedral bell tolled, deep and ominous, the peals reverberating over shrill whistles and the crack of a driver’s whip.
Hunter was close to giving up and heading back toward the river when he spotted a tall, slim brunette, flanked by two gentlemen dressed in black, headed in the opposite direction.
In a glance he took in the nape of the woman’s long, elegant neck, the upswept dark hair that swirled in a smooth, modish style, the richness of her ebony satin cloak. Hunter cut the distance between them by half in three long strides. Without thinking, he barged through the crowd until he was directly behind them, then reached out and laid his hand on the woman’s shoulder.
“Amelia!”
“Monsieur?” The woman turned abruptly, affronted by the intrusion. She was near thirty. Her tone was icy cold, but her faded hazel eyes could not hide her piqued interest. Hunter was more relieved than frustrated.
It wasn’t Amelia.
Nothing had gone smoothly since Jemma had left Boston. The dismal rain only made things worse as she stood beneath a streetlamp on the levee clutching her umbrella, her ruby-velvet hooded cloak fast becoming soaked. She had no maid to see to her care. The young girl whom Mrs. Greene had chosen to accompany her had taken ill at the last moment, and none of the other servants wanted to leave Boston. Determined to see to her own needs, Jemma made the decision to travel alone with Wheaton, her father’s most trusted bodyguard.
The hulking, slow-witted man had just returned from hiring a carriage; he stood beside her grumbling about the dark, the rain, and the unseasonable heat in a high-pitched whine that didn’t match his physical stature. The distinct odor of liquor emanated from him, no doubt supplied by the telltale bottle-shaped bulge in the pocket of his coat.
“There’s nothing we can do about our late arrival, Wheaton, so you might as well stop grousing.”
“Someone from the Moreaus’ shoulda been here to meet us, what with the wedding set for tonight.”
She wished he hadn’t reminded her. “We’re a week late and it’s already near midnight. I doubt they could actually be planning on carrying out the wedding tonight, do you?” She wondered how anyone could be so dense.
Jemma wondered what her father would have suggested. She had tried to persuade him that Finlay wasn’t getting any deader, hoping he would postpone his trip to London, but he had not sailed with her and had gone on to England instead. Over the past few years, Finlay had taken out so many personal loans against the business that Thomas O’Hurley stood to lose much if he ignored his duties.
Jemma remained bitterly disappointed, but was still determined to hold up her end of the marriage arrangement without her father at her side. A promise is a promise.
“Maybe we should find out how to get to the plantation. Should I load up the trunk?” Wheaton asked.
“It’s that or continue to stand out here in the rain like two brainless idiots.” Jemma looked around the nearly deserted dock. The passengers had all disembarked. Only a few stragglers remained. Beside them, her trunk and Wheaton’s small bag were getting soaked.
“Miss O’Hurley?”
She turned at the sound of the familiar voice behind her and found the ship’s captain politely waiting to address her.
“What is it, Captain Connor?” She had found the man eager to help make the voyage as comfortable as possible, even when the ship had run into the terrible gale that had blown it off course.
“This was delivered when we docked. I’m sorry, but the purser forgot to give it to you.” He handed her a sealed letter.
“Thank you,” she said absently, concentrating on the missive in her hand. As the captain departed, she handed Wheaton the umbrella. He held it over both of them while Jemma broke the wax seal and turned the page up to the streetlamp.
“Oh, my God.” She closed her eyes, awed by the absolute power of prayer.
“What is it, miss?” Wheaton was suspended in a half-hovering stance, as if he had been cast in bronze while waiting for direction.
She had offered novenas to each and every saint the nuns had ever mentioned since the moment she had sworn to marry Alex Moreau. She had kept a votive candle burning in her room in Boston, an offering to St. Jude, the patron of hopeless causes. Aboard ship she had suspended the practice because of the danger of fire, but she continually prayed to all of her saints.
Someone up there had worked a miracle.
