Josephine: Bride of Louisiana (American Mail-Order Bride 18) (4 page)

J
osephine ran
her fingers along the soft, pale green velvet drapes hanging alongside the big window of her room. She’d lain down again after her bath, unable to keep her eyes open after scrubbing herself clean. She hadn’t anything else to do, anyway, while she waited for Bernadette to fetch her to help cook--and she groaned at the prospect of fumbling around in the kitchen.

Jerome had made it very clear that if she wanted to make this
arrangement
work that she’d need to be able to fit in society, and that Pierre’s father had insisted--although she didn’t know why.

A knot of anxiety had become a permanent fixture in her stomach since she and Jerome had spoken, and as she looked out the window, she found her finger in her mouth, just about ready to bite her fingernail--a habit her mother had joked might be the end of her. She gasped and pulled her finger back, putting it in the pocket of the work apron she’d brought with her.

How would she ever remember little things like that? They actually
might
be her undoing.

Her body tensed as plumes of dust rose from the end of the drive, the rays of the setting fall sun laying dappled shadows from the willow trees that lined the drive. She placed her hand on her belly and closed her eyes for a moment at the thought that this might be her future husband--and she actually hoped it would be him so she could get past this part of her ordeal.

Bernadette had said she’d come for her, but her nerves propelled her toward the mirror for one last look at her hair. She sighed and patted her chignon, her eyes falling to her apron and her dress--the best one she had--and her cheeks flushed. She looked around the room once more and lifted her skirts, resigned to the fact that it was all she had and she might as well make the best of it.

She opened her door slowly and peeked down the long hallway, its dark walls covered with portraits. She saw no one, so with one ragged-booted foot she stepped out and squared her shoulders.

She hadn’t gotten a tour of the house and didn’t really know where she was going, but she knew she’d burst if she stayed in her room one more minute, wondering if her future husband was even now coming up the steps.

As she walked toward the stairs and glanced at the portraits, she stopped before one, its gilded frame catching her eye. The woman in the portrait was strikingly beautiful, her hair cascading over an exquisite white dress, pearls around her neck.

The man standing next to her had his hand on her shoulder and looked down at her--and at the beautiful little boy sitting on her lap. She wished she knew more about her future family--at least who this lovely young family was. Her heart swelled at how happy they looked. Dare she even hope--no, she wouldn’t allow herself hope. Not after what she’d heard from Jerome.

She just wanted to get on with it. She’d always been a hard worker, and she’d spent many years making sure that whatever she did pleased her father. She had experience at this and vowed once again to do whatever it took to make this work.

She pulled her gaze away from the young family and took a few more steps toward the top of the grand, curved staircase. Portraits lined this wall, as well, and she closed her eyes, imagining the lovely lady in the portrait sweeping down the staircase, her lovely dress swishing behind her as she made her entrance to the guests below.

With her thoughts still on the imaginary party in her head, the door opened and closed, and her eyes flew open as she gripped the bannister. Her knuckles white, she listened for voices, her feet refusing to move.

Her heart pinched as she heard Jerome say, “Pierre must stay in town tonight, I’m afraid. Important business to attend to tomorrow, but he will be home for supper. He asked that I offer his apologies to his...to Josephine.”

“Oh, the poor girl. She must be getting nervous by now, what with all of this silly mail order business. I don’t know what you boys are thinking.”

“Now, Bernadette, you do know exactly what we’re thinking. Pierre can’t have his inheritance until he’s married. That was his mother’s stipulation. And he needs it now.”

“I realize that, but I don’t think--”

Josephine peeked over the stair rail but drew her head back as Jerome reached up to hang his coat on the stand at the foot of the stairs. She hated to eavesdrop, but she was so eager for details, and if this was the only way...

“It’s done, Bernadette. There was no time for him to court anyone, and he wouldn’t have wanted to, anyway. He has no interest in a relationship, this is just for the inheritance. And Josephine will do just fine for that purpose.

“That poor girl...and poor Pierre, for that matter,” Bernadette said. “Everyone should have a chance at love.”

Josephine backed away from the bannister, confident no one had seen her, and tiptoed slowly back to her room. She winced as the door creaked a bit as she opened it, but she moved slowly and slipped in without another sound.

She leaned back against the door, her thoughts jumbled. An inheritance? An arrangement? Nothing had been said in the letters about any of this, and she felt a bit betrayed. But why should she? She’d not been promised love--not at all--and she’d agreed to come.

She walked slowly to the window. The dappled sunlight had faded to dusk now, and several stars had begun to twinkle. The long, green branches of the willow trees--there had to have been fifty, at least, that she could see--grazed the grass in a soft breeze.

The white fence that also lined the drive curved at the end and disappeared in the distance beyond several smaller, wooden structures that looked like they might be houses. A small child ran out from one, followed by a woman that Josephine thought to be about her own age. The woman laughed as she swooped up the child and Josephine smiled at the infectious giggles of them both as they went back into the house.

She placed her palm on the window, its warmth surprising her. If she were still in Lawrence, it would likely have already snowed at least once, the streets covered in black slush. She shivered at the thought of her icy cold, soaked skirt and wet boots that she had to sit in all day at the factory.

