Lily (Song of the River) (4 page)

She glanced at her aunt, surprised to see that the color had washed from her face. “What is it?”

“We have to go. Something has happened to Father, and Mother wants us to come immediately.”

Lily helped her aunt stand and followed her out of the room, all thoughts of the river, her dance partners, and the attractive Jean Luc Champney fading like mist under the concern blazing through her.

J
ean Luc Champney yawned and glanced toward his papa, who was writing a letter to
Grandmère.
What could he find to write about this boring town? How did his parents expect him to find a proper wife in this backwater?

They had invited everyone from the area to the party a few weeks earlier, and he hadn’t found a single girl worth remembering. Well, maybe one or two. The tall blond had been interesting until she laughed. He couldn’t remember a more horrible sound. What was her name? Grace somebody-or-other. And then there had been the quiet girl who he thought might be interesting to pursue. Her eyes had sparkled with interest and intelligence when he’d talked about his travels. She’d even been able to ask questions to show her interest. But then she’d left the party early.

He lifted his crystal snifter to his mouth and took a long drink, savoring the thick liquid before letting it slide down his throat. Realizing he had emptied his glass, Jean Luc pushed himself up from the leather chair and sauntered to his father’s desk. He unstoppered the leaded decanter and splashed a generous amount of the liqueur into his heavy goblet.

“You’d better slow down, Son.” His father looked up from his correspondence. “It’s not gentlemanly to drink yourself into a stupor.”

Jean Luc put down the decanter with a thump. “What else is there to entertain a gentleman in this mud hole?”

A sigh answered him. “Natchez is a bustling port city.”

“What does that matter when you won’t let me take part in your business?” Jean Luc could feel the old resentment building in his chest. What kind of father didn’t trust his own son? The situation made Jean Luc furious. How was he supposed to learn the shipping business if his father refused to include him?

“Your mama and I have been discussing that very thing.” The older man put down his fountain pen and folded the stationery with deliberate movements.

Silence built in the room. Was his father serious? Or leading him on? Jean Luc wanted to say something, but he didn’t want to jeopardize his chances, so he returned to his chair and sipped from his snifter.

His father unlocked one of the drawers in his desk and pulled out several sheets of parchment. “We think it’s time to give you some responsibility, so I’m deeding one-half interest in the
Hattie Belle
to you.”

Shock made Jean Luc gulp down too much of the alcohol. He put the glass down on a table at his elbow and coughed. And coughed.

“Are you okay, Jean Luc?” His father rose from his seat.

Jean Luc nodded, but his thoughts darted back and forth like startled minnows. He could not believe it. His father did trust him. The
Hattie Belle
might not be the newest or grandest in his father’s fleet, and he was receiving only partial interest, but she did move a great deal of cargo up and down the river. Once he got his coughing under control, Jean Luc stood and held out a hand. “Thank you, Papa.”

His father shook his hand, clapped him on the back, and handed him the parchment. “This makes it official. In a year or so if everything goes well, I will turn over the controlling interest, and the
Hattie Belle
will belong to you. Be sure to keep your deed in a safe place.”

His mother entered the room, and Jean Luc greeted her with an enthusiastic hug.

“It’s good to see you happy, Son.” She kissed his cheek. “Dare I hope it’s because you have found a young lady who meets with your approbation?”

Papa cleared his throat. “I gave him the deed.”

“
Eh, bien.
” Mama nodded. “We love you, Jean Luc, and we want you to be happy.” She crossed the room and settled in the padded armchair next to Papa’s desk. “A large part of that happiness will stem from your settling down with a local young woman and starting a family.”

Jean Luc wasn’t sure his mother’s idea of future happiness mirrored his own, but this evening he would be amenable. “I met a few likely candidates at the party.”

“I should think so.” His father’s right eyebrow rose. “We only invited the best families.”

His mother nodded her agreement. “What about the young Anderson girl? She seemed like a sweet young woman.”