“This letter is from Henri Moreau. He regretfully states hat his grandson, Alex Moreau, was killed in a duel a month ago. He goes on to add that I am not to worry, that we are to proceed to the plantation where another grandson, the one who is now his heir, will marry me in Alex’s place.” She held out a separate piece of paper for him. “Here’s a map.”
“Then let’s be off.”
The letter crumpled as Jemma closed her fist around it and blinked away a sudden gust of mist that hit her lashes. It was a miracle. Alex Moreau had died before she could be forced to marry him. Now, in all good conscience, she could tell the Moreaus that the wedding was off. She had given her father a sworn oath that she would marry Alex Moreau, not his cousin. In her mind, the promise no longer stood.
Before her, the carriage door stood open. The darkness inside loomed, as did her uncertain future. Wheaton stood beside the door, waiting patiently for her to climb aboard. Like a faithful retriever, he would stand there all night if need be.
Her mind spinning, Jemma lifted her skirt and let Wheaton help her into the high-sprung vehicle. Once she was inside and the latch clicked with terrifying finality, she had a sobering thought.
What if the Moreaus would not hear of calling off the wedding? Once she reached the plantation, they might force her to go through with it, and there would be no one to stand up for her. She glanced out the window at Wheaton, who continued to stand in the rain with a blank look on his face. No help from that quarter.
After another three seconds of heart-palpitating panic, Jemma forced herself to think. It would be months before her father returned to Boston, then weeks before he could relocate to New Orleans. She had at least four months to do whatever she liked before he found out that the wedding had never even taken place.
Balling her hands into fists, she pressed them against each other, held them to her lips, and closed her eyes tight. What would Grandpa Hall say?
Do it, Jemma gal! Run!
She whispered a hasty prayer to St. Thecla, a young girl who had called off her engagement so she could remain a virgin, and then had miraculously escaped death by fire, stood up to beasts, and dressed as a man to escape persecution. Faced with ravishment, Thecla was delivered to safety when the back of a cave opened and she disappeared. If anyone could help her in this hour of need, Thecla could.
Suddenly the cathedral bells pealed the quarter hour. Jemma’s eyes flew open.
“Wheaton!”
“Miss?”
“Before we go to the Moreaus’ I would like to stop at that cathedral across the square. During the storm at sea, I promised to light a candle and offer up a prayer just as soon as I reached dry land.”
He shook his head. “I dunno. We’re late enough as it is—”
“What’s a few minutes more? You won’t even have to climb down off the box. It won’t take me but a minute. Maybe less.”
He lifted his hat, unmindful of the water that cascaded off the brim, and scratched his head. His thick forehead bunched like a cauliflower.
“You aren’t plannin’ sompthin’ tricky, are you?”
“Of course not. I pray very fast.”
The good Lord knew she was becoming adept at it. She’d done nothing but pray for the past two months.
Finally, Wheaton nodded. His jowls danced.
“One second, no more,” he warned.
“Thank you.” She smiled. “Is my trunk secure?�
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She might never again see the trousseau she had thrown together.
“Everything’s ready.”
Beneath her ruby cloak she wore an ice-blue silk gown and matching slippers fit for drawing-room wear. She wished she had worn something suitable for the street, but with the five gold pieces Mrs. Harris had sewn into the hem of her underskirt for emergencies, she could soon outfit herself more appropriately.
Barely able to contain her excitement, Jemma sat back and dropped the window shade. Wheaton shouted to the team of horses, and a very serious jolt sent her sprawling onto the floor of the closed carriage, nearly knocking the wind out of her. Bracing her hands on the leather seat, Jemma pulled herself up and held on to the strap dangling beside the window. She drew aside the shade and was immediately hit in the face with a spray of water.
Sputtering as the shade slapped back into place, Jemma wiped her eyes and then carefully took another peek. The carriage rumbled to a halt in front of the cathedral.
