The woman’s happy manners were infectious, but Hope hesitated. She couldn’t taint Mrs. Blackburn’s reputation when the woman had only just arrived in New Orleans. Especially after she had been so kind.
“Associating with me in this part of town is ill-advised,” she said, her gaze flashing around, catching the curious stares of passersby. “Enjoy your stay. New Orleans has many treasures to offer. But keep an eye out for the ghosts at Clairborne Inn. They fancy playing hide-and-seek with your valuables.”
“Perhaps we shall meet again,” Mrs. Blackburn said with a gentle smile. “And if we do, I pray you will greet me kindly.”
Hope nodded and strode quickly away, chancing one glance over her shoulder to capture a final glimpse of Hatchet. His piercing gaze caught her off guard, because this time she had the sense that he saw right through to her bitter core.
Hope picked up her pace, eager to escape this gentleman who challenged her perceptions of the world. In dealing with the prejudices of society against her kind, had she fallen prey to bigotry herself? She bit on her lip.
Oh, Mama, I didn’t make you proud today.
Chapter Three
Victor stood and held his hand out to Mercy. “I’m afraid we cannot join you for dinner. After the long journey, my wife is in need of rest and struggles to keep her eyes open beyond nine o’clock in the evening. We wouldn’t wish to cut the celebration short.”
Hatchet scowled at his friends. Bloody traitors. Leaving him in the clutches of his entire family, including his siblings. At least he had prevailed in securing a seat at the table for Maribeth, despite his mother’s heated protest. Antoine’s restaurant wasn’t a place for children, in her estimation. But Hatchet would not back down. If he must suffer through the formal affair, rather than spending his time productively on inquiries about Marie Laveau, then he insisted Maribeth be allowed to join them. The girl would provide much-needed entertainment, no doubt.
After six years away, he could survive one more evening of indulging his parents. Hatchet stood and tugged at his waistcoat. “Come along, Maribeth. Thought you might enjoy a ride on the streetcar this evening. It’ll take us to Canal Street, and Antoine’s is a brief jaunt from there. Lots of opportunity for people-watching.”
“You’re not a commoner, Charles,” his mother chided. “The carriage will be out front in twenty minutes.”
He leaned over and kissed Mother’s cheek. “One day out of the year, I’m allowed anything I wish without consulting others’ feelings on the matter.”
She sighed and patted his forearm. “Yes, I suppose. Happy birthday, dear. I couldn’t be happier to have you here for the occasion. We’ll meet you at the restaurant, along with James and Mary. Did I mention I invited them as well?”
“Yes, Mother,” he said, shooing Maribeth out of the room.
“Enjoy the people-watching,” Father called after them. “I’ll expect a full account during dinner, young lady.”
Maribeth grabbed Hatchet’s hand, and they strolled down Phillip Street at a lazy pace beside Victor and Mercy. The air was heavy with the waning heat of the day, and the sun dipped below the houses lining the lane. When they turned on St. Charles Street, the fading clatter of horses’ hooves could be heard as the streetcar stopped ahead.
“Step short,” Maribeth cried, “or we’ll miss it. Good night, Mercy, Victor. Sleep well.”
They waved goodbye as Maribeth ran and boarded the streetcar. Hatchet jogged after her and paid the fare, maneuvering to the back row where she sat, waving to their friends. He nodded a greeting to the other passengers and made himself comfortable beside his charge.
Maribeth chattered the entire length of the ride, pointing out the grand mansions and one fine bakery with sweets arranged fetchingly on platters in the store window. A toy poodle caught her fancy when it yipped at the heels of its master, ignoring his command to sit. And she laughed along with the young lads telling jokes in the row across from them, adding one or two into the mix.
Soon the streetcar stopped at Canal Street, and she waved goodbye to the lads. The shops were closed for the evening, but there were plenty of people milling around. As they turned onto St. Louis Street, his mother exited the coach in front of Antoine’s restaurant.
“Ahoy, there,” Hatchet called out. “Excellent timing, Mother.”
