by Martha Hix
“You be mad ’cause things ain’t turning out the way you want ’em. Just like when you got mad at your poor daddy when he told you to get that doctoring notion outta your head.”
Cleopatra had struck a nerve. Emma shuddered. She hadn’t been angry with her physician father—he’d been furious with her. He had caught her in his laboratory distilling sulfurous ether, and the bowels of hell had burst forth. When they’d argued over her dream to work by his side as an equal partner, Emma had known she was defeated; he had sons to carry on his profession, and he’d never change his mind about her ambitions.
Uncle Rankin was the only person supportive of her goal. Emma’s heart filled with love. Anytime she needed a sympathetic ear, Uncle Rankin was there for her. When she had told him of the distress she’d suffered from sitting helplessly by her Cousin William’s deathbed, he had understood. To him, she had first confessed her desire to follow the profession of Hippocrates. From Uncle Rankin she had received blessings . . . and a small black bag of medical necessities.
“Won’t do you no good to ignore me, missy.” Cleopatra adjusted her tignon. “Women carry babies not medical bags!”
Emma cupped her ear, tilting her head toward her mammy. “Do I hear an echo in this carriage? Babies, not medical bags? Is my father present?”
Cleopatra still had a point to make. “When you ever gonna learn you can’t please Master Quentin by defying him?”
“Please don’t start on my father again!”
“Hmmph. The very idea of a woman pining to be a doctor. It’s foolhardy, foolhardy, I tell you. You should’ve stayed home and married that nice Mr. Franklin.”
Emma cringed at the name. Her mother wished her married to that yawning bore, and both her parents had pushed her into the engagement. It was a good match, familywise. The Underwoods had been in Virginia since Jamestown, and their land holdings were extensive, which had impressed Noreen and Quentin Oliver. Emma couldn’t have cared less. “You’re not getting any younger,” she had been told over and over. So, despondent over the fruitlessness of her doctoring dreams, and to please her father, Emma had consented to wed. She loved making Dr. Quentin Oliver happy, but walked just short of the altar. To preserve Franklin’s pride, she had allowed him to break the engagement, which hadn’t helped her reputation.
Thus, Emma had planned this visit to Louisiana. It wasn’t that she wished to run from her shame. She simply wanted to be in Uncle Rankin’s company.
Her voice was low and anguished. “You just don’t understand.”
“I understand something you don’t know. Leave Paul Rousseau be. If Miss Marian wants him, you’d best let her have him. A lady doesn’t steal another lady’s honey.”
“Oh, hush. I’m not stealing anyone or anything.” Suddenly remembering the brooch, she dug into her cloak pocket, first one, then the other, searching frantically. “Cleo, the brooch is gone!”
“What are you talking about?”
“Those two on the street—Katie and Packert, they called each other—must’ve stolen it.” For a second she considered ordering Jeremiah to turn the coach around and chase the pickpockets, but realized such an action would be useless. The dark streets of New Orleans teemed with people.
“What are you talking about?” Cleopatra repeated.
In an agitated voice, Emma explained the situation. “. . . and I didn’t mean to take it! Why, oh why, didn’t I simply hand the pin to Rousseau? Rogue that he is, he’s liable to press charges when he discovers it’s lost.”
“Oh, baby.” Cleopatra put her arms around Emma, hugged her as if she were a child. “We be in a heap of trouble.”
“I’m a—” Emma swallowed hard—“I’m a common thief, just the same as those two.”
“What are we gonna do?”
Emma had no idea. It was a fine predicament she had gotten herself into. The brooch was lost forever, she realized. Of course it would have to be replaced, but she doubted Rousseau would be chivalrous about that. He could—probably would—throw her into jail and tell the whole world she had visited him on the sly.
“Baby, what are we gonna do?” Cleopatra asked again.
“Let the devil take him.” Defiance gleamed in Emma’s eyes. “I’ll deny everything.”
“Why are you trying to deny it?” Paul asked heatedly.
“You’re being insubordinate, Mr. Rousseau.”
Captain James Throckmorton, Marian Oliver’s brother, sat opposite Paul in the open-air French Market café. Paul was determined to sway Throckmorton’s thinking on the San Antonio situation. Before dawn he’d taken a longboat to the anchorage, and had found the marines aboard in a vicious mood. Now as morn waned, Paul’s mood wasn’t the best, either.
