With a hopeful gleam in her eyes, Bernadette watched the couple step outside. When the coffee had been served, she confided to Simone and Dulcie, “Surely Alain will speak for ma cousine soon, perhaps even tonight.”
Ever romantic, Dulcie brightened at the prospect of a wedding, but Simone felt oddly relieved when Emilie returned a little later, sullen and obviously without a fiancé.
Later, when the others were engaged in conversations, Emilie asked Simone quietly, “You have known Alain for years, have you not, Madame Franklin?”
“Since I was a child,” Simone answered cautiously.
“Then perhaps you can tell me,” Emilie appealed miserably, “whom did he love so much that he cannot love another?”
“I. . .I cannot say,” Simone responded.
“He is still in love with someone, I know it,” the other woman lamented. “She seems always to be between us. He may carry with him the memory of a living, breathing woman, but I feel as if I fight a ghost.”
“Perhaps ‘Lain just needs time,” Simone said, sorry for the woman. “No man can love a memory or a ghost forever.”
“I fear Alain will,” Emilie replied sadly.
A shaggy, unkempt figure, unrecognizable as the elegant Creole he had once been, Marcel Baudin lingered in the shadows beside the levee. Across the street, he could see the comings and goings from the offices of Franklin Steamboats. He saw the glow of a lamp. Simone worked inside. He knew it.
He had been frustrated by the new locks on the gates at her home, and he had wondered how he would ever reach her. Then she began going to the office every day. He had been watching her, following her, and now he had begun a new game.
Since everyone thought him dead, it seemed he was not only invincible, but invisible. Sometimes he had been so close to Simone he might have touched her, but the time had not been right. Other times, he had ducked from sight just when she looked in his direction. She must have felt his presence. Her perplexed expression when she saw no one there greatly pleased Marcel.
Soon he would replace that perplexity with fear. He had decided, at last, that he would have Simone Devereaux and then he must kill her. But first she must tremble before her murderer, she must hear the reason for her destruction. She must suffer, as she had made him suffer. If he could not have her, then no one could, not even her American husband. Only when she was dead, Marcel had concluded, would he lose this craving that brought him such pain. The very thought of her caused his blood to rush, pounding, to his head. Moaning, Marcel rubbed his temples and waited. He would be patient, but he must be rid of her.
In the office, Simone frowned down at a bill of lading. Obadiah’s handwriting was still deplorable. The two of them had been managing the office since Jim Reynolds returned to North Carolina. Tom was busy with Queen Enterprises, and Ethan, who would take over this office, had not yet arrived.
During the past month, Simone had enjoyed working with Obie, now the warehouse manager, and he wholeheartedly welcomed her direction. But not everyone was so willing to accept a woman here. In moments of discouragement, she sometimes wondered if she could function in business at all without her husband’s supporting presence.
Taking the bill, she stepped out of the office and walked toward the row of warehouses. The evening was cool for late July, and fog rolled in from the river, swirling around the pylons on the piers across the way, turning them into rows of ghostly sentinels.
Thinking she saw a form in the darkness as she approached the warehouses, she called out “Obie?” But there was no response.
Suddenly apprehensive, she glanced over her shoulder. The lit office windows seemed far away, and her sense of foreboding was nearly overpowering.
At the first warehouse, she slid the door back and called again, her voice sounding high and unnatural in the fog. When there was no answer, she bit her lower lip to keep from shouting Obadiah’s name until he came.
How foolish to let darkness and a little fog frighten her. Still, she could not shake the feeling that someone was watching her.
Then she heard it. A sound like a low laugh. She halted, listening, but there was no other sound. Wavering irresolutely, she told herself she was being ridiculous, but she could not bring herself to pass the dark passageway between the buildings. She would wait for Obadiah in the office.
Forcing herself to stay calm, she retraced her steps. She had almost reached the office when a hand touched her shoulder. Gasping, she whirled. “Obadiah!”
“Miss Simone, where you been?” he asked reproachfully.
“Looking for you.” She could have wept with relief, but she did not voice her feelings. They seemed silly as they walked toward the office.