“I did dance with her, but then she and her chaperone were called away.”

“A pity.” Mama patted a pocket in her skirt. “I received a note of apology from her aunt. It seems the girl’s grandfather had a seizure.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” The words came easily, although Jean Luc had no real feelings on the matter.

Papa trimmed the nib of his quill with a small knife. “Perhaps you should pay a visit to the young lady.”

“I will consider doing that tomorrow.” Jean Luc would have promised his parents anything. He would even have agreed to propose to the girl. Not that they would suggest such a thing. Even they wouldn’t expect him to marry someone he’d only shared one dance with.

After the conversation turned to more general topics, Jean Luc excused himself and retired to his bedroom, his deed clutched in one hand. He looked around for a safe place and finally settled on the ornate box his parents had given him years earlier. He smoothed the pages and perused the document one last time before placing it in the box, which he locked with a key he wore around his neck. That should keep it safe.

His personal slave, Meshach, slipped into the room. “Do you need help with yo’ boots, Master?”

He shook his head. “I’m too excited to retire. Do you know anything about the
Lucky Lucy
?”

Meshach shook his head and looked down.

“I’ve heard she boasts an honest game of an evening.”

When no answer was forthcoming, Jean Luc sighed. “No, I don’t guess you would know about that. Tell them to saddle my stallion. I will come out to the stable to get him.” Feeling expansive, he waved a hand at the slave. “After that, take the rest of the evening off. I’ll undress myself when I return.”

“Yes, sir.” The door closed behind Meshach with a quiet click.

Why hadn’t he asked his papa for a gun while he was in such a giving mood? Jean Luc sighed and picked up the long knife he’d bought off a trader earlier this week, sliding it into the top of his boot. He hoped he wouldn’t need a weapon, but Natchez Under-the-Hill had an unsavory reputation. Not that he was worried. He was young and strong, and his father had made sure he was accomplished with swords and had received training in pugilism.

Slipping quietly downstairs, he avoided his parents, who still sat in the parlor. They wouldn’t understand his restlessness. He crept to the stables, mounted his horse, and galloped toward the distant yellow lantern glow at the river’s edge.

It didn’t take him long to find the
Lucky Lucy.
She was a smaller, older boat, but she seemed to be drawing quite a crowd.

His eyes widened when he entered the main cabin. He’d imagined it would look like the gambling salons he’d visited in Paris, but the layout was much simpler. Half a dozen straight-backed chairs surrounded a large round table covered with a piece of oilcloth. Most of the guests were filling plates from a pair of long, narrow tables laden with steaming dishes of food, while others stood in small groups talking and enjoying liquid refreshment. It looked like he had stumbled into his mother’s drawing room rather than a gambling establishment.

“Welcome.” A tall man with dark hair and blue eyes walked over to him. “We’ve plenty of food and drink.” His eyes narrowed as he looked at Jean Luc closely. “But you look to me like a man who wants to match wits at a card table.”

Jean Luc hadn’t realized how tense he was until his shoulders relaxed. He smiled and extended his right hand. “Jean Luc Champney.”

“Well, Mr. Champney, I’m Blake Matthews.” The man had a firm handshake. “If you’re looking for an honest game, you’ve come to the right place.”

Another man joined them, a rueful smile on his face. “That’s right. No cheating allowed.” He turned his pockets inside out. “That will not guarantee you a win, but you stand a better chance here than at any other place under the hill.” All three of them laughed.

Jean Luc was so glad he’d decided not to stay home. This Matthews fellow was quite likable. For a moment, he envied Blake’s lifestyle. How exciting to sleep all day and entertain all night. From the looks of the lavish spread, the man had plenty of money to spend in making his guests comfortable. The fancy pastries, fresh vegetables, and huge platters of roasted meat reminded Jean Luc of the party his family had hosted to introduce him to the local planters. “What type of game do you offer, Mr. Matthews?”

