Josephine: Bride of Louisiana (American Mail-Order Bride 18) (2 page)

“
S
he’s going
to be fine, you know,” Josephine said as she wrapped her arm around her best friend’s shoulder. India wiped a tear from her cheek and she waved one last time to her sister, Beth, as she set out with her new family to Montana.

“I know. George is a very nice man, but Montana’s so far away.” India sighed and turned toward Josephine. “And now you and Michelle...it’s all so much.”

Josephine linked her arm in India’s as they turned to leave the train station. Her heart tugged at the thought of all of her friends from the Brown Textile Mill whose lives had been changed forever when it burned. They were all left jobless--with few prospects.

She tucked a lock of her honey-brown hair back up into her bonnet and pulled her wrap tighter against the cold. As they stepped out into the autumn chill, she forced a smile and squeezed India’s arm.

“Everything will work out fine.
J’en mettrais ma main au feu!”

India laughed. “You and your French. It sounds so beautiful--I love when you speak it. But I have no idea what you said.”

Josephine smiled. “I said I’d bet my life on it...and I would.”

“Well, I never would have thought that one of the advertisements in Roberta’s
Grooms’ Gazette
would have asked specifically for someone who spoke French.

Josephine stepped back from India, twirled in the frosty air and stopped in front of her, giving her a small curtsy. “And one with manners and knowledge of French culture. A
lady
.”

India giggled and reached for Josephine’s hand, taking a bow. “Yes, a French lady. I didn’t even know that there were people who spoke French down in Louisiana.”

“I didn’t know, either, but I went to the library and found out that before Louisiana was part of America, it belonged to the French. A famous French general that my father used to speak of, Napoleon Bonaparte, gave huge parcels of land to people who agreed to settle there. I imagine that Pierre’s family was part of that if they own a plantation.” Josephine had read about large, beautiful houses and plantations and balls and--well, lots of exciting things she’d dreamed she’d be doing. She looked down at the only pair of shoes she owned. Her dirty, worn boots had carried her through many days of walking to work at the factory, but she couldn’t imagine what her new husband would think of her shoes and drab, gray dresses with worn hems. She shook her head, trying not to think of that as each time she did, butterflies took flight in her stomach.

Josephine jumped as a clap of thunder sounded and she grabbed India’s hand, pulling her faster down the street toward the apartment building they lived in.

“Oh, no. Thunder...let’s hurry.”

A small squeak escaped Josephine’s lips as another clap of thunder sent her into a run. Thunder had sent her into a tizzy since she was a little girl. She didn’t quite remember why, but hoped that there weren’t many thunderstorms in New Orleans, Louisiana, where Pierre Bernard lived. She’d written quickly, her heart hopeful that he would respond favorably as there were no other advertisements in the
Grooms’ Gazette
that appealed to her.

They ducked into a doorway as rain started in earnest. “Au clair de la lune

Mon ami Pierrot...” Josephine started to sing the familiar lullaby her mother had sung to her whenever she was tired or frightened. She looked up at the sky again.

India looked at her friend and up at the sky. “Uh-oh. I know that song--well, not what it means but I know why you sing it. Come on. Let’s make a run for it. We’re almost at the building.”

Josephine’s eyes grew wide as she looked down the street toward their apartment building. She held tight to India’s hand as they ran through the rain, reaching the stairs of their building in record time.

They walked through to the porch, stomping the mud off their shoes. “I think there’s snow in Indiana, where I’m going. At least you know there won’t be in New Orleans,” India said as she shrugged off her coat.

“I still haven’t heard officially that he’s agreed. And if he doesn’t, I’m not sure what I’ll do.” Josephine held the door open as India passed through and climbed the stairs to their apartment.

India sniffed as they reached the door of their apartment. “I’m not sure I can stand potatoes and cabbage much longer. I think I’d rather die.”

“It won’t be much longer, India. We’ll both be leaving soon
.
J’en mettrais ma main au feu!

India laughed as she hung her coat and scarf on the rack just inside the door. “Don’t bet your life on it. You haven’t even heard officially that he’s willing.”

Josephine furrowed her brows. “You don’t think he will be?”

Before India could respond, Dacey held up an envelope and said, “You can find out right now, I think. This is from him. Mr. Pierre Bernard.”

Her heart leapt into her throat as Josephine reached for the letter, her eyes glued to the letters forming her name. She took it, but clasped it to her chest and closed her eyes.

“Go on, silly, open it,” Della chided. “Can’t do anything if you don’t know what’s coming.”

