River Road

by R. C. Matthews

  “Is that so?” Hatchet asked with a long drawl. “Your letter left no doubt as to her condition. ‘Mother lies on her deathbed and begs for your return.’ Those were your exact words.”

  Brushing away an imaginary speck on his jacket, his father avoided his gaze. “Yes, a remarkable recovery. Well, I must be off. I’ll send the carriages around before noon. Please, do not dally. Your mother will be intolerable company until you arrive. Perhaps I shall keep your early arrival a secret.”

  “Speaking of secrets,” Hatchet said, walking with his father to the gangplank, away from prying little ears. “What business do you have on The Angelica? The captain and crew are untrustworthy, the lot of them. Best not to be seen dealing with them.”

  Father folded his arms and puffed out his chest. “You’re advising me? I’m rather more than seven, my dear boy. Did you fail to notice the early-morning hour of my visit or my black attire? The Moore-Lloyd Shipping Co. is the most successful shipping venture this side of the Gulf. Believe me when I say I know precisely what I’m doing. But I thank you for your concern.”

  A few moments later, Father entered his carriage, and Hatchet let out a sigh as the horses clomped away.

  “Yes, Father, I noticed both the early hour and your fine clothing, along with the company crest on your carriage.”

  Little had changed in his absence. Mother still manipulated the people who loved her by any means available, and Father knew what was best for them all. Well, with his mother in good health, at least he would have plenty of time to investigate the rumors of the blasted curse. His Nicolette and Emma were dead, as well as the spouses of his siblings. With four deaths among them, Hatchet could no longer blame coincidence. He must rid his family of the hex. And then he would get the bloody hell out of New Orleans, again.

  As he turned to attend his duties, another carriage rolled to a stop in front of The Angelica. The driver hopped to the ground and assisted a woman out. Unlike Isaac, this woman did nothing to disguise her appearance as she boldly boarded the pirate ship.

  Even from a distance, Hatchet discerned her beauty: a rich, bronze skin tone and lustrous black hair. New Orleans had many attractive women, but the best among them were the Creoles, forbidden as wives but coveted as lovers. His loins stirred as his gaze roved over her full bosom, to her cinched waist and the gentle swell of her behind.

  “I’ve sent Maribeth to break her fast with Mercy,” Victor said, leaning his hip against the rail. “We’ve a lot to accomplish before noon.”

  His gaze followed Hatchet’s to the forecastle deck of The Angelica, and he whistled. “Captain Corbin doesn’t waste time. You should seek out female company while in town. Tomorrow is your birthday, after all. We buried Emma nearly six months ago. You must move on at some point, and a brothel poses no risk. You will not fall in love with a lady of the night.”

  Lie with another woman? No, he could not. But as he watched an argument unfold between Captain Corbin and the exotic minx, he couldn’t deny her allure.

  “Maybe,” Hatchet amended as the black-haired beauty slapped the captain then stomped down the gangplank. “I’ve never sought one night of pleasure in the arms of a comely wench. Perhaps I must accept that as my fate, because falling in love three times in one lifetime seems against all odds.”

  At least he had that going for him.

  Chapter Two

  The inner courtyard of Pharmacie sur la Royal was a sanctuary hidden in the midst of the French Quarter’s booming metropolis. After a devastating meeting earlier that morning, Hope found solace meandering through the potted plants while listening to the gurgle of water in the nearby fountain. Monsieur Chrétien tended to the rare herbs himself, cultivating a spectacular garden few in the city could rival.

  “Did you see the Berggarten sage, Madame Leblonc?” the pharmacist asked, entering the courtyard with a bright smile. “Come see, the violet-blue blooms are lovely.”

  Hope bent and inhaled the luscious scent, nodding. “I envy you all this,” she said, whirling around with her arms outstretched.

  He captured her hand and squeezed it tight. “Ah, but your garden is magnificent, too, so what brings you here today?”

  A client four hours away from financial disaster. But she could not divulge the truth or risk her reputation.

  “Orange bergamot leaves,” she said instead.

  His eyebrows knitted with concern. “One of your tenants has a fever?”

