Chapter 1
“And what are your expectations for the year, Mr. Danielson? Shall we ladies once again be able to find exquisite French laces and Chinese silks in our local shops?” Vanessa Mannion asked with teasing lightness before guiding a silver spoon full of fresh strawberries to her lips.
“Oh,oui!And what of thosemerveilleux plumes de I'autruche?” Paulette Chaumonde added excitedly, her spoon clattering into her fragile bone china dessert dish.
“Only English, please, Paulette,” Amanda Mannion, Vanessa’s mother, gently chided their young guest. Mrs. Mannion was beginning to believe they’d never turn Paulette into the American young lady her father wished her to be, for she clung tenaciously to her Creole roots.
“Pardon, Madame,” she returned meekly, bobbing her sleek dark head in her hostess’s direction before turning shining eyes back toward Mr. Danielson.
Mrs. Mannion shook her head, amusement pulling at the corners of her mouth.
Vanessa laughed. “Paulette’s enthusiasm runs away with her, but I too confess a certain weakness for hats adorned with those magnificent feathers,” she said, tracing an ostrich feather curving around her face from an imaginary hat on her head.
“And may I say how charmingly those plumes would frame your visage, Miss Mannion.” Mr. Danielson made an elegant show of bowing while seated.
“Why, thank you, sir.” An irrepressible twinkle danced in her eyes as she acknowledged his gallantry with a little tilt of her head.
Russell Wilmot, seated on the other side of the elegantly appointed dining table, grunted. From the corner of her eye, Vanessa saw him glare at Trevor Danielson from under lowered black brows. His reaction pleased her, though she continued to ignore him while smiling engagingly at Mr. Danielson. Mr. Wilmot was a determined suitor for her hand. Though she was flattered by his attention and intrigued by his person, she did chafe at his possessiveness. Vanessa feared he had the mistaken notion, from her father, no doubt, that she was a pliant, mindless female. This was an idea she wished to suppress before their courtship progressed any further.
A faint inquiring lift to her brow served as a gentle reminder to Mr. Danielson of her original question. She took a small sip of lemonade, her gaze sliding from him to her father seated at the head of the dinner table. Her smile slipped when she caught his condemning eye and viewed the slight downturn of his lips. He was annoyed at her presumption to ask any question that might be construed to be of a business nature. Her father possessed lamentably outmoded notions on subjects suitable for discussion before ladies, and talk of commerce was not of their number. Fashion, the arts, home management, and social engagements were the only subjects he considered fitting for his genteelly reared daughters to discuss. It was no wonder Mr. Wilmot had mistaken perceptions of her.
Belatedly she realized Mr. Danielson was answering her question. Her smile brightened, and she cocked her head in an attitude of intense concentration and interest.
“To return to your original question, without digressing into the mechanics of trade,” Mr. Danielson said easily, admitting his awareness of his host’s strictures with a brief nod and smile in Richard Mannion’s direction.
“I should trust not.” Richard Mannion’s baleful glare directed at his daughter bespoke a wealth of meaning.
To her chagrin, Vanessa felt a faint blush warm her cheeks.
Her father, a prominent cotton factor and commission merchant was a proponent of mixing business habits with eating habits, claiming volumes could be learned about a man at the table, from the cut of his manners to the cut of his meat. Nonetheless, at the business dinners he hosted in his home, he expected his daughters to display elegant manners and a gift for social repartee, not business acumen or political interest. For Vanessa, his select dinner parties were an opportunity to feed her voracious appetite for information. However, knowing her father’s sentiments, she tried to couch her questions with feminine interests and thereby mitigate any accusation of trespassing on male preserves. Judging by his expression, this time her ruse had failed; soon he would be passing to her mother that little secret signal they shared which said he deemed it time the ladies withdrew from the dining room and left the men to their port, cigars and business discussions.
She glanced again at her father, a small, rueful sigh escaping her lips. She chafed at his restrictions for she held a lively curiosity and interest in trade and politics, and for goodness sake, this was 1816! Had not the women of the city aided their countrymen in the Battle of New Orleans by sewing warm clothes for the Kentucky militiamen who came to fight the British with scarcely more than rags on their backs? And afterward, of course, there were the long hours spent greeting the returning soldiers, bandaging wounds and bathing fevered brows.
Some of these same thoughts must have occurred to Trevor Danielson, for he paused before continuing, an amused smile twisting his lips. “As you say, Richard,” he murmured, nodding. He turned back to Vanessa, appearing to choose his words carefully. “I believe New Orleans shops will soon be overflowing with the latest feminine fripperies from all over the world.”
“Without recourse to smuggled goods from that pirate, Jean Laffite, and his band?” Vanessa asked with wide-eyed innocence. She did not have to look at her father to feel him glowering.
“I must protest, Miss Mannion,” Russell Wilmot interjected, his heavy, raspy voice commanding her attention. A slow smile claimed his broadly-planed face, pulling at a long, thin white scar running up his neck and alongside his face that lent him a rakish appearance. Vanessa heard tell it was the reason for his unusual voice.
“Laffite proved himself a loyal citizen in the Battle of New Orleans and was commended for his efforts by Jackson himself.” His harsh voice managed to convey a silky warning.
“Temper your praise, Mr. Wilmot,” growled Richard Mannion, tossing his napkin on the table and slamming his chair backward several inches. “That pirate was always one to go for the main chance. The man has no conception of loyalty unless it is to himself.”
Russell Wilmot’s eyebrows twitched and his color darkened. He leaned toward his host.
“Truthfully,” Mr. Danielson interceded quickly, “with all trade doors open once again, I doubt in the long run his kind can compete with legitimate commerce.”
“Why is that?” Russell Wilmot demanded aggressively, glaring at him.
“Volume, sir,” Trevor Danielson assured him. “The sheer volume of goods entering our city will bring prices down to a level where it will not be economical for pirates to operate off our coast.”
“Indeed?” Vanessa murmured, faintly encouraging him to continue, her smoky blue eyes carefully hooded to disguise their sparkle of excitement.
“Now that the war is over, I expect our profits to easily double this year.” He raised his napkin to dab at the ends of his mustache, glancing around to the rest of the company at the table. “And not just for the Danielson and Hailey Company. This will be a record year for all business in New Orleans.”
“Perhaps I should consider acquiring more warehouses.” Wilmot’s sarcastic, heavy humor intrigued Vanessa. He was a curious man, this suitor of hers, and even after three years in New Orleans, his antecedents remained a mystery. He operated the largest warehousing operation on the Mississippi. It was located in the city’s worst area, and he employed men others deemed undesirable. Yet, he’d managed to acquire money and position in society, an unusual feat in so short a time, especially for an American within the Creole-dominated social hierarchy.
Richard Mannion harrumphed and scratched the side of his nose. “Acquiring more warehouses may not be an idea to dismiss out of hand, Wilmot.”