“This very mornin’ when I picked you up, I heard Cap’n Tom say he don’t want you workin’ alone in the office at night,” Obadiah scolded. “What you think he’d say if he knew you was out wanderin’ alone in the yard?”
“I’m not alone. You’re here,” she pointed out.
“And he’ll probably skin me alive for lettin’ you stay so late. Get your things, and lemme drive you home now.”
In the dark passage, Marcel laughed again. Simone did not know how close to death she had come tonight.
When Simone arrived at home that night, Jupiter padded out to meet her, sitting beside her while she sorted through the mail, his tail thumping on the foyer floor. The dog’s ears pricked up and the thumping increased when Tom arrived moments later.
“Caught in the act,” her husband greeted her, kissing her cheek. “I see you’ve been keeping long hours again.”
“Not as long as yours.” She brushed the curl back from his forehead. “You look so tired.”
“I think I’m getting my second wind.” Smiling, he pulled her to him and kissed her in earnest.
“I’ve missed you, mon amour,” Simone breathed. “I feel I haven’t seen you for a month.”
“I know, but things’ll settle down with the new business, and Ethan will be here soon. Then we can go home to LaVictoire, just you and me and--”
“Papa, Maman! ” An elated cry cut through their quiet moment.
“And Rory,” they said in unison, laughing as they looked up at their nightgown-clad daughter, who stood on the landing, clapping gleefully. Hand in hand, her parents mounted the stairs toward her.
“Why aren’t you in bed, young lady?” Tom’s smile destroyed the stern effect he sought to create.
“I can’t sleep until I have a story. Maman told me one last night. I want you to tell me one tonight.”
“It’ll cost you a kiss,” her father laughed, scooping her up. Throwing her arms around his neck, Rory kissed him soundly.
“Mmm, that was good enough for two stories. Now kiss Maman good night,” he said, holding her toward Simone so she could do so.
“Now I’ll kiss Maman good night.” He brushed his wife’s lips with his and carried the squirming child toward the nursery.
Wearing a cool, feminine nightgown, Simone was brushing her hair when Tom joined her in the bedroom.
Bending, he pressed a kiss on her bare shoulder. “I didn’t get a chance to tell you I’ve missed you, too.”
They slipped into bed and into each other’s arms. Cuddled together, they talked in the quiet, comfortable, and comforting manner of couples long and happily married.
“Tom,” Simone said softly, “I am not sure yet, so I probably shouldn’t even tell you, but I think I’m going to have another baby.”
She did not have to see his face to know he was beaming as he rose on his elbow above her, straining to see through the darkness. “That’s wonderful, darlin’.”
“I think so.” She snuggled happily against him.
Lying down, he put his arm around her and tucked her even closer. “I hope it’s a boy this time.” His whisper drifted on the night breeze. “We’ll name him John Paul Jones Franklin.”
“Jean-Paul is a nice name,” she said, giving it the French pronunciation.
; “Figured you’d like it.” He chuckled. “Named after a naval hero—and his mother. What a scrapper the boy will be.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Ethan and Gisèle returned to New Orleans during one of the hottest Augusts in memory and moved into the house on St. Charles Avenue with Tom and Simone until they could buy their own. Gisèle was expecting their fourth child shortly, and she was glad to be with her dear friends.
With Ethan managing the office, Simone no longer spent her days there. She enjoyed being at home, and, with five extra guests and their servants in the house, she was so busy, she scarcely heeded the troubling feeling that someone was watching her.
One sultry afternoon, she and Gisèle sat sipping lemonade, beneath an oak tree in the backyard, watching Gisèle’s youngest, Paul Revere, try to ride the patient Jupiter.
“Oh! The baby is kicking again.” Gisèle placed a hand on her side. “I think this one will be an acrobat. Not a very proper pastime for a girl, oui?”
“How do you know it will be a girl?”
“I don’t, but I hope. I would like a little girl.” Gisèle smiled as she watched Simone’s rambunctious daughter. “Do you ever wish for another child?”
