Sunrise Surrender--Jarrett Family Sagas--Book Three Page 6

  Fumbling in the darkness she found her white batiste dressing gown, threw it on, and groped her way quietly across the room so as not to awaken Mama Rachael. Once on deck, she leaned against the rail, breathing deeply, staring into the black of night, allowing the night breeze to cool the sheen of heat that glazed her body.

  A few stars were out, but the moon was nowhere to be seen. She must be on the wrong side of the boat, she thought in absent fashion. The breeze began to calm her, yet inside she trembled at what the change in the dream could mean. No one, she reasoned, was plagued by dreams from the past without some meaning being attached to them.

  One part of the nightmare had been the same, though. Terrifyingly the same. The cry of the babe. Someone was crying for her help. Somewhere, someone needed her. But who? And what did they need?

  Gradually she became aware of voices from around the corner toward the stern of the boat—furtive male voices that drifted toward her in waves, above the steady clop-clopping of the paddlewheel.

  She grimaced. The nightmare had invaded her entire life, coloring her every experience with evil portent.

  When the voices grew louder, she reluctantly left the rail, recalling the warning she had issued Mama Rachael about rascals and rogues. She would do well to heed her own advice. Belligerent male voices in the dead of night could bode no good. She had almost reached her cabin, when one of the voices rose above the rest.

  “She’s a newspaper woman, so steer clear of her.”

  The voice as much as the words stopped her in her tracks. The voice belonged to Brett Reall, she was certain of it. And he was talking about her. Creeping stealthily on bare feet, she peered around the corner.

  Even though he stood with his back to her, she immediately recognized Brett, and the bottom seemed to fall out of her stomach. The two men he addressed faced directly toward her. One was the man he had dined with at lunch earlier in the day. The other looked familiar. She shivered, thinking how she’d had her fill of familiar-looking men.

  Suddenly one of the men pointed her way, and in a flash she realized she had found the moon. She had crept farther around the corner than she intended and the moon shone directly on her.

  In the next instant she turned to leave, but Brett Reall had been alerted. Quick as a lynx he was upon her, catching her arm and turning her roughly to face him.

  “God’s bones! You’re spying on me.”

  “Spying on you?” She stared, aghast. He had removed his jacket and tie. The neck of his white shirt lay open and glistened against skin that looked nearly black by the light of the moon. “Why would I—?”

  “Stalk someone in the dead of night—?” he interrupted. His eyes perused her nightclothes. Hastily he jerked her out of the direct line of moonlight in which she was illuminated. With a brief toss of his chin, he dismissed his cohorts; “Garbed for clandestine meetings?” he added. “I wonder, m’moiselle journalist? A scoop for your newspaper?”

  Although his words sounded ludicrous, his tone and manner were menacing. Albert’s facetious statement about the man surfaced. Some called him a—

  She stared, mouth agape, at his face. His eyes studied her in earnest. His lips—

  Some call him a pirate.

  Her eyes traced the curve and line of his lips. His lips—

  She felt her knees buckle. Her arms went limp. The last thing she recalled before he drew her into his arms was the pirate’s lips from her dream.

  Brett’s lips claimed hers fully, roughly, splaying against her mouth, wet and hot. Feverishly he delved and explored, pressing her to him with rugged force. Gone was the gentleman at the captain’s table, in his place an unpolished brute.

  Her strength returned and she began to struggle. Still his mouth devoured her, his lips harsh. Tears stung her eyes. Behind her closed lids visions of those soft, passionate lips from her dream taunted her.

  Finally it was over. Thrusting her an arm’s length away, he glared down at her. Again his eyes roamed her now disheveled nightclothes. “Don’t look so startled. That’s what you came looking for, isn’t it?”

  His bitter tone added to her mortification.

  Chapter Four

  “Delta, get up.” Mama Rachael tried to rouse her. “We must have our oatmeal porridge before the boat arrives at Cape Girardeau.”

  With a groan, Delta pulled the covers over her face.

