Gentleman's Trade

by Newman, Holly

  Her mother looked doubtful. “I am not persuaded there is a problem with the gown. But perhaps it does lack something.”

  “What problem?” Paulette demanded.

  “This color,” Vanessa explained, fingering a slash of green satin material on her sleeve.

  “But the color is, what do you call it? The high kick of fashion, no? And the dress, it is magnifique!”

  “But on me, it is just a dress.”

  “Pour quoi?”

  Vanessa shrugged impatiently.

  Paulette frowned, one of her quick storms of temper brewing in her eyes. Adeline laid a gentle hand on her arm. “As Vanessa said, it is not a color in which she thinks she shows to advantage.” She turned to study the gown objectively. “Still you will be readily admired, for it is obvious that this dress is one of the newest Paris styles.”

  Unconvinced, Vanessa glared down at the gown. “How could I have chosen so poorly?”

  “Vanessa, Vanessa, you are being a silly goose,” teased her mother. “That is hardly like you. As Paulette said, that reseda color is all the fashion this year. I anticipate seeing several parlors and drawing rooms in the city redone in just such a color. You might account yourself a fashion leader.”

  “Please, Mama,” her daughter protested, closing her eyes briefly.

  Adeline chuckled. “It is not as bad as you despair. You will still turn heads.” She turned to ring the bell sitting on a table by her quilting frame. It was answered almost immediately by their gens de couleur libres butler, a freeman colored servant. “Jonas, have Leila fetch my pearl choker, please.” She turned back to her daughter, straightening and fluffing one short puffed sleeve on Vanessa’s dress. “Your problem, my dear, is you have discovered how well you look in your French blue gown, so now, though you desire to wear other colors, you are forever making comparisons.”

  “I suppose you are correct. This is perhaps why I despise the ritual of displaying my attire before leaving for some social function. It gives me time for second thoughts.”

  “Bah! You think too much,” offered Paulette derisively.

  “Falling to vanity, love?” her mother humorously queried.

  Vanessa grinned. “My sins appear to be increasing with my age.”

  “Then for a certainty you must marry lest they become worse!” Paulette declared.

  Adeline and her mother laughed.

  “Paulette!” Vanessa admonished indignantly, though she laughed, too.

  “I say, what’s this?” Richard Mannion laid his newspaper aside and rose from his chair. “Such a cackle’s hardly proper for a ball.”

  “Pardon, Father, yes, of course,” Vanessa managed, clamping her lips tight to stifle another laugh. She glanced at her mother, amazed at how quickly she regained her serene demeanor. Her mother caught her eye and slowly winked, nearly sending Vanessa into another paroxysm of laughter.

  Richard Mannion crossed the room and opened the door just as Jonas arrived with the pearl necklace. He stood impatiently while his wife fastened the necklace around Vanessa’s neck and the others stood back to admire the effect.

  “Well, let’s be off- then. We’re wasting a good portion of the evening and I’ve promised to talk with McKnight. I’d like to meet this Talverton fellow, too,” he said.

  “So should I!” cooed Paulette.

  Mr. Mannion frowned, but Mrs. Mannion and her daughters bubbled with quiet laughter.

  “But not for the same reasons as Father,” said Adeline with a giggle.

  “You were right last night, Paulette,” Mrs. Mannion said ruefully as she ushered them out of the room. “Social engagements are bound to business. I fear I shall be lucky to have him stand up with me for even one dance this evening.”

  Behind her, Mr. Mannion harrumphed.

  The night was dark, but in the deeply rutted muddy streets, silver pools of water glistened in the light cast from lanterns held by the Mannion servants. The family picked their way carefully along the wood plank banquette made from old keelboats, patches of mud on the wood making slippery footing. Though fashion now decreed ladies’ dresses be above their ankles, the women still held their dresses a little higher to avoid marring their gowns. Their dancing slippers and stockings were carried wrapped in shawls, ready to be donned at their destination; on their feet, the sturdy boots they wore added an odd counterpoint to the elegant attire.

  Vanessa followed behind her father, her eyes trained on the wood planks before her, though her mind was distracted. Last night her dreams had been fraught with confusion, and the first rays of dawn brought no welcoming resolution for those feelings. Before the dinner party, she had accepted Mr. Wilmot as her only suitor, their courtship proceeding at a steady if lackluster pace. She had accepted the situation, her experience with men being severely limited by the restrictions placed upon her by her father.

