A Song Across the Sea

by Shana McGuinn

  “Stop this at once!” She strode toward him as if she meant to tear him to pieces.

  “And what’s it to you, Missy?”

  “You will leave this poor dog alone.”

  The redheaded man spat a stream of tobacco juice at her feet, then picked up a whiskey jug and took a long pull from it. He wiped his mouth on his shirt sleeve and favored her with a look that was both a glare and a leer.

  “It’s my dog. I’ll do as I like.”

  “You swine! How dare you mistreat a defenseless animal!”

  He looked at his friends and laughed, revealing a mouthful of crooked, yellow teeth. “She doesn’t really care about the dog, boys. I think she just came over here to make our acquaintance. Pretty little thing, too, if only she’d keep her mouth shut.”

  There was no use in trying to reason with inebriated scoundrels like these men. Adrienne opted for direct action. She stomped over to the dog and began to untie him from the gate. In a flash, the redhead’s beefy hand was on her arm, wrenching it away from the leash.

  “I said, it’s my dog and I’ll as I please.”

  Adrienne reached up and slapped him with her gloved hand. In response, he shoved her with a force that caught her off guard. Her head struck the wall hard and she slumped to the ground, stunned.

  It was difficult to apprehend clearly what happened next, perhaps because her vision was blurred and her head ached so painfully. She thought she saw Noah Waldron spring at the redheaded man and smash his fist into his face, but that couldn’t be right, could it? Surely Noah was gone from Charleston? The man’s two drunken comrades converged on Noah and she felt fear through her confusion. He was outnumbered. It didn’t seem to matter. In mere moments, the three ruffians lay stretched out on the ground, some unconscious, some moaning.

  Then there were shouts, pounding feet, more blurred faces and forms in the alley. Noah crouched in front of her, peering into her face and asking her something, but she couldn’t find the words in her addled brain to form a reply. Why was she unable to speak coherently? And why, when she struggled to her feet with his assistance, did everything seem to swim crazily in front of her eyes? She put her gloved hand to the back of her head and felt a painful swelling. When she brought it away, she noted with detachment that it was covered with blood. Noah saw it, too. He reached toward her just as her legs buckled and oblivion washed over her like a black, peaceful cloud of unknowing.

  • • •

  Of the rest of that day there were only fragmentary moments of awareness. Snatches of conversation. A glimpse of the blue, blue sky. A carriage ride. She felt herself being carried into the house, looked up and saw Noah’s face hovering over her, set in a grim expression. She was told later that the doctor paid a visit, though she couldn’t recall seeing him. In the disjointed haze in which she drifted, one euphoric thought prevailed. Noah Waldron hadn’t left Charleston yet. He was here, somewhere close by. He had saved her. Maybe, just possibly, he cared for her.

  She awoke the next morning clear-headed and cheerful, until she tried to sit up in bed. The awful ache in her head reminded her vaguely of the previous day’s unpleasant events. When the pounding at her temples eased, she noticed her father, sitting in an upholstered chair by her bed. He looked exhausted and disheveled, as if he hadn’t put on fresh clothing this morning. Not like him at all, she thought.

  He opened his eyes and frowned at her.

  “Do you know what you have put us through, young lady?”

  She patted the back of her head gingerly with her fingertips. “What’s wrong with me? Why does it hurt so?”

  “You had quite a knock on the head, for one thing. But that’ll heal, according to the doctor. You’ll have to stay in bed for a few days. What’s really wrong with you is that you are a pigheaded and foolish young girl. That, I’m afraid, may be a permanent condition. You may grow older—God willing—but you will remain, I greatly fear, pigheaded and foolish.”

  It was the sharpest he’d ever spoken to her. She gripped her head in her hands and tried to pay attention.

  “What could you possibly have been thinking of, to challenge those men in the alley that way?”

  The dog! She was beginning to remember the incident. “What happened to the dog, Papa?”