“Granted I’m insubordinate. But I’m doing what has to be done!” Paul curled his hand into a fist and knocked it on the tabletop, sloshing his superior officer’s cup of café au lait. Late morning diners turned their heads, and Paul lowered his voice. “Our sailors need shore leave. We’ve taken a pounding from Santa Anna’s men, but we’ve taken a harder pounding from our own president.”
Paul sneered as he thought of the Republic of Texas’s president, Sam Houston—past president, Mirabeau Lamar, had called him the Big Drunk. Paul didn’t know whether the accusation was true, but the appellation pleased him.
“Houston’s got it in for our commodore,” Paul said. “And he’s taking his jealousy of Ed Moore out on all of us.”
“Hold your tongue, mister!”
“I refuse.” Paul’s voice was resolute. “Our men haven’t been paid. We’re marooned in the Mississippi River. Morale, sir, is at an all-time low. At least allow our crewmen some time to themselves.”
“Quit crusading, Rousseau.” Captain Throckmorton polished off his milk-laced coffee. “Besides, if I allow them to go ashore, those dockside harpies are just waiting for them. Then trouble’ll start.”
“The trouble is anchored offshore, Captain.”
“Sorry, Mr. Rousseau. I can’t chance it.”
“Mark my words. There’ll be a mutiny.”
Throckmorton scoffed at Paul’s warning.
Galled, Paul watched him bite into an éclair. “The least you can do, sir, is order decent food for the men.”
“There’s no money for extra provisions. We had to feed those Americans from the Sylph that the Austin picked up in Campeche and gave into our care, you know.”
“They’ve gone ashore, along with the ranking officers,” Paul reminded him. “Our marines deserve better than wormy hardtack and salt meats, sir.”
“Good God, man, you don’t expect me to dig into my own pocket to feed them, do you? They deserve worse than their lot! Have you forgotten, Mr. Rousseau, that less than a month ago, when we were replenishing water supplies at the Isla de Mujeres, they threatened to seize the ship and sail it to those Centralist bastards in Mexico?”
“I haven’t forgotten, sir.”
Paul clenched his teeth. Commodore Moore had signed an agreement with the Yucatecan rebels in Mérida the previous September, providing that the Texas fleet would patrol the waters of Campeche, freeing the rebels from Santa Anna’s Centralist vermin. The $8,000 per month the Navy received for its services was the only source of revenue available to keep seven warships—such as they were—afloat.
“I haven’t forgotten what drove our men to desperation, either,” Paul said, not mentioning Throckmorton’s brutality to the marines. “Have you forgotten the anger we all felt upon learning Quintana Roo negotiated a treaty between his fellow Yucatecans and the Centralists in Mexico City?”
“No. But that peace agreement isn’t ratified yet.”
“If it is, Texas loses not only its financial sponsor but its only ally south of the border.”
“Yes, yes. I know.”
“That’s all you can say, sir? Need I remind you that Santa Anna is spoiling for a victory?”
The Mexican tyrant had been humiliated at San Jacinto, then the Pastry War with the French
had taken its toll—his pride and his leg. But he had risen from the ashes of defeat to plague Paul’s adopted Republic once more.
“Baudin’s troops kept the menace from our borders for a while, but no more. As you know, the Santa Fe expedition was captured to a man—and they’re being brutalized in the dungeons of Mexico City.”
“I need no reminders of our dire straits. Would that we could rid ourselves of that one-legged jackal.” Throckmorton chuckled. “If I’d have been ol’ General Baudin, I’d have lopped off more than his damned leg!” Then, more seriously, he added, “Sam Houston should’ve killed Santa Anna when he had the opportunity. After we beat them in ’36, you know.”
“Leave that for the scholars to decide.” Paul frowned. “Whatever the case, Santa Anna is back in power. And the point I’m trying to make is that the whole of Texas is in danger.”
“Undoubtedly. If we’re not there to stop him, he’ll blockade the Gulf first thing, and he’s sure to move his army overland. Sure as I’m sitting here.” Throckmorton clicked his tongue. “But Houston says we can’t afford the Navy.”
