Beloved Castaway (3 page)

“I see.” Emilie leaned back against the settee’s velvet cushions and allowed her gaze to sweep the parlor before returning her attention to Isabelle. “Then I will get right to the point. I saw to the purchase of this home and have arranged for a rather lengthy period of adjustment before you enter into any, shall we say, arrangements.”

“I do not understand.”
 

“No, I suppose you would not.” She smiled again. “Your years away from the city have not rendered you sufficiently apt to enter society, or at least that is what I have convinced your protector. He has agreed to wait one year before claiming you so that I may take an interest in seeing you properly tutored.”

Relief flooded her. “Thank you. I am in your debt.”

“No.” Emilie stood and Isabelle followed suit. “You see, the two of us have something in common.”

“Again, I do not understand.”

“We share a father.”

A gentleman wandering beyond his marriage to produce children with others, including slaves, was sadly commonplace. Having a highborn daughter recognize lesser siblings, however, just was not done.
 

As if she guessed Isabelle’s thoughts, the mademoiselle reached to touch her sleeve. “The Lord does not see anything but the heart and thus I do my best to do the same. In the eyes of God you are my sister, Isabelle Gayarre.”

Isabelle Gayarre. At last her name was complete.

Emilie waved her hand as if to dismiss any further discussion on the subject. “I am sure you are weary from your journey, so I will take my leave. Just one question before I go.”

“Of course.”

Emilie gathered Isabelle into an embrace and then whispered, “Is it your choice to enter into an arrangement as
placee
? And please, do be honest. There is no condemnation here.”

She took a deep breath and then let it out slowly. “It is not.”

“And if you were to be offered freedom?” Her voice was softer now. “What would you say to such a prospect?”

Freedom? This was a dream she had never dared to dream.

Isabelle’s heart lurched even as she prayed Mama Dell had not heard any of the scandalous conversation. “I would accept it with gratitude.”

“Very well then. The walls have ears, dear one, so do not speak of this to anyone, especially not your chaperone. Instead, listen carefully to what is spoken around you. Like as not you will learn valuable information.”

“I shall.”

Emilie broke the embrace to hold Isabelle at arm’s length. “You and I have much to do, then. I will let Delilah know to expect me regularly for our instructions.”

“Delilah?”

An odd look crossed the mademoiselle’s face. “Your chaperone. Did you not know that was her name?” She paused and once again lowered her voice. “I can see you did not.”

Shame burned her cheeks and yet at the same time fear rose. This woman with her highborn station and her odd ways would bring trouble, and the first who would complain was Mama Dell.

Or rather Delilah. Was she a Gayarre as well?
 

Isabelle lifted her gaze, fully aware that the woman in question had moved just close enough to the parlor to cast a shadow in the hallway. Indeed Mama Dell must be trying hard to hear what would be said next.

“Might I ask one thing?”

“Of course,” she said.

“My chaperone has always been the one to whom I have looked to guidance.” Isabelle cut her eyes toward the ample shadow in the hall and then back at Emilie. “Perhaps you will make any arrangements to see me through her.”

A silent nod let Isabelle know the mademoiselle had understood. “Of course.” She paused only a moment. “I would have it no other way. Unless she decides to interfere in our studies. In that case, I would find it impossible to keep her on as your companion.”

Mama Dell’s shadow drew closer. “Whatever do you mean?”

“Never mind, Isabelle. I’m sure I will not have to send anyone away. I know how much you adore her.” She paused to wink. “However, I do hope the woman realizes that no matter what sort of friendship the two of you have, causing you harm during this year that I will be tutoring you would bring grave consequences.”

Chapter 3

New Orleans

April 1834

J
osiah Carter leaned against the rough brick of the warehouse and breathed deeply of the thick New Orleans air before continuing his journey. Nearly three decades in age, today he felt twice that. Perhaps the weight of his current situation could be blamed for it, but Josiah preferred to think not.
 

