Arms of a Stranger

by Danice Allen

  Sometimes what she saw on the landings, and had also seen on the steamboat, troubled her. Slaves. She’d always known they existed, of course. She’d learned about them in her history and geography lessons with Miss Bishop, her governess. But, like most people who are not directly impacted by slavery, she’d thought it very immoral, then put it out of her mind. Seeing the practice in action, in front of her horrified eyes, was very different from deploring it in theory.

  Most of the time the slaves seemed happy enough. They sang as they worked, moving about without the restraint of chains and shackles, but Anne would never forget the sad refrain of a song she’d heard a group of them singing on the dock the night the Belvedere left Charleston.

  De night is dark, de day is long

  And we are far from home

  Weep, my brodders, weep.

  Over and over again, they’d sung it till Anne felt like weeping herself. On the landing, right now, was a group of slaves tied together by a rope, neck to neck. They appeared to be a family. There were a tall man and woman, both bone-thin, three teenaged boys, and a girl who looked to be just past childhood. The girl’s small breasts pushed against the thin fabric of her ragged gown.

  The girl was pretty, and, despite her tangled hair and disreputable clothes, she seemed fresh and untouched. Men were looking at her, walking slowly past, leering. The girl stood with her shoulders hunched forward, her eyes downcast, obviously frightened. It made Anne so angry she unconsciously bit the inside of her mouth till she drew blood. She tasted the salt of it on her tongue.

  “Despicable!” said Katherine with a hard pound of her cane. “From a bankrupt estate, it seems, or else they’d be dressed better.”

  Anne turned to her aunt. “They’re a family?”

  “So it appears.”

  Anne grasped for an optimistic point. “At least they can stay together. It must be hard to be separated from your family with no hope of seeing them again.”

  “Bodine likes to keep them together, but he’s not motivated by sympathy. It’s more expensive to buy whole families, but they’re less apt to run away, and since it costs money to recapture them, Bodine sees it as a wise investment.”

  Anne fixed her gaze on the white man who was sitting on a bench near the slaves. He looked to be in his forties, tall, powerfully built, balding, already dressed for the evening in a black jacket and trousers and a shiny, pale blue waistcoat. “You know him, Aunt Katherine?”

  Katherine snorted. “Yes, more’s the pity. We’ll have to exchange polite how-do-you-do’s when he boards the boat. Mr. Grimms was obliged to do business with Mr. Bodine once or twice, a rare happenstance of a Creole crossing Canal Street to bank with an American. It was an opportunity Mr. Grimms could not pass up, since it might lend courage to other Creoles to mix more in the American business world. Mr. Grimms, like myself, abhorred the social segregation practiced by so many narrow-minded Creoles and Americans alike. Bodine, however, is not one of those Creoles with whom I would care to nurture an acquaintance, business or otherwise. He’s—” She stopped, her eyes narrowing. “He’s not very nice.”

  “I don’t like the looks of him, either, Anne,” said Reggie, frowningly observing Bodine. “You’ll stay away from him.”

  “Of course I will,” Anne readily agreed.

  Katherine strayed a few feet away, apparently to greet an acquaintance who’d just boarded, and Reggie added in an emphatic whisper, “I want you to associate with the best of New Orleans society, not just the opportunistic ragtags your aunt might introduce you to!”

  Anne smiled and shook her head. “Uncle Reggie, you know Aunt Katherine is quite wealthy herself. What makes you think her friends are ragtags?”

  “I understand that your aunt had a rather meager dowry,” he confided out of the side of his mouth, like a conspirator. “She is only wealthy now because she ensured a generous bequeathal to herself in each of her husbands’ wills”—he snatched a glance over his shoulder—“then drove them to their graves!”

  Anne laughed. “How can you be so unfair! Each of Katherine’s husbands was self-made,” she argued. “She helped them become rich and successful. She deserves her money. I’ve a mind to model myself after my aunt, you know. I think it would be exciting and romantic to help one’s mate carve a niche for himself in the world, as she did, instead of simply helping support him with your dowry while he fritters his time away at White’s and Boodle’s!”

