Beloved Captive
Authors: Kathleen Y'Barbo
Tags: #Romance, #General, #Christian, #Fiction
Other books in the FAIRWEATHER KEY series:
Chapter 1
May 2, 1836
New Orleans
It was a terrible thing to wish.
With every roll of the carriage wheels, Emilie Gayarre fought the urge to pray that her arrival would come too late. The request she’d traveled so far to make stood a greater chance of being granted were she begging funds from her father’s estate rather than making the request to him personally.
“My friend is not an unreasonable man, you know.” The Reverend Hezekiah Carter reached over to pat her sleeve. “Perhaps you will change your mind and visit upon the morrow when you’ve rested.”
How easy it would be to agree, to avail herself of a warm bath and a good night’s sleep before attempting the visit she dreaded. But the letter had been marked urgent, the words sure in their insistence that the daughters of Jean Gayarre see to their father’s last wish: an audience with him at the family home should he survive, and a reading of the will should he perish before their arrival.
“I’ll not disappoint my father by delaying any longer.”
Though I’ve sorely disappointed him in other matters.
The old preacher merely nodded. Perhaps he, too, had weighed the odds of what Papa might say. Or do.
As the carriage rocked over uneven streets, the earthy smells of the city pushed away the stench of the docks. To the right, a fruit vendor juggled samples of his freshest produce, while across the way a woman sold pastries right from the folds of her apron.
“Are you fearing your father tonight, lass?”
“I don’t suppose I ever feared my father, though I surely disliked him on occasion.”
“A clever response, Emilie, but not a direct one.” His piercing gaze challenged her as he leaned heavily on his silver-topped cane. “Shall I rephrase the question, or will you rephrase your answer?”
She sighed. This man knew the Gayarres far too well. Any hope of deflecting the true meaning of his query disappeared under his persistent stare.
“I do wonder what awaits me. If that is fear, then yes, I suppose I am afraid.”
“The threat of prison makes for a mighty good reason.” Her elderly traveling companion reached across the space between them to grasp her hands. “Then it is well you chose not to face this alone.”
“I had a choice?”
He affected a surprised expression. “Dare I believe a woman of your quality would travel unaccompanied? One must be concerned with the dangers of ruffians who ply the shipping trade nowadays.”
His grin joined hers at the reference. Some two years past, the reverend’s own son was one of those ruffians. Emilie smiled at the reminder of the man’s transformation from infidel to loving husband. Her smile broadened when she thought of his wife, her half-sister Isabelle.
Too soon the carriage rolled to a halt, and the coachman called out. A moment later the iron gates gave entrance to the courtyard, where the news of their arrival had brought a collection of servants running.
Her smile faded. In this home, she had first learned of Isabelle. An errant slip of the tongue by a gossiping housemaid had sent Emilie on a quest to find the young woman who shared the same father. Here the plans were made for freeing this slave who was her half-sister.
Here, too, I will likely have to atone for the success of those plans
.
Emilie tugged at her gloves to disguise the shaking of her hands. When the carriage door opened, she straightened her back and closed her eyes to offer an entreaty to the Lord that she might not be thrown in the Cabildo as befitting the crime of aiding in the escape of a slave.
“Welcome home, mademoiselle.”
Emilie opened her eyes to see Nate, the husband of Cook. “Thank you, Nate,” she said with a genuine smile. “It’s wonderful to see you again.”
He tipped his hat, then lifted her down onto the cobblestones. “It’s right nice to have you back here again. It’s just not the same without you.”
Indeed, the home seemed less of a home and more of a haven for the dying.
Emilie squared her shoulders, and head held high, she walked toward the front door.
Trembling fingers formed a fist, then with care rose to come near to
knocking on a door that swung open on silent hinges.
Cook took two steps backward and clutched at the scarf at her neck. “Miss Emilie, Lawdy mercy and bless my soul. My prayers done been answered. You’ve come home!”
The housemaid’s cry brought a half dozen familiar faces running. Each exclaimed as if a lost treasure had been suddenly found.
Emilie nudged past and walked into her father’s home as if she were certain he would receive her. In truth, she had no idea whether Jean Gayarre would welcome her or whether he’d merely sent for his daughters to exact some measure of revenge.
The question had lain dormant as Emilie boarded the vessel in Fairweather Key, and until she saw the gates swing open and heard her footsteps echo in the long hallway that led to her father’s room, she felt no need to disturb it.
Too soon, however, the lamplight chased her to her father’s door. Still she could not go in.
“Would you like me to go in with you?”
Emilie jumped at the sound of Reverend Carter’s voice. “No,” she said. “Thank you,” was added as an afterthought.
His nod was hasty, as was his retreat, despite the impediment of the cane. “I shall have Cook prepare a supper for you before I leave,” he called. “Perhaps some of her biscuits and red eye gravy.”
In truth, the thought of food did not hold any appeal. Neither did opening the door, yet she must.