  “I want to watch Mr. Sandee play the calli—uh, the steam piano, and you have a big day on shore. Get up or we won’t have time for our morning oatmeal.”

  Delta wriggled herself to a sitting position, stretching to bring life back to her limbs. In spite of the early hour and her befuddled brain, she smiled. “I know, Mama Rachael, Queen Victoria convinced the world that the health of Scotland derived from their habit of eating oatmeal porridge every morning.”

  “Laugh if you want, child, but it’s true. Why, that’s the way I raised Hollis, and Ginny has taken my advice all these years. Look at their children. Look at you.”

  Suddenly her encounter with Brett Reall returned, and along with it, her melancholy. Yes, she thought, look at me. She stumbled from bed and peered into the small looking glass on the chiffonier. Mama Rachael had lit the three lamps in the room. The one near the looking glass cast a dark shadow over half the glass. One glance at her haggard face, and Delta wished the shadow covered the entire glass, then she wouldn’t be able to see the dark circles ringing her eyes.

  She doubted she had slept a wink after returning to the cabin from her encounter with the despicable Brett Reall.

  She dressed in the green grosgrain walking suit she had laid out the night before. Sporting a plain basque, the skirt was designed with a tablier that pleated across the hips and tied in ample back drapery above two rows of narrow vertical pleating from her knees down. The walking-length skirt ended just short of the floor, revealing a pair of black patent pumps, and allowing her to walk about town today without her hem sweeping the street.

  Torn through the night between visions from her dream and lingering images of Brett’s despicable behavior—his brutal lips, rough hands, cold eyes—she had finally formulated a plan she hoped would remove both from her life forever.

  If, as she now believed, her ancestors were calling on her to help someone, could they not mean for her to save whoever that person might be from a man as despicable as Brett Reall?

  Some call him a pirate, Albert had teased. Nat had called Brett dangerous. And they must be right. From the conversation she overheard the evening before, she knew he feared having something in his life exposed.

  Yes, she had decided somewhere near daybreak after even the gentle rhythm of the moving boat had failed to lull her back to sleep, Brett Reall surely posed a danger to someone. The crying child in her dream could well represent that someone. But even if he had no connection to her nightmare, exposing him for the criminal he surely was would grant her a measure of satisfaction.

  Completing her toilette, she began to organize her attack into a workable list. First she must talk to Albert and Nat. Perhaps they could guide her to others who knew things about Brett Reall, things he wanted to hide. He had accused her of spying on him, of gathering information for the newspaper. Why not do it?

  Formulating a plan of action began to relieve her melancholy. She pinned the green grosgrain bonnet Mama Rachael had stiffened with crinoline on top of her head, picked up her tan-colored gloves, parasol, and portfolio containing her notebook and lead pencils. That’s what she would do. She would talk to Albert and Nat. She would discover everything they knew about Brett Reall; then she would expose him in an article for the Sun.

  The article would rid her of her nightmare, and perhaps if she worked really hard, Hollis would realize she had a talent beyond that which he expected of her: marrying one of the suitors who pestered him for her hand. She sighed. Her rough-and-ready brothers had definitely biased her against city slickers.

  As a result of her decision to investigate Brett Reall, breakfast w
ent especially well, even though she failed to see either Albert or Nat.

  Afterwards she and Mama Rachael, along with Dora Menefee and Lottie Humphries, followed Captain Kaney to the sun deck—called the Texas or hurricane deck in the old days, the captain told them—to watch Mr. Sandee play the steam piano.

  “Stand back,” Captain Kaney cautioned. “Can’t have you ladies getting scalded.”

  Even from the distance the music was deafening. But it lent an air of festivity to the day. Dora Menefee tapped her foot, Lottie Humphries hummed, and Mama Rachael clapped in time with the strains of “Oh, Dem Golden Slippers,” a smile of unrestrained joy on her face.

  Delta studied the instrument. Shaped like a V with a little keyboard at the open end, the instrument consisted of two rows of graduated whistles pitched to the notes of the scale. It looked like nothing more than pipes and valves. When Mr. Sandee pressed a certain key, steam was released to the corresponding valve and that particular whistle blew.

