The Emerald Queen (A Vieux Carré Romance)

by Karen Jones Delk

  “Oh, very well.” Glowering, Simone flounced down a passageway and yelled, “Someone to see you, Papa.”

  Alain found himself in the small, shady courtyard at the center of the Devereaux residence. Like most houses in the French Quarter, the compound was built along airy West Indian lines. Sleeping quarters were on the second floor, reached by stairs from the courtyard, the common rooms were downstairs, and the kitchen was set a short distance from the main house.

  Hurriedly pulling on his jacket, Nicholas Devereaux met his visitor in the courtyard. He frowned when he saw his daughter’s outlandish costume and said severely, “Simone Jeanne-Marie Pauline Devereaux, what kind of trouble have you gotten yourself into now?”

  “No great trouble, monsieur,” Alain interceded smoothly, “but she seems to think she can wander anywhere in New Orleans.”

  “Even, I take it, where females are not welcome?” Nicholas asked knowingly.

  Alain nodded. “She visited Exchange Alley this afternoon.”

  Seeing her father’s raised eyebrows, Simone said desperately, “I only went to see les salles d’armes, Papa. I didn’t mean to cause any trouble.”

  “Trouble follows wherever you go, ma petite.” Nicholas shook his head and sighed. “Go to your room. We’ll talk of this escapade later.”

  “But, Papa...” Simone began, but put away her ready defense when she caught sight of the twinkle in her father’s eyes. The world knew Nicholas Devereaux as a gambler and a wastrel, but to his daughter, he was the ideal of all manhood: daring, dashing, elegant—and often a partner in her mischief.

  Hanging her head, she hid a smile and answered in a small voice, “As you wish, mon père.”

  “Please accept my apology for my daughter’s behavior, sir, and my thanks for bringing her home,” Nicholas said, turning to his guest. “It’s difficult bringing up a child without a mother.”

  “You’re welcome, Monsieur Devereaux, and please don’t be too hard on her,” Alain requested, watching Simone’s dejected-looking little figure trudge up the stairs. “No real harm was done.”

  “You are gracious, Monsieur . . . ?”

  “Alain de Vallière at your service, sir,” the young Creole introduced himself.

  “I’m happy to meet you, Monsieur de Vallière. I am Nicholas Devereaux, Nicholas to my friends. Please, come into the parlor and sit down. May I offer you some café or perhaps a drink?”

  “Café, s’il vous plaît,” Alain responded politely, following his host into the house. “I still have business to which I must attend.” The score he wished to settle with the Baudin heir for his crude attack at the salle d’armes would wait a short while.

  “We know the same people, frequent the same bars, gamble at the same casinos,” Nicholas concluded later as they sipped their coffee. “How is it we’ve never met?”

  “I only recently returned to New Orleans,” Alain explained. “I’ve been in Paris.”

  “In school, I wager.”

  “Until my father called me home. He felt I spent too much time in the salles d’armes and not enough in my studies,” the younger man admitted, surprised by his candor with so recent an acquaintance.

  “I see.” Nicholas chuckled. “My sin was gambling. It makes no difference. I didn’t want to be a gentleman planter anyway.”

  “And I didn’t wish to be a lawyer.” Alain toasted his host with his cup. Then, setting it down, he said apologetically, “I thank you for your hospitality, Nicholas, but now I must go.”

  “Ah, yes, your unfinished business. Won’t you return for dinner so we may continue our talk?” Simone’s father invited. “I promise to keep my daughter under control, and in skirts.”

  With a hearty laugh, the young Creole accepted. Then he set out to find Marcel.

  When he met his opponent under the Dueling Oaks, Alain fought skillfully and quickly drew first blood. No matter that the only casualty was young Monsieur Baudin’s pride, the duel was the talk of New Orleans for weeks.

  During those weeks, and as the winter days lengthened into sweet-scented spring, Alain visited Nicholas Devereaux frequently. Despite the difference in their ages, the men became fast friends. They drank, gambled, and womanized tirelessly, leading seemingly charmed lives, for the whiskey was always good, the cards, lucky, and the women, plentiful.

  Alain was amused that Nicholas insisted on wearing his wedding ring, a slender gold band studded with emeralds.

