Josephine: Bride of Louisiana (American Mail-Order Bride 18) (7 page)

J
osephine looked
from the basket Pierre held in his hands to the buggy, wondering what Bernadette might have packed. She knew that French food would be part of her education, and shivered at the thought that there might be snails in the basket. Her father had made her try them once at a fancy French restaurant and they--well, weren’t her cup of tea. And all the melted butter in the world wouldn’t change her mind.

She sighed with relief as she realized there wouldn’t be any melted butter on a picnic, therefore it was unlikely they would be having snails. She tried to get a look into the basket before Pierre put it in the back of the buggy, but he laughed and batted her hand away.

“You can wait. I promise that I won’t try to poison you. Lots of these French things aren’t my favorites either. But even if we choose not to eat them, we would certainly know about them if we’d been in the company of French society for any length of time.

He placed the basket down and covered it with a large, flannel blanket. She assumed it would be for them to sit on whenever they reached their destination.

She lifted her yards of skirts--she’d chosen the simplest of the beautiful ones she’d bought yesterday--and reached for Pierre’s hand that he held out to help her in. As their eyes met and she took his hand, she shivered--at the chill in the air, she thought. It couldn’t be anything else.

“I have a blanket in the buggy for you to cover up with.” He looked up at the sky, the white clouds dotted with some darker ones. “The weather is a bit unpredictable this time of year, so better to be prepared.”

Pierre came around and hopped in the buggy, reaching for the blanket on the seat between them and spreading it open over her lap. “There. Is that better?”

She glanced up at him from under her lashes, a bit embarrassed that she would have any reaction to him at all, certain her shiver was due to the cold and would be taken care of with the blanket.

“Yes, much. Thank you.”

Pierre flicked the reins, getting the horses started, but rather than turn down the long drive lined with willows, he turned down the road toward the group of houses that Josephine could see out her window.

Horses whinnied as they passed by tall, white fences enclosing large grazing fields. The horses glistened in the sun and Josephine inhaled the rich, musky sent of earth as it was kicked up by their hooves.

She gazed over the fields and rows of a tall, green plant. “What is that?” she asked, pointing in the direction of the long, even rows, golden strands that looked like silk billowing from the tops.

Pierre looked in the direction she was pointing and laughed. “Uh-oh. You’ve never seen corn plants before, have you?”

She turned toward him, her eyes narrowed. “If I had, I wouldn’t have asked you what it was. I’m from the city, remember?”

Pierre wiped the smile off his face, not entirely successful at attempting to look serious. “I do apologize,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “This is the very last of the corn crop, so late in the season that it’s only for horse feed.

Josephine pushed a stray strand of hair back up into her hat and stole a sideways glance at Pierre. “I’ll thank you not to laugh at me. Pretending that I knew things I didn’t is what caused this whole mess. I’d really like to start at the beginning. I love to learn new things--but don’t enjoy being mocked.”

Pierre turned to her, his eyes meeting hers. She didn’t look away--if this was going to work, he needed to take it seriously and tell her everything she needed to know.

His eyes softened and he pushed his hat back on his forehead. “I understand. And I appreciate your commitment.”

“What if you just tell me everything you can think of? Pretend you’re explaining what happens on the plantation to someone who’s never been here before.”

He threw his head back and laughed. “I guess that’s exactly what I
am
doing.”

She hid her smile behind her hand. What she’d said was silly. She was grateful when he started to point out things on the plantation as they passed, and she could listen.

As they passed the first cottage--the one where the young woman and little girl lived--she craned her neck, trying to see more. Was this a relative of Pierre’s? She didn’t think so, but she could be wrong. She’d yet to see the man of the house. Maybe he was working out on the plantation.

“And who lives there?” She pointed to the clapboard house on her right.

Pierre leaned forward and looked to where she was pointing. His eyes clouded and he frowned, turning back to the road ahead. “That’s where Harriet and her daughter live.”

Apparently, she wasn’t going to get any more details as his lips formed a thin line and he flicked the reins at the horses, moving them along faster. She looked back at the house as it grew smaller in the distance, her mind turning at the possibilities.

As they moved along, Pierre described what seemed to Josephine to be an entire village. He pointed out a blacksmith, a laundry, a leatherworker--all of whom smiled and waved at Pierre as he passed by. Without exception, he smiled and waved in return, and Josephine’s heart warmed. People seemed very happy here at The Willows.

As they passed through and the road turned to weave through the fields, Josephine sat in contented silence as Pierre spoke to workers in the fields and stopped frequently to jump out and look at the leaves of some of the plants.