  “We have forty-eight whistles,” the captain was explaining. “The number for these remarkable instruments runs anywhere from thirteen upwards to fifty-eight.”

  Delta watched, amazed at the beautiful tones issuing from such a crude instrument. Steam billowed everywhere, encompassing Mr. Sandee, who wore protective canvas clothing and gloves.

  Looking around she expected to find them entering the port of Cape Girardeau, but such was not the case. Forests framed the river on either side, calling to mind Mama Rachael’s claim of isolation here on the boat. “Why is he playing before we reach town?” Delta inquired. “Is he practicing?”

  “Practicing?” Captain Kaney echoed. “Lawd no, Miss Jarrett. He doesn’t need practice, and we don’t play the calliope unless we’re approaching a town. Other times the steam from the contraption distills our drinking water.” His eyes twinkled. “Everyone doubles on board the Mississippi Princess, even this fine steam piano.”

  Mr. Sandee finished “Golden Slippers” and immediately took up another tune, “Turkey in the Straw.”

  “But to answer your question,” the captain continued, “we begin playing the calliope five or six miles out of town. The sound carries even farther than that, up to eight, nine miles given the right weather. Country folk along the way hear the music and know the showboat’s comin’. That gives them time to finish their chores and get to town for our performance.”

  Zanna joined the group looking for Delta. “If you want to go into town with us, come on down to the main deck. You can play tuba.”

  “Tuba?” Delta stared, aghast.

  “Everyone doubles,” Zanna teased, repeating Captain Kaney’s words. “We’ll plug it to prevent stray sounds.”

  Captain Kaney clapped her on the shoulder. “Doubling in brass is a common practice, but I’d insist on Zanna finding a more feminine instrument if I were you.”

  After Zanna assured Mama Rachael she would look after Delta during their foray into town, the two younger woman headed for the main deck.

  “Townsfolk tend to judge the quality of our entertainment by the size of the cast,” Zanna explained on the way, “so we muster anyone who’s willing to march through town.”

  “Whether they play instruments or not?”

  “Sure. Half the instruments in the band are plugged anyway.”

  “Even Orville?” she quizzed when upon reaching the main deck she recognized the cabin boy who served their room. He wore a blue and gold band uniform and held a battered trumpet as though he wasn’t sure what to do with it.

  Zanna shrugged, repeating the familiar phrase. “Everyone doubles.”

  Albert also wore a blue-and-gold uniform, but his had more braid and his hat rose a good six inches above the others. He stood at the front of the group directing the loosely organized band of cast members and recruits.

  “Don’t worry,” Zanna whispered from their place at the rail. “I wasn’t serious about the tuba.”

  But Delta’s mind had strayed. Seeing Albert had reminded her of her mission to uncover the truth about Brett Reall. At the thought, her shoulders tensed. With furtive glances she looked first left then right, relaxing only after she made certain he was nowhere in the immediate vicinity.

  She chastised herself for such foolishness. At some point she would be required to have contact with the man in order to conduct a proper investigation. And even though she had once thought the ship so large she would be able to avoid running into him, such had not proven the case, as witness his presence at the captain’s table and later that evening their accidental meeting outside her very own cabin.

  No, she had little hope of evading the gambler for the entire trip to New Orleans, assuming of course that he didn’t disembark at some earlier point. She dared not hope for such good fortune.

  She would, however, prefer to postpone an encounter with M’sieur Reall as long as possible. If he should come within range at the moment, she was afraid she might spit in his face.

  “March along with me,” Zanna was saying. “We’ll follow the band and hopefully look like leading ladies or something even more interesting.”

  Delta cast her a dubious glance. “I’m not sure I like the sound of that.”

  While they laughed, the showboat rounded the bend and pulled into a berth at the Cape Girardeau docks.

  No sooner had the town come into view around the bend, than the calliope stopped playing abruptly. To Delta’s amazement, the brass band took up the tune without missing a beat.

