Authors: Jill Marie Landis
Jemma’s gaze drifted from the open window to the wall opposite the framed saints. It was lined with the many framed samplers of proverbs and sayings she had embroidered. They showed a progression of her needlework skills from the age of six onward. Contemplating the varied pieces, she realized she had been groomed for nothing but marriage. She was educated, but had no real vocation. She was more than capable of overseeing a household staff, balancing household accounts, hostessing parties, and appearing on her husband’s arm, but nothing more would ever be expected of her.
Since she had left convent school she had felt adrift, a ship without a rudder. Her life had no purpose, no meaning. Although she had no idea then what destiny held in store for her, she had been convinced it would be something greater than more of the staid, ordinary life she had already led.
Was she ready to raise children? She didn’t know one thing about babies. Why, she had never even held one in her arms.
She bounded up off the window seat and went to one of two huge armoires that banked the far wall. The closet was filled to bursting, a cornucopia of silk and satin gowns with high waistlines and low-cut bodices. Capes and cloaks and riding attire. Fabrics embellished with the finest Belgian lace and shimmering ribbons. Casually tossed, mismatched piles of silk slippers dyed to match the various gowns, as well as an assortment of bonnets, gloves, parasols, and bags.
Her dresser held velvet-lined boxes of pearls and gem-stones set into drop earrings. There was probably not another young woman her age who would not change places with her. Now she was to be settled with a rich husband who would continue to keep her in style. She had spoken the truth earlier when she had told her father that she would trade all of it away if he could only spend more time with her.
As she stared at the abundance around her, she prayed for a miracle. Barring that, she prayed for strength and a sign from heaven. She even prayed that her father would change his mind, but deep in her heart she knew that he would not, that he
could
not go back on his word.
Just as she knew she could not go back on her own promise to him.
She stood before the armoire, trying to decide what to take and what to leave behind. One trunk would be enough for now. The rest could be sent later. One thing was certain in this time of uncertainty and doubt—she would have to decide what to pack, and act quickly to see that everything was ready.
As she sorted through the gowns, she felt no enthusiasm, no excitement. She felt more alone than ever. Even in this, her marriage, her father was distancing himself, putting O’Hurley and Finlay first.
He would not even be there on the most important day of her life.
New Orleans, October 1816
Hunter Sinclair Boone knew he wouldn’t find the woman he was looking for in the Swamp.
The unsavory district was a favorite haunt of ruffians and rivermen who traveled down the Mississippi—a hellhole on Girod Street made up of slapdash structures of lumber salvaged from barges and flatboats that were broken up once they reached New Orleans. Twelve blocks from the French Quarter, the Swamp was a teeming den of iniquity that even the New Orleans police refused to enter after dark, a place where the only law was every man for himself. The dregs of the underworld—crooked gamblers, pimps and prostitutes, derelicts and criminals of every description—roamed the lawless streets and back alleys that provided the perfect setting for the gut-busting “frolics” the rivermen engaged in night after night without fail.
But Hunter Boone wasn’t looking to frolic. He was looking for Amelia White and although
he
knew better,
she
thought she was above the Swamp. He headed for the French Quarter.
With an eye out for Amelia, he was soon strolling through the Vieux Carré, rubbing shoulders with the Creoles and American merchants, the men and women of wealth and privilege. As he passed by, occasional comments were whispered in French, some just loud enough for him to hear. Although he couldn’t understand the words, he could tell by the tone that the utterances were about him and that they were none too complimentary.
It didn’t matter one bit to the damn Frenchies that he and others like him had served in detachments from Tennessee and Kentucky fighting alongside General Andrew Jackson to save this crowded, stinking city from the redcoats. To the Creoles, all of the backwoodsmen who came down the Mississippi by flatboat, keelboat, or barge were “Kaintucks,” uncultured barbarians.
Granted, in his well-greased buckskin coat and leggings, a low-crowned, wide-brimmed felt hat, and moccasins, he certainly looked less than civilized. But most “Kaintucks” signed on as boatmen just to make sixty dollars working the perilous journey downriver so they could spend it on a hell of a drinking spree and a night of debauchery.
Hunter had come to New Orleans for two reasons: one was to sell off his brother’s latest batch of whiskey, and the other was personal. He had hoped by a wild twist of fate that he might run into the woman to whom he had quite a few things to say—none of them kind. After that, he would be free to get on with his life for the first time in all of his twenty-eight years.
A slight mist had begun to fall, illumined by the lamplight, creating a veil of damp gossamer that settled over the sidewalks and muddy streets. Now and again he paused before the open doors of the crowded coffeehouses and cafés and let his gaze scan the rooms, hoping to catch a glimpse of the woman to whom he had opened his home and his heart; the woman who had stolen his savings and disappeared without a word, leaving behind her own daughter by another man, a man she couldn’t even name.
Amelia White had the morals of an alley cat. He hoped fate might bring them together tonight; but on this one night he would spend in town, he wasn’t about to waste more than a few hours looking for her.