  “That filthy mongrel? The one you nearly got yourself killed for? He’s lying in a basket in the kitchen right now, all clean and bandaged. The way Mr. Waldron fussed over him, you’d think he was a valuable bloodhound. And the kitchen staff is no better, feedin’ him all manner of scraps and such.”

  “May Ah keep him?”

  Her father laughed out loud, his anger dissipating as quickly as it had come. She knew he couldn’t stay cross with her for very long.

  “Since when did you ask my permission to do anything?” he queried her, his amusement obvious. Then he sighed. “However, it’s nice to at least hear those words from you, however rare they may be. Reminds me that I am your father.”

  “Where’s Mother?”

  “Where do you suppose she is? As soon as the poor woman saw Mr. Waldron carrying her senseless daughter into the house, she took to her bed.”

  “Ah am sorry to have worried her so. And you, too, Papa. But as you can see, Ah am almost completely recovered. As soon as this infernal headache is gone, Ah shall be right as rain.”

  He turned serious. “The man who hurt you is in jail. His friends have been run out of town. The sheriff thought the beating Mr. Waldron gave them was punishment enough. They were drifters—dangerous men. Adrienne, you must promise me that you’ll never do anything like that again. I shudder to think what would have happened if Waldron hadn’t seen you turn into that alley and followed you, out of curiosity—”

  “Where is he?” she interrupted. “Mr. Waldron, Ah mean. Ah’d… Ah’d like to thank him.”

  “He left this morning. Said something about having business in Chicago.”

  She looked crestfallen.

  “You’re disappointed,” Julian observed thoughtfully, as if an unexpected idea were dawning on him.

  “It’s just that… Ah’m very grateful to him. Naturally. Good manners call for me to thank him, don’t they?”

  “It’s nothing more?”

  “Don’t be absurd, Papa.”

  He stood up, moving stiffly and looking a few years older than he’d looked yesterday. She felt a sudden jolt of remorse. What she’d put him through, with her ill-advised adventure!

  To her relief, he smiled reassuringly.

  “You rest now,” he said. “I’ll have some breakfast sent up to you.” Julian left the room, an unusually calculating expression on his face.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Adrienne named the dog, “Beauregard.” Beau, for short. He rewarded his rescuer by becoming her devoted companion and ferocious protector. When his injuries healed, she gave him a thorough bathing in a washtub set on a sun-dappled patch of ground behind the house. When his coat was still damp she combed it with tender care, removing the snarls and tangles that refused to be tamed, trimming the ragged ends that gave him the appearance of a canine hobo. He would never be a handsome beast. His color was nondescript and his off-kilter proportions betrayed his deliriously mixed ancestry. Under her care, however, an affectionate, even noble personality emerged.

  Life at Arcadia quickly returned to an even keel. Occasionally, when walking through the stables or lying awake at night, Adrienne was seized by a terrible thirst for…for what, she could not say. It came from deep inside.

  Word of the sale of Mistress Maya had gotten round, bringing even more well-heeled buyers to the estate. Julian was pleased. Business was better than ever. Adrienne’s assistance with the thoroughbreds allowed him more time to concentrate on his other enterprise. He expanded his whiskey distillery and made a number of tips to meet with distributors and increase his outlets.

  It was on one of these junkets that he again encountered Noah Waldron. Not strictly a business trip, he allowed to himself. His wife wou
ld not approve of all the activities involved, if she knew, but then women lacked insight into the ways men conducted their business affairs. No, she would only see the setting, a gilded riverboat traversing the muddy flow of the Mississippi River, and conclude that he was merely playing cards and losing money.

  But what was a little money lost when he’d a chance to play poker in a private cabin with some of the country’s most powerful men? This very evening, Jay Marchland, the hotelier, sat to his right. Now there was a potential customer for du Louvois’ whiskey. Just imagine the profits, if he could persuade the man to allow him to supply his many hotels with fine whiskey! And across the table from him was Richard Tyler, the railroad magnate. Sir Edward Windingham was also present. He played badly but lost gallantly, so no one really minded his participation. And rounding out the five-some was, unexpectedly, Noah Waldron.