Mother laced her arm through Father’s and smiled. “Well, did the streetcar meet with your expectations, Maribeth?”
“Oh, yes. I learned several jokes.”
“All right,” his father said, grinning. “Let’s hear the best one.”
Hatchet glanced around. “I don’t think—”
“Nonsense,” Father interjected, watching her expectantly.
Maribeth tapped her finger on her lips, and her eyes sparkled. “Why was the wife happy her husband ran away with the cook?”
After scratching his chin and thinking for several moments, Father conceded, “I haven’t a clue.”
“Because she could finally have her maid to herself.”
Father’s shouts of laughter rang through the street, and Maribeth grinned.
“For Heaven’s sake,” Mother hissed under her breath, tapping her fan against his arm. “A proper lady shouldn’t hear such things, much less understand or recite them. Charles Moore, you should be ashamed of yourself, exposing your young charge to this kind of lewd humor.”
Hatchet winked at Maribeth. “I daresay she’s been exposed to far worse on The Savior, Mother. It’s only a joke, and a deuced funny one, if I might say so. Come, James and Mary are probably waiting, punctual as always.”
His father chuckled and escorted Mother inside the restaurant. Before Hatchet entered, the Widow Leblonc exited with another Creole woman, their arms interlaced and their heads bent close to one another. They breezed past, deep in conversation.
Hatchet followed their progress down the street, his gaze fixated on the sway of the widow’s hips. Alluring but not indecent. He’d thought of little else in the thirty-six hours since laying eyes on her, even inquired after her boardinghouse after the women at the pharmacy called the establishment a “house of sin.”
Le Havre was unique, if his sources were to be trusted. The women were descendant of the best Creole families in New Orleans, and men enjoyed their company for an entire evening, not by the hour. Each woman was free to accept or reject any man’s offer, setting and collecting her own price. Perhaps he would seek the widow’s company during his stay in New Orleans.
“Come along.” Maribeth tugged on his hand. “Everyone’s waiting for us.”
Inside, the host greeted Father with a bow and showed them to a spacious table in one corner, a place of honor overlooking the entire room. James and Mary were seated, as he had predicted, and both stood to greet their mother with a kiss on the cheek before acknowledging Hatchet.
“The prodigal son,” his brother said wryly. “How long can we expect your company this time before you gallivant into the sunset, leaving the burden of our family businesses to us?”
As long as it takes to learn more of the curse and banish it forever.
“Only a few weeks, I’m afraid,” he said, pulling out a chair for Maribeth. “We must return to England well before August. You met Victor Blackburn during my last visit. He and his wife are enjoying their honeymoon here, but she is expecting a child.”
Mary hugged Hatchet in greeting then eyed her twin brother with disapproval. “Leave Charles alone. Everyone must follow their own path in life. You enjoy your position with Papa’s shipping company, James, so don’t pretend otherwise.”
Mother leaned back as the host placed a napkin in her lap, and she caught Hatchet’s gaze. “I don’t understand why that means you must return with them. Victor is perfectly capable of sailing the ship without your assistance. You must take your responsibilities to this family seriously. You have always been meant to manage Harmon Grove.”
“Please, Mother, not tonight,” Hatchet said, groaning inside.
Of course, she would raise his least favorite topic during his birthday celebration. Why couldn’t she understand that he had no desire to take over a century-old plantation? Bound to the land and overseeing hundreds of workers who despised their plight in life? No, sir. That was no life for him. He was a seafaring man. Better that he run the Moore-Lloyd Shipping Co., but Father preferred his biological son take over the management, a decision Hatchet could respect and understand. But it did not follow that he must run the plantation. His sister yearned for the opportunity and was the far better choice. If only he could make his mother see it, too.
“If not tonight, when?” Mother’s tone was stern. “A new season has started, and the mill is in disrepair. Someone must relieve me of my duty to the plantation, and that person is you, son. Need I remind you that Harmon Grove has been in our family since the founding of New Orleans? You should feel honored to be part of the rich history of this parish.”