  “Emeralds are lucky—lucky in love!” the gambler explained drunkenly one evening as the men sat in the courtyard, sipping brandy.

  “They must be lucky,” an equally sodden Alain ruminated, “for you never want for a woman.”

  “Non, mon ami.” Nicholas seemed suddenly sober. “That is not love. I have known love. My Marthe gave me this ring.”

  In her bed upstairs, Simone listened to the voices drifting through her open windows. She, too, knew love, she thought sleepily. She knew, without a doubt, that she loved Alain de Vallière.

  She felt as if her ten-year-old heart would break when only days later he announced that he must return to France to conduct some family business.

  “Do you have to go?” she asked in a quavering voice.

  “I must. My father needs my contacts in court,” he explained gently. He had become fond of the child in the past months. “Don’t cry, my mischievous little friend.”

  “I won’t.” Simone swiped stubbornly at her brimming eyes with the back of her hand. “How long will you be gone, ‘Lain?”

  “I am not sure, chérie. It may be for a very long time—two or three years.”

  “Then who will bring me candies and teach me to fence?”

  Alain laughed. “There will be other admirers. You’ll forget all about me in time.”

  “Non,” she choked, struggling to control her quivering bottom lip. “I will wait for you.”

  “A man could ask for nothing more,” he murmured with an indulgent smile. “Give me a hug now, ma petite, and I must go.”

  Sniffling a little in spite of herself, Simone held out her arms and was lifted from the ground to be crushed against a muscular chest.

  The moment she was released, she fled to the stables to hide so Alain would not see her cry. Hours later, when she emerged, her eyes red, her face tear-stained, her first love, her only love, was gone.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Sitting at her father’s desk in the parlor, Simone heard the rumble of distant thunder. She looked around apathetically. The corners of the familiar room had fallen into shadow, for she had not yet lit the lamps. The gray afternoon was darkening into night, and the howl of the wind foretold a storm. She had been so engrossed in memories, she had not noticed.

  She knew it did no good to brood, but she could not bring herself to stir. She ached at the thought of leaving behind this house she had shared with her father. They had been happy here, even in hard times. Through it all, she had had her cher papa—his blithe charm, quick wit, and carefree smile.

  Simone’s numbed mind tried to comprehend the sudden upheaval in her life. It still did not seem possible her father was dead, killed in a duel by Marcel Baudin. He had fallen on the field of honor defending the family name, she thought bitterly. But why? She did not even know what Marcel had said or done to cause the older man to challenge him. She knew only that honor had too high a price.

  Searching for an answer, her thoughts turned to the week before, when Marcel had called at their rue Orleans home. She had admitted him herself. She had often seen the arrogant young Creole from a distance, but meeting him face to face had done nothing to dispel the unaccountable dislike she felt for him.

  Simone had told herself sensibly that Baudin’s reputation for cruelty had reached her through whispered gossip and thus was not to be trusted. Still, she had fought an urge to shudder when his icy blue eyes rested on her. With a polite word, she had hurried to summon her father.

  Nicholas Devereaux had greeted his unexpected guest warily and led him to t
he parlor. They had talked for only a few minutes, their voices growing angrier and louder until Marcel stormed out, slamming the gate behind him.

  Simone had found her father composing a note to one of his gambling cronies, asking him to act as his second.

  “A duel!” she had cried in exasperation. “Marcel Baudin is one of the finest swordsmen in New Orleans. How could you even think of accepting his challenge?”

  “I challenged him,” Nicholas revealed calmly. “Don’t say it,” he commanded before she could speak. “This is an affaire d’honneur. Believe me, I wouldn’t duel if it weren’t necessary.”

  “Necessary?” She scowled at him.

  “Very necessary. I haven’t been much of a father, Simone, or even much of a provider, not the way my luck has run recently.” With a sigh, the gambler glanced around the shabby room. “It’s my fault that we have little now but our pride. I must defend our name.” Then he fell silent, refusing to say more.

  At dawn, Nicholas had strapped on his sword and gone to the Dueling Oaks, leaving his unhappy daughter at home, helpless worry her only companion.