Josephine groaned, knowing her roommates were right. She slipped her finger in and pulled out a clean, white paper and flattened it on the table. Her heart raced as she read the words:

D
ear Mademoiselle Depardieu
,

T
hank
you for responding to my request for a bride, and the outline you’ve given of your upbringing and skills. Dancing, cooking and understanding French cuisine and, of course, speaking the language is very important here in southern Louisiana, with our large population of French-speaking people.

It is with great hopes that I agree to this match. Please find enclosed fair for train and steamboat travel, the specific enclosed in another envelope.

I look forward to meeting you soon.

P
ierre Bernard

S
he let
the letter drop to the table and sank back on her chair. She looked down at her scuffed shoes, drab gray dress and thought of the only other dress she had, which was the same.

“He wants me to come,” she said quietly as she looked down at her scuffed shoes, drab gray dress and thought of the only other dress she had, which was the same.

Michelle read the letter and said, “It’s so very exciting. He sounds eager to meet you and it seems so important that you speak French and know the things he’s asking.”

Josephine rubbed her red hands together, looking at India with wide eyes. “I’m not sure that I do,” she said, her confidence rushing out of her at the thought of standing there, meeting Pierre, looking the way she did.

“You stop that right now, Josephine,” India said. “You’re a wonderful person, you can be everything he’s asked for, and he’ll be lucky to have you.”

Michelle set the letter down on the table and rested her hand on Josephine’s shoulder. “She’s right, you know. He’ll be lucky to have you.”

T
he train rolled
on and Josephine looked down at Michelle’s head as it rested on her shoulder. So much had happened in the last few weeks that she’d barely had a chance to adjust. Michelle had gotten a letter first from Anthony Chandler, a man from Mississippi, and they’d read it together under the lamp. Her stomach had lurched when Michelle looked up at her and said, “I think this is the one, Josephine. I’m going to go.”

She brushed back one of her cousin’s red curls and sighed as the conductor announced that they’d be arriving in Corinth, Mississippi, in half an hour. She hoped with all her heart that this was a good match for Michelle, but they’d promised to keep in touch, and, after all, Louisiana wasn’t that far away.

When Michelle had shown her the ad for a woman who spoke French, she’d panicked. At this point in her life, she didn’t think she could remember the difference between a souffle and an omelet, and this man expected a French lady. One who could speak the language and behave accordingly as the wife of a plantation owner.

Josephine had to admit that she didn’t quite know
what
that entailed. When Michelle had insisted that she did, indeed, possess skills up to the task, she let herself be convinced to write a response.

Now, though, she wasn’t at all sure that she’d made the right decision. She’d not seen a picture of Pierre--there just wasn’t time--but in his advertisement he’d said he wasn’t bad looking. Did it really matter, though? This was her future, no matter what, and there was no turning back now.

“Are...are we almost there?” Michelle’s eyes fluttered and Josephine smiled down at her.

“Yes, we are. Corinth is just ahead. How are you feeling?”

“Very nervous,” Michelle said as she gathered her reticule and took out a mirror, patting at her face as she re-arranged her curls. “How do I look?”

Josephine smiled, wondering if she should tell her cousin that she looked like she’d been on a train for a very long time--which she had.

“He’ll think you’re beautiful,” she said, patting Michelle’s hand.

“Do you think that’s him?” Michelle said, pointing to a very tall, dark man scanning the windows of the train cars.

“It does look like his picture,” Josephine said, squinting against the glaring light.

She helped Michelle gather her things as the train came to a stop. She regretted agreeing to step off in the brief time they had to meet Mr. Chandler, eager to continue on to meet the riverboat that would take her further south. But when Michelle turned her frightened eyes toward her and took a deep breath, she knew she needed to.

“Miss Blake?” the tall man they’d picked out of the crowd said as he walked up to the girls.

Michelle squeezed Josephine’s hand as she nodded slightly at the smiling gentleman. “Yes, and this is my cousin, Josephine.”

Josephine smiled and squeezed Michelle’s hand back. “It’s very nice to meet you, Mr. Chandler.”

“Likewise,” he said, tipping his hat in Josephine’s direction. “Will you be staying with us for a bit before continuing your journey?”

“Oh, goodness, thank you, but I do believe I’m expected in New Orleans at the earliest possible moment.”

“I certainly understand,” he said as he scanned the luggage that was being taken off the train. “I do hope you’ll visit sometime.”

Michelle raised her eyebrows and looked at Josephine.

“Of course I will,” she said as she hugged Michelle tightly. Brushing a red curl away from her cousin’s face, she whispered, “He seems very nice. Write to me at once and let me know.”

