Maribeth’s eyes widened, but she retrieved the mitts and peeked inside the oven. She glanced over her shoulder, shaking her head. “But they’re not ready yet.”
“You’re sure?” Cook shooed the child aside to peer inside.
“Yes,” Maribeth said with absolute confidence. “I ate a lot of biscuits on the voyage here, and they must be golden brown on top. Those are close, but not quite finished.”
Pushing the oven door shut, Pauline gave a nod of approval. “You’ll do as a helper. Come by whenever you’ve an itch to cook, and old Pauline will teach you a thing or two about Southern cooking, you hear.”
“Mama, do you still need—” A man ducked through the doorway and glanced between Pauline and Hatchet. “Beggin’ your pardon. I’ll come back later.”
“Hold up, Tobi,” Father said, lifting his hand in greeting. “There’s no need to rush off.”
“Goodness,” Maribeth spluttered, craning her neck. “You’re as tall as Isaac.”
“You should’ve seen his pa,” Hatchet said, nodding at Tobi in greeting. “The man was even taller.”
Pauline patted her son’s arm. “But Tobi’s creativity comes from me. He’ll show you some of his work when you tour the blacksmith shop.”
“Richard was a fine man, one of the best overseers in his day,” Father said with a sigh. “A good friend of mine, too.”
Hatchet drew a mental image of the former overseer, and the comparison with his son was striking. Relationships between white men and slaves were rare, but Tobi’s parents had been a love match.
Still, having been born to a slave, Tobi was the rightful property of Isaac before the Civil War. What a cruel world. At least as blacksmith on a sizable plantation, Tobi held a valued position and would always find employment.
Father glanced around the kitchen, his gaze halting on a plate of cookies. “Well, we must be off, or we’ll never finish this tour of the plantation before supper is on the table.”
“I’ll see you again soon,” the girl said to Pauline, waving goodbye.
Cook held out a plate of ginger snaps. “Go on and take one. You’ll all need the energy if you’re touring the plantation.”
They each snatched one of the crispy cookies and ducked out the back door into the herb garden, following the narrow pathway to a gate with HG burned into the wood surface.
“The gate is lovely,” Maribeth said, tracing her finger over the smooth surface of the letters. “The stone walls, too.”
Hatchet pointed to a scar on the back of his hand. “Collected a few bumps and bruises while building it.” He inspected his handiwork. “Mother always preached that the best plantations are built on the sweat of the owners. Can’t believe this old gate has survived more than twenty years.”
“Still keeps the critters out,” Isaac said, heading in the direction of the plantation market.
Maribeth perked up. “What kind of critters?”
“Snakes, field mice, rabbits, and—” A loud squawking cut Hatchet off as a young lad ran by, chasing a hen. “Chickens,” he finished. He hated those damned chickens, always making a racket. “Even old Betsy got out of the barn once and feasted on the parsley. Ever seen an ox trample through an herb garden?”
Maribeth chomped off a bite of her ginger snap, shaking her head, wide-eyed.
“That’s when my mother decided a stone wall was in order,” Hatchet said with a groan. “Every muscle in my body was sore for weeks, and I was sweating like a pig. Summers inland are brutal in Louisiana. Can’t say I miss ’em.”
In the plantation market, Hatchet trolled the aisles. Everything from bags of flour, bolts of cloth, and tools could be found on the well-stocked shelves, all sold at exorbitant prices. He scanned the price list for purchasing a tract of land and related essentials for the sharecroppers.
Land
$800
6 small Creole horses
70
One plow
2
2 harnesses
1
3 bedsteads and a dressing bureau
30
1 sewing machine
5
Table with 4 chairs
3
1 sofa
6
1 stove and utensils
5
Total
$922
What was Mother thinking? The men and women living on the plantation broke their backs tending the sugarcane fields, for little pay. They couldn’t possibly afford the prices listed and set aside money for savings.
