So instead, Sam retraced his steps and returned to the chair and sat. “I’m listening.”
“Very well. In light of the guilt Mr. Bolen felt over the reduced circumstances of the Austin family—”
“Spare the sentiment, please.”
The lawyer’s bushy brows rose. “Yes, of course.” With slow and precise movements, he straightened the corners of the pages in front of him, removed his spectacles, and then folded his hands. “In precisely one hour I will meet with Miss Bolen to inform her of the terms of her father’s will. She will understandably be distraught.”
Sam allowed the lawyer’s statement to go without comment. After a moment, Mr. Breaux’s expression softened.
“It is my understanding that your father is still living. Am I correct?”
“You are.”
“Your younger brother, Joseph, is a professor at Tulane, and you are a captain of certain vessels of trade that ply the Orient routes. You are a close family who lives by modest means.”
Sam shifted positions. “I prefer not to discuss anything other than the terms of this will.”
“Fair enough,” he said. “I mention these things merely to remind you that a great loss of fortune does not necessarily mean a loss in the quality of life.”
“Mr. Breaux, I am confused. You’ve just warned me that I could be committing Miss Bolen to poverty while reminding me that the poverty her father committed us to wasn’t so bad after all. Are you now saying that the Bolen woman losing her fortune is not so awful?”
“I am saying that I believe Mr. Bolen saw something in the Austin family that he did not have in his own family. He and his daughter were, to put it mildly, not particularly close.”
Again Sam let the silence fall between them.
Finally the lawyer cleared his throat. “This brings me to my next point: should you accept Mr. Bolen’s gift of Bolen Shipping, you are expressly forbidden from using any of the funds associated with the company to assist May Bolen in any way.”
So Bolen had been every bit the heartless man Father claimed he was. Sam opened his mouth to respond, but the lawyer held his hand up to silence him.
“Should you feel compelled to assist Miss Bolen, there is one important exception to this clause in the will.”
Sam inhaled deeply then let out a long breath. “All right. What is it?”
“She must become your wife.”
He laughed. “Not likely, sir.”
Mr. Breaux shrugged. “I do understand, but should you change your mind, I must inform you that Miss Bolen can never be told of the terms of her father’s will.”
“Then you’re going to have an awfully short meeting with her in an hour.”
The lawyer sat back in his chair and toyed with the edges of his stack of papers. “What I tell Miss Bolen is scripted entirely from what her father wishes her to know. She will be informed that the fortune will be going elsewhere pending certain conditions. Only you and I will know whether it goes to you or to charity. It will not be an easy meeting for either of us.”
“Let me get this straight,” he said as he leaned forward. “I either accept ownership of Bolen Shipping or I allow it to be sold for charity. Also, I either marry May Bolen or I allow her to become a charity case, and I cannot tell Miss Bolen any of this.”
“That is correct,” he said. “Of course, once you’re married, should you choose that option, you are free to inform her that you’re Bolen Shipping’s new owner.”
Married to a Bolen. He couldn’t even imagine it.
And yet he knew what poverty did to a person.
Sam rose. “You’ve given me plenty to think about. My first inclination is to walk out of this office and forget any part of this conversation ever happened.”
“I would not blame you, sir. The Austin family has been treated most unfairly by Mr. Bolen in the past.” He paused. “There’s just one more thing, though.”
“What is that?”
“You have thirty days to decide whether to accept the terms of the will. On the thirty-first day from today, liquidation of Bolen Shipping will begin and Miss Bolen will become a pauper.”
“What is stopping me from striking a deal with Miss Bolen? Who will know?”
Mr. Breaux smiled. “You will know, Mr. Austin, and I suspect your conscience would not allow it.” He paused. “However, marriages have been built on far less.”
One hour later
“Miss Bolen, thank you for coming. I know you’ve made a long journey from New York City, and I do appreciate that you’ve made yourself available today.”
May offered her father’s attorney her most polite smile. “I was made to understand this was a matter of the utmost importance, as was the requirement that I see you today rather than delay.”
Though this airless room with its hideous drapes and old-fashioned furniture was not where she wished to be at the moment, she nevertheless did not indicate her displeasure to the older man seated across the desk. It simply was not done.
A lady was gracious at all times—this she learned at her mother’s knee. At the thought of her mother, May sat up a bit straighter. Good deportment as well as good posture were the guiding principles of her childhood, and the string of governesses and finishing schools that followed only served to reinforce these teachings.
Mr. Breaux lifted his spectacles to his rather narrow face and turned his attention to the stack of papers before him. These were fresh papers, crisp and white and not at all like the yellowed and curled-at-the-edges documents her father kept in his library at the home on Chartres Street.
Though he appeared about to begin reading, the attorney lifted his attention to catch her gaze over his spectacles. “First allow me to offer condolences on the loss of your father on this, the first anniversary of his death.”
