Day Dreamer (15 page)

“It all sounds overwhelming.”

“I’m sure your husband knows what he’s facing.”

She knew Cord probably did know what he was facing and had most likely decided he wasn’t up to it. His grandfather had made certain he had no faith in himself. In the face of everything Cord just might do what he had threatened—sit beneath a palm and drink rum with the Caribs all day.

“Well, my dear, I’m an old man and must be away to my bed, such as it is. Might I see you upstairs so that you won’t have to walk through the taproom alone?”

“Thank you. I’m afraid our servants have found other duties to attend to,” she said.

Foster had assured her that they would be back as soon as they had found Cordero and made certain he was all right. Obviously, they had not had much luck.

She let Howard Wells accompany her through the crowded taproom. As they climbed the precariously sagging stairwell, she tried to converse over the noise that echoed around them. The hallway was dingy and dark, the wooden floor scuffed and marred, the paint peeling from the walls. There were rust-colored stains in the plaster where rain had seeped in.

He saw her to her door and bid her good night. Hoping Cord would not object, she extended an invitation to Mr. Wells to visit them at Dunstain Place if he found the time. He assured her it would be a pleasure and wished her luck.

Celine walked into her room and closed the door. Leaving the lamp dark, she moved to the open balcony and stood at the rail, watching the boats in the harbor sway at anchor. The
Adelaide
was still docked across the wharf, a solitary seaman walking its deck. Only one or two of the ship’s running lights were lit. The naked masts rose against a starless sky draped with low-hanging clouds.

A gentle rain began to fall, sending her back to the shelter of the open doorway. She listened to the rain as it began to stream off the tile roof, the atmosphere a painful reminder of hot summer nights in New Orleans.

Celine gazed though the rain, past the masts and rigging of the ships in the harbor toward the dark horizon. She knew that the memories of her years with Persa would be forever written on her heart. She could only hope that her past would stand her in good stead in the days to come.

* * *

“Go ahead and knock.” Edward nudged Foster with his elbow as they stood together in the dimly lit hallway of the island’s most renowned whorehouse, Madam Felicity’s Hotel.

“I don’t see any way around it, do you?” Foster asked for the third time, as if repetition would somehow change his friend’s answer.

“No, I don’t. If we’re going to get ’im back to the inn and Miss Celine, there’s no other way. Knock.”

Foster looked over his shoulder and glanced down the hall. There was no one in sight. A loud giggle followed by a squeal of delight issued from the room next door. Edward pursed his lips, grimaced and shook his head in disgust. Foster delivered a short, rapid burst of knocks.

“Are you sure it’s the right room?”

“Twenty-four.” Edward pointed to the gold numerals painted on the bright fuchsia door.

“No one answers.” Foster was ready to turn away when Edward reached past him and knocked again.

Suddenly the door flew open to reveal a frowsy blond in her early thirties. She stood a good head taller than either man. Her hair frizzed out in a wild nimbus. Her breasts were quite unforgettable—if one was interested in such things. Her legs, of which there was far too much showing, in the servants’ opinion, were long and shapely. Her expression revealed her impatience.

“What is it?” The woman demanded.

“We’ve … that is, you see … we thought …” Edward couldn’t find the words.

Foster stepped up and took charge. “We need to see Cordero Moreau. We were told he was here.”

They could both quite clearly see the object of their search holding a glass of amber liquid, reclining fully clothed across a bed that nearly filled the small room. But the amazon stood between them and Cord, who acted as if he were stone deaf.

“Nobody’s supposed to give out the room numbers,” she complained.

“Madam Felicity herself told us ’e was ’ere,” Foster said, not bothering to explain that for a hefty bribe, Madam Felicity, a mountainous black woman swathed in yard upon yard of crimson silk and Belgian lace, had been more than willing to give up Cordero’s room number. She would have given up much more had he been at all interested.

“Let them in, Bonnie,” Cord called out. “And do say hello to my two consciences. I’m lucky—most men have only one.”

When they stepped into the room, Cord raised a glass and toasted them.

“Gentlemen. What brings you here on this muggy, rainy night looking so harried and slightly conniving? Nothing urgent, I hope.”

“I think you know, sir,” Foster said.

“On the contrary, I have no idea what you want.”

“We just think, sir—”

“You two aren’t paid to think … but I would be interested in hearing what you have to say.”

“We don’t think it’s safe for Celine to be alone at the inn.”

Cord polished off the rum left in his glass, looked down into the bottom of the tumbler to be certain he had drained every drop, then stared up at Foster.