“Poker.” The other man’s smile warmed. “Would you care to join us?”

“I’d be delighted.” He jangled the coins in his pocket. “But I don’t know if I brought enough money with me.”

“I understand.” Mr. Matthews waved a hand toward the buffet tables. “It was a pleasure to meet you. Please help yourself to food and libation. And don’t forget where we’re moored if you decide to come back another day.”

Jean Luc was impressed when the man didn’t try to coerce him into playing. He was not a cardsharp looking for easy prey. A servant offered him a glass of champagne. Jean Luc accepted and stood sipping the bubbly liquid as he watched several cardplayers take seats at the round table.

Mr. Matthews sat on the far side, allowing him to have his back to the wall. Many a gambler had met an untimely end from a bullet in the back. At least Mr. Matthews’s position meant he stood a better chance of not being caught off guard.

Jean Luc watched the card game progress. Finally deciding he could gamble as well as most of the men playing and better than others, Jean Luc sidled up to the table. “Is it too late for me to join?”

Mr. Matthews looked up and nodded toward an empty seat. “Not at all.” He introduced Jean Luc to the other players. “Sit down, and I’ll deal you in.”

B
lake Matthews reached for a boot and tugged it on. As he pushed his left foot into the other boot, his eyes lit on his soiled clothing piled in a corner. He would have to make the trek up to Natchez today to drop them off at the washerwoman’s shop. He didn’t trust the women in Natchez Under-the-Hill to do a proper job, and he had learned early on that appearance and personality were as important as his skill with cards. His subsequent addiction to cleanliness had paid off nicely, drawing in fastidious, rich customers who were ready to wager large sums at his table.

A pleasant feeling brought a smile to his lips. Thanks to a particularly generous client last night, he was no longer a nameless gambler eking out a living between port cities. He supposed he ought to feel a little guilty for fleecing the young man of his property.

But he wasn’t in the business of raising youngsters. All of them had an equal chance at winning or losing. The only edge he held was an ability to read his opponents from their gestures and expressions—and that he remained sober when most of the men were at least half-lit. But he neither dragged them onto the
Lucky Lucy
nor poured liquor down their throats. And he ran an honest game.

Still, he shuddered to think about the scene that had likely occurred in the Champney household when Jean Luc had confessed his loss to his parents. Blake shrugged. He’d probably done the young man a favor—he wouldn’t soon forget the dangers of drinking and gambling.

Blake drew on his brocade vest and thought about how his life was about to change. He was a businessman now. He was the owner of a boat. A picture of his father flashed in his mind. The old man couldn’t accuse him of being a ne’er-do-well anymore. How he would enjoy informing the stodgy puritan of his success. Perhaps one day he would chug his steamboat upriver and make a visit.

A sigh escaped. Probably not. Even if he did, Blake had the feeling reality wouldn’t be as fulfilling as his imagination. Besides, he had left that life long ago. There would be no going back for him. Not that he wanted to. No, he and his father would never see eye to eye. It was better for them to be as separated by distance as they were by belief.

Blake shook his head as he sauntered across his stateroom to the bureau that held all his belongings. His holster and gun were draped across the top. He checked the gun carefully. Natchez Under-the-Hill was far too rowdy a town for him to wander about unarmed.

Satisfied the weapon would fire if needed, he laid it down and picked up his leather gun belt, securing it around his waist and letting the holster dangle against his upper thigh. He tied the strips of rawhide around his leg and dropped his gun into the holster. He hoped he wouldn’t have to use it. He’d never yet shot a man, but there was always the first time. The danger surrounding his occupation was part of its attraction.

He opened the top drawer and pulled out two blades—a genuine Bowie knife, made famous right here in Natchez, and his sword cane, his weapon of last resort. He slid the knife into the inside top of his left boot, where he could reach it quickly. He leaned the cane against the wall and shook out his frock coat before putting it on.