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

by Cindy Caldwell

  She opened her eyes just in time to see another bolt of lightning, so close that she could almost feel the heat. In the bright light, her eyes flew wide open as the horses reared and whinnied, the driver unable to calm them.

  As the horses bolted and the driver lost the reins, she didn’t know what else to do but scream, “Pierre!”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Pierre sat bolt upright in his bed and looked around. It must have been just dawn, but as a bolt of lightning lit his room, he saw the dark clouds and the rain that had closed in overnight.

  He stood and reached for his clothes, dressing hastily. He pulled on his boots and jacket and leaned against the windowsill, feeling the clap of thunder reverberate through the wood of the house.

  Had he really heard Josephine scream his name? He’d thought that’s what had woken him, but it could just have easily been the thunder.

  The thunder. She was terrified of thunder, and this was even louder--the storm closer--than the other day. He shrugged on his coat, wanting to check on her, but stopped with his hand on the latch.

  He’d done it again--said something ridiculous and hurt her feelings. What was wrong with him? All he knew was that he had very little experience with things like “feelings” and had shut them off years ago.

  Now that he thought he might actually welcome some, they were hidden so deeply that he couldn’t understand them, and certainly couldn’t share them. He thought of Josephine’s dazzling smile, and knew he wanted to try--to see if maybe she could help him, as she’d helped him already. See if he might really be capable of a true relationship--one like his parents had had. If she still wanted that, however, after he’d made such an ass of himself.

  Lightning lit the room and he braced himself for the thunder that would follow. Louder than he could remember ever having heard before, it jolted through him, leaving his ears ringing for a moment.

  He opened the door and headed toward Josephine’s room, certain she must be terrified. He wanted to be with her, hold her, tell her it was just lightning and that he would protect her.

  As he approached her door, he wondered if he should call Bernadette. He really shouldn’t be knocking on her door alone--even if they were to be married. And what if she was asleep.

  Another clap of thunder convinced him that she couldn’t possibly asleep--and was more likely hiding under the bed. He smiled at the thought, and had no hesitation in knocking now.

  He knocked twice, and once more for good measure. He frowned at the silence in return and looked both ways, up and down the hall, before he pressed the latch. They were betrothed, after all, and all he wanted to do was help her.

  Opening the door slowly, he peeked his head in, hoping that he wouldn’t embarrass Josephine as he had already, many times. He threw the door wide when he saw the empty room, the bed made and curtains drawn. Where could she have gone?

  “Pierre, what’s going on here,” his father said as he rushed into the room. “You shouldn’t even be in Josephine’s--”

  “It doesn’t matter now, Father. She’s gone.”

  His father frowned. “What do you mean she’s gone? Where did she go?”

  “I don’t know where she’s gone. Or why.”

  He pushed past his father and raced down the stairs, Mr. Bernard following close behind.

  Pierre’s heart pounded in his chest as he threw open the front door and shielded his eyes from the driving rain. He hadn’t made arrangements for any transportation, and certainly she wouldn’t have lit out on foot in this storm. Even if she wasn’t terrified of thunder, he didn’t think even she would want to leave in that much of a hurry, for any reason at all.

  “Maybe Jerome knows where she’s gone, Pierre, or Bernadette for that matter,” Mr. Bernard said, his arm around his son’s shoulders. “Just because she wasn’t in her room doesn’t mean she’s gone. She could be in the kitchen.”

  “No, Father. I heard her. I heard her call my name.”

  Mr. Bernard shook his head as he patted Pierre’s shoulder. “Son, maybe you were dreaming...”

  “Look, there. A carriage,” Pierre shouted as he ran down the stairs of the porch and out into the driving rain. He watched as a driverless carriage careened around the corner, sliding in the mud and almost toppling before racing toward the plantation house.

  The exhausted horses stopped near the stable to the left of the house and Pierre raced to follow. A foot dangled from the carriage and as he approached, his stomach dropped, hoping with all his heart it wasn’t Josephine.