“If you hadn’t left her, she wouldn’t be there alone, would she?” Cord frowned. “Did you see that she had supper?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Then why don’t you go back and take turns guarding her door or whatever it is you feel should be done until I get back tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Edward cast a wary glance in the direction of the whore, who stood with her hands planted on her ample hips, waiting impatiently for them to leave.

“I’ll be back tomorrow morning and not a minute before. And don’t start in on me. You know as well as I that this marriage wasn’t my idea.”

While Edward stood mute, looking crestfallen, Foster could not let the subject go without one more comment. “It weren’t her idea either, if you don’t mind myself sayin’ so. She told us what she ’eard about Dunstain Place. We’re as upset as you are about it—”

“I’m not upset about it. I half expected it. Now get out. I’ll see you two in the morning.” As Cord watched the men leave, Bonnie walked toward him, swinging her hips provocatively. When she reached the side of the bed she knelt down beside him, took his empty glass and set it on the table, then began unbuttoning the front of his linen shirt.

“I take it this Celine they spoke of is your wife?” She leaned forward and placed a kiss on the pulse point just above his collarbone.

“In name only,” Cord said, as he wrapped his arm around her waist and drew her to him. She was a good armful, not a petite package like Celine. When he had walked into the bordello he had told Madam Felicity that he required her tallest, most robust whore. She had to have blond hair and he didn’t care what color eyes she had as long as they weren’t amethyst. He’d paid for the entire evening.

As he lay back and let Bonnie strip off his shirt, Cord cursed Edward and Foster for bringing Celine to mind just when he’d thought there might be a glimmer of hope of shutting her out of his thoughts for a few hours.

He had insulted her in the hotel, and lied in trying to convince her that rum would numb the hurt he’d felt when she’d told him what she’d heard. He hadn’t lied to his servants—he had half expected the plantation to be in ruin—but hearing it confirmed had been a blow that hit him almost as hard as if Henre had delivered it himself.

Since he’d walked out of the hotel his head had been reeling with the ramifications of what lay before him. He had Celine’s dowry—which was half gone already, and certainly not enough to get a sugar plantation up and running—and the monthly stipend from his mother’s estate, which would barely cover living expenses for himself, Foster and Edward, not to mention a wife. Women needed
things
…

“Your wife must be half crazy not to let a man like you into her bed,” Bonnie mumbled as her lips trailed down his bare chest.

“Only half?”

“Entirely crazy …”

Cord stared down at the blonde laboring so ardently over his pectorals. What she was doing with her tongue and lips should have made him forget all about Celine and Dunstain Place, he said to himself. It should have made him hard as a rock, and have him conjuring up all the other delicious things she would do to him, instead of picturing Celine alone at the inn wearing the demure nightgown he had bought for her earlier. It infuriated him to realize that the luscious and expensive Bonnie, with her long legs, memorable breasts and talented tongue, paled in comparison to that image.

“Why don’t you get me some more rum?” Cord said sharply, as angry at himself for his lack of response as he was at Celine.

Bonnie drew away, unable to hide her irritation. As she tried to smooth her frizzy hair back out of her eyes, she told him, “I’m not a bleedin’ waitress.”

“I paid for you to be anything I want you to be tonight.”

The rum was on the floor on Cord’s side of the bed. She stretched out across him, provocatively rubbing her breasts against his thighs as she reached down for the bottle, then taking her time backing across him until she drew herself up to sit on her heels. She grabbed the glass off the bedside table.

“Here you go, your highness.” Bonnie tipped the bottle and poured rum into his glass. When the tumbler was full, she held the bottle against her breasts and stared down at his crotch. She knit her brow and then pursed her lips in a way most men would have found kittenish and quite provocative.

“Maybe you had something a little more stimulating in mind,” she said.

“Actually, what I have in mind is fairly boring. I’d like to finish off this rum and go to sleep.”

“
Sleep?
You mean, as in close your eyes and snore?”

“If you like to think of it that way.”

She shook her head, incredulous. “Sleep? That’s it?”

“Sleep. I paid for an entire night with you, but I wouldn’t even mind if you wanted to go downstairs and solicit another customer, as long as you stay out of here and leave me in peace.”

“But—”

“If this is a problem, I’ll talk to Felicity. She seemed an accommodating sort.”

“No,” she said quickly. Bonnie sat back and watched him closely, as if he had just sprouted two heads and she was trying to comprehend exactly how he had done it.

