Gwyneth Atlee Page 10

  “I’m-I’m sorry, Jacob. Why didn’t you say something before?”

  Jacob shrugged and stared at the swirls and eddies of the river. At length, he spoke again. “Zeke and I both think the world of our pa. We didn’t want to imagine what might have happened in the month since that letter was posted, much less talk about it.”

  Gabe nodded. Jacob, especially, valued his control. Discussing the possibility of his father’s death might put that at great risk. Respecting his friend’s feelings, Gabe changed the subject.

  “Seth said he asked around about a doctor last night. No luck, though.”

  “Damned army. All the half-starved, sick fellows on board and they can’t even spare a doctor.”

  “The military’s been one treat after another,” Gabe allowed, “but at least we’re heading north.”

  “Yeah. Still hardly seems real sometimes. We’re finally going home.”

  Gabe grasped the bucket’s handle. But before he started back toward the place where Zeke was slumped beside Seth, he made a promise, one that he meant with all his heart. “All four of us, Jacob. Every single one.”

  * * *

  Capt. Darien Russell could not resist a smile of satisfaction at the chief mate’s frown. Especially since that expression was directed at the supercilious little steward who’d been obstructing his efforts. Russell couldn’t help appreciating the nervous twitch of the steward’s white mustache.

  “I don’t like to be bothered about these matters.” The chief mate paced the section of deck cleared for this discussion, his hands clasped behind him as he walked. “Captain Mason wants a good time and a safe journey, Mr. Beecham. With a record load like this one, those— and only those—are my concerns this morning. As far as I know, the country’s still under martial law. If Captain Russell wants to search the staterooms, let him do it. He shouldn’t have to come ask me.”

  Beecham straightened, as if that might fool anybody into thinking he was more than five feet two. When he glanced toward Russell, his dark blue eyes glittered with disdain. “I have reason to believe the captain’s motives may be less than honorable.”

  Fear jolted through Darien’s system. What could this man possibly know about his motives? He glared at the steward, and he determined to grind this professional lickspittle under heel.

  “As I’ve told you before, this woman is a criminal against the Union!” Russell shouted. “Are you in league with the Confederate traitors, man? It’s well within my power to detain you, too.”

  Behind the snowy mustache, Beecham colored instantly. “I was born in Illinois, sir. I once shook Mr. Lincoln’s hand. I tell you, I’m loyal through and through. But I also have a duty to my passengers. And I was . . . given to understand that this young lady is no criminal, just the unwilling object of your affections.”

  “What?” Not far away, heads turned toward Darien’s exclamation. It took every bit of control he could muster not to swear at the outrageous lie. “This— this woman is a murderess, I tell you! I have written orders to arrest her, signed by the general in command of New Orleans!”

  Withdrawing a folded piece of paper from his frockcoat pocket, he thrust it toward the chief mate. There was no chance at all either of these civilians would recognize the signature for the forgery it was.

  The chief mate, who looked distinctly as if he’d rather be attending other duties, made a show of examining the paper. “This appears to be in order, Mr. Beecham. I want you to cooperate. The captain will be most unhappy if he is disturbed with this matter.”

  He passed the so-called orders to the steward, but the man refused to take the paper. “I don’t need to look at it. I’ll do what I can to assist you, Captain Russell. If you have intelligence about this woman’s hiding place, I’ll gladly let you search any stateroom. I hope you’ll understand that I was only trying to act in the best interest of a lady. I had no desire to appear disloyal. I did check the passenger list after you spoke to me before, and I answered truthfully. There is no person registered by the name of Augeron on board.”

  “Oh, Miss Augeron is far too clever to register under her real name,” Darien explained. But he smiled as he said it, thinking how Yvette would soon find that even cleverness had its limits against a superior foe.

  My darling sister,

  Some might accuse me of using these letters as a way to pretend that you yet live. But I assure you most emphatically that I never for a moment forget the grating of your coffin sliding into our family tomb. Never for a moment do I forget our maman’s cry of pain or our grandmére’s stern face wet with tears.