  “Nothing too serious.” She ran her fingers over the velvety leaves of a mullein. Lying to a colleague didn’t sit well in her stomach, but sharing the truth—that orange bergamot leaves tucked in a wallet would bring more dollars into your life, providing you also prayed to the right saint, of course—would only endanger the man. Best he know as little as possible about the nature of the advice she dispensed to her customers.

  “I’m very sorry, but I do not have what you seek. Can I offer you white willow or elderberry instead?”

  She bit the inside of her cheek, shaking her head. Mr. Norwood’s circumstances were dire and the remedy specific. “It must be the orange bergamot.”

  “Then I’m afraid you must visit McGill’s in the Garden District. No one else carries such a rare plant.” He sighed and offered a sympathetic pat on the arm before strolling to the fountain to fill a watering can.

  That was out of the question. Mr. McGill was the worst sort of bigot and catered to an intolerant clientele. She might find herself in the jailhouse if she visited his pharmacy, and then who would save Mr. Norwood’s family restaurant from financial disaster?

  “Can you arrange for the transaction? Businessman to businessman. He respects you more than any of the other pharmacists.”

  He blew out an anguished breath. “The man is difficult, even with me. However, for you . . . tomorrow morning, I will stop by his shop, delay my store opening.”

  “But I must have them today.”

  He shook his head. “Impossible, my dear. I have my own business to attend. Several customers are awaiting their orders. Surely, you understand.”

  “Let me assist while you’re away,” she offered, unable to meet his gaze. Though well versed in medicinal matters, she was not licensed, so her offer wasn’t without risk. “Please, name your price.”

  His green eyes sparkled, and she regretted the plea the moment it rolled off her tongue. He advanced while she stumbled backward, intent on a hasty retreat. Monsieur Chrétien was a respectable man and she enjoyed his company, but sparks had never ignited between them, leastwise not on her part.

  “Forgive me. Of course, you must stay here and attend to your clients,” she said, slipping through the doorway into the shop. “That was a silly suggestion.”

  On any other day, she would linger and peruse the shelves filled with mysterious bottles. Or enjoy a cup of cola from the soda fountain. Perhaps even observe Monsieur Chrétien while he used his fancy tools to fashion pills or tablets.

  “Madame Leblonc!” he called after her.

  But she was already halfway through the front entrance, waving goodbye. “Until next time, Monsieur.”

  Fifteen minutes later, the St. Charles streetcar deposited Hope at the Garden District stop. She smoothed her gloved hands over her skirt as she headed in the direction of D.C. McGill’s apothecary shop. The early afternoon sun beat down on her bonnet, forcing her to flip open her parasol on the unusually warm day.

  While crossing over Third Street, she was mindful of a woman pushing an ornate baby carriage. Little hands flailed in the air, shaking a rattle, and the glorious giggle of a wee one erupted. An unbidden smile curled Hope’s lips, yet her heart ached with a fierce intensity. Her own son’s laughter had been infectious, a source of unending joy. Would she ever cradle another babe in her arms, tickle his tummy, and laugh uncontrollably together?

  She usually kept her distance from the gentry in this part of town, but perhaps this once she could stop and peek inside the buggy. A dose of baby laughter could sustain her for the w
eek. But her debate was moot, because the governess gave her a wide berth.

  There had been a day when Hope had walked through the Garden District with her mama, smiling at the passersby and receiving smiles in return. Those were but distant memories.

  If her mama were still alive, she would chide Hope for dwelling on what once was instead of embracing what is, to build a worthwhile future. Happiness comes from within us. There was truth in her mama’s words, because ever since Hope had welcomed voodoo and the spirits into her life, she felt content.

  When she arrived at her destination, she paused to admire the fanciful colored globes decorating the shop’s window while gathering her strength. What did she have to lose by entering? Perhaps a bit of her pride. Surely, the owner’s previous threats were idle.

  Pushing her fears aside, she entered. Cool air and the jingle of the doorbell greeted her but little else. The pharmacist was bent over a mortar with pestle, grinding away as his blond bangs flounced against his forehead.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. McGill,” Hope called out in her most pleasant voice, approaching the main counter. Her morning had started miserably, with that blasted Captain Corbin, and if Mr. McGill turned her out once again, she might burst.