  He stopped short as he reached the buggy, his heart in his throat as he saw the young driver rubbing his forehead as his eyes fluttered open.

  “Where have you been? What happened?”

  He sat up slowly, rubbing his forehead. “I must have hit my head, Monsieur. I’m terribly sorry.”

  “But why were you out here to begin with,” Pierre said, holding himself back from grabbing the boy by the collar and shaking information out of him.

  The young man looked around slowly. “She was right here a minute ago.”

  “Who?” Pierre lost his patience as panic tore through him. He’d been driving a woman. Josephine?

  “The young lady, the one who’d just arrived. We were headed toward the docks. The horses got spooked by the lightning--hit almost next to us, I swear it did.”

  “And what happened to the young lady?” Pierre shoved his hands in his pockets to keep himself from shaking the words out faster.

  The young man turned around and looked in the buggy. “I don’t know, Monsieur. She was here a minute ago.”

  Pierre hung his head and swore. If the buggy had lurched enough or slid deeply in the mud, she could have been thrown out when the driver hit his head. The horses would have returned home without guidance.

  “Which way were you headed, son?” Pierre said calmly, knowing what he had to do.

  The boy flinched at the lightning and again at the thunder that followed closely.

  “That way.” He pointed down the road he and Josephine had taken the other day, and Pierre hoped that they hadn’t gotten too far.

  “Thank you. Please ask Bernadette to see to your head,” Pierre said over his shoulder as he raced into the stables. He saddled and bridled his horse as quickly as he could and the horse whinnied at a clap of thunder as Pierre led him out into the driving rain.

  “It’s all right, boy. We can’t leave her out there all alone.”

  He swung his leg over the saddle and dug his heels into the side of his fastest horse, hoping he wasn’t too late to save Josephine.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  “Ah, mon Dieu,” Bernadette cried as Pierre kicked the front door open, Josephine unconscious in his arms.

  “I’m taking her to her room. Bring hot water for a bath. She’s shivering. And call for Harriet,” Pierre said as he bounded up the stairs.

  “Oh, thank God,” Mr. Bernard said as he threw open the door to Josephine’s room and followed Pierre inside. “What happened?”

  Pierre gently placed Josephine on the bed, untying her bonnet and easing it over her damp hair. He sat on the side of the bed and pulled out his handkerchief, wiping mud from her beautiful cheeks. He shuddered at the thought of where he’d found her, lying on the side of the road.

  “I don’t know what happened, Father. She’s been unconscious since I found her. She was in the mud at the side of the road.”

  “Why would she go out in a storm like this?” his father asked, his eyes wide as he rubbed the back of his neck. “What could possibly have possessed her? And why is she wearing that horrible dress?”

  Pierre looked up at his father and shook his head. “You know as much as I do, Father. Right now, all I want to know is that she’s all right, and that she wakes up.”

  His father rested his hand on Pierre’s shoulder. “I know, son. I’m sorry.”

  “Hello, Pierre,” Harriet said as she walked in with a pail of hot water, Bernadette close behind her wit
h two more.

  “Oh, I’ll go fetch more,” Mr. Bernard said.

  “And you also, Pierre,” Bernadette said as she unbuttoned Josephine’s coat and Harriet worked on unbuttoning her shoes.

  “No, I’m not leaving.” Pierre stood in the center of the room with his arms folded across his chest.

  Bernadette sighed and reached for an envelope that was tucked under the lamp on the nightstand. She turned it over in her hands and shrugged her shoulders, stuffing the letter in the pocket of her apron.

  She crossed the room to Pierre and turned him around, gently pushing him toward the door. “Harriet is our best, you know that. There’s nothing you can do right now. We’ll let you know if a doctor is needed, but right now we need to get her into a warm tub. And you need to leave.”

  Pierre looked from Bernadette to Harriet, who smiled at him reassuringly. His gut tightened, but he knew from experience that if anyone on the plantation could help in an emergency like this, it would be Harriet. He nodded toward her gratefully and left, closing the door behind him.

