by Martha Hix
Brushing aside these thoughts, Emma said, “Are you happy here at Magnolia Hall?”
“Oh, yes’m, I’m happy. Jeremiah and the chil’en make me real happy and proud.” The baby began to fret, and Betsy held her youngest even closer to her chest. “My Jeremiah . . .” She smiled bashfully. “Having a man who make you get all shivery inside is just about the best thing in the world.”
Emma cleared her throat. The only man who had ever made her feel that way was . . . Forget that scoundrel! she warned herself.
Stroking George’s soft cheek, Emma observed his mother. “I missed you at the house this morning, Betsy.”
“Mistress Tillie,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper, “she gave me a free morning.”
“Something’s troubling you. Please tell me.”
“It’s little Rose here.” Tears sprang to the woman’s eyes. “My babe’s sick!”
Emma set George on his feet, crossed the room, and bent to touch the infant’s feverish forehead. She could hear the child’s rattled breath now, could see that its minuscule nostrils were clogged. “Has a doctor been called?”
“No’m.”
“Why not!”
Betsy ducked her head. “Mistress Tillie say she can’t afford to be calling doctors ever’time one of the slave babies takes sick.”
Her teeth clenching, Emma looked away. How dare Aunt Tillie neglect her charges!
“The ‘remedie’ lady was here last night. She helping my baby.”
Shocked, Emma said nothing. Though Betsy had been reared in Virginia, apparently she had taken up the ways of voodooism. It was best not to tangle with these superstitious beliefs, not when the infant needed immediate medical care. “Let me see her.”
Emma took Rose from Betsy’s arms and placed her inside the crib, taking the bindings from the child to check her tawny body for telltale swelling. Rose wailed in protest. It was a pitiful sound, congested and weak. Emma crooned, “Poor baby, it’ll be all better.”
She drew the sick child into the comfort of her arms. “Put a kettle of water on the hearth. Then go to my room and find the small black bag in my armoire. I’ll need a fine-woven blanket, too.”
“What you gonna do, Miss Emma?”
“I’m going to doctor this sick child.”
The mulatto’s hand flew to her mouth, and her eyes widened. “No’m. Doctoring’s for menfolk.”
“It has been in the past, but that will change.” Emma forced herself to be patient. “You trust the gris-gris lady, don’t you?”
Betsy nodded.
“She’s a woman; I’m a woman. Women can be healers.” Emma’s tone brooked no challenge. “Now do as I instructed.”
Cowed, Betsy ladled water into the kettle. That finished, she started for the door. Then the baby began to bawl, making her tense with concern.
Remorseful for the harsh tone she’d used to her, Emma thought better of her plans. As well as giving attention to the child, she needed to reassure the worried mother. Wasn’t that what her father called a “good bedside manner”?
“Wait,” Emma said gently. “Have Jeremiah fetch Dr. Boulogne posthaste. I’ll pay for his services.” Emma swallowed. “And if you’ll allow me, I’ll do my best in the meantime to make your baby daughter comfortable.”
The mother brightened. “Thank you, Miss Emma. I’d be mighty pleased if you’d take care of my Rose till the doctor get here.”
Emma sprang into action. Putting the baby back into the crib, she propped up little Rose’s upper body, swabbed her nose, and bathed her torso with an alcohol-soaked rag. Meanwhile, George made noisy use of the rocking horse and of an assortment of cooking utensils. Betsy returned with Emma’s bag and blanket, and Emma rubbed a mixture of camphor and lard on the tiny chest. Then she concocted a sugar teat to disguise the foul-tasting elixir she had secretly taken from her father’s apothecary one night. Despite her attempt to make the medicine go down easier, Rose cried from its bitter taste.
“Just a little, sweetheart,” Emma coaxed, tickling the child’s throat. “That’s a brave girl.”
Now that Rose had acquiesced, Emma began, with Betsy’s assistance, to fashion a tent over the crib and the nearby table. “We need to keep steam in here,” Emma said, pouring water from the kettle into a wide, flat pan. “Hold the blanket up a tad, and I’ll set this inside.”
Thus began a vigil of drawing and boiling water, and replacing the pan inside the confine. Despite alternating chores, there was more than enough to do to keep both women busy. Emma was again in the process of coaxing the sugar teat past Rose’s toothless gums when Dr. René Boulogne arrived.