As the willows danced in the breeze and horses grazed beyond, she breathed deeply of the clean, country air. No, even if it was just an arrangement, even if it was for an inheritance and even if she’d never find love--it was still better than Lawrence and the awful factory.

She crossed the room at the soft knock on her door and was met with Bernadette’s wide smile as she opened it.

“Oh, you’re up. I was worried I’d wake you.”

Josephine lowered her eyes. “No, I’m awake.”

“Well, you must be starving by now. Can’t believe we didn’t feed you. ”

As if on cue, Josephine’s stomach rumbled. She laughed and held her hand to her belly.

Bernadette gave a hearty laugh. “Sounds like you’re ready. Are you?”

Josephine looked up and met Bernadette’s gaze. She straightened her skirts and smiled. “Yes, I’m ready.”

T
he water
in the washbasin was nearly as cold as it would have been in Lawrence and Josephine was grateful for that as she dabbed a towel over her face. She looked up into the mirror and threw her long, honey braid back over her shoulder and patted at the circles under her eyes.

Her cooking session with Bernadette had been about what she’d expected--she remembered very little about cooking anything French. After all, she’d been cooking little besides potatoes, cabbage and the occasional brisket for quite some time, money being scarce for her and her roommates. She had gotten good at feeding many mouths with very little--but here, that didn’t seem to be as valuable a skill. Here, spices, sauces, baking and butter were the priority and she’d fallen into bed exhausted, her head spinning.

Bernadette had been kind, of course, only raising her eyebrows a few times at what must have seemed like ridiculously simple questions to her--things that Josephine should have known. How to knead? She should know that, but she couldn’t remember. How to whisk? Again...any French woman would have known what that was, she speculated, and she was grateful that Bernadette had been so busy that she’d not commented on these things if she had noticed at all.

As exhausted as she’d been, she hadn’t slept well, still stunned at what Bernadette had told her--that she was to go shopping today for a new wardrobe. She supposed that they’d all realized that her better clothes were
not
coming as she’d told them, and what she had wasn’t fit for a lady.

Either way, she was nervous and excited--both at the prospect of new clothes and that she would be going into New Orleans. Her stomach fluttered with excitement at the thought. She’d read what she could about New Orleans and it seemed to be a very exotic place, compared to Lawrence--well, the factory anyway, which was just about all she had gotten to see for the past several years.

She dressed quickly and grabbed the only coat she had, a little twinge in her heart as she noticed the thin fabric on the elbows. At least she’d have something new shortly. At first, she thought maybe she shouldn’t accept, it was too generous. But as she rolled it around in her mind, she decided that it was necessary, and if she was going to be a help rather than a hindrance, she may as well go along.

Even though Bernadette had mentioned they would need to leave early for the fairly long ride into town, she’d been up for hours and headed downstairs at the appointed time. Bernadette looked up as Josephine walked down the steps, trying not to go too fast in her excitement. She hadn’t had new clothes in--well, she couldn’t really remember when, but she knew it had been a very long time.

“Look at you, all ready to go,” Bernadette said as she shrugged on a coat and smiled at Josephine. “An early start will mean we can get back in time for supper. I wouldn’t want to delay your meeting with Pierre any longer than we have to.”

Josephine’s stomach flipped at the thought and she drew in a deep breath. Yes, today would be the day. She looked down at her shabby coat and worn shoes and was grateful that at least she’d be wearing something different when she finally met him.

A man she hadn’t met, dressed in a black coat and hat, helped her into the back of the covered buggy and Bernadette right after her. He climbed up in front of them and flicked the reins, heading down the willow-lined drive.

As they reached the end of the drive, Josephine turned to look at the house she’d noticed the young woman come out of the evening before. Her heart tugged as she saw the small child--a girl, she could see now in the light of day--ran from her mother, who laughed and chased close behind.

She sighed and leaned back into the buggy. She’d never really thought about having children before. The only future she’d seen for herself was the factory, so she’d never allowed it to enter her mind. But now, as it was firmly
not
in her future, she felt a vague longing for something she would surely never have--a child of her own.

“Is something wrong, Josephine?” Bernadette asked gently as she rested her hand on Josephine’s arm, its warmth welcome. But she couldn’t confide in Bernadette--she wasn’t supposed to know what she knew. That her marriage would never be a real one--Pierre would see to that--and that she was nothing but an adornment, an unwelcome necessity for an inheritance.

She turned to Bernadette and patted her hand, grateful that even though this kind woman hadn’t told her the entire truth--maybe she’d been bound to secrecy, after all—she’d done her utmost to make Josephine feel welcome and comfortable, and for that she was grateful.

“No, nothing’s wrong, Bernadette. Nothing more than the fact that I’m still learning and a little overwhelmed at everything. It’s all new to me.”

“All new?” Bernadette asked, cocking her head to one side as she regarded Josephine.

Her eyes flew open as she realized what she’d just said--that this was all new to her, when she was supposed to be familiar, at least, with the ways of society, the language and the culture.

