Love Story on Canal

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Love Story on Canal Page 5

by Angela Lee


  Pan inhaled the thick September air and fanned her neck and back, both dampened with sweat from the heat of the room, layers of clothing, and exertion from dance. Since Mr. Weathers had stepped into the room, she had been unable to get any air into her lungs. She scanned the now empty balcony for anyone hiding in the shadows.

  She needed a different plan. Her thoughts began to spill in random order as they so often did when she was distressed. She considered withdrawing from society altogether and becoming a spinster. She could keep helping Papa with his practice. Maybe he would be willing to work at the children’s home with her. She would stop her work with the prisoners. This was a better plan than marriage.

  Confident that she was alone, Pan closed her eyes and inhaled. Immediately Weathers’ face came to her mind. He was breathtaking standing there watching her dance with his chocolate eyes. She felt a flush on her neck and her belly, and an ache somewhere much lower.

  “He’s headed this way.”

  Pan released her breath with a whoosh as her eyes flew open to find the source of the husky, feminine drawl. Miss Hebe Trevigne stood with her back to the rail, elbows propped in a too comfortable manner as she stared into the ballroom. Hebe’s position against the iron rail forced her full hoop skirt forward awkwardly, which, in turn, exposed both ankles and some of her shins. Miss Trevigne appeared unconcerned at the impropriety.

  The petite woman continued, “With that arrogant cousin of his, no doubt. Taking his time about it, too. Trying not to make it obvious, I guess.”

  “I didn’t see you there, Miss Trevigne,” Pan said with surprise. Pan had met the publishing baron’s daughter on several occasions when making social calls with her mother.

  Though the lady could have only been in her early twenties, a single lock of silver framed the left side of Miss Trevigne’s face. The rest of her head wad covered in glossy, ebony locks. She tucked the stray lock behind an ear and said, “He’s been working his way towards the balcony since you stepped out here, Mademoiselle Panacea.”

  “Please call me Pan,” Pan responded absently as she looked inside the ballroom and saw that two men of the same stature and similar good looks were working their way across the room. The sight was overwhelming. Not bothering to pretend to not know who “he” was, she murmured, “Mother in Heaven, there are two of them?”

  “Hmm. Five, actually, counting brothers and cousins. Unmarried too. God truly has a sense of humor to unleash all those eligible, handsome males into a lone southern ballroom filled with unwed debutantes,” Hebe drawled. “Well, it seems a reprieve has presented itself.”

  The two ladies continued to watch with their backs pressed to the iron rail as a beautiful blond woman purposely positioned herself in the men’s path. Hebe nodded her chin toward the woman, “Anne Marie’s tante is married to their uncle. She’s got her sights set on your beau.”

  Pan shot her companion a look ready to argue that he was not her beau but was silenced by Hebe’s snap. She gave a triumphant laugh. Inside, the men were nodding and moving around the lady and again heading for the balcony.

  “Seems our gentleman will not be detoured. Apparently, he prefers brunettes,” Hebe finished in her dry manner. At this point the voluptuous woman turned her head to Pan and raised her brows in question, “So, tell me quick Pan, shall we make our leave? Or should I claim the cousin’s attention to give you a moment?” After the last question she gave a saucy smile and dropped her butterscotch voice into a dry whisper, “I’ve heard that a moment is enough to satisfy a man, even one that looks like a god, but I suspect, a moment might leave a woman wanting.”

  Pan couldn’t help but giggle. Had this upper crust belle just told a lewd joke? She touched her fingers to her lips to stifle it, but her shoulders shook with the effort. Hebe smiled and chuckled.

  A masculine moan came from the shadows in the garden below the balcony. Simultaneously, both girls turned around and leaned their bodies over the iron grillwork. They stood silent, listening. From below came a few more grunts followed by a less than enthusiastic feminine groan. Neither of the women bothered to act embarrassed that they were eavesdropping on what was, undoubtedly, a romantic interlude.

  Still hanging over the rail, Pan whispered dryly, “One might wonder if that lady finds the moment unsatisfactory.”

