Saturday morning dawned clear and rain-washed fresh. The Friday night rain, which had been feared would leave the roads a sloppy, muddy morass, lasted only long enough to settle the dry dust and dampen the earth. The very air seemed to sparkle, and the light breezes were redolent with the scent of fruit and flowers from heavily laden trees, bushes, and plants along the Bayou Road.
Vanessa Mannion inhaled deeply and smiled, a wide smile that set her eyes twinkling, brightening her face. She laughed delightedly as she rode her high-stepping chestnut mare between Hugh Talverton and Russell Wilmot. Both gentlemen looked at her in silent inquiry, but she only laughed again and shook her head. She didn’t think she could share her heady feeling of exuberance at the day. Not even Mr. Wilmot’s presence could dampen her spirits, though in truth, this day he was the epitome of gentlemanly regard. She felt gloriously alive and therefore generous with her forgiveness.
The disfiguring bruise, which she had used to such good advantage all week, was now no more than a tiny dark spot high on her cheek, almost hidden in the shadow cast by the rakish tilt of her blue riding hat with its gray plumes curling down the side of her face. She was elegantly attired in a pearl-gray cloth riding habit, ornamented and frogged with blue velvet. Though her countenance was not beautiful to a critical objective eye, her vivacity of manner, her delight in the world around her, gave her an aura of comeliness to rival any studied image of female pulchritude.
Hugh Talverton was enchanted with her lively manner, her aspect of prim propriety left farther and farther behind in the city with each passing mile. This was a part of Vanessa he knew was always lurking behind her formal mien. He’d love to see her in London. More likely, she’d take the city by storm and turn society on its ear if she allowed herself to follow her natural inclinations. He was amazed that Mannion had been able to keep her heart-whole and retired from society for so long.
He glanced over at Wilmot, nodding to that gentleman, an artificial social smile on his face. Hugh admitted Wilmot was on excellent behavior this morning. He was neither demanding Miss Mannion’s attention nor scowling when she turned to speak to him. Wilmot was suspiciously mellow, an odd aspect for a man of his dark temperament.
* * *
Hugh was thankful Paulette did not ride well, forcing her to journey to the Chaumonde estate in the carriage with Mr. and Mrs. Mannion and Adeline. Trevor had left the night before for his country home to organize the children, Alex and Mary, and their governess for the weekend excursion. Hugh was curious to meet Julia’s children and wondered if either bore her tranquil beauty.
Hugh trotted contentedly beside Vanessa, his quick eyes darting all about him as he studied the area's landscape. It was an exotic land, full of tall cypress trees above stygian swamps, wide-spreading oak trees heavy with Spanish moss, pomegranates, bananas, and fig trees, hedges of Spanish dagger, glossy bushes of camellias, crepe myrtle, and oleanders. Set back from the road, among lush settings, stood pristine white mansions with columns, piazzas, and covered galleries. In the fields they rode past, the glistening sweaty bodies of the slaves shone in the clear light of the morning sun. Their dark brown bodies were in marked contrast to the bright bits of clothing they wore, from the turbans twisted around the women’s heads to the loose shifts and the baggy trousers that clothed them.
Hugh shook his head as he absorbed it all. New Orleans was a fascinating city-- so fresh and alive, a decidedly far cry from London's jaded and stifling atmosphere. But England was home, and in all his travels, regardless of where the military sent him, he was always thankful to leave and return to England. This was the first time he had ever returned to a battlefield area or even wanted to.
He thought about the Battle of New Orleans as he looked with awed eyes at his surroundings. Everything seemed so different then. He remembered the sheeting rain during the day, the thick mud cleaving to the dead and dying, and that cold, dead-of-night, nine-mile retreat through a quagmire path. His had been one of the last companies to quit the battleground area. For them, the journey was a nightmare, for almost all trace of a path had disappeared. The mud, tramped on by hundreds, was knee and thigh-deep. Hugh remembered witnessing one unfortunate wretch sink into the liquid muck until he vanished from sight.
It was curious, when he thought about it, that he should desire to return to the scene of an ignominious defeat, but it was the very reason England strove for New Orleans; the talk of those he met who knew the city and the sight of the great plantations had all pulled upon him to journey back to see the city in her natural state, far away from the threat of war and death. His decision had well rewarded him. The cotton he was to purchase would feed the new mill to capacity and earn him a handsome profit. The people he met and the wonders he saw would give him pleasant memories to last a lifetime, memories far different from those garnered through seven years of military service. And now, he thought, watching Vanessa guide her horse past a cart loaded with produce for the marketplace and exchange a pleasant word with its driver, if he could deliver the Mannions out of the dark maze of Mr. Wilmot’s making, and happily settle Vanessa and Trevor, he would account himself well satisfied with his New Orleans venture.
