Clint caught his eye. “Mr. Fontaine asked about our work and how it’s keeping us in New Orleans. I told him we’ve rented space in Washburn’s studio.”
“Yes,” Fontaine said, “and I replied that one would have to be taking pictures in order to need space in Washburn’s.” He pivoted, his refilled crystal tumbler in hand. “And isn’t the rent costly? Unless you’re both independently wealthy, of course.”
“Don’t I wish,” Ben joked while he pulled up a side chair and sat down. “Seriously, though, rent’s not too bad.” He chose his next words carefully, knowing he couldn’t say anything about Colonel LaPort’s assignment that he and Clint had accepted earlier in the day. “We’re freelancers, Mr. Fontaine, and commissioned to document the war in photographs.”
“Commissioned by whom?” Fontaine took a seat. “And there’s no war in New Orleans.”
“Thank God for that!” Valerie interjected. She’d taken the chair beside Emily.
Ben sent her a quick smile before looking back at her father. “About our commission, Clint and I secured a government grant.” It was true, although those funds had been expended long ago. “As for the war itself, you’re aware of the Union’s blockades.”
“Of course.” Fontaine rolled a shoulder. “I’m in the shipping business.”
“Well . . . ” Ben gazed at Clint, who seemed as poised and ready to hear his explanation as Mr. Fontaine. “Clint and I would like to get pictures of the warships.” He eyed Fontaine. “Maybe even travel down the river to Fort St. Phillip.” Ben waved his hand in the air. “I realize it’s a long shot. We might be a couple of dreamers, or worse, fools to think it’s possible, but we’d like to try.”
Clint spoke up then. “Those gunners would make for some dynamic photographs.”
“You’d like to capture Union gunboats with your camera, eh?” Mr. Fontaine pursed his lips.
Ben steeled himself. He expected a guffaw.
But instead Fontaine drained his glass, stared at it, and worked his lips together. “You know, gentlemen—” He tossed a glance at Clint then Ben. “—I just might be the man to make that happen for you.”
Eleven
Valerie listened to the incessant clicking of Emily’s knitting needles and glanced up from her own sewing. For the past week she and Emily had retired here to the music room during the afternoons for tea and to sketch, practice the piano, or work on their needlework. Meanwhile Benjamin and Clint occupied themselves during the day with the various stages of photography. Today they’d gone down to the docks for another photographic session and then over to Washburn’s. Father had gone along with them. It was amazing how well the men were getting along.
“What are you making?” Valerie had noted her friend’s diligence on this particular project over the last few days.
“Pardon?” Emily glanced up, then realized the question. “I’m sorry. My thoughts have been elsewhere.” She smiled and set the yarn in her lap. “I’m knitting a sweater.”
“Quite a small one from the looks of it. Is it for a child?”
Emily nodded, and the blush that crept over her face next told the rest of the story.
“Emily?” Valerie rose and strode to where her friend sat in an upholstered armchair. “Are you—?”
Again a nod.
“—expecting?”
“I believe so.” Emily clasped onto Valerie’s wrist. “Please don’t tell anyone just yet.”
“All right. I promise.” She tamped down her enthusiasm. “Does Clint know?”
“Yes.” Something akin to sadness entered her hazel eyes. A moment of silence descended. “A baby will change everything, Valerie. I won’t be able to travel with Clint anymore.”
She understood the dilemma. “What are you going to do?”
“Pray and pray hard. Having a child means Clint and I will need a home, not a portable darkroom in which we camp out as we roam the country.”
“You’re thinking of returning to Boston then?”
A hard knock sounded at the front door. Valerie heard Adalia’s swishing skirts as she hurried to answer it.
But in answer to the question, Emily shook her head. Strands of her reddish-brown hair pulled loose from their pins, and she tucked them back in. “There’s nothing in Boston for me anymore.”
Women’s voices filled the foyer, and before Valerie could ask Emily anything further, Adalia bustled into the music room.
“It’s Mrs. Elliot and her daughter, Catherine,” she stated in a discreet tone. “Are you receivin’ company today?”
