Authors: Jennifer St Giles
He tossed his cigar to the ground, extinguishing it with his heel, and courteously stepped further away from me into the fading light, easing my apprehension. "Forgive me for frightening you. But those words were made for you."
"Monsieur, the evening shadows have misled you. There is no comparison between me and Lord Tennyson's extraordinary verse," I replied, drawing back another step, this time from his dark appeal. His hair cut a rakish line across his brow, with a few errant strands that beckoned for order. I clenched my hand and moved my gaze on, absorbing the sensual curve of his mouth, the determined angle of his jaw, and the raw power in the breadth of his shoulders. He held up his hands as if to show me he was unarmed, and I thought that were he a footpad, he'd need no weapon. His voice could lure gold from the fist of a miser.
"There isn't?" He sounded amused.
"No."
"Then might I suggest that beauty lies in the sight of the beholder?"
"And silver tongues belong to fools." I laughed, momentarily forgetting myself and my worries, a dangerous thing. I nodded toward
La Belle
. "I am late in returning to my home, monsieur, so I bid you adieu."
He stepped closer. "You quite took me by surprise as well, you know. I was leaning upon the garden wall, enjoying the sultry beauty of a New Orleans summer night, wondering if any woman could match it. Then you appeared, as if fate or magic had sent you walking toward me."
"Nothing magical, I assure you." I wasn't about to be wooed by his nonsense. "Now, monsieur, may I ask who you are and what is your business here?"
I thought he might be one of the actors from the Shakespearean troupe performing in town. Four of them were currently boarding with me and they'd had several visitors, but not him. I would have recalled seeing a man so tall and well turned out. His black frock coat neatly fit his trim waist and broad shoulders, and contrasted elegantly with his embroidered waistcoat and white shirt. I also would have remembered this man's voice.
"I am Stephen Trevelyan, and might I assume you are Miss Juliet Boucheron? I was told in town that you own an excellent boarding establishment."
He spoke my name as if each syllable were coated with sweet cream and warm honey.
"
Mrs
. Boucheron," I corrected. Every inch of distance between us seemed essential. "You are seeking a room then, Mr. Trevelyan?"
"Yes, I am a writer and may be here for quite some time." He motioned to two black satchels behind him that I hadn't noticed.
"I see." At any other time I would be counting my blessings over the prospect of a long-term boarder, especially since my four current boarders would be leaving at the end of the summer. Yet, I hesitated about inviting this alluring stranger into my home until I heard from the investigator, Mr. Goodson.
"I have credentials," he said, handing me a card. "Perhaps you have heard of my family's shipping business, Trevelyan Trading Company?"
The card, still warm from his fingers, made my hand tingle. I'd definitely heard of Trevelyan Trading Company, and I wondered why such an affluent man would seek out my modest establishment. "You are a long way from home, Monsieur Trevelyan."
"Longer than anyone can know."
In his eyes, I saw a haunting sadness that matched his voice. It struck a note of kinship inside me. "I hope you weren't misinformed about my boarding house. It does not possess the grandeur of the hotels in the Vieux Carré."
"I value quiet and privacy more than ostentation, Mrs. Boucheron."
I slipped his card into my pocket. "Then let us see about a room for you,
oui
?"
He fell into step beside me. "Thank you. On my journey down the Mississippi, I'd heard New Orleans is unlike any other place, and already I am intrigued by the city and it's...people." His voice deepened to a caress.
I kept my gaze on the path, refusing to respond to his flirtation. Surely the pace of our walk was what made me slightly breathless. "
Oui
, no other city has the history we do, monsieur, but I think we are different because we are more stubbornly set in our ways "
"It's more than your culture. There's a forgiveness here that doesn't exist other places."
"Forgiveness?" It was an odd remark, coming from a stranger. Halting, I faced him. "What do you mean?"
He shrugged. "I sense an acceptance of man's humanity here, rather than an abhorrence of it."
I hadn't experienced acceptance or forgiveness here, since the war; even my husband's relatives blamed me for the loss of the Boucheron Plantation, and had broken all ties with me. "Don't be fooled," I told him. "New Orleans is famous for its masks. What you think you see here is not always real."