“Now that I think about it, getting paid for a night of beauty sleep might not be a bad idea. It’s a novel one, I’ll give you that.” She filled his glass to the top and put the empty bottle on the floor, then scooted to the opposite side of the bed and stretched out on her side, facing him.

Cord polished off the glassful of rum in a series of long swallows. He looked down at the woman smiling up at him. It would take more than a night of sleep to restore any real beauty she might ever have possessed.

“You want me to hold you or anything? I could pretend I was your nanny. Maybe coo to you like you were a babe?” She reached out and ran her fingers through his hair and pushed it back off his forehead.

“What I want,” Cord said, stretching out half clothed and crossing his ankles, “is to get some sleep. You can stay here and do the same—just do it on your own side of the bed.”

“You don’t prefer boys, do you? Felicity just got hold of a little chap who was a cabin boy for a—”

“No, thank you.”

“How about a duck that—”

He almost laughed. “Not tonight.”

Before closing his eyes, he noticed that Bonnie was still frowning in thought, lying on her back and chewing on her thumbnail. He couldn’t tell if she was disappointed in her seduction skills or perplexed about his request to be left alone. He didn’t really care what she thought. He was more disturbed over his lack of enthusiasm than he was about what she might think of him.

When he did finally close his eyes, he was treated to a haunting vision of his wife’s amethyst eyes.

“Witch,” he mumbled. He felt Bonnie bolt to a sitting position beside him.

“Witch? Would you like me to cackle and pretend I’m riding a broomstick instead of your—”

“Blow out the light and then go to sleep, or get out.”

Eleven

T
he heat was close and stifling. Thick tropical growth crowded in on itself, creating a barrier that blocked the trade winds as effectively as a solid wall. Celine wondered if the interior of the dormant volcano that created St. Stephen was any hotter than she felt right now.

For too many hours to count she had been traveling across the width of the island in the back of a rickety wagon—the only conveyance they could find—crowded with Foster and Edward and all of the luggage and supplies. Her skin was slick with a fine sheen of perspiration. The humidity made every movement an effort. Her arms and legs felt as if they were full of sand.

Except for the sweat stains on their clothes, Foster and Edward appeared unaffected. They were so anxious to see Dunstain Place again that they somehow managed to ignore their discomfort. The hired driver, a grizzled, toothless man with tufts of white hair growing above his ears, had not spoken a word the entire journey. He barely moved as he sat hunched over the reins, staring at a point in the pockmarked road somewhere between the draft animals’ ears.

Earlier, before they had passed through open fields and entered the tropical forest, Celine had hoped the trees would provide relief, but the tangle of dense foliage on either side of the road blocked what little breeze there was and gave the sensation that the forest was closing in on them.

She was staring at a stand of banana trees when the wagon hit a particularly deep rut in the road. Celine grabbed the side of the wagon and hung on. She wondered if anyone would even notice if she was pitched over the rail. Edward dozed. Foster leaned against the side of the wagon and watched the dappled sunlight stream through the treetops.

In a foul mood since he’d met them at the inn that morning, Cord had chosen to travel on the new horse he had purchased in town—ostensibly so that he could ride ahead and report on the condition of the road. So far he had not returned to report on anything. Celine had not had more than a glimpse of him since they left Baytowne. If the shuttered expression he wore when he rode away was any indication, he was fighting not only childhood memories, but anxiety over what lay ahead as well.

When he’d returned to the inn for breakfast, he had offered no explanation for his whereabouts last night, nor had she expected any. But whatever he had done had earned him Foster and Edward’s silent condemnation, and they had been tight-lipped and cool toward him all morning.

When raucous chattering and sharp, chiding squeals echoed in the branches above them, Edward awoke with a start.

“What is that?” Celine asked, scanning the trees as a shiver slipped down her spine. The screams were enough to have raised the hair on her arms.

“Green monkeys. They can be quite destructive to the crops,” Edward told her. “The planters kill off as many of the poor things as they can, but it’s a constant battle.”

The white-faced, exotic animals scolding them from high in the treetops jumped from limb to limb, Celine experiencing them as playful now rather than ominous. But the creatures’ merry antics could not lighten Celine’s mood, especially now that she knew that some of them would be hunted down. Turning her gaze to the road, she noticed Cord riding toward them on the powerful white gelding. The trail was so overgrown that he seemed to have materialized out of the dense forest vegetation.

There was no denying that he rode as if he had been born on horseback. He wore no coat. A wide-brimmed hat shaded his face from the sun. His white linen shirt was open at the throat, the sleeves rolled up to reveal his muscular forearms. His dark hair shimmered with hints of sunshine. Usually careful to hide his feelings, his eyes were alive with anticipation.

