Just Once

by Jill Marie Landis

  “How was the theater?” Thomas O’Hurley smiled from a comfortable overstuffed chair beside a brick fireplace that hadn’t been lit in months. Although the threat of summer heat and the yellow fever had passed, the weather was still sultry, the night air alive with mosquitoes. With the doors and windows thrown wide open to allow for any breath of air, the pesky insects were a constant annoyance.

  “Excellent,” André said.

  “Fine.” Jemma forced a smile and sat down on a chair close to her father’s. She took her reticule off her arm, worked off her gloves, and set them down on a table beside a vase that held palmetto fans stuck into sand.

  Her father seemed to be trying, although at times he was awkward in his new role as a loving parent. She had decided that was only to be expected. Miracles weren’t worked overnight. It was enough to know he cared.

  The three of them talked amiably for a while, Jemma batting at mosquitoes, lingering long enough to be polite before she said, “I know you two always have business to discuss, so if you will excuse me, I’m going to retire early.”

  André and her father stood when she did. Exhausted from a day spent teaching reading and embroidery to the orphan girls at the Ursuline Female Academy, she bid them both good night. It wasn’t until she was halfway down the hall that she realized she had forgotten her gloves and bag. She made an abrupt about-face and went back to get them. Her silk slippers made very little sound on the woven straw matting, a summer replacement for carpeting. Just as she was about to reenter the sitting room, she concentrated on what André was saying. Her steps froze.

  “How much longer do you expect me to play this cat-and-mouse game, monsieur? I say, tell her and let’s be done with the farce.”

  When he spoke, her father’s tone shocked her. He sounded like the Thomas O’Hurley of old—impatient, cold, as stern as ever. “I expect you to play along until she is ready to accept a proposal. I’ve told you before, if Jemma suspects anything about our agreement, you can kiss the dowry money good-bye, Roffignac, and you’ll never be able to resurrect that pile of ash you once called home.”

  “Do you think you can keep me dangling forever with the promise of cash? You need me as much as I need your money. How else do you intend to gain further introduction into our society? You Americans are looked down upon as money-grubbing barbarians as it is—”

  “I’m not the one willing to marry for money,” Thomas brutally reminded him.

  “My family is old New Orleans, Monsieur O’Hurley. Marriages such as this are our way and much accepted. I could contract another bride—and a much younger one at that—on the morrow. Sixteen is a nice, malleable age.”

  “For half as much dowry,” her father shot back.

  Stunned, anguished beyond words, Jemma leaned back against the wall, her hands pressed to her breast, her heart in her throat. She felt the blood drain from her face as her head began to swim. With one hand on the plastered wall for support, she slipped back down the hall to her room and then closed the door behind her with barely a sound.

  Betrayed. Her father had contracted another marriage with no thought or care for her feelings or opinions. His newfound attitude toward her had all been a farce. He had learned nothing, nor did he realize what she was made of now if he thought she would stand for this outrage.

  This time her father had underestimated her. No longer could she be swayed by any pitiful pleas he might put to her. As the shock of discovery began to recede, she grew more furious. Pacing over to the balcony, she stepped outside and stared out onto the street below. Except for the passing of an occasional carriage, it was deserted. The flames in the lamplights fluttered with the slight breeze that had just begun. In the distance, the church bells tolled.

  There was deep sorrow in her heart when she realized she had come full circle. But this time history would not repeat itself. Thomas O’Hurley could never be the father she had prayed for. He would never respect her, never see her as a person of worth other than as a possession to use for his own ends. She could not stay and be his pawn. This time, when she left her father’s house, it would be for good.

  Determined to have it out with him, she decided to wait until André took his leave. She stepped inside, tossed back the mosquito netting that draped the bed, and threw her shawl on the quilt Nette had given her. Her prie-dieu and small altar were the only furnishings her father had shipped from her room in Boston. He had deemed them satisfactory, not because of their religious value, but because most Creole homes contained similar altars.

