Authors: Jill Marie Landis
Just Once
Just Once
Jill Marie Landis
Copyright © 1997 by Jill Marie Landis
To Mom
For sending me to all those Saturday CCD classes.
There’s a reason for everything.
But who would have thought…
Contents
Boston, August 1816
One quick, final prayer to St. Joseph and Jemma O’Hurley was ready.
Poised in the foyer of her Boston town house, filled with high hopes, she began the long walk down the hall toward her father’s study. A thick carpet runner beneath her feet muffled the sound of raspberry-silk slippers dyed to match her gown, the likes of which no one had seen since before the war. It was a frothy French creation her father had purchased on his last trip abroad.
The house, as always, was as quiet as a mausoleum. With every step, her heartbeat seemed to echo louder, as if it pounded against the cherrywood paneling and not inside her chest. Pausing outside the door, she lifted her hand and finger-combed her unruly blond curls. Her long, thick hair constantly resisted pins and combs but, knowing how much stock her father put in appearances, she tried to tame it, determined to look her best.
Jemma took a deep breath, knocked gently, and waited.
She rarely saw her father. She could count on her fingers and toes the sum total of all the hours he had ever spent with her. There was no time in his life for anything but business, not even for her, his only child.
But things were about to change.
When he called out for her to enter, Jemma pushed the door open and slipped inside; closing it without a sound, she leaned against its hard, glossy surface for support. Her father stood across the room, staring out the open window that fronted the street. The gleaming expanse of his burl-wood desk separated them. Something always did.
Outside, the waning summer’s heat beat down on the city. Not a breath of air stirred. Enormous thunderheads threatened rain as they gathered over the harbor. Traffic was light this afternoon, the sultry humidity forcing most sane Bostonians indoors.
While she waited for him to turn around, Jemma watched her father take out his handkerchief and wipe his brow. Replacing the kerchief after carefully matching its original folds, he straightened his already flawless cravat. Even the stifling heat did not keep him from appearing anything less than the meticulous, successful businessman he was.
She had requested this meeting and was surprised when he had actually left his office at the warehouse early in order to allow her a few minutes before dinner. Time was always of the essence for Thomas O’Hurley. He would appreciate it if she came right to the point, and she knew it, so Jemma screwed up her courage, clasped her hands in earnest, and began to argue her cause.
“Father, I’ve been thinking a lot about the future lately—”
“As have I, Jemma. As have I.”
Slowly he turned and gave her his full attention. His eyes were the same shade of blue as her own, a deep Irish blue. He was fit and trim, bald, with thick muttonchops and round, cherub cheeks above a salt-and-pepper mustache. He exuded confidence and pride—indeed, for good reason. He had risen from humble beginnings to become one of the wealthiest men on the eastern seaboard.
Jemma breathed a sigh of relief. Things were off to a good start.
“I’m so glad to know we’re of like mind,” she began. “Now that I’m no longer at school, I think this is the perfect time to look to the future, don’t you?”
“Smart girl. You’ve always had a good head on your shoulders, even though that old reprobate grandfather of yours tried to fill it with nonsense. Yes, indeed. I think it’s high time to settle down, look to the future.”
Settle down?
The idea of settling down had never entered her mind. She felt a moment of concern, but forged quickly ahead.
“I’ve spent the week since we received news of Mr. Finlay’s death trying to come up with something useful I could do for the company. I’ve a good head with figures, as you know, and I would be more than willing to travel with you, arrange your appointments, act as your personal secretary.” She paused, her hopes high, her expectations grand. Surely it would sound as sensible to him as it did to her.
He was staring at her as if she had suddenly grown feathers.
“I already have a secretary.” His tone was hesitant, almost evasive. Not like him at all.
“But Jefferson is getting older. Surely he is about to retire. Frequent crossings back and forth to the London office can’t be easy for him anymore.”
“Jemma, Jefferson is only five years older than I am.”
She shrugged. “Whatever. I’ve never been good at ages.” She glanced down at the tips of her favorite shoes. He valued courage. She met his gaze directly. “There must be something I can do at the office, Father. I can’t sit here day after day doing embroidery. Mrs. Greene can run this household with her eyes closed. I need something worthwhile to fill my days. I want to feel useful, to be productive. I’ve thought of writing professionally, but I know you wouldn’t look very favorably on that.”
