Gentleman's Trade (2 page)

Vanessa raised her eyebrows in supercilious disbelief when her father glanced over in her direction, but took his cue with good grace, rising smoothly to her feet.

“Over a glass you can tell us about this Talverton fellow’s business,” he went on, turning his head briefly to smile benignly at her.

She smiled sweetly in return and followed her mother, sister, and Paulette Chaumonde to the parlor.

“You were clever this evening, Vanessa.” Amanda Mannion straightened her russet silk skirts and settled herself next to Adeline at their quilting frame. “But I’m afraid your father is now so sensitive to your machinations that nothing gets by him.”

“Why does he wish to keep us wrapped in lamb’s wool? It is not as if I wish to enter his business. I just want to know.” Vanessa paced in front of the quilting frame, her hands gesturing emphatically before her. “He never used to be this way when we were younger, but in the last three or four years he’s positively become a bear at the idea of our possessing any thoughts of our own.”

Her mother sighed. “I know, dear. I believe his attitude comes from growing up on a plantation.” She looked over at Paulette seated on a cream-colored jacquard sofa, painstakingly embroidering an initial on a small, lace-edged handkerchief. “Do you have enough light, Paulette?”

“Oui, Madame.”

Amanda closed her eyes for a moment to deal with her exasperation. “English, speak in English.”

A mutinous expression passed briefly over Paulette’s face. “Yes, ma’am.”

Vanessa halted her pacing, her head tilted as she contemplated her mother’s last comment to her. “Mama, that doesn’t make any sense. He hated the plantation and couldn’t wait to leave.”

“Your stitches are a little large, Adeline. Look at mine.” She watched Adeline for a moment, nodded approval at her new efforts, then turned back to Vanessa. “I know that, but it was how he was raised that he disliked, not how his sisters were raised.”

“Can’t you talk to him, Mama, convince him his attitude just doesn’t make sense?”

Amanda smiled ruefully. “I can try, but I don’t foresee success. Something drastic would have to occur before your father would allow his thinking to be modified.”

“Me, I think you are complaining unnecessarily,” proposed Paulette. “Here I have much more freedom than other Creole girls. Most all are convent bred, and oh-so-strictly chaperoned.”

Vanessa crossed the room and sat down next to her. “Strictly chaperoned until they are at a ball, play, or some other social event,” she said ironically.

Paulette’s shrug was typically French. “One must still find a husband.”

The Mannion women laughed.

“Is that why you are so interested in Mr. Talverton? Is he a possible husband?” Vanessa absently picked up a tangled strand of embroidery silk, working it free of its knots.

“
Certainement
. One may not discount his eligibility. He has birth, we know from Mr. Danielson.”

“But no title,” reminded Vanessa.

“Ah, this is true; however, he has been raised to the manner.”

“And that’s enough?”

“No. Of a certainty, he must also possess wealth.”

“Consider, if he was raised so, and possesses wealth, he is also probably possessed of a high degree of arrogance,” Vanessa said dryly, laying the untangled silk next to Paulette.

“
Merci
. I mean, thank you,” Paulette corrected herself, casting a smile in Mrs. Mannion’s direction.

“Oh, surely he cannot be so arrogant if he is a friend of Mr. Danielson, for he is the most considerate gentleman of our acquaintance,” Adeline gently protested.

Paulette handed Vanessa more tangled strands. Vanessa raised her eyebrows in wry acknowledgment of the way Paulette was putting her to use; nonetheless, her slender fingers began sorting the strands as she turned to answer her sister.

“Remember, Mr. Danielson lived in England for several years and only returned to the United States eight years ago, after he married Julia. I doubt he has seen his friend since then, and memories have a way of changing with the passage of time. Witness our father,” Vanessa finished dryly.

“That is beneath you, Vanessa,” her mother said.

She bit her lip in consternation and tried to look contritely at her mother. “I’m sorry, Mama,” she murmured.

Mrs. Mannion’s lips quirked, but she kept her gaze serious as she accepted the apology with a little nod before she turned her attention to Paulette. “My dear, if you are looking for birth and wealth, I am surprised you have not cast out lures to Mr. Danielson. After all, his mother was part of the English aristocracy and after his parents’ death he went to live with his mother’s people. Wouldn’t that make him
raised to the manner born?”
Her needle flickered swiftly in and out of the fabric of the quilt as she spoke.