  She knelt down, folded her hands, and stared up at the miniatures of the saints. Instead of feeling lost and desperate as she had last year, instead of resigning herself to her fate and praying for a miracle, she experienced a wave of stubborn determination and renewed resolve.

  Crossing herself, Jemma bent her head in prayer.

  “Dear Ladies and Gentlemen, I know that I have sinned and that I haven’t exactly lived the life any of you would choose, but I’ve always tried to do the right thing and not hurt anyone in the bargain. I’m going to have to leave my father’s home and his protection, but from past experience, I know that I can make my own way and that with your help and intercession, I’ll be safe.”

  She crossed herself and stood up, walking back to the balcony. This time she would be prepared when she left. She would have plenty of money, the proper clothing, and a destination in mind.

  In the courtyard below, André Roffignac was stepping up into his carriage while his driver stood in attendance. Without waiting another moment, she began to pack.

  Chapter 20

  It’s now or never.

  Hunter decided to step up to the edge of the sidewalk and cross over to the house on St. Louis Street, the place that the workmen at the import warehouse had told him was the residence of Thomas O’Hurley. He had come directly from the waterfront, prepared to knock on the door with hat in hand and a heart full of apology. Fast talking and extra coin had gotten him a room in a respectable hotel above a café in the French Quarter, after the proprietor had tried to refuse him solely on the grounds that he was a “Kaintuck” and would likely cause too much trouble. Now, after leaving his things behind, he felt vulnerable and half-naked without his rifle. His long knife was the only protection he carried.

  He drew back to watch a fancy open rig with a Negro driver pass by and then inched back into the shadows when he realized that the woman inside was none other than Jemma. She was comfortably seated beside a handsome gent with coal-black hair and the look of a wealthy, indolent Creole about him. Appearing every inch the daughter of a wealthy merchant, Jemma had never looked more beautiful, or unattainable. Her golden hair had been coaxed into a fashionable, upswept style. Bouncing curls teased her cheeks while a strand of pearls at her throat, no more precious than her ivory skin, caught the moonlight. The darkness muted her features somewhat, but Hunter thought he saw her smile up at the handsome young dandy.

  Shaken, afraid to let himself think that she might have already married another, Hunter lingered just outside the pool of light cast by the streetlamp and watched the house. From where he stood, he saw the carriage turn into the courtyard. Within seconds he heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs to the gallery, and when they cleared the high garden wall, he watched Jemma and her escort cross the balcony and disappear inside.

  Lurking in the dark like a voyeur, Hunter had almost convinced himself that the young man was not leaving and that he was a permanent fixture in Jemma’s life. He lost track of time as he intently tried to watch every window. Soon he was rewarded when he saw a slight, blond figure standing in one at the far end of the house.

  Jemma. Time stood still and so did his heart. When she stepped back and he could no longer see her, he began to breathe again. Was she about to climb into bed with the dark-haired man? Had he come too late?

  Hunter touched the possibles bag at his waist. Had he been foolish to think he could win her back with a simple declaration of love and the tarnish
ed, battered heart? He sagged against the cool brick wall behind him, refusing to give up hope until he knew anything for certain. Much to his relief, the Creole eventually exited through one of the long French doors and followed the upper gallery to the stairs.

  Hunter waited until the conveyance carrying the young man pulled out of the courtyard and rolled away. Then, he stepped off the wooden banquette and headed across the street.

  As he approached the courtyard, he half-expected someone to stop him, but apparently the house servants had gone to bed. A few candles were still burning in the upstairs rooms. He could see a silver candelabrum in one window. His moccasins made no sound on the wooden stairs. When he reached the upper balcony, he headed toward the largest open doors. He took off his hat and smoothed back his hair, wondering if he should have waited until tomorrow.

  As he stepped up to the open doors, he could see a man who looked close to fifty sitting in a chair, sipping a drink and staring off into space. Afraid to alarm him and make a bad first impression, Hunter shuffled his feet and coughed softly. He watched Thomas O’Hurley’s gaze swing toward him as he stepped into the light. He kept his hands slightly in front of him. One was empty, the other held his black hat. He hoped he looked harmless enough.