  Today I imagine you in heaven; I see you laughing at the way temptation has been thrown into my path. “How could you love a cursed Yankee?” Like a fool, I asked you that, never guessing that a man cannot be defined by his birthplace. Never guessing till today.

  Our family would disapprove of the young man I have met, much as all but Papa disapproved of Captain Russell. Society would raise its lofty eyebrows that I would even speak to such a personage and turn its back upon me for allowing him a kiss.

  And such a kiss it was! Every little hair upon my nape and arms rose as lips touched mine. Every ounce of my resolve melted like a candle left too close to the hearth. Did it feel like that for you, too? Did it ignite your very being?

  I swear to you, Marie, I will no longer judge your actions, will no longer demean those things you did under the intoxicating spell. I promise you instead that I will be strong for both of us, strong enough to put aside the pleasures of the flesh. I will not allow this Yankee to distract me from my path.

  Only by remembering your errors did I manage to break away from the enchantment, to pull myself out of the flame. And only by imagining your laughter at the sanctimony of my earlier letter, the smugness of my naïveté.

  Your somewhat wiser sister,

  Yvette

  Though the new day was already hurrying toward noon, Gabriel’s last words hung over Yvette’s mood like a pall: “I hope our kiss will give you something to remember. Something to make you wish for more than lonely nights.”

  She could scarcely imagine why she would find such a prediction troubling. Unless she somehow managed to avoid Captain Russell until she reached Uncle André, she would die soon. Too soon to worry about whether she had hurt a Yankee soldier. Too soon to regret a life of loneliness.

  Yet, as she teased the kitten with a loose scrap of lace or tried in vain to concentrate on the French novel she was reading, she realized she was lying to herself. Whether she lived another hour or many decades, she would worry over what had happened on this boat. And what had almost happened with a Yankee prisoner, a young man of unknown background whom her family must despise.

  But did they not despise her, too, now? She winced as she remembered Grandmère’s words:

  “The best thing you can do is leave and forget you ever were an Augeron. God knows we will spend our whole lives living down the scandal you have brought upon our name.”

  Always the scandal. If Papa had taken Russell’s investment advice and lost every last picayune he’d ever made, if Marie had been ruined by a married Yankee, no one in the family would have ever spoken of it, as if disgrace kept from the papers were no disgrace at all. But now, with Marie’s death in the news and, even more shockingly, Yvette’s public murder accusation, there was nowhere in New Orleans to hide from gossip.

  Even Papa had withdrawn his support. His reputation ruined, he would sell the coffee brokerage, he explained, and buy a plantation in the country. There the Augerons could live in tarnished splendor, a fine society unto themselves. He offered his youngest daughter, a girl he had cherished and spoiled all her life, not a word of invitation, not even one last crumb of love. She’d been cut off from her family as completely as if she were already dead.

  Except for the possibility of Uncle André. Long removed from Creole society, he had embraced American culture as completely as if he’d been born to it—and in doing so, had prospered. At leas
t that was what her father always claimed. Yvette wondered if her uncle yet remembered any French or the Gumbo Creole he had learned from his Negro nurse.

  But perhaps Uncle André remembered enough to realize what grief Yvette had caused the famille. Perhaps enough to banish her as well.

  A pang of terror made her drop her book. Without any family, then what would she do? How could she hope to make Captain Russell pay for what he’d done when she was all alone? And even if by some miracle she succeeded, how would she survive?

  Heart pounding, she went to her bag and once more counted her money, but she had no more than she’d had yesterday, after Gabriel had left her.

  Once more, her thoughts circled back toward him, settled on his handsome features, allowed the caress of his lips. She had to admit that she’d thought herself too fine to be a poor soldier’s diversion. Despite his obvious intelligence and consideration, she never would have dreamed of entertaining such a fellow in New Orleans.

  But now, stripped of her family and her fortune, she wondered on what grounds she based such pride. The amazing thought slashed through her consciousness that a penniless fugitive such as herself might not be good enough for him.

  A tap came at her door.

  Against all reason, she thought, Please let it be Gabriel. But fear that Captain Russell was the more likely visitor followed on the heels of that impulsive thought.