“Oh, Mrs. Mannion, me, I am not
stupide.
He has, I think, a-a-tendre for Vanessa. No
,
if he is suitable I shall, how do you say it, set my cap for Mr. Talverton. Vanessa!” she said, excitedly turning in her seat and shaking her finger rapidly back and forth between the two of them. “We two are friends,
n’est ce pas
? It would be
très convenable
for us to marry friends,
oui?”

“Paulette!” Mrs. Mannion’s tone was a cross between exasperation and good humor.

“I know, I know, Mrs. Mannion, English only. I am sorry. When I am excited, however, I forget. And it would be truly wonderful, wouldn’t it, Vanessa?”

Vanessa roused herself from the stunned state she’d fallen into at Paulette’s breezy assurance that Mr. Danielson was a suitor for her hand. She had known him anytime the past five years, her family had even taken his two small children into their household when his wife, Julia, was ill with yellow fever. Then, for a long while after Julia died, their invitations to dinner were the only social invitations he would accept. She had come to think of him as a friend of the family, someone she could talk easily with, without artifice. Had their relationship been changing, becoming something deeper? She did not think it had for her, but what of him? How could she talk to him now with the easy friendship they’d shared in the past? No. Paulette had to be wrong, or did she? Suddenly, Vanessa felt confronted with a variety of confusing feelings, and she had no idea if she wanted Trevor Danielson as a suitor or just a friend.

“I don’t know, Paulette,” she said slowly, gathering her scattered thoughts. “I have never thought of Mr. Danielson as a possible husband before.”

A tinkling little laugh escaped from Adeline. “Oh, Vanessa, why do you think Papa invites him here so often?”

“Business, I assumed.”

“And you, with your professed interest in business, have not wondered just how much business a cotton factor and trading merchant might have together? Particularly a trading merchant who deals primarily in finished goods and luxuries, such as the ones you asked about at dinner?” Adeline teased, shaking her head woefully at her older sister.

Amanda Mannion studied her daughter, Adeline, a moment, then smiled, her lips faintly twitching. When she turned to look at Vanessa, her expression was carefully neutral.

Vanessa’s mouth dropped open slightly, while her eyes glazed over in thought. Then she blinked and snapped her jaw shut. A blush rose to stain her cheeks, though her lips curved upward to a wide grin. “You’re right, I have been ludicrously blind. I knew Mr. Wilmot considered himself a suitor, but I had no idea Mr. Danielson did as well.”

“Be careful, my dear, that you do not play one off the other,” her mother warned.

“And do not think to add Mr. Talverton to your list,” warned Paulette, “for he is mine!”

“But you don’t even know what he looks like, or if he possesses wealth,” protested Adeline good-naturedly.

Paulette shrugged. “The looks,
n’important pas.
If he fails to possess wealth, however, then I say Vanessa, you may have him, too.”

At that, the three Mannion ladies fell to inelegant whoops of laughter, followed reluctantly by Paulette.

Finally, Mrs. Mannion wiped her streaming eyes with a handkerchief, swallowing another chuckle. “Hush, girls, hush. I think I hear the gentlemen approaching,” she managed in a choked voice. She tucked her handkerchief away and sat straighter before her quilting frame.

Quickly Vanessa, Adeline, and Paulette composed their features and resumed their tasks, not daring to look at one another lest they resume their laughter as well.

“Ring for tea, please, Vanessa,” Mrs. Mannion serenely requested as the double doors to the parlor opened and the gentlemen entered.

Through the mirror above her vanity table, Vanessa absently watched Leila’s long dark fingers wind some of her hair in curling paper and secure it in place. The tedium of the procedure vexed Vanessa, though she was glad it was only done to the strands in front of her ears. The rest of her glossy light brown hair was long and plaited in a thick braid for the night.

Leila was so slow. Vanessa inwardly moaned, but she suffered her efforts with forbearance, for truly the woman was a wizard with hair. Her mind wandered as Leila picked up another lock of hair, combing it out. Vanessa thought of Trevor Danielson. She liked the man. He was congenial company, and his two children were darlings. Unfortunately, search her mind and heart as she would, she could find no hint of deeper stirring within her. She did not love him, or at least, not as she intellectually understood love. It seemed to be a state characterized by strong feelings, feelings that were alien to her in all ways save for her temper.

Still, Mr. Danielson did possess other attributes she felt important in a marriage. He was a friendly, likable person, and her father approved of him. Unfortunately, she had yet to find anything beyond those attributes that would augur well for wedlock. Particularly, she was looking for a certain zing, or exhilaration, that her elder sister Louisa mysteriously mentioned but refused to describe.