The doctor, a man who appeared to be thirty-five but was probably older, had a winning smile and a shock of strawberry-blond hair. Step by step, Emma explained the procedures she had taken, and he nodded his approval of each one. Then he opened a well-worn medical bag, taking a stethoscope from it. Emma’s fingers itched to touch the gadget, to put it to her ears and listen to Rose’s heart and lungs. Someday, Emma Frances. Someday . . .
The doctor rose from his ministrations. “The child will be feeling better.” His words carried the accent of his homeland, France. “The right procedures, mademoiselle, you did.” He turned to Rose’s mother as Emma sighed in relief. “The fever will break soon,” he stated, and then he gave instructions for the child’s care.
“I be mighty thankful to you both,” Betsy said.
Dr. Boulogne motioned for Emma to follow him.
“Mademoiselle Oliver,” the doctor said as they walked toward his buggy, “please allow me to know where you acquired the tools of doctoring.”
She gave him a short description of some of her readings, and Dr. Boulogne chuckled. “Make a fine nurse, you will.”
“Thank you, sir. I’ve always had a calling to help the infirm—but not as a nurse. I wish to be a physician. No! I don’t merely wish it, I intend to be a doctor.”
Shaking his head, he chuckled anew. “Impossible. No medical school in America accepts les femmes for admission!”
“I know that.” Emma slowed her steps. “But I hope someday that will change. . . and in the meantime, I pray a physician will take me on as apprentice.”
“Maybe so, maybe not.” They were at his gig now, and he stopped before stepping in. “You dream the impossible dreams. But you are devoted, so you’ll make a fine plantation mistress; and look out for her slaves, a good mistress does.”
“I’ve no intention of marrying.” Emma did not add unless I can find the right man. “I’m devoted to my calling.”
He shot her an astonished look, an expression very male in his blue eyes as amazement turned to amusement. “Better you marry, mademoiselle. If you do not, you will have no time for your devotion; your days will be too full with turning away your suitors.”
“Please don’t make light of me. I write and read Latin quite well, and I’ve studied the principles of medicine at length. I take my studies very seriously.”
“Offending you was not my purpose. It is apparent you are serious. So I will be as well. Nurse the sick, Mademoiselle Oliver. The world needs you.”
“The world needs more doctors, sir.” She remembered the way he had nodded approval of the care she had taken with the baby, and she was encouraged by the thought. “How do you feel about the possibility of a female doctor?”
He raised a shoulder and turned up a palm. “Les femmes I have nothing against. They sometimes have more understanding of suffering than men.”
At that moment Emma made up her mind. She was going to convince Dr. René Boulogne that he needed her as an apprentice. And if it took a bit of temporary compromise on her part, so be it. She smiled and spoke mildly. “You’re right. Maybe I should think in a more practical way, but, Doctor, how will I learn to nurse the sick if I don’t have someone to teach me?”
He raised a brow before settling into the buggy. “Tomorrow at ten I will check on the infant.” He doffed his hat and picked up the reins. “I
would not complain if a certain young lady were to assist me once again. . . .”
The buggy pulled away, leaving Emma ecstatic. Clapping her hands, she whirled around in a circle. Dr. Boulogne would help her fulfill the first step to her goal! She was on the road to practical experience, and it was wonderful to think that someday she’d be a physician.
On the path back to the house, she indulged in the dream, forgetting her problems for a while, and when she entered the drawing room, she found Marian caught up in her embroidery.
“Oh. There you are, Emma dear. Have you seen that lazy Betsy?” Not waiting for an answer, Marian went on. “What do you think of these lovebirds?” She held a handkerchief aloft. “Aren’t they exquisite?”
Emma nodded affirmation, but the design called to her mind Paul Rousseau and her problem with him. In the stable he had called them “lovebirds.” Her happiness suddenly vanished, and three days seemed like three hours as Emma worried over how she was going to get her hands on the brooch . . . and keep Rousseau’s hands off her.
Cheered by his good fortune, Paul tightened his hand around a mug of rum, bringing it to his lips. Less than an hour after leaving Emma at her uncle’s plantation, he had found Henry Packert, who now sat opposite him in the corsair’s three-room shotgun house on Carondolet Street.