  Until her sister Louisa contrived to meet Charles Chaumonde, the family had rarely socialized. They might as well have been living on the most remote bayou than in New Orleans. Thankfully, her elder sibling had been successful in prodding their father into entering the social milieu. Unfortunately, her whirlwind courtship and marriage left little time for the gregarious Louisa to educate her younger sisters on the niceties of society and the New Orleans matrimonial mart.

  Vanessa smiled to herself as she carefully skirted a large clump of mud on the walkway. Mr. Danielson spoke of the year as being prosperous for trade. In truth, it augured well to being prosperous for society as a whole. The city was growing, its entertainment delights increasing, and a new excitement was in the air. Just look at the type of people New Orleans was attracting, English aristocrats! She couldn’t help but wonder about this friend of Mr. Danielson. Her image of an English aristocrat was of a florid-faced, paunchy, arrogant gentleman whose pastimes consisted of innumerable parties, gaming, and riding to the hounds, she thought with a smile.

  She had met some Englishmen after the Battle of New Orleans: young soldiers whose wounds she bound and who were for a time prisoners of war. But they were not aristocrats. The one aristocrat she met, a young officer with the veriest scratch upon his arm, had been an overfed, obnoxious boor.

  Vanessa looked up briefly when they reached the first of two streets they needed to cross. Her father extended his hand to help her and the others down the slick, wooden steps, while Jonas hurried forward with his lantern to cast more light across their path. Vanessa perfunctorily thanked them both, and carefully picked her way through the muddy morass, her mind preoccupied with thoughts of Englishmen.

  What would this Hugh Talverton be like? She owned she could not imagine a friend of Mr. Danielson being other than gentlemanly, but it had been a long while since they’d last spent time together. Wasn’t it something like eight years, when they were both still callow young men? A lot happens between the cotton seed being planted and the cloth coming off the loom, and so it is with people when time, an ocean, and a different way of life separate them, she mused.

  She studied a particularly wet and sloppy section of the street, cautiously choosing her steps.

  “Richard!” Trevor Danielson’s voice halted them at close range.

  Startled, Vanessa looked up just before her foot hit the muddy street. As the fates would have it, her foot failed to find the mark she’d chosen and squelched sickeningly in the cold mud up past the top of her low boots.

  “Ah-h-h!” Vanessa shrieked. She pulled her skirts up around her knees, teetering precariously.

  A babble of voices crescendoed around Vanessa, echoed by the flutter of hands too far away to help. Jonas held his lantern higher, its light shining on her slender white legs liberally splattered with mud. Firmly clasping her skirts, she regally straightened. “I’m all right. No, Mama, don’t try to help. Father, please see that the others make the sidewalk first.” She nodded toward her mother, sister, and Paulette, forestalling his coming to her aid.

  The sound of deep-throated laughter drew her attention to the sidewalk.
Belatedly she remembered Mr. Danielson’s presence and his role in her current dilemma. But he wasn’t laughing. Embarrassed, with harried glances in Vanessa’s direction, he was trying to halt the amusement of a tall, exquisitely attired gentleman standing next to him.

  “But, Trevor,” the gentleman protested with patently false meekness, “you said society here was different from England and I, in my arrogance, failed to appreciate your meaning. Such long-legged delights are certainly not what I had envisioned.”

  Vanessa dropped her skirt indignantly while everyone, including her humorless father, laughed.

  “Oh, no, Vanessa, now you’ve muddied your gown, too,” Adeline said.

  “Au pauvre! Your beautiful gown!” wailed Paulette.

  Vanessa looked down to see the hem trailing in the deep muck. Her shoulders stiffened and a hiss of annoyance escaped her lips.

  “Jonas, your arm, please,” she said tightly, looking up to glare at the large, dark silhouette of her tormentor.

  The old butler shuffled awkwardly to her side, sending small droplets of mud splashing up her skirt. Vanessa ground her teeth in frustration as she again raised her skirts a few inches and firmly clasped Jonas’s arm.

  “I-I be very sorry, Miss Vanessa.”