  Thomas O’Hurley stood up quickly, set the drink aside, and moved swiftly toward the door. Nothing about the man reminded him of Jemma, except O’Hurley’s blue eyes. Where she was all smiles and light, this man was stern and openly calculating. His cool gaze swept Hunter, assessing him, weighing his worth. There was instant dismissal in his eyes.

  “Mr. O’Hurley?” Hunter smiled.

  O’Hurley nodded but didn’t return the smile. He kept his voice low, as if he were trying not to awaken the household. “Who are you and what do you want?”

  “I’m Hunter Sinclair Boone. From Kentucky.” He looked over O’Hurley’s shoulder, hoping to see Jemma.

  “Is that supposed to mean something?” Again, the cold, dismissive tone a man might use with a servant. Hunter clenched his jaw and told himself that this was Jemma’s father. He needed to keep a cool head.

  “Your daughter hired me on to take her upriver last year. I came by to talk to her, if I may.”

  O’Hurley put his hand on the door frame. Hunter had no intention of stepping in without invitation, but O’Hurley obviously didn’t know that. He couldn’t resist slowly looking the shorter man up and down. If he wanted to get in, he knew that a man of this importer’s weight and stature certainly wouldn’t be able to keep him out.

  “She’s already retired for the night. Besides, I’m sure she doesn’t want to see you. She’s getting married in a few weeks.”

  Hunter’s fingers tightened on his hat. He knew he was crushing the brim, but that was the last thing he was worried about at this point. O’Hurley’s announcement put Jemma beyond his reach. Images of Charlie Tate flashed through his mind: the old man, the pitiful cabin, the leather-bound box beneath the bed. The legacy of the battered brass heart had been passed on, but Hunter didn’t even have any old, faded letters for consolation. Stunned by the news, he stared around the room, trying to collect himself. The room behind O’Hurley was unlike anything Hunter had ever seen. There were silver candle holders and an elegant crystal chandelier that caught the light and reflected dancing rainbows on the walls. Fancy china plates were displayed in a spindly open cupboard of some kind. A life-sized portrait of a woman who looked very much like Jemma hung across the room from a huge mirror over the fireplace that reflected her image.

  The opulence was overwhelming. Why would Jemma give up all this to live in a log cabin in Sandy Shoals? He must have been crazy to think she would welcome him with open arms.

  He concentrated on the man standing in the doorway.

  “Like what you see, do you?” Thomas O’Hurley sounded far too smug.

  “I’d like to see Jemma.”

  “Any real gentleman knows it’s too late to come calling. Besides, I can see you’re no gentleman, Boone. My daughter isn’t allowed to associate with the likes of you.”

  She’s getting married in a few weeks.

  If O’Hurley was telling the truth, there was no reason to stand there arguing. And there was no reason on earth not to believe him. For a split second Hunter almost called her name. Maybe she would respond, but what then? Could he suffer hearing about her pending marriage from her own lips? After all, he had walked out on her. Turnabout was fair play.

  Although it broke his heart to admit it, he couldn’t really blame her.

  Remembering his manners, Hunter mumbled his thanks and started to put on his hat. Thomas O’Hurley stepped outside onto the balcony and, in a low voice, halted Hunter in his tracks.

  “You know, Boone, now that I think about it, I do recall my daughter mentioning your name once. She told me she had met a backwoods yokel who didn’t know any better than to parade around in filthy buckskins. Said she’d talked you into taking her upriver, toyed with you for a time and enjoyed playing at being a frontier homesteader, but she soon got tired of the charade. You see, my Jemma has quite the imagination, as well as a flair for drama. She also has a very odd sense of humor.” O’Hurley looked him up and down, just as Hunter had done earlier. “I’m sure she had one hell of a good time pulling the wool over your eyes.”