An odd mix of hope and dread sliced through Valerie—hope that she and the Elliots could be friends and dread that it’d never happen with Catherine’s obvious disdain. Nevertheless, Mrs. Elliot had been Mama’s special confidante. It would be rude to refuse their visit. “Yes, of course, I’ll receive them. Please show the ladies into the parlor.”
“All right, dearie.” Adalia smiled. “And I’m assuming you’ll be wantin’ some tea while you visit?”
“That’d be lovely.” Valerie glanced at Emily, who nodded.
After packing away their sewing and knitting, they strode down the hall to the parlor. Mrs. Elliot and Catherine had seated themselves in a couple of armchairs. They both wore somber attire, Catherine in a plain brown dress and her mother wearing charcoal.
“What a lovely surprise,” Valerie said as she entered the room.
“Our visit is quite tardy, I must say.” Mrs. Elliot stood and placed a perfunctory kiss on Valerie’s cheek. “Even though Catherine and I saw you just a little over a week ago, we never got a chance to find out how you’re adjusting to life without your mother.” Her eyes moved to Emily. “Oh, I’m sorry. I see we’re interrupting . . . ”
“Not at all.” Valerie made the introductions.
“Oh, yes.” Recognition lit Mrs. Elliot’s gaze. “We met at church last Sunday.”
“Emily’s husband is Benjamin’s partner,” Valerie further explained. “They’re all staying with Father and me.”
“Of course. I remember hearing that too.”
“I imagine Ben’s still staying here too,” Catherine said.
“Yes.”
She nodded. “That’s good, because it would be quite inappropriate for him to stay with us, given the situation that arose.”
A curious frown grew heavy on Valerie’s brow, but she decided not to ask about it. Instead she stepped over to Catherine and offered a greeting but didn’t get past a smile. The woman’s pinched features and icy-blue eyes said she wasn’t pleased to be here with her mother. Valerie felt mildly offended, but with a knowing sense, she continued on her way to the settee where she claimed the place next to Emily.
“Is your father home?” Mrs. Elliot asked.
Valerie shook her head. “He’s with Benjamin and Clint today. I expect they’ll all be home in time for dinner.”
“What a shame he’s not here,” the older woman said. “We’d hoped to visit with him. But you’ll let him know we came by and that he’s in our prayers, won’t you?”
“Yes, of course.”
“And you all will be at church tomorrow?”
Valerie nodded. “I’ll be sitting in Mama’s favorite pew, just like last week.”
“I’m so glad.” Mrs. Elliot sent her a pleased grin that slowly slipped into a sad-looking smile. “I so miss seeing your mother, sitting there in the third pew from the front.”
Valerie bobbed her head. “So do I.”
Adalia walked in, carrying the silver tea service. Setting it down on the low-standing table in front of the settee, she poured out. “How do you prefer your tea, Mrs. Elliot? Miss Elliot? One lump or two? Cream or sugar?”
“Plain for me,” Mrs. Elliot replied, “but Catherine likes two sugar cubes and just a dribble of cream.”
“How nice for you to have a maid.” Catherine watched Adalia’s preparations.
“Adalia’s more than a maid. She’s a part of the family.”
“Bless y
ou, dearie.” Adalia gave her a wink.
“Nonetheless . . . ” Catherine took the proffered cup of tea. Her dusty-brown hair had been parted in the middle and tightly rolled around the sides of her face, further constrained by a drab, beige net. “With her around you needn’t ever exert yourself.”
“Someone should have explained that to me.” Emily grinned as she accepted a teacup from Adalia. “I’m exhausted.”
Valerie had a hunch as to why. The growing babe inside of her. And given Emily’s delicate condition, she probably shouldn’t have helped wash and hang clothes this morning. When Mama was alive, Valerie always assisted with the wash and housekeeping. The job was simply too big for Adalia to do on her own. Since she’d been home from boarding school, Valerie resumed her old duties, and this past week Emily had insisted upon helping.
Mrs. Elliot sipped her tea. “So tell us what has been keeping Ben and his partner . . . ” she inclined her head toward Emily, “ . . . here in New Orleans.”
“The boys have got some unfinished business here,” Emily replied.