One hand on the knob and the other pressing against her furiously beating heart, Emilie somehow managed to find herself inside. She blinked hard to get her bearings. The same heavy velvet curtains were now drawn against the remains of the weak afternoon light, casting a pall across the mountain of quilts piled on the grand bed. In the midst of it all, the skeletal form of Jean Gayarre lay propped on more pillows than could surely be comfortable.
“Miss Emilie, that you?” This from the girl who’d fetched clean water for her bath more times than Emilie could count. Yet she had no idea of the girl’s name.
“It is,” she said, tossing aside the reminder of her formerly self-centered life. Before she left, she would know this girl’s name, but now was not the time to ask. Not with Papa watching.
And watch he did, his eyes clear and bright even as his face wore no expression. A week’s worth of travel had not been in vain, for Jean Gayarre had not yet gone to his reward. His mouth opened and closed, putting Emilie in mind of a fish in want of water.
Was he working to find the breath that would order her from the room or welcome her home? A sound escaped from the old man’s mouth, something akin to a baby’s soft whimper. He shook his head and then made another attempt.
“Ma belle fille,
” emerged from cracked lips in a breathless gasp.
She grasped his hand and held it, painfully aware of the lack of strength in his icy grip even as her heart softened at his tender greeting. “
Oui
, Papa,
c’est moi.
C’est Emilie.”
The old man looked past her. “But where is. . . ?”
“Isabelle?” she offered. “She was unable to make the journey.”
To say more seemed unwise, so Emilie kept her silence and turned her attention to the bedchamber’s condition. The windows were shut tight against the danger of draft, and a great fire had been laid in the massive fireplace, wrapping the room in oppressive heat.
With her free hand, Emilie shrugged out of her wrap and passed it off to the nearest housemaid. “Thank you,” she said to the young woman’s retreating back before returning her attention to her father.
“Never. . . thank. . .a servant,” he said. “Makes them. . .”
The rest of his admonition was lost in a fit of coughing that left Papa struggling for each breath. Finally, the old man’s eyes closed, and he rested. For a moment, she thought he might have breathed his last. Then he stirred. A look came over his face that could only be described as disappointment.
“I summoned two, yet only one of my daughters has arrived.” He paused and seemed to collect either his breath or his thoughts.
“Isabelle is abed with her newborn child and unable to travel,” Emilie said.
“With her child,” was a soft echo that seemed to capture him for a moment. “And you. You’re Sylvie’s girl,” he whispered.
Sylvie?
“No, Papa. My mother was Elizabeth, your wife.” She added what she hoped would be a smile. “I’m told I resemble her.”
“Ha!” The force of his statement startled Emilie, as did the flash of anger on his face and his sudden move to rise up on one elbow. The motion sent pillows flying and caused a tray of sweets to fall to the floor. As the servants surged forward to clean the mess, her father banished them all from the room.
The moment the door closed behind the last of the startled household help, Jean Gayarre fell back onto the remaining pillows. Emilie hastened to arrange them, then stopped when Papa motioned for her to cease.
Before she could step away from his grasp, Emilie felt her father’s hand encircle her wrist to hold her captive. Despite his pallor and the exhaustion written in dark circles beneath his eyes, Jean Gayarre still held some measure of his former strength.
“Indeed you resemble your mother.” Brown eyes slid shut, and his grip loosened. “
Tr
é
s jolie,
my Sylvie was,” the old man muttered as he pointed to the bedside table, then allowed his hand to fall to the coverlet as if the effort caused him the last of his strength.
“But, Papa, my mother was. . .” The breath died in her throat as she spied the lone portrait at his bedside. The woman smiling back at her from the bonds of the silver frame could have passed as Emilie’s twin.
Chapter 2
May 1836
A day’s sail from the Caribbean island of Santa Lucida
Silhouetted against the orange sun off the windward side, a vessel under full sail seemingly charged toward the
Cormorant
. Trouble it was, the likes of which Caleb had not seen during his staid life as aide to the attorney general’s assistant
Around him, confusion reigned. At least it appeared so, although upon closer inspection, the men were performing in unison.
From the past, a dusty memory beckoned—a game he and his grandfather had played during idle times aboard this very ship. While the great Ian Benning would stand lookout, Caleb’s wooden sword would slash at imaginary enemies.
Depending on his mood, Caleb would raise a flag or two, sometimes more, on the length of twine Grandfather fashioned on the quarterdeck for Caleb’s use. He’d learned the colors—white for pur-
suit, black for attack, red for no quarter—and plied the seas at his grandfather’s side, striking and raising them at will.
Of course, the only missions accomplished during those voyages were the fetching of new agricultural samples for his grandfather’s plantation and the occasional visit with some seaman whose age had forced him to hang up his oars.
“Cast loose your guns,” the captain called, drawing Caleb back to the present.
“I would have a look,” he said.
Upon the captain’s nod, the second-in-command rushed for a spyglass.
Until Caleb lifted the glass to his eye, the banners snapping from the other ship’s topmast were indistinguishable against the nearly blinding glare of the sun. “There are two,” he said as he handed the glass to Fletcher. “One red and the other black.”
Fletcher bit down on his pipe and uttered an oath. “Black for battle and red for no quarter.”