Mary’s concerns about worker discontent weren’t unfounded. Did all plantation owners run their businesses this way? One of the workers, at least, wasn’t happy and had prayed to the voodoo spirit Kalfu. Hatchet rubbed the base of his neck, easing the tension gathering there.
Behind him, the store office door creaked, and a gentleman crossed the threshold of the doorway.
“Begging your pardon,” the man said, startled. He eyed Hatchet, his brows furrowed, clearly unsure of what to make of him. “May I help you, sir?”
“You must be Patrick,” he said, offering his hand. “I’m Mary’s older brother, Charles. I’m sorry for the informal introduction, but my sister didn’t mention your surname.”
“Johnston,” his soon-to-be brother-in-law said with a curt nod. “Of course, you’re Charles Moore. Your mother has spoken of little else in the past week. Mary is quite fond of you as well.”
Hatchet lifted his brows. Was that a touch of annoyance he detected? “My stay will be short, so your suffering shall be over soon.”
His snide comment produced a flush from Patrick.
“If you’ll excuse me,” Hatchet said with a bow, “my father is waiting outside to continue our tour of the grounds. I look forward to speaking more with you over supper.”
As they walked through the sugarcane fields, all Hatchet saw was disgruntled faces, hunched backs, and wary glances. These people were free, and yet they toiled day after day, just as they had before the Civil War. What, if anything, had changed?
On their walked back to the big house, past rows of what amounted to little more than shacks, it became evident nothing had changed, except instead of being called slaves, they were called workers. Sure, they now owned a parcel of land, sharing in the annual crop. But Mother paid in scrip, so the workers could only purchase that which was offered in the plantation store.
Hatchet was a proponent for hard work, but this was wrong. The crew of The Savior knew bone-breaking work as well, and they were compensated fairly, free to spend their money wherever they wished. He would speak with Mary about the changes needed at Harmon Grove for the place to thrive again. But he would see to that later, because this evening, he had other plans. Like breaking into his father’s safe.
• • •
Hatchet stared out his bedroom window upon the moonlit grounds. There was no one in sight, and the big house was utterly quiet. No servants’ footsteps scurried across the floors, nor could mumbled whispers be heard. Everyone was abed at this late hour.
He kicked off his shoes, setting them at the foot of the bed. Next, he replaced his white cotton shirt with a black one to match his trousers. His eyes had adjusted to the darkness, so without bothering to light a candle, he poked his head into the hallway and peered in both directions. Empty.
After closing the bedroom door carefully behind him, he walked to the staircase on his toes, mindful of his foot placement. One step, two steps . . . A loud creak rent the air on the third, and he paused, holding his breath. His palms began to sweat, but no one stirred upstairs.
Making his way to the study, he glanced over both shoulders before entering. The door closed quietly behind him, and he exhaled. The air in the room was stale and warm. His heart thumped madly, though he couldn’t say why. He hadn’t been caught.
When his nerves settled, Hatchet removed a painting from the wall behind his father’s desk. He entered the combination. Had his father kept the same one all these years? Sev
en, for the number of children he sired, both living and dead. Twenty-five, for the age when he’d assumed the reins of his father’s empire, and . . .
The hairs on the back of his neck prickled. Why did he have the sense of being watched? Because you’re breaking into your father’s safe. He glanced over his shoulder and caught a glimpse of the whites of someone’s eyes. His heart leaped to his throat, and he scrambled for a candle and match on the desktop. The flame came to life and lit the wick.
“Who’s there?” he asked, holding the candle high. “Maribeth, is that you sneaking around?”
All was quiet and still. He crept toward the area where he’d seen . . . something . . . and pulled back the window draperies in a flash of movement. No one hid there. Behind the chair, perhaps? But when he kneeled on the seat cushion and peered behind the back of the chair, there was no one crouched there either. He glanced up and jumped back, off the chair, the candle wobbling in his grip.