“Unfinished business?” Catherine scooted forward. “I knew it!” Dullness fled from her sallow-blue eyes, and her features brightened. She turned to her mother. “Didn’t I tell you I had a feeling about this? Ever since last Sunday after service when Ben came over and talked to me. I’m sure he’ll speak with Daddy about courtship soon.”
Valerie glimpsed the incredulous look on Adalia’s face and realized it matched her own reaction.
“Will there be anything else, dearie?” She faced Valerie and rolled her eyes so no one else could see.
“No, that’ll be all. Thank you.” She hid her grin.
Emily leaned closer to her. “Did I miss something?” she whispered. “What courtship?”
“I have no idea.” Valerie sunk her gaze into her teacup. Courtship!
The sound of men’s voices and hard footfalls on the foyer’s tiled floor signaled additional company. Moments later, Benjamin and Clint entered the room. Valerie thought perhaps Benjamin might clear up any speculation.
“Well, look who’s here.” Benjamin wore a wide smile. “My favorite cousins.” He bent to kiss Mrs. Elliot’s cheek then walked over and bestowed the same greeting on Catherine.
Straightening his waistcoat, Benjamin strode toward Valerie and reached for her hand. He gave it a gentle squeeze.
“I trust you’ve had a good day.” She gazed up at him.
“I did.”
“Any new leads on Luke?”
Benjamin shook his head. “None.”
Clint pulled up a chair and sat beside Emily. “Valerie, your father insisted upon taking Ben and me to lunch at his club. He introduced us to a blockade runner who shared some of his experiences with us.”
“I took pages of notes.” Benjamin brought over a side chair and parked it next to Valerie. He sat down. “The man was most informative, and I hope to get a full article out of it.”
“I’d love to read it.” Her eyes met his, and as always that special caress of a feeling enveloped her. Lord, I’m falling in love with him.
“I’ll make sure you get a copy.” A grin tugged at the corners of his mouth.
Valerie blinked, breaking that mystical aura between them.
“And I’m mighty grateful for your father’s assistance today.”
Valerie folded her hands, proud of her father. He’d gone to great lengths to see that Benjamin and Clint got the photographs they sought.
“A blockade runner?” Mrs. Elliot fingered the broach at the base of her dress’s neckline. “What would the South do without those men?”
“Starve to death most likely,” Clint said.
As he continued to converse with Mrs. Elliot, Benjamin bent his head close to Valerie’s. “Your father said not to wait dinner for him. He’s staying at the club.”
Valerie’s heart sank. She knew what that meant. Father would spend the night imbibing again. She looked into Benjamin’s face and met his compassionate stare. “I guess I should tell Adalia to set the table for four instead of five.” She stood and regarded her company. “Please excuse me for a few minutes.”
Mrs. Elliot gave her a gracious smile. “Of course,”
It didn’t take long to locate Adalia. She was upstairs, folding linens in the long dusky hallway.
“I just learned that Father won’t be home tonight. It’ll just be the Culvers, Benjamin, and me for dinner.”
“I’ll tell Chastean. But to tell you the truth, I expected as much seeing as it’s Saturday night.”
Valerie expelled a disappointed sigh. She’d thought Father had been doing better this past week.
Well, apparently not.
“Don’t worry, dearie, I’ll set the table for four tonight.”
“Thank you, Adalia.” Gathering her teal hoopskirt, Valerie made her way back to the first floor and her guests in the parlor. But as she descended the stairs, she spied first Catherine then Benjamin standing in the foyer. Her hands were on his broad shoulders, his hands on her waist, and they were . . . kissing!
Valerie gasped.
Benjamin pushed Catherine away and did a double take when he saw Valerie. “This isn’t what it appears.” His tone was almost pleading. Then his jaw hardened as his gaze returned to Catherine. “And you, young lady, had best behave yourself.”
“Oh, Ben.” She giggled before dropping her gaze. “Go ahead. Blame me. But the truth is—”
“Stop it, Catherine.” His voice sounded like a low, angry growl.
She pressed her lips together.
Speechless as well, Valerie could only gape at the pair.
