Day Dreamer (14 page)

“Nag.” He almost smiled.

“Cord, there’s something I need to tell you, something that needs to be said.” She linked her fingers and took a deep breath. There was no easy way to break the news.

Cord could see that she was as nervous as a guilty defendant in a witness box. The longer he watched her fidget with the mint green ribbon beneath the bodice of her gown, the more he was certain that she had changed her mind and wanted to get out of the marriage before it was too late.

Who could blame her? He looked around at the squalid room, at the filthy mattress, torn curtains and ruined mosquito netting. He was not a man given to making excuses or pleading his cause. And besides, of late he’d found himself thinking of her far too often. Maybe it would be safer for both of them if she left before he could no longer control himself, before she could steal the bit of his heart she hadn’t yet managed to.

If she wanted out of the marriage, so be it.

“Get on with it, Celine. I’ve places to go.”

“Such as back to the tavern?”

“Maybe.”

“You were certainly gone long enough last time.”

One of his thick brows hooked. “Damn, but you are a nag. You were about to say—?”

“You aren’t going to like it.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.” She was leaving him. Good riddance. At least she wouldn’t be around to torture him any longer. He would go straight to the nearest whorehouse and treat himself to the most expensive whore there. One with large bosoms, preferably a very leggy blond. It didn’t matter what she looked like as long as she was not a petite, raven-haired, amethyst-eyed little witch who had the power to haunt his dreams.

“Spit it out, Celine.” He almost told her he knew what she was about to say, but if she wanted out, she would have to suffer through telling him so. She was obviously distraught. She looked close to throwing up again, even if they were on dry land.

He watched her blink twice, rub her hands together in a manner reminiscent of Edward, then take a deep breath.

“You’re ruined,” she blurted. “I mean, the plantation is in ruins.”

Ten

“W
hat are you talking about?” He let the mask that hid his feelings drop into place with well-practiced ease. She was up now, pacing the confines of the small room.

“While I was waiting at the dock, a gentleman introduced himself to me. When he inquired to see if I needed any help, I told him no, that I was waiting for my husband.”

“Celine, for God’s sake, stand still. You’re making me dizzy.”

She continued pacing. “The rum is making you dizzy, Cord. Anyway, this man recognized your name and acted quite surprised that you were planning on taking up residence at Dunstain Place. That’s when he told me …”

She paused long enough to infuriate him, casting a pitying glance in his direction.

“Get on with it.”

“He said the place had gone to ruin. He claims the manager left years ago and the slaves ran off.” She looked down at her folded hands and then back up at him, waiting for him to say something.

“He was a wealth of information, I see.” His hand curled into a fist at his side. It was the only show of emotion he allowed himself.

“I’ve been thinking …” She stopped pacing.

“A frightening thought in itself,” he mumbled.

“I wonder if perhaps he might not be exaggerating.”

“Who was he, this bearer of bad tidings?”

“His name is Collin Ray. His brother is a local magistrate or something. He seemed quite enamored of himself.”

She was standing so close he saw the faint smattering of freckles that an hour in the sun had drawn over the bridge of her nose. He forced himself to study each and every one of them carefully. It kept him from giving in to his rage.

“Say something,” she prodded.

He walked over to the table where he had left the rum bottle, uncorked it and looked down at the rich brown liquor inside. “There’s not much to say, is there, Celine?”

He took a long pull on the bottle and welcomed the feel of the rum burning its way down his throat. It wouldn’t be long before the liquor numbed his pain.

“You could find out if anyone else knows what has been happening at Dunstain Place over the past eighteen years.” She reached out and put her hand on his forearm, stopping the bottle halfway to his lips. “You could do a lot more than pour rum down your throat.”

“But rum is the most immediate remedy.”

“And it’s far easier than facing your feelings or finding out whether or not you’ll have to put the plantation back on its feet.” She watched him a moment longer. “I know you must be devastated.”

He slammed the near-empty bottle on the table, which rocked back and forth on its wobbly legs with the force of the blow.

“I’m nothing of the kind. My grandfather warned me I was probably coming back to nothing.”

“You still get your monthly stipend—”

“What do you know about that?” Hating the pity he read in her eyes, he stepped away from her.

“I … Foster and Edward told me about it when I informed them what I had heard from Collin Ray.”

He ran his hands through his hair and headed for the door. “So, all of you held a gabfest in my absence? Was it enjoyable, all of you sitting around here like a trio of clucking hens?”

“They sincerely care about you.”

“I don’t need anyone to care about me. I don’t
want
anyone to care about me.”

“You need someone to care about you worse than anyone I’ve ever known.”

“Stay out of my life, Celine.” What right did she have to tell him what he felt or what he needed?