  “Perhaps she felt the moment was not long enough,” came her companion’s low retort. Both girls looked at each other for a heartbeat and then heartily laughed out loud. Tears reached Pan’s eyes and Hebe clutched her sides.

  A masculine drawl alerted them both to the presence of others, “Ladies? It seems the real fun is not to be had on the dance floor.” Pan straightened, turned around, and sucked in her breath. The dashing men standing before her appeared amused. Had they heard?

  She stared at Weathers and felt as if she was wading into pools of melting chocolate, involuntarily licking her lips as if indeed she could taste the heavenly confection. Her hands pressed to her belly in an effort to soothe the effects that her laughter had caused and stay the remaining giggles.

  Weathers’ eyes focused on her mouth a moment, before shifting to the lady beside her. “Be, you look lovely. I had hoped you might introduce me to your beautiful friend.”

  “I suspect you have already met the lady, Fin,” the girl’s brown eyes sparkled knowingly as she continued with a haughty air, “But for propriety’s sake, Mademoiselle Panacea Fontenot might I introduce to you two of our hosts this evening, Monsieur Fionne Weathers,” she paused to allow Weathers a moment to take Pan’s hand before drawling, “and his cousin, Monsieur Alexandre Villere.”

  Villere was as handsome as his cousin though he was built differently. With the look of a boxer, he was shorter, with a broader chest and back. Like his cousin, his tanned skin and dark features hinted at some Spanish lineage. He kissed Pan’s knuckles and offered a dashing smile.

  “A pleasure to meet you Mademoiselle Fontenot. I do believe Hebe’s brother mentioned having made your acquaintance just the other day.” The handsome man then turned his attention to Hebe and murmured, “You are perfection in jade, sweet pear.”

  Sweet? Pear? A pucker formed between Pan’s brows, and she slid her gaze to her new friend. Hebe rolled her eyes before saying, “I have known these gentlemen my entire life. It’s as if they are my brothers.” Hebe’s tone was dry, but Pan detected a bitter ring to her words. She also noted that while Mr. Weathers glanced at the speaker with a friendly, almost brotherly smile, his companion’s reaction was noticeably different. Villere’s eyes had narrowed and he was clenching his jaw.

  “You are the physician’s daughter then? You are Creole?” Mr. Weathers asked.

  Her attention was called back to the dashing man in front of her. She tipped her chin a bit, uncertain if his last statement had been a slight. “Did you think I was not? Was it because of my preference in reading material?”

  “Not so much that as the Northern accent to your speech. Your manner is unique, unlike that of other southern women.” Was he insulting her? Could she blame him? Why did he look so wonderful?

  Without much prompting she explained, “New Orleans is my birthplace. My father has been a teaching surgeon at Columbian College most of my life. We have only been back from the capital a short time.”

  Weathers’ response was smooth, “Under the circumstances, most people would have preferred to remain safely away.”

  “My father is a physician. He wanted to be with his people if his talents were needed.” Pan was having difficulty focusing on the conversation. Though Mr. Weathers was completely covered in his evening wear, Pan had seen enough bare men (dead, injured, or illustrated) to know that this man would have an amazing physique.

  He stood a head taller than her and she had not failed to notice the way his jacket stretched to cover his broad chest. His neck was long and thick, smooth and without shadow. He had stepped to her side, letting his hand rest on the rail barely an inch from her side. She noted his large hands and lon
g fingers. Every inch of this man seemed to convey both strength and…length.

  The accidental rhyme brought an unbidden giggle. She sucked her lips inward, using her teeth to hold them clamped, and closed her eyes to force the laugh away. She ducked her chin to hide the smile that fought for dominance.

  A gentle pressure against her left cheek erased all traces of silliness within her. Her head sprang left toward the hand that touched her. Her eyes jumped to his in alarm. Without taking his eyes from hers, he rubbed his thumb over her cheek once more, and discreetly lowered his arm.

  He said suddenly, “Do you know your eyes sparkle a bit when you smile? Like light reflecting off a gold band. Creates an image of an angel’s halo. It’s beautiful.”