  He glanced up from his work and puffed away an errant strand of hair. “Yes, the afternoon was good. You are a stubborn woman, Mrs. Leblonc. I wish you would honor my request and cease visiting my shop. Your presence is terrible for business,” he said as the doorbell jingled again.

  Setting aside the pestle, the pharmacist walked calmly toward her with his gaze darting to the entrance. When he stood directly opposite her, he leaned his palms against the counter and whispered, “Another pharmacy lies within walking distance of Le Havre in the French Quarter. Please take your business there!”

  Hope folded her hands at her waist and lifted her chin. “Today, I’m in desperate need of orange bergamot leaves. I visited Monsieur Chrétien this morning, and he doesn’t have any in stock. You’re my only hope.”

  Mr. McGill plastered a smile on his face and directed his gaze beyond Hope’s shoulder to the other guest who had arrived. “How may I be of assistance, madam?”

  Intolerable! Why did the pharmacist treat her this way? He had shown her mother respect before the war, when free women of color were . . . well, free to move within society. The Black Codes changed many things, but one thing still held true: the coins in Hope’s purse would fill Mr. McGill’s till with the same satisfying clink as any paying white woman.

  “Oh, don’t mind me.” The woman came to stand beside Hope. “Please, continue serving the lady. She was here first. I’ll wait my turn.”

  Hope lifted her eyebrows and smiled at the elegantly dressed woman. Blond curls framed delicate cheekbones, and wide eyes stared back at her, the irises a most unusual amber hue. The stranger was both young and beautiful and accompanied by a handsome, black-haired man.

  But the second man lingering a few steps behind the couple captured Hope’s full attention. Though finely dressed, he radiated danger. Perhaps it was the tight set of his jaw, the severity of his bald head, or maybe his bold stance.

  His ashen eyes met hers, his gaze steady, as though he wished to see inside her soul. Why didn’t he undress her with one glance, as all men were wont to do? She could get lost in the intensity of his stare, entranced by the metallic-gray hue of his irises.

  A warm glow spread through her body, a sensation both foreign and arousing. One she could name but hadn’t felt in over three years, since her husband’s death. Heaving in a breath, she turned away. Oh, what madness. She couldn’t stare at a stranger all day, especially a man who shopped in the Garden District.

  “Orange bergamot leaves, if you please,” Hope said, pinning the pharmacist with a smug smile. “Five will do.”

  The doorbell jingled once more, and Mr. McGill grew pale. Clearing his throat, he strode around the counter and approached the entrance.

  “Mrs. Winston, Mrs. Anderson, please do come in,” he said, ushering them to the opposite corner of the establishment, as far away from Hope as possible. “Allow me to fetch your orders right away. I’ll be only a moment.”

  Wonderful. This would cost her another ten minutes, at the very least. Mrs. Winston was a windbag, a bit more hair than wit, and especially vocal since joining the fledgling women’s temperance group, the Daughters of Dorcas. The kind woman at Hope’s side might not be so friendly after hearing an earful from the vile women across the room.

  “What shocking cheek,” Mrs. Winston said to her companion as she patted her silver-streaked bun. Roses bloomed in her cheeks, and she huffed, heaving her ample bosom. “Shopping in the Garden District as if she belonged here.”

  Mrs. Anderson glanced Hope’s way and snarled, “Well, that will change soon enough when we shut down that filthy boardinghouse of hers. Le Havre, she calls it? I say maison du péché.”

  Hope gripped the ties of her reticule and wound them tightly around her finger, occupying her mind with the sharp pain. Arguing with Mr. McGill’s favored customers would only land her on the street without the precious herb she came for. She could endure their crass remarks, safe in the knowledge that her boardinghouse offered a haven for so many Creole women of color like herself.

  “Bergamot is excellent for reducing fever,” the woman beside Hope said while rubbing her slightly rounded belly. “I’m here for ginger root tea. Morning sickness.”

