Beloved Castaway (2 page)

“Nothing,” Mama Dell said as she moved carefully toward the front door.

“Actually there is,” Isabelle countered as she turned her attention to the coachman. “The monsieur’s name. Would you be so kind as to tell me-”

Fingers as strong as a field hand’s wrapped around her arm. “Enough of that, girl.”
 

Mama Dell dismissed the astonished driver before he could respond and then waited until the carriage was gone before releasing her grip. “Inside before you freckle,” she demanded. “That man of yours, he don’t care what your name is, so you just need to quit caring, too. I already told you it don’t matter.” She turned the key in the lock and then pressed on the door. “Better you care what your protector paid for this house. And what else he’s going to buy us.”

“I cannot care for someone I do not know.” She gave her chaperone, the only family Isabelle could claim, a level stare. “Perhaps if you were to share his name…”

Dark eyes closed tight as a familiar look crossed the older woman’s face. Often Isabelle had been a recipient of the exasperation conveyed by the expression. And yet without her, Mama Dell had nothing. The arrangement always struck Isabelle as odd. The very person who played jailor and surrogate parent depending on the girl she merely tolerated for her livelihood.

“Do you take me for a fool?” Mama Dell shifted positions. “I tell you who your protector is and you will go speaking his name all over the place. I cannot risk it.”

She stifled a laugh. “There’s no one to tell. You’ve seen to it that you are my only companion.”

Mama Dell whirled around and grasped Isabelle by the shoulders, her fingers pressing what would surely be bruises into her flesh. “Some day you’ll know how much I’ve done for you. How much he has done. Until then, you need to keep quiet, you hear?” She let go and hitched up her red petticoats. “Now get on inside before people start thinking we’re uncouth.”

“Uncouth? You allow my father to sell my body to the highest bidder in exchange for a home in the city and enough food to fill your belly and you’re concerned about what the neighbors will think?”

Soon as the words escaped, Isabelle longed to capture them. Mama Dell had surely never looked so angry.

“I will address that when I decide to and from somewhere other than the front garden.” She leaned closer. “And I know just how to hurt you without leaving a mark for the monsieur to find when he inspects his property tonight.”

Isabelle lowered her eyes to study the toes of her traveling slippers. “Yes, Mama Dell. Forgive me.”

Just when she thought she might respond, her chaperone turned her back and marched inside. Isabelle followed with much less enthusiasm.

An elegant parlor with scarlet and gold furnishings fit for the finest New Orleans mansions beckoned. On the other side of the long center hall, a second more intimate parlor bedecked in blue velvet and needlework tapestries looked to be just as well appointed. Someone had set out a pot of tea and two tiny cups on the carved and polished sideboard, likely the same person who had thought to open the windows and air out the rooms.
 

Muttering something about laziness, Mama Dell disappeared down the long hallway, her slippers pounding a rhythm on the expanse of floral carpeting. Isabelle ran her hand over the carved rosewood back of a double settee and tried not to think of how this room, this home, would be paid for in ways she could not bear to consider.

Mama Dell had been quite clear in telling her what would be expected of her as a
placee
. Her only hope was that the price she must pay for this luxury would be delayed as long as possible.
 

“You still brooding?” Mama Dell stood in the doorway, a pair of harried looking maids on either side.

Isabelle ignored them to walk to the pot and pour the steaming liquid into a cup so translucent, she could practically see through it. The scent of strong chicory coffee teased her nose.

“You’ve had a visitor,” she continued, her voice now brittle.
 

Isabelle wrapped her fingers around the cup. “Have I?”
 

“Do not pretend indifference. Who is this Emilie who asks for you by name?”
 

The coffee warmed her fingers through the thin cup but she ignored the heat to offer a shrug. “And what name does she use?”

Mama Dell snatched at the coffee cup, sloshing hot coffee across Isabelle’s bodice. Gasping, she yanked the soaked fabric away from her skin. One of the servants produced a handkerchief and dabbed at the stain.

“Leave her be,” Mama Dell commanded. “Draw her a cold bath and make up a poultice should there be any marks on her. I cannot present the monsieur with damaged goods.”

When the servants had scurried away, Mama Dell turned her glare back on Isabelle. “To whom have you spoken about your travels, girl?”

Her skin burned where the coffee had scalded her, but Isabelle squared her shoulders and faced the challenge directly. “How could I have spoken to anyone? You only just informed me this morning, and I have been in your presence ever since.”

Indeed it had been just as she said. As if she were discussing the weather or how many kittens the barn cat produced, Mama Dell informed her over breakfast that the time had come to leave. And though she had been prepared almost since birth for this day, she still found herself most unprepared.

Not that she would allow Mama Dell to know.

Chapter 2

New Orleans

R
ather than argue with Mama Dell, Isabelle waited in silence as her chaperone muttered on about ungrateful spoiled children and men whose whims made little sense except to them. Even in the midst of a fit of anger, the older woman was circumspect. Not once did she mention a single fact that might have allowed Isabelle to understand anything more of her past than she had already discovered
.

She had learned early on that the owner of Cheneau Plantation professed no knowledge of the man who paid for a lifelong lease on what was once a caretaker’s cottage on the far edge of the property. With this lease came food from the plantation kitchen, a servant to see to their needs, and most important, some measure of freedom for two women who would find none elsewhere.

Isabelle sighed. A pity she had not appreciated her freedom then for it was now well and truly gone.

“So you know of no Emilie?”

“I do not.” She offered a direct look, one with no deceit. “Perhaps she was sent by my protector.”

Apparently the thought had not occurred to Mama Dell. “It is possible,” she admitted as she nodded toward the servant now waiting. “Do go and make yourself presentable.”

