Galveston: Between Wind And Water (A Historical Literary Fiction Novel Filled with Romance and Drama)

by Rachel Cartwright

  Louisa glanced over at Ichabod. He grinned and gave her a slow nod of reassurance. Before the meeting, he had instructed her not to speak. If the money was good, he knew she wouldn’t protest.

  “Now.” The stranger lifted a few loose, delicate tendrils of Louisa’s hair and let them fall again on her head. “Please turn your back, Mr. Weems.”

  “Excuse me, sir? If you wish privacy I’ll—”

  “Just do as I say.” The man stamped his boot down hard on the floor. He assumed a wider stance. “Everything has to be perfect. Can’t you see?”

  He yanked Louisa by the hair, pushing her face into the folds of his coat hanging between his legs. “A perfect test. That’s what I paid you for.” He lowered his hooded face. “So shut up both of you and not another word.”

  Ichabod folded the money and fastened the brass clip. He spat into his almost filled spittoon and shoved the clip into the pocket of his worn coveralls. He looked across to Louisa kneeling in front of the disturbing stranger and shivered.

  What was it about the man that made him still search for a name and face from somewhere in his long, unfortunate past, a past filled with names and faces he wished he could forget but who refused to allow an old man any peace in his deathbed dreams.

  Ichabod downed the last of his whiskey. Enough foolishness, old man. All unpleasant suspicions aside, a client’s business was his own. The gentleman had paid a premium and this allowed him more than the usual liberties.

  Louisa didn’t raise her gaze off the dirty floor to meet his again.

  The stranger unbuttoned his Inverness coat. He stepped back with his hands clenched.

  Ichabod shivered again. He turned his chair around to face the wall and closed his eyes.

  CHAPTER 7

  Tuesday, August 28

  Gabrielle lay in bed against her down-filled, silk pillows and toyed with the end of her single French braid. From all accounts, Bret had changed since returning to Galveston. He was less cheerful and, though his manner was still considerate at heart, she recognized a growing impulsiveness beneath his brooding composure.

  As a charming, confident man he had delighted an innocent young woman with his adventurous promise, but now his temperament appalled her with its pathetic lack of virtue. Gabrielle knew she was as much to blame for her curious feelings as he was, perhaps more, since her childish infatuation with him had not completely disappeared as she had hoped. Unbraiding the ends of her hair she rubbed the ends between her thumb and index finger to calm her nerves.

  Infatuation. That’s all it ever was or could have been between them.

  After Bret left, she had still been able to rise in the morning and, by all appearances, regain her self-control and good sense much to the relief of her friends and father already maddened by her tempest of vulgar outbursts and crying fits.

  Bret’s last words still stormed through her mind. “You’re wrong, Gabrielle. It’s not too late for you. You’re worthy of a far better man than me, a man who will give you everything you cherish, desire, and deserve.”

  In the gloomy months that followed his leaving, those words were the only light of truth he had left behind to help her find her way again. Only by the sheer force of indomitable spirit was she able to pull herself out of that soul-crushing abyss of despair, spurred by the realization that even love is capable of such a cruel betrayal of trust.

  Until she heard the dreadful racket Saturday on Market Street, Gabrielle had—after two years—come to consider Bret as having passed into insignificance, waiting to be left behind with the arrogant century that had made him a sad, supercilious man desperately trying to maintain appearances of his family’s paling grandeur.

  Their time together had been the careless and naive adventure of her first and only deep romantic love, but even then, under his public exuberance, she had sensed his hidden, private fears. Bret was the past and, if she wanted the new life she desired, her feelings for him would have to stay there entangled within the knotted fiber of their difficult relationship.

  He was lost to her, a captive of his own disturbing moods and intense longing for something that remained a dark secret in his distant heart.

  If he behaved as a gentleman, he might still be allowed into the periphery of her social circle, but never within its center. A successful gentleman’s wife-to-be needs to be wooed and won with pride. Anything less would be a mistake, and she could never allow that to happen again.