Benjamin stepped toward her. “Valerie, if you’ll let me explain—”
What was to explain? She knew what she saw. “There’s no need.” Descending the last stair, she strode back into the parlor where her guests awaited her.
***
Swirling the warm, white liquid in his cup, Ben poised himself and then swigged it down in a single gulp. He grimaced. Warm milk. He hated it. But if it would help him sleep . . .
Pushing the cup aside, he tried to see the paperwork spread out in front of him, but the lamplight wasn’t strong enough.
His concentration was just as weak. Valerie consumed his thoughts. He knew she was hurt, but she was being downright unreasonable now! He had tried to explain numerous times that Catherine had followed him out of the parlor and caught him off guard. The fact she stood nearly as tall as he did somehow made him an easy target.
Ben cringed inwardly. He never saw the kiss coming. But it didn’t last long. At the precise moment of contact, he’d pushed Catherine away—unfortunately Valerie had happened upon them right then too.
Should he tell Cousin Max or just talk to Catherine? Ben hadn’t decided yet.
As for Valerie . . . his heart crimped painfully. Just tonight her father had mentioned their upcoming voyage to France. He’d been shocked. Still was. Why hadn’t Valerie said something about it? Wouldn’t setting sail be dangerous with the Union’s blockades? He feared for their lives. Yet Fontaine seemed convinced it would be safe enough. While part of Ben wanted to state his intentions, he didn’t because he had nothing to offer her. Not yet anyway.
Lord, I thought Valerie was the one. Would their paths somehow cross again? Was it right to ask her to wait for him?
Sitting in the kitchen, the lamp flickering on the long table, Ben tried to push her from his mind for now and focus on plotting out next week’s expedition. He and Clint would be gone at least five days. So far the colonel had been satisfied with the photographs they’d given him. What’s more, he encouraged Ben and Clint to forge a relationship with Fontaine. Except Mr. Fontaine’s political sympathies clearly lay with the North. He didn’t hide his viewpoints. They aligned with those of many New Orleans residents. And after what happened last week, Ben thought maybe he was more Yankee than Reb himself.
Days ago he and Clint had been down at the docks when a ship carrying human cargo
was being unloaded. Men, women, and children, captured in Africa, were roughly reloaded by the dozens into boxcars. He’d learned the train was headed to Atlanta, where the poor souls would be sold like cattle. Ben still recalled the fury that had welled within him at the sight, yet he had been helpless to do anything about it. He could only watch the travesty unfold. Ben wondered if Fontaine had allowed them to see the slave ship come in so he could hammer in his views. “Isn’t war worth fighting if it means freeing these people?”
Ben thought it surely was.
His brother Jake, on the other hand, didn’t believe in slave ownership but still saw things quite differently. He had volunteered to fight Federal policies, specifically the tariffs Washington imposed on the importing and exporting of goods. It was no secret that for years Southerners had to pay higher taxes and interest rates that, in turn, had been handed down to farmers and small Southern businessmen, like his brother-in-law Jonathan’s blacksmithing business. And why? Jake blamed greed on the Northern banking industry.
Ben shook his head, still thinking back on the past several days of discussion with Fontaine. The controversy over the war had made for some excellent debates. The man enjoyed a lively conversation, that’s for sure. However, something didn’t feel right when it came to the colonel and Fontaine. Either the two men had personal vendettas against each other, or there was something else going on—something Ben couldn’t quite put his finger on.
A sudden rustling behind him caught his attention. He swiveled himself around on the wooden stool in time to see Valerie enter the kitchen. The satin trim of her quilted robe shimmered in the light of the lamp she carried. She must not have seen him sitting there, even with his tiny flame on the tabletop. He reached for the lamp so it wouldn’t crash onto the stone floor when he startled her—which seemed inevitable.
“Valerie?”
He heard her inhale with a start, although she’d hung tightly to the lamp. She clutched the neckline of her robe. “Benjamin? What are you doing down here?”
He indicated his paperwork and the dwindling candlelight. “Adalia warmed some milk for me before she went to bed. I’m having trouble sleeping.”
Unwilling Warrior Page 12