Drawing a deep breath, Jemma waited a moment to see if Wheaton was going to climb down and open the door for her, but when nothing happened, she opened it a mere crack. As she had suggested, he remained on the box.
The lamplight shone on St. Louis Cathedral, highlighting its imposing majesty. The church was but a stone’s throw away. All she had to do was negotiate the muddy thoroughfare. By the time Wheaton became suspicious, she would have slipped out a back door and lost herself on the dark city streets.
Grandpa Hall would have been so very proud!
When Wheaton belched—a loud and obnoxious rumble that made her wince—Jemma shoved the door open so fiercely that it banged against the side of the carriage. She held her breath, but the bodyguard did not comment, so she gathered up her hem, tucked her ruby cloak around her, and carefully stepped down. Holding her gown out of the mud, she headed toward the front door of the cathedral.
You’re on your way now, gal!
Her slippers were soaked through. One shoe was nearly sucked off by the mud before she had taken more than four steps, but her heart was singing.
Deliverance was within her grasp.
The heels of her shoes pounded dire warnings on the wet banquette in front of the silent, ominously dark building. In her mad dash to safety, she thought her mind was playing tricks on her when she saw a shadowy image lurking in a dark alcove. It was another cloaked figure, a woman near her own height. Afraid Wheaton might mistake the woman for her and come to see what she was about, Jemma reached out and snagged the girl as she whipped past. She dragged the struggling girl along behind her as she flung open the door to the vestibule and hurried inside.
The one tall taper lit near the collection box sputtered as the draft eddied about the room. The heavy door swung shut with a bang. Incense permeated the air, reminding Jemma of countless masses she had attended as a child. Her unwilling companion had not yet uttered a sound, but continued to fight her tight hold.
Jemma let go of the other girl’s wrist and, close to shedding tears of joy, she smiled. God and the saints had been listening after all. It was another miracle that standing before her now was a young woman of nearly the same age and height, with a riot of flowing ebony hair and piercing amethyst eyes shadowed with pain and worry. Here, obviously, was someone else who was desperate. Shoving back the hood of her velvet cloak, Jemma almost danced for joy.
If she could persuade this girl to take her place in the carriage, she could buy even more time. Wheaton would not send up a hue and cry until he reached the Moreaus’ with the wrong passenger. By then, Jemma figured she would have had more than enough time to find shelter and think about her options.
Wanting to put her newfound companion at ease before the harried stranger escaped, Jemma spoke softly, her whisper echoing in the deserted chamber.
“I can’t believe it. God finally answered one of my prayers, and in the nick of time, too. I was beginning to give up.” She unfastened the gold clasp at her throat, drew her cloak off her shoulders, and held it out to the dark-haired girl.
“Here. Take this and be quick. I’ll need yours,” she said.
“What are you talking about?” Her savior glanced frantically about, as if she expected someone to leap at them from the shadowed corners of the church.
“I don’t have all night.” Jemma glanced at the door, afraid Wheaton would become suspicious and come looking for her. She had intended to be long gone by now. She had to either exchange places with this girl or leave immediately by another entrance. Jemma shook the ruby velvet at her stunned companion.
“Take it and give me yours.”
“But—”
“Look, I know there is some reason you were hiding out there all alone at this time of night, and my guess is that you are on the run. Am I right?”
The black-haired girl glanced around again, refusing to answer.
Jemma saw her well-laid plan beginning to crumble. “Please, I’m begging you,” she implored. “You have to help me. I’m trying to get away, too.”
“I’m in no position to help anyone.” The girl seemed to be sizing Jemma up, weighing the possibilities. She was soaked through, her hair limp and tangled. Her strange eyes were haunted, centuries-old eyes in a young face. “You are right. I am in a hurry to get away from here.” It was all the stranger would admit.
“Good. Give me your cloak,” Jemma demanded.
The dark-haired girl glanced into the recesses of the church, into the cavernous building where continuous rituals of birth, life, and death were celebrated.