  The stricken tone of the old man drew her attention to him. The lines in his kindly dark face looked deeper and his eyes fairly bulged, their whites showing clearly in the lantern light.

  Vanessa’s expression softened and she squeezed the old man’s arm reassuringly. “Do not concern yourself, Jonas, they balance out the design,” she said wryly, leaning heavily on him as she struggled to extricate her foot from the mud.

  Suddenly she felt strong arms around her back and legs lifting her free, and she found herself cradled in the arms of the stranger. “Wh-what?” she stammered, whipping her head around to look up at him. Her breath went out of her in a hiss, and a deep red stained her cheeks.

  The lantern light caught the tawny gaze that gleamed down at her from slightly hooded, wide-set eyes. A heretofore unknown piquant feeling swept through her, sending her pulse racing. Astounded and embarrassed by the feelings he evoked, she writhed in his arms.

  “Put me down! How dare you! Put me down, I say!” The words came without strength as Vanessa found herself gasping for breath.

  His deep laugh rang out in the rain-washed night air. “Impossible. You are clearly a damsel in distress, and I could no more fail to come to your aid than I could fail to draw a breath.”

  His light tone did little to calm Vanessa’s tumultuous pulse, for his voice was like silk over drawn steel. “It is you who are impossible! Father!” she cried, kicking her feet and pushing on the stranger’s broad chest as he strode, unperturbed, to the wooden sidewalk and set her gently down.

  Once on her feet, she whirled around, glaring at him. A thoroughly masculine, self-satisfied smile curved his aristocratic thin lips, capping her rage. How dare he make a May-game of her! Her right hand came up swiftly, inflicting a resounding slap to his smiling countenance.

  A collective gasp was heard in the wake of her action, but the man’s eyes never left hers. Slowly he raised a hand to nurse his cheek. Then he cocked a sandy brow in mute inquiry, and she knew a fleeting moment of regret.

  “Vanessa!” roared Richard Mannion.

  Guiltily she tore her gaze away from the man and turned toward her father.

  “Such behavior is highly unbecoming,” he said coldly. “You will apologize immediately.”

  Her father had placed her in an untenable position, and all eyes were upon her. She clenched her fists, her arms rigid at her sides. Tears of frustration glistened in her eyes. “I apologize,” she said tightly.

  The man nodded curtly and stepped up on the weathered boards to stand beside her. “It is I who should apologize,” he murmured.

  Vanessa found herself tilting her head back to look up at him. She was not a petite woman, yet the man seemed to dwarf her. A renewed flush of irritation rekindled her boldness.

  “And well you might! Though I recognize the value of your assistance, your method was scandalous. And it would have been so even if we were acquainted, which, I may thankfully say, we are not.”

  “Enough, I say!” boomed Mr. Mannion.

  The man turned toward Mr. Mannion and held up his hand halting further reproof. “No, sir, your daughter has the right of it. It was badly done.” His conciliatory tone grated on Vanessa’s raw nerves. “I may only say, in my defense, since my great friend, Trevor Danielson, is of your acquaintance, I borrowed upon his favors.”

  Paulette pranced forward, her hands clasped childlike before her chest. “You are Monsieur Talverton, no?”

  “The same. And you must be Miss Chaumonde.”

  Paulette cocked her head coquettishly, her dark lashes descending slowly to brush her pale cheeks, then opening wide as she stared invitingly up at him. “I am flattered you know of me.”

  “Excuse me, I have been frightfully remiss,” broke in Mr. Danielson. “I should have introduced Hugh straight off. I’d like you to meet Mr. Hugh Talverton of Bedfordshire, England. Hugh, this is . . .”

  Vanessa only half heard the rest of the formal introductions he made and was barely aware of her own mechanical response, for her mind was in a turmoil. Hugh Talverton! How could she have failed to discern his identity? Easily, she thought with chagrin, remembering her image of an aristocrat. This gentleman almost entirely defied her mental description. The only aspect she appeared to have correct was his arrogance. She glanced over at Trevor Danielson, a stricken expression in her eyes. Could he forgive her rudeness to his friend?

