Just Once

by Jill Marie Landis

Upon her return, she had noticed that the image looked like Hunter. She would never own a portrait of the man she had loved with all her heart, but St. Michael came close enough. She hurried over to the bag on the bed, pulled out a chemise, and carefully wrapped it around the painting. If she needed any help along the way, she would appeal to the archangel first.

  Ready to face her father, she shoved her bag beneath her bed and stepped out into the hall. Head high, without trepidation or reservations, she imagined the avenging angel walking beside her. She hurried down the hall to the sitting room where the light was still burning. She expected her father to be reading, but he was standing on the balcony with a drink in his hand.

  As she crossed the room, he tossed back the liquor and drained the glass. Jemma paused as she watched him turn and reenter the sitting room.

  He looked startled when he saw her standing there. She took a deep breath, forcing herself to stay calm. In all probability, this would be the last time they spoke to one another. She had no intention of giving in, or giving up.

  Thomas cleared his throat and then smiled a broad, welcoming smile. He walked into the room and set his glass aside. “I thought you’d gone to bed.”

  “Not yet. I wanted to talk to you first.” She wondered why he was acting so nervous. If he suspected that she had overheard him and André earlier, he was trying not to act as if he did. Watching him smile his ingratiating smile, knowing there wasn’t the least bit of sincerity or affection behind it, turned her stomach.

  “What is it, my dear? You look tired. I think you’ve been working too hard at the orphanage. I don’t know why you want to waste your time there anyway. Most of those young girls’ mothers were whores. They are bound to grow up and follow the same path.”

  “You think so?”

  “Of course,” he said.

  “You don’t know much about determination, then, do you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that if a girl truly wants to change her life and her circumstances, she can.”

  “Not very likely in this day and age,” he told her, smiling one of his false smiles.

  She wanted to scream, to rail, to throw something, but she held her ground. And her temper.

  “I plan to change my circumstances, too.”

  He looked momentarily uncertain. When his confidence slipped, so did his smile. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m going back to Kentucky.”

  The shock that registered on his face was no surprise. He paced over to the door with short, quick strides, out to the balcony where he seemed to search the night for something. She wondered why, but didn’t dwell on it. He made an about-face and came back inside.

  “What in the world has come over you? Do you need to sit down?”

  “No. I need to hear the truth. Just once, before I leave.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about your little bargain with André Roffignac, the one I overheard the two of you discussing earlier. You’ve done it again, haven’t you, Father?”

  He tried to hide the fact that she had discovered his scheme. “Now, Jemma. I’m sure we can sit down and discuss this like two adults. That’s what you’ve always wanted, isn’t it? For me to treat you as an adult? Come, my dear—”

  When he tried to put his arm around her, she shook him off and took a step back. “Don’t ever touch me again. I lived a lifetime wishing you would put your arm around me like that; now the thought only sickens me. Your actions are only lies, like your words.”

  The false smile disappeared. He was so angry that his face turned a bright shade of red.

  “So what? So I lied. At least I was giving you time to get to know Roffignac before you married. What’s wrong with him?”

  “I don’t love him.”

  His cold stare raked her. “Do I need to remind you that you are now nineteen years old? Soon you’ll be so old no one will want you. Is that what you’d like? To end up a spinster?” He walked close to her, leaned down. She could smell the liquor on his breath. He looked her in the eye. “Maybe you’d rather choose the convent, is that it? Maybe you’d rather dry up and avoid a man’s touch forever?”

  She backed up another step, rammed into a library table behind her, and winced.

  His tirade went on. “I struck a great bargain with André Roffignac, let me tell you. You should be glad he’s even interested.”

  “You haven’t learned anything, have you?” she cried, facing him down, hating the trapped feeling of being forced up against the table.

  “Yes. I learned not to make the same mistake I did before. I was trying to give you time to see André’s worth, to fall in love with him, but now I’ll just have to take another tack.”

  “You sold me again.” She ground out the words. They insulted her tongue. “Let me ask you, Father, would the price go down if André were to learn I’m not a virgin? Would he still be willing to take me off your hands? Does he really need the money that badly?”

  He rocked back, as if she had dealt him a blow. “Not a virgin? What … what are you saying?”

  “Exactly that. I’m not a virgin. You haven’t anything to bargain with anymore.”

  “You’re lying.”

  She made the mistake of stepping closer. “I’ve slept with a man.”

  He raised his hand and slapped her across the face so hard that it sent her reeling. She smashed into the door frame; her breath left her in a rush. Her legs buckled. Jemma saw stars and thought for a moment that she was going to pass out, but she forced herself to remain standing. Gripping the edge of the open door and the frame, she pushed herself upright.

  The Negro butler ran into the room, his coat half-buttoned, his feet bare. Winded from the climb up the stairs, he hovered in the doorway, his eyes wide with fright. “Y’all right, Mistah O’Hurley? Y’all need anythin’?”

  “Get out.”

  Her father was so angry he could barely utter the words. She’d never seen him so livid. Glancing over at the butler, she met his eyes in a silent appeal for him to stay. The man looked at her father and disappeared. She couldn’t fault him. If she could have, she would have run, too.