  She brushed back her hair. Today would be perfect for the yellow bolero jacket and dress with the brown satin flowers. Gabrielle dressed quickly and strutted down the stairs to the parlor where she overheard Timothy DeRocha and her father discussing Bret’s drilling activities in Beaumont.

  Timothy snapped to attention when Gabrielle entered. She admired his tanned face with its curved nose and brown eyes, but his voice was always servile in the presence of her father.

  After exchanging mutual pleasantries, she listened patiently, encouraging each with a smile or a nod. A woman always found her most valuable information by letting men vent their irritation and argue with each other.

  Gabrielle’s father scratched his moustache. “It appears Bret never sent word ahead to anyone here or his man, Philip, when he departed England for New York.”

  Timothy smiled at her and adjusted his gold tie pin. “I believe he’s bankrupt, spent his entire inheritance abroad and now he has returned to scrounge off the good graces of his old friends and business partners.”

  “No. There’s more to it,” Gabrielle insisted, surprised by how quickly she had voiced her private suspicion.

  “Surely you don’t believe in his oil drilling scam in Beaumont?” Timothy asked. “I’d have more respect for him if he asked me for money to dig for the pirate treasure of Jean Lafitte.”

  Gabrielle’s father frowned. “No, sir. Whatever money Bret had left has surely sunk into those empty holes with the remains of his family’s name.”

  Timothy nodded. “That seems to agree with all the reports I’ve heard. The man is desperate. This fancy party of his is nothing but an elaborate attempt to swindle those who have loved and trusted him most.”

  Gabrielle bristled. “You sound so certain, Timothy.”

  Timothy looked at her as though she were an errant child. “Please, Gabrielle. You of all people should know I’m right.”

  She wanted to say something in Bret’s defense but could only press her lips together.

  “I made almost one hundred percent profit on my first shipment of cotton,” her father said, turning from the window. “And nearly two hundred percent on my first sale of steers.”

  Timothy regarded her father with adoring veneration. “You are an example to us all, Mr. Caldwell. When a man risks everything to start a business and build a better life for his family, he deserves those rewards and more. But nothing is more valuable to a damn Yankee than his stomach, and he should be happy to pay for the privilege of letting us fill it for him. Isn’t that true, Gabrielle?”

  “I would be happy to feed any man north of the Mason-Dixon if he helped me get the vote in return.”

  The men stared at each other, then at the floor and shook their heads. Timothy coughed and covered his mouth with his clenched hand. “A gentleman certainly has to stay on his toes around you, Gabrielle. Women’s suffrage? What’s next? Lord, sir, how do you keep up with her?”

  Gabrielle’s father tapped the bowl of his pipe on his palm, found it clogged and excused himself to get his cleaning kit from his upstairs study.

  When his footsteps reached the second floor landing, Timothy cleared his throat and spoke in hushed tones. “You know I have complete respect for your father and his wishes, but I wish he would leave us alone more often.”

  Gabrielle flashed a brief coy smile and stepped to the window. Already this business of having to choose between Timothy, Liam, and Hadlee was beginning to lose its attraction. Every prospect started with promise but after a few minutes of idle parlor chit-chat follow
ed by the crafted casualness of a stroll down to the boardwalk, it was all she could do to keep from running headlong into the waves to revive her senses.

  In the end, she always returned to her dressing table and dropped the lace-wrapped bouquets into the wastebasket. Would her meeting with Doctor Hellreich be something as easily tossed aside and forgotten too?

  Timothy cleared his throat again. “I would like to sit down and talk with you, Gabrielle.”

  She looked at the easy chair with plush comfort that always invited guests to stay longer than need be. “Father will be coming back.”

  “Yes, but only after he feels he’s given us enough time to be alone.”

  Gabrielle rubbed her middle finger against her thumb. “You say that as if it were an unwritten rule.”

  “Your father only cares for your happiness as do I.”

  “Do you suppose, then, that he might take time to find out what makes me happy?”

  Timothy gestured with his hands. “Where in this magnificent home is there anything that doesn’t show the love of a devoted father for his beautiful daughter?”