When the gentlemen rejoined them in the parlor, she made a push to cultivate Mr. Danielson’s company, searching for those feelings. He remained as charming as always. Ultimately, all she felt was the extent of Mr. Wilmot’s jealousy, for he glowered darkly, almost menacingly, and seemed to be forever interrupting their discussion. The emotions Mr. Wilmot managed to arouse this evening were far stronger than any engendered by Mr. Danielson; lamentably, the only warmth they received was the warmth of her ire.

Vanessa considered Mr. Wilmot a handsome man in a large and swarthy manner, his dark eyes and brows lending him an almost saturnine appearance. His everyday clothes were sober, even to the point of plainness, his single affectation a large diamond stickpin in the folds of his snowy white cravat. His austerity of dress, swarthy complexion, and raspy voice, along with the mysterious white scar, gave him an aura of power, danger, and excitement that sent many a New Orleans maiden’s heart fluttering.

Were those fluttery feelings akin to love? Did some men inspire love easier than others? Vanessa acknowledged she was no more immune to Mr. Wilmot’s dark charm than other women, and she accounted herself fortunate to have drawn his attentions. During the evening, though, she saw his social elegance slip, revealing a rough-hewn core. It made her wonder about his background. Now she was not as confident as she had been earlier that she was flattered by his attentions. In all fairness, however, he’d never previously witnessed her devoting such considerable attention to Mr. Danielson, so perhaps she shouldn’t judge his actions too hastily or harshly. The same forbearance in judgment should also be extended toward Mr. Danielson. She would give both gentlemen another chance; after all, it was nearly past time she was married and she had no other suitors waiting in the wings. Since at twenty she chafed terribly at her father’s restrictions, remaining in her parents’ home all her life did not bear imagining.

Leila carefully positioned her nightcap on her head, rousing Vanessa to the exigencies of her nightly toilet. She thanked the older woman for her help and tied the ribbon under her chin. She leaned toward the mirror, searching for the telltale evidence of her encroaching years. She knew herself to have a pleasant enough countenance, though lacking in true beauty such as her younger sister Adeline possessed, not that Adeline saw any benefit from her appearance, as shy as she was. Any gentleman attracted to Adeline for her looks soon wandered away for her silence.

“What are you looking for there, Miss Vanessa?” Leila asked, her wide grin revealing large white teeth.

Vanessa pulled back, laughing ruefully at herself. “My youth, Leila.”

The woman snorted, shaking her bandanna-covered head at Vanessa’s folly.

Hugh Talverton cradled a glass of port between long, tanned fingers and leaned back in his chair, joining Trevor Danielson in the contemplation of his cravat in the mirror above the mahogany bureau. His amused smile under sleepy, tawny-colored eyes gave mute eloquence to his thoughts on Danielson’s efforts at sartorial elegance.

He yawned. “It appears you’ve become a curst dandy, my friend. Is all this . . .” he waved his hand in Danielson’s direction “necessary? One would infer by your fastidious primping that you’re about to attend a court function or embark on a nuptial engagement.” His tone held both the hint of a question and the aura of amused derision.

Trevor’s shoulders shook with silent laughter at the reflection of Talverton seated leisurely behind him, faintly swinging one impeccably attired leg in controlled patience. Still grinning, he gave a fold in his cravat one more sharp crease before turning to face his guest.

“And you’ve become a hard-bitten military man shunning the social graces. If I appear to be fastidiously primping
,
as you call it, it is because society demands it.”

“Here? What semblance of society could there be in this swamp? No offense, Trevor, but I believe you’ve been poached in this sultry climate,” he drawled.

Hugh’s attitude amused Trevor and he laughed good-naturedly. “I assure you, we take our social life seriously.” He leaned back against the bureau and crossed his arms on his chest. “Parties, balls, the theater, they’re all prominent parts of life here.”

“I believe you.” Hugh Talverton’s voice filled with dry skepticism. “Nonetheless, as important as this town . . .”

“City,” corrected Trevor.

Hugh inclined his head, his lips twitching with humor. “All right. As important as this
city
is to trade, I’m amazed people take time for socializing. There are fortunes to be made here!”

“How well I know. But it was bored into me just last evening that it is important to participate socially if one desires lucrative business contacts and contracts.”

“And the ball this evening that you’re so determined I attend will supply such contacts?” Hugh asked dubiously.