  When her father regained enough control, he lowered his voice. “I suppose you gave yourself to the man who took you north—”

  “That’s right. Hunter Boone. That was his name and I loved him.”

  “Obviously, this Boone didn’t think a thing of using you and casting you off.”

  The words hurt more than she would ever let him know.

  “You know nothing about it. Nothing. It was all my idea. Would it please you to hear I practically had to beg him?”

  He was shaking with rage. She pressed a hand to her throbbing cheek and reminded herself to tread carefully or she might very well wind up dead. There was no one to stay his hand; not St. Michael, not Hunter. No one.

  “You begged that long-haired, backwoods barbarian? You slept with that uncivilized savage in buckskins without a penny to his name?”

  Jemma’s mouth fell open. She stood there in shock, staring. Not once had she ever described Hunter to her father. Not once had she shared any of the details of her life in Sandy Shoals. The intimate moments were too precious. Instinctively, she had known he would have criticized the world she held so dear, would have ridiculed her dear friends, her adopted family. She had not told him any more than she had to.

  “He was here,” she whispered. “Hunter was here.”

  She flung herself at her father, grabbing his jacket by the lapels. “How do you know what he looks like? When did you see him?”

  He pried her hands loose, set her away from him. She saw him staring at her cheek, at the mark he had left there.

  “You’re insane,” he told her mercilessly. “I could have you locked up, put away.”

  “No, I’m not.” She shook her head, set her braid swinging against her back. “I never told you what Hunter looked like. You had to have seen him. Whe
n?”

  His gaze flicked to the balcony and back. An instant was all it took. His look said volumes and made her recall the way he had been watching the street before she came in. He had been startled when she walked in. His nervousness was still palpable.

  “He was just here, wasn’t he?” She ran to the balcony, stared out into the dark night, studied the pools of lamplight on the street, frantically searched the shadows between them. “Hunter was here while I was in my room packing.”

  Too late, she realized what she had let slip.

  “Packing?” He charged toward her, skirting the furnishings. She tried to slip past him, but he reached out and grabbed her. The dressing gown ripped at the shoulder. His hold was strong. She tried to break away by twisting, but it only made him angrier.

  “You’re going nowhere.” He was dragging her off the balcony, back through the sitting room toward the hall. She dug her feet in and nearly stumbled when the woven straw matting buckled and tripped her.

  The butler was lurking in the hall, scurrying away from her father as fast as he could go.

  “I told you to get out of here!” Thomas yelled. The man disappeared around a corner, headed for the servants’ back stairs. “Wait!” O’Hurley called out. The old Negro stuck his head around the corner.

  “Send up two stable hands.”

  “You can’t do this to me!” Jemma cried out as he thrust her into her room.

  “Watch me.”

  “Hunter will be back. He’ll come back for me.”

  “Not after what I told him. He thinks you’re getting married and that you have no desire to see him ever again.”

  She felt her world crumble. Not again. Please, God, not again. Too numb to move, she stood there while her father pulled the key out of the inside lock and slammed the door in her face. She heard the lock click. Heavy footsteps pounded down the hallway.

  Her father issued curt commands to the stable hands. One was already on the way outside to guard her balcony door. She had seen them on many occasions as they worked in the courtyard stable. It made her uncomfortable to be around them, knowing that they were slaves and that her father owned these men. When she had first arrived and questioned her father about owning slaves, he told her they weren’t in Boston anymore and this was the way things were done in the South.

  Both slaves were burly men, bulging with well-honed muscle. She would never be able to escape if they were vigilant. She began to pace the room.

  Hunter had come for her. It was all she could think of. He was at the door tonight speaking to her father while she had been intent on packing and planning her future.

  Hunter had been here. He ‘d left the frontier and come for her.

  She wiped her eyes, walked to a washstand, and lifted the heavy water pitcher. Unmindful of the task, she poured too quickly and water splashed out over the rim of the washbowl. Bending over, she bathed her swollen cheek and wiped her eyes, then wet a towel and pressed it to her injured skin.

  Outside, her guard had settled down on the floor of the balcony, his back pressed against the wall beside the jalousied door. Another was stationed in the hall. Could she reason with either? Perhaps bribe one of them?

  How much money would it take?

  She knew the consequences a runaway slave faced. Would one of them take the chance? She was certainly willing to do almost anything to gain her own freedom.

  Her hands shook as she pulled her bag out from under the bed. She would dress; then she would wait. And she would pray. Maybe, despite what her father had told him, Hunter would return. She knew Hunter was stubborn. Once his mind was made up, there was no changing it. Hopefully he would try to see her before he left New Orleans. If not, she would just have to escape and follow him all the way home.

  One way or another, she was going to see him again.

  Chapter 21

  Except for another layer of dirt, the rotgut hadn’t changed in a year. Hunter leaned against the bar, shoulder-to-shoulder with some of the seediest river scum he’d ever laid eyes on. The crowd would have put him in the mood for brawling even if he wasn’t already in a fit of temper. About all Hunter had felt like doing since he left the O’Hurley house was driving his fist into something hard. He downed his third glass of whiskey and surveyed the room.

