by Shirl Henke
“And who but Colonel Shelby could handle such a delicate matter?” she said tremulously. “How soon do you have to leave?”
“There’s a ship sailing on the morning tide, Livy. I must be on it.”
Black spots floated before her eyes but she blinked them away and smiled. “Well then, that doesn’t leave us very much time, does it?”
“No. Before we attend to the matter of your inheritance with Monsieur Brionde, I’m taking you to meet William Claiborne.”
“The governor?”
“He’s an old acquaintance who was so kind as to offer his protection to my sister some years ago. He can be trusted. Also, he’s the only means through which you can get messages to me and I to you. I fear over the next several months I’ll be moving around a great deal.”
Olivia digested that, knowing it might be a very long time until she saw her love again. Swallowing for courage, she looked into his eyes but made no attempt to touch him. “Will you have time to attend to the divorce petition?”
This time he could not help himself. He had to hold her. She looked so alone and vulnerable, standing proudly with her slender back so straight, her chin upthrust. He embraced her and at once felt her arms slip around his waist. “Good God, of course! I’ll see that the petition is drafted. Tom Jefferson will shepherd it through the legislature for me.” He stroked her bright hair with one hand while his other arm pressed her tightly against him. She nestled her head on his shoulder as he said, “You feel as if you’d been made to fit here.” Damn, she had been! She was going to be his wife.
“I was,” she said, echoing his thoughts.
“Livy...there’s one thing you must promise me...” He continued caressing her long soft curls.
“Anything,” she murmured, lulled by the warmth and security of his embrace, the steady protective rhythm of his heartbeat.
“I must know if you’re carrying my child...” He hesitated, feeling miserably inadequate, unable to protect her reputation.
Olivia was over a week late for her courses and he knew it. She had hastened to assure him when he had casually questioned her regarding it that her cycle had always been irregular. He had not mentioned it since...until now...when he was leaving her. “It must gall you to besmirch your honor, being forced to sail away without knowing.”
She felt him stiffen in her arms and knew blurting out that snide accusation had been cruel. “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice husky with emotion. “I only said that because I’m afraid of losing you.”
When she looked up into his face, her eyes were jewel bright with tears. He traced the exotic upward tilt of her high cheekbones with his fingertips, catching a crystalline teardrop on his thumb. “Oh, Livy, there’s nothing on earth I want more than to give you my name, to hold our child in my arms, to spend my life with you. Promise me you’ll write as soon as you know.” He hung his head in misery. “Even though I can’t marry you now, I will do what I can to protect your reputation. I have family in Kentucky—in fact, my cousin Nestor Shelby is Governor Isaac Shelby’s brother. Nestor owns a large plantation outside Lexington. He and his wife, Alva, would be more than happy to offer you hospitality.”
“I don’t care about my reputation, Samuel. I only care about your returning to me. Just keep safe and I will write you as soon as I know.”
He smiled crookedly. “Even though I know it would be wrong for you to suffer, a part of me wants it to happen, you know? Our baby would be a means of binding you to me.”
“Nothing, not even a child, could bind me to you more strongly than my love already does,” she replied simply. Yet in her heart Olivia prayed that his seed had indeed taken root in her womb.
* * * *
The visit to Governor Claiborne was brief but reassuring. The harried man was struggling through long-standing political antipathy with the Creole politicians who still mistrusted the “Boston” sent to rule over them. Yet in spite of being hampered by the recent loss of his trusted personal secretary, the pale and punctilious Claiborne was genuinely kind, welcoming Olivia to New Orleans and assuring her and Samuel that he would do everything in his power to expedite communications between the two of them. After they shared a late luncheon with Claiborne, they left his sprawling office in the old Spanish governor’s building on the main square and headed down Royale Street to the elegant law office of Charles Durand’s attorney, Jean-Claude Brionde.
The little Creole was squat and corpulent, yet for all that, he possessed the innate grace and charm of a New Orleans native son. Once he examined the documentation proving that Olivia was indeed Solange Durand St. Etienne’s daughter, he was effusively delighted.
