Jerome set her bag by a door just at the top of the stairs and turned to her, cocking his head to one side. “Yes, it’s lovely. Didn’t you say you’d been raised in similar circumstances, and have a thorough knowledge of the French language and culture?”
Her heart leapt to her throat. She knew she shouldn’t have listened to Michelle. They’d both thought maybe she could be a good match--she remembered French and a couple of recipes--but this? This was something she’d never experienced before.
She decided if she was in for a penny, she may as well be in for a pound. And she hadn’t even met her future husband yet, so she wasn’t going to give up this easily. “I...I am very familiar with French food, the language and culture, Monsieur,” she said in French, trying very hard not to wrinkle her nose at him.
“Might I ask why you considered this proposition my cousin made to you? What is it that you’re seeking here?” Jerome leaned against the doorjamb and folded his arms across his chest.
Josephine took a step backward, surprised by his impertinent question and tone of voice. Didn’t Pierre send for her? Why else would she have come--except for the fact that she had nowhere else to go? Could this man know that?
She straightened her shoulders and looked Jerome squarely in the eye. “I was sent for, as you know, by Pierre. Why else would I have come?”
“I am not sure that you do not have ulterior motives, my dear,” Jerome said in French.
Just as if she’d never stopped speaking the language, Josephine replied--also in French--in as crisp a tone as she could muster, “I have come to help my future husband in any way that he needs me to. I am hoping that someday, we may have a real marriage and be partners.”
Jerome’s eyebrows shot up. She wondered if he had been surprised that she actually did understand and speak French.
“Partners? Pierre has no use for partners. He has me to help him with the plantation. And rest assured it will be a marriage in name only.” He opened the door, picked up her valise and threw it on the bed. “Your room.”
She frowned as he walked out the door. “What did I ever do to you?” she asked out loud after he’d closed the door behind him.
Shaking off the bad feelings Jerome had left her with, she looked around--it surely was the most beautiful room she’d ever seen. Light, white sheers floated in the breeze from the open windows, hung with beautiful blue satin drapes on the sides. The four-poster bed with a white satin coverlet was so tall that there was a footstool beside it. She climbed the steps, turned around and fell back onto the bed, sinking in its downy softness.
Chapter Six
Josephine’s eyes fluttered at the soft knock on the door. She stretched on the bed and as she sat up, her eyes flew wide open and her heart raced as it took a moment to realize where she was. Oh, yes. Louisiana. On a plantation. Going to marry someone she’s never met.
She reached her foot out to the step stool and climbed down from the bed. She crossed over to the door and opened it, pulling it wide open as Bernadette waved in two young ladies, each carrying two pails of steaming water.
“Oh, a bath. Thank you,” Josephine managed. “I’m afraid I dozed off for a moment.”
Bernadette peered into the big, brass tub situated in the corner of the room, and clucked at the girls as they emptied their pails of water into it. “That certainly doesn’t surprise me, ma cherie. You’ve been traveling for days and I imagine it wasn’t the most pleasant trip.”
The girls finished and Bernadette shooed them and their pails out of the room and shut the door behind them. She turned back toward Josephine, her hands on her hips. “Let me take a look at you.”
Josephine’s eyebrows rose as Bernadette spun her around several times, her honey brown hair spilling out of its pins.
“I believe Pierre will be quite pleased--if he actually looks at you.” Bernadette sighed and wiped some water off of the windowsill where the girls had spilled a bit.
“What do you mean, if he looks at me? I’m presuming he actually wanted a bride.” Josephine crossed to the window and stood beside Bernadette.
“Oh, he does want one. More than that, he needs one.”
Josephine walked to the walnut vanity and took the remaining pins from her hair. As she started to brush it with the beautiful, tortoiseshell comb that had been laying on the vanity she watched in the mirror as Bernadette opened the armor and began to put away the very few items of clothing she’d brought with her. Two dresses, to be exact, in addition to the one she was wearing.
Bernadette sighed as she shook out the dresses and placed them in the wardrobe. “Josephine, did Pierre state in his letter why he needed a bride in such a hurry?”
Now she might get some questions answered and her heart leapt to her throat in anticipation. She’d been wondering for weeks, it seemed, to get this very answer and she turned from the mirror and crossed over to Bernadette.
She glanced again at her scuffed, worn shoes and hoped that Bernadette hadn’t noticed that they were the only pair she had. “No, he didn’t. He did say that it was important that his new wife speak French and be familiar with French culture and sophisticated society.”
“Yes. I’m sure he did.”
Bernadette opened a door of the cupboard beside the vanity. She pulled out a towel and some soap that Josephine could smell from where she was standing...and the scent was heavenly. Her bones felt heavy and tired, and as much as she wanted to hear about her future husband, she wanted a bath more and could barely take her eyes from the steaming hot water that she longed to step into.
Bernadette looked from Josephine to the tub, laughing as she set the towel and soap on the bench of the vanity and scooted it over to the tub. “I see this is not the best time to keep your full attention. Enjoy your bath, and I’ll be up later when supper is ready.”
Josephine snapped out of her spell for a moment and turned to the kind housekeeper.
“Oh, I would be happy to help cook.”
Bernadette cocked her head to one side and folded her arms over her chest. “That is usually my responsibility, but I would be happy to have you in the kitchen--if you choose. It is not something that will be expected of you here. Normally, ladies leave that to the servants. But you are welcome if you would like. I’m making lapin tonight and could use the help.”
Josephine’s stomach lurched as she remembered the last time she’d tried to prepare rabbit for her father. He’d been a stickler for French cuisine, even though he’d been in America for several years--or maybe because of that--and her mother had tried to teach Josephine everything she knew about the dishes her father loved. Rabbit had been one of his favorites and the last time she’d tried to make it, the results were disastrous.
She gulped and looked at Bernadette. Jerome had said that it was critical that she be the epitome of all things French. She had, truth be told, fibbed a bit in her response to Pierre, and thought maybe God was trying to punish her by that particular dish being on the menu on her very first night in her new home.
She could think of no way out of it, so she sighed and said, “Please let me know when you start. I’d love to help.”
Bernadette smiled and nodded. “Thank you. I’ll be back in a few hours.”
Josephine hung her head as the door closed behind Bernadette. What had she been thinking? It was going to take a miracle for her to play this role--and she still didn’t even know why it was so important.
She slipped off her dress and dipped her hand in the water, pleased that it was so warm. She eased in and sighed as she leaned back, the tension in her muscles easing. She wiggled her toes and reached for the washcloth and soap Bernadette had laid out for her. As she scrubbed the grime of the journey from her skin and worked the rose-scented suds into her hair, she thought of Michelle. Was her introduction to her new home worrisome for her, too? She hoped not.
She soaked in the tub until her fingers looked like prunes and the breeze from the window sent shivers through her. As she dried h
erself with the soft towel, she began to hum but stopped. Au Claire De La Lune was her mother’s favorite French lullaby and she’d learned it from a friend when she was a young girl. It had always soothed her when her mother sang it, so she supposed it was fitting now.
She continued to hum the familiar lullaby as she fingered the worn cloth of the other two dresses she’d brought with her. She turned slowly in a circle, her eyes drinking in the majestic fabrics and furniture in what was now her room and shook her head as her eyes fell back to her shabby clothing.
She sat on the bench of the vanity, her head falling into her hands. How would she ever convince anyone that she even knew what it meant to be a member of French society, let alone be one?
Sighing once more, she stood, squared her shoulders and reached for what she thought was her nicest dress. She held it in front of her and looked hard at herself in the mirror. There was no turning back now. She would just have to make this work.
Chapter Seven
“Is she here yet?” Pierre tossed a coin on the mahogany bar and sipped his ale as Jerome sat at a table in the inn.
“She is, my friend. Safely ensconced in the room you wanted her to be in. As far away from yours as possible, I noticed.” Jerome hailed the bartender and motioned that he would like an ale as well.
Pierre leaned his elbows on the table and rubbed his neck. He’d allowed Jerome to convince him that advertising for a mail order bride had been a good idea, but the closer it came to her arrival, the more he’d wondered what he’d been thinking. How could this possibly work? Even if she was a lady, and French at that, how would he explain to his father how they’d met?
But there had been so little time, and Jerome was right--if this was the only way for him to secure his inheritance and save the plantation, then it would have to be so. But he didn’t have to like it.
“Has she been informed regarding the situation?” Pierre cleared his throat, hoping that this new person--Josephine--understood that this was to be a marriage in name only, and nothing was expected beyond her mere presence, and her ability to appease his father’s--or his mother’s, actually--expectation that he be married to a French woman of social stature.
Jerome sat back in his chair and nodded at the bartender as he set his ale in front of him, wiped his hands on his apron and walked back behind the bar.
Pierre’s stomach churned as he waited for more information about his future wife--even the thought sounded ridiculous to him.
A slow smile spread across his cousin’s face. “Yes, she’s been informed regarding the situation, for the most part. I didn’t share with her the reason for your request for a French-speaking bride. She knows nothing about the inheritance and I thought it best that way. Women who seek these positions--marriages, I should say--are frequently in dire straits. And, I might add, it appears that this one may be as well.”
Pierre leaned forward, his eyebrows raised, an unexpected pang in his heart. He hadn’t even met this woman--Josephine--but her correspondence had been clear and she’d seemed eager to relocate to Louisiana. There had been no discussion of dire straits. And he had to admit, the photograph she’d sent accepting his proposal had been remarkable. Pierre had thought she was lovely, which wasn’t necessarily a good thing as he had no intention of having the relationship evolve into anything but an arrangement, for his mother’s sake.
“What do you mean? Dire straits?”
Jerome took a sip of his ale and set it down on the table. “I haven’t spoken to her at length and, granted, she’d just come off a very long and arduous journey, so it would make sense that she’d be a little frazzled.”
“Of course it would...days and days of traveling. I do hope she was all right.”
Jerome waved his hand. “She’s fine, quite fine. And quite pretty, too,” he said as he winked at Pierre.
Pierre scowled at his cousin as heat rose under his collar. This was just a business arrangement and he had no intention of being baited into anything other.
“That is not relevant, what she looks like, and you know it.” Pierre set his mug down with a thud.