  If Julian had thought about it, he would have wondered at the coincidence. He had never met up with Waldron before on his gambling excursions. Yet now, just a scant few weeks after their horse dealing, Waldron appeared as if by magic on the selfsame riverboat as Julian.

  The tall westerner seemed perfectly at home with these illustrious gentlemen, never once raising an eyebrow as the stakes grew higher and higher and the game more intense.

  Another round of whiskeys was brought to the table. The woman serving them leaned over unnecessarily far, so that Julian could clearly see the creamy luscious globes of her breasts just below the plunging neckline of her tight, form-fitting gown. She saw that he saw and laughed bawdily, the magenta plume in her hair shaking along with her head. Julian flushed, his cheeks the same scarlet as the velvet flocked wallpaper on the walls of the cabin. He would never dishonor his wife, but there was no harm in looking, was there?

  He sipped his whiskey faster than he’d intended to, feeling uncharacteristically nervous. How had he lost so much money so quickly? His currency gone, he’d resorted to markers. No one objected to taking them; he was known and respected as a man who kept his word. A gentleman did not welch on his debts, and du Louvois was, most assuredly, a gentleman.

  The whiskey-fueled buzzing in his head did make it difficult to keep an accurate accounting of his losses…

  Through a bleary haze, he realized that Sir Edward had dropped out of the game. The easy air of camaraderie that had dominated earlier in the evening had vanished. The fresh, reedy odor of the Mississippi wafted in through an open window, driving out the whiskey fumes and cigar smoke but failing to dispel the deadly serious mood that now descended on the table.

  Waldron, as usual, said little, but Julian noticed with growing bitterness the pile of winnings accumulating in the Oklahoman’s corner of the table—many of them Julian’s own markers. How was this possible? He’d played poker with Waldron before, was certain he was the better player. Very soon, he’d be forced to drop out of the game himself. If only he could get one good hand…

  And then he had it! He looked at the cards just dealt him, trying not to betray his excitement. He must keep his hands from shaking. By God! This was a wonderful turn of events. He shuffled the cards eagerly into order, to convince himself that he had it right. Yes…an 8, 9, 10, Jack and Queen—all diamonds. A straight flush. He composed himself, took a pull on his cigar, and arranged his features in a neutral expression, waiting anxiously for the hand to be played out.

  “A thousand dollars,” Waldron said, in the same tone he might say, “two bits.”

  Marchland looked disgusted, then tossed his cards on the table. “Too much for me, with this hand. I’m out.”

  Tyler followed suit. The game came down to Waldron and himself. Julian was aware of the others, hovering in the background, watching intently.

  How good could Waldron’s hand be? Julian felt as if he were standing at the edge of a dangerous yet exciting precipice. The glow of whiskey retreated from his brain and he realized, with biting clarity, that he stood a very good chance of financially destroying himself and his family in this moment.

  How had he let things get so out of hand?

  But he had a straight flush! Surely that was the good Lord’s way of telling him it was finally his turn to win. It was Divine Providence, nothing less, and he’d be foolish to turn his back on it.

  “I’ll see you and raise you another thousand,” he heard himself say. There. It was done.

  Waldron looked at him quizzically. “Why don’t we make things more interesting? Anyone can play for money.”

  What could Waldron be hinting at? Playing for a horse? For Julian’s entire stables?

  “Tell you what,” Waldron continued. “I propose that I give you back your markers, all of them, and you bet one single object against my money.”

  “To what object do you refer, Mr. Waldron?”

  “Your daughter, Adrienne.”

  Julian was startled, then furious.

  “How dare you suggest such a thing, sir! This is a gentlemen’s game. You have no doubt mistaken this riverboat for some…some lowdown bawdy house in your lawless Oklahoma territory.”