Trevor uncrossed his arms and pushed himself away from the bureau, laughing at his friend’s faintly sneering doubt. “Miss Chaumonde was right, you were
raised to the manner born.”

“Raised to what?”

“To the manner born,” Trevor returned patiently, though a smile threatened to twist his lips upward.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Hugh demanded, his sandy brows drawn in toward his hawk like nose.

“It means that though you are not titled, you were bred like a titled aristocrat.” Trevor grasped his port glass from the top of the bureau and took a sip while he watched Hugh grimace, then laugh.

“You make me sound like a racehorse bred for Newmarket.” He raised his glass to his lips. “Who is this Miss Chaumonde?”

“Paulette Chaumonde, and she is determined that you shall meet her tonight, for she is enamored of aristocrats.”

Hugh Talverton groaned.

“Miss Chaumonde’s father is a lawyer on a mission with the state legislature in Washington. While he is away she is staying with the Mannions, a thoroughly American family. And,” he said, leaning forward, “Richard Mannion is a cotton factor. One of the most important.”

His guest stilled the gentle swing of his leg and raised an eyebrow.

Trevor straightened and looked smug, for he knew Mannion was the type of business contact his friend was anxious to make. “Yes,” he drawled, “he, too, will be at the ball. Listen, Hugh, if you wish to deal successfully in this country, you will have to learn a new set of rules. Those people ridiculed as the bourgeoisie in London are the leaders of society here, while aristocrats and aristocratic arrogance suffer ridicule.”

An arrested expression settled on Talverton’s surprisingly rugged aquiline features. He drained his glass, placing it next to the port decanter resting on a small table at his elbow.

“Do you consider me arrogant?” he asked neutrally.

“I? No, no more than most men of your standing. You English have the habit of looking down on the rest of the world. I’d venture to say that is what lost you the original colonies,” he answered humorously.

Hugh Talverton frowned. “That is a nonsensical statement coming from you. You were practically raised in England.”

Trevor considered Hugh carefully a moment. “And I was never allowed to forget I wasn’t English. Even though you’re my friend, you can be damned daunting at times.”

An expression of irritation hardened his friend’s features into a cold mask.

“If you desire lucrative cotton contracts for that mill you’ve invested in, then I strongly suggest you don’t dismiss my words out of hand,” Trevor hastened to continue. “Remember, to the people here who lived through the Battle of New Orleans, you lost the war; a little humility would not be unwarranted.”

His friend’s brow cleared and he spread his arms penitently. “You see before you a properly chastised citizen of England.” He hung his head with mock shame. “I shall endeavor a humbler aspect.”

Trevor laughed and shook his head wryly. One of the characteristics Hugh possessed that had drawn Trevor to him when he was a shy young man in a strange land had been Hugh’s ability to laugh at himself. “Enough of this. Come. It’s getting late, and we should be off,” he said, setting his glass beside Hugh’s.

Talverton rose to his feet with leonine grace and unconsciously twitched the set of his jacket across his broad shoulders to a more accommodating fit.

“Why is it,” he asked languidly, as he followed Trevor out of his room, “that I get the feeling I’m about to be thrown to the wolves?”

Trevor laughed heartily and turned to clap Hugh good-naturedly on the back. “That’s because I suppose, in a way, you are. But when have you been known to shirk from danger, eh?”

“Never,” he admitted. “I have learned, however,” he murmured as he accepted his hat and cane from Trevor’s man, “that sometimes caution is the better part of valor.”

Vanessa descended the stairs slowly, a slight frown marring the image of an elegant young woman about to embark on an evening of dancing and good company. She knew Paulette and the rest of her family were gathered in the parlor for the typically New Orleans leave-taking ceremony of admiring each other’s gowns and toilette. It was not a practice she anticipated with pleasure. To get completely dressed for a ball, stand and twirl around before the rest of one’s company, only to remove one’s shoes and stockings to don sturdy boots for the short trek across muddy New Orleans streets seemed ridiculous.

She crossed the tiled hall, pausing a moment by the parlor door to compose her features.

“Vanessa! Finally you come,” cried Paulette, running forward to grasp her hand and pull her into the room. “We have been waiting and waiting. Stand here, please.” She prodded her into position under the parlor’s ornate chandelier.

Richard Mannion, seated by the fire, lowered the newspaper he was perusing to look at Vanessa. “Very pretty, my dear,” he said perfunctorily and resumed his reading.

Vanessa shared an amused look with her mother, for it was her father’s stock answer. He considered it his dutiful response. Sometimes Vanessa thought he’d make the same comment if she were wearing a sackcloth and ashes.