“We’re almost there.” He drew up alongside and kept pace with the wagon.

“I hope so,” she sighed, moving with the sway of the uncomfortable vehicle.

“The heat is bothering you,” he observed.

She blew at a stray lock of hair hanging over one eye and knew she must look perfectly bedraggled. She tugged at the collar of the traveling suit, which was far too heavy for the tropical weather. “I’m not exactly dressed for it,” she said.

“We’ll have to find you something cooler to wear.”

She glanced over at Edward and Foster and lowered her voice. “Be careful—someone might just find out you aren’t as uncaring as you like to appear,” she warned.

“You certainly seem out of sorts today.”

She could not help but notice that he held the reins expertly.

“No more than you,” she said, refusing to be taken in by his devastating good looks.

“Already regretting your decision to come along?”

The wagon hit another rut in the road. Celine tightened her grip on the vehicle and stared without comment.

“You can always go back to Baytowne with the driver,” he suggested.

“You would like that, wouldn’t you?”

“I don’t really care.” He was watching the road again.

“You made that quite obvious last night.”

He whipped his head around, his attention entirely focused on her. “Don’t try and tell me you expected me to warm
your
bed last night.”

She felt her face burn with color. “I was quite warm enough last night, thank you.”

His gaze left her as he scanned the tropical forest around them. “Just as I thought,” he muttered. “You can see the top of the house from here.”

She followed the direction of his gaze and finally noticed a long, unbroken roofline through the trees at the top of a rise. “Dunstain Place,” she said softly.

Cord nodded.

“Do you want to ride ahead? I know how anxious you are to arrive,” she said.

He held the horse to a walk. “No.”

Celine knew he was nervous. She knew, too, that there was nothing she could do or say to ease his anxiety. She turned her attention to the road, waiting for her first glimpse of what was to be her home, at least for the present. They turned down a side lane and suddenly more of the house became visible as flashes of white through the trees. A row of traveler’s palms fanned out to create a natural barrier along the drive to the house. In the undergrowth around the palms, hibiscus and wild tamarind vied for space. They were going ever higher up the hillside, and she had begun to feel the blessed trade winds off the sea.

It appeared someone had made a halfhearted attempt to hold the encroaching jungle at bay. Piles of cuttings dried to a crisp brown lay next to the road. Amid the tangle of wild growth along the drive, a few vibrant hibiscus blooms had survived the onslaught of forest. The cries of the monkeys mingled with the sound of palm fronds rustling in the breeze.

Finally the house came into full view. The structure reminded Celine of an old woman in need of a fancy new gown. The paint was faded and peeling in spots. There were large patches of mildew beneath the eaves. The roof of the overhang above the veranda was decayed, ferns sprouting here and there in the debris between the shingles. The long jalousies stood open, some lopsided and sagging, the hinges broken or rusted away.

Despite her irritation, Celine could not help but wonder about Cord’s reaction. As she watched him closely, her heart went out to him. He uttered not a word as they pulled up before the dilapidated structure and he smoothly dismounted. She expected him to stride immediately toward the house, but he surprised her by waiting to help her down, stalling the inevitable a moment longer.

Celine looked into his eyes and knew that he was wrestling with deep, desperate emotions. She longed to help him, but there was only one way she knew how.

As she gathered her skirt and reached for his hand, she opened her senses to his touch. The tropical mountain forest around them dimmed as she experienced the familiar, light-headed sensation that always came when she was open to visions of the past.

On a wave of images, she saw the plantation house as he had known it last, not as the sad, shabby relic it was now.

The garden pruned and trimmed. The shutters and window frames bright green. A woman singing. Soft melodious sounds of an angelic voice. Footsteps on floorboards. The scrape of a chair. The smell of burnt sugar and citrus. A lovely, fair-haired woman. “Come, Cordero, sweetheart. Mama loves you, you know that, don’t you ?” She reaches for his hand. Walking through the garden. “I’ve planted something new
.”

Her hand is soft. Comforting. Her smile is filled with love
.

Love and security. Contentment and peace
.

“Are you all right?” Cord withdrew his hand long enough to place it on her shoulder.

The sound of his voice snapped the link between his past and her present. Celine fought down a wave of dizziness that came with the abrupt uncoupling of her mind from his memory.

“I’m fine. It must be the heat.”