“I don’t think I will have to wish much longer,” Simone confided with a smile.
“That is wonderful!” The pregnant woman sat up awkwardly. “Tom must be thrilled.”
“Yes, he’d like to have a whole houseful of children.”
“I hope more of them are girls,” Gisèle teased. “Think how hard he would have to work to find names for so many boys.”
“Oui, we don’t want a Benjamin Franklin Franklin,” Simone chuckled.
“Excuse me, madame.” Wakefield approached with a small envelope in hand. “A boy just delivered this.”
“Merci.” Opening it, Simone read it and groaned aloud.
“Is something wrong?” Gisèle asked worriedly.
“We’re all invited to a party at the Andersons’.”
“A party? What is that to groan about?”
“It is to be a house party, and the ‘entertainment’ is to be fortune-telling. It seems Dulcie has hired Marie LeVeau for the evening,” Simone answered with a shudder.
“Why are Dulcie and Barbara so fascinated by voodoo?” Gisèle asked in bafflement. “It is slave magic.”
Dulcie’s invitation left Simone feeling uneasy throughout the day and into the evening. After dinner the entire Franklin family sat on the dark veranda; they had not lit a lamp for fear a cloud of gnats would engulf them.
Beside his mistress, Jupiter suddenly got to his feet, growling, his hackles rising. As everyone tried to see what had affected the dog, Simone thought she glimpsed a shadowy figure near the front gate. But when a lamplighter appeared around the comer, no one was there.
“You must go,” Gisèle argued. “This is your last party before harvest begins.”
“I don’t like leaving you like this,” Simone muttered, gazing down at her friend’s mounded figure outstretched on the bed.
Gisèle rolled her eyes. “I only have a backache. Ethan will be here, and he’s been through this more than once. If you don’t go, who will report to me what happens?”
“Très bien.” Simone smiled at her. “I’ll tell you every detail when I come home.”
Stripped to her petticoat against the heat, Simone bustled about their room at the Andersons’ plantation.
“Come over here, darlin’.” Her husband patted the mattress beside him. “It’s too hot to be moving around so much.”
“I know that gleam in your eyes, Thomas Jefferson Franklin,” she chided in mock exasperation. “You’ll make us late for dinner.”
“There’s plenty of time,” he drawled. With a playful wag of his eyebrows, he patted the mattress again.
“I thought you said it was too hot to be moving around,” Simone protested with a grin. Perching on the edge of the bed, she rained kisses all over the face smiling at her from the pillow.
Laughing, Tom captured her in his arms and rolled until she was beside him on the bed. “It’s never too hot for what I’ve got in mind. Just get rid of a few more clothes.”
They shed their few garments rapidly, reveling in their joyful merging. Their skin sheened with perspiration, the lovers sought—and found—sweet release in each other. Then, their limbs still intertwined, they lay quietly, in the dusk, murmuring intimate words of love.
Tom and Simone joined the others downstairs just in time for dinner. The women were dressed in their finest gowns and glittered with jewelry. The men in their evening clothes were elegant and courtly. And the mood was festive.
After the meal, Dulcie announced, “Marie LeVeau will see each guest separately in the second parlor, beginning with the ladies. I’m afraid you gentlemen will have to wait. Please enjoy your brandy and cigars.”
“I don’t want to do this,” Simone muttered to her husband as she rose, “but I don’t want to hurt Dulcie’s feelings.”
“Where’s your sense of adventure?” he teased softly. “Even Alain is going to have his fortune read.”
“He said he didn’t believe in fortune-telling,” she contended with a sour expression.
“Maybe he wants to know if Emilie’s going to win in the end,” Tom whispered merrily. “That gal’s almost as stubborn as you.”
Simone waited tensely while the other women went in to see Marie LeVeau, one after another. Most were thrilled by their fortunes, but when Emilie returned to the first parlor, her face was grim. Evidently Marie LeVeau saw no wedding for her.
At last the moment Simone had dreaded arrived. Stepping through the doorway, she hesitated a moment. The second parlor was stifling and almost unrecognizable. Catholic icons, primitive pictures, and dozens of candles surrounded the voodooienne in the darkened room.