  Without a word, Hunter turned on his heel and stalked off, past the flower boxes, down the stairs. He crossed the garden without thought and found himself two blocks down the street before he even realized he wasn’t standing outside O’Hurley’s door anymore.

  His stomach was heaving, roiling. For some reason, he found it hard to see. His eyes were stinging. He rapidly blinked, pressed a fist to his gut. He walked on without knowing where he was headed, without caring.

  Backwoods yokel. He looked down at his oiled buckskins, his moccasins. Maybe he should have bought a coat, a fancy cutaway with tails like the one the Creole with Jemma had sported. Maybe he should have cut his hair before he came calling, found a decent pair of boots—

  “Toyed with you for a time. Got tired of the charade.”

  “I was thinking about kissing.”

  “All I’m asking for is tonight.”

  “Tell me you don’t want me.”

  “Let me go, Jemma.”

  “I’m sure she had one hell of a good time pulling the wool over your eyes.”

  He walked aimlessly for a time, heading toward the river. Memories tumbled through his mind, pounded relentlessly at his battered heart.

  He was an idiot when it came to judging women, but he wasn’t about to let it happen ever again.

  He wasn’t much of a drinker, and he hated to pay someone else for whiskey he could get free at home, but he needed some in a bad way. He stumbled when he reached the end of the boardwalk and stepped into the street; right then he decided he needed more than one drink. He needed to get blind drunk so that the voices in his head would stop.

  Jemma had finished packing, weighing her traveling bag after each addition so that she wouldn’t end up with more than she could carry. This time she knew what was ahead of her; she prepared well, choosing woolen socks, a coat, three serviceable day dresses, cotton chemises, one cotton and one flannel petticoat, and three pairs of pantaloons. She threw in small items for gifts—earrings, bracelets, and other trinkets that she planned to give to her friends when she reached Sandy Shoals again.

  And money. The silver tea caddy that held her allowance money was stuffed full of bills and coins. Whenever she went about the city, one of the servants, André, or her father had been with her. The dressmaker’s bills came to her father. She had never really needed to use her funds to purchase anything.

  While she laid out a plain brown dress and sturdy street shoes, she thought she heard her father speaking to one of the servants. Good, she thought, it would give her time to take down her hair, braid it, and don a nightgown and wrapper. She wanted to keep him from suspecting anything before she made her escape.

  There was
no great sadness in her heart, not even when she thought of the poignant moment of their reunion in the warehouse. Now she knew that none of his attentions of late had been real, nor were they inspired by love. He had only been pretending, biding his time until she had wed the man of his choice, a man who could further his own ambitions in exchange for her freedom.

  Her father would never, ever change. She knew that now. She would not be fooled again.

  Tonight, after she spoke to him, she would go to the sisters at the Ursuline convent and ask them to give her shelter until morning. At first light, she would book passage on a keelboat headed upriver. It would be a long, arduous trip, weeks longer than the voyage down the Mississippi because the boatmen had to pole and pull the craft back up against the current. But time didn’t matter to her now.

  All that mattered was heading back to Sandy Shoals and returning to the only real home she had ever known, to the place where she had been not only loved, but respected for who she was and what she could accomplish. It was a haven where her worth hadn’t been measured by a husband bought with wealth and privilege, but by her own achievements and her will to survive.

  She walked over to the prie-dieu but didn’t kneel. All of the saints were looking back at her from their little gilded frames, all except St. Lucy, of course, who stood there serenely even though she was holding her eyes in what appeared to be a fruit compote. Jemma took a deep breath and exhaled.

  “I can’t take all of you with me,” she said, eyeing each portrait. “I’ve decided to take only one of you along.” The decision was a hard one; she had relied on all of them for so very long.

  The virgins were definitely out now, which narrowed her choices tremendously. On impulse, she reached for the miniature painting of St. Michael. She stared down at the colorful image of the beautiful figure weighing souls in the scales suspended from his left hand while wielding a sword in his right. A giant who towered over men, the angel-saint had been portrayed with flowing blond hair.