  A flash of lightning and a crack of thunder brought Simone back to the present with a start. Picking up a letter from the desk, she stared at it vacantly, her mind on what remained to be done.

  The funeral was past. She had overseen the preparations herself. Honoring the customs surrounding a death among les bonnes familles, the Creole aristocracy of New Orleans, she had notified a priest, had black-bordered notices posted throughout the Vieux Carré, and sent invitations to the funeral. When the arrangements were complete, she had sent for her only relative.

  Thank le bon Dieu for Tante Viviane, Simone thought. Her mother’s younger sister had hurried to her side. Married to a man much older than she, the petite Viviane was compassionate, serene, and efficient. She was a good wife to Georges Chauvin, the successful owner of LeFleur plantation, and a loving stepmother to his son, Fabrice. And she had always striven in her quiet way to make sure her niece had some measure of stability in her life.

  Viviane had stayed with Simone through her night-long vigil beside Nicholas’s body. Gently, she tried to dissuade the girl from attending the graveside ceremony. Creole women simply did not go to funerals, she argued quite correctly. But she had not overcome Simone’s determination.

  Though she could not defend her niece’s decision, Viviane had accepted it. She had waited patiently in the Chauvin coach at the cemetery until Simone returned from seeing Nicholas laid to rest beside his beloved Marthe in a gleaming white tomb. Then Viviane enfolded the numb, dry-eyed girl in a tender embrace.

  The traditionally minded Georges was set to berate Simone for her unconventional behavior, but he remained quiet when he saw his wife’s warning glance. He said nothing at all, in fact, as they all went to the office of Monsieur Fusilier, Nicholas’s attorney, to hear the reading of his will.

  In a droning voice, the aged lawyer informed them that, besides Nicholas’s emerald wedding band, Simone had inherited a portrait of her mother and a necklace that had belonged to her, a single pearl on a gold chain. Unfortunately, most of the Devereauxs’ meager household goods were to be auctioned to pay a portion of her father’s debts.

  Simone knew they had had no money since the Panic two years before. Many people had lost fortunes overnight. Since Nicholas no longer had a fortune to lose, he had sold off their furnishings piece by piece during those difficult days to buy food and to pay the rent. His daughter had known what he was doing, but she had not known they were deeply in debt.

  When it seemed the reading of the will was finished, Simone prepared to rise, saying with a tight smile, “Merci, Monsieur Fusilier, and good day.”

  “There is more, mademoiselle,” he squawked. “A handwritten addendum to the will.” Adjusting his spectacles, the nearsighted old man picked up a letter from his desk and peered at it owlishly. “Dated Wednesday, May 15,1839.”

  “The day before the duel?” She sank back in her seat warily.

  “Oui. It reads, ‘My esteemed Fusilier, should I not return from the field of honor, it is my fervent wish that my dear friend, Alain de Vallière, serve as guardian to my beloved daughter.’”

  “Non!” she exclaimed in dismayed surprise.

  “Oui.” Monsieur Fusilier blinked at her. “Let me see... ‘fervent wish . . . Alain de Vallière... ’ Ah, yes, ‘guardian to my beloved daughter, Simone, until her twenty-first birthday or her marriage.’”

  “How can that be? He said nothing to me of this.”

  “Perhaps there wasn’t time, chère. This letter was delivered the morning of the duel. Nicholas must have just made up his mind, but his instructions are quite clear.” The lawyer read on. “‘I desire him to find a suitable husband for her. Knowing Monsieur de Vallière’s loyal character, I trust he will bear her best interests in mind, discharging his responsibilities efficiently and meriting my faith in him.’ And it is signed, you see, ‘Nicholas Antoine Devereaux.’” He held out the page for Simone’s inspection.

  Lifting her eyes from her father’s familiar scrawl, she stared at the attorney disbelievingly.

  “Don’t worry, my dear,” he reassured her. “It must be frightening to know your guardian is thousands of miles away, but Monsieur de Vallière will be notified of your father’s wishes at the earliest opportunity. In fact, I intend to send a letter on the first ship leaving for France.”

  “Must you?” Simone blurted out.