“Of course. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? You should be
allowed
to stomp around and glare, to close yourself off from the world. I know you love this island, I know you love Dunstain Place—”

“And what makes you so sure of that, Miss All-Knowing One?”

“The way you talked about it the night of the storm.”

He had to get out. This time he would keep going.

“It would be better if you forget all about that night, Celine.”

“Have you?”

Her question surprised him.

“Of course,” he lied. “There wasn’t one memorable thing about it.”

She looked crushed. He stepped over the threshold. He had to get away from this room and the bruised expression in her eyes. Baytowne was celebrating. He would find a way to take his mind off Dunstain Place. There was plenty of rum to be had, plenty of wenches to sport with. In an hour he wouldn’t care about the state of the plantation. He wouldn’t even care that his nagging, meddling wife had just looked at him with suspiciously misty eyes, as if she’d been blinking back tears.

As an afterthought, he turned around—although still poised in the open doorway, ready to walk out—and said, “This is the perfect opportunity for you to leave, Celine. Since we haven’t fucked yet, the marriage can still be annulled.”

She stood there mute, staring up at him as if she realized he had just tried his damnedest to shock her.

“Is that a no?”

She didn’t answer, simply stared back, waiting for something he couldn’t give, waiting for him to soften, to tell her he had not meant the harsh word, to ask her to forgive him for it. She was waiting for him to do what he was incapable of, and it made him feel like a heartless bastard.

“That’s for you,” he said, pointing to the package on the bed. He turned away from the haunted look in her eyes and left her standing there.

Celine didn’t move until she heard his footsteps fade down the hall. The overpowering scent of garlic and grease from the dining room below made the air heavy and nauseating. Cord had tried to anger and shock her, had tried to force her to take the easy way out, but Cordero Moreau didn’t know what she was made of. A little vulgarity was not going to scare her off.

She walked over to the bed, picked up the brown paper parcel and slipped off the string. The paper crackled as she opened it to reveal a frothy white lawn nightgown. It was much like the one he had ruined.

The gown had a deep flounce around the skirt, but instead of having long sleeves, it had been adapted to island wear, cut like an undergarment, sleeveless, with a row of tiny pearl buttons up the bodice. When she held it up to herself, she could see that, unlike the other, this one was a perfect fit. Not all of his time alone that morning, she realized, had been spent in a tavern.

The man who tried so hard to convince everyone that he had no feelings had taken the time to replace her nightgown with one that was not only her size, but of far better quality than the one he had ruined.

Burying her face in the soft folds of the white fabric, Celine closed her eyes and made herself a promise. Fate had sent her to Cordero Moreau for a reason—and if that reason was to bring his battered heart to life, she would do it.

Foster halted in the shadows of the stairwell and motioned to Edward, who quickly sidled up to him. “What is it?”

“I’ve Miss Celine’s supper arranged. She’s to eat in a private dining room with an older gent, a bookseller from Barbados. I’m going up to collect her now,” Foster said.

“Where’s Cordero?”

“I ain’t seen him since she tol’ him about Dunstain Place. I’ve a feeling we won’t be seein’ ’im ’til mornin’.”

Edward cast a troubled glance up the darkened stairwell. “I think the sooner we can get ’im to Dunstain Place the better. There’s bound t’ be too much temptation for Cordero ’ere in town, what with the bad news an’ all …”

“It just don’t seem possible the place has gone to wrack and ruin. I’ll ’ave to see it with my own eyes first.”

“Poor miss. It ain’t like she’s had the greatest time of it, what with ’er bein’ sick on the voyage an’ all, an’ now this. I’m surprised she ain’t up and demanded to be sent back ’ome.” Edward shook his head forlornly.

“She’s surprised me all the way around.” Foster ran his fingers beneath his collar. His skin was sticky from the close, humid air. “I would have thought a rich merchant’s daughter wouldn’t ’ave stepped one foot into that room upstairs, but she took it in stride. You think there might be anything to that story she tried to sell us in Louisiana? You think she really
was
going to try to hire on as a servant at ol’ Henre’s place?”

Edward fanned his face with both hands. The heat from the first story rose up the close confines of the stairwell. “I don’t know what to think anymore.” He frowned and looked over at Foster. “I still think they make a fine pair.”

“They just don’t know it yet,” Foster said.

“It’s up to us to make ’em see the light.”

Foster propped his chin on his thumb. “Sharin’ a cabin on the ship didn’t seem to work too much in favor of intimacy.”

“And there are eight bedrooms at Dunstain Place.” Edward sighed forlornly.