“I will, Josephine. I’ll miss you.”

Josephine patted her cheek and turned, waving as she lifted her skirts and climbed the stairs back onto the train. She waved once more as she sat down, the train whistle blowing as they moved from the station, vowing to write to Michelle as soon as she was settled.

She slept for the following few hours as the train made its way to the river station where she transferred to a steamboat for the remainder of her trip. At least the riverboat had been more comfortable--at least smoother--than the train, and she’d enjoyed the sights as the boat slid along the river toward its destination.

She was almost there, the captain having announced their arrival within the hour. She straightened her hair as best she could, tucking it up under her hat and poking her hatpins back in a little further. She’d chosen the best hat she had, and even it was a little worn. She looked down at her simple day dress--the same one she’d worn to the factory--and cringed at the sight. How had she ever thought she could pull this off, present herself as anything other than she was--a simple, plain factory worker? And one without a job, at that.

Her stomach fluttered as the boat approached the dock. She pressed her nose to the glass as boatmen scurried around, grabbing ropes and tying knots as the boat came to a halt. Pulling her handkerchief from her sleeve, she dabbed at her face and noticed the dirt on the white linen. When Michelle’s future husband had invited her to stay the night in Corinth, she’d been anxious to get along further to meet her fate. Now, though, she had a passing thought that she should have, that maybe she’d have been a little more presentable with a shorter stint on a boat rather than a longer one on a train.

She smiled as the kind captain of the boat who hadn’t once batted an eye when her stomach roiled from being on the river held his hand out to help her onto dry land. As she stepped onto the dock and looked up from her feet--she hadn’t thought tumbling into the Mississippi River at this point would be desirable--her eyes met those of a very tall man, dark hair covering a bit of his collar. He was quite thin and his dark eyes studied her as she straightened her skirts.

“Josephine Depardieu?” the man said as he approached her, shaking hands with the captain on the way over.

She did her best not to stare, but her stomach clenched as his eyes pierced hers. He was smiling at her, no doubt, but the smile that should have warmed her--she had hoped would warm her--didn’t, leaving her cold instead. She felt heat in her cheeks as he held out his hand to her, and it took her a moment to realize that she was supposed to put hers in his. When she did, he pulled it to his lips, his eyes never leaving hers.

“Yes, I’m Josephine,” she said, pulling her eyes away with a small curtsy that she’d remembered her father had taught her. “It’s nice to meet you, Pierre.”

His smile faltered a bit. He frowned and cleared his throat. “I am not Pierre, Mademoiselle. I am his cousin, Jerome, sent to pick you up and bring you to The Willows.”

H
er cheeks flushed
, and she was flooded with relief that this was not her husband. Her future husband, actually. She knew she had no right to be selective, but there was something about Jerome that made her uncomfortable.

“And I am Bernadette,” said a short, large woman who approached carrying a basket. “I am the cook at The Willows.” She extended her hand, her smile comforting.

“Cook and housekeeper,” Jerome added, glancing down at her.

Bernadette waved her hand at him. “Cook and housekeeper, if you prefer, but I prefer to stay in the kitchen. And I’ve picked up some tarts for Pierre. He loves these and I haven’t time to make them. I would have if I wasn’t so busy dusting.” She threw a sidelong glance at Jerome, who shook his head.

“I will collect your luggage, Miss Depardieu. What shall I look for?”

Josephine looked toward the back of the boat and cringed at the sight of her battered bag. “It’s that one, right there,” she said, pointing to it. “The green one.”

“And the others?” he asked as he turned toward the stack of luggage that appeared on the dock.

She clutched her reticule and looked down at her shoes. She glanced up at Bernadette, meeting her eyes.

“She’s had her other things shipped overland, Jerome. No need to look now. Let’s head over to the buggy. It’s a bit of a ride to the plantation so we’d best get started soon.
Oui
?”

Her heart warmed at the compassion of Bernadette and hoped that maybe she could learn a thing or two from this woman.

“
Oui
,” Josephine said as she sighed in relief that at least she knew how to say ‘yes’ in French. She’d read her dictionary over and over on the way to Louisiana, but this was her first opportunity to actually speak it in a very long time--at least to people who would actually understand her--and she hoped the rest of it would come as quickly.

Jerome helped her into the covered buggy after he placed her green valise in the back. She stole a glance at Bernadette who smiled and cocked her head to the side, winking at Josephine.

“The ride to the plantation isn’t too long as you’ve stopped here along the river.” Jerome pulled his black hat further over his forehead and flicked the reins, urging the horses down the road.