“So, ya been looking for me, have ya?” the pirate asked. “Well, old pal, whatcha need?”
Paul studied the reprobate. Henry Packert probably wasn’t as old as he looked, with his wrinkled face, dirty eye patch, and rotten teeth. But he was definitely past middle age as evidenced by his thick, filthy body that appeared as if it would deflate if punctured.
Paul had never liked him, but the two men had been brethren on the high seas, and several times he had come to the pirate’s aid. Though the single-eyed Packert sailed his leaky corvette with admirable finesse, he was possessed by a sickness the likes of which infected Emma Oliver: thievery for the sport of it. But Packert had two things on his side: he knew the goings and comings of the port of New Orleans, and he hated Rankin Oliver.
Nevertheless, Paul rued the situation that was forcing him to turn to this man.
“Tell me,” Paul implored, “what you know about Rankin Oliver’s dealings with the Centralists.”
Packert patted tobacco onto a cigarette paper, licking an edge, before rolling a smoke with two thumbs. “Rankin Oliver ya say. Hmmm.” His brown-stained fingers stuck the cigarette between his blackened teeth. “Seems to me I recall he and yer pa dueled it out some time back. Does your interest have anything to do with that?”
“To be honest, yes. But it has to do with patriotism, too. I’m back with the Texas fleet now,” Paul explained, and Packert indicated he was aware of it. “I have reason to believe Oliver’s running guns to the government in Mexico City.”
Packert brought a candle flame to his cigarette. “‘Reason to believe’? Got any evidence proving it?”
“If I had hard evidence, I wouldn’t be here talking to you.” Crossing his arms, Paul leaned his creaking chair back on two legs. “A couple of months ago, down in Merida, I met Oliver’s mistress. After a while Karla told me that he was on Santa Anna’s payroll. She wanted to be free of her so-called protector, but he kept her dependent. We made a deal. In exchange for passage back to the Rhineland she’d help the Texan cause by gathering evidence on her protector’s activities. Last month she sent word to me—success was at hand; she had papers to prove it. I went by”—Paul paused, renewed anger flashing through him—“I went by her hacienda later that night. I found her dying, her skull crushed. Her last word was ‘Oliver.’” Grimacing, Paul ran his hand through his hair. “Needless to say, the papers couldn’t be found.”
“Don’t surprise me none.” Packert scratched the gray stubble of his beard. “Word has it several crates of guns and powder be on their way down the Miss’sip’. Stamped for Oliver’s sugar plantation in the West Indies. I’d place me bet ’twill end up at his factor house . . . temporarily.”
Paul’s line of sight swept across the small room that was surprisingly clean, considering the occupant. “When will the shipment be here?”
“Next few days.” The older man shook his head. “Can’t say for certain.”
“Figure Oliver’ll be back from the Bayou in time to meet the shipment?” Paul asked.
“Doubt it.” Packert took a swig of rum and wiped his mouth with his palm. “Oliver ain’t one to make a move that’d put hisself in jeopardy. He’ll have an alibi, good and proper. He lets others do his dirty work.”
Something didn’t add up. If Oliver’s minions carried out his odious deeds, Paul wondered why he had taken Karla Stahl’s life with his own hands. But looking on the other side of the coin, Rankin Oliver had left her for dead, her one word being the only clue to her assailant. “Who in particular is helping him.”
“Don’t know.”
“Packert, don’t hemhaw with me.”
“I ain’t.” Packert poured himself another glass of spirits and squinted his eye at Paul. “Gotta be a body he trusts, I reckon. And he ain’t a trusting man. Don’t imagine it’s anybody at his factor house, though. Too close for comfort, if ya know what I mean. You tell me who he trusts”—he raised his glass in a mock toast—“and then we’ll both know.”
“I will find out.” Paul raised his own glass and downed the burning liquid.
“And I’ll keep me ears peeled. Let ya know what turns up, that I will.”
“Good.” As far as Paul knew, Rankin Oliver was close to Emma Frances Oliver. Was her arrival in New Orleans timed to meet the shipment from up North? It seemed too preposterous for thought, involving a young niece, but Paul refused to dismiss any possibility.