  “Struggle and penury are not romantic,” Reggie said stubbornly. “They are deuced uncomfortable. And as for Katherine, I can think of any number of women I’d rather see you emulate than her. So unladylike! Her voice so abrasive it reminds one of porcupines tumbling in the briars! And that stick of hers, forever poking it in people’s faces—”

  “What? Did I hear my name being bandied about, and to no good report, I suppose?” said Katherine, bouncing her cane several times on the deck behind them. Anne and Reggie did a quick about-face. “I want to introduce you to Mr. Lucien Delacroix. My niece, Mr. Delacroix, the Honorable Miss Anne Weston. And this gentleman”—Katherine waved the globed end of her cane under Reggie’s nose—“is her uncle on her father’s side. No blood relation to me, you understand. Mr. Weston, Mr. Delacroix.”

  Before Anne had time to take a good look at the man before her, he swept into a low bow, then took her hand and lightly kissed her fingertips. She stared at the bent head, the black, wavy hair so thick one could positively lose her fingers in it …

  Anne was jolted out of her bemused contemplation when the gentleman slid her a sly look from under eyelashes as thick and black as his hair. They had barely met, and he was already flirting with her! She stared as he straightened up and shook hands with Reggie, murmuring a polite greeting. She discovered her mouth hanging open and hastily closed it. She had never seen a man so divinely handsome.

  Mr. Delacroix wore a well-tailored ensemble of a black jacket and narrow trousers that fit his tall, athletic figure to a nicety. At his throat and wrists were a modicum of snowy-white ruffles, just enough to lend him the continental flair for which Creole men were known. He wore a little more jewelry than the typical English gentleman, with two large rings on each hand and several chains and fobs crisscrossing his vest like glittery corset ribbons. He was somewhat showy, but still very tasteful. His slight excess in dress did not detract from his masculinity, either. Rather, a bit of ruffle and glitter served as a wonderful foil to his obvious male charms.

  The dashing fellow bent his gaze on her now, his finely arched, ebony eyebrows raised in supercilious inspection. His chocolate-brown eyes were long and almond-shaped. His mouth was the inexplicable combination of firm and soft, the corners just now an unprincipled, sly curve.

  That smile, and his jaded appraisal of her from beneath drooping eyelids, announced Delacroix’s arrogance and conceit. It seemed Anne’s theory about dandyism was about to be proved once more. She slid an amused, incredulous glance at Reggie. His returning look was smug; it said, I told you so.

  Chapter 2

  “Mon Dieu! You say this ravishing young woman is your niece, madame?” Delacroix had a deep voice and a pronounced French accent, which was charming. The bored drawl he affected was not. It reminded Anne of the dandies in London.

  “I did,” Katherine agreed, her own expression carefully neutral.

  One brow arched, the beautiful eyes widened with artificial surprise, the sly smile curved a little higher. “I do not remark a resemblance in the least. Are you quite sure you’re related?”

  Katherine pounded her cane against the floor. “If you are trying to flummery the girl with a compliment, Delacroix, kindly refrain from insulting me in the same breath, if you please!”

  Delacroix chuckled softly. “Dear madame,” he scolded in a teasing voice, “how could you ever think I meant to insult you? You and your niece are simply different. She is slender and delicate, like an exquisite flower, while you”—he cocked his head
to the side and studied Katherine—“are tall and sturdy, like an elegant, majestic oak. Both of you are very beautiful, but in different ways, n’est-ce pas?”

  Katherine’s only reply was another pound of her cane, perhaps aimed at the highly polished toe of Delacroix’s boot. However, he moved just then, shifting his attention back to Anne and his foot out of harm’s way. “Forgive my impertinence, Mademoiselle Weston, but which of your fortunate relatives do you resemble?”

  Anne answered archly, “I shan’t forgive your impertinence, Mr. Delacroix. Forgiveness can only be granted when there is true repentance. You’re not repentant. You positively enjoy being impertinent.”

  Delacroix’s look of genuine surprise was ample reward against the risk of a lecture from Reggie on vulgar manners. He collected his wits quickly, then waggled a finger at her, saying ever so softly, “Ah! I see I’m not the only one who enjoys being impertinent.”