Hatchet gritted his teeth. Short of standing and leaving, he couldn’t escape the discussion. “Why are you in town, Mother? The sugarcane season began over a month ago.”
“You know I was sick until only recently,” she said, accepting a glass of wine from the waiter. “I’ve grown too old for this business, and I have other interests I wish to pursue. The Women’s Christian Temperance Union is gaining momentum, and I’ve been elected to lead the Daughters of Dorcas in our great city. The French Quarter has deteriorated while you were away. We must ‘do everything’ to protect our women and children, as the great Frances Willard decrees. We’ll rid the streets of the taverns”—she lowered her voice—“and brothels. The illustrious men of our city must learn to abstain from all things harmful.”
“Good luck with that,” Hatchet said. A temperance group in New Orleans would face significant resistance when one quarter of the citizens earned their livelihood from alcohol and brothels. “You never were one to shy away from a battle.”
“No, I am not.” She pierced him with a stare full of determination. “You will join me at Harmon Grove at the end of the week so we can discuss the future of the plantation.”
“Fine, Mother,” he said, glancing at his sister. “I’ll discuss several worthwhile ideas with you on the matter.”
The rest of the meal progressed in relative peace, with bouts of laughter spurred on by Maribeth’s tales of life while hidden on board The Savior. How mundane the evening would’ve been without her presence. Though the girl belonged in England, she would’ve been lonely at Devil’s Cove Manor with the crew at sea. She was a sailor at heart, raised on the ship since the age of five.
With her belly full and eyelids heavy, however, it was time to return to Magnolia House.
“Into the carriage with you,” Hatchet said, handing her in to his father. “And straight to bed.”
“Where are you going?” the girl asked, curling into Father’s side.
Hatchet shoved his hands into his pants pockets and shrugged. “For a walk. I’ll see you in the morning.”
He pressed the door closed and waved as the carriage rolled away. Another vehicle pulled forward, and he turned to his sister. “Will you be all right on your own?”
“I’ll take her home,” James said, opening the door.
Mary patted her twin’s arm. “Wait inside for me. I need a moment alone with Charles.”
Their brother nodded and disappeared in the carriage.
With a furtive glance, Mary strode down the street, away from the traffic at the entrance of the restaurant, pulling Hatchet behind her. She stopped with her back pressed against the wall of the neighboring shop and reached into her reticule. A moment later, she thrust a tattered doll into Hatchet’s hand.
The doll was fashioned out of canvas wrapped around thatches of straw, which formed the arms and legs. Strips of black cloth crisscrossed over the bare chest, where three miniature keys dangled. The body was long, with the legs draped in black satin. A silver skull was buckled at the waist with a thin leather band. Whoever had made the doll had taken considerable effort to draw a handsome face with an alluring goatee and a top hat.
“Bloody hell.” He turned the rag over in his hand. “Where did you find this?”
“At the plantation. While mother was sick, I took on additional responsibilities,” his sister said, kneading her purse as she gazed on the unsightly doll. “One of the worker’s children, Melene, was playing with that . . . thing. She found it in an abandoned slave house.” Mary licked her lips and whispered, “Is it a voodoo doll?”
“I believe so. Why are you giving this to me?”
“Mother won’t listen to a word I say.” Mary nibbled on her bottom lip. “Our workers are discontent with earning scrip that can only be used in Harmon Grove’s store, and with good reason. They want to be paid in real currency and have a chance at life beyond the sugarcane. They’re no better off than when they were slaves. I’m worried, Charles. Mother will not listen to my ideas for improving the working conditions on the plantation. You must speak with her. She might listen to you. What if this doll is a bad omen or something? I don’t know much about voodoo, but I think the dolls are made in the likeness of the spirit from which one wishes a favor. Can you find out more?”
He nodded, storing the rag in the inside pocket of his jacket. “Have there been any worrisome incidents on the plantation with the workers? Fights breaking out, fires, or backtalk? Anything at all that you can think of?”
“Nothing out of the ordinary”—her brow lifted—“except we found damage to the mill train last week. That was rather odd.”