  He had just about settled on a bear of a man at a table in the back of the room who kept shouting, “I’m king of the swamp and king of the river. Any of you think you can knock me down are welcome to give it a try, but I gar-on-tee you won’t live to see the sun come up!”

  Then, suddenly, the swinging double doors opened and delivered up the same yellow-toothed, mustachioed man who had confronted Jemma the night Hunter had met her. It appeared that the man hadn’t even changed clothes in almost a year, for he was wearing the same rumpled black greatcoat and hat.

  Hunter demanded one more whiskey, then slammed his glass on the counter and pushed off. His victim was almost to the bar when Hunter whirled and, without explanation, drove his fist into the newcomer’s jaw. The man’s black eyes snapped open in surprise, then rolled up into his head. Unconscious, he dropped to the floor.

  One or two raucous cheers went up around the room, but other than that, no one except a barmaid with melon-sized breasts spilling out of the top of her gown took any particular notice. She crossed the room, heading straight for Hunter with a smile on her face and rouge that looked like beacons on her cheeks. She smelled so strongly of musk that the liberal dousing of perfume she had used only made matters worse.

  “I’m looking for a big, strong man like you to help me while away a few hours.” Sidling up to him, she draped an arm around his shoulders. His right bicep almost disappeared between her breasts. “How about it, mister?”

  She glanced toward the back of the tavern, at the door to the room he and Jemma had once shared.

  “I don’t think so,” he said, trying to extricate himself from her hold. “I was just about to leave.”

  Boldly, she cupped his privates. “I could show you a real good time.”

  “Maybe tomorrow night.” He pulled her hand away and tugged on the brim of his hat. “Thank you kindly, ma’am, but I’m not in the mood.”

  “Bastard.”

  Hunter wasn’t there to win friends. He stepped over the man in black, who was still on the floor, and left the tavern, not surprised to note that he wasn’t feeling any better.

  Outside, Tchoupitoulas Street was crowded with river-men. Most of the respectable farmers and settlers who had knocked together flatboats to come downriver avoided the area like the plague. Wandering aimlessly, his head slightly fogged with whiskey, Hunter retraced the steps he had taken with Jemma the night they met. Soon he was crossing the Place d’Armes, the square in front of the cathedral; then he found himself wandering back up St. Louis Street.

  By the time he was a block away from the O’Hurleys’ house, he was convinced that it wouldn’t hurt a damn thing to hear from Jemma’s own lips that she wanted to marry someone else. Then he would have to accept his fate and so be it—but she would have to tell him to his face.

  Jemma lingered inside the open doors, watching the silent slave who was still sitting outside her room. Once or twice he nodded off, his chin lolling on his chest. She had grabbed her bag, prepared to bolt past him, but each time he awoke before she could move.

  She began pacing the room, trying to think of a way to get him to leave his post. Finally, an idea came to her. André, on one of their excursions, had versed her on the superstitions the Negro slaves had carried with them from Africa. He said that many slaves, especially those new to America, believed in curses and black magic, invoking spirits, ghosts, werewolves, and all manner of good and evil.

  With a long series of audible sighs, Jemma made certain the slave outside the door knew she was walking the floor. He would occasionally glance over his shoulder to watch, then look away and stare out into the courtyard. Mustering her courage, she walked over to the door and stared out into the ni
ght.

  “It’s a shame this house is haunted,” she said mournfully. “I find it so hard to sleep.”

  She actually heard the man swallow. “You talkin’ to me, missus?”

  Jemma looked down into his upturned face. “Yes, I said it’s a shame this house is haunted, isn’t it? The former owner tried to tell my father about it, but he merely laughed. ‘We’re from Boston,’ Father said.” She lowered her voice, mimicking him. “ ‘We don’t believe in such nonsense,’ he said.” She shivered and rubbed her upper arms, then added in a conspiratorial whisper, “I know it’s true, though, because I’ve seen it.”

  The slave looked left and right, then back into the darkened confines of her room. “You has?”

  “I have. Horrible.” She shivered again and began to wriggle her fingers in the air. “It floats above the ground, no more substance than fog.”

  The man leaned forward.

  “He was headless, too,” she added as an afterthought.

  “No.” He shook his head in disbelief. “I lived here over a year and I ain’t never seen nothing like that.”

  “Of course not. Why would the ghost go down to the slave quarters? He stays up here, where he met his end.” She nodded, certain she had his full attention. “It seems one of the former owners of this place was killed on his wedding night. His new bride objected to an arranged marriage.”

  Fighting back a smile, Jemma rushed on, adding actions to illustrate her words. “She put a sleeping draft into his wine and when he was out, she sneaked up on him with an axe and cut his head off.”

  When her hands came down as if she were holding an axe, the slave jumped two feet. Thankfully, he didn’t utter a sound.

  “Cut it clean off.” Jemma slid her finger across her throat. “I’ve seen him almost every night since I moved in.” She sighed and looked out into the garden. “If only I had something, some way to protect myself from these hideous encounters.”

  “I got sompthin’,” he said softly.

  She clasped her hands over her breasts. “You have? What?”

  “Got me a charm from the voodoo doctor. It’d probably keep a haunt away.”