“Then we’ll just ’ave to see to it that they end up in one together … or at least in rooms that are side by side.” Foster grabbed the handrail. “I’ll go on up and bring ’er down for supper. You ’ave something in the taproom. I’ll join you there, and after we eat we’ll start lookin’ for Cordero.”

Edward shook his head and started down the stairs again. “I’ve a feelin’ we’ll be gettin’ reacquainted with the seamy side o’ Baytowne tonight.”

It was too humid to eat. After the first few bites of sautéed fish in hot pepper sauce, Celine didn’t even make an attempt to have more as she sat at a small table in a closet that passed as a private dining room in the Tavern Inn. Her dinner companion was a lean, older gentleman with ruddy skin, thinning hair the color of burnt nutmeg and sharp blue eyes. The bookseller had come to St. Stephen for the statue dedication.

Although at first she wished she’d been dining alone, she soon found Mr. Howard Wells to be a gentleman, well-spoken and entertaining. After commiserating with Celine about her seasickness, he had launched into a long soliloquy detailing the hazards of sea travel in general. Finally, he paused long enough to drain his mug of ale and leaned back in his chair.

“You said your husband has returned to St. Stephen after years of absence?”

“Yes, that’s right.” She paused while a round of boisterous laughter echoed through the taproom next door. “He was raised in New Orleans.”

“That explains it.”

He appeared so sympathetic she had to ask, “Explains what?”

“Your lack of invitation to stay elsewhere. Obviously your husband has no connections here in Baytowne. No family?”

She shook her head. “Not that I know of.”

A young, buxom waitress walked in and took their plates, promising to bring Celine coffee and Mr. Wells another mug of ale.

“The planters here in the English islands are a close-knit group, and have been since the first aristocrats among the colonists banded together and excluded everyone else. Had your husband’s family been well friended, you would not have had to suffer this place tonight, but would be the guests of someone here in Baytowne. With the dedication festival in progress, there are numerous parties and soirees going on tonight and through the week.”

“I’m sure that once word is out that my husband has come back, he will be included.”

“You say he was born here?” Mr. Wells asked.

“He was. His mother’s family owned the plantation Cordero has inherited. His father was a Creole from New Orleans.”

“And you?”

“I’m from New Orleans also.”

Celine had more than enough to concern her; she didn’t need to worry about not having been invited to rub elbows with the landed gentry. The serving girl brought her coffee, heavily laced with chocolate as Celine had requested. She stirred the steaming brew and waited for it to cool. As they sat in companionable silence, Celine’s thoughts drifted to the matter she had been pondering all evening—was there any way she could help Cord make Dunstain Place profitable again?

“Mr. Wells, do you know anything at all about raising sugar?”

“Anyone who’s spent his lifetime on Barbados can’t help but know something about raising sugar. Why do you ask?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know a thing about it, and I’m about to set off to live on a sugar plantation. I’d like to be of some help when we get there.”

He looked at her as if she were some new species. “Now there’s a novel idea. A planter’s wife actually wanting to become involved?”

“Is that so outrageous?”

“From the one’s I’ve met it’s highly unusual.”

“That may be, but then again, I’ve always been a bit on the unusual side, Mr. Wells.” It was an understatement, she knew.

He smiled at that. “What do you want to know?”

“Does it take much money to get a plantation up and running?”

“A small fortune in slaves. Not so much for equipment, though—that is, if you already have a mill, a boiling house, a curing house, a distillery and a contract with a storehouse.”

Celine wondered how Cord would ever come up with the money to get Dunstain Place producing again.

Howard Wells continued. “The slaves need to be fed and housed and clothed, and a doctor must be provided for them, along with a seamstress, a carpenter, a smith, a mason, coopers to make casks and barrels, food …” He paused and then said, “My dear, you are looking quite befuddled.”

“I don’t know how Cord will do it all.”

“One step at a time, I’d imagine. He can start with obtaining credit, as most planters do.”

“But the debt …”

“Debt is the foundation of the sugar industry. Everyone is in debt to someone. Only the inept planter loses money, even in the worst of times. With any luck, the land won’t be worn out.” He held his mug in his lap as he stared up at the ceiling. “There are a few perils involved. There’s yellow blast, an insect that bores into the roots of the sugarcane and saps the life out of it. Or there’s black blast, a swarm of insects that ruin the crop. There are hurricanes, too much or too little rain, rats …”

Celine propped her elbows on the table and her chin on her hands. There’d be no stopping Howard Wells now.

“Your mill roller could break, the furnace hearth could crack, boiling coppers might burn out or cistern pipes snap. Any of those disasters could spoil a year’s worth of output. If you delay the cane processing by a day or two, that’s all it takes for the juice to deteriorate, and the sugar crop is lost.”