  Waldron appeared unruffled. “You misunderstand me. I mean this wager in the most honorable terms possible. If I win, I intend to marry your daughter.”

  “Adrienne would never agree to such a thing!”

  Waldron looked around him, exchanging knowing expressions with the other men. Julian realized that they were following the conversation closely. This was possibly the most interesting bet they’d ever heard of.

  “You have no control over your own daughter?”

  Julian realized he’d been maneuvered into a corner. He tried to think of a way out. What sort of vile man would bet his daughter in a poker game? Adrienne’s angry face rose up before him, but he willed it away. She need never hear of this evening’s events. He had a straight flush. With this one hand, he could recoup all of his losses to Waldron and walk away a winner, his finances intact.

  He took a deep breath. “Of course I do. I accept your terms, Mr. Waldron.”

  He laid his cards down on the table and heard murmurs of approval from the other men. His stature would rise tonight. He had shown himself to be a man who could take risks and come out on top. Word would get around.

  Then Waldron laid out his hand. Julian looked at the red hearts winking insolently up at him from the corners of the cards and felt nausea well up in his stomach.

  Waldron had a royal flush.

  • • •

  The wedding was held in the drawing room on the main floor, according to du Louvois family custom. The mahogany balustrades and doors had been meticulously polished. Rhododendrons and roses brought in from the gardens graced the mantels and wisteria vines festooned the scrolled banisters of the flying staircase that swept from the third floor to the first.

  Adrienne’s anger had been as fierce as Julian expected. She’d insisted on hearing the entire story and he told it truthfully, leaving out none of the self-incriminating details of strong drink and foolish delusions. His shame was great, but he decided he would not compound it by forcing her to marry Waldron.

  However, even Adrienne knew the seriousness of living up to one’s agreements in their milieu. If she did not go through with it, the du Louvois family name would be sullied. Disgraced. The story of that night’s extraordinary poker game had spread far beyond the banks of the Mississippi. Charleston high society waited in lurid anticipation to see what she would do. Were she to refuse to go through with the wedding, her entire family would suffer the social repercussions of her father’s rashness. She could not allow that to happen. When her outrage subsided, she acquiesced, but on one condition: her father would never again gamble. Never. Julian agreed instantly, which surprised his close friends, who knew it to be a favorite pastime of his. They did not realize that his recent experiences left him with no taste for gambling anymore. He was cured of the need for it.

  So word was sent to Waldron that the wedding would, indeed, take place. Arrangements proceeded at a rapid pace.

&nbs
p; Julian struggled to live with his guilt. As vexing as Adrienne could be, he nonetheless held a deep affection for his third-born. He could only hope that Waldron would be a good husband to her.

  When she joined Waldron in front of the minister, Julian felt tears gathering in his eyes. He didn’t care if anyone saw them. Adrienne looked so beautiful in the gently yellowed satin gown her own mother had worn years earlier, at her wedding. A harpist stroking the strings of her instrument to produce magical ripples of music ceased playing. As the last shimmery notes ebbed into silence and the minister prepared to begin the service, Waldron leaned over and murmured something to Adrienne. Julian was just close enough to hear it.

  “About that poker game,” Waldron whispered. “I cheated.”

  Adrienne looked at him, astonished, but made no reply.

  “Do you want to back out of this?”

  She said nothing. Julian watched a faint blush stain her cheeks, the hint of a smile play over her lips. He smiled to himself.

  It was going to be all right.

  • • •

  It was the beginning of a strange and blissful union, a mismatch of the best kind. He was as rootless as she, with her family history and aristocratic pedigree, was rooted in the past. She was voluble and quick-tempered but also loving and affectionate. He was taciturn. Slow to anger. Deliberate in his decision-making and cautious when revealing his feelings, but in private, like her, passionate and affectionate. As husband and wife they quickly found common ground—an extraordinary meeting place of tender feelings and physical passion.