Gallant Match

by Jennifer Blake

  “I suppose I must be.” Sonia lowered her gaze in token of her resignation, but crossed her fingers where her aunt could not see them.

  “Oh, chère, I do feel for you most sincerely, but we must all give up our childish yearning for our own way or even for fairness. Females cannot expect such things, for it’s not the way of the world.”

  “What of our right to choose for ourselves where we will go, how we will live, who we may marry? You always said—”

  “A lovely ideal, I must admit, and it’s my dearest belief it should be so for all of us. One day it may, but the time is not yet.”

  “One day.”

  Her aunt reached to touch her face. “I fear we must be realistic, and make the best of what we are given. One becomes accustomed to anything in time, and the children of a marriage are always a great comfort. But never mind. You must allow me to help you dress for the day. A woman can always face whatever comes if she is properly turned out for it.”

  Her father, Sonia reflected, had always considered Tante Lily a flighty creature with little on her mind beyond men, clothes and entertainment, barely fit to chaperone a young girl. He was not always wrong. But neither was he entirely correct.

  She was not a complainer, Tante Lily. She had endured an arranged first marriage without benefit of children to soothe her heart. Whatever grief and repining she may have felt, she had not attempted to influence her niece against a similar match. Regardless, Sonia thought her reluctance to acquiesce in her own fate came in large part from what she had gleaned about such marriages from her tante Lily. Though she seldom made direct comparisons, it had always been clear that her second marriage, a love match, had been far more agreeable.

  On impulse, Sonia caught her aunt in a quick, fierce hug, suddenly intensely grateful for all she had done for her, and particularly her presence now. They smiled at each other in tremulous accord. Then they turned to the important question of what Tante Lily had brought to replace Sonia’s disgraceful boy’s attire.

  In the midst of her dressing, a seaman arrived with the remainder of their trunks. He was followed by a stewardess bearing a tray with café au lait and bread served with butter and honey. Stolid, whey-faced and approaching middle age, the woman seemed to have little French, but gave them to understand in her broken mixture of German, English and Creole patois that the big American gentleman had sent their breakfast. She also made it clear that the courtesy would not be repeated.

  When questioned, the stewardess seemed to have no idea of the present whereabouts of Monsieur Wallace. She could not tell them if he had brought his baggage on board, nor whether he lurked somewhere nearby, on guard.

  It was most unsatisfactory.

  Sonia and her aunt spent some time arranging the cabin for best use of the confined space and access to their belongings. That it was likely a useless exercise was something Sonia kept to herself. Tante Lily was so relieved that she seemed resigned. It would be heartless to upset her again.

  More, she was reluctant to embroil her aunt in further escape attempts that might lead to public scandal. Tante Lily was fun-loving and flirtatious, but conservative with it. Invoking the possible protection of her mother, Sonia’s grandmother, was one thing, but true disgrace would horrify her.

  It was near midday when she and her aunt finally left the cabin. Making their way to the top deck, they strolled the planking, watching as an endless stream of stevedores loaded bags and barrels, boxes and crates onto the vessel. Drays lined the levee and wound in a line back toward the Place d’Armes, each of them laden with more cargo to be stowed in the hold. Such a vast amount did it appear that it seemed the Lime Rock must sink under the weight.

  The ship was a steam packet, one of the newer sailing vessels with twin paddle wheels to add power to its sails. Trim and rakish in design, with a single smokestack and three commodious decks as well as a pilot-house, she was elegantly painted with maroon and dark blue stripes on white above the waterline and black below. A model of speed compared to older sailing ships, she made a regular run between New Orleans and a number of South American and Mexican ports. Along the way, she picked up and delivered dispatches and news sheets, so spread the news to and from that hemisphere.

  A few other passengers had arrived on board. Sonia and her aunt exchanged bows with a harassed young mother who had a toddler clinging to each hand and a maid carrying a baby in tow. A gentleman with a hen’s nest of white whiskers concealing his lower face and a white clerical collar nodded to them from his place in the shade of the pilot deck. Farther along stood a distinguished-looking older man with a goatee, high collar and superior air in conversation with a rather sportif younger gentleman in a flat-crowned summer straw hat and a coat in black and green houndstooth check.

