Beloved Castaway (14 page)

The shadowy figure waved a hand to stop the men’s approach, then said something to them in rapid-fire Spanish. His minions faded into the shadows, although Hezekiah entertained no thoughts that they’d retreated any farther than out of sight.

“Better men have died for saying less.” The slender figure of a well-dressed, dark-haired man stepped into the circle of light. “You are fortunate that my concern is not your life but rather for the ship your son has stolen from me.”

The man’s command of English was impeccable, and Hezekiah assumed the stranger was either educated here or made his living in the city. From the cut of his clothing, he did quite well at whatever enterprise employed him.

“Josiah Carter is no son to me. Not anymore.” Hezekiah pounded the levee with his cane. “And if it’s revenge you’re looking for, you’ll have to stand in line behind me to get your chance.”

“So you intend to go after him?” The man drew near, then gave Delilah a withering stare before turning his attention back to Hezekiah. “Perhaps you and I should discuss this further.” He paused. “Alone.”

Chapter 12

Walk faster, woman,” Hezekiah barked as he prodded the slave
woman forward with his cane. “I daresay a man of my age
shouldn’t have to wait for a woman of yours.”

Delilah swiped at the sweat on her brow with her handkerchief and trotted on a half step ahead. Despite the coolness of the April evening, the woman continued to complain of the heat until finally they reached the Rue Royale.

“Cease your talking,” he said as he climbed three steps and raised his cane to knock on the door of Jean Gayarre’s redbrick home.
 

A moment later, he settled on his favorite settee in the front parlor, a cup of coffee balanced on one knee and a remedy for his present troubles on his mind. The slave woman stood beside the fireplace, obviously rethinking her complaint of excess heat in order to seek it from the roaring fire.
 

He took a moment to study Delilah, allowing his mind to slide backward to a time when she was a great beauty. Had it really been nearly three decades since this woman had held court at the balls and fetes so popular in the early days?
 

Hezekiah felt Delilah’s eyes on him and turned to stare until she looked away. There was a time when she’d earned the right to look so boldly in his direction. Unfortunately, that right had been lost some years ago when he took his bride home to Virginia.
 

For all his faults—and Hezekiah was painfully aware that he had many—straying from the marriage bed had not been one of them. He took pride in his faithfulness and set himself on an elevated pedestal from which he looked down on those of lesser virtue. It was a right he’d earned.

Boot heels rang out on hardwood floors, and Hezekiah sat a bit straighter. Delilah froze, her eyes roaming the room with the wild look of a cornered animal.

“Settle yourself, Delilah. You’re here to be of help to us, remember?”

The slave woman nodded and adjusted the brightly colored tignon that covered hair the color of dark honey. She cast her gaze toward the pattern on the rug.

“Hezekiah, my friend, to what do I owe the—” Jean Gayarre stopped, seemingly unable to propel himself completely into the room. Face as white as the starched collar that hung loose around his neck, his lips tried and failed several times to utter intelligible words.
 

“You look unwell, my friend,” Hezekiah said. In truth, Jean
looked more than unwell. He looked as if his next visitor might be the undertaker.

“What is
she
doing here?” Gayarre finally managed to say.

“Come in and sit down, Jean.” Hezekiah gestured toward a
particularly gaudy Louis XIV armchair with his cane. “I’ve a bit of
news and some serious business to discuss.”

Somehow, the piteous man stumbled forward and landed in the chair. “I’ll need a drink, won’t I?”

“The doors, Delilah.” Hezekiah waited until his command had been carried out before shaking his head. “A drink may help you, old friend, but it will not help the situation.”

In truth, his friend’s years of drinking told a story written across the pale skin of a once-handsome face and in the trail of sins that followed him like a pitiful pack of mongrel dogs. The demon rum had ruined more than Jean Gayarre’s past. It looked to be placing a pall over his future, as well.

A rustling of skirts told Hezekiah the slave woman had settled somewhere behind him. As much to keep her in his sight as to release the pent-up irritation he felt at the mess that had been made of his carefully constructed plans, Hezekiah rose and began to pace.