He touched the gold watch in his pocket and resisted the urge to check the time again. If all went according to plan, the great Hezekiah Carter of the grand Virginia Carters would be none the wiser. The old man might have the ear of the president himself, but he’d never muster the power to best his elder son.

Not again. Josiah would not allow it.

Inhaling the fetid air was unbearable. Josiah covered his nose and mouth with the thick fabric of his cloak and forced his mind to focus on tomorrow’s sail. He ticked off the itinerary as he walked through the narrow alley bordering the docks. Barring the need to stop along the way to wait out bad weather, the
Jude
would make arrival in London by month’s end.
 

Not soon enough to suit him.
 

Perhaps he might find the time to make a holiday of the trip. He smiled. Yes, a few days of leisure might be a welcome diversion.
 

Fool. Your father will never let you rest, not until he extracts his retribution.
 

Josiah shook off the truth of the thought and focused on another: Only a meeting with I. M. Gayarre remained before he could ready his ship to sail.

To his left, the newly renamed
Jude
bobbed at anchor, a former slaving ship and an abomination among vessels, yet for nearly a week since its departure from Cuba, his alone. At least it would be upon completion of the night’s transaction. After taking receipt of Monsieur Gayarre’s gold, Josiah would pay his debt to the
Jude
’s
former owner and then flee New Orleans, never to return.
 

Josiah smiled at the thought. Gayarre was expected some time before daylight, their meeting arranged for dockside at the
Jude
. The Café des Artistes stood nearby, and a stop there seemed the proper choice to begin the evening’s entertainment. Perhaps a pint and a hot meal would relieve the ache in his gut and accelerate the waiting. From his post at the café, he could watch the only avenue leading to the vessel.

Stalking past clusters of dockside roughs and piles of empty barrels and rotting cargo, Josiah patted the dagger hidden within easy reach in the folds of his cloak. On a good night, the knife remained there; many nights ashore, however, it did not.

Bone tired and purposefully wearing his vile disposition, Josiah watched a dark-cloaked figure approach. Surely he would not be facing trouble so early in the evening. Why, the sun had barely fallen below the horizon, and the constellations were only just becoming visible.
 

“Announce yourself.”
 

The figure continued toward him, small enough to be a child yet moving swiftly and seemingly unafraid. Framed in a circle of moonlight, the interloper stopped and raised a hand in greeting.
 

A pale, slender hand.

Slowly, the hand moved to the cloak’s hood and pushed it away to reveal a heart-shaped face framed with an unruly mass of honey-colored curls. The woman, and she looked to be barely of an age to be defined as such, cast a glance at the empty alley behind her, then faced him once more. Full lips hidden partly in shadow curved into a frown.

A warm wind, blowing from the river, picked up a long curl and deposited it once more into place like a flash of liquid gold. Beauty within the shadows, he decided, meant a stunning woman in the light. His interest piqued. A connoisseur of all things beautiful yet owner of none, he deliberated the possibility of attaining this prize.
 

“Monsieur Carter?” Soft as a whisper and clear as church bells, the voice was barely touched by the accent of the French Creoles.

Unbidden, tightness rose in his throat. Had his father’s men found him out and sent this siren to trick him?

“Who calls this name?”
 

He watched her shoulders heave beneath the heavy cloak and her fingers begin to tease at the fabric. “I am Isabelle Marie Gayarre, sole passenger on the vessel
Jude
.”
 

---

Had she stood before the devil himself, Isabelle couldn’t have been any more afraid. This man, this reputed infidel, held her very life in his hands. Should Captain Carter refuse to honor her payment of passage. . .

No, I shall not consider it.

She lifted her eyes to the blackness of heaven to offer up yet another prayer for courage, then braved a second look in Captain Carter’s direction. He stood cloaked in shadows, a figure whose description she had memorized long before this meeting and whose associates spoke terror into her very soul.

Yet the Lord had led her to him.