  His father reached the top of the stairs with two buckets of water. “I think this should be enough, shouldn’t it?” he asked Bernadette as she opened the door a sliver, reached for the bucket and pulled them inside.

  “Yes, it is. Mr. Bernard, would you go make some coffee, please?” Bernadette said as she shut the door.

  Pierre’s father stiffened and his eyes went wide. He stuck his thumbs in the pockets of his vest and cocked his head, looking at Pierre. “I suppose I can do that. Can’t I?” he asked Pierre.

  Pierre clapped his father on the back. “Thank you very much. I’d like to stay here.”

  Mr. Bernard nodded as he turned toward the stairs. “Of course you would, my boy. That’s what any man would do for the woman he loves.”

  Pierre stiffened and stopped in his tracks. Loved? Is that what this was? No, it couldn’t be. He didn’t know how. But how else could this be explained--this panic, concern, terror that he might never see her again?

  He paced outside the door to her room, not sure what to do, his knuckles clenched tightly behind his back. Back and forth he walked, all the while wishing Bernadette would hurry, come out and tell him if they needed a doctor or not.

  The stairway had seemed to last forever as he’d carried her up to her room, her body limp and cold in his arms. When Bernadette had asked him to leave and shooed him out of the room, he stood for a moment, his heart tugging at him to stay. What he’d said to Josephine when he’d last seen her was horrible, especially after all she’d tried to do for them, and he desperately wanted to apologize--to explain that he’d not loved since his mother died. And he didn’t know how.

  His father appeared at the top of the stairs, carrying a tray of coffee cups, the coffee pot teetering a bit until Pierre reached out and took it from him.

  “Thank you, Father,” Pierre said, grateful that his father was there but not quite sure what to say at this point. Should he tell him the truth? He’d been kind and supportive--as he usually was--and a pang of guilt shot through him, regret that he’d felt he needed to be dishonest.

  “Father, I--” Pierre began, but he turned abruptly toward Josephine’s door as it opened and Bernadette walked through, followed by Harriet.

  “Bernadette. Is she...should we...”

  She held up her hands to stop him and reached for his elbow, her smile wide as she pulled him toward the door.

  “She is awake, thank God. She needs to get in the bath, but refuses to until she sees you.”

  Pierre breathed a sigh of relief and hung his head for a moment, saying a silent prayer of thanks.

  “And the cafe au lait will be just the thing for her,” Harriet said, smiling softly at Pierre as she rested her hand on his arm for a moment.

  “You did bring warm milk, didn’t you, Mr. Bernard?” Bernadette asked, winking at Pierre.

  “Of...of course I did,” Mr. Bernard sputtered. “What kind of Frenchman do you think I am?”

  Harriet held the door open for Pierre and he straightened. Clearing his throat, he said, “Thank you, all of you,” before he entered and Harriet closed the door behind him.

  His heart lurched when he saw Josephine--her face almost white as she leaned against the headboard, pillows tucked behind her. She still wore her drab, gray dress but to him, she looked beautiful, her wet hair lying gently beside her face.

  “Josephine, Bernadette says you need to be in the bath, to get warm,” Pierre said, turning his back to hide his concerned face. He poured a cup of coffee and added warm milk, turning and handing her the cup and saucer as he sat on the side of her bed.

  She reached for the cup and sipped, her eyes closing for a moment before she looked up at him from under her lashes.

  “Bernadette tells me that you saved me. Is this true?” She set the cup on its saucer and placed them both on the nightstand beside her.

  “Yes, it’s true. I found you on the side of the road, unconscious.” He reached for her hands but sat back as she pulled them away.

  “I do appreciate you saving my life, but I don’t understand why you would.”

  He stood and took a step back. “Why would you say such a thing?” His stomach lurched. He knew he’d said some unkind things, and he was utterly inept at speaking about feelings. He wanted to apologize but--this? How could she possibly think he’d have left her out in the rain and mud? And he didn’t even know why she’d gone in the first place.

