by Martha Hix
Burke hustled her past Horace. Just inside the foyer, he craned his neck to say, “We’ll give you time to think things over. Of course, you’re invited to the wedding.”
“You would drag my simple-minded daughter into bigamy?”
The mere mention roiled within her. She froze. The tears she’d been able to dam now burst. How had she allowed it to happen, the ruination of her life?
Burke lowered his face and shoved it toward Horace. “Don’t concern yourself with bigamy.”
“You presume rules are made to be broken, O’Brien.”
“I don’t presume a damned thing. I make my own rules.”
As soon as his daughter and her paramour separated from Seymour Hall, Horace folded into his chair, shoved plates aside, and doubled over. “Why didn’t she stay away?”
“She still loves you, sir,” Everton answered, and cleared the abandoned meal to a tea cart.
“Good. Then she’ll hurt as I’ve known hurt.”
“I should imagine you’ll get your wish.”
“Be gone with you, Everton.”
“No, thank you, sir. I promised your father I’d look after you. I’d neglect my duties to his lordship were I to leave you alone to grieve.” Everton stuck a dish of mints under Horace’s nose. “Do have a sweet, sir.”
“Jailer. Nanny!” Horace gobbled a candy, loathing his father’s spy.
“You should think twice before speaking, sir. Such as last December, when his lordship arrived to our surprise. You shouldn’t have said those low things about Miss Susan.”
“Father blamed me for leading her astray.”
“You are to blame. If you hadn’t settled here in this nefarious city simply to spite his lordship, your daughter might have grown up to be a lady, such as her mother. And yours.”
“Give me another of those bonbons.” Horace sucked mint and sugar, no matter that it pained a cavity. Yes, the Honorable Horace Seymour, widower, had quit being honorable to spite Reginald of Brynwaithe, formerly in His Majesty’s service at the Battle of New Orleans.
The earl, ever upright, despised Louisiana, and New Orleans in particular. Experiments and inventions were more aversions.
He’d expected more from his third son than a relocation to Sodom and Gomorrah. Where better to go, after Horace, in his agony over losing dear Cassandra and on the cusp of an argument with Papa over “wizardry,” than to New Orleans?
“When his lordship agreed to your annual stipend, you promised to rear your daughter properly,” Everton reminded him. “You made a mistake, not allowing me a freer hand with the girl and her upbringing.”
“Everton, there is nothing worse than a forward servant.”
“Pity you didn’t see that in Anne Helene.” Everton, his hands clasped behind him, walked to the window. “Did you ever stop to think, sir—You despise your daughter because she is too much like her father? A rebel.”
Horace acknowledged his flaws.
“Shall I ring for the carriage, sir? I suspect you may find Miss Susan at 21 rue Royale.” Everton, returned, presented the candy dish again. “Have another mint, sir.”
Horace shoved the offering away. “If I didn’t need Papa’s stipends to keep up the laboratory, I’d have you shanghaied.”
“You made quite a tidy sum on dynamite, yet you didn’t send me away. Sir.”
“Dynamite.”
Last week Horace read of the St. Francisville disaster in the Picayune. The clues added up to a sickening conclusion. One that only Horace Seymour, the lone source for dynamite and how to set it, could calculate. He’d taught Burke O’Brien and his first mate the secrets of nitroglycerin and detonators. The money-pinched O’Brien used his knowledge to destroy his overly expensive flagship so that Lloyds of London would hand over cash.
“Wish I’d never heard of Alfred Nobel,” Horace railed.
“You mean you wish you hadn’t sold dynamite.”
“That half-wit Beeton handled the sale.” Horace had been shocked to see the captain’s signature on the bill of lading. “I trusted O’Brien. Thought him a friend. No one ever showed interest in my experiments. Until he moved to town.”
Everton took a seat and popped a mint. “Miss Susan wanted to look over your shoulder in the laboratory.”
“She’s a girl!” Horace doffed spectacles to rub his eyes. “Make haste for the calaboose, Everton. Collect Cinglure.”
“I beg your indulgence, sir. You would send a man to prison over a signature? It could be a forgery.”
“It might not. I shall have a chat with the detective.”