Bernadette babbled almost all the way to the plantation and Josephine was relieved that she hadn’t had to talk very much. And by the time they’d reached what looked like a very long drive that Jerome turned onto, she’d learned quite a bit about the South--from the riverboats and New Orleans to the people who lived on the plantation and relied on it for food and shelter, and the large French population that still peppered the area.

She couldn’t help her hand from coming to her mouth as she gasped at the sight of the huge house they approached. “Is this...do we...”

Bernadette smiled and patted Josephine’s arm. “Yes, this is the main house and we do live here. I am in the back, of course, and Jerome is in the west wing, but this east wing is for you and Pierre.” She swept her hand toward the east side of the biggest house Josephine had ever seen, six white columns reaching up toward the roof, two stories tall. She wrung her hands as she looked over at Jerome, his face expressionless as he tied the horses to the post in front of the tall, wood doors.

She looked around as Jerome helped them both down from the buggy.

“Jerome, would you please take Miss Depardieu’s bag to her room and show her the way?” Bernadette said as she turned to Josephine and squeezed her elbow. “I’ve set everything up for a bath for you. I’ll be right up with some hot water.” She smiled and headed up the stairs leading to the porch and opened the door, gesturing for them to follow behind her, and Josephine’s heart fell. She had a million questions about Pierre, the house, the people, what was expected of her--and she sighed as Bernadette disappeared through the incredibly tall doors.

Jerome turned toward the porch. Josephine took a step behind him and then stopped, her heart beating quickly as she looked up the stairs.

“Follow me, Miss Depardieu. I’ll take you to your room.”

A shiver ran through Josephine again as she wondered if her future husband would make her feel as this man, Jerome. She tried to quiet her nerves. She had absolutely no reason to think ill of this man, and she breathed in the cool, fresh air. She placed her foot on the first step and rose toward the house and her future.

Josephine almost bumped into a wall at the bottom of the stairs, her mouth agape as she saw the wide, curved staircase that lead to the upstairs. The dark wood and beautiful carpets on the floor were extraordinary, and the small tables with flowers on them were so elegant that she couldn’t stop staring.

She shook her head again when, at the top of the stairs, she was studying the paintings on the wall so intently that she hadn’t noticed Jerome stop and ran directly into him.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said as she tried to focus on his face and not her opulent surroundings. “You have a lovely home.”

Jerome set her bag by a door just at the top of the stairs and turned to her, cocking his head to one side. “Yes, it’s lovely. Didn’t you say you’d been raised in similar circumstances, and have a thorough knowledge of the French language and culture?”

Her heart leapt to her throat. She knew she shouldn’t have listened to Michelle. They’d both thought maybe she could be a good match--she remembered French and a couple of recipes--but this? This was something she’d never experienced before.

She decided if she was in for a penny, she may as well be in for a pound. And she hadn’t even met her future husband yet, so she wasn’t going to give up this easily. “I...I am very familiar with French food, the language and culture,
Monsieur
,” she said in French, trying very hard not to wrinkle her nose at him.

“Might I ask why you considered this proposition my cousin made to you? What is it that you’re seeking here?” Jerome leaned against the doorjamb and folded his arms across his chest.

Josephine took a step backward, surprised by his impertinent question and tone of voice. Didn’t Pierre send for her? Why else would she have come--except for the fact that she had nowhere else to go? Could this man know that?

She straightened her shoulders and looked Jerome squarely in the eye. “I was sent for, as you know, by Pierre. Why else would I have come?”

“I am not sure that you do not have ulterior motives, my dear,” Jerome said in French.

Just as if she’d never stopped speaking the language, Josephine replied--also in French--in as crisp a tone as she could muster, “I have come to help my future husband in any way that he needs me to. I am hoping that someday, we may have a real marriage and be partners.”

Jerome’s eyebrows shot up. She wondered if he had been surprised that she actually
did
understand and speak French.

“Partners? Pierre has no use for partners. He has me to help him with the plantation. And rest assured it will be a marriage in name only.” He opened the door, picked up her valise and threw it on the bed. “Your room.”

She frowned as he walked out the door. “What did I ever do to you?” she asked out loud after he’d closed the door behind him.

Shaking off the bad feelings Jerome had left her with, she looked around--it surely was the most beautiful room she’d ever seen. Light, white sheers floated in the breeze from the open windows, hung with beautiful blue satin drapes on the sides. The four-poster bed with a white satin coverlet was so tall that there was a footstool beside it. She climbed the steps, turned around and fell back onto the bed, sinking in its downy softness.