The gunnysack thumped against his back with each step. No matter that Blake shifted its weight from shoulder to shoulder, by the time he reached the top of the bluff, he was ready to toss the irritating bundle into a ravine. Eventually he reached the shanty where the washerwoman lived and worked.
He dropped off his clothing and dickered with the old woman, whose back was bowed from years of bending over hot tubs and scrub boards. Normally she would have delivered the clean clothes in a few days, but since Blake wasn’t sure where he’d be living, he told her he’d come back to collect them in three days. By the time he left, both of them were satisfied with their arrangement.
The trip down the hill was easier and cooler. He could see a boat chugging its way upstream, loaded with immigrants. It was a common sight. Dozens of families crowded onto steamboats. The lucky ones could afford to rent rooms in the interior of the boats while the poorer immigrants had to eat, live, and sleep on the upper decks, exposed to all weather conditions.
As he made his way back to the river, the boat docked, and her passengers flowed onto the muddy banks like ants from an overturned mound. Some of them headed uphill while others stayed in the lower town, probably wanting to remain closer to their boat. He hoped they would stay away from the trapdoor saloons, a row of buildings clinging to the river south of the docks. They were perched on tall stilts to avoid damage from frequent floods, but they housed the most dangerous inhabitants of Natchez Under-the-Hill: hardened criminals who were on the lookout for easy prey. Unwary travelers were sometimes clubbed to death inside the saloons and stripped of their valuables. Then the hapless bodies were tossed through trapdoors into the river below. Most of them ended up caught in the eddies of a wide curve just south of the city, aptly named Dead Man’s Bend.
Blake nodded to several men who had gambled at his table the past few weeks. Natchez had been good to him, giving him enough money for food and shelter. Now it had also given him his dream.
His musings were brought short by a shout from a nearby brothel. The front door flung open, and two men stumbled onto the wooden sidewalk. Judging from the angry words being exchanged, the argument had begun when the two conceived a desire for the same woman.
One of the men, a short, broad-shouldered Cajun who sported a red rooster’s feather in his black slouch hat, backed into Blake and nearly fell. “Watchit!” His snarl was as threatening as a mad dog’s. “Whaddaya doin’ here?”
Part of Blake’s mind registered the smell of alcohol on the short man’s breath even as his hand clamped down on his sword cane. Should he back away from the combatants? Or would that be perceived as cowardice and end with his receiving a bullet between his shoulder blades? Should he try to be a calming voice in the quarrel between the two men? Or would they then join forces and attack him?
The irony of the situation did not escape him. He was finally beginning to see his dream come true. Would he die this afternoon, the accidental victim of chance?
“Excuse me, gentlemen. I was wondering if either of you knows the way to the Silver Nickel? I’m meeting a client there in a few minutes.” He hoped his bogus question would take the attention off him. As far as he knew, there was no such place in Natchez.
The taller combatant dropped his fists and scowled. “What? Silver Nickel? I ain’t never heard of it. How ’bout you, Pierre?”
Pierre’s shoulders lowered slightly. He looked from one man to the other and scratched at his head, almost dislodging his hat. “Never heared of it neither.”
“Oh well, thank you, gentlemen.” Blake took a step past them, watching for any sudden movements toward a gun or knife. “I guess I’ll continue my search.”
The two men resumed their argument. Blake reached a corner, breathing a sigh of relief when he knew he was out of their line of sight. They were too drunk and belligerent to come looking for him. All he had to do was make sure he didn’t bump into them again. Even though his current route would take a few extra minutes, the safety it brought was worth it.
He arrived at the saloon and stopped a minute to check for an ambush. When a big prize was at stake, it was prudent to be extra careful. Seeing nothing suspicious, he stepped inside and looked around for Jean Luc Champney. Several patrons perched at the bar, but he didn’t see any sign of the man he was supposed to meet. Deciding it was too early to be concerned, he sat at an empty table and ordered a cup of coffee from a frowsy-headed waitress.
She put one hand on her hip. “Don’t ya want anything stronger?”
Blake used his most winning smile. “No, thanks. Coffee will be fine. Tell me, have you seen a young gentleman in here this afternoon?”
“Well of course, honey. I seen lots of men in here. That’s why they call it a saloon.”
“I’m looking for one in particular. A little shorter than me. Good looking with expensive clothes.”
She wrinkled her nose. “No. But give it a few minutes. I’m sure he’ll be right in.” She flounced off, her long skirt dragging across the dirty floor.
The saloon grew more crowded as time wore on, but still Blake saw no sign of Jean Luc. If he didn’t show up soon, Blake was going to have to go in search of him. At least he knew the young man’s last name. It shouldn’t be too hard to discover his whereabouts.
The next time the waitress came to check on him, Blake showed her a gold coin. “I need some information.”
Her eyes watched the coin as she nodded. “I’ll be glad to help ya.”
“I need to know where the Champney family lives.”
She wrinkled her nose before answering him. “I don’t rightly know, but I can ask my boss.”
He nodded, but when she reached a hand out to take the coin, Blake shook his head. “Information first.”
She huffed and walked away. He watched as she talked to the bartender. He nodded and pointed toward the roof. Then more gestures as he apparently described the exact location of the Champney home.