May fixed her attention on the oversized painting of the Battle of New Orleans above the fireplace behind him. Though several responses occurred to her, she settled for a simple word of thanks. Anything else might have ventured into the area of untruth. For as much as she was flesh and blood of the man, she knew very little of who he had been, for they’d neither lived under the same roof nor spoken more than a few words since he’d paid a visit to Mama in New York City more than a decade ago.
This she believed was intentional on her father’s part, for she’d heard enough from the few others willing to speak of Thomas Bolen to know he was a difficult man at best and a terrible one at worst. Mama remained silent on the subject, though it was the only subject upon which she held her tongue.
“I know it must be difficult contemplating life without your father,” May heard him say, drawing her attention back to this room, to this conversation. “I do hope you will call on me should you find yourself in need of any advice or assistance that might have once come from your father.”
A lady must remain unruffled and kind despite any unpleasant situation, she recalled as she punctuated Mr. Breaux’s statement with a slight lift of the corners of her mouth. To call it a smile would be unfair, but she did make the attempt.
“Mr. Breaux,” she said evenly, “I do appreciate your offer, but considering I never called on my father for anything during his lifetime, I doubt I will be availing myself of your generous offer.”
“Yes, well, I suppose we should get on with it, then. I should tell you before we begin that your father has been quite specific in what I am to tell you. He does allow in his instructions that I can either read this word for word or I can summarize his wishes in more understandable terms. Which do you prefer?”
Best not to prolong this visit. The sooner her father’s affairs were put in order, the sooner she could return home to New York City. “Summarize please.”
“Yes, of course.” He returned his attention to the document in front of him, shifting a page from the bottom of the stack to the top. “Apparently Mr. Bolen anticipated you would say that, because he has provided a summary, and it is this: Bolen Shipping will be liquidated a
nd its proceeds given to charity unless you take steps to prevent this.”
“What?” she managed with the last of her breath. “But that will render my mother and me …”
She could not say it.
Could not imagine it.
In a breath, she went numb.
“Penniless?” Mr. Breaux supplied. At her nod, he said, “Yes, quite, although there is another option that might mitigate the problem.”
“Do explain then.” May blinked back tears she refused to allow.
He sat back in his chair and steepled his hands. “You could marry.”
May shook her head, and with that action some of the numbness fell away. “Marry?”
“Yes, you know. Wed?” He leaned forward again and his chair creaked, the only sound in the room louder than the pounding of May’s heart. “Miss Bolen, I have been instructed to tell you that your father’s will allows that you will regain access to your father’s accounts if you have a husband.”
“Well then,” she said upon an exhale of breath as hope dawned. This time her smile was quite genuine. “That’s quite different than being disinherited altogether. I merely must wed.”
She’d certainly had her share of offers, so accepting one of them would not be the worst thing to happen. Given time, May knew she could decide upon a groom who might suit her purpose.
“You have thirty days,” the attorney added. “Thirty-one days from today, the process of selling off the company assets will begin and all financial accounts will be frozen.”
“Thirty days? That is ridiculous. No woman of quality could be married in such a short time. There would be questions. Society would shun me, not to mention what my mother would do. It simply isn’t done.”
“I do understand,” he said gently, “and might I suggest that a quiet civil marriage might suffice to complete the requirements of your father’s will? A more fitting public ceremony could be planned for a later date and no one in society would be any wiser. I’m sure your mother would prefer that to …” He paused and seemed to consider his words. “Well, to the alternative.”
“Yes,” she said slowly as she began to consider her options. Teddy Vanderwellen certainly might be convinced to go along with such a plan, as would either of the Campbell twins.
In any case, Mama would never fare well should either of them be forced to live by their wits.
“Miss Bolen, might I interrupt your thoughts to interject one more important piece of information before I end our time together?”
“Yes, of course,” she said as she made a mental note to add that handsome viscount who’d pursued her with a string of ardent letters over the past few years to her list of options. If he were to agree to some sort of marriage by proxy, her problems might be solved.
“There is one important condition attached to the identity of your husband.” He paused. “You must have Samuel Austin III’s permission in writing in order to marry.”
“I’m sorry.” She leaned forward, palms on her knees. “Exactly who is Samuel Austin III?”
Chapter Two
One week later
The New Orleans docks at the Mississippi River smelled every bit as awful as May had been warned. A brisk north wind swept down the levee at Canal Street, carrying not only the chill warning of an unseasonably cool day but also the putrid scent of overripe produce, rotting fish, and unwashed bodies.
May tucked her reticule closer to her and picked up her pace as she shrugged closer into her woolen wrap. Though anyone who knew her back home in New York City would be shocked at her unseemly display of haste, there was little chance of recognition here as she hurried toward her destination.
She’d tried this walk just yesterday and had turned around before she reached her destination. Today, however, telegrams offering marriage from Teddy Vanderwellen and both Campbell twins were tucked into her reticule along with a letter of approval for one of them—which he chose did not matter—that Mr. Austin merely had to sign. With just over three weeks left to find a solution, May could not afford to allow her disgust of this vile place to keep her from reaching the man who could set her free from it all.