  “Does it offend you, sir? I hope not,” Anne said breezily. “I want to make a good first impression here in America.”

  “Mademoiselle, you are most charming,” said Delacroix with a courtly nod of his head, his eyes gleaming. “And you’ve made quite a first impression already. At least you’ve made quite an impression on me.” He spread long, beautiful fingers over his waistcoat, reluctantly drawing Anne’s attention to the broad expanse of his chest. His voice lowered seductively. “Can’t you see how my heart beats wildly against my waistcoat?”

  Anne’s gaze lifted to Delacroix’s. There was a flirtatious twinkle in his eyes that Anne was sure flattered and fascinated most women. Although she could feel a flush creeping up her neck in response to the scoundrel’s lavish and probably completely insincere compliments, she repressed her traitorous reaction and tilted her chin at a defiant angle. “Well, then, if I can be impertinent and still be charming, I shall remain impertinent. One’s curiosity is satisfied so much faster that way, don’t you think? Tell me, Mr. Delacroix, whom do you resemble?”

  “People say I’m the image of my father,” Delacroix readily replied. “He was rather a dashing rogue in his youth, but now, sadly, he’s allowed himself to lag behind the current fashion trends.” He paused to straighten a ruffle that had caught on one of his numerous watch fobs. “He works too hard, plays far too seldom. But in all other respects, we are very much cut from the same cloth, as the Americans say.” Delacroix’s mouth twisted in a patronizing smirk. “They have so many quaint phrases, the Americans.”

  Anne felt her temper stir at Delacroix’s attitude of superiority, but she kept her smile firmly in place. “I don’t know about that. But I do know that I admire American people very much. They are so open and unaffected, so industrious and enterprising.”

  Delacroix shuddered slightly, then lifted a hand in mock surrender. A quasi-apologetic smile tilted his lips. “Pray stop, Mademoiselle Weston. You’re making a useless fellow like myself feel quite ashamed. The Americans are a busy lot, I’ll admit. It sometimes fatigues me simply to converse with them.”

  Anne’s brows lifted. “I understand there’s a great distinction made in New Orleans between the Creole culture and what is called the American culture. Surely you’re all Americans, Mr. Delacroix? Surely you consider yourself an American as well as a Creole?”

  Delacroix dispatched a fly from his sleeve with a fillip of slim fingers. The bored drawl was pronounced as he said, “Not at all, mademoiselle. But must we discuss such an uninteresting topic? After all, neither of us is an American. It doesn’t apply.” His face brightened. He bent and took her hand, kissing it again. “I’ve never met an American woman half as beautiful as you are, mademoiselle. Your hair is as bright as an English sovereign.”

  Anne drew back her hand, ashamed at the very pleasant thrill that ran up her arm in response to his brief kiss. Couldn’t this fellow be serious for even one minute? She would force him to talk sense. “Surely, Mr. Delacroix, you have some sort of occupation?”

  He grinned slyly. “I do keep occupied. My services are much in demand these days.”

  Anne cleared her throat, not able to believe he’d truly meant a double entendre in such a public and mixed-sex conversation. “Er … your services? What do you do?”

  “Many things, ma petite.” His smile broadened. He seemed to enjoy her discomfort. “Perhaps it would clarify things if I told you I am heir to Bocage, a sugar plantation just outside of New Orleans.”

  “So you do …?”

  “I do nothing.” He made an elegant shrug. “What is there to do?”

  Anne recognized in Lucien Delacroix the same sort of lazy fellow she’d met a hundred times in London, content to live off his inheritance, contributing nothing, doing nothing constructive. “Management of the plantation does not keep you busy?”

  He replied, “No, of course not. It keeps my father busy.”

  Yet even that was an exaggeration. Anne knew Delacroix’s father must own dozens of slaves. The slaves were the truly busy ones, the ones who did all the real work on the estate.