Blake had the coin ready when she came back. “Well?”
She repeated the instructions, although she didn’t use as many gestures as the bartender had.
Blake asked a couple of questions to make sure he understood before handing her the money.
She placed it in a tiny pocket in her skirt. “Thanks.”
Blake stood up. “Have a good evening.”
Her pout was supposed to be attractive, but Blake was unmoved. She was more pitiful than voluptuous. He wished he could tell her to go home and find a husband.
Instead he picked up his hat and settled it on his head. He had more important things to see to … like claiming his boat and the new future that awaited him.
Chapter Five
When he met his mother’s concerned gaze, Jean Luc realized he should have gone out instead of taking a meal with his parents.
“You’ve hardly touched your dinner, enfant. Are you ill?”
He shook his head. “I’m fine.”
“But it’s not like you—”
Papa interrupted. “Leave the boy alone, Gabrielle. He doesn’t have to stuff himself at every meal.”
Jean Luc shared a sympathetic gaze with his papa.
Mama pushed her chair back. “I will leave you gentlemen alone, then. Will you join me in the parlor later?”
“We won’t be long.” Papa’s voice lost some of its irritation.
A slave moved to open the door, and Mama sailed through. “We’ll need a tray in the front parlor.” The slave nodded and left to do her bidding.
Papa tossed his napkin on the table. “I was surprised you didn’t come to the office today.”
Grasping his goblet, Jean Luc drained the wine in one gulp. “I was busy.”
Silence filled the room. He could almost feel his father’s piercing gaze burn straight through him, but he refused to look up. Papa would see the truth. Another thought made his heart stutter. Did Papa already know? Against his will, Jean Luc’s gaze rose and smashed into his father’s.
Feeling like a youngste
r, Jean Luc gulped. He tried to marshal his thoughts, but his mind wouldn’t function properly. He opened his mouth to confess when a knock on the door interrupted them.
“I wonder who that can be?” Papa rose from his chair and opened the door.
“Good evening. You must be Mr. Champney.”
It could not be. Jean Luc started at the sound of the voice that had dogged him through every waking minute today. He coughed in an attempt to ease the dryness in his throat.
“I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage, Monsieur …”
“Matthews. Blake Matthews.”
Papa waited, a look of mild curiosity on his face.
“I need to speak with your son, sir.”
Papa’s gaze raked Jean Luc before turning back to Matthews. “Come in. You’ve arrived too late to join us for dinner, but perhaps you would care for a glass of brandy.” He moved back to the table.
Matthews followed. “I don’t believe so, sir. I don’t wish to disturb you. I was only coming by to make sure Jean Luc was not ill. He missed our appointment today.”
Papa raised an eyebrow. “With all this concern over his health, I’m beginning to wonder if I should send for a doctor.”
“Before you do, sir, could I have a few moments alone with your son?”
“Whatever you have to say to Jean Luc can be said while I’m here.”
Jean Luc pushed back his chair, indignation and horror fighting inside him. Had he stumbled into a nightmare? Surely Blake Matthews hadn’t dared to come here to demand payment. But he could not ignore the evidence. “Shouldn’t you be on your boat?”
A tight smile appeared on the man’s face. “I would be, but I cannot gain access.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” Jean Luc tried for an imperious stare. All he needed to do was imitate his father’s expression. “But I don’t understand what I have to do with that unfortunate circumstance.”
“I’m not talking about the Lucky Lucy.” His eyes glittered like shards of glass. “I’m referring to the boat I won from you last evening, the Hattie Belle.”
“What?” Jean Luc’s father looked from Matthews to his son. “What is he talking about, Jean Luc?”
“I’m sure I haven’t the slightest idea.” Jean Luc dropped back into his dining chair. “Mr. Matthews must have me confused with someone else.”
The genial host he vaguely remembered from the night before had disappeared. In his place stood an angry volcano. Mr. Matthews took two long strides toward the table, his hand reaching for something in the inside pocket of his coat. Was he going to shoot him here in his family’s home?
The gambler pulled out a sheet of paper and held it in front of Jean Luc. “Are you going to deny this IOU?”
Jean Luc opened his mouth, but no sound came out.
His father stalked over and grabbed the piece of paper. “What is this?” His eyes perused the short statement. “It says that you have sworn to turn over the deed to the Hattie Belle in lieu of the debt you owe Mr. Matthews.” He balled up the paper and tossed it on the table.
All three men watched as it bounced off the edge of Jean Luc’s dinner plate and rolled toward a pair of lit candles in the center of the table.
“That paper has your son’s signature on it. And I have half a dozen witnesses who will verify he signed without any duress. He was certain he held the winning hand, but alas, the cards were against him.”
“You were against me, you mean.” Jean Luc could hear the note of panic in his voice. He cleared his throat and looked at his father. Papa’s face had aged ten years in ten minutes. A stabbing pain of remorse shot through him. But it was too late for remorse. He would bluff his way through this. Surely his father would believe his word over that of some stranger. “I don’t owe this man anything.”
“Did you go to his gambling hall last night?”