Everton remained seated, eating bonbons. “I suggest we bide our time speaking with Monsieur Cinglure. You heard Mr. O’Brien say he’s going to marry our Susan. I do not think Mr. O’Brien is guilty, and I believe Miss Susan needs a chance at happiness. You’ve tormented her enough.”
“You don’t tell me what to do.”
“Don’t I?”
Still hot under the collar, thanks to that bumhole Seymour, Burke strode into the Canal Street headquarters of the O’Brien Steamship Company. You ought to jump for joy. Susan’s destitute. She’ll have to turn to you.
He couldn’t be happy, not when she wasn’t. How could he offer her dream without losing her? He knew how, provided she wasn’t legally tied to Bilge Water.
A score of green-visored clerks hopped from piled-high desks to give the returned leader tribute. Burke bid a cursory hello, then barked to his secretary, “Where is Billy? Send the runner for my attorney. Then I want to see Remy Cinglure.”
He continued on to his private office, the redbrick walls of the approach lined with maps, charts, and ledge-mounted models of riverboats. Fabienne Laure—portrait artist trying for renown as well as being a bookkeeper hired despite the shock to New Orleanian systems—followed after him, ledgers in hand.
The auburn-haired beauty launched into a report of profit and loss that scoured Burke’s spine. The Yankee Princess would be his company’s death unless Lloyds of London paid the claim.
“Sir Joshua Tate—I believe that’s the representative’s name,” Burke said. “Where can I find him?”
“He is upriver, monsieur, in St. Francisville.”
Semaphores of trouble waved in Burke, even though he’d expected the insurer’s probing. If the Star couldn’t be explained, the maiden was damn suspect. Burke refused to believe Throck had a part in either, even though their argument on the subject had driven a chasm in their long association.
A few weeks at the Bay ought to cool Throck down. Or kill him, Aunt Phoebe being in company.
Burke eyed Fabienne. “Velma Harken been by?”
“She has not, monsieur.”
Burke didn’t like the sound of that. The Lucky Lady had docked at the city wharf two weeks earlier. Best to make inquiries as soon as he finished with the detective and lawyer.
The artistic bookkeeper quit Burke’s office.
A half hour later James Daggett, attorney at law, was announced. Burke rose. Now he would either break the rules or make a new one. For Susan. “Tell me all you know about bigamy.”
“What you doing, Miz Susan, shaking like a jellyfish?”
Because I’ve been to heaven. And hell. No money, no place to go. Mrs. Bilge Water, perhaps. Father’s disgust. That she’d accepted—no, demanded!—Burke as lover, well, she was shallow. Only the shallow-minded would grab for the brass ring.
“It’s cool in here.” Susan unwrapped fingers from her upper arms and centered her attention on the housekeeper at 21 rue Royale. “Quite cool.”
“That it is, even in summer.” Zinnia Jefferson took a dust rag from her pocket to wipe that table next to what was obviously Burke’s favorite chair. “Those Frenchies, they didn’t just fall off the turnip wagon when they planned these Vieux Carré houses. Just right for summers, these funny-looking places. Thick walls, shaded courtyards, shutters. But I could tell ’em a thing or two about kitchens, I could.”
Anything beat thoughts of the
near future, so Susan studied the servant. Probably no more than thirty, Zinnia was roughly Susan’s size and height. She wore a white tignon on her stately head, silver loops on her ears, and a gray dress that smelled of clothesline and being pressed by a hot iron. Her lovely skin shaded café au lait, her amber eyes bore the mark of intelligent confidence. She would give as good as she got.
Even though Anne Helene had been older, something about Zinnia sparked a reminder of Susan’s former mammy. It could have been the dabs of vanilla that both women applied behind their ears. More likely, it was their slant toward plain speaking that bore no hint of antagonism, simply question.
Pippin being in the attic with the houseman, Keep Smile, to take a gander at stargazing paraphernalia, well, Susan found a modicum of relief. The boy did have big ears. And she figured the questions were going to become more personal.
“Girl, you like this sitting room?” Zinnia wanted to know after Susan asked twice if the outside shutters were locked. “It’s got a pianoforte for bored fingers, a fireplace that won’t choke you with smoke when y’all cuddling in wintertime, and a nice long sofa to . . . stretch out on. Room enough for two.”