Emma. Paul rose to his feet and walked over to the window. Two whores passed by and waved to him, but he ignored them. His thoughts were on thieving, lying little Emma. And the brooch she had stolen from him. Packert was a thief, too. A talkative thief. “Packert, there’s something else. I—”
“Henry, I’m home,” a woman called, interrupting the conversation, from the back of the house. Her arrival was punctuated by the slam of a door. “Where are you?”
“Up front, Katie me love.” Packert smacked his lips, as if in eager anticipation of his woman. “Come meet our company.”
When Katie swept into the front room, Paul was completely unprepared for the sight of the tall, cloak-draped woman. He had expected a hag. Yet she was young and lovely, and had a proud bearing. Her hair was a rich, deep shade of brown, her eyes hazel. Her heart-shaped face and olive complexion were set off by a smile that revealed healthy, even teeth. She was almost, Paul thought, as lovely as Emma Oliver.
“This be me ol’ mate, Paul Rousseau,” Henry said, expanding on the truth. “And this be Katie.”
“Monsieur Rousseau . . .”
Packert was quick to add: “Used to be abused by her old master, but them be days gone by. Been bought and paid for by me, so keep your hands to yourself.”
Bought and paid for? There was but one explanation for that: she was a former slave, a woman of mixed blood. Paul damned the owner who had seen fit to offer such a fine femme de couleur to the likes of Henry Packert.
Respectfully he offered his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Katie.”
“And you. But I prefer to be called Kathryn, if you please.”
“Kathryn . . . may I assist you with your wrap?”
“Don’t be starting that honey-talk with me woman!” Henry roared, jumping to his feet and nearly knocking the table over in the process. “Be me own right to get her cloak.”
Stepping back, Paul acceded, “Naturally, Pack—” His voice left him. His pulse surged. At the bodice of Kathryn’s modest gown was Angélique Rousseau’s brooch!
“Where . . . where did you get that pin?” Paul asked, his voice strangled.
“We’ll never tell,” Henry responded, chuckling. “Me woman likes nice baubles. Pretty, ain’t it?”
“It’s exquis
ite.” Paul took his eyes from the heart-shaped pin, with its pave of diamonds, to drill a look at Henry Packert. “But you stole it.”
“Is that a fact?” Henry asked as Kathryn stepped back.
“It is. That piece of jewelry is mine; I’d recognize it anywhere. It was stolen last week.”
Henry sneered. “Ya wouldn’t be saying that it was me who done took it from ya?”
“No, I’m saying you stole it from a woman—I believe it was in front of the St. Charles Hotel. She had just filched that brooch from under my thumb.”
Henry’s high-pitched laughter filled the small room. “That be rich! Ya let a trollop steal from ya. She musta been a sweet tart in bed, I’d allow.”
Paul saw red. For some odd reason he would not condone disrespect of Emma. He lunged forward to grab Packert’s lapel. “Be careful of your words.”
His eye bulging as he held up a palm in surrender, Packert begged clemency, which Paul allowed and stepped back.
Kathryn pushed away from the wall she had been hugging. “If it’s . . . if it really belonged to Monsieur Rousseau, then we must return it in the name of friendship. Isn’t that right?” Her last words were more of an order than a question.
“Now, gal, don’t be minding me business.” Packert ran a finger under his dirty eye patch. “The way it looks to me, the brooch be me woman’s now. ’Tain’t fair to take it away from her.”
“Packert—” She clamped her mouth shut when he raised a palm in a gesture of demanding quiet.
“If me gal was to turn it over, how much would ya give me for the inconvenience?” Packert picked up a knife from the table and ran his thumb down its face. “The brooch belongs to us now. But I might be willing to part with it for a couple hundred . . . seeing’s how it’s me old buddy Paul Rousseau.”
The vicious implication of the blade wasn’t lost on Paul. In three steps he was across the room again. He grabbed Packert’s wrist, yanking it until the knife clattered to the tabletop. “Seeing’s how I’m your old buddy Paul Rousseau, I’m willing to give you the two hundred dollars. But get something straight right now. You and your threats of violence don’t scare me.” He slammed the pirate’s arm to the table.