“The way I see it, sir, we can’t afford not to have a naval armada.”
“If it were left up to you, we’d be beating for our rendezvous with the commodore in the Arcas Islands, but we of the San Antonio won’t go against our President’s recall order.”
Houston’s recall order was the reason they were becalmed in New Orleans. Upon arrival in Galveston they’d been told to proceed there with the Sylph survivors and await further instructions.
After his December inauguration Houston had ordered Moore to continue fulfilling his duties to the rebels on the Mexican peninsula. Yet he had issued a new order: Moore and the fleet were to return to Galveston. Apparently the communique hadn’t been received, or it was being ignored. Knowing Ed Moore, Paul figured the latter to be closer to the truth. In all probability the fleet was staying put to protect the Yucatecan ally. And who would protect Texas?
“With our army disbanded last year, if the fleet is laid up for lack of money, Santa Anna will attack our citizens,” Paul said. “The Republic of Texas may be no more.”
Unresponsive, Throckmorton replaced his spoon.
“Our seamen know this, sir.” Paul crossed his arms. “They couldn’t take the blow to their morale. That’s why they threatened mutiny. And they haven’t had a chance to alleviate their animosities. Give them something, sir—some crumb of consideration to renew their spirits!”
“Well, I’ll be damned before I’ll feed the lot of them with the fruits of my own table.” Throckmorton shrugged. “Anyway, the problem will be taken care of. Houston won’t allow the Navy to be laid up. He’ll sign an appropriation bill to keep us afloat.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it.” Paul leaned his chair back on two of its legs. “In the meantime I’ll pay for the men’s provisions.”
“Damn good of you, Rousseau. But don’t waste your funds. They’ve sailed under the Lone Star flag this long without charity food. As long as I’m in charge, they will continue to do so.”
Rankled, Paul shook his head. Commodore Moore budgeted food money for all the ships. From beef to vinegar to spirits, the men were to be fed well. As Paul saw it, Throckmorton was paying exorbitant prices for what few provisions he stocked.
Naval life was never easy, especially at present, due to frontier politics and the Mexican menace, but Paul was damned sick of fighting for the men’s rights. A leader owed his subordinates decent treatment, though that concept was foreign to Throckmorton. Paul didn’t wish for ease. It was the regimentation of Navy life that caused him to long for the freedom he had enjoyed as a privateer. But that wasn’t the present issue.
“I will have provisions sent aboard,” he stated, brooking no further conversation on the point and courting a possible court-martial for insubordination.
Throckmorton gave up the argument. “Do as you wish. Waste your money with my blessings.” He wiped a smear of chocolate from the corner of his mouth and motioned for another cup of café au lait. “By the way, I understand you’re escorting my sister to the Mardi gras ball tomorrow night.”
Paul lifted a shoulder nonchalantly. The idea of revelry held no appeal. He felt like a traitor for considering frivolous undertakings when the men were stranded offshore. Hopefully the food would appease them.
Still, the masked ball had one thing in its favor. Emma was certain to be there. The little spitfire had been on his mind constantly, and just the thought of her was enough to entice him into cheering inwardly for the festivities. He needed another opportunity to win her over, needed a clue about Oliver—any clue. Then he would take it from there.
“You seem rather ambivalent, Rousseau old boy. What’s the matter?” Throckmorton laughed heartily. “You haven’t let that gossip in the Picayune about the masquerades being outlawed dampen your spirit, have you?”
Picturing Emma, Paul smiled. “Not at all.”
Suddenly Throckmorton said something that Paul didn’t comprehend. “Excuse me, sir. What did you say?”
“You have the look of a man enthralled with a lady. Is my sister the lucky woman?”
“If you don’t mind, sir, why do you ask?”
“Never mind.”
Paul pulled himself up. Since Throckmorton offered no help, Commodore Moore had to be apprised of the morale situation. Already mentally composing the letter, Paul said, “If you’ll excuse me, sir, I’ll see to ordering food for our men.”
“Of course, of course.” Throckmorton waved a hand in dismissal. Interested only in filling his big stomach, he took another bite of his éclair.
Chapter Three
“You sure do have a marvelous appetite,” Marian gushed.