Leaving the intimacy of the twilight behind, I hurried up the stairs to
La Belle's
brightly lit entrance and winced at the uproar inside. My son's screeching violin was loud enough to wake the dead, and Mama Louisa was shouting about devils from the North in the dining room. It was a wonder Mr. Trevelyan didn't march right back out of the house.
"Welcome to my home, monsieur. If you'll please set your luggage by the stairs, Papa John will take it up for you. I have a quiet room available at the far side of the house, but there are several matters requiring my immediate attention. If yon wish, you may wait with the other boarders in the parlor,
oui
? You will find brandy, sherry, and other spirits available."
He set down his bags, and I pointed him toward where the boarders were having a loud discussion. Tonight it sounded as if Mark Twain's
The Innocents Abroad
was the focus of their criticism. Any author other than Shakespeare ranked low in their opinion.
I dashed into the dining room to handle Mama Louisa's disaster before dealing with my son.
"That man is back, I tell you. Spoons Butler has stolen our silver ladle," Mama Louisa cried.
"Shh," I admonished gently. The hated Federal general had ransacked New Orleans, and it was only because we'd had the foresight to hide what little silver we had left that we had any now. Troops still occupied the city even though the war had ended nine years ago. "General Butler is in Washington, Mama Louisa."
"Those Northern devils are still here though," she said, shaking her head. "General Butler's got men working for him. You mark Mama Louisa's words, now. The shooting ain't over. No, ma'am. And if he ain't got men working for him, then he's got ghosts. I heard them last night."
I tapped my finger on my lips. "You will scare the boarders. The noise last night was only the heat making the rafters groan."
Mama Louie's dark eyes widened. "I sure am sorry, Miss Julie. I don't want to scare anybody, but that ladle just ain't nowhere to be found and those noises weren't groaning rafters. It's gotta be a ghost."
"Did you check in the pie safe for the ladle? I caught Andre dipping into the apple pie with it late last night." I'd heard the noises, too, and had found nothing to explain them in my midnight search, but I wasn't about to consider any reason but the most practical.
Mama Louisa pulled an apple-pie-crusted ladle from the pantry. "Well, I'll be."
Having solved that problem, I went to find my son. I had no doubt he'd be barefoot and muddy in the grand music room. Though Andre could play the violin like a master when he chose, he presently screeched his bow across the violin strings with discordant abandon, a tactic he used whenever he didn't want to practice. His philosophy was the louder and less harmoniously he played, the sooner he'd be told to stop.
I nearly bumped into Mr. Trevelyan, who stood in the doorway. In the light, his eyes were like blue fire, burning and intense, and just as disruptive as his aroma of spice and sandalwood, which curled around me like warm silk. I wanted to lean closer and savor his scent.
"Goodness," I murmured.
His brow angled. "Surely I did not frighten you."
"No." Frightening didn't describe him. Dangerous did. There was an edge to him that sharpened my senses, as if something primal lay beneath the surface of his charm, something that drew me to him. "Was the parlor not to your liking?"
He shrugged. "You are much more interesting than a literary discussion."
I didn't know whether to smile or to call a halt to his flattery. Thankfully, Mignon dashed past us, her face crinkled with worry, her hair askew from its bun, and her arms heaped with fresh towels. She was partway up the stairs before she noticed me. "Oh, Juliet, you have returned. Ginette fainted. The kitchen and this heat were too much for her. Andre returned a mess and refused to help with the laundry because I told him he had to bathe first. Mama Louisa says the silver soup ladle is missing and—" Her gaze settled on Mr. Trevelyan and she blushed.
"Monsieur Trevelyan. Please meet my youngest sister, Mademoiselle Mignon DePerri. Mignon, Monsieur Trevelyan is a writer and will be staying with us."
"
Bienvenu
to New Orleans and our home, monsieur." Mignon smiled radiantly and curtsied slightly.
"Thank you for the warm welcome. I'm finding the South a rather remarkable place. Beauty and graciousness abound."
"Much like your charm, it would seem," I replied dryly. Mr. Trevelyan's smile had Mignon completely mesmerized. "Mignon, hurry and place the fresh towels in the rooms. I will speak to Andre and see to Ginette after I settle Monsieur Trevelyan into his quarters."