  “Not a large complement so far,” Tante Lily observed.

  Sonia murmured a reply, but her attention was upon the gangway, guarded only by a single ship’s officer in a dark uniform. His purpose, so it appeared, was to prevent unauthorized passengers from coming aboard. What would he do, she wondered, if she simply walked past him and off the ship?

  “I suspect the fellow in the straw hat of being a Captain Sharp,” her aunt said in low tones. “He has that look, don’t you think? Rather daring yet blasé, and far too attractive for his own good.”

  “What?” Sonia had barely noticed the gentleman in question. She saw now that he was dark in coloring, with a bold cast to his features and trim mustache. Of average height, his general appearance was lean, almost hungry. A week ago, she might have considered his shoulders broad, but that was before she had met Monsieur Wallace.

  “These ships usually carry a gambler or two,” her aunt went on with a wise nod. “Captains wink at it as it relieves the tedium for certain passengers.”

  “I suppose.”

  Sonia kept to her aunt’s idle pace only with an effort. She looked away out over the town, at the Place d’Armes backed by the crumbling Spanish towers of the cathedral, the barrel-tile roofs of the town houses lining rues Royale and Chartres and, through the treetops, the dome of the Hotel Saint Louis. She tried to appear as if idly enjoying the view, afraid Tante Lily might guess her intentions otherwise. Not that she thought her aunt would try to stop her, but she would protest, calling after her and generally drawing attention. That must be avoided if she was to have any chance of getting away.

  Pigeons swirled above the Place d’Armes. Joyful descendants of escapees from pigeonniers where gentlemen raised squabs to grace their dinner tables, they soared in and out of the pall of yellow-gray coal smoke that lay over the town. Vendors of greens and berries, flowers and pralines called their wares on the cathedral steps and under the Cabildo’s arcade, their voices making a singsong cacophony. Barrel organs played and children danced in hope of earning a few picayunes. Men hurried in and out of the government house on matters of business, or else stood in idle groups, chatting and gesticulating. Some kind of assembly was beginning on the flat, bare parade ground with its cannon emplacements. Men streamed from the barracks that lay on the downriver side, beginning to form ranks.

  If Kerr Wallace was anywhere in the bustle, she could not locate his tall form.

  “The gentleman may be only a planter from upriver,” her aunt said with a light touch on Sonia’s arm. “We must keep an open mind, though he looks a thorough rogue. I suspect we shall soon make his acquaintance, for he is staring at you, chère.”

  She was still talking about the sporting gentleman, Sonia realized. For an instant, she’d thought she referred to the Kaintuck. “Is he?”

  Her aunt tapped her arm again. “You must pay more attention to your surroundings, particularly when gentlemen are present. One never knows when such a one will make advances, as I’ve told you a thousand times.”

  “Yes, Tante Lily.”

  The answer was perfunctory as her attention was taken by a rather large man sitting in a deck chair just down from the gangway, his face hidden by a news sheet. She frowned even before
he began to lower the large page of print.

  “Ah, here is Monsieur Wallace.” Her aunt’s features relaxed into a smile. “We might have known he would not be far away.”

  It was indeed the Kentuckian. He folded the news sheet that had concealed his face and rose from his chair, a slow and endless movement that caused Sonia’s heart to do a stutter step. His smile as he met her eyes had a sardonic edge, which made it clear Monsieur Wallace had been on guard, had suspected she might entertain some idea of flight.

  There had been no chance whatever of it without being stopped. Recognizing that fact was infuriating, almost as much so as the painful heat of embarrassed remembrance that flooded her as she met the gentleman’s watchful gray eyes.

  She looked away at once, her gaze drawn to the levee where the foot of the gangway rested. Desolation settled, aching, around her heart. Freedom lay there in front of her, so close and yet so far away.

  Kerr Wallace tipped his hat of glistening beaver as he drew closer. “Ladies,” he said politely, “I trust your cabin is satisfactory.”

