Authors: Jill Marie Landis
Hunter gazed down at the tall, once-striking man who had been his friend for what amounted to a considerable number of years. They had marched downriver with the Kentucky troops, fought side-by-side at the Battle of New Orleans, battled the elements and the river. Both cursed the fact that the land was being settled faster than they liked. Hunter knew what the loss of his eye would mean to Noah, just as he knew what the man was asking him to do, but there was no way in hell he was going to leave Noah to the elements.
“I can’t hear you over this storm,” Hunter lied.
“If you play the hero, I’ll hate you forever, Boone.”
“Ask me if I care.”
Noah’s hand tightened on his wrist, but there was no strength behind the hold. “Get going. Don’t risk losing Jemma again.”
No matter how tempting, no matter how much he wanted to be with Jemma, the image of Charlie Tate swirled through his mind. Hunter closed his eyes again, turned his face up to the rain.
Noah was in his late twenties. Still so young. He had a long life before him. No matter what he suffered now, whether he liked it or not, Noah could learn to live without an eye. There was no way Hunter could play God this time. He wasn’t ready to lose his friend. He knew he never would be.
Noah had fallen silent, his eyes closed. Hunter checked the crude, wet bandage he had made out of his shirt. The bleeding had slowed.
Thunder rumbled in the distance. Rain beat down through the newly budded leaves. The river raged by.
If Jemma’s saints were looking down on him, he hoped they understood what he had done for Charlie and why, and had forgiven him. Surely they wouldn’t punish him now by taking his friend. Surely they would watch over Jemma and keep her safe, and his, until he could find her again.
New Orleans, September 1817
The street in front of the opera house was a sea of vehicles. The night air was close and humid. Ignoring the handsome young man seated beside her in the open carriage, Jemma stared at the fashionably dressed theater patrons on the crowded street, lost in the memory of the night she had met Hunter. Then, too, she had mingled with the mostly Creole crowd, but then she had been on the run, using them as camouflage. Tonight, only her heart felt like running.
André Roffignac shifted on the seat beside her. Recently appointed her father’s assistant manager, André was a frequent guest at the house on St. Louis Street and had volunteered to act as her escort on many occasions of late. As they began the drive of a few blocks, André casually draped his arm across the back of the seat until it encircled her shoulders. The move was slow and nonchalant. Most everything André did was executed with a practiced indifference, but after spending time with him, she knew he did nothing without perfectly calculating it beforehand.
Jemma stiffened, not caring whether he noticed. She hadn’t really wanted to attend the opera alone with him this evening, but originally her father was to have accompanied them, so she had agreed. Lately, André had become openly familiar, taking advantage of their friendship by brushing against her and casually touching her much too often. He made her feel embarrassed and uncomfortable.
Roffignac was facing her now, the picture of refined elegance with his curled-brim hat, double-breasted cutaway jacket, and high-throated ruffled shirt. Appearances and bloodlines meant everything to him, as they did to most Creoles. It was an attribute her father found admirable. André’s dark eyes were soulful and languid, his hands long and elegant, his nails buffed to a high shine.
As far as New Orleans society and her father was concerned, Roffignac was perfect. But to Jemma, he was a far cry from all the things she had loved about Hunter Boone. As it did almost every waking moment, her mind drifted back to the days she had spent with Hunter. She wondered if he missed her, how he was faring, where he was now.
While she was lost in thought, André reached out, picked up the fringed hem of the narrow cashmere stole that was draped over her arm, and rubbed the costly item between his fingertips.
“Did you like the performance, Jemma?”
“I thought it was quite amusing.”
“The play has been running for so long that I forget how many performances I’ve seen, but this is the first time I’ve enjoyed it so immensely.” He let go of the stole and ran his finger over the back of her gloved hand.
She pulled her hand away, not abruptly, but easily, ostensibly to smooth her hair. If she angered André, her father would not be pleased, so she vowed to voice her concerns as soon as she and her father were alone.
They were only two blocks from the house that her father had purchased before her return. Attempting to blend in immediately, Thomas O’Hurley had shipped very few of their furnishings from the East; instead, he had decorated the new place according to what he had seen in the spacious, comfortable homes he had visited here in New Orleans. She found the style austere, the rooms cool instead of welcoming.
The driver kept up a slow, steady pace. Night air scented with jasmine enveloped them. Jemma smoothed her long, over-the-elbow gloves and folded her hands, then took a deep breath and turned to face André squarely.
“André, I know you mean well, escorting me about, introducing me to your friends, but I am so busy helping the nuns at the orphanage that I fear I’m often too exhausted to enjoy late evenings on the town.”
“What are you saying, Jemma?” His dark, fluid gaze roved over her face.
She shivered, but not with longing. All she wanted at the moment was to be out of the carriage.
“I don’t wish to go out for a while, that’s all.”
His smile thinned. “For a while? And how long do you think ‘a while’ might be?”
Forever
. She shrugged. “Just that. A while.”
She could see he was not pleased, although he smiled and nodded acceptance. His eyes had grown cold, almost calculating. They fell into an uncomfortable silence.
When the carriage clattered through the
porte cochére
into the open courtyard of the house on St. Louis, Jemma felt a surge of relief. The Negro driver opened the door and stood aside as André stepped out of the vehicle, took her hand, and helped her down. They walked up the wide wooden stairway to the second floor, where the living quarters overlooked the walled garden and the street. Flower boxes of trailing jasmine and geraniums lined the balcony. Her father was still up, waiting in the sitting room. He was reading, but set the book aside as they entered.
“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.
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 tarnished, 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.
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.