Midnight's Magic Read online

  Nanette’s dark hair was covered by a white mantilla instead of a hat or bonnet and her gown had a Grecian inspiration to its design. As far as Emmeline knew, it may well have been Parisian creation– Monsieur Peche had taken certain pride in having their clothes imported and for a portrait, he certainly would have insisted on his lover wearing her best. Nanette’s slim dark hand was resting on a birdcage, the wires of the cage so fine that it was a miracle the finch had not merely bent the metal with one dash towards freedom.

  Emmeline cocked her head to the side, curious if her mother’s smile had always seemed so strained or if it was just her daughter’s loss of station that caused the portrait to look so disheartened. Certainly, Nanette Martineau wouldn’t expect Emmeline to be dusting furniture, beating rugs, or sweeping stairs. Nanette Martineau had been a genteel lady who spent her days arranging flowers, entertaining friends, and admiring the little birds that frequented Monsieur Peche’s courtyard garden. Emmeline couldn’t recall her mother ever applying her own cosmetics much less scrubbing the windows.

  But now that Ruth Peche purged the house of servants – only old Franchonette, the cook, remained, Emmeline found herself keeping the rooms tidy, the windows soot-free, and the garden well-tended. Ruth had informed her that most American households would be pleased to have a cook and that most women had no servants at all.

  But New Orleans is not America! Emmeline wanted to scream. Orleaneans had a reputation to uphold, standards to exemplify. The town and people had a European charm that somehow survived the heat, the flooding, and the yellow fever of the swamps. Without their Continental flair, they may as well be residing in Mobile.

  And, the servants had been in the household as long as Emmeline herself had. Where had they gone? The Peches were the only family and home they had.

  But Emmeline’s arguments had not swayed Ruth in the least. Her stepmother had merely arched a crimson eyebrow and responded that everyone would be doing more chores. No room for discussion.

  While Dorothy and Harriet hadn’t protested the new expectations, they had not embraced the change either. Emmeline had never seen one of them scrub a floor or lift a broom but then Dorothy and Harriet’s bedroom always looked like the chaotic aftermath of a storm. Gowns, ribbons, and stockings littered the floor while the armoire’s doors remained permanently open. They were so used to disarray that the presence of a bit of dust or a smudged mirror didn’t bother them in the slightest.

  But this was Emmeline’s home and she would lovingly care for it even it no guest had crossed its threshold since Monsieur Peche’s marriage announcement.

  With a slight sigh and a final brush across the portrait’s frame, Emmeline dispiritedly crossed the room and opened the study’s door to step out onto the balcony so she could shake the dust cloth out over the wrought iron railing.

  The moonless October night was still warm but less humid now that the threat of summer hurricanes finally had blown into only unpleasant memory. Though the street was nearly deserted, sounds from the neighboring houses drifted through the stillness – the bark of an overly excitable dog, the sudden shattering of a dropped wine glass, an argument that seemed it might end in a duel before cooler heads prevailed. With none of the Puritanical temperance of the northern states or the dogged determination needed for the new frontier in the Mid-West, New Orleans’ citizens delighted in entertainment every night of the week.

  Ruth and her daughters themselves were at a party that evening, and Emmeline wondered if any of that tinkling laughter was theirs. Unlikely. Dorothy was too serious to ever indulge in such unladylike chortling and Harriet was unlikely to understand even the simplest quip.

  But torturing herself by wondering about who was wearing the most elegant gown or which gentleman was charming widows and naïve schoolgirls alike would not change Emmeline’s evening in the slightest. She should have just gone to bed hours ago just as old Franchonette had.

  As she turned towards the door, a shout, barely audible, made her halt, return to the railing, and squint into the darkness.

  Three blurred silhouettes rounded the corner of the streets’ intersection and ran together down the street, two adults and the other likely a child.

  Later she couldn’t say why she did it. They could have been thieves – so many Haitian refugees had washed up on New Orleans’ shores only to find it difficult to find honest work. They could have been drunken vandals or the pirates that sometimes brazenly strolled through town. The Americans had a tendency to forget common decency when overwhelmed by the excitement of the city.

  But she acted without hesitation.

  “Ici!” she called and pointed frantically down to indicate they could enter the servants door below the street level.

  Without waiting to see if they accepted her offer, she ran back through the balcony doors and breathlessly scurried down the stairs just in time to see her door swing open and three bedraggled figures stumble inside.

  At a glance, Emmeline knew they were runaway slaves. Free black people may miss a few meals and fall on hard times with coarse and tattered clothing, but they rarely had that look of panicked fear.

  She had barely registered their faces – a man, a woman, and presumably their young son -before she indicated the staircase leading to the main floor and they dashed up the steps, their feet heavily pounding on the wooden boards. In shock, she began to shut the door when a black boot moved to stop its progress and she jumped back just as a figure slipped inside before shutting the door himself.

  “Where are they?” he demanded, and she pointed with a shaking finger to the stairs. After nodding his thanks, he made no indication of following them but instead strode towards the window and moved the curtain so he could glance down the street.

  “Monsieur,” she began, unsure of his role in this rapidly escalating. She had left her lantern in the parlor, so it was impossible to see his features. Only his silhouette was distinguishable, but she knew that he was dangerous.

  He had a lean, lethal grace that would make any sensible woman be on her guard even if they met on a public street at noon. From the split second the street’s lamplight had illuminated his features, she had seen he was not European though his skin wasn’t as dark as hers.

  A runaway slave also?

  She immediately banished the idea after seeing the quality of his boots. And his skin could be darkened by years of outdoor labor if he was a seaman or a farmer. Even the northern merchants who navigated their flatboats down the river were noticeably swarthier when they departed the city after only a few weeks in the relentless sunshine.

  As he turned back towards her, she noticed the sword at his hip.

  A pirate then.

  Don’t be foolish. Many men carry weapons, Emmeline reminded herself sternly, trying to keep panic from overtaking her good sense. Monsieur Peche once kept two dueling pistols above the fireplace, ready to be used at the slightest provocation. Murders, both honorable and otherwise, were almost daily occurrences in the city – men found glory in violence no matter their social station.

  The man stepped towards her and Emmