Day Dreamer (4 page)

“Thank you, no. I’ll keep it for a while if you don’t mind.”

Celine clutched the cloak tighter. It was of far more worth than what she wore beneath it, far more appropriate to the elegant surroundings.

She became more uncomfortable when the young gentlemen and the priest joined them in the sitting room. One of the twins took a chair near a rose-colored marble fireplace. The other was content to stand and watch her. The priest looked for a place to set his empty wineglass.

“I should explain to all of you that I’m not Miss O’Hurley,” she began.

“Is this the girl?”

Celine whirled around at the sound of an unfamiliar voice and came face-to-face with a gray-haired older gentleman leaning on an ebony cane. He was dressed entirely in black. His piercing, hawkish, dark eyes were set deep beneath straight black brows.

“I’m Henre Moreau. I take it you are Thomas O’Hurley’s daughter?” When he looked her up and down as if she were a prime racehorse, Celine hugged the cloak tighter.

“No, I’m not, but I’d be happy to explain. She couldn’t be here, but when she found out I was longing to leave New Orleans, she insisted I take her carriage. I hoped to find employment outside the city.”

She tossed a worried glanced in the direction of the priest and then looked up at the silver-haired gentleman again.

“I’m glad your father warned me ahead of time not to believe a word you said,” Moreau told her curtly. Dismissing her, he turned to Edward. “See that she’s cleaned up and back here in a quarter of an hour.”

“But, sir, it will take at least—”

“Fifteen minutes, Edward. Call on Foster for help.” Taking command of everyone in the room, Henre turned to the twin nearest him. “Stephen, go get Cordero. I want him down here immediately. We have put this off long enough. I want to get to bed. And you, Father Perez,” he said, turning to the priest, “should gather up your Bible and candles and whatever ceremonial trinkets you need. While you are at it, you might want to brush the sugar off your cassock.”

Father Perez stared down at the front of his black cassock. It was dusted with sugar and beignet crumbs. He left the room brushing furiously at them.

“This way, Miss O’Hurley,” Edward said again.

Celine refused to budge. “I’m not going anywhere and I’m
not
Miss O’Hurley.” She turned to the old man. “I came here to seek employment. If there is no hope of such, please tell me and I’ll gladly leave.”

“You really are very good at this, you know. Quite convincing, my dear. Jemma, isn’t it? Your father warned me when I signed the marriage agreement that you were a consummate liar. I see he was right.”

“Marriage?” She felt a swirl of panic. “But I’m
not
Jemma O’Hurley!”

“Did you or did you not arrive in the O’Hurley carriage, delivered by the O’Hurley driver? And is that not Jemma O’Hurley’s trunk I saw in the hallway?”

“I did, and it probably is, but I assure you, I’m not the girl who should be taking part in this marriage to some … some …”

If Jemma O’Hurley was escaping marriage to this forbidding man, Celine was happy she’d helped her escape.

“To my grandson, Cordero,” he said.

Henre Moreau appeared sullen, reluctant even to utter the groom’s name. Celine was too panicked to feel relieved that this ogre was not trying to claim her as his own bride.

“Take her, Edward, and dry her off or something.” He turned away, leaning heavily on the silver-handled cane, and limped slowly toward the windows.

“Anton,” Henre said to the remaining twin, who had watched the scene in silence, “go see what is keeping Stephen. He may need help with Cordero.”

Help with Cordero?
Could Miss O’Hurley’s intended be an imbecile? Was he insane or diminished in some way? What manner of man were they trying to wed to the angelic Jemma O’Hurley, a woman whose heart was set on becoming a nun?

“Miss, this way,
please
.”

The distress in Edward’s voice was unmistakable. Hoping that once out of the room she might find a way to escape and eager to get away from the older man’s icy stare, Celine obliged and followed Edward.

He led her along the corridor to a comfortably appointed ladies’ parlor. A low, cheery fire lit to fight off the dampness burned in the fireplace, although the windows were open. She longed for nothing more than to collapse in one of the deep, upholstered chairs and sleep, but her mind was racing as fast as her pulse.

Edward stood by expectantly. “Is there anything I can get from the trunk, miss? Your wedding gown? I can beg time and ’ave one of the women iron it. You’ll want to wear it for the ceremony.”

“I’m
not
getting married.”