“Bloody hell!” he hissed, coming face-to-face with himself in a mirror. Maribeth and her silly stories of a ghost at Harmon Grove had put him on edge. I saw a glimpse of her image in the mirror. Had he seen the eyes of the ghost she’d seen earlier or his own reflection? No matter, he had work to do.
“Watch if you choose,” he muttered. “I don’t give a damn.”
He entered the combination into the safe once again, and this time the door swung free. Stacks of contracts lined the outer walls of the safe, with jewels and paperwork strewn in the center. But no voodoo rattle. A growl of frustration ripped through him.
He stared at the pile of useless stuff in disbelief but paused when Hope’s name stared back at him from a piece of parchment. Snatching the paper, he sank into the desk chair, inspecting the long list of gifts written beneath her name: artwork, books, clothes, and even jewels. His stomach twisted in knots. What was this obsession his father had with her?
Lord, help me. Are they lovers?
His father owned the mortgage of Le Havre. If he wanted Hope in his bed, then she’d damn well be in his bed. Or had she refused his advances and Father was using her asson to bend her to his will? The thought soured Hatchet’s gut. Father had enjoyed the pleasures of a Creole mistress in the past, Gabrielle Guillory, so the possibility of a liaison wasn’t out of the question. He gritted his teeth. Had he almost sacrificed his beloved memories of Emma for his father’s lover?
There was only one way to find out. He couldn’t confront his father, but Hope wouldn’t escape his interrogation. She had lied, even if only through omission of fact.
Hatchet shoved the list of gifts back into the safe, but a scrap caught his attention before he locked the door. The words scribbled on the tiny sheet were noteworthy.
Auction asson at Le Grand Maison.
He locked the safe. There was nowhere left to search. He had swept all the bedrooms while Mary entertained the family with music after dinner. The parlor, library, and dining room were dead ends as well. His father would never risk hiding a treasure outside of the big house. At the crack of dawn, Hatchet would pack for an early return to the city and seek an audience with Hope.
Gripping the edge of the desk, he breathed deep, forcing air into his lungs. How could he have erred about the widow? Her countenance had been sincere when she’d claimed never to have desired another man’s company since her husband’s death. He’d believed her implicitly, because he could smell bullshit through a sealed door. Please, don’t tell me you’re my father’s mistress. Best he avoid the topic altogether until she banished the curse, but he could not. The truth of the matter was simple. He still wanted her, the woman who ignited a spark of hope in him.
Chapter Ten
The French Market was alive with activity Saturday afternoon as Hope strolled through the booths, inspecting the vendors’ wares while keeping an eye out for Hatchet. His penned note had been frustrating beyond belief, giving no hint of his success whatsoever. Had he found her family’s ceremonial rattle or not?
A carriage halted on the street, and Hatchet jumped out of the coach. Fawn-colored trousers hugged his muscular buttocks as he reached in his pocket for change then tossed the coins to the driver. Hope had memorized the contours of those muscles and how they flexed under her fingers.
Heat scorched a path up her neck, and she flicked her fan open, pumping her hand vigorously to cool herself. She wanted him in her bed, even more than before he’d walked out on her. What a rare find. A man who held his partner in high esteem and cherished their bond. His rejection was offensive, but he had been flustered. Her words had set him off, brought back a memory. She was sure of it. She’d felt the moment he froze in place. Had he ripped a gown off his beloved? He was a complicated man, a tortured soul.
Oh, Hatchet, I shouldn’t have lied to you about the curse.
His gaze roamed over the crowded market until it settled on her, cold and piercing. Why was he always so serious? Well, not always. He could be funny when they were alone. The corner of her mouth curled, and he nodded in greeting.
She turned her attention to the costume jewelry on the table in front of her as he wended his way through the booths. Had he thought of her at all since he left Le Havre? Butterfly wings took flight in her belly when the heat of his breath tickled her neck.
“Find anything that suits your taste?” he murmured. “Or maybe you favor more expensive treasures? Artwork, or first-edition books, perhaps a particular gemstone.”