His reverie had caused him to fall behind his companions. With a start, he realized Wilmot was drawing near to Vanessa for private conversation, and he remembered his promise to her that he would prevent this occurrence. Pressing his heels into his horse’s flanks, he encouraged the bay gelding to catch up with them.
“Miss Mannion, surely your father has told you of my desire for private conversation,” Wilmot said softly, his grating voice like pebbles underfoot.
Vanessa swung her head toward him, a polite smile on her lips. “Yes, Mr. Wilmot, he has informed me of that request.” Her voice was low and pleasing but distinctly neutral.
His horse sidled closer, and Vanessa’s fingers clenched reflexively tighter on her reins, causing her mare to dance skittishly. She quickly brought the animal under control, once again establishing distance with Mr. Wilmot.
A brief frown of annoyance crossed his lips, but it was immediately replaced with a tight smile as if the movements of her mount amused him. He rode closer again. He started to lean down to grasp her bridle, but a sidelong glance at her visage forestalled him, and he rocked back in his saddle.
Vanessa’s breath came out swiftly when he moved his hand back. If he had touched the rein, she was afraid she would have reacted spontaneously by laying her crop along his broad shoulders. She was more skittish than the mare at his presence, and she was sure it was part of her nervousness, transmitted to her horse, that caused the animal to dance away.
She had always detected a certain rough-and-tumble masculine power in Mr. Wilmot. It was part of his attraction with the ladies. This power emitted an aura of danger and excitement, and it had led her and other women to dream of harnessing that power for themselves alone. The truth was he was not a man to consider a woman’s gentler nature, nor allow his dark character to be brightened by a woman. Vanessa feared any woman marrying him would descend into his darkness rather than pull him to the light.
The amusement he’d had at her feeble struggles to pull her hand free from his taught her much about him and power. Her knowledge was refined when he came to confess his misdeed to her parent and somehow persuade her father to let him continue in his courtship. However, the cap to her understanding came when he returned to her house on Wednesday, after being told she was indisposed and demanded to see her. The mere thought of his audacity shook her to the soles of her calfskin riding boots. The man frightened her, and she wished she knew how to turn his attentions elsewhere; nonetheless, she was determined to hide her fear, with brash bravado if necessary.
The sound of pounding hooves at her left drew her attention from Mr. Wilmot. With sudden, staggering relief, she saw Mr. Talverton rein in beside her, and she smiled brightly at him, her eyes glittering with an unnatural feverish light.
“Hello! I’m sorry, I’m afraid my mind was wandering as I observed the countryside,” he confided ingenuously while his intelligent eyes noted her heightened color and shimmering nervousness. He slid a glance in Wilmot’s direction and found the gentleman regarding him with a disquieting glint in his eye. Hugh decided it was time for more of the sad rattle guise.
“By Jove, but this is a magnificent ride. Wouldn’t want to be cooped up in a carriage if I knew all this was about,” he said, making a grand sweeping gesture with his arm. He rested his hand on his thigh and looked past Vanessa over to Wilmot. “Do you also have a country place?”
“No,” Wilmot responded shortly, then seeing Vanessa’s arched eyebrow he relented, his voice nearly a growl: “My business precludes too much time away from the city, but I have plans for a mansion on the other side of Canal Street."
"I have heard, though I can’t recall where, that many prominent Americans are moving in that direction,” he returned conversationally.
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” interrupted Vanessa, “but if you’re going to converse, please allow me to get out of your way.” She spurred her horse forward before the last words were out of her mouth, then reined back to settle on the far side of Hugh Talverton.
“Excellent idea, thank you!” said Hugh, before turning back to Wilmot. He was pleased with Vanessa’s quick thinking and wondered if she were even aware of his hand in manipulating the situation. His lips twitched, and his eyelids drooped, nearly covering his eyes, but he was obliged to keep his expression one of keen interest directed toward Mr. Wilmot. Now with that gentleman a veritable captive audience by his side, Hugh began a campaign of small talk as a countermeasure to Wilmot’s claiming Vanessa’s attention. Wilmot fidgeted restlessly for a few moments; however, he did not know how to break free from Hugh’s steady dialogue politely. His answers became shorter and shorter, but Hugh never seemed to notice. His equanimity unruffled, he continued to smile benignly. Wilmot finally reconciled himself to foregoing a private conversation, when Vanessa hailed both him and Talverton.
“We’re here, gentlemen,” she said breezily, rising in her saddle and pointing.
Hugh turned his head to follow the path of the finger and saw one of the most beautiful homes he had ever seen.
“My sisters’ raised cottage,” stated Vanessa whimsically.
“Cottage?” Hugh asked.