“It is so wonderful that an honorable old family name such as Durand should not end with the death of your esteemed uncle, mademoiselle,” he said in melodically accented English, believing that the American officer escorting Olivia was not fluent in French. Shelby did not disabuse him of the notion.
Olivia had noticed that Samuel often let others make erroneous assumptions, underestimating him, a useful method of operation for a man in his line of work. He would be in constant danger now with war looming so close on the horizon, perhaps even more peril than the soldiers who would face British guns on land and sea. When would he return safely to her? Would he return at all?
So absorbed was she in her fretful ruminations, Olivia did not really attend Attorney Brionde’s words as the buoyant little Frenchman grew round-eyed and serious while he explained the extent of Charles Durand’s holdings. But when she looked over at Samuel’s tight expression, the rigid set of his body indicated that something was amiss. Then Brionde’s words began to sink in.
“The local sugar plantations amount to ten thousand, five hundred sixty acres in all, but the refineries process far more cane than that brought downriver from the Durand holdings above. The shipping line runs a dozen packets in the coastal trade, as well as six schooners and two new steamboats. The speculation profits from land investments are outlined in some detail as are the banking ventures, but I expect mademoiselle will wish to have a man of business to attend such wearying financial matters for her.
“A jeune fille such as you must dance and laugh, attend the theater, enjoy all the pleasures of our beautiful city while you look for a suitable husband,” the attorney said with an indulgent twinkle in his dark eyes. “Ah, mademoiselle, if I were only twenty years younger, I would court you myself—if my family were as distinguished as the house of Durand. Alors, it is not.”
He shrugged with Gallic insouciance, but then his expression turned serious. “There is the matter of a guardian. You’ve explained about Monsieur Wescott’s unfortunate demise just before your arrival. Is there no one else, no male family member who could see to your affairs and provide guidance?” His eyes strayed to the tall American colonel as he spoke. It was apparent that the young officer did not fit the job description.
Olivia was all too aware of Samuel’s reaction, the stiff posture and cool neutral voice, the expressionless mask that had slipped over his face. He thought he was “unworthy” of her now that she was an heiress! Damn male pride and stupidity!
Samuel addressed Brionde, saying, “Mademoiselle St. Etienne is quite alone in the world now that her uncle has died. I was fortunate enough to be able to escort her and her maid to the city, but now—”
“You two need not speak of me as if I were an imbecile or a child,” Olivia interjected. Her growing anger began to tamp down her despair over Samuel’s eminent departure.
Although Samuel had coached her not to reveal any personal attachment to him beyond gratitude for acting as her escort downriver, Olivia cared far less about what the little attorney might think of her than she did about Samuel’s withdrawal from her. Damn Uncle Charles for being so bloody rich!
“I spent the past years on the frontier, Monsieur Brionde, in St. Louis and then upriver on the Missouri living among the Indians. I care little for dancing and theater and I am not in the market for a husband. I�
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“I believe Mademoiselle St. Etienne is overwrought from her long journey and the blow of learning that her uncle has died,” Samuel interjected smoothly, willing her to subside.
She met his level blue gaze defiantly, then realized how impossible the situation was. Suddenly she was truly weary, bone weary and disheartened.
Samuel felt acute relief. She would not ruin her chance for a life here in New Orleans. He quickly began to question the Creole regarding the legal transfer of Charles Durand’s vast wealth to Olivia St. Etienne.
The son of a bitch did abscond with the whole damn Bourbon treasury!, he thought bitterly. Olivia was one of the richest women in the United States, no doubt the richest in this vast new territory. The attorney’s words about a “suitable husband” from a “distinguished family” had hit him with the impact of a cannonball. She was utterly out of his reach now, as much as if she were still a titled noblewoman residing at the court of the French emperor.