Jerome’s eyes twinkled as he grinned. “Now, now. You know that if she’s to take a place in society--you, as well, as we both know you’ve been avoiding it for years--it can only help that she is easy to look at.”
“What, then, is the problem?” Pierre asked as he flagged the bartender.
Jerome cleared his throat and tugged at his sleeve. “When I retrieved her at the dock, along with Bernadette, I noticed that her clothes were--a bit worn. Her shoes were scuffed and dirty, and--”
“We’d just mentioned that she’d had a long trip. Couldn’t those things be attributed to that?”
Jerome nodded at the bartender and took the bill, scanning it as he reached into his pocket. “I suppose that could be, yes, and I don’t imagine that she’d be wearing any finery on the steamboat.”
Pierre nipped the bill from his cousin and shook his head. “This is on me.”
“Pierre--” Jerome started and reached for the paper but Pierre moved his hand behind his back.
“I appreciate your support, but I am not broke--yet--and you have done me a great service today. And thank you for that.”
Jerome shook his head and leaned his elbows on the table. “Thank you, cousin. And while she might not have been wearing her finest on the trip, she brought only one bag with her. And it was very small.”
Pierre looked up at Jerome as he set coins on top of the bill on the table. “Oh?”
“Yes,” Jerome said as he stood and nodded toward the bartender. “She’d said that she had more trunks coming, but I don’t think I believe that.”
Pierre stood and pulled his hands through is black, wavy hair. He grabbed his coat from the back of his chair, shrugged it over his broad shoulders and tugged at his shirtsleeves. “I see. So you believe she is untruthful?”
Jerome held his palms out and shook his head. “I didn’t mean to imply dishonest as much as possibly embarrassed. As yet, we know very little about her circumstances in coming here. Time was of the essence with your father returning shortly, and she did say that she spoke French and was aware of cultural expectations.”
Pierre opened the door for his cousin, inhaling the crisp autumn air of New Orleans. He loved the plantation, but always enjoyed visiting the city and he looked up Bourbon Street at the bustle of activity.
“I suppose she could have had someone else write the bit of French that was in her original letter.” Pierre turned and walked toward his hotel--the one he always stayed in when he had business in town that required more than one day.
“I will say that I investigated that at my earliest opportunity. I could barely get a word in edgewise with Bernadette babbling as she does.”
Pierre laughed. Bernadette had been a fixture in his life as long as he could remember, and truthfully felt more like family to him than servant. “I do understand that. And?”
Pierre looked over at his cousin, patting Jerome on the shoulder. “I’m sorry. This is all a bit much for me to take in. Have we made a mistake? It isn’t too late to send her back where she came from, is it?”
“Pierre, Pierre, you haven’t even met her yet. Please at least wait until you have. We’ll find out more, I’m sure, and we do have a little time as you’ve decided to wait until your father arrives to actually marry her.”
“That seemed the most prudent approach, under the circumstances. After all, there is the inheritance and plantation to think of, and she is a perfect stranger.”
“If it’s any consolation, she does speak French, and with an educated accent, I might add.”
Pierre turned toward the hotel, taking care to walk more slowly. He let out a sigh and shoved his hands in his pockets. “All right, I’ll at least meet her. But you know that I will have very little time to spend with her. I won’t even be back on the plantation to meet her until tomorrow night.”
“I think she may appreciate a night to
rest from the trip, Pierre. Tomorrow is soon enough.”
Pierre stopped and turned to his cousin, extending his hand. He was grateful to Jerome for trying to help him gain his inheritance and help the plantation, but he still wasn’t quite convinced that this was a good idea.
“Thank you, Jerome,” he said as they shook hands. “I appreciate your help. And when you get back to the plantation, will you make my apologies for me, and also ask Bernadette to take this young lady shopping tomorrow for a new wardrobe? She may as well have some decent clothes.”
Jerome’s eyebrows raised and his grin spread. “All right. And don’t forget, her name is Josephine,” he said as he turned and walked toward the buggy.
Chapter Eight
Josephine ran her fingers along the soft, pale green velvet drapes hanging alongside the big window of her room. She’d lain down again after her bath, unable to keep her eyes open after scrubbing herself clean. She hadn’t anything else to do, anyway, while she waited for Bernadette to fetch her to help cook--and she groaned at the prospect of fumbling around in the kitchen.
Jerome had made it very clear that if she wanted to make this arrangement work that she’d need to be able to fit in society, and that Pierre’s father had insisted--although she didn’t know why.
A knot of anxiety had become a permanent fixture in her stomach since she and Jerome had spoken, and as she looked out the window, she found her finger in her mouth, just about ready to bite her fingernail--a habit her mother had joked might be the end of her. She gasped and pulled her finger back, putting it in the pocket of the work apron she’d brought with her.
How would she ever remember little things like that? They actually might be her undoing.
Her body tensed as plumes of dust rose from the end of the drive, the rays of the setting fall sun laying dappled shadows from the willow trees that lined the drive. She placed her hand on her belly and closed her eyes for a moment at the thought that this might be her future husband--and she actually hoped it would be him so she could get past this part of her ordeal.
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