At midnight, a performance of the popular
Two Hunters and the Dairy Maid
at the Theatre d’Orleans let out. The glittering crowd of theater patrons joined others on the street to enjoy the evening’s usual pastimes. Women with parasols hurried along, trying to save their elaborate gowns and silk slippers from the effects of the rain.
Hunter stood head and shoulders above most of the crowd as he scanned the milling throng. Quickly becoming adept at ignoring offensive stares, he kept his long rifle in one hand and his lethally sharp knife sheathed at his side, and knew he presented a formidable figure. If Amelia caught a glimpse of him first, there would be no chance of an encounter.
The street in front of the theater was congested as dark-skinned carriage drivers vied for curb space and the audience hurried to seek shelter from the light rain. Not far away, the cathedral bell tolled, deep and ominous, the peals reverberating over shrill whistles and the crack of a driver’s whip.
Hunter was close to giving up and heading back toward the river when he spotted a tall, slim brunette, flanked by two gentlemen dressed in black, headed in the opposite direction.
In a glance he took in the nape of the woman’s long, elegant neck, the upswept dark hair that swirled in a smooth, modish style, the richness of her ebony satin cloak. Hunter cut the distance between them by half in three long strides. Without thinking, he barged through the crowd until he was directly behind them, then reached out and laid his hand on the woman’s shoulder.
“Amelia!”
“
Monsieur?
” The woman turned abruptly, affronted by the intrusion. She was near thirty. Her tone was icy cold, but her faded hazel eyes could not hide her piqued interest. Hunter was more relieved than frustrated.
It wasn’t Amelia.
Nothing had gone smoothly since Jemma had left Boston. The dismal rain only made things worse as she stood beneath a streetlamp on the levee clutching her umbrella, her ruby-velvet hooded cloak fast becoming soaked. She had no maid to see to her care. The young girl whom Mrs. Greene had chosen to accompany her had taken ill at the last moment, and none of the other servants wanted to leave Boston. Determined to see to her own needs, Jemma made the decision to travel alone with Wheaton, her father’s most trusted bodyguard.
The hulking, slow-witted man had just returned from hiring a carriage; he stood beside her grumbling about the dark, the rain, and the unseasonable heat in a high-pitched whine that didn’t match his physical stature. The distinct odor of liquor emanated from him, no doubt supplied by the telltale bottle-shaped bulge in the pocket of his coat.
“There’s nothing we can do about our late arrival, Wheaton, so you might as well stop grousing.”
“Someone from the Moreaus’ shoulda been here to meet us, what with the wedding set for tonight.”
She wished he hadn’t reminded her. “We’re a week late and it’s already near midnight. I doubt they could actually be planning on carrying out the wedding tonight, do you?” She wondered how anyone could be so dense.
Jemma wondered what her father would have suggested. She had tried to persuade him that Finlay wasn’t getting any deader, hoping he would postpone his trip to London, but he had not sailed with her and had gone on to England instead. Over the past few years, Finlay had taken out so many personal loans against the business that Thomas O’Hurley stood to lose much if he ignored his duties.
Jemma remained bitterly disappointed, but was still determined to hold up her end of the marriage arrangement without her father at her side. A promise is a promise.
“Maybe we should find out how to get to the plantation. Should I load up the trunk?” Wheaton asked.
“It’s that or continue to stand out here in the rain like two brainless idiots.” Jemma looked around the nearly deserted dock. The passengers had all disembarked. Only a few stragglers remained. Beside them, her trunk and Wheaton’s small bag were getting soaked.
“Miss O’Hurley?”
She turned at the sound of the familiar voice behind her and found the ship’s captain politely waiting to address her.
“What is it, Captain Connor?” She had found the man eager to help make the voyage as comfortable as possible, even when the ship had run into the terrible gale that had blown it off course.
“This was delivered when we docked. I’m sorry, but the purser forgot to give it to you.” He handed her a sealed letter.
“Thank you,” she said absently, concentrating on the missive in her hand. As the captain departed, she handed Wheaton the umbrella. He held it over both of them while Jemma broke the wax seal and turned the page up to the streetlamp.
“Oh, my God.” She closed her eyes, awed by the absolute power of prayer.
“What is it, miss?” Wheaton was suspended in a half-hovering stance, as if he had been cast in bronze while waiting for direction.
She had offered novenas to each and every saint the nuns had ever mentioned since the moment she had sworn to marry Alex Moreau. She had kept a votive candle burning in her room in Boston, an offering to St. Jude, the patron of hopeless causes. Aboard ship she had suspended the practice because of the danger of fire, but she continually prayed to all of her saints.
Someone up there had worked a miracle.
“This letter is from Henri Moreau. He regretfully states hat his grandson, Alex Moreau, was killed in a duel a month ago. He goes on to add that I am not to worry, that we are to proceed to the plantation where another grandson, the one who is now his heir, will marry me in Alex’s place.” She held out a separate piece of paper for him. “Here’s a map.”
“Then let’s be off.”