A few slivers of braised liver; two hot rice cakes, calas tout chaud; and all the wine Paul Rousseau could drink—if that was what Marian called breakfast, then he was guilty as charged. Oh, his appetite for food was appeased; what he had a hankering for was Emma Oliver. So far she hadn’t made an appearance in Rankin Oliver’s opulent breakfast hall. But if Paul could stomach Marian’s coquettish behavior, he could damn sure wait for the vixen to appear from wherever she was hiding.
“I’m so glad you received my invitation to breakfast, Paul.” Marian touched a napkin to her Cupid’s-bow lips. “I was afraid you’d forgotten me. I haven’t seen you in days!”
Seated across from her in one of the twelve rococo chairs, Paul was trying unsuccessfully to give her his full attention. Emma was all he could think of, and he ached to ask about her.
He directed a forced smile at the pretty brunette. “Wonderful breakfast,” he complimented. “You set a fine Creole table, Marian.”
Right then, he would have much preferred Virginia ham to Creole fare.
“Oh, Paul, how you do go on. But thank you, kind sir!” Marian dropped her lashes. “My late husband, God rest his soul, always complimented my table. How I’ve missed planning meals for a man.” Her mind seemed to wander to another place in time. “It’s so frightening being alone.”
“Now, Marian,” he scolded in a soothing tone, “you’re not alone. You’ve many around you to lessen the grief, and you can’t tell me you don’t find abundant pleasures in society life.”
“I am blessed, and you are right.” She forced a smile. “Isn’t it a beautiful morning? Rather cold though. Oh! James tells me you sent food out to your ship. Isn’t that irregular?”
Paul didn’t reply. He had no wish to discuss naval matters with Marian.
Her fingers fluttered to her mouth. “I forgot to tell you, I had the most marvelous note from my mother yesterday. She lives in Richmond, you know.”
“That’s wonderful.” He stood, then walked around the polished dining table to assist Widow Oliver from her chair. “By the way, have you had any news from your father-in-law? I would think he’d be returning from the bayou any day now.”
She shrugged. “I’ve no idea.”
He wasn’t surprised, and fo
r the first time, Paul wondered why he had ever thought her useful. “You will let me know when word of him arrives?” he asked, figuring he might as well have saved his breath.
“My goodness, yes.” Marian caught her lower lip between her teeth. “Now, Paul, you’re not frightened he’ll call you out for courting me, are you?”
Frightened to be called out? Hardly. Paul would welcome the chance to cross swords with Rankin Oliver. But it would never come to that. Paul thirsted for more than blood. He wanted the Oliver name sullied, wanted to see his adversary swing from the gallows. “He won’t challenge me. Peace of mind is what I’m after.”
Her doldrums gone, Marian said, “Splendid! I’m so pleased we’ll be able to put all that nasty business about your father in the past and get on with joie de vivre!”
“Right.” Paul swallowed back a defense of Étienne. “You haven’t spoken a word this morning about your cousin from Virginia.”
Marian took the bait. “You mean Emma?”
He coughed behind his hand. How in the hell many cousins from the East does she have visiting? he thought with disgust. Marian’s lack of conversational skills got on his nerves. The vinegary little Emma knew how to converse. “Yes.”
“Oh, I never see her until afternoon. She doesn’t take breakfast. She much prefers a morning ride to food.”
“Does she now?”
“Oh, yes.” She tucked her arm through his as they headed to the foyer. “That Emma! As much as I care for her, I’m relieved she didn’t bring her menagerie of dogs and cats with her on this visit. Those horrid creatures make me sneeze.”
“I’m so sorry to hear of your malady,” he replied, masking his indifference and edging toward the door. But he filed away the tad of information about Emma. If she behaved in his arms, he would reward her with a flop-eared puppy. “Tell me again about Emma’s broken engagement.”
“Oh goodness! I shouldn’t’ve mentioned that.” Marian appeared ashamed. “It was wicked of me to spread gossip.”
“Don’t think ill of yourself, Marian.” Paul was not going to give up. “It’s just that . . . well, the story is so interesting, I haven’t been able to put it out of my mind. Gentlemen don’t break engagements. Surely he was either a man without honor or she’s a woman in need of it.”