Stepping over a thick rope, she pointedly ignored the stares of a group of ruffians, who ought to have been minding their work, by returning her attention to the line of vessels tied to the ramshackle docks. Here stacks of cotton, barrels, and crates were lined up higher than May’s head, and more just like them were being unloaded all down the docks.
All around her, throngs of persons of questionable background scurried off and on these ships, making for a chaotic walk down the narrow boards that passed for a sidewalk. To make matters worse, black clouds had begun to gather overhead and a rumble of thunder rolled past.
She had paid the detective well for the information, so Mr. Austin’s vessel had better be where he claimed. Things would have been much easier if Mr. Breaux had simply answered her question regarding the identity of the man Father put in charge of determining her future.
But no. The attorney could only tell her what Father allowed him to say. And apparently Father had anticipated with great glee the difficulty it would take to acquaint herself with Samuel Austin III.
However, he had not anticipated May’s ability to achieve whatever goal she set after. Just another example of how her father hadn’t known her at all. She was just as at fault, for had she taken the time to be a proper daughter to him, she might have anticipated this debacle and somehow prevented it.
She stepped into a smear of something slimy and skidded toward a wall of cotton bales. A man stepped in between her and the bales, allowing her to slam into his generously broad shoulders rather than the wall of cotton.
Arms that felt more like bands of steel caught her and held her upright. May looked up into a pair of sea-green eyes fringed by thick black lashes. He wore a workingman’s shirt and trousers and had bound his dark hair back with a length of leather, reminding May of the pirates in children’s storybooks.
This was no pirate, of course. Their ilk was long gone from the Louisiana waters. And this man, though rugged, bore only a small crescent-shaped scar on his right cheek. Her gaze lifted from the scar back up to his eyes.
Slowly one dark brow lifted. He then released her without a word, though his eyes still held her.
May knew she should return to an errand much more important than anything else, but she remained still. Took just a moment longer to study the curve of his jaw beneath the stubble of a beard and the fullness of his lips as they formed a smile.
“Mademoiselle, you have found me.”
She matched his smile and then realized how foolish she must seem. “I must be going,” she muttered then made her escape.
A few minutes later, May came to a stuttering halt. There it was, the battered wooden hull of the Vengeance wedged between a more elegantly sleek sailing ship and an overloaded merchant vessel that looked as if it would sink under the weight of its cargo.
This was the home of the man who held her destiny—and the purse strings to her father’s accounts—in his hands. What had Father been thinking?
She knew the answer to that question, of course. He’d been thinking that he would take one last opportunity from beyond the grave to voice his displeasure by saddling her with an impossible situation. And not just her, but her mother.
A lady does not dwell on the unpleasant. May straightened her backbone even as she felt the eyes of nearby dockworkers on her.
Though she had been informed the vessel was not the most luxurious, she had not been prepared for its current state of dishabille. Like its owner, the detective had warned.
The down-on-its-luck Vengeance bore traces of a former glory in the ornately carved woman decorating the prow and the glints of gold paint on the masts. Three masts pointed skyward, though the centermost of the trio appeared to have been recently repaired.
May paused to consider whether the boat was seaworthy. While it wasn’t the most unpleasant ship rocking at ancho
r, it was by no means a vessel she would willingly board under any other circumstance. But she boarded it now, striding up the makeshift gangplank as if she owned the miserable thing.
Bolen Shipping likely owned a number of the ships surrounding this one and all down the river, though May never cared to step aboard any of them. If her mission here went well, perhaps she never would have to.
If she failed …
“No,” she said under her breath as she held tight to the reticule that held her key to a future outside of this wretched city. “I simply cannot fail.”
Glancing around the deck, May thought the vessel unattended until she spied something moving beneath a mildewing pile of burlap.
May reached over to pick up a length of wood off a stack near the burlap. Wielding the stick, she poked at the burlap, and the movement ceased.
Then she spied the fingers reaching out from beneath the fabric.
She hadn’t recognized him. That was the only explanation for the Bolen woman’s behavior.
From his vantage point on the docks, Sam had spied May Bolen heading toward him well before she nearly landed in the cotton bales. Thanks to her father’s will, at the top of the list of trouble Sam inherited along with the family name was the slip of a woman boarding his ship as if she owned it and the entire Canal Street docks.
Of course, rich girls like her were taught from the cradle how to walk like that. How to assume the world and everything in it were theirs for the taking.
After the Bolen woman’s first attempt to walk the length of the docks yesterday, something a woman of her quality should never have done, he had made it known the striking brunette was not to be accosted. The warning served to reduce the usual abuse a female might have endured to something akin to lecherous stares.
She wore yellow that day. Today she had chosen a gown of pale blue, and given the fact her nose was in the air, she was likely oblivious to the smears of mud decorating her hemline.
Sam gave her another long look and thought of how she felt in his arms. If she weren’t a Bolen, she might have been worthy of more than just a second look. But she was a Bolen, and she must know that he held her future in his hands.
Of Rags and Riches Romance Collection Page 15