As they turned toward the house, he dropped his hand from her shoulder but continued to walk along at her pace. Celine drew his attention by touching his sleeve, and Cordero glanced down at her.

“The gardens look as if they were once well tended.”

“They were my mother’s pride and joy.”

She tried a smile. “I would be willing to bet that
you
were her pride and joy.”

His eyes were haunted by the lingering sadness that comes with loss that lasts a lifetime. He quickly looked straight ahead, toward the house.

“Do you think she would be happy that you have come home?” she asked.

He stopped dead still. “Do you have to keep this up?”

“I was just thinking out loud.”

“I would appreciate it if you didn’t think at all,” he said.

“No doubt that’s true, but I can’t oblige you. Looking at this place, thinking about how beautiful it must have been and how lovely it can be again, I know your mother would be pleased.”

“Unlike you, I have other things to think about.”

Safe things, she thought. Things that did not involve emotions. They walked up the stone path to the edge of the veranda. She could see the tension in his jaw, the way his eyes missed nothing, not a single broken shutter or sagging step.

Foster and Edward climbed out of the wagon and stood side by side on the path staring up at the two-story house, at its wide verandas and windows that looked out onto the sea.

“Oh, my,” Edward said. Celine glanced back and thought he might burst into tears.

“It’s not so bad.” Foster’s tone was glum. “Everything will be fine. You’ll see, once we have time to put things to right again.” He looked around full circle. “A bit of pruning, some paint …”

“It’s too much. I need to lie down,” Edward mumbled.

The driver had already begun unloading the wagon, setting trunks and boxes on the ground. Celine saw Jemma O’Hurley’s grand trunk among the others. Not many pieces inside were suited to the intense heat.

“Are you ready?” Celine said, looking up at Cord. She and the others saw no reason to move until he could face going in.

Cord knew all three of them were watching him closely. Foster and Edward hadn’t given a damn what he did all morning. Why now, he wondered ruefully, when their solicitous concern only added to his guilt over his curt dismissal of them last night? And then there was Celine, staring up at him with her haunting eyes, trying to see inside his very soul. Crusading, for reasons known only to her, to make him dredge up the past.

She stood there steadfastly by his side, staring up at what had become a shambles. Her unwarranted, unwanted show of support made him uncomfortable. What was even worse, for some inexplicable, irritating reason, it made him feel better to have her beside him.

“You don’t all have to treat me like an invalid. It’s my
house
that’s fallen apart, not me,” he lied. He felt crippled, unable to move. He could not yet face going inside and stepping into the past, especially with Celine and her understanding gaze walking beside him. He hated his cowardice.

Abruptly, he barked instructions to the driver and then Foster and Edward.

“Let’s get these things inside before the afternoon rain begins. Unpack the provisions, set up the kitchen and get as organized as you can. I’m going to survey the property and see if there’s anyone about.”

When he looked at his wife, he found Celine staring at him as if she had never seen him before.

“Did you think all I was capable of was imbibing cheap rum?”

“No, but I was convinced that’s what
you
thought.”

“I made a promise to Alex’s memory that I would try to make what I can of this place. I intend to keep that promise.” Before Celine could say anything, they were interrupted by the sound of a shrill voice inside the shadowed interior of the house.

“Oh, just look! We have callers, Gunnie! Put on the tea.” The words were accompanied by the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps.

Celine glanced over at Cord, waiting for an explanation he could not give. He did not recognize the voice at all, nor had he ever laid eyes on the cheerful matron bustling across the veranda toward them. She was portly, with bright blue eyes in a plump, smiling face. Her features were barely lined, but her hair, which was almost entirely gray except for a hint of faded brown here and there, attested to her age. She wore thick braids coiled around her head. Her once royal blue gown was faded, its crocheted collar and cuffs tattered. She and the house appeared to have aged together.

“Welcome to Dunstain Place,” she trilled. “It’s so very nice to have callers. Of course, I wasn’t expecting anyone—”

When she spied their trunks and bags she exclaimed, “Oh, my! You’ve come to visit a while. This is such a welcome surprise.” Without pause she called over her shoulder, “Gunnie! There will be guests for dinner.”

“I ain’t stayin’,” the driver grumbled as he unloaded the last box and climbed aboard the wagon seat again. Edward walked to the back of the wagon to untie the reins of Cord’s horse. As the driver managed to negotiate the team and wagon back around in the direction from which they had come, Cord stared at the woman on the veranda.

“Who are you?” he asked bluntly.

“Why, I’m Ada Dunstain. Who are you, sir?”