Still looking dazed, she nodded and ran up the stairs.
Apparently having heard my voice, Andre changed the sound of his violin in midscreech to the melodious tones of Bach's
Invention in B flat
. The music became progressively louder in the entry hall until he entered the room with an angelic expression on his face.
"You are back,
Mère
," he said, feigning surprise as he lowered the violin from his chin. Mud splattered his bare feet, and dotted his clothes, and his dark hair hung in an unruly mess. Curbing my need to brush the locks from his face, I stared at him a moment, realizing where he might have gotten so muddy.
"Andre, have you been to the river?" The adventurous call of the Mississippi had lured many a boy to an early death.
Non, Mère
. We didn't go in the river. We were just playing near it."
I warred between irritation and the need to pull him into my arms and understand his recent penchant for trouble. "Where by the river, Andre?"
"Phillipe Doucet and I went with his cousin, Will Hayes, to a camp in the woods by Will's house."
Dieu
. I wondered if Letitia knew her son was playing with mine.
"Why didn't you tell me about the camp?" he demanded. "Will's father used it to spy on the Federal Army during the war. He said that my grandfather and my father helped build it right under the Federal Army's nose and stayed there often during the war before they were killed. Why did you never mention it?" He sounded hurt, as if I had withheld something vital from him on purpose.
"I did not know about the camp," I said softly.
"A real camp, is it?" Mr. Trevelyan asked genially, as if trying to ease the tension that had been building between me and my son. "I have two nephews who would be green with envy. When I left, they were trying to convince their father to build them a fort in the woods, like one they'd recently read about."
"Andre, this is Monsieur Trevelyan. He is a writer who will be boarding with us. Monsieur, my son, Andre."
Mr. Trevelyan held out his hand. "A pleasure to meet you, sir."
Andre, looking surprised at being treated as an adult, shook Mr. Trevelyan's hand. Even my eyes widened; I didn't think of my son as being grown.
"Thank you, Monsieur Trevelyan," my son said. "Is it a fort from the war that they want to build?"
Mr. Trevelyan smiled. "No, this fort is much more interesting. They recently read a book about a shipwrecked family who built a mansion in the trees, and now they want to build one."
"A house in the trees?" Andre asked, clearly fascinated. "What book is it?"
Had my son just asked about a book? I envied how easily Mr. Trevelyan had sparked my son's interest.
"
The Swiss Family Robinson
," Mr. Trevelyan said. "The book is full of ingenious inventions. They even build their own bridge."
"How, monsieur?"
I spoke then. "
Pardon
. Andre, I am afraid we will have to save bridge building for another day. Dinner will be ready soon and I need to settle Monsieur Trevelyan into his room. I suggest you go scrub yourself from head to foot,
oui
? I will have Papa John bring your dinner to you, then later tonight we have a number of things to discuss about your behavior today. Do you understand?"
"
Out, Mère
," Andre said, keeping his gaze directed at his feet. Mud flaked off his toes onto the carpet as he wiggled them, and I closed my eyes so I wouldn't have to see. Perhaps muddy toes were like runny noses and just needed a loving hand. Yet I feared that my son needed more than that now.
He properly excused himself, then scrambled quickly up the stairs, making sure he stepped heavily on the one that creaked. Turning, I saw that Mr. Trevelyan had collected his bags.
"You are fortunate," he said. "You have a lively boy."
"Lively is an understatement, but you are right. I am blessed." I had to keep reminding myself of that as Mr. Trevelyan and I followed the trail of mud on the polished wooden stairs.
"All of the boarders' rooms are on the second floor. The door directly at the end of the corridor is the bath and water closet. Everything for your personal needs should be in there. The third floor is reserved for family, and the fourth is an attic for storage. You will find we have an excellent library, a full music room, and a double parlor should you wish to entertain guests. Three meals a day are provided for you. Mama Louisa keeps the food on the sideboard piping hot. A private tea can be served to you in the parlor if requested in advance. I ask that all boarders conduct themselves with the utmost level of decorum and respect."