“To what end? You’re a woman, Jemma.”
She sighed again. “That
is
a problem for me, I’ll admit.” She smiled, recalling Sister Mary Martin’s praise for her outstanding, imaginative works of fiction. “I have a rare gift for storytelling, you know.”
His only comment was silent dismissal. He turned and walked to a side table where crystal decanters of various shapes and sizes caught the rays of the sun. Neatly lined up one by one, they stood like soldiers in sparkling rainbow coats. For years the housekeeper, Mrs. Greene, had seen to it that the grand house was kept perfect from top to bottom. There wasn’t a single object that wasn’t always in its place, starched, pressed, positioned, or shining like a newly minted coin.
Her father continued to ignore her as he poured a liberal splash of brandy into a Baccarat snifter. Jemma waited. He swirled the expensive French liquor. She watched it slick the sides of the glass like amber honey. His hand was shaking slightly. When she suddenly detected the hint of nervousness, his edginess quickly communicated itself to her.
She had never seen her father nervous. As a founding partner in O’Hurley and Finlay Imports, he had never been intimidated by any commercial challenge. He had spent the better portion of his life making lucrative business transactions, always besting his competitors. There was no reason on earth why this discussion should cause him any anxiety—none that she could think of, anyway.
He carefully set the snifter down on the corner of his desk, ran his hand over his cravat again, then along the front of his jacket. He patted his trim waist. When he cleared his throat, she was convinced that he had something very important on his mind. Something he was very hesitant to tell her.
Finally he said, “As a matter of fact, I do need your help, Jemma.”
Thank you, St. Joseph!
Her worry vanished. “I
knew
you would see my point. I’m more than willing to do anything I can to learn the business.”
She was hard-pressed to hide her joy, but it was short lived when she realized what he was saying.
“Teaching you the business wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.” He walked around behind his desk, unlocked a side drawer, and bent slightly so that he could reach inside. Straightening, he held an important-looking set of documents in his hand. He was not smiling. His forehead was marred with deep furrows beaded with perspiration.
“What
did
you have in mind?” Jemma’s stomach began to flutter. Something momentous was about to occur. She could feel it as certainly as she could smell the salt tang on the sultry air in the stuffy room.
“All I ask is that you please hear me out.”
Her stomach turned over. “I don’t like the way that sounds.”
“Before Finlay’s death, I had already decided to relocate the company to New Orleans.”
“But you’ll still have to go to London to settle affairs, won’t you? I had hoped that you would finally consent to taking me abroad.” What he had said about relocation began to register. Her mind raced with endless possibilities. A move to New Orleans? “This seems so sudden. You just returned from New Orleans two months ago. Why didn’t you say anything then?”
It was like him not to discuss his plans with her, but this move was so momentous that she couldn’t believe he had waited until now to tell her. Excitement and anticipation replaced her anxiety. For years she had begged him to take her with him on his travels, but he had never agreed. Now, out of the blue, a whole new world was about to open up for her.
This is it, Jemma gal. Your chance for adventure!
She could almost hear her Grandpa Hall urging her to grasp hold of this unexpected opportunity for a grand new way of life in an exciting new place. She was only half-listening to her father as he went on.
“Since the end of the war, the Mississippi River Valley has been attracting commerce faster than anyone dared hope. I’m selling Finlay’s London holdings and reopening as O’Hurley Imports in New Orleans as soon as I return from settling Finlay’s affairs. I’ll be moving to Louisiana permanently.”
Jemma glanced around the study at the familiar surroundings: the wall of books, the wide bank of windows with their panoramic view of the bay, the gilt-framed portrait of the mother she had never known. This was the only house she had ever lived in, but she would say good-bye gladly if it meant a new beginning, new sights and sounds and experiences. She would no longer have to rely on her imagination or her memory of her grandfather’s many tales to sweep her away to exotic lands.