  “Thank you. That’s not one I have heard,” she answered, thinking to herself that his would be the longest description to add to her list.

  “What do you mean?”

  She smiled sheepishly, “My sister and I kept a list when we were younger of the many ways people would describe our eye color. Before you, no one ever referenced a halo.”

  Fin arched an eyebrow, “People or gentlemen?”

  Pan laughed at his perceptiveness and said, “You must have sisters. Gentlemen.”

  “No sisters. Actually, no siblings at all. Is your sister here as well?” Her laughter stopped; the momentary mirth replaced by the more familiar sorrow.

  Chapter Seven

  Her fairy smile, both sweet and a little sad, enchanted him. Fin fought the involuntary urge to caress the delicious dimple on her left cheek again. The beauty had reacted in alarm when he had done it the first time.

  Fin knew the rules. Never broke them, had never had the inclination. His pedigree may not have been impeccable by Creole standards, but his etiquette was. Until now. Until her.

  Fin had touched the lovely woman’s face during a ball that he had sponsored. He had held her and flirted with her in an orphanage before they had ever been introduced. Even their introduction was unconventional; her father should have been the one to introduce him, not Paul St. Luc’s sister.

  Fin decided it was best to bring this conversation into the ballroom under the guardian eyes of her mother and every other watchful mother and tante, the spinster aunts who usually shepherded unmarried daughters.

  He offered his hand before asking, “Shall we dance?”

  She eyed his outstretched hand, and the chewed the corner of her lip, “I’m not certain I should leave Miss Trevigne.” His beauty looked to the corner where Alex and Hebe stood, their conversation looking more tense than friendly.

  “I promise you; Alex has more reason for concern than Be,” Fin chuckled. “No one will think it inappropriate for them to be out here. They are in full view of the room.” His beauty looked unconvinced; she chewed the corner of her lip as she looked back from Fin to the other couple. “Belle, Alex and I have grown up in the company of men. Five cousins, none female. Her brother, Paul St. Luc, is our best friend. Hebe is the closest thing to a sister that we have. She is safe with him.”

  She spoke softly as if to herself, “My sister and I shared a best friend.” She seemed lost in a memory for a moment before she shook the thought away and allowed him to guide her into the ballroom. A waltz had begun, and Fin led her through the steps with ease.

  Mid-twirl he asked, “How many?”

  She looked up in question, “How many?”

  “How many golden references on your list?”

  “Twenty-four.” Jesus, this woman was more beautiful when she smiled.

  “Twenty-four men complimenting your eyes,” Fin responded with mock admiration.

  “We didn’t list duplicates,” she added dryly with a single shoulder shrug. He laughed and twirled her again.

  “Weathers is not a French name,” she said when she was facing him again.

  He was positive that no other lady in this room would have drawn notice to that fact. “My father was a middle class, Irish shipper when he met my mother.”

  She was quiet, obviously thinking. He wondered how she felt about his mixed pedigree. “I understood that Creole tradition rejects marriage to non-Creoles.”

  “That’s true. My parents’ love affair was an uphill battle. Father had to fight to earn his acceptance by my uncles. My mother said she would run away with him, but he wanted to marry her respectably.” He paused to circle her around another couple. “He started with a single ship and built it into a small fleet of merchant ships to prove he could provide for his family. When the Villere men were finally convinced of my sire’s financial stability and recognized that it really was true love on both sides, my uncles gave in and allowed the marriage.”

  “That’s a good story,” Panacea smiled up at him. “One rarely hears true love stories with happy endings.” Had they been in any other place at that moment he would have kissed her. Even surrounded by every Creole mother, including his own, he still struggled not to pull her closer and taste her lush mouth. It would be worth the duel he would no doubt have to fight afterwards.

  “Mostly happy,” he tried to focus on the conversation, “Like you, I didn’t grow up here. My family lived in St. Louis where Weathers’ Shipping is based. My father was killed in a wharf fire twenty years ago. After that my mother and I returned here.”