The dark-haired captain edged slightly toward her, moving close enough to show the faintest outline of his aristocratic features. Too handsome to be the embodiment of evil, this one, yet she knew of his questionable character from those who spoke freely in her presence.
 

Watch yourself, Izzy
.
The mademoiselle’s father says he is a desperate man.

The mademoiselle’s father.
 

He was her own father, as well, though she rarely thought of Jean Gayarre as such, even though she saw his gold hair, pale green eyes, and fine, straight nose every time she gazed at her own reflection. Only her unruly curls and the fullness of her lips gave the slightest hint of the mother she had never known, but of whom her half sister Emilie had shown her paintings.

Isabelle blinked back emotion. No, she rarely thought of these things.

Gayarre and his hidden circle of friends, however, were never far from her mind. The secret society of powerful men, all from well-placed families in New Orleans or farther east, was another reason
for fear.
 

The one who had purchased Isabelle and to whom she was due to be delivered held the ear of the president himself, Emilie had in-formed her. To be chosen by a man so wealthy and powerful would give Isabelle much power and afford her the privilege to live as a pampered pet in a gilded cage.
 

Though never spoken of in decent circles, the term for this
arrangement was
plaçage
. Isabelle knew it to be slavery, plain and simple. Mama Dell declared her a striking success and praised Jean Gayarre for waiting to place Isabelle with a guardian until her beauty held the maturity of a grown woman. Isabelle knew she would have been given up years before had the monsieur received enough gold to placate his conscience. She also knew she’d been spared that fate by One more powerful than Jean Gayarre.
 

All of this she knew thanks to the mademoiselle. Never would Isabelle give her most precious gift to any man save the one the Lord had created for her. Until such a time, she would risk death rather than submit.
 

Despite her prayers, concern nagged at Isabelle. She fumbled with the fine fabric of her cloak and worked to slow her breathing and collect her thoughts. She must convince Josiah Carter to accept payment and take her far from New Orleans. There was simply no alternative.

To that end, Isabelle moistened her lips and slid her eyes half shut, easily slipping back into the ways she’d been instructed.

Father, forgive me for this.
 

She allowed the velvet cloak to slide off her shoulder, catching the soft fabric with the crook of her arm. Beneath it she wore her finest cream silk-and-lace gown from Paris, the one she’d been instructed to wear upon the morrow.

A breeze heavy with dampness blew over her skin, dancing across flesh she preferred to cover. Although she still remained modest by the standards of others in her social circle, she nonetheless felt un-comfortable with the display.
 

“Perhaps you are surprised to find I am a woman,” she said softly.
 

The captain produced a most fearful-looking knife from beneath the folds of his cloak and began to study it. Isabelle froze, too frightened to move and too confused to pray.
 

“Perhaps I
am
surprised,” he said lazily as the blade glinted sliver in the moonlight. “How old are you,
woman
?” The last word he said mockingly, jabbing the knife into the air for emphasis.

“Four and twenty,” she said as she watched the blade move with blinding speed.
Another lie; another reason to pray for forgiveness to the Father for things done in desperation.
If the Lord allowed her to live long enough, she’d see her twentieth birthday at the hearth of her new home in Clapham, southwest of London, come Christmas Eve.

His chuckle held much disdain. “Four and ten is the more likely age, although I’ll not dispute the word of a
lady
.” He spoke the last word with disdain.

Determination welled up, and Isabelle squared her shoulders to face the captain with renewed purpose. Given the circumstances of her birth, she might be considered something less than a lady here in New Orleans, but upon her arrival in England, she vowed to honor the Lord with her sterling behavior and humble countenance. Isabelle Marie Gayarre would make her heavenly Father proud even as she tried with all her heart to forgive and forget her earthly one.

The letter of introduction tucked safely into her bodice held nearly as much promise as the deed hiding beneath the Bible in her trunk. Both would set her free; both were gifts from the mademoiselle. The fact that she could read them could also be attributed to that woman.