“It’ll be wonderful, Father. A gateway to another world.” She paused, remembering that he had to see to Finlay’s affairs first. “I know there will be a lot to do here to prepare for the move, but I would still love to go to London with you first.”
“I’m afraid there’s a bit more to all of it than that. Maybe you’d like to sit down.”
She felt her intestines twist into a knot, and in a reflexive gesture gathered the raspberry silk of her skirt in her hands and hung on.
“I’d rather stand,” she whispered, her gaze locked on the papers in his fist.
He took a deep breath, looked down at the documents in his hand and said on a rush of words, “On my last trip to New Orleans, I signed this marriage agreement between you and a Creole aristocrat, a rich young man named Alex Moreau—”
“
You did what?
” Her knees turned to jelly.
“He’ll be able to keep you in grand style.”
“I don’t need grand style. I don’t want—”
He silenced her with a wave of his hand.
“Hear me out. I’ve spent my life amassing a fortune so that you’ll never know poverty. I’ve spoiled you with wealth and privilege and a fine education because I wanted you to have everything my father could never afford to give me. I should have arranged for your future long ago, but to tell you the truth, the years got away from me. Somehow, overnight, you’re through with convent school and you’ve become a woman. It’s high time I see you settled. Naturally, I want you to have the very best. Where’s the crime in that?”
Panic struck her hard. The tears that stung her eyes threatened to spill over her lower lashes. The sight of her father holding a copy of the cursed wedding agreement shimmered and swam, his image wavering, distorted.
How could he have done this to her? Jemma swiped away traitorous tears with the back of her hand. “All I’ve ever wanted was for us to be closer. I’d like to travel with you and see the world. Why can’t I take part in opening the new office with you instead of marrying this … this Alex Moreau?”
When she realized she was begging, she reminded herself that he hated crying as much as he disliked any other sign of weakness. She bit her lips to keep them from trembling and stood firm, aching to run to him, longing to have him take her in his arms and hold her close to his heart. She wished he would tell her that she was his girl and that he loved her, that he would never force her to marry a stranger.
Why should she expect him to be any different than he ever was, she wondered. Thomas O’Hurley had never openly shown her one moment of affection, never told her he loved her. For him, it was enough that he spent money on things, that he gave her lavish gifts and provided her with the very best that money could buy. Simple acts of caring, of voicing his affection, were beyond him.
She had more than enough
things
. What she longed for was for him to listen to her, just once, the way Grandpa Hall had before he died. She wanted her father to see her as something more than a pretty showpiece. She wanted him to believe in her. She wanted to be someone he could believe in.
Jemma wiped away her tears and waited for him to make the next move, staring at him from across the room, needing his love and understanding but at a loss as to how to win it.
“Believe me, Jemma. I didn’t do this without thought. This alliance is for your own good.”
Alliance. Business
. She was nothing but a pawn.
Something inside her broke. She was deeply hurt, but the pain didn’t prevent her temper from simmering.
“My own good? Father, you’re too adept at business to sign a marriage contract and get nothing out of it.”
Sweating profusely, Thomas yanked his handkerchief out and patted his brow again. “That’s true. When I said I needed your help, I meant it. Those Creoles are as close as nits on a comb. Your marrying into one of their prominent families will help tremendously when I go down there to make business connections. I want this new branch of O’Hurley Imports established before river trade expands. Americans are already flooding into New Orleans in droves.”
“You
sold
me,” she whispered. “To the highest bidder.”
“I did no such thing. It’s a marriage arrangement and damn it, girl, it’s for your own good.”
She stared up at the decorative scrollwork that bordered the ceiling, so upset that she couldn’t even think of a single saint’s name. Never had she felt so desperate or so alone. She clasped her hands together at her waist until her knuckles went white, and faced him again. She tried to steady her voice, raising her chin a notch.
“With his last breath, Grandpa Hall made me promise I would sample as much as I could at the banquet of life before I married.”
He slapped the papers against his palm. “I rue the day I let that penniless old windbag move in here and fill your head with that complete and utter nonsense. Don’t you know that all of his stories were nothing but a lot of tall tales? Why is it he’s been dead and buried over nine years and he still has more of an influence over you than I
ever
did?”