Certain that things were about to go her way, Jemma forced herself to stay calm and not frighten the girl any more than she already had. Finally, the mysterious stranger untied the plain cord that held a forest-green wool cloak closed at her throat.
She gathered the worn fabric against her heart before she handed it over to Jemma. “Why are you so willing to help me?”
“I’m offering you a way out of here in exchange for my own freedom,” Jemma shook the cloak at her again.
They quickly traded wraps. Donning the threadbare wet wool, Jemma whipped the tie tight, poised to flee, waiting to give the other girl instructions. When the gold clasp on Jemma’s velvet cape was latched, the girl pulled the hood up. Jemma shoved the fugitive toward the door.
“Keep the hood up, run across the street, and get into the carriage.”
“But the driver—”
“He can’t wait to be rid of me. You, that is,” she lied. “Just don’t let him see your hair or your face. He’s a lout who won’t even bother to help you aboard. Just climb in and slam the door.”
“Surely I could never pass as you—”
“Where you are headed, no one has ever laid eyes on me. You will have a whole new life if you decide to take it. Just go along with all of it—or not—but by the time they find out you are not me, it’ll be too late by then and I’ll have gotten away.”
It was the perfect out. After all, she was not exactly sending this beautiful, exotic stranger to her doom.
“Will I be safe?”
The question took Jemma aback. She hadn’t thought for a moment that she might be setting the girl up for harm; still, she reckoned the worst that could happen was that the Moreaus would rant and rave a while when they learned the truth. Her father might have sold her into marriage, but he would have never signed the agreement if he had not approved of the Moreaus in the first place.
“I would never send anyone into danger. So, you will do it?” She could feel precious seconds evaporating with every frantic heartbeat. Jemma grabbed the door handle and opened the door a few inches. Planting her hand on the stranger’s waist, she urged her out into the rain.
Wheaton was still hunched on the driver’s box. She watched him tip his head back as he pressed the mouth of a bottle to his lips.
Just when Jemma thought the girl was about to run for the carriage, she paused once more, turned back, and with a worried sincerity in her eyes asked, “If I take your
place tonight, what will you do?”
Jemma could see that the girl was about to falter. She needed just the right answer, something that would convince the fugitive that going along with the plan was the right thing to do.
“I will fulfill my wildest dream. I want to be a nun.”
It was a bald-faced lie, but it worked. Relief and acceptance washed over the dark-haired girl, as if she had been waiting for some sign that it was all right to agree with the scheme. The thought of freeing Jemma to follow a religious calling had done the trick.
Jemma stiffened when she saw Wheaton pocket the bottle and glance over at the church. He placed one hand on the back of the seat, about to climb down.
“Hurry!” Jemma shoved the girl again. “Keep the hood over your face.”
“But—”
“Go!”
The dark-haired girl pulled the edges of the cloak close and drew the hood around her face. Jemma could not afford to waste time to see whether Wheaton would discover the switch. She turned and ran for the side door. The vestibule floor was slick with the muddy water they had tracked in. She took care not to slip.
Heading for a side door near the altar, she ran down the center aisle of the church, rounded the front pew, and skidded to a stop. She ran back to genuflect hastily before the altar, crossing herself with a wave of her hand before she was off again. The door banged shut behind her.
The cold rain was a shock. She took a deep breath to clear her head. The heady scent of incense had given her a headache. Her heart was pounding. She was alone on the streets of one of the most exotic, crowded, dangerous cities in the world.
It was positively exciting. It was absolutely thrilling.
“I hope you’re watching over me, Grandpa,” she whispered as she started running up a busy street behind the church.
Go, girl, go.
Quickly she lost herself amid the crowd, mingling with the well-dressed pedestrians. Snatches of conversation hummed about her, a lyrical sound, a strange combination of French and English and something more. Beneath many of the balconies overhanging the street, dark-eyed beauties took shelter from the rain on the arms of their escorts.
Just Once Page 3