The room was small, as fit the narrow city brownstone, but its furnishings were worth a king’s ransom. He stopped beside the pianoforte and plinked out a few notes from a hymn that had been plaguing him.

How sweet the name of Jesus sounds in a believer’s ear! It soothes his sorrows, heals his wounds, and drives away his fear.

Drives away fear? Hezekiah sighed. Perhaps he’d best leave off any remembrances of Mr. Newton’s music until he could live up to the words.

“I daresay you didn’t arrive on my doorstep to entertain me with a sonata,” Gayarre said as he stretched his legs and crossed them at the ankle. “Perhaps if I’m to abstain from drink, you will abstain from procrastination. And you can start by telling me why she is in my parlor.”
 

Hezekiah turned away from the pianoforte but did not allow his gaze to fall yet on Gayarre. Instead, he watched Delilah carefully. On her face he saw no sign of fear, only the practiced look of one trained not to show an interest in her surroundings. “There was to be a wedding. Did it take place?”

“So you’ve heard.”

Delilah stared back, her guarded expression turning insolent. Had he the energy to turn from the pressing issue at hand, he might have upbraided the woman. He settled for a stare that promised as much.

“I’ve been given a version of the story, but I prefer to hear yours, Jean,” Hezekiah said.

“Most unfortunate, actually. The Dumont woman should be horse-whipped.” Gayarre paused and let out a long breath, then scrubbed at his face with what seemed to be shaking hands. Finally, he lifted his head to stare past Hezekiah. “It’s my understanding the bride-to-be took offense to a suggestion Andre made regarding her wedding attire. I was not party to the discussion, but apparently she was not of a mind to marry that day.”

“And where is Miss Dumont now?”

Jean shrugged. “This is not my concern.”

Hezekiah took up his pacing once more. “And your daughter, Emilie?”

Another shrug.
 

Pausing to consider his words carefully, Hezekiah inclined his head toward his old friend. “Perhaps your wife has knowledge of her whereabouts?”

The words propelled Jean from his stupor and his seat. “What sort of question is that? You know as well as I that—” He pinched his nose and sank back into the chair. “No,” he said slowly, “I am certain Mrs. Gayarre has no knowledge of Emilie’s location, nor Emilie of hers.” Jean turned his attention to Delilah. “For that matter, the girl has little knowledge of Mrs. Gayarre at all, given how young the girl was when her mother left our home forever.”
 

“As I assumed.” Hezekiah gestured with his cane toward Delilah. “This woman claims to have seen both Emilie and Miss Dumont this very evening.”

Gayarre’s only reaction was the lifting of one brow. “Together?” At Hezekiah’s nod, Jean leaned forward. “You know more than you’re telling me.”

“This is Delilah’s story to tell, Jean.” Hezekiah paused to consider the volatile Frenchman’s possible reaction to the news that his daughters were together and fleeing the city. “Perhaps,” he said slowly, “it would be prudent for you to fortify yourself before hearing it.”
 

“Fortify myself?” Another lifted brow, another sigh. “Something tells me the effort will prove futile. Forge on with your story, Delilah.”

The slave woman repeated the tale she’d told Hezekiah on the docks, embellishing here and there with details left out in the first version. At the mention of Josiah’s name, Jean closed his eyes, but otherwise he sat quietly until she finished. Finally, he opened his eyes and nodded, then turned his attention to Hezekiah.

“Tell me, my friend. When did you learn of this?”
 

“Only tonight as I watched the
Jude
sail away.”

A long moment passed. “So,” he finally said, “our children have flown the nest together.”

“It appears so.”
 

“And you had no knowledge of this?”

Hezekiah straightened his shoulders and stared down the man who’d saved his life more than once. Had they not shared a common background with more adventure than misadventure, he might have used the cane to let the Frenchman know how little he appreciated the question.

“No,” he said. “I knew only that my elder son wished to provide a different education for his brother than he received. I was a day away from hauling both of them home.”

“A day away and yet such a different outcome had you acted sooner.” Jean rose and turned to Delilah. “What part did you play in this, I wonder,
Mama Dell
?” Delilah opened her mouth to speak, but Jean silenced her with a look. “You are confined to the quarters here until further notice. Do you understand?”