“I’m afraid you are, miss, an’ if I might be so bold as to say it, Cordero ain’t all bad. Known him since the day he was born. It was Foster and I wot raised him ’fore we came to Louisiana. Given ’alf a chance, he could be as fine a gentleman as any—”

“I don’t care what he’s like. I won’t be staying long enough to find out. I can’t go through with this.”

“But you won’t have to stay here,” he said. A smile lit his face, erasing some of the worry lines. “We’re sailing for the West Indies by midday tomorrow, miss. You, Cordero, Foster and me.”

Celine started to protest, and then the meaning behind his words registered.
Sailing for the West Indies. Tomorrow
. She snapped her mouth shut, waited a second more and then said, “Cordero, the groom, is leaving Louisiana tomorrow?”

Edward’s smile faded. He began to wring his hands and cast worried glances in the direction of the door.

“It’s true. Cordero’s made up ’is mind to leave old ’enre’s house for good. Leavin’ it all behind. Now, I know your father expected you t’ marry an’ settle down ’ere, but I can assure you, I think this’ll be best for all concerned. As I said, given ’alf a chance—”

Celine had to be sure she had heard him correctly. “The bride and groom are sailing tomorrow?”

“That’s right, miss. To St. Stephen Island in the West Indies. If I might say so, miss, you’ll never be free to run this place like a real lady of the house as long as ol’ Henre is alive. Leavin’ would be the only way. That’s ’tween you and me, now, y’ ’ear?”

Marry Cordero Moreau and she would soon be so far away that the Perots would never find her. All she had to do was stand in for Jemma O’Hurley and marry some mad, moronic idiot that no one else would have and then sail over the horizon. Tomorrow. If the situation proved too miserable, she could disappear as soon as they reached the islands.

“I really am
not
Jemma O’Hurley,” she assured Edward again.

“Whatever you say, miss.”

“I didn’t come here to get married.”

“No indeed, miss.”

The door opened and Celine half expected to see Henre Moreau standing on the threshold glaring at her. Instead, a spry, carefully groomed servant with light brown, thinning hair stepped into the room and closed the door behind him.

“I came as soon as I could,” he said in an excited, hushed voice. He crossed the room and stood close to Edward, who quickly introduced him.

“This is Foster Arnold, Miss Jemma, Cordero’s other personal servant. Also from St. Stephen, by way of England.”

She nodded. “Hello, Foster. I’m not Jemma O’Hurley.”

Foster glanced over at his fellow servant, who merely pursed his lips and rolled his eyes. “It’s worse than we ’eard,” Edward said.

Foster looked back at her and asked in a condescending tone one might use with a child, “Then who
are
you, miss?”

“My name is unimportant. I took Miss O’Hurley’s place in the carriage with the intent of getting hired on here.”

Foster turned to Edward. “At least we were warned.”

“I’m not lying,” she said. She was beginning to wonder exactly what it was they had heard about Jemma O’Hurley.

The two men eyed her pityingly.

“Cordero’s not so bad, miss,” Foster said.

“I tried to tell her that,” Edward assured him.

“I don’t care if he has two heads. I must be losing my mind, but I am thinking of consenting to this marriage. But it’s definitely
not
because I am Jemma O’Hurley. I just wanted you both to know, I’ll not do it under false pretenses.”

“She’ll do it!” Edward clasped his hands over his heart and beamed at Foster.

Foster took Celine’s hand. “Thank you, Miss O’Hurley. And you’ll see. He’s not all bad.”

“I’m
not
Miss O’Hurley,” Celine repeated with a sigh.

“Whatever you say, miss,” Foster said.

The men took her in hand. They found a coral silk gown carefully laid out on top of the clothes folded in the trunk. They held the gown up, shook it out and, after admiring every bow and stitch, insisted she
must
wear it, that it would be a crime not to. They hovered over her, giving advice and encouragement as one of the house slaves towel-dried her hair before the fire and then carefully fashioned it into an upswept style they all assured her complemented her eyes.

Celine changed out of her faded serge garment into the gown the Englishmen had chosen, careful to keep her coins hidden. It was the loveliest gown she had ever seen, made of coral silk with sleeves puffed at the shoulders and fitted to her wrists. Although it was trimmed with an embroidered satin bow that tied beneath her breasts, Jemma O’Hurley’s gown was a good two sizes too large across the bodice.