Amanda Mannion motioned her to turn in a circle. “That is an exquisite gown, and you wear it beautifully.”

Vanessa spread her arms to pirouette gracefully, but when she stopped, her shoulders drooped slightly. “I know it is a lovely gown, but somehow I don’t feel I show to advantage in it. I think it’s the color,” she said, looking down at the ivory zephyr skirt edged with a reseda-colored rouleau and surmounted by similarly colored rows of Spanish puffs. The same light gray-green color accented the bodice and sleeves.

Her mother looked doubtful. “I am not persuaded there is a problem with the gown. But perhaps it does lack something.”

“What problem?” Paulette demanded.

“This color,” Vanessa explained, fingering a slash of green satin material on her sleeve.

“But the color is, what do you call it? The high kick of fashion, no? And the dress, it is
magnifique!”

“But on me, it is just a dress.”

“Pour quoi?”

Vanessa shrugged impatiently.

Paulette frowned, one of her quick storms of temper brewing in her eyes. Adeline laid a gentle hand on her arm. “As Vanessa said, it is not a color in which she thinks she shows to advantage.” She turned to study the gown objectively. “Still you will be readily admired, for it is obvious that this dress is one of the newest Paris styles.”

Unconvinced, Vanessa glared down at the gown. “How could I have chosen so poorly?”

“Vanessa, Vanessa, you are being a silly goose,” teased her mother. “That is hardly like you. As Paulette said, that reseda color is all the fashion this year. I anticipate seeing several parlors and drawing rooms in the city redone in just such a color. You might account yourself a fashion leader.”

“Please, Mama,” her daughter protested, closing her eyes briefly.

Adeline chuckled. “It is not as bad as you despair. You will still turn heads.” She turned to ring the bell sitting on a table by her quilting frame. It was answered almost immediately by their
gens de couleur libres
butler, a freeman colored servant. “Jonas, have Leila fetch my pearl choker, please.” She turned back to her daughter, straightening and fluffing one short puffed sleeve on Vanessa’s dress. “Your problem, my dear, is you have discovered how well you look in your French blue gown, so now, though you desire to wear other colors, you are forever making comparisons.”

“I suppose you are correct. This is perhaps why I despise the ritual of displaying my attire before leaving for some social function. It gives me time for second thoughts.”

“Bah! You think too much,” offered Paulette derisively.

“Falling to vanity, love?” her mother humorously queried.

Vanessa grinned. “My sins appear to be increasing with my age.”

“Then for a certainty you must marry lest they become worse!” Paulette declared.

Adeline and her mother laughed.

“Paulette!” Vanessa admonished indignantly, though she laughed, too.

“I say, what’s this?” Richard Mannion laid his newspaper aside and rose from his chair. “Such a cackle’s hardly proper for a ball.”

“Pardon, Father, yes, of course,” Vanessa managed, clamping her lips tight to stifle another laugh. She glanced at her mother, amazed at how quickly she regained her serene demeanor. Her mother caught her eye and slowly winked, nearly sending Vanessa into another paroxysm of laughter.

Richard Mannion crossed the room and opened the door just as Jonas arrived with the pearl necklace. He stood impatiently while his wife fastened the necklace around Vanessa’s neck and the others stood back to admire the effect.

“Well, let’s be off
^-
then. We’re wasting a good portion of the evening and I’ve promised to talk with McKnight. I’d like to meet this Talverton fellow, too,” he said.

“So should I!” cooed Paulette.

Mr. Mannion frowned, but Mrs. Mannion and her daughters bubbled with quiet laughter.

“But not for the same reasons as Father,” said Adeline with a giggle.

“You were right last night, Paulette,” Mrs. Mannion said ruefully as she ushered them out of the room. “Social engagements are bound to business. I fear I shall be lucky to have him stand up with me for even one dance this evening.”

Behind her, Mr. Mannion harrumphed.

The night was dark, but in the deeply rutted muddy streets, silver pools of water glistened in the light cast from lanterns held by the Mannion servants. The family picked their way carefully along the wood plank banquette made from old keelboats, patches of mud on the wood making slippery footing. Though fashion now decreed ladies’ dresses be above their ankles, the women still held their dresses a little higher to avoid marring their gowns. Their dancing slippers and stockings were carried wrapped in shawls, ready to be donned at their destination; on their feet, the sturdy boots they wore added an odd counterpoint to the elegant attire.