The letter crumpled as Jemma closed her fist around it and blinked away a sudden gust of mist that hit her lashes. It was a miracle. Alex Moreau had died before she could be forced to marry him. Now, in all good conscience, she could tell the Moreaus that the wedding was off. She had given her father a sworn oath that she would marry
Alex
Moreau, not his cousin. In her mind, the promise no longer stood.
Before her, the carriage door stood open. The darkness inside loomed, as did her uncertain future. Wheaton stood beside the door, waiting patiently for her to climb aboard. Like a faithful retriever, he would stand there all night if need be.
Her mind spinning, Jemma lifted her skirt and let Wheaton help her into the high-sprung vehicle. Once she was inside and the latch clicked with terrifying finality, she had a sobering thought.
What if the Moreaus would not hear of calling off the wedding? Once she reached the plantation, they might force her to go through with it, and there would be no one to stand up for her. She glanced out the window at Wheaton, who continued to stand in the rain with a blank look on his face. No help from that quarter.
After another three seconds of heart-palpitating panic, Jemma forced herself to think. It would be months before her father returned to Boston, then weeks before he could relocate to New Orleans. She had at least four months to do whatever she liked before he found out that the wedding had never even taken place.
Balling her hands into fists, she pressed them against each other, held them to her lips, and closed her eyes tight. What would Grandpa Hall say?
Do it, Jemma gal! Run!
She whispered a hasty prayer to St. Thecla, a young girl who had called off her engagement so she could remain a virgin, and then had miraculously escaped death by fire, stood up to beasts, and dressed as a man to escape persecution. Faced with ravishment, Thecla was delivered to safety when the back of a cave opened and she disappeared. If anyone could help her in this hour of need, Thecla could.
Suddenly the cathedral bells pealed the quarter hour. Jemma’s eyes flew open.
“Wheaton!”
“Miss?”
“Before we go to the Moreaus’ I would like to stop at that cathedral across the square. During the storm at sea, I promised to light a candle and offer up a prayer just as soon as I reached dry land.”
He shook his head. “I dunno. We’re late enough as it is—”
“What’s a few minutes more? You won’t even have to climb down off the box. It won’t take me but a minute. Maybe less.”
He lifted his hat, unmindful of the water that cascaded off the brim, and scratched his head. His thick forehead bunched like a cauliflower.
“You aren’t plannin’ sompthin’ tricky, are you?”
“Of course not. I pray
very
fast.”
The good Lord knew she was becoming adept at it. She’d done nothing but pray for the past two months.
Finally, Wheaton nodded. His jowls danced.
“One second, no more,” he warned.
“Thank you.” She smiled. “Is my trunk secure?”
She might never again see the trousseau she had thrown together.
“Everything’s ready.”
Beneath her ruby cloak she wore an ice-blue silk gown and matching slippers fit for drawing-room wear. She wished she had worn something suitable for the street, but with the five gold pieces Mrs. Harris had sewn into the hem of her underskirt for emergencies, she could soon outfit herself more appropriately.
Barely able to contain her excitement, Jemma sat back and dropped the window shade. Wheaton shouted to the team of horses, and a very serious jolt sent her sprawling onto the floor of the closed carriage, nearly knocking the wind out of her. Bracing her hands on the leather seat, Jemma pulled herself up and held on to the strap dangling beside the window. She drew aside the shade and was immediately hit in the face with a spray of water.
Sputtering as the shade slapped back into place, Jemma wiped her eyes and then carefully took another peek. The carriage rumbled to a halt in front of the cathedral.
Drawing a deep breath, Jemma waited a moment to see if Wheaton was going to climb down and open the door for her, but when nothing happened, she opened it a mere crack. As she had suggested, he remained on the box.
The lamplight shone on St. Louis Cathedral, highlighting its imposing majesty. The church was but a stone’s throw away. All she had to do was negotiate the muddy thoroughfare. By the time Wheaton became suspicious, she would have slipped out a back door and lost herself on the dark city streets.
Grandpa Hall would have been so very proud!
When Wheaton belched—a loud and obnoxious rumble that made her wince—Jemma shoved the door open so fiercely that it banged against the side of the carriage. She held her breath, but the bodyguard did not comment, so she gathered up her hem, tucked her ruby cloak around her, and carefully stepped down. Holding her gown out of the mud, she headed toward the front door of the cathedral.
You’re on your way now, gal!
Her slippers were soaked through. One shoe was nearly sucked off by the mud before she had taken more than four steps, but her heart was singing.
Deliverance was within her grasp.
The heels of her shoes pounded dire warnings on the wet banquette in front of the silent, ominously dark building. In her mad dash to safety, she thought her mind was playing tricks on her when she saw a shadowy image lurking in a dark alcove. It was another cloaked figure, a woman near her own height. Afraid Wheaton might mistake the woman for her and come to see what she was about, Jemma reached out and snagged the girl as she whipped past. She dragged the struggling girl along behind her as she flung open the door to the vestibule and hurried inside.