  “Dear child.” Monsieur Fusilier smiled gently. “He will wish to be here as quickly as possible. And, indeed, he must come if he is to find a husband for you. Despite the kindness of your aunt and uncle, you don’t wish to live at LeFleur forever, oui?”

  “LeFleur?” she echoed stupidly.

  “Well, I assumed....” Nonplused, the man rustled his papers. “I mean, you are an unmarried female, and--”

  “You assumed correctly,” Georges cut in. “Simone’s place now is with her family. As her uncle by marriage, I would countenance no other arrangement.”

  Simone bit her lip and said nothing until she, her aunt, and her uncle had returned to the coach. When they were settled, she said quietly, “I wish to be taken home, s’il vous plaît.”

  “Did you not hear what I said to Fusilier?” Georges demanded. “Your place is with us.”

  “I want to go home,” the girl maintained stubbornly.

  Georges blustered, his voice rising as he recounted the embarrassments heaped on his head over the years by his wife’s unorthodox relatives, but nothing he said swayed Simone.

  Discomfited by the scene they were making on a public street, Viviane interjected, “Georges, Simone must have business to be concluded. Why don’t we take her home? Tomorrow or the next day she can move to LeFleur.”

  “I don’t like it, but très bien. She may have two days, no longer,” he granted grudgingly, unwilling to deny his wife. Bristling with disapproval, he instructed the driver to take them to the Devereaux house. “This is most improper, leaving an unmarried girl on her own,” he grumbled. “Perhaps we should send a maid to serve as chaperon.”

  “Merci, oncle,” Simone declined graciously, “but that won’t be necessary. I just want a little time to decide what I must do.”

  “What you must do is to come to LeFleur,” he retorted. “Though I warn you, Simone, if you are to live under my roof, you will follow my rules. Until your guardian arrives, I feel responsible for you.”

  “No one need feel responsible for me— not you nor Alain de Vallière,” his niece snapped, feeling her patience ebb.

  “B-but we’re your family, ma petite,” Viviane stammered, taken aback by Simone’s vehemence, “and Monsieur de Vallière is--”

  “A cad who will marry me off to the first man who asks for my hand.”

  “Not a bad idea!” her uncle shouted.

  “Georges, please,” Viviane protested, peering out the window to see if any pedestrians had witnessed the family quarrel. She turned to
her niece reasonably. “Simone, how can you know what your guardian will do? You haven’t seen him for years. Alain de Vallière was wild in his youth, but I understand he has settled down to become a most dependable man. Besides, I thought you liked him. He comes from one of the finest families in Louisiana, after all. And you were so fond of him when you were a child.”

  At the time, Simone had not attempted to counter her aunt’s soothing argument, unwilling to explain that she hated Alain, that she had hated him since his visit to New Orleans when she was thirteen.

  Even now, sitting alone in the darkened parlor, Simone felt a blush of humiliation. A schoolgirl in braids, she had been thrilled at the handsome young man’s return. She had not openly reminded him of her childhood promise to wait for him but had tried in various other ways to convince him that she was a woman, seizing any opportunity to be alone with him.

  Evidently annoyed by her inept and none-too-subtle overtures, Alain had swept her into his arms, determined to prove a point to the wayward thirteen-year-old. Simone’s alarm at his supposed passion had turned to fury when he released her and she realized he was laughing at her.

  “Ever the wildcat, eh, Simone?” he had chuckled when she launched herself at him. He captured her thin wrists easily and held her, spitting and kicking. “I like my women beautiful and spirited. You’re feisty enough, if we could just put some meat on those skinny bones of yours.”

  “I’ll show you feisty, ‘gator-bait,” she had snarled, aiming a kick at his shins.

  “Watch that temper when you’re truly a woman, ma petite,” he advised, dancing out of reach, “or you’ll scare off potential husbands. Sons of planters like their women sweet and biddable.”

  “I don’t intend to marry some dull planter’s son!” she yelled, making contact just above his boot.

  “Ow, you little she-devil! You’ll change your mind,” he taunted. “Every Creole woman I know—well, almost every one—has been happy to settle down to a comfortable life and a houseful of children.”

  “I’m not like every Creole woman!” Her face crimson with rage and shame, she had wrenched away from him and fled.