  She glanced back to where Mr. Talverton was talking easily with her mother, and her heart hardened. The man was arrogant and conceited. No true gentleman would dare to laugh at a lady’s distress. He was obviously trading upon his aristocratic birth for absolution for his sins. Well, this was the United States, not England, and he’d learn soon enough his birth was not worth a tinker’s pot in this country! The faint trace of a smile curled her lips as she contemplated his probable downfall.

  An errant cool breeze suddenly reminded Vanessa of her bedraggled state and she knew she had other, more immediate concerns than the looked-for just deserts of one arrogant Englishman. She glanced down at her mud-streaked gown. With a sigh she realized it was ruined. She could not possibly account herself a leader of fashion in such attire, she thought wryly.

  When Paulette, talking animatedly, again captured Talverton’s attentions, Vanessa drew her mother aside.

  “Mama, I must return home to change, but I do not wish to delay the others’ enjoyment of the ball. May I take Jonas to escort me?”

  “Oh, my love, I did not think . . . . Here, let me look at you. Yes, you are right, it will never do,” she said, squeezing Vanessa’s hand in understanding. “But I do not know . . . . Let me think a moment.”

  “But . . .”

  “Shush,” her mother said offhandedly while tapping her chin in thought.

  “You two are as close as inkle-weavers. What are you nattering on about?” Mr. Mannion was in bluff good humor for he had discovered, while in brief conversation with Hugh Talverton, the magnitude of cotton he was authorized to purchase should the quality of this year’s harvest prove satisfactory. He felt he had stolen a march on the other cotton factors in the city and was extremely satisfied with himself and his new potential client. Financially, it couldn’t have come at a better time.

  “Vanessa must change her gown, for this one is utterly ruined,” explained Mrs. Mannion.

  “Nonsense, dirt and mud are facts of life in this city.”

  Vanessa opened her mouth to protest, but her mother forestalled her. “Mr. Mannion, though you are correct,” she said patiently, “we must consider your prestige. It would hardly stand in your favor for one of your daughters to appear at a ball as dirty as a street waif.”

  “I suppose not,” he said reluctantly.

  “Vanessa wishes to r
eturn home to change, but I don’t believe that will be necessary. If this were one of the subscription balls, that might be our only recourse, but as we are going to the Langley’s’, I propose we send Jonas to fetch another gown and also bring Leila back to help dress her. Mary Langley is such an understanding soul, I’m confident she will provide Vanessa with a place to clean up and change.”

  Mr. Mannion nodded. “Sounds like a capital idea. Jonas!”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Mrs. Mannion has an errand for you. Now Vanessa,” he said, drawing her aside while her mother gave instructions to their butler. “I want you to be polite to Mr. Talverton and make amends for your inconsiderate behavior.”

  “What? But Father . . .”

  He turned away from her, approaching the rest of the company with his arms outstretched as if to encompass them all. “Let’s not stand on this damp street corner all evening. Mr. Talverton, would you be good enough to give my daughter Vanessa your arm? We don’t need any more accidents.”

  “I would be delighted,” he returned smoothly, his mouth kicking up in an amused smile as he noted Vanessa’s open-mouthed shock at her father’s audacity.

  “And may I take your other, Mr. Talverton?” Paulette asked, tucking her hand in the fold of his arm. “Me, I am certain that a man of your, ah,” She paused, her eyes ranging over his broad frame. “. . . substance, could easily support two women.”

  Vanessa blushed hotly at Paulette’s blatant perusal of Mr. Talverton’s form. He merely laughed and gave his assent. Mr. Danielson offered Adeline his arm, and in short order the company was off again.

  Vanessa walked stiffly, silently seething at her father’s machinations, for it was obvious he was blind to all matters save business ones. Mr. Talverton’s business must be substantial in order to elicit such cheerfulness from her father. She glanced up at Mr. Danielson’s friend, a pensive gleam in her eyes. He sensed her gaze and turned to look down into her face, and for a moment their gazes locked. Vanessa felt a flash of that same tingling she’d experienced earlier. He must have seen something of it in her face for a faint, quizzical look crossed his features. She abruptly looked away, training her eyes to the ground as if she were studiously watching her steps. She was relieved when Paulette, fairly hanging on to his other arm, reclaimed his attention and he turned those unfathomable leonine eyes away from her direction.