“If you wish to know the secret of the obeah, madame, come and I will tell you what I see,” Marie LeVeau intoned in the imperious voice reserved for her white patrons.
“I don’t want my fortune told,” Simone answered softly.
“Let us speak of the past then, madame,” the woman proposed indifferently. Before Simone could answer, Marie had closed her eyes. “Everything about you is unclear,” she muttered. “You are not always what you seem.”
“Who of us is?” Simone refused to be swayed.
“You have longed for revenge, but it eludes you. You have blood on your hands, and still revenge will not be yours.” Opening her eyes, she looked at Simone intently. “You!” she whispered. “I should have known. You will not let me tell your future, because you fear it.”
“That’s enough,” Simone commanded shakily, preparing to leave.
“Wait!” Marie insisted. “You have changed from the last time we met, ma petite, but I don’t forget the obeah once it has spoken. Hear me well, you bring danger to those you love.”
“Non,” Simone whispered, her green eyes wide with horror.
“Can you deny it?”
Simone was silent, thinking of Alain’s misfortunes.
“I have told you before, the obeah never lies,” the voodoo queen said. Then, as at their last meeting, she closed her eyes and leaned back in her chair wearily.
With trembling fingers, Simone placed a coin on the table and stepped silently into the hall.
As she paused to collect herself, Simone heard Tom’s voice, and she spotted him through the open front door on the veranda with their slave, Rufus. “Go to the stable and tell them to get our carriage ready,” he instructed. “Then ride back and tell Ethan we’re coming.”
“What is it, Tom?” Simone asked when he came inside.
“Gisèle has gone into labor early. The doctor is with her, but we need to get home.”
“At once,” she agreed. “We can send the servants for our things tomorrow.”
They offered hurried apologies to their host and hostess, then hastened out to the deserted allée.
The night was dark, and, after the extreme heat
of the day, the evening had grown cool. A breeze came from the river, bearing wisps of fog to play among the trees.
“What’s taking those grooms so long?” Tom fretted. “I could’ve hitched the team myself by now.”
They began to walk through the shadows at the side of the house toward the stables. Suddenly a menacing, shaggy form loomed in their path, brandishing a sword. Even in the darkness, Simone could identify the scarred face. . . . Marcel Baudin!
“I have waited a long time to meet you again, Simone Devereaux,” he snarled.
“What the hell?” Tom exploded, shoving his wife safely behind him. “What are you supposed to be?” He scowled at the tattered madman without recognizing him. “Go on! Get out of here!”
“It’s Marcel Baudin.” Simone tried to step around Tom to face the Creole, but he blocked her way with a shielding arm.
“You are Simone’s husband?” Marcel eyed him arrogantly.
“I am.”
“Your wife owes me a debt of blood for the scar you see, and I will make her pay. But I think I will kill you first. I demand satisfaction, m’sieur,” he pronounced haughtily.
“I never cared much for the idea of dueling, but I reckon satisfaction can be arranged,” the Virginian drawled. His fist lashed out and rammed Marcel squarely in the face, sending him sprawling in the dust, his sword landing a few feet away.
“Damn, that was satisfying.” As he nursed his fist, Tom grinned over his shoulder at his wife. “So much for the polecat who’s been bothering you all these years. I thought he was dead.”
“Tom, watch out!” Simone cried as Marcel struggled to his feet and fumbled inside his jacket.
The captain turned just as the other man drew a pistol. Before he could defend himself, the gun fired with a sharp report and a small flare at its muzzle. Tom crumpled to the ground at Simone’s feet.
“Tom!” she screamed, dropping to her knees beside her fallen husband.
“Now for you, ma chère,” Marcel sneered. Stepping closer, he pointed the gun at her head, oblivious to the sounds coming from the house behind them. “I believe I will kill you with the weapon the crude Kaintocks favor. You might even say you chose your fate when you married an American. L’américan,” he repeated bitterly. “How could you do such a thing?”
The Emerald Queen (A Vieux Carré Romance) Page 35