Isabelle followed the servant down the carpeted hallway. Someone had hung the walls with paintings of street scenes and country vistas. In the midst of these landscapes, one painting stood out. She paused to study it.

Wrapped in a gilt frame twice the size of the others, the stern face of a man in a military uniform stared down at her. Though his brows were ample, there appeared to be little or no hair atop his head. Were she so inclined, Isabelle could easily imagine the old fellow as the devil himself.

Scooting past the frightful man, Isabelle followed the scent of lavender water into a bedchamber twice the size of the room she had shared with Mama Dell all these years. Despite the moderate temperature outside, a fire had been laid in the fireplace. She skirted past the massive bed, its four posts draped with mosquito netting much as a bride is draped for her wedding day, and found the metal tub filled nearly to the top with fragrant water.

Hurrying to leave her travel-dusted clothing on the wide-plank wooden floor, she sunk into the depths of her bath and let out a contented sigh. For as long as she inhabited this room alone, she could learn to enjoy these simple pleasures.

Then a terrible thought occurred. What if the awful man in the painting was her protector? Dare her owner give her as
placee
to such a brutish-looking old devil?

Rather than continue to ponder the question, Isabelle sunk all the way under the water, disappearing into a world with no sound. If only she could remain here, her breath held and her eyes closed.

Then a hand grasped her wrist and tugged hard, sending Isabelle flying up. As she coughed and sputtered, she saw Mama Dell standing over her, the maid bustling about behind her.

“Get dressed,” she said. “You’ve got a visitor. Again.”

“A visitor?” She clutched the length of toweling to her.

“Thank the Lord you weren’t burned by that coffee. That was clumsy of you, Isabelle. Regretfully clumsy.” Mama Dell yanked the toweling away and began to roughly dry Isabelle’s hair. “No matter what she tells you to call her, you’d best remember to refer to her as Mademoiselle. Do you understand? And not a word about your arrangement here.”

“How can I tell what I do not know?”

“You know.” Two words that hung between them as Mama Dell continued her treatment. “Now tell me you understand.”

Isabelle nodded as best she could considering her chaperone held handfuls of her hair. When she was dry, her hair fashioned, and her dress donned, Isabelle stood before the pier glass and tried not to breathe while Mama Dell finished her lacings. All the while, she continued her admonishment against offending the lady in the red parlor.

The older woman took two steps back to look over her handiwork. Seemingly satisfied with her handiwork, she nodded and turned Isabelle toward the door.

“You act as if I am being visited by royalty,” Isabelle finally said.

“Like as not, she is as close to royalty as a woman of your ilk can come.” Mama Dell gave her a look that told her she expected any further instruction to be a hopeless cause. “Go and be sociable like I taught you.”

Isabelle skittered past the horrid man in the painting and then slowed her steps as she reached the front parlor. There on the red velvet settee nearest the window was an elegant lady dressed in what was apparently the latest style. Beneath the hat of robin’s egg blue, the woman’s dark glossy curls had been swept into a coiffure that surely took two or three servants to achieve.

The fancy woman rose and turned to greet her with a smile. Only then did Isabelle decide they were likely near to the same age.

“Isabelle.”

“Yes,” she said cautiously.

“I am Emilie. Emilie Gayarre.” She returned to her seat and patted the place beside her with her gloved hand, indicating Isabelle should join her. “Does that name mean anything to you?”

“No.”

“Then sit here and let’s visit, shall we?” she said in a most proper version of French.
 

Crossing the room on shaking legs, Isabelle studied her guest. Or perhaps she was the guest and this woman the lady of the home. It certainly felt so.

Everything about Emilie Gayarre spoke refinement as her full lips parted to reveal brilliant white teeth and a wide smile. “I am sure you have questions.”

She managed a nod. Out of the corner of her eye, she spied Mama Dell peering from a safe distance down the hall. Her presence along with that of the maid sent to serve refreshments was enough to cause Isabelle to keep silent.

“I will answer your questions, but first I have a few of my own.” She waited until the tea had been poured and sweets set before them before turning her attention to Mama Dell. “Thank you,” she told the chaperone, “but Isabelle and I do not require your presence.”

Oh but that put a look on Mama Dell’s face. And yet she quickly covered her surprise with the subservient look she only rarely wore. “I’ll be nearby if you need me.”

“We won’t.”

A nod, and Mama Dell was gone. And yet she hadn’t gone far, of this Isabelle was certain.
 

When the maid’s footsteps no longer echoed down the hallway, the mademoiselle leaned in close. “Can you read, Isabelle?”

She gasped. What sort of question was this? “Of course not,” she said carefully. “The laws forbid it.”

“The laws are ridiculous. I had hoped those who saw to your care might realize this.” She gave Isabelle an assessing look and then shrugged. “All right. Well, what of your spiritual education?”

The only education Mama Dell saw to was the one that would insure she could please the man who paid the creditors. Saying so to a woman of Emilie Gayerre’s quality and upbringing was impossible.

Isabelle set her indifferent expression into place and hoped it would remain. “No.”

“Then I shall see to both.” She reached for a sweet and popped it into her mouth, acting for all the world as if she had not just suggested they engage in an activity that would see them both sent to the Cabildo to rot in jail until they were old women.

“Why?” escaped her lips before she could stop it. Instantly she looked away. “Forgive me. The question was impertinent.”

“No dear. The question was appropriate.” She reached for a napkin and delicately dabbed at her lips before setting it aside once more. “I am sure you wonder why a stranger would arrive on your doorstep and make such statements.”

She lifted her gaze to meet the mademoiselle’s direct stare. “My chaperone is likely the one concerned.”

“Not you?”

Isabelle deflected the question with an almost imperceptible shrug.