  Oh, dear. A malady Hope could relate to, despite the lapse of time since her own pregnancy. The tension in her shoulders subsided just a bit when she noted the woman’s clothing and accent weren’t from these parts. “Peppermint will do the trick as well, or you might try eating cabbage. You’re a long way from home. England, is it?”

  “Was it the style of my dress or the accent that gave me away?”

  Hope grinned. “Both. You’re brave to travel so far in your condition.”

  Before the kind woman could respond, Mr. McGill bustled in from the back room with two packages. He escorted his esteemed customers, Mrs. Winston and Mrs. Anderson, to the door.

  He glanced nervously at Hope before saying, “You may settle your accounts with me at a more convenient time, ladies.”

  After snatching the package from his hand, Mrs. Winston narrowed her gaze on Hope. “Have a care in who you allow through your doors in the future, Mr. McGill, or I might find another pharmacist to serve my needs.”

  “I spoke with Mrs. Leblonc on several occasions,” he said under his breath, “but she will not listen.”

  The older woman puckered her plump lips. “Call the police for assistance, if you must. Chief Gilmor is my neighbor. Shall I send him over?”

  “That won’t be necessary,” he croaked. “I’ll handle it myself.”

  “See that you do.”

  And with that, the two matronly women stalked through the door. With a deep breath, Mr. McGill stormed over and halted before Hope. “I really must ask you to leave, Mrs. Leblonc. Please do not come back again, or I’ll be forced to call the authorities. This is my place of business, and it is my right to deny you service.”

  Heat flamed in her cheeks, and a litany of unkind words itched on her tongue, but she held them back. She, too, reserved the right to choose her customers. Who was she to deny him the same? Ignoring the anger rising in her breast, she prepared to leave.

  “Good day to you, madam,” she offered to the kindly Englishwoman. “I hope you enjoy your stay in our friendly city.”

  Her gaze fell on the pharmacist as she gritted out the word “friendly.”

  “That is quite enough!” Mr. McGill growled, taking Hope by the elbow and pushing her out the door.

  She walked with her head held high. Still, seeds of shame sprouted in her chest, though she had no reason to be ashamed of her actions. Purchasing goods in the Garden District with her hard-earned money wasn’t a crime. However, tossing her to the street like offal, simply for the color of her skin, ought to be illegal. Tears burned in her
eyes, and her throat worked painfully to suppress her urge to scream “bigot” at his closed door. Lashing out would not alter her situation. No, she must endure and adapt.

  She had only reached the next block when someone grabbed her arm.

  “Wait, please take this.”

  A brown package was thrust into her hand, and she turned to find smoky eyes boring into hers. The bald gentleman from the apothecary. He relinquished his hold on her and stepped away.

  “Five orange bergamot leaves,” he said, gesturing to the package.

  Her gaze fell on his offering and then to his hard features. Being a white gentleman from the Garden District, she wouldn’t have thought him capable of such kindness, which humbled her more than his actions. Had she lost all faith in the goodness of mankind?

  “Why are you helping me, sir?”

  His eyebrows arched high. “Does the reason matter?”

  “No, I suppose not.” She fished in her reticule for the correct change to pay him. “Thank you. I truly needed this.”

  He held out his open palm, albeit reluctantly, and accepted her money.

  “Oh, goodness,” the Englishwoman said, appearing from behind the gentleman’s broad shoulders. “I’m so glad he caught you. The pharmacist was abominably rude. Please, allow me to introduce myself. Mrs. Mercy Blackburn.”

  “The Widow Leblonc.” Hope curtseyed. “I won’t take up any more of your time, but thank you again for the assistance.”

  Mrs. Blackburn’s trill laughter filled the square. “You mustn’t thank me. Hatchet made the request, and I daresay Mr. McGill quaked in his boots while filling the order.”

  The gentleman bowed. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Leblonc.”

  “As am I,” the black-haired gentleman said, joining the group. “Victor Blackburn.”

  “Likewise,” Hope said, containing her grin at her savior’s unconventional name. “Well, my thanks again. I must be going if I hope to catch the next streetcar.”

  Mrs. Blackburn looped her arm through her husband’s. “We’re headed in the direction of the Clairborne Inn. Do you mind if we join you?”