Josephine: Bride of Louisiana (American Mail-Order Bride 18)

by Cindy Caldwell

  With no time left, reached for the closest one--Bernadette had mentioned that they all were lovely on her--and slipped it on. She reached for the matching slippers at the bottom of the wardrobe and slipped those on, too, closing her eyes as they glided on as if they’d always been hers.

  She stood and looked in the mirror, twirling once and smiling at the feel of the full, satin skirts brushing against her, the sound one she’d not heard for a very, very long time. No wonder ladies loved to buy the garments they made in the factory. She clasped her hands together, smiling at her reflection.

  Sitting at the vanity, she brushed her hair, pulling back the top half, piling it into a bun and securing it with the tortoiseshell hairpins Bernadette had insisted she take. She fiddled with some loose strands and decided to leave them, hoping that at least Pierre might find her somewhat attractive, even if their marriage was to be in name only.

  Her stomach flipped as she thought of the beautiful ladies in the shops she and Bernadette had gone into earlier. Even now as she looked at herself, she knew that she was nothing like them. And even in this lovely dress, she still felt...not near as elegant as they were. She’d even noticed a few sideways glances at her, particularly at her dress. They’d all had fans, even in the cooler fall air, and she grabbed the one Bernadette had also insisted she needed, although she had not a clue what to do with it.

  Nothing she could do about that now. With one last glance in the mirror, she pinched her cheeks and bit on her lips a little, hoping that they both might still be pink by the time she got downstairs.

  At the top of the stairs, she gripped the bannister to steady herself as she heard two male voices in the parlor--at least she assumed it was the parlor as she’d had not time yet for a tour of the whole house. She walked down as gracefully as she could, managing to lift her long skirts, the yards of fabric threatening to topple her head over heels. That was the last thing she needed right now.

  She breathed a sigh of relief as she reached the bottom and peeked around the corner, into the room she’d heard voices coming from.

  Tall, thin Jerome stood by the tall window on the far side, the light of the lamps and fire in the hearth casting shadows around the room. In the semi-darkness, Josephine could make out the silhouette of a very tall man, his broad back to her. His long, black coat outlined muscled shoulders and his black, wavy hair fell a bit over his collar. His breeches were tucked into tall, shiny black boots as she’d seen on many of the men in New Orleans, and thought them to be most practical on a farm--or a plantation.

  “As I said, Pierre, this is something that we must--oh, hello, Josephine.” Jerome smiled and he walked toward the door, his elbow extended.

  She stepped into the doorway, struggling past her nerves to force a smile. “Hello, Jerome. How lovely to see you again.”

  She assumed from his bright smile and short bow that she’d said the right thing. She’d heard the ladies in the shops say it to each other in greeting and thought if they said it, so should she.

  “Bon soir, Josephine. You look lovely this evening.”

  She smiled and lowered her eyes, giving him a small curtsy before she took his arm, butterflies now taking flight in her stomach.

  The man talking to Jerome had turned by the time she looked up--up into piercing, blue eyes. Her breath hitched as he studied her silently and blinked hard, a flicker of something passing through his eyes. She’d never seen him before--she was sure she would have remembered such a handsome, tall man.

  “Forgive me,” he said as he shook his head. “I am Pierre Bernard.”

  “Your future husband,” Jerome said as he guided Josephine toward Pierre.

  Pierre shot a glance at his cousin, his eyes narrowing, then turned back to reach his hand out to Josephine. She put hers in his, and when he raised it to his lips, it felt entirely different from when Jerome had done so at the docks. Almost like a flutter of butterfly wings...on the outside along with the ones in her belly.

  She pulled her hand back and curtsied. “And I am Josephine Depardieu. It is a pleasure to meet you, Monsieur.”

  “Please, please, you must call him Pierre. You are to be married.” Now Josephine shot him a glance as he merrily clapped his hands.

  “You must excuse my cousin, Mademoiselle. He is--easily excited. But I must agree, please call me Pierre.”

  Heat crept into her cheeks as her eyes met his. Thank you, Mon...Pierre. Please, call me Josephine.”

  “Isn’t that lovely. You two make a very handsome couple, I must say,” Jerome gushed as he walked toward the door. “I’m starved and you two must be as well. I’m sure supper is ready and it smells delicious.”

  As he disappeared down through the foyer and toward the dining room next to the kitchen, Pierre offered her his arm, and she hesitated a moment then threaded hers through it and he led her into the dining room.

  Bernadette smiled from the corner as she stood by the buffet. Josephine winced as she recognized a couple of the things she’d made the day prior--she’d hoped they wouldn’t end up on anyone’s supper table, let alone Pierre’s.

  Pierre pulled out a chair for Josephine and she smiled up at him, wishing he were smiling back. He wasn’t frowning, exactly, more like observing, watching her every move as he went to his chair at the head of the table. She nodded at Jerome, seated across from her, and remembered to pick up the soft, linen napkin and drape it across her lap--just as her father had taught her.

  She set her fan beside her plate, her eyes growing wide at the assortment of silverware set before her. There were two forks to the left, a spoon and knife to the right and some other things across the top--more spoons? She looked up as Pierre poured some wine into the smaller of the three crystal glasses that sat in front of her--what could they all possibly be for?

  She blinked at all the sparkling cutlery and beautiful dishes and, although overwhelmed, tried to smile up at Bernadette as she set a bowl of soup in front of her. Josephine closed her eyes and leaned over the bowl, inhaling deeply. It hinted at beef, carrots, onions, spices--it smelled delicious, and a far cry from the boiled potatoes and cabbage she’d become so familiar with.

  She opened her eyes to find her hair had fallen into her soup. Why hadn’t she thought to put it all into a chignon, especially now? She removed her hair from the bowl, ran her napkin down the wet strands and set the napkin back on her lap. She looked up to find both Jerome and Pierre staring at her, Pierre’s fingers steepled as he leaned back in his chair. She looked from Pierre to Jerome and back to Pierre, then down at the confusing place setting, not even knowing where to start. This was going to be bad. Very bad.

  Chapter Twelve

  Pierre paced in front of the fireplace in the parlor, his hands behind his back as he waited for his cousin. As the fire warmed him, he shrugged off his coat and hung it on the back of a chair, unbuttoning the cuffs of his shirt and rolling up his sleeves.

  The evening had been an unmitigated disaster. From the very beginning, when her hair fell into her soup, until the end, when she’d spilled her wine, it was evident that if she’d once learned high society table manners, she didn’t know them now. She’d even used her dessert fork to stir her after-dinner coffee.

  He groaned and rubbed the back of his neck. This was impossible. He’d never given a fig for all of these things and actually felt sorry for the poor girl, whose lovely face had become redder by the moment.

  But his father--that was another thing entirely. His father had been raised in France, coming to America as a young man, yes, but steadfastly hanging onto older, more formal ways that he’d become comfortable with in childhood. He even still insisted on the horrifying tradition of sweetbreads--one that almost ensured Pierre would be busy very far out on the plantation when it was served. In fact, he wasn’t particularly fond of French food at all, so appreciated Josephine’s turned up nose at several of the things that had been presented on the table earlier.

  He stopped pacing and held his hands to the
fire, rubbing them together in the cool, evening air. His heart tugged as he remembered the hint of tears in Josephine’s eyes when she’d said good night, hurriedly excused herself and rushed up the stairs.

  He and Jerome had done a fair job of keeping the conversation going, at first asking her about her prior life but then changing the topic when it became painfully clear that the answers she had weren’t good ones. Jerome had cast him several sympathetic glances as they turned the discussion to the plantation and Josephine sat through the rest of the meal in silence.

  “Pierre, I know what you’re thinking...” Jerome said as he rushed in the door.

  “Do you?” Pierre turned from the fire and sat down in the wing-backed chair facing it, his heel crossed over his knee.

  “Well, I think I do. Maybe.” Jerome sat in the chair opposite Pierre and held his hands to the fire.

  “I’ve been waiting for you. Where have you been?” Pierre said, pointing at the dirt on Jerome’s boots.

  Jerome looked down at his feet, his cheeks coloring. “Oh, outside for a bit. Should have taken my boots off.”

  Pierre uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees as he peered into the flames. “You realize this is impossible. It will never work.”

  “Now, Pierre, I thought you might--”

  Pierre stood and crossed his arms over his chest. “I never should have listened to you from the start. This poor girl--how will she feel when she’s sent away? For reasons that don’t even make any sense? Archaic expectations of long ago.”

  Jerome held his palms out to Pierre and took a step forward. “Pierre, listen to me. I realize that the poor girl’s manners aren’t exactly perfect, but--”

  “Perfect?” Pierre cut in, turning back to the fire. “My God, Father would have been aghast when her hair fell into her soup--”

  “And when she dropped her spoon on the floor, picked it up and put it back into her soup--”

  “And then kept eating.”

  “I particularly had a difficult time maintaining my composure when Bernadette served her sweetbreads.”

  “I know, I know. The poor thing--it was all I could do to keep from laughing several times. I might have if she hadn’t looked so incredibly despondent.”

  “What are our options at this point? Isn’t she better than nothing?”

  Pierre ran his hands through his hair. “It would be terribly unkind to her--not to mention unsuccessful--if we attempted to present her to father as a lady of society, let alone a French one.”

  “She does speak French quite well, which you would have seen had she chosen to speak,” Jerome said, shaking his head. “Mon Dieu, what a disaster.”

  Pierre crossed to the bottles of liquor his father always kept on a side table and poured a small glass of Grand Marnier, the new liqueur that Jerome had brought back from Paris. He offered it to Jerome and then poured one for himself.

  He took a small sip of the orange-flavored liquid and closed his eyes as it warmed his tongue. “I see no other option but for her to return to Massachusetts. I can give her enough money for a while to see her through.”

  “See her through what? Until she can find another job?”

  Pierre sat back down by the fire. “I can think of no other way. Keeping her here is not in her best interests, nor ours.”

  Jerome sipped his liqueur and paced behind the chairs. His eyebrows rose and he sat down beside Pierre, leaning toward him. “What if you taught her?”

  Pierre’s head snapped up and he scowled at Jerome. “What? That’s preposterous.”

  “No, it isn’t. Think about it. She’s here, and we have less than two weeks to produce a wife--or at least an option for a wife. No young lady in her right mind, even if she’s thrown herself at you, would entertain the idea at this point. A two-week courtship may as well be blasphemy.”

  Pierre chuckled. “You’re right about that. Even if I wanted that--which I don’t, because they would expect a real marriage--it’s not possible, either. So what, exactly, are you suggesting?”

  Clearing his throat, Jerome said, “I am here to help with the plantation needs. You could take the time before your father comes to help teach Josephine what she would need to know to make this all go away. She’d have a place to stay and you will get your inheritance.”

  Pierre tugged at his sleeve as he stared at the fire. “I suppose--if she’s willing--we could give it a try. If we’re not successful, we could still let her return to her previous life and avoid the embarrassment we’ve actually set her up for.”

  “Exactly,” Jerome said, setting his empty liqueur glass down on the table. “So, you’ll do it?”

  Pierre stood and set his glass down next to Jerome’s. “I’ll consider it--on one condition.”

  “Oh? And what is that,” Jerome said as he turned toward the door.

  “That we tell her the truth, and that she is willing--as we should have done from the beginning.”

  Jerome shook his head as he reached for the door latch. He opened the door and passed through. “I don’t know about that, my friend. Do you trust her? With all that information about the stakes involved here?”