  Gabrielle had no ready answer to his question. She knew her father loved her in his way, and she adored him. She avoided Timothy’s penetrating gaze by adjusting the lace tablecloth on the rosewood table under the window. “It’s too hot inside for playing cards. I would like to go for a walk. I’ll see if father is ready.”

  “Gabrielle? Please, I need to speak with you alone.”

  She turned on her heel. “So what do you think about the seawall? I may not have any say in the matter, but I’m pleading with father to let me sit in on the discussions. I think the subject is fascinating.”

  Timothy gazed at her for a moment longer. “I would like to accompany you—with your father’s permission of course—to the lecture on Thursday night. Doctor Hellreich sounds like the only man who understands how the twentieth century will bring powerful changes that will affect all our lives.”

  Gabrielle stared at him, the ticking of the large clock the only sound in the room. “I understand that, Tim, but I don’t see why—Dear . . . Listen to me prattle on like an old ninny. I’ve completely lost track of the time. I promised to stop by and see how Hadlee is doing. Our friend has a touch of the fever.”

  Timothy exhaled with noticeable frustration and glanced at the floor. “I see. As you wish.” He glanced at the grandfather clock near the fireplace. “Please give Hadlee my warmest regards. We all hope to see him at Bret’s party if he’s feeling up to it.” He lingered by her side in an uncomfortable silence. With out warning, he bent to kiss Gabrielle awkwardly on the cheek.

  Gabrielle stepped away at the last moment, turning her head away to conceal her embarrassed blush.

  Timothy cleared his throat and left the room.

  Gabrielle waited for the sound of the front door closing then walked to the window and opened it. In the front yard across the street, a washing woman was folding laundry into a wicker basket.

  From over the dunes came the faint crash of the rising breakers, and beyond the wharves and warehouses she pictured a ship riding at anchor with all its canvas spread to the first strong wind that could carry her over the waves.

  To anywhere.

  Anywhere but here.

  CHAPTER 8

  Wednesday, August, 29

  Bret leaned against a pillar on the veranda of his Beaux-Arts colonial home and tapped his fingers rhythmically against the wood. The family sanctuary—a pale blue, palatial mansion built of the best pine and Florida cypress—had been quiet during his absence save for the slow, measured footsteps of one old guest.

  The raised veranda offered him a panoramic view of the surrounding beach and the waves—a view many wished they’d had back in ’86 when the last bad storm hit.

  Maybe they could have seen it coming.

  The town of Indianola was completely destroyed and never rebuilt—some said because it was built on an old Indian burial ground belonging to the savages who ate men.

  Bret gave the wood siding a hard whack with his clenched fist. But she was a stout and sturdy one, this ol’ girl. And after the storm, he and his mother made sure she’d always stand tall and proud.

  From his American castle by the sea, he looked out at the grass-topped sand hills, mixed with the yellow of black-eyed Susans, butterfly weed, and goldenrod, swaying against the warm evening Gulf breeze. Whooping cranes stalked the shoreline—looking for sand dollars, no doubt—against the brilliant red and orange streaks of the setting sun.

  Bret shivered. Since returning to his beloved city, he’d felt exposed, as though standing naked to the elements. He reached into the inside pocket of his suit jacket, and pulled out the small bottle of a new patent medicine purported to cure coughs. He unscrewed the cap and took two deep drafts in rapid succession then closed his eyes, trying to recapture the dimly remembered feelings of another lifetime in Galveston.

  “I love you Bret and, if you feel the same, why do we have to hide it from our families any longer?” The burning sincerity in Gabrielle’s eyes had made him turn away for as soft and soothing as she was, she could never drown out the drunken, carnal laughter of men who still haunted him like vengeful spirits. Cold, desolate nausea gripped Bret’s heart. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the bottle of medicine again.

  A minute passed. The nullifying effects of the preparation worked their way through his fractured thoughts, coalescing everything into a single picture of the past. He swayed on his feet and leaned his back against a corner post on the veranda and looked up to the evening sky, trying to give a clear voice to Gabrielle’s unclouded face.