“It’s a shame it wasn’t properly tailored,” Foster commented.

“It’s not my dress,” Celine explained.

Foster and Edward looked at each other and shrugged. There was a moment of confusion when none of the shoes in the trunk fit either, and then, after trying in vain to clean the shoes Celine had arrived in, the men hurried her out of the room.

Twenty minutes later, the two servants entered the large sitting room where Henre Moreau sat scowling like an irritated potentate who’d been kept waiting far too long. Except for the priest, he was alone in the room.

“Monsieur Moreau,” Foster said, casting a proud glance in Celine’s direction, “she’s ready.” With a flourish, he made a courtly bow and presented Celine, who stepped into the room, forced to stand inspection once again.

Without comment or compliment, Henre Moreau motioned her to step closer. She crossed the floor.

“You don’t look Irish,” he said.

“I’m not. I’m English on my mother’s side. She told me that my father was a dark-eyed gypsy she met one night when—”

“Your father is Thomas O’Hurley and is as Irish as they come. I’ve met him, don’t forget.”

Celine sighed. “I’m not—”

He quickly cut her off. “You have already become tedious, my dear. Cordero will have to put up with this behavior, but I don’t need to suffer it.”

He gazed over her head, toward the door. “We can begin at last.”

Suddenly Celine found herself standing alone in the middle of the room in a dress that was not hers, about to wed a groom who was not hers. Doubt and fear snaked up her spine. She was terrified to see what manner of man she was willing to wed to escape the hangman’s noose.

The sound of footfalls and the scrape of a heavy shuffle echoed off the walls of the sparsely furnished room. She slowly faced the doorway.

The twins had already entered the room, half guiding, half carrying a man between them. Severely attired, he wore knee-high boots of black leather, black trousers and black coat. The only white on him was a linen shirt that was stained, open at the neck and unbuttoned halfway down his chest.

As he shuffled between the handsome twins, he raised his head for a moment. His vacant gaze swept the room. Like the twins, he was blessed with finely drawn features, clear skin and a strong jaw. His hair was fathomless ebony, shoulder-length and tied with a thin black ribbon.

Blindness, Celine reasoned, would account for the emptiness in his sky blue eyes, startling in contrast to his dark hair and olive complexion. The poor soul, she noticed, barely possessed the strength to stand. He staggered between the twins as they led him the rest of the way across the room. When Cordero was almost beside her, Henre Moreau stood up.

“Over here, Miss O’Hurley,” he said. He did not take her arm, merely leaned heavily on his cane.

She joined Henre and they stood before Father Perez, who was waiting patiently behind a table draped with an altar cloth adorned with a silver chalice and two tall tapers burning in sterling candlesticks. Outside, the rain continued to pour. The long windows behind the priest were shuttered to keep the wind from blowing out the candles but air still seeped through the shutters, ruffling the altar cloth, fluttering the candle flames.

One of the Caldwell twins stepped aside and one remained to support the groom. Celine took a deep breath and prayed for God’s forgiveness. She would atone for killing Jean Perot by wedding the blind and stumbling Cordero in Jemma O’Hurley’s stead, sincere in the hope that in doing so, the Irish girl would be free to serve God. She only hoped that He would overlook her saving her own neck in the bargain.

She turned to look at her future husband, prepared to treat him kindly until they parted ways in the West Indies. She was ready and willing to be his helpmate throughout the voyage, bound and determined to do whatever she could to make the trip easier for the poor creature.

She was prepared for anything and everything but the rank odor of red wine that tainted the very air around Cordero Moreau. On closer inspection, she could see that his shirtfront was stained with enough wine to drown a rat.

“He’s drunk!” she blurted.

“Not quite ’nuf,” the groom mumbled. “ ’M still standin’.”

Henre Moreau stood to her left. To her right weaved her groom and beside Cordero stood Stephen—or perhaps Anton; she wasn’t certain.

“Please begin, Father Perez.” Henre’s command brooked no argument.

The priest’s bald head glistened with a light sheen of perspiration. Father Perez buried his nose in the open missal in his hands and intoned the words of the wedding ceremony in Latin.

Lost in lingering panic and the utter absurdity of the situation, Celine did not pay close attention until Father Perez put a question to her in English. She hadn’t realized they’d all been awaiting a response.