  “More doubling?” she questioned.

  Zanna laughed. “If the townsfolk want to think our band is that powerful, we don’t mind.”

  Leaning against the rail, Delta studied the scene before her. Cape Girardeau was a pretty town, but nothing like as large as St. Louis. Brick buildings nestled among and on several summits with unpaved streets running up and twisting around. As she watched, the area came alive with boys of all ages and sizes running for the docks.

  “They’ve got the sickness,” Zanna explained. “River fever. Every boy in the Mississippi Valley wants to pilot a steamboat down this mighty river. We’ll see most of them between here and New Orleans.”

  Delta checked her portfolio, making sure she had the article she had hastily written on the cast of the Princess Players to post to Hollis. Quickly she tried to order her thoughts, her purposes. Captain Kaney had related some of the history of Cape Girardeau. If she followed his leads, she could collect enough information for an interesting travel piece with little effort: settled in 1733 by Spanish immigrants led by a man named Jean Baptiste Girardot. A flourishing town before the Civil War, the citizens were trying to reestablish themselves by bringing in several railroad lines.

  Using the captain’s list she should be able to research an article in short order, then get on to a more serious matter—the mysterious case of M’sieur Brett Reall.

  She gripped the rail with a tight fist. Brett’s unexpected brutality the evening before had created a chill she could not dispel, one that lingered yet, even beneath the warm rays of the morning sun. Indeed, a sick sort of dread continued to tremble inside her.

  While the gangplank was being lowered, the landing party, Zanna’s term for the advance team sent into town to publicize tonight’s performance, gathered around.

  “Time to go. You all know your roles. March behind the band, smile, wave, invite everyone to the performance tonight.” Zanna shoved bundles of playbills into the hands of each cast member as they moved in behind the band, waiting for the gangplank to be lowered.

  Below them the docks were now crowded with not only eager-faced boys, but with men, women, and children of all ages and descriptions—a dazzled crowd who stared as with one pair of eyes toward the magnificent floating palace.

  “We’ll perform the free concert at the far corner beyond the Jesuit school,” Zanna instructed. “Afterwards I want everyone to fan out. Cover the town and don’t return to the ship until you’ve distributed all the playbills.”

  The band st
ruck up again. Delta moved onto the gangplank with the rest of the cast. Suddenly she felt the crowd separate behind her. A body wedged into place at her side, the extra weight causing the gangplank to wobble. Reaching up to steady herself, she clutched Nat’s arm. She looked up into his smiling face. His eyebrows lifted in invitation.

  “Stick with me, Delta. I offered to show you the sights.”

  “Nat,” Zanna called his attention, “find several local boys to post playbills on trees along the roads leading into town. Assure them free admittance for their families—”

  “Come on, Zanna,” he coaxed. “Let Albert take care of the playbills. I planned to show Delta Cape Rock.”

  Delta blanched. As much as she wanted to press Nat for information about Brett, she certainly didn’t intend to spend a day alone with him and his insufferable ego. She could question him on board the Mississippi Princess. Besides, she had work to do.

  “I saw Cape Rock when we passed it while ago,” she told him. “I need to spend my time making inquiries in town.”

  “You could write an article on it,” he countered. “It’s the original site of the old trading post. I’ll tell you about it on the way up there.”

  “Thank you, Nat, but Captain Kaney has already furnished me with everything I need.”

  “Illicit activities are rumored to still be conducted in the abandoned warehouses.” He waggled his eyebrows. “A star journalist like yourself should at least be curious to see—”

  “That’s enough, Nat.” Zanna pushed several bundles of playbills toward him. “Get some of those boys to help you.”

  Led by Albert, the procession reached the docks, stepping into a semblance of formation as they took solid ground.

  Zanna called ahead, “Look happy. Smile. Invite everyone to the performance.”

  Nat persisted. Shifting the playbills to one arm, he took Delta’s elbow with his free hand. She suppressed the urge to pull away. Ahead of them she spied Elyse walking behind the band.