“Why would you say that? The machinery requires regular maintenance.”
“True, but all repairs were completed at the end of last season, so the mill ought to run without issues.”
Fair point. But the workers wouldn’t tamper with machinery critical for turning a profit. Unless their anger and discontent had risen to a level where they simply did not care anymore. A troublesome prospect.
“Leave it to me,” he said.
She kissed his cheek. “I’m glad you’re home, brother.”
He wished he could say the same. But that would be a lie. New Orleans held too many bad memories of the war. “Go on with you now.” He squeezed her hands. “James is waiting for you.”
“One more thing,” Mary said. “I have wonderful news to share. I’m engaged to be married! You’ll meet my fiancé when you visit the plantation. He’s in charge of the store.”
“Excuse me?” Mother had never mentioned a fiancé in her letters.
Mary frowned. “You’re disappointed I didn’t tell you earlier? I’m sorry, but you were at sea when Patrick proposed, and I didn’t want to overshadow your birthday celebration. Otherwise, I would’ve invited him tonight.”
“Only surprised,” he said, guiding her back to the hired hack. “But if he makes you happy, then I’m delighted for you.”
On the outside, he maintained a calm facade, though, inside, his gut clenched. Would Patrick be the fifth innocent victim of the family’s curse, or were the rumors superstitious nonsense?
When his sister’s carriage departed, Hatchet headed in the direction of Bourbon Street. He wanted to forget about his troubles for one night. Stars shone bright in the sky, and the air was full of city life. Couples talked as they strolled to their favorite nightclubs. Music blared from the corner where a street quartet played, and bouts of laughter streamed from open windows of local restaurants.
The people carousing in the streets were a bit rougher around the edges than he recalled from his last visit. But the smells and sounds of the French Quarter were the same, as well as the quaint two- and three-story buildings nestled together. The bright colors painted a vivid landscape, though some of the houses were in disrepair.
Once on Bourbon, he lit a cigarillo and stood at the corner, observing the crowd mingling on the street. He could scarce hear his own thoughts, immersed in the chaos of nightlife. Joining his crewmates at Lafitte’s Blacksmith Shop & Bar ha
d seemed like a good idea earlier in the day, but it did not appeal to him at the moment. An evening surrounded by men in their cups and raucous laughter? Not when another enticing form of entertainment could take his mind off the curse and the challenges that lay before him. So, he continued walking, hanging a left at Dauphine Street, where the residential neighborhood was calm and quiet.
He scanned the house numbers as he walked, drawing on his cigarillo. The destination he had in mind might offer a pleasurable evening, though one devoid of emotions. Could he embrace a life where carnal pleasures were enjoyed without guilt?
Tonight, he would visit Le Havre and find out, bedding a lady of the night for the first time in his life.
Chapter Four
French wasn’t a language Hatchet could claim fluency in, but he knew enough to understand the name of the establishment. The Haven. An interesting choice for a brothel.
Black wrought-iron fences enclosed the private balconies of the upper floors, which were lined with petite flower boxes. Ivy tumbled over the railings, and the sweet scent of magnolias filled the night air. The building itself was feminine, with its white window casings and dark-green shutters against a golden backdrop. With three stories and wide double doors marking the entrance, the place could easily house fifteen ladies.
Hatchet strolled up the small path to the wraparound porch and ascended two stairs. Ambient music drifted through the windows of the front parlor, and light conversation danced on the breeze. Sweat broke out on his nape, and he patted it dry with a handkerchief.
Was he truly about to bed a stranger?
Well, not a complete stranger. The Widow Leblonc’s warm, chocolate eyes were embedded in his memory. He’d seen her three times. Even spoke with her briefly. Couldn’t stop thinking about her. If he was going to take the plunge into mindless sex, then he wanted it to be with her.
His heart clattered wildly in his breast as he knocked. The door opened, and an enormous man with the darkest skin Hatchet had ever seen stared down his nose, holding out his palm. “Your calling card, please.”
River Road Page 3