She stiffened, closing her eyes for one moment. He knew of her relationship with Isaac Moore. And if the cutting edge to his voice was any indication, he was angry as the devil. Lifting her chin, she turned and faced him head-on. If he wanted to know the truth, he was going to have to ask her outright, not hide behind thinly veiled accusations.
“Did you find what I seek at Harmon Grove?”
He grabbed her arm and pulled her to the curb, away from the crowd. “Are you fucking Isaac Moore?”
Well, that was a direct question, and quite insulting. She slapped his cheek, putting her strength behind the action. His head snapped sideways, but he caught her wrist before she could inflict any more damage.
“How dare you!” she hissed, struggling to break free from his hold. “First, it’s none of your damned business. Second, I told you I haven’t slept with another man since my husband passed.”
His jaw worked hard as she tore into him, but he didn’t say a word. His eyebrows drew together at the bridge of his nose, and his cheek flamed red. Was he angry about her outburst or the possibility she’d slept with another man?
He pulled her closer, glaring down his perfectly formed nose. “Why didn’t you tell me he owns Le Havre?”
“You didn’t ask.”
His lips grazed her ear, sending wicked little shivers down her spine.
“Don’t be cute with me. What is he to you?”
She rested her hand on his chest, felt the rapid-fire beating of his heart. His reaction suddenly made more sense. He was jealous, and the thought melted the layer of ice forming over her heart. A ghost still held his love, but she stirred his passion. He would let go of his past, if she helped him.
“Nothing,” she said, caressing his chest. “I pay him rent on the first of every month. Isaac Moore means nothing to me.”
He nodded and released her wrist. Pulling a cigar from the inner pocket of his jacket, he bit off the end and struck a match on the pavement. A flame flickered to life, and he puffed rapidly, lighting the butt. He inhaled deeply and strolled in the direction of Café du Monde. She folded her hands behind her back, walking beside him.
“Your friend was wrong,” he said, keeping his eyes on the road ahead. “I searched every inch of the plantation. Your asson isn’t there. If it were, I assure you I would’ve found it.”
No, that could not be. Roxie was reliable, the best at her craft. Though, even Hope had to admit there was an outside chance she’d been wrong.
“How were you able to gain entrance to the plantation? You simply didn�
�t have enough time. I’ve heard the grounds are extensive. The big house alone has ten bedrooms. There’s the study, and—”
“Listen,” Hatchet said, bringing her to a halt. He looked away and blew out a thin line of smoke. “There was plenty of opportunity for a thorough search. I was an overnight guest. I’m here in regards to long overdue business with Isaac and his family.”
He was a guest at Harmon Grove? She was of a mind to slap the bastard again. All day she’d worried about his safety while he was enjoying himself, laughing at her expense. “You claimed to be risking your life for me! Of all the dirty, despicable—”
“Just because I was a guest doesn’t mean I wasn’t stretching my neck out for you,” Hatchet said with a scowl. “Would it have mattered either way if you knew the truth? You gave me a risky task, one we agreed no one else would dare take on, and I completed it. Why are you angry with me?”
Because she felt taken for a fool. The man was intolerable at times, and arrogant. So why did she wish to feel his lips caressing hers, even in this very moment? Surely, she was losing her mind. He was a scoundrel.
“You didn’t complete your task. My asson is still missing. You promised to recover it for me. So what is your plan? Where will you look next?”
His eyes widened, and he laughed, a hard, belly laugh. Tendrils of cigar smoke wafted in the air, annoying her almost as much as his laughter. What did he find comical about her statement?
“I never agreed to recover your stolen relic. My orders were to search Harmon Grove. I’ve upheld my promise.” He captured her chin, rubbing his thumb along her cheek. “Of course, I might be persuaded to continue looking. For the right price.”
“You are a pig!” she grumbled, slapping his hand away.
His grin widened. “I think you meant pirate. You must pay better attention during negotiations. Does this happen often? I should’ve thought you a master negotiator.”
“To hell with you,” she spat. “I don’t want you or your help.”
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