  Josephine looked away and tears glistened on her lashes. “I had to leave. I had no choice.”

  Pierre’s head reeled. What had he done to make her feel this way? Certainly his unkind words couldn’t have been enough to make her leave.

  He sat down on the side of the bed, refusing to let her hand go as he reached for it again.

  “Josephine, why? I don’t understand? What happened to make you feel this way?”

  She looked down, tears now spilling down her cheeks.

  “It is done. I can say no more,” she said before tugging her hand away and looking at the window.

  He stood and rubbed the back of his neck and stared at Josephine--his beautiful Josephine.

  “I’ll get Bernadette now. She’d like you to take a bath. Please do as she says, Josephine.”

  He opened the door and ushered Bernadette and Harriet inside, shrugging his shoulders at Bernadette’s raised eyebrows. She frowned and shut the door behind her.

  He leaned up against the door. Something had happened after he’d seen her last. Their kiss, while ill advised, was--well, he could still feel her warm lips on his. He refused to believe that she didn’t want him, wouldn’t stay.

  But there was some reason she’d left in the carriage. Someone had to have arranged it--and he knew how he could find out who it was.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Pierre pulled up the collar of his coat and shoved his hands in his pockets as he strode out of the stables. The driver had come around, his hands held to a fire with a cup of coffee nearby.

  He’d looked confused when Pierre had asked who had ordered the carriage to take the young lady to the docks. “Why, you did, Monsieur.”

  Pierre frowned and pinched his nose. He had to get to the bottom of this and his patience was wearing thin. Josephine could have lost her life and he needed to know who was responsible.

  “It wasn’t me. Perhaps you are mistaken,” Pierre said to the young man.

  The young man smiled and rubbed his hands together. “No mistake, Monsieur. Mr. Jerome was very clear that you wanted the carriage ready and waiting at dawn, and to take the young mademoiselle directly to the docks.”

  Pierre stiffened, his mind going blank for a moment. Jerome? Why would Jerome have ordered the carriage...and tell the driver that it was on his behalf?

  He reached the house and raced up the opposite stairs, toward the west wing. He banged on Jerome’s door and paced back and forth before banging again. Tired of waiting, he threw open the door and st
epped inside.

  Jerome looked up, startled as he set a pile of ledgers he was holding over to one side. He cleared his throat and stood next to the desk in his room, ledgers stacked on each side.

  “Jerome, I need to talk to you. About Josephine,” Pierre said, his arms folded across his chest.

  “Oh, yes. Josephine.” Jerome shook his head and set his pen down on the desk. “What a shame.”

  “A shame? That’s what you call almost getting killed?”

  Jerome frowned and ran his hand through his hair. “Almost killed? What are you talking about?”

  Pierre paced, his hands behind his back. “What are you talking about, Cousin?”

  “I...I’d heard that she’d left. Something about not feeling worthy.”

  “Oh? She told you that?”

  “I meant to mention it to you, but I’ve been busy,” Jerome said as he gestured to the desk.

  “What are you doing with those?” Pierre said as he crossed the room in three long strides, his fists clenched at his sides.

  “Oh, these?”

  Pierre reached behind the lamp and picked up a ledger. “Yes, these. The plantation account ledgers.”

  “We’d discussed me helping you, cousin. I was just going through the numbers, trying to find out what was happening.”

  Jerome tried to stop him, but Pierre reached over to the other side of the desk, holding two ledgers, one in each hand. He walked over to the bed and laid them out, turning pages of each one at the same time.

  He stood and turned to Jerome, his hands fisted at his side. “Trying to change what was happening is more like it. Or what I thought was happening.”

  Jerome tried to laugh, but it came out as sort of a weak simper. He folded his arms over his chest. “What do you mean? Everything I’ve done has been in your best interest, Pierre.”

  Pierre’s blood boiled and he took the two strides toward his cousin, taking a lapel in each hand and drawing him closer. “My best interests? I don’t think so.”