Once the attorney had answered all the questions about legal technicalities, Samuel said, “Mademoiselle St. Etienne requires rest. If you would be so kind as to direct us to the Durand city house?”
Within a quarter hour Samuel, Olivia and her maid, Tonette, rode in the elegant Durand landau Monsieur Brionde had summoned to take them to the city house. The trip was made in virtual silence as both Samuel and Olivia considered the impact of her inheritance on their future together.
Olivia stared unseeing at the quaint charm of Creole New Orleans, its narrow winding streets filled with a motley press of people. The architecture of lacy wrought iron grill-work and triple-tiered galleries held no enchantment, nor did the burbling fountains and winter greenery in the half-hidden courtyards visible through narrow gangways between the buildings. She wondered with dread what sort of ostentatious palace Charles Durand had built here in the city. The chatty lawyer had already described the fabulous luxury of the plantation estate on Bayou Bienvenue.
When the driver pulled into the porte cochère of a beautiful three-story pastel brick house with wide galleries surrounding it on three sides, Samuel swung down lithely from the seat and assisted Olivia and her maid. Tonette stared in awe at the life-sized bronze nude dispensing water through an urn in the courtyard pool, then looked up to the gallery where a bevy of black faces beamed down on them, murmuring softly in French. The Durand servants were eager to welcome the new mistress.
“It is rather daunting,” Olivia said uncertainly, pressing her fingers on Samuel’s arm, hoping for some reassurance from him.
He remained grimly silent as his eyes swept across the whitewashed wrought iron gallery railing into the wide standing doors beyond where opulent crystal chandeliers gleamed against the dusk of twilight. “It’s quite magnificent,” he replied at length. Even more imposing than that monolithic pile of rocks Worthington Soames had built in Washington.
“Samuel,” she said urgently, leaning toward him, “get those thoughts out of your mind. Don’t—”
“The servants are watching, Livy,” he reminded her gently, taking her hand and placing it atop his arm to escort her inside.
Tonette snapped out of her awestruck muteness long enough to instruct a footman to carry the lady’s trunk upstairs to her quarters, then silently trailed after Samuel and Olivia across the wide gallery. Pots of aromatic rosemary were positioned at the sides of the wide glass doors fronting each spacious room on the courtyard. The plants grew lushly in spite of the coolness of winter. A smiling ebony-faced woman of Amazonian proportions welcomed them, introducing herself as Ceale, the head housekeeper for Monsieur Durand’s city place. She ushered them into an elegant drawing room and bid them take seats while another servant girl was dispatched to bring refreshments. She personally showed Tonette to the mistress’s sleeping quarters to supervise the unpacking of mademoiselle’s things.
Left alone, Samuel stood up and began to pace across the polished floor of intricate oak marquetry. A marble fireplace dominated the inside wall. A small blaze crackled invitingly, casting a pale orange glow around the room. The light was magnified by the magnificent crystal chandelier hanging overhead. Fine mahogany furniture graced the room while around them the portraits of dead Durands stared mutely at them. To Shelby they seemed to be looking down their aristocratic French noses at the American interloper. He eyed one tall silver-haired man with the delicately chiseled somewhat effete features he always associated with the French nobility.
“Is that Uncle Charles?”
Olivia studied the cold patrician features. “Yes, although I never met him. He looks a bit like Maman, but...aloof.” She felt so utterly alone, bereft. “Don’t leave me here, Samuel,” she pleaded, then waited for him to speak, knowing he was marshaling his courage to say good-bye.
“I have to go, Livy. You know that. It isn’t as if you won’t be comfortable,” he added, gesturing around the beautiful room.
“I was comfortable in Micajah’s cabin. This...this frightens me, Samuel.” She hugged herself unconsciously, wrapping her arms around her waist in spite of the warmth in the room.
He knelt in front of her and took her hands. They were ice-cold as he lifted them to place a chaste kiss on top of each. “You must remain here, Livy. I can’t take you back to Micajah and it’s not safe for you to travel alone.”