  “Anyone inside?” The voice, though muffled, was distinctly female. Yvette decided to risk a peek.

  A woman of about her own age carried a folded stack of towels and a water pitcher. The crimson birthmark covering her left cheek reminded Yvette of a hand slap, but the blonde’s smile belied the impression of fresh violence.

  “Good morning,” she said brightly. “I’ve come to freshen up the stateroom for you.”

  Yvette detected a faint Irish lilt to the woman’s voice. Her father ignored the sentiment that Irishmen were drunken laggards. Sometimes he hired them as teamsters to deliver sacks of coffee. Yvette was more used to Negro slaves and servants, yet she stepped aside to allow the chambermaid inside. The door swung closed behind her.

  “I’m Kathleen Rowe,” the young woman said with more familiarity than Yvette thought proper. Yet her blue-green eyes sparkled with both warmth and good sense.

  Although Yvette didn’t answer, she continued. “My husband’s one of the crewmen. It’s so crowded I was asked t’help out with the staterooms. Have ya been to the cabin yet, now? The cook’s serving a glorious breakfast, and the day’s a bonny one.”

  Ah, so this woman wasn’t properly a servant. Perhaps that explained her unusual demeanor.

  “I’m afraid I’m a bit seasick. Or maybe river sick’s the right term.” Yvette hated being forced to lie once more, but entering the main cabin would be far too dangerous.

  Kathleen nodded emphatically as she refilled the stateroom’s water pitcher. “I’ve just the thing for it. Let me drop these fresh towels, and then I’ll bring some toast and tea.”

  The Irishwoman smiled at Lafitte, who batted playfully at the hem of her black skirt. “And perhaps I can find a wee bit of a treat for him as well.”

  Yvette found herself liking this amiable young woman and wondered for a moment if class had too long blinded her to a diverse host of good people.

  * * *

  Gabriel dreamed of her hazel eyes again and the smooth dark brows that arched above them. His palms slid along Yvette’s raven hair as his lips tasted the warmth of her fair skin, the desire of her pink, kiss-swollen mouth.

  He awoke with a groan and blinked in the bright sunlight. Bored with sitting still, he must have dozed awhile.

  Eagerly, he gazed toward the trees and noticed how many of their bases were blanketed by brown floodwaters. Yet the shoreline seemed unchanged, unmoving. Only the endless splashing of the paddlewheel blades and the smudged gray trail behind the smokestacks assured him they were truly moving north.

  “Hey, Gabe, how ’bout some water?” Zeke’s voice surprised him. He’d been asleep all morning.

  Gabe pushed himself up on his elbows and yawned until his ears popped. “Sure. Let me find the bucket. Those Tennessee boys borrowed it.”

  “I’ll get it,” Jacob offered. “If I sit here one more minute, my knees are gonna rust.”

  Despite the clear attempt to hide his concern, worry for his younger brother strained Jacob’s voice. When Gabe looked at Zeke, he understood. Zeke’s straight brown hair hung in damp strings, and perspiration sheened his pallid face. His green eyes still looked sharp, though, as if he were plotting some sort of diversion, the way he had in prison.

  “You’ve got that look again, Zeke. Planning another championship season of louse racing?”

  “Naw. Those Sisters of Charity picked off my best vermin. Besides, I don’t think it would be so popular outside of Andersonville.” His humor sounded forced, his voice exhausted.

  “How’s the leg?”

  “Just fine.” Zeke’s words had an exasperated edge to them, as if he’d been asked the question once too often.

  Gabe shook his head. “Maybe we should get off in Memphis. They’ll have some good food at the Soldiers’ Home there. Doctors, too.”

  “God damn it, you sound just like my brother— and Seth, too. He went to see if he could find some fresh bandages. I’ll tell you what I told him. I’m better. Anyway, I heard you groaning in your sleep. You see the damned doctor.”

  “Sawbones can’t fix what ails me,” he admitted.

  Zeke managed a laugh. “I hear you’re courtin’ trouble.”

  Gabe smiled, for Zeke’s sake, then shrugged. “I can’t get her off my mind.”