“Yes, but—”
His father pointed a finger toward the note. “Did someone else sign that or force you to?”
Reluctantly, Jean Luc shook his head.
More color drained from his father’s face. “Go upstairs and get the deed.”
“But Papa, the game was fixed.”
A sound from Mr. Matthews indicated he was ready to defend himself. Jean Luc’s father turned toward him. “I apologize for my son. He has no excuse for his words or his behavior.”
“You don’t have to apologize for him. Jean Luc is a grown man.”
“Apparently he’s more immature than I had hoped.” Papa turned back to him. “Get—the—deed. Now!”
The last word propelled Jean Luc from his chair. He practically ran from the room, his humiliation complete. How could he have been so stupid? How could he have gambled away the first thing his father had entrusted to him? How would he ever make up for his colossal error?
The questions chased him upstairs and circled in his mind as he unlocked the box. Hot tears blurred the words on the deed. He wiped them away with an angry hand before they could fall on the paper. He would be a man about this.
Jean Luc considered several scenarios. Could he claim the deed had disappeared or been stolen? No one would believe such a coincidence. Besides, since Blake had the IOU, he could force Jean Luc to have an attorney draft a new deed.
He had to give the deed over to the nefarious gambler tonight, but he would find a way to get it back. He had been cheated. None of the provincials in this backwater town could have defeated him honestly. He had played in some of the best gaming halls in France, and he’d never had such ill luck.
He had hoped to have a few days to find out how he’d been cheated, but that was not to be. He had to temporarily admit defeat. But one day he would prove his suspicions and wrest his property back from Blake Matthews. He would do whatever was necessary, no matter how difficult. He would once again bask in the glory of his father’s approval. On the day he succeeded, he would make Mr. Matthews pay for his humiliation. On that day, he would put his boot on Mr. Matthew’s neck and make him scream for mercy. On that day, everything would be right again.
Halting steps brought him back to the dining room. It was galling to have to look up at the man as he handed him the deed. Before his father could prompt him, Jean Luc bowed. “I hope you will forgive me for what I said earlier. I was overset.”
The other man’s shoulders relaxed a tiny bit. “It is hard to admit one’s mistakes.”
“Yes.” He watched as Matthews took his leave, studying each movement the man made. He needed every advantage if he was going to defeat his adversary.
Chapter Six
Birds chirped in the warm air, undisturbed by grief or other human concerns. Lily wanted to shoo them away. Perhaps if they weren’t singing, she could summon tears like those that washed the cheeks of her grandmother and her sister Camellia.
But her heart had turned to stone. It was as though her emotions had left when Grandfather’s soul departed his mortal remains. She moved through the days like a shadow, drifting from room to room as she considered what life had become without him.
His strength had seemed indomitable. But in the end, he had succumbed to death as any other man. In the end, he had left her alone to fend for herself in much the same way her father had all those years ago. Of course, her father had chosen to leave her; Grandfather had remained until his health failed.
Lily picked at the heavy black material of her wide skirt as Camellia placed a bouquet of fresh flowers on Grandfather’s grave. She was worried about her sister. Camellia had always been Grandfather’s favorite, his perfect little lady.
Golden ringlets moved with Camellia as she traced the marble headstone with a gloved hand. “I miss him so much.”
“As do we all, Camellia.” Grandmother’s voice was choked with tears but still managed to convey warmth. “It is hard to say good-bye to our loved ones, but it is given to man to die.”
“Grandfather would be pleased with the flowers.” Lily forced her lips to curve upward as she met Camellia’s blue gaze. Th
e smile became more natural as she considered how beautiful her fair sister looked in her mourning clothes. Not that Camellia ever looked less than lovely.
“Do you think so?” Camellia’s hopeful words wrung her heart.
“I think Grandfather is flying around heaven with his new wings.” Jasmine flapped her arms and ran around a nearby tree, her black dress making her look more like a crow than an angel.
Laughter threatened to bubble up as Lily thought they probably looked like a flock of crows in their black dresses.
“Jasmine, get back here.” Aunt Dahlia clapped her hands. She turned to Lily, a frown on her face. “I don’t know where she gets her manners. Can you not do anything to control her?”
Lily felt the stab of her relative’s disapproving gaze. “Jasmine, please come here.”
With a whooshing sound, the young girl complied, letting her arms drop to her sides.
“You must learn to act like a lady.” Aunt Dahlia clipped her words as though her tongue were a pair of scissors. “You should try to emulate your sister Camellia.”
Lily wanted to contradict her. One prissy girl was enough for any family. She loved Camellia, but she had none of Jasmine’s playful exuberance. Lily put a protective arm around her youngest sister and squeezed.
Jasmine looked up at her, her violet-hued eyes wide. “I’m sorry.”
“I know you are, Jasmine, but you need to think before you act.”
“I won’t do it again.” The young girl’s lower lip trembled. Tears threatened.
Lily wanted to comfort her, but she could feel her aunt watching them so she sighed and nodded.
“Tamar, come take the girls back to the house.” Aunt Dahlia beckoned to the middle-aged black woman standing a little apart from them. “We need to talk a bit before we rejoin Phillip for afternoon tea.”
Lily (Song of the River) Page 4