“Er, it’s so different than back East, where it would be snowing by now. Much warmer here. And very lovely,” she said as she looked away, back out toward the plantation as it disappeared behind them.

“Ah. I imagine it is quite a change. The South is...well, the South. No place like it on Earth, I imagine. The great meeting place of all kinds.” Bernadette laughed as she wriggled back in her seat, and as the plantation completely disappeared and Josephine turned back to the inside of the buggy, she hid her smile behind her hand as Bernadette’s head fell to the side to the sound of slight snoring.

Last night must have taken as much out of Bernadette as it had her. She picked up the blanket on the floorboards and folded it once more, sliding it gently behind Bernadette’s head. The housekeeper snuffled for a moment, then sighed and rested her head against the blanket with a smile, her snores continuing for the remainder of the ride.

T
he meeting
with the bank hadn’t gone as well as Pierre anticipated, but not as poorly as it could have, either. He’d hoped that Mr. Garrison would have been a bit more understanding about the predicament the plantation was in and given him a little more time--but he was happy to have gotten the extension on his payments that he had.

He shook hands with the banker he’d known most of his life and nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Garrison. I will extend my gratitude for my father, as well, as I am sure he will be equally grateful for your understanding.”

“I wish I could do more, Pierre. I am quite fond of your family--we French must stick together, you know, as our numbers here dwindle--but I’m afraid that is the best I can do. Please inform me when your father arrives. I look forward to seeing him.” The older man bowed slightly in Pierre’s direction and returned to the bank, his black suit tight on his robust frame.

Pierre rubbed his eyes and turned toward the door, taking a deep breath as he stepped out in the mid-morning sunlight. His shiny, black boots and tan breeches contrasted with the banker’s attire, but he knew he’d be back on the plantation soon, and was anxious to walk among the fields again. Even a few short days in town made him long for the green fields and tall trees.

He pulled his black hat on and turned toward the hotel he’d been in for the past two nights, ready to gather his things and head home.

People of all kinds bustled on the busy street--New Orleans had long been the nexus of people from Africa, the North, Haiti, Spain and France--and the street was awash with color. In one glance, he saw people dressed in brightly colored African clothes, cotton clothing from the Caribbean, former slaves and free white men, and women of all classes, from ladies dressed like his mother once had--and the girls he was supposed to have married did--and plain working girls dressed in gray.

As he glanced across the street, one such girl walked down the sidewalk, her bright eyes--green, maybe, but how they sparkled-- framed in beautiful hair of the richest honey color he’d ever seen. Almost like his mother’s.

He blinked hard and looked again as the girl threw her head back and laughed, ducking into one of the dress boutiques that peppered this particular New Orleans street.

He’d seen many pretty girls in his day--especially as one of the most eligible bachelors in southern Louisiana. He certainly could appreciate beauty, but he’d been so committed to the plantation that it just wasn’t a thought that ever crossed his mind. And now that he
had
to choose, he’d not had the opportunity to even consider finding someone that he truly could love.

It was better this way, he supposed, as much as it worried him. He’d closed his heart long ago, the pain unbearable when his mother died. She had been--and always would be--the most beautiful woman in the world to him.

“Monsieur?” The doorman held the brass handle of the entrance to the hotel, his eyebrows raised.

Pierre tugged at his sleeve and sighed, turning toward the door. “Hello, Jacques.”

“Bonjour, Monsieur. Is there anything I can help you with?”

Looking up at the man who had been doorman here for as long as Pierre could remember, he smiled and patted him on the shoulder. “I don’t think so, Jacques. Not unless you can explain all there is to know about women. And fast.”

“Not a man alive who could help you with that, Monsieur,” Jacques said as Pierre gave him a slight nod and passed into the darkness of the hotel lobby.

He stopped at the front desk, settling his bill before he headed up to gather his things. Entering his room at the top of the stairs, he quickly threw the few items of clothing he’d brought into his valise and reached onto the nightstand at the side of the bed.

He ran his thumb over the cool silver, its swirled engraving familiar. He wasn’t sure why he kept this locket with him now, even after so many years. Did it still soothe him--even more now that he struggled to remember his mother’s voice?

He opened the locked and gazed at the picture inside of the woman he’d loved, her black hair cascading over her shoulders and the pearls she always wore around her neck. He closed his eyes, once more trying to recollect a voice, a scent, but it was just beyond his grasp.

What would she say about this arrangement? She was the one who’d stipulated a marriage to access his inheritance. Why? And why a French woman? She’d come from France herself, but she also knew how much Pierre loved his country. He’d been born an American and was proud of it, so why had she insisted on this?

He shook his head and closed the locket, putting it in his vest pocket. He crossed to the window and stood beside it, looking down the bustling street. Several young ladies that he knew--and actually didn’t dislike--walked along the street. Could he have had a chance at love had he taken the time?

He pushed back from the windowsill and grabbed his valise. He shook his head as he opened the door, ready to head back to the plantation and get straight back to the fields before supper. No, he had no room--no time--for courtship or love. This was the best way.