  Delacroix studied her for a moment, as if he were penetrating her thoughts. For such a shallow person, this seemed unlikely, but his next words were surprisingly astute. “Ah, now I remark the resemblance between you and your aunt! It goes much further than skin-deep. You, too, have the tender heart of an abolitionist, n’est-ce pas? You do not think any of us plantation owners keep busy, except in the exploitation of slaves? You do not approve?” He watched her closely, waiting, a slight mocking smile on his lips.

  He had implied that she was being presumptuous, that as a foreigner and someone who had not as yet even set foot in New Orleans, she shouldn’t be passing judgment on their lifestyle. But Anne had seen enough to feel that she was entitled to her opinions without being treated condescendingly. She did not trust herself to reply.

  Finally Delacroix inquired with gentle sarcasm, “You don’t believe in idle chitchat, do you, mademoiselle? You do not speak unless you can cut straight to the heart of things.” He smiled brilliantly then, and Anne couldn’t help the way her pulse skittered. She told herself he was all charm and no substance. She willed her heart to resume a more normal pace.

  “She’s like me, Delacroix,” Katherine declared proudly. “Nothing mealymouthed about her!”

  Delacroix acknowledged this with a tiny sardonic nod of his head. “I see. Charming, I’m sure. I myself prefer chitchat. But just for the sake of finishing this rather unlucky turn in conversation, Mademoiselle Weston must understand that my family roots go back to the first French settlers … before the Spanish, before the Americans. Delacroix is a venerated Catholic Creole name, and Bocage is one of the largest plantations in the state. Could she really expect me to hold opinions of a different nature than those I’ve just expressed?”

  “Indeed,” said Anne, finally finding her voice. “I shouldn’t expect anything from you but the truth. And if you believe differently than I do, then that is certainly your choice.”

  “In many other matters, mademoiselle,” said Delacroix, “I hope we will agree.”

  Anne gave a tiny shrug, implying that that was unlikely. By the answering spark of interest in his eyes, Delacroix apparently took her indifference as a challenge. That he would continue to pursue her with flirtatious advances ought to have annoyed her, but she was filled with a strange and thrilling sense of anticipation. It was just her luck, though, that the first handsome man she’d met in America was the very type she’d left England to avoid!

  “Ah! But how I rattle on,” he said at last, spreading one hand wide in a helpless gesture. He had beautiful hands—strong, tapered, capable-looking. It seemed grossly incongruent that they belonged to such a wastrel. “You must excuse me. Someone I particularly wish to talk to has just boarded.”

  He glanced over his shoulder, then turned back to Anne. “But one last word of advice, mademoiselle.” While Reggie glared disapprovingly, Delacroix leaned close so that only she could hear. His breath fanned across her cheek.
“Your lips look like an angel’s. Soft as clouds, and moist as morning dew. Don’t press them so tightly together like the knees of an old maid aunt. They were not made for such a disapproving frown. They were made to be kissed.”

  Anne was caught in the throes of very conflicting feelings. She was indignant at the fellow’s bold flirting—conducted right in front of her two guardians, no less!—and unwillingly flattered by his poetic description of her lips. She caught herself just as she was about to lift her hand and touch her lips, just to see if they were as soft as he suggested.

  By now he’d turned back to the others, speaking in far less intimate tones. “Lovely to see you, Madame Grimms. So pleased to make your acquaintance, Monsieur Weston. I hope we meet again.” Then he made another flourishing bow and strode away to greet their newest passenger, Mr. Bodine.

  “I should have known he’d be friends with that man,” Anne remarked disapprovingly. The two of them were talking and smiling as if they were long-lost chums. It was repugnant to watch the display of easy, privileged camaraderie while in the background the family of slaves, their expressions dejected and tired, moved to the stairs that led below-deck.

  Bodine made a gesture at the young black girl and winked at Delacroix, his intentions obvious. Anne knew Bodine would bed the girl that very night. She felt bile burn her throat. Men of Bodine’s nature sickened her. How she wished there was some way to extricate that poor child from her fate.

  Katherine greeted another acquaintance, and Anne moved through the gathering crowd of people to the side of the steamboat that faced away from the dock, looking out toward the last remnants of the sunset over a distant island. She heard Reggie’s footsteps behind her, felt his sleeve brush hers as he, too, leaned against the railing.