She watched as he carefully lifted leaves, moved small branches over and looked under plants. He’d shield his eyes from the sun--which was dimming behind darker clouds--and look down the long rows, walk to another one and look again and then nod, turning back to the buggy.

“You’re definitely very involved here, aren’t you?” she asked as he climbed back in the buggy after one of his surveys.

He looked at her and raised his eyebrows. “I’m sorry. You must be bored.”

“Oh, no, not at all. It’s been fascinating, actually, and I love when you tell me about the plants. I feel like I’m getting a real education.”

He grinned and flicked the reins, the buggy moving forward again. He pushed his hat back on his head and looked up at the sky, just as his stomach rumbled.

He patted his stomach and said, “With those dark clouds gathering, that could have been thunder.”

Josephine looked out from the cover of the buggy up at the sky. The black clouds had turned even darker as they’d been when they’d set out on their tour, and she held her hand out, a fat raindrop plopping on her hand.

She pulled her coat more tightly around her, wishing she had brought a scarf, as the air had suddenly turned even chillier. “Does it rain frequently at this time of year?”

Pierre shook his head. “It’s pretty unpredictable here. It can rain at any time, but I didn’t think it would today. I’m sorry.”

She laughed and said, “Where I came from, this would be snow, and I would have to walk in it to and from work. And try not to slip when it turned to ice. So this is nothing.”

“That sounds awful,” Pierre said, tucking the blanket closer around Josephine.

Her heart hitched as he did. She’d not had anyone to look after her for many years. Her mother had died shortly after her father, and as she was of age, she had to look for a job right away. She felt fortunate that she’d had such good roommates and her cousin, Michelle, but this felt entirely different.

Pierre slowed the horses and handed the reins to Josephine. “Here, hold these for a second. Just keep them taut, just like this.”

Her eyes grew wise and she gingerly took the reins. She’d never driven a buggy before and silently prayed that they wouldn’t do anything--unexpected.

Pierre hopped out of the buggy and ran to the back. Thunder cracked as he lifted his last foot and sat down beside her, setting the basket at their feet.

Josephine jumped at the thunder, and the reins bounced, the horses starting up again. She gasped and looked at Pierre.

He laughed and took the reins from her. “Nicely done, Josephine,” he said, patting her arm gently.

She looked down at his hand and up into his eyes. He blinked, looked down at his hand and pulled it away, just as the heavens opened and rain pelted down, clacking on the roof of the buggy.

So much for a picnic,” she said. “And you’re hungry.”

“I definitely am. There’s a vacant foreman’s cottage up ahead. We can stop there and wait it out.”

She turned up the collar of her coat and jumped again as lightning crashed, so close that she could feel the heat of it. Her old fear of thunder returned, and her father had always teased her about it, sending her to her mother for comfort.

Her mother was gone, so Josephine reached for the basket and moved it to her right as she scooted over closer to Pierre. She reached her arm through his and hung on, her eyes scrunched closed as he hurried toward shelter.

P
ierre tried
to make it to the cottage as quickly as he could, as Josephine’s fingernails were digging into his arm, deeper with every clap of thunder. He smiled down at her, her face buried on his shoulder and her hair tickling his nose. He breathed deeply, and the scent of rose water washed over him and combined with the falling rain, he actually thought it was quite nice--all of it.

He pulled up in front of the cottage, glad he’d worn his boots and had asked Josephine to, as well. He pried her fingers from his arm and his heart pinched as she shivered at the next clap of thunder.

“I’ll be right back, Josephine,” he said as he set her hands on the handle of the basket. “I’ll just be a second.”

He looked back at her pleading eyes as he hopped out and walked the horses and the buggy under a lean-to on the side of the cottage--one they’d built for just this kind of thing. The horses and buggy under cover, he hastily tied them to the post and ran around for Josephine, swooping her up in his arms as she stood. He turned and took just a few long strides and they were under the roof of the porch.

He felt her shivering as he opened the door of the cottage, pushing it open wider with his foot. He quickly looked around, releasing his breath when he spotted the pile of firewood in the corner.

“You’ll be all right here, just for a moment. Let me start a fire.” He removed his coat, draped it over her thin wrap and reached for some of the kindling set by the front door. The cottage should be well stocked, he thought, as sometimes workers needed to stay rather than take the time to travel all the way back to the main house.

“The...the basket.”

Pierre looked up from the wood stove, intent on getting it lit and adding a little warmth in the room. It wasn’t terribly cold yet this time of year, but it could be. Storms here were unpredictable. Besides, this young lady was shivering enough from the thunder, and the fire certainly couldn’t hurt.