  “What are you thinking about, Bret?”

  “You.”

  “Stop it. You’re still playing with my heart and I can’t take it anymore.”

  “I would never do that to you, Gabrielle, but you must try to understand—”

  Gabrielle embraced him, kissing him long and passionately on the lips, unconcerned about the shocked stares of the strollers passing by.

  “I do, Bret. I do! I’ll be a good wife to you. Please, darling, don’t be afraid. You don’t have to be alone anymore.”

  Bret drew himself out of the aching memory with a deep breath and turned away. “Gabrielle.” He relished the sensation of letting her name come to life again on his lips. Then, a moment later, a terrible sense of bitterness assailed him. The once-carefree air of this place had become moribund—a mausoleum with the open caskets of memories.

  Bret pressed his hands over his face, ashamed like an older child caught crying. He could black out the sun, but the light of what went before still shone undiminished. He ground his teeth together as though he could have crushed an almond in its shell.

  Enough.

  He had to control his unfulfilled passion for Gabrielle. That could never be now and there was still much to be done before Friday night if he wanted to make the impression he needed to.

  Bret straightened his tie. No one wants to miss a richly catered McGowan affair. How did they ever survive while you were away?

  Noting the time, Bret downed a final, quick swig. He slipped father’s gold watch securely into the front pocket of his brocaded vest and flung the empty bottle against the side of the vehicle shed.

  His mother, Lorena, had given him every opportunity save one—the only one which truly mattered. The one she made him swear to on her deathbed.

  All these years I’ve kept quiet so we could build our lives again. I know I was only a boy but I’m sure I recognized some of the men.

  The sharp sound of shattering glass brought Philip to the front door. “Mister McGowan, sir, is there a problem?”

  “Sorry, Philip.” Bret rested his hand on the shoulder of his old, trusted man’s serving jacket. “Damn squirrels, worse than termites infesting the shed. They chew up the leather seats. I think I hit one on the head with my bottle.”

  Philip glanced at the garage. He raised a gray eyebrow. “Uh . . . hmm. Then yo
u should use a squirrel rifle, sir. Easier to aim with.

  “And with the way things are going over at that God forsaken oil field in Beaumont that will end up in the pawn shop soon with everything else.”

  Philip shook his head. “It’s more than money problems putting you in such a pucker.”

  “Parties remind me too much about the way things used to be . . . things I try to forget.”

  Philip stepped across the creaking wood planks and leaned on the railing beside Bret. “May I speak frankly, sir?”

  Bret smiled. “And if I say ‘no’?”

  “As you wish, sir.”

  Bret squeezed the butler’s shoulder. “I’m pulling your leg, Philip. You know I respect your opinion on these matters.”

  “Then best you leave the earth covering Jean Lafitte’s treasure for the time being and get yourself ready for your guests, sir. If the oil is there, like you say, it sure isn’t going anywhere soon.”

  Bret laughed and ran his fingers through his hair.

  “And, sir, if I may say so. Go to town tomorrow and get yourself a natty haircut, hot shave, and a new suit, like you promised. You show up at your own party looking like that and folks will think you’re the pirate’s ghost come looking for his gold.”

  Philip adjusted his cufflinks. “That’s not the way to impress the Mr. Caldwell or Colonel Hayes and his friends. They’re the only ones who get things done in this part of the state, like the seawall and your precious oilfield.”

  “Thank you, Philip. I always seem to profit equally from your honesty and your manners. And what do you think of this Doctor Hellreich everyone is talking about?”

  Philip’s mouth hardened into a straight line. “Educated men sure like to use a lot of fancy, frilly words to hoodwink plain folks into doing what they want, and it’s usually someone else who’s made to suffer for it. I’d stay clear away from that one if I were you, Mr. McGowan.”

  Bret scratched the side of his forehead. “Something about him intrigues me, but I can’t put my finger on it. All I know about him is what I’ve read in the papers.”