  “Perfectly.” Tante Lily beamed at him as if she had not shooed him out of it not so long ago. “And you, monsieur? You are as comfortable?”

  Sonia was grateful to her aunt for filling the breach, since she could not have formed a coherent, much less pleasant, answer.

  “The Lime Rock is a cargo vessel, madame. Passengers are an afterthought. Only four cabins are available, and they are given over to you and your niece, a lady who travels with her children, a government official of some description and an elderly woman in bad health. The rest of us must make do as best we can in a pair of common cabins, one for the ladies and one for gentlemen.”

  “We are honored to be among the chosen then,” her aunt said. “That was your doing, perhaps?”

  “Monsieur Bonneval made the arrangements, though someone else was in possession when we came aboard earlier. It was only necessary to persuade the gentleman of your prior claim.”

  “With no great difficulty, I hope?” The sparkling look her aunt gave the Kentuckian made it obvious she expected otherwise.

  Kerr’s face remained grave. “None at all, at least not after the situation was explained to him.”

  “I was happy to oblige, I promise you, and am even happier about it now.”

  The sporting gentleman had left his companion to stroll toward their party. Skimming off his straw hat as he spoke, he swept the deck with its wide brim.

  Tante Lily turned toward the newcomer, her gaze severe. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Forgive the intrusion, I beg, but I couldn’t help overhearing. It’s presumptuous to introduce myself, but I hope it may be forgiven under the circumstances. Alexander Tremont, always at the service of two such lovely ladies.”

  Sonia’s aunt offered her hand and a slow smile. “It’s you we have dispossessed?”

  “Only through an unfortunate misunderstanding.”

  “Then the informality may be permitted, I believe. We can hardly pretend not to know you for the length of the voyage.”

  Tante Lily might be fond of male company, but was usually cautious about admitting male strangers into her confidence, as witness her strictures on the subject just moments before. Sonia could hardly believe she was being so cordial now to a man she had labeled a gambler. She was up to something without doubt. It was likely nothing more than securing an amusing companion, someone to fetch and carry, shift deck chairs out of the wind or sun and make agreeable conversation over dinner. Sonia hoped that was the whole of it.

  Monsieur Wallace did not appear happy with the turn of events. His face remained grim, his stance foursquare and watchful as introductions were made all around. It was enough to reconcile Sonia to their new acquaintance, in spite of his presumed occupation.

  Monsieur Tremont held her hand a little longer than was necessary as she was presented, but was quite well behaved otherwise. His remarks were addressed as much to Kerr as to her aunt or herself, and consisted mainly of when they would sail, the route they would take across the gulf, the experience of their captain and other such details. Tremont represented himself as owning a sugar plantation above New Orleans, though his main interest was investments in Mexico and Central America involving coffee and other such commodities. It might even be so, for all Sonia could tell, though in truth, she hardly listened.

  Her thoughts inevitably reverted to how she was going to get off the ship. What a devil the Kentuckian was for vigilance. Still, he could not be everywhere. She might yet outmaneuver him.

  Whatever she was going to do, she must hurry. Time was leaking away. The packet for Mobile would leave its moorings in less than two hours. If she missed it, she might still hide away somewhere in the city until the next one left. But she had mere hours to get off the Lime Rock, for it would up anchor and sail away down the river at dawn tomorrow.

  “Shall we walk, gentlemen?” Tante Lily said. “We are facing the sun here, and Sonia and I failed to bring up our parasols.”

  No one objected, least of all Sonia. She was eager to look over the ship for anything that might present itself as a screen or concealment for her flight.

  The deck was narrow and cluttered with the preparations for departure and tools for ship’s maintenance. Only a few steps beyond where they had been standing, a pair of seamen were scraping the railing and repainting it. Tante Lily took the arm of Monsieur Tremont as she stepped around a bucket of varnish. This left Kerr to steady Sonia while she held her skirts away from damage. She removed her elbow from his grasp as quickly as possible, disturbed by its effect upon her, like the tingling static shocks of winter where each of his fingers touched.