“Are you saying that you’re incredibly eager to find out what French delicacies Bernadette has in store for us?” He smiled, and her meek one in return tugged at his heart. He remembered being frightened by storms as a small boy, but when his mother passed away, he no longer had the luxury of being comforted by her--so he toughened up.

“You were hungry. Your stomach growled,” she said as she took a deep breath and moved closer to the start of the fire. She held her hands closer to it and turned toward him. “Thank you, Pierre. I...it’s something that’s frightened me since I was a child. I always hope I’m over it.”

He pulled his coat more snugly around her shoulders. “It would appear not,” he said, smiling at her.

By the time he’d returned with the basket, Josephine had removed her bonnet, found a cloth and dusted off the small table and chairs. He set the basket on the floor and pulled the table closer to the wood stove, put another log in and rummaged in a cupboard until he found a small saucepan.

“Do you plan to be cooking here?” Josephine asked, shrugging off Pierre’s coat and hanging it on the back of a chair.

Pierre reached up and found two mugs in the cupboard. He reached for the cloth Josephine had laid on the counter and rubbed the dust out of them also.

“No, not cooking, really. But I asked Bernadette to add milk so I could introduce you to one of France’s main traditions.”

Josephine’s eyebrows rose as she pulled the chair with Pierre’s very wet coat closer to the fire. “I do hope that these things are going to be...well, at least edible.”

“Bernadette and I made an agreement. If you don’t like something, you don’t have to eat more than a bite. But you should at least be familiar, just in case these things come up at a time you should know about them--or would know about them if you were truly French.” Pierre shot a sideways glance at Josephine as he took the cloth off the top of the basket and spread it out on the table.

He groaned as he peered inside. He and Jerome had thought that it would be a good idea for Josephine to become familiar with some uniquely French delicacies, but he hadn’t thought Bernadette sadistic enough to add some of the things he now rummaged through.

As he moved aside the langue de boeuf and the pate de foie gras, he let out a sigh of relief as he spotted two unusual sandwiches, a specialty of New Orleans but one he thought might be a little more palatable to someone from back East who’d never tasted cow’s tongue or goose liver pate before.

He pulled out the small bottle of milk and turned to Josephine. “Is the fire hot enough to warm some milk?”

As Josephine took off her wrap and placed it on the chair to warm beside Pierre’s coat, she said, “I believe so. It’s a lovely fire. Warm milk? I don’t believe I’ve seen that except in baby bottles. I’ve certainly never tasted it.”

Pierre looked up in surprise as he placed the various dishes on the table. “Never? It’s something I don’t think we could live without. We have it every morning for breakfast in our coffee.”

He shook his head and sighed as he took out a small plate of tripe, glancing at Josephine and wondering just how hardy she was. “Josephine, cafe au lait is one of the simpler things we enjoy. Are you particular about food? I’m afraid some of this might be fairly unusual, compared to what you’ve had in the past.”

Josephine smiled and smoothed her skirt. “I’ve never been a fussy eater. My mother made French food for my father when I was younger. I love chocolate croissants,” she said, her eyes lighting up.

Pierre eyed her warily, trying to decide whether to explain to her what each of the items was before she ate it, or see if she liked it first. He thought back to when he had introduced Harriet and her little daughter Rebecca to French food when they’d first moved into the small cottage on the plantation. They’d loved it immediately, so he shrugged his shoulders and hoped for the best.

Harriet and Rebecca. He sighed at the thought of the two of them, wondering if he would
ever
know who Rebecca’s father was. Harriet had refused to speak of it, and he had taken pity on her when he’d come upon her, very pregnant but still working in the fields. There was something about her that he couldn’t turn a blind eye to, and it had taken everything he had to convince his father that they couldn’t abandon her and her unborn child, and he’d eventually--reluctantly--agreed to allow Pierre to house them on the plantation. Now, Harriet had found her place and was loved by all, as was the darling young girl, Rebecca.

With that thought in mind, he pulled out a chair for Josephine, who smiled eagerly as he scooted her in. He sat down beside her, hoping that she’d have the same response as Harriet and Rebecca had, and that he wouldn’t have to carry her back out to the buggy as she’d become ill.

“I’m very much looking forward to learning about this.” She hung her head for a moment before looking back up at Pierre, her shoulders squared. “I know I can do this and I don’t want to let you down.” Josephine rubbed her hands together. “Just as long as there are no really strange things like snails, I’ll be fine.”

Pierre sighed, patted her arm and squinted as he looked at her. She really was beautiful, and her smile infectious. His heart tugged at her enthusiasm, and he tried to smile. If she could get through this, she may be able to get through just about anything.