“You mean I should stay here because I’m rich, that I’ll be able to live the life of a pampered aristocrat that I was born to?” Her voice was brittle.
“The money won’t go away, Livy,” he said darkly.
“I don’t want it.”
“That isn’t for you to decide now. I can’t give you my name or my protection. Wealth can be a shield and for now you need that shield.”
She swallowed painfully. “The money will always be between us, won’t it? It hurts your pride that I’m rich.”
“I won’t deny it. No man who is a man wants his woman to support him. He should do the providing.”
“You think I’d lord it over you like Tish?” she asked, stung when he voiced his feelings aloud even though she already knew them.
“No, you’re nothing like Tish! God, Livy, I know that, but there is no time to resolve this issue now,” he said in frustration.
“Oh, Samuel, what are we going to do?” She stroked his face with her fingertips.
He smiled crookedly, that old dazzling grin that had always made her heart turn over. “You will become the belle of New Orleans. And I will go to Boston for Secretary Monroe. When I’m free to return for you, I will.” He sobered then, and his eyes revealed the bleakness as he added, “But I cannot promise how long it may take. The divorce alone will go slowly. And there is a small matter of war...”
“I shall wait, no matter how long it takes.”
He studied her face as if memorizing every nuance, each delicate aquiline feature, so strong and lovely. “I believe you, Livy. I’ll write to you as often as I can, although I don’t know how informative my letters will be given the nature of my work.”
“Only keep safe. I shall write to you of how I long for Micajah’s cabin and how bored I am with New Orleans social life,” she said with forced levity.
“You must let me know at once if you are with child. If so, I’ll send my cousin Nestor and his wife to bring you to their plantation.”
“Don’t look so worried. I’ve already told you how much I want your baby, Samuel.”
He shook his head stubbornly. “Not this way. I was a selfish bastard for putting you at risk like this. Now that you have everything here you should never be forced to leave it and hide in the backwaters of Kentucky.”
She smiled sadly. “You cannot doubt that I would choose you over the Durand millions—with or without a baby.”
“You say that now and you mean it, but I don’t want necessity to decide for you, Livy. I want it to be your choice.”
“I made that choice long ago, Samuel...right in the middle...of a crowded...Washington...ballroom.” She punctuated the words with soft
brushing kisses, cupping his face between her hands.
Samuel knew he must leave before he did something utterly reckless that would ruin her reputation even if she was not already carrying his child. He stood up and held her at arm’s length. “I will carry the image of you with me wherever I go.”
“And I, yours,” she whispered, holding back the tears as he walked through the gallery door and disappeared into the chill New Orleans night.
* * * *
Olivia slept poorly that night on a high tester bed in the elegant suite that had been Madam Durand’s. Since she had preceded her husband in death by over a decade, the rooms had been cleaned meticulously by the servants, but Charles had kept Marie Latise Durand’s quarters undisturbed as a shrine.
Upon arising the next day, Olivia inspected the beautiful Louis XIV furniture and Aubusson carpets. All the furnishings had been imported from France at no little expense, as if the Durand family held on to the fiction of life in the old country in this warmer Gulf coast climate.
“My first orders will be for all Aunt Marie’s personal effects to be packed up and stored away,” she murmured to herself, gazing down at a collection of miniatures, portraits of haughty Durand faces, exquisitely painted on ivory with gilt frames. She saw little family resemblance to her mother.
For several days Olivia kept busy learning the household routine and the names and jobs of the servants as well as entertaining the endless stream of visitors from the city’s social elite. Everyone who was anyone of consequence in New Orleans felt it obligatory to call on the new heiress, especially the matrons with eligible sons and the older widowers in the market for a wealthy young wife.
Olivia felt like a piece of veal hung up for display in the plaza market. She ached with loneliness and thought of nothing but Samuel. In her spare moments, especially when sleep eluded her late at night, she began a letter to him, really more of a series of entries rather like a diary. As soon as she had resolved the issue of pregnancy, she would include the news and post it to him.