The woman’s upper lip quivered as she nodded.

“Then be gone, and do not use the excuse that you know not how to find it.”

A quick pleading glance at Hezekiah preceded her out the door.
 

Silence hung thick until Jean strolled to the pianoforte. The man sat himself at the keyboard and began to test the chords.

“Show me again what you were playing, Hez.”

Hezekiah complied, all the while watching Jean, whose eyes were once again shut tight. In this close proximity, Hezekiah could smell the alcohol and knew the only reason for the calm Jean displayed was the effect of liquor. Once the rum ran its course, Jean Gayarre would prove dangerous.
 

It would not be the first time.

Jean’s fingers began to copy the notes, moving slowly at first, then embellishing the simple melody with flourishes of chords. Grace notes, his wife had told Hezekiah. Those notes that while not expressly included by the composer were nonetheless pleasant to the ear.

“Tell me the words, Hez.”

“
How sweet the name of Jesus sounds in a believer’s ear
,” he said. “
It soothes his sorrows, heals his wounds, and drives away his fear
.”

The Frenchman’s fingers halted. “I tire of this.” He swiveled to face Hezekiah. “How shall we solve the problem of our children?”

“I fear you’ll dislike my solution, my friend,” Hezekiah said, “but I know of only one way to catch the
Jude
.”

Jean rose and pitched forward, then righted himself. “Lead on.”

Hezekiah stepped into the hall and called to the cook. “Strong coffee,” he said, “and hurry. And have the carriage brought around.”

“My father’s going nowhere but to bed tonight.” Andre Gayarre took the stairs two at a time as he stormed the hallway toward Hezekiah. “What purpose would you have for taking an old man out tonight?”

Hezekiah noted several things about the younger Gayarre. Other than the angry red scratch that ran across Andre’s right cheek, he was a near replica of his father at that age. He could not help but think of how like Jean Gayarre his only son had become.
 

The lone difference came in the way the tempers were displayed. While Jean satisfied his rage by taking what he wanted and ignoring good sense, Andre was known to pound his out on whatever poor female had the displeasure of making his acquaintance.

Tonight that temper seemed to have surpassed the danger level. His right fist was bound in fresh bandages, attesting to an unfortunate choice of some sort, likely striking an object harder than the fool’s head.
 

Andre halted before Hezekiah, barely acknowledging his father’s presence. “I asked a question, sir.”

“Sit down.” Hezekiah gestured toward the nearest chair and waited in preparation of the younger Gayarre’s protest. A servant carrying the requested coffee cowered in the hall, and Hezekiah motioned for her to enter the parlor. She eased past Andre, her expression akin to a beaten dog confronting its tormentor.

The younger Gayarre gave the woman no notice. Rather, he puffed out his chest and drew himself up to his full height. “I prefer to stand.”

“Suit yourself.” Hezekiah accepted the tray from the terrified
servant, then poured a cup for Jean. Without warning, Hezekiah
whirled around and landed a blow against the back of Andre’s knees, sending the arrogant fool sprawling to the carpet.

At the sound of his father’s chuckle, Andre scrambled to his feet. He took two steps toward Hezekiah, who stood his ground.

“No whelp of a pup is going to best me.” He looked askance at Andre. “Better men than you have tried and failed.”

“Yet your own son succeeded.” The arrogant man offered a smirk. “At least, that’s what I managed to discover from my various contacts down at the docks. I understand he’s captain of the
Jude
now. I believe that vessel, vile as it looked, slipped safely out of the fire this evening with a lad aboard. You have a younger son of, oh, a decade in years, do you not?”

Opening his mouth to respond, Hezekiah decided better of it. Andre Gayarre would serve a purpose, but only if carefully manipulated.

Jean set his cup down with a clatter and climbed to his feet. “Did your contacts tell you, my son, that your
sister
was also aboard the
Jude
?”

Hezekiah wanted to add that both the man’s sisters were aboard but decided against it. No sense muddying the issue with semantics. Getting the job done was primary, and as much as he hated to admit it, sending Andre Gayarre after Josiah might make a better plan that the one he’d settled on. First, however, he must make the younger Gayarre believe the idea was his.