  As they passed the two seamen, one of them tilted his head to look up. His gaze met Sonia’s and he grinned, showing teeth stained red by the juice of the odd chewing tobacco that bulged in his cheek. Something in the widening of his mouth seemed unduly forward, and he licked his tongue over his lips as his gaze moved from her face down her body. Of a combination of nationalities from English and Spanish to Lascar, he appeared to be of that breed of seagoing men who kept the barrelhouses and brothels busy while their ships were in port.

  Sonia looked away at once. Kerr moved closer and took her arm again in a possessive grasp as he stared down at the man.

  “You there, Baptiste. Back to work.”

  The order came from a ship’s officer who stood at a nearby hatchway, supervising the loading of flour barrels.

  “Aye, sir. Right ye are, sir.”

  The seaman’s answer, in the accents of dockside England, had an insolent ring to it, though he ducked his head and went back to his task as if his life depended on it. As they passed by, Kerr looked back, a frown lingering between his eyes.

  The incident was so minor and quickly over that Sonia dismissed it at once. She was much too aware of the Kentuckian at her side. He did not release her a second time, but took her hand and placed it in the bend of his elbow.

  She could feel the iron-hard muscles and tendons beneath his sleeve, sense the contained power in his tall form. In a frock coat of slate blue, worn with a cream and blue figured waistcoat and gray trousers fastened under his polished half boots by straps, he was a somber yet commanding figure of a man. The bright morning sun picked out the small fans of wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, glanced over the hard planes of his face and the indentation of a small scar on his chin, reflected silver in his eyes.

  An odd frisson rippled over Sonia, leaving goose bumps in its wake. She frowned in disturbance. She was not some schoolroom mademoiselle to be thrilled by a set of fine shoulders and a prowling walk like some great mountain cat. What ailed her that she could see this Kaintuck as attractive in any fashion? It was ridiculous, especially when she preferred culture and refinement in a man. Yes, and some modicum of civilized discourse.

  It was her duty to at least attempt conversation, of course; the precept had been impressed upon her from the moment she put up her hair. She might have
depended on her aunt to supply the stream of chatter necessary to prevent awkwardness, but that lady had drawn ahead with Monsieur Tremont. Sonia was half inclined to remain silent since she had little to discuss with the man at her side. A moment’s reflection dissuaded her. It would be prudent to convince him she was resigned to what lay ahead. He might then let down his guard.

  “Have you been to sea before?” The question, couched in tones as even as she could make them, was instigated by the gentle movement of the deck under their feet as the ship rocked with the river current.

  Kerr Wallace gave her a narrow look, though his answer came readily enough. “Only on coastal steamers, traveling between here and Mobile or Charleston.”

  “So you have no real idea whether you’re a good sailor.”

  “No. And you?”

  “My parents and I traveled to France when I was a child. I enjoyed the journey, loved the movement of the ship. But that was a long time ago.”

  “We must hope for the best then.”

  “Yes.” That seemed to dispose of the subject. While she scourged her brain for another, she caught up the fan that dangled from a wrist cord and waved away the wood smoke that drifted around them, coming from an upriver steam packet making ready to leave the dock. It was bound for Natchez, she thought. Beyond it lay the Mobile packet that also had fired up its furnace, building steam in its boilers.

  Resentment that she was not on that vessel washed over her in a wave. And with it came the vivid memory of the effortless way Kerr Wallace had lifted her, carried her the night before. It gave her a hollow feeling in her abdomen, and she could not prevent her gaze from flickering to his wide shoulder where she had rested. Her hip had pressed against the square line of his jaw, his large hand had clasped her upper thigh, coming perilously close to the softness between her legs in a way no man had dared before.

  A heated, almost painful awareness of him as a man suffused her. It was disturbing beyond anything she had ever known.

  If he felt anything similar, it was not apparent. Why should he indeed? She was his charge, a source of profit and funds for travel to Mexico, one he had no intention of losing. He had been the victor in their clash of wills and intentions so could afford to be at ease. At least for now.