  “You don’t want any Southern woman. You come on home with us. Jake and I’ll introduce you to our sister. You’re already just about a brother. You could be our brother-in-law for real.”

  Jacob laughed and knelt beside him with the water. “You must be delirious for sure. There’s not a man alive could pry Eliza off that farm. Not with a pitchfork. And you’d best keep her name out of the conversation when Captain Seth gets back.”

  Seth had grown up near the farm where Jacob and Zeke lived. He’d been friends with Jacob for years before he’d gone off to teach mathematics, and he had some sort of history with Eliza, too. Gabe had never gotten the whole story, though. Apparently, the subject was still a sore one as far as the captain was concerned.

  Zeke nodded to his brother, his green eyes closing as he drank from a dented tin cup. The same one he’d had in prison, Gabe recalled. Like the rest of them, he’d resisted giving up the implements of his survival. Just as well. Hell could freeze over before any of the paroled prisoners aboard could get a cup.

  Water began to drip out of Zeke’s slack lips. That quickly, he’d fallen back to sleep.

  Jacob Fuller lowered his brother until he lay half-curled on the deck. Jacob’s long sigh shuddered, as if he were fighting his own exhaustion— or an urge to weep.

  Gingerly, he shifted and then began to unwrap the cloth around Zeke’s foot and ankle. The wound looked red and angry, and moisture oozed along its edges. Gabe couldn’t smell it—yet, but he’d seen enough at Andersonville to dread the coming stench.

  “Maybe they can save the leg in Memphis,” Gabe suggested. “I’ll bet they have good hospitals there.”

  Jacob’s brown eyes were dark with pain and pentup anger. “I promised him I’d get him home, but this . . .”

  Gabe helped him bathe the wound. “You look like you could use a walk.”

  “You heard what the captain said. They need us to keep still. And Zeke—”

  “You know we’ll take good care of him. Besides, I have a thing for you to do. You remember what I told you about that Captain Russell, who’s looking for the Southern girl?”

  “What’s the matter? It’s not enough you’ve gotten yourself into trouble? Now you’re working on me, too?”

  “If half of what Yvette told me was true, he’s the criminal.”

&nbs
p; “Do you realize you’re taking this Southern girl’s word against a Union officer’s? She’s a goddamned Rebel, Gabe. The whole idea stinks of treason. How can you be sure of anything she said?”

  “She’s not some Confederate operative, Jacob. She’s just a very young woman, and she’s scared as hell. Look, I’m not asking you to spit on Lincoln’s casket. All I want you to do is find this Russell and tell him you saw her hiding down below, among the cargo.”

  Jacob shook his head. “You do it if you’re so damned certain of this girl’s word. You’re the one always spoiling for a fight.”

  “I’ll get more than that if I interfere with him again. Maybe prison time. I’ll tell you what. You’ve always been the best judge of character of the four of us. Go meet Captain Russell. I’ve heard he’s in the main cabin trying to buy some information. You can act like you know something, and maybe he’ll buy you a drink. Then, if he doesn’t strike you as an arrogant son of a bitch, make up some excuse and come right back. But if he does, if he seems to have something to hide, tell him what I said about the girl.”

  Seth returned with a sheet he’d commandeered. He sat down beside them and began to tear it into bandages.

  “I’ll wrap this time,” Gabe volunteered, peering furtively at Jacob Fuller. Seth would give him hell if he knew what Gabe had suggested.

  Jacob rose. “I’m doing this for my stiff knees, Gabe, not because I think it’s smart.”

  Without another word, he began making his way toward the bow— and the main stairwell.

  “What was that about?” Seth asked. “You aren’t stirring up more trouble, are you?”

  “Not me. I just told him about the rumor they had some extra rations in the main cabin.”

  “Hell, we don’t have any way to cook those cheap hog jowls they gave us. More of the same won’t do us any good. Now if he could get more food like you brought last night . . .”

  Gabe grimaced, his stomach growling at the thought. “Not much chance of that.”

  “You never told me how you came by that meal.”

  Gabe busied himself wrapping Zeke’s ankle. “You’re better off not knowing, Captain.”