  Her eyes held his for a moment before she said with sincerity, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you. It was a long time ago,” he answered. She nodded with a sad smile.

  “At most social gatherings, I hear nothing but contempt for Anglos. That’s not the case with you,” the lady continued in her direct manner.

  “The Villere name is an old one and respected one. I think the rest of the community just pretends that my last name isn’t Weathers,” he said truthfully.

  Growing up, it wasn’t lost on Fin that his mother’s society should have loathed him as they did all Anglos. The tension between the two wealthy, white groups was so heavy that there was almost a physical boundary between the two. The white, affluent non-Creoles lived on the other side of Canal Street, while the French descendants inhabited the blocks between Canal and Royal.

  “I’m not convinced it’s just your family. I suspect it has something to do with you,” the lady offered.

  He raised his brow and leaned closer to whisper, “Does the lady find me charming?”

  She blushed prettily and shook her head. The music ended and he held her a half beat longer before escorting her back to her mother.

  A few minutes later, he entered the card room that reeked of cigars, whiskey and sweat. Fin circulated the room, chatting with the heads of various families.

  “Heard Burns called you in, Weathers,” one of the older men cornered Fin.

  “Weathers Shipping supplies the Union. Fionne has nothing to worry about,” Uncle Alexandre called from across the room. Alex’s father walked over and handed Fin a tumbler of whiskey. No one mentioned that Fin’s shipping business had no ties to the rebels and had never operated with slave labor.

  “We have to work with the Yanks. Otherwise, there won’t be any shipping business to do,” Fin said. “We all have to make concessions. We got lucky in the siege. None of us want New Orleans destroyed. It’s happening in other cities.”

  “Heard you had some other visitors to the docks,” one of the Riordan brothers called from the next table.

  “A few,” Fin said taking a sip.

  “Anglo supporters just want to make sure he’s on the up and up. Can’t be supporting rebels,” again Uncle Alexandre came to his defense.

  Alex followed his father’s comment with his own dry one, “No one wants to endorse a candidate who might be hung for treason.” The conversation moved on to other topics and Fin made his way out of the card room. It had been nearly an hour and it was time to return to the ballroom to claim another dance with his goddess.

  One of the Croix brothers, a banker, was chatting with her, probably waiting for the next set to begin. Fin made no apologie
s, just stepped in and claimed her, “Ready for our dance?”

  Croix looked confused, his hand held in midair, obviously preparing to lead her to the dancefloor. The lady shot an apologetic look to the other man before ducking her head. Fin caught a glimpse of an amused smile before she veiled it.

  That smile made him feel the conquering hero having won the hand of a fair maiden. He guided her to the floor, nodding toward the other man, “Croix.”

  “Weathers,” the other man sputtered his greeting, finally lowering his outstretched arm.

  On the floor Pan asked questions about his life in St. Louis and some of the local customs she found interesting. Fin noted how easily she spoke her mind and how quickly her brain picked up on things and moved between topics.

  As they danced, he spied his mother watching with a smile on her face. Beside her, Madam Trevigne and two of his aunts were conversing and shooting knowing looks in his direction. Dancing with his goddess twice would have repercussions. The gossip and other aftermath were worth it. Unlike her response to her earlier partners, Fin was positive that Pan’s smiles were sincere. For him.

  The dance ended too soon, and he asked her if she cared for a refreshment. She hesitated before answering, chewing her lip in indecision. Pan tilted her head and narrowed eyes in question, then begged leave to attend a torn slipper. Perhaps she had also been aware of the watchful mothers and aunts. His eyes followed her as she walked away, enjoying the feminine sway of her shapely hips. Before he could be tempted to chase her down, he turned and headed back toward the card room.

  He played a speedy three hands of vingt-et-un. Twenty minutes later, he began to make his way back to the ballroom. As he approached the entry, his cousin came into view. Alex was smirking when he said, “Time to go, cousin.”

  There was humor in his tone, but Alex’s body told a very different story. With hands that were open and ready, and feet planted firmly, he was as rigid as any fighter.

 

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