  Pierre looked from his cousin to the fire. “You may be right. I’ll tell her what she needs to know, and decide later about the rest. She seems like a very kind girl, and I can’t in good conscience go forward without her knowledge and consent.”

  Jerome shook his head. “Always the nice one, aren’t you? I think it’s our only option, whether she knows it or not, and you’d be a fool not to take advantage of the opportunity. Besides, she’s pretty easy on the eyes.”

  Pierre frowned as he watched Jerome head up the stairs. His fists clenched as he thought about how cavalier Jerome sounded about the fate of another human being. Without doubt, Josephine was lovely, and had seemed very kind--and more than a little horrified--and certainly had put herself out to try to help him. As he stirred the last embers of the fire so that he could go to bed, he leaned against the mantle, his head resting on his arm.

  As the final red glow disappeared, he turned off the remaining lantern and crossed to the large window that looked out over the plantation. Several lights remained in the houses of the people who counted on him and the plantation for work, food and even friends. The plantation was mostly self-sustaining, and they’d even started a school for the children of the workers.

  Horses grazed under the full moon, their coats glistening in the shadows cast by the rustling branches of the willows.

  The Willows. The only home he’d ever known. He still couldn’t determine why they were not making a profit, but it was real, and he needed his inheritance--at minimum to buy him some time until he could find out what was wrong.

  He sighed and turned to go upstairs. It appeared that Josephine Depardieu was the only one who could help him now.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Josephine stared out the window, as she’d been doing all night. She’d watched the full moon cast shadows from the willow trees as they blew gently in the wind and the horses as they grazed then became still. She counted the lights as they blinked out, one by one, in the small cottages on the plantation that she could see out the window.

  None of that could erase the horrid memory of the evening from her mind. Several times during the night, hot tears had spilled from her eyes and she’d laid her head in her hands.

  Now, as the wispy clouds turned pink, then orange with the new rays of the sun, she couldn’t help but think what would become of her. As much as she wanted to blame Michelle for this disaster, she really could only blame herself. She’d been able to keep her father happy as she learned French and about French food, but she’d had no idea that the requirements of this level of society was so much more than she ever could have imagined.

  Pierre undoubtedly would be asking her to leave soon, and she sat on the bed with her reticule open, dumping its contents on the fluffy white comforter. She counted the few bills and coins and wondered if she had e
nough to get back to Boston. She didn’t think so, but she did think maybe she could get back to Mississippi. Maybe Michelle would let her stay for a while and give her some time to see what she should do.

  She opened the drawers of the vanity and, finding them empty, crossed to one of the nightstands, hoping that she might find some paper and something to write with. Sending a letter to Michelle was her only options, and she wasn’t sure, but she thought maybe Pierre would be kind enough to allow her to stay until she received a response. It shouldn’t take too long as steamboats traveled up and down the river quite frequently.

  Sitting down at the vanity, she cringed at the memory of the look on Pierre’s face--kind, but knowing--and she was grateful that at least neither he nor Jerome had said anything about her unending faux pas. She’d stolen a glance at Bernadette several times and her heart tugged at the pain on her new friend’s face--clearly on Josephine’s behalf.

  She picked up the pen and dipped it in the inkwell.

  Dear Michelle,

  I do hope that you are happy, and that the town you now live in--and your husband--are both treating you well. That is my most ardent wish for you--to be happy.

  I, unfortunately, made a mistake coming here. Contrary to your counsel, I was not able to successfully produce the manners required of a lady of society. What were we thinking? It’s more likely that a frog could become a prince.

  I will be leaving shortly, and am hoping that I might stay with you and your new husband for a while, to give me time to sort this all out. I do realize I am asking a lot from you--and your husband--and if it is inconvenient I do hope you’ll tell me. I believe I can stay here for a while longer until I secure another option.

  I miss you very much and look forward to seeing you at some point.