“I play the flute. I’m not much for keyboards.”
“You just concentrate on the other niceties, then.” Winking, Zinnia lifted her skirts and swept toward the exit.
“Zinnia,” Susan said as they reached the carriagewide vestibule. It gave street entry into the three-story town house, and separated the sitting area and library from the drawing room on the eastern side of its mildew-flecked flagstones. “I’m not going to be here in winters.”
Where she would go was another issue.
“Mr. Burke said you met on his birthday. You’ll be here. And your li’l ole boy.” Zinnia sailed into the courtyard, chattering about neighbors. “Remy Cinglure, he’s a calaboose detective. Good-looking thing, boards with the widow next door. He’ll make that Harkens girl an offer, sure enough.”
Susan followed her nose to a cornucopia of floral smells.
Zinnia said over a shoulder, “Far side of this courtyard, you got dining and breakfast rooms. Kitchen’s behind the wall, but you don’t hafta worry your pretty head about that.”
“Actually, I like to cook.”
Extending an arm first left, then right, and bringing her hands together, Zinnia intoned, “Upstairs you got bedchambers, dressing rooms, and water closets. Mr. Burke’s suite be to the right and toward the street. He likes lotsa room. Still be plenty for more younguns.”
Susan couldn’t help but take a glance at the graceful spiral staircase leading to the sleeping floor. A wide gallery with wrought-iron handrails circled it, and stood in front of tall, shuttered windows and doors. “What about the third floor?”
“The attic? It’s for Mr. Burke’s junk. And sleeping quarters for me and ole Keep Smile.” Zinnia twirled around, her hoop earrings jangling as she offered the courtyard. “Last but not least, this here is Keep Smile’s pride and joy. Gaslights work. And you won’t find green stuff growing in the fountain, or any leaves on the seats of these cast-iron chairs and love seats.”
A sturdy hand patted chairs situated to the right of a bubbling fountain; the round table held a pitcher of lemonade and a glass. “He’s a scrubbing and sweeping fool, that Keep Smile. He’s no Mr. Thomas Jefferson in the noggin, but you’ll find that out on your own. It comes in handy, since he don’t give no trouble when I tell him what to do. I like that in a man.”
“I should imagine you find your master somewhat of a challenge,” Susan commented dryly.
“I like a dare.” The saleswoman of sorts pointed to oleanders, azaleas, gardenias, roses, and English ivy decking the patio. “You won’t find a roach flying outta those bushes.”
Susan couldn’t help but laugh, which felt ever so good. “How does any home in New Orleans escape insects?”
“Don’t ask me. That’s Keep Smile’s job.” Zinnia poured lemonade and handed the glass to Susan. “Drink up, girl.”
The beverage did wonders for her parched throat. But she wasn’t here to settle in. Gloom settled as she thought of earlier today, and the rest of tomorrows. You needn’t leave.
“My son and I won’t stay long.”
“You a gambling woman, Miz Susan?”
“No.”
“Too bad. I’d’ve took your money. You won’t be leaving.” A knowing look in her almond-shaped eyes, Zinnia flipped one arched eyebrow heavenward. “I came to New Orleans with Mr. Burke, from Memphis. Been with the family for years. And before you go saying ‘master’ again, I’m issue free. Jon Marc fought for the South, but the O’Briens never cottoned to slavery.”
“Then you know Phoebe.”
“ ’Course I do. How’s that feisty redhead doin’?”
“Not too good.” Announcements about the romance between Phoebe and Throck were inappropriate. “She lost her magic lamp.”
“Get outta here. The lamp’s gone? Um-um. That Miss Tessa must be out of her pea-pickin’ mind.”
“I haven’t the foggiest idea.”
Zinnia got back to the pitch. “Anyways, this house is ready for a mistress, and if you can find me a man needs a wife more than Mr. Burke does, you could take bourré money off me.”
Susan wouldn’t argue the point. Nor would she make mention of how fearful she was to live in a town that would soon be blackened by the reappearance of a certain tightrope walker who just might be her legal husband.
“Don’t you look at me skeptical-like. Mr. Connor got his wife, as expected, and Mr. Burke will get you too.”
A sparrow burst from an oleander. If only I could fly away with you, birdie . . . Never be held in Burke’s arms again? Mama Loa, why was nothing ever simple?
“Wanna know how I know?” asked Zinnia. “Don’t have all to do with that brass lamp, promise. I got help. Mr. Burke’s rivermen let you on that riverboat, and it wasn’t no mistake.”
Oh, how Burke had been deceived! “You seem to know a lot about goings-on.”
“I do. And I take action. Keep Smile, he carried me over to Congo Square one Sunday afternoon and introduced me to the hoodoo queen. Throck’s been putting the love gris-gris under Mr. Burke’s bed. It’s working right along with that lamp.”
Hoodoo. It might keep Orson at bay too.
Susan wondered if she’d be welcome at St. Ann. It took money, or the promise of a returned favor, for spell-casting.
With no money, what was Susan to do? Pray that Burke’s power to bend rules would prevail? She held on to hope as if it were a juju throughout the afternoon and into the dark of night. Each minute loosened her grip. His absence told a story in itself. He wouldn’t bring good news about the bigamy issue.
Dear Lord, what would she do if he failed?
What would she do if he succeeded?
He wouldn’t succeed. He might make his own rules, but laws were laws. If what Father charged were true, she would be doomed for the Yankee Princess’s fate. Sunk. Or would she?
Restless, she roamed a bachelor’s library. A tall leather chair sat before a desk holding a jar of licorice, a writing pen of gold, and vellum stationery. The word “West” upon a sheet, the penmanship pressed heavier at the end. What did West mean? Knowing steady and settled Burke, it wasn’t go-West-young-man.
Ceiling-high bookcases held sextants and accoutrements of shipping, plus books on seamanship and erotica. She opened and closed a volume of the latter, then put it out of Pippin’s reach.
Why should she look upon reminders of the carnal frailty that first got her in a terrible mess? A wicked grin eased her lips. With Burke the carnal was luscious!
She vacated the house for the gaslit courtyard, plopped down in a pristine love seat. A noise interrupted the gentle rush from the fountain. It sounded like a drum. Her imagination. Or was it the sound of an escape route? The lady of St. Ann just might be willing to help, for old time’s sake.
Ridiculous.
That was no place for Pippin.
“Thought I might find you here,” Burke said from behind her. “I bring news.”
Sixteen
Burke didn’t ease her mind with good news. He strode in front of her to run a forefinger down her jaw. “This courtyard has never been this inviting. You make a modest home beautiful.”
The residence at 21 rue Royale bespoke eighteenth-century elegance and this century’s wealth; Susan enjoyed his praise for a moment. “Don’t keep me guessing. What news do you bring?”
“First, your fiance wants a welcome-home kiss.”
The invitation in his expression reminded her of their mating aboard the Edna Gal. It wouldn’t take much to answer the invitation. “We are not betrothed.”
“Aye, but we are. There’s no bigamy. Any common-law relationship between you and Paget is void, since he’s legally tied to Angela Paget.”
Susan’s hopes took wings to the stars above. Burke didn’t make the law, but he knew how to get around it. At least one dilemma had seen its end.
He said, “Tomorrow morning, I want you to shop. Buy everything you and the lad need, and more. Don’t be shy. I’ve alerted the owners of the best stores to look for you. I want a decked-out bride. And son.”
“No.”
“Dammit.” He rocked back on his heels to rest a forearm across a knee. Gaslight played across his features, casting them in annoyed prominence. “You’re penniless, your father won’t help, you have a son who isn’t yours. You can’t hare off for England. There are laws. Speaking of which, there’s the matter of Bilge Water. He could file charges against you.”
“How lovely it is to be a woman in these modern days. A man may beat his wife—be my guest, sir!—yet if she strikes back, then it is shackles and bars for her.”
“You weren’t his wife.”
“The sheriff of Natchez believed me to be when I prostrated myself before him to beg clemency. Which he laughed at, calling me chattel to Orson.”
“Susan, forget all that.”
“How can I when you warn of a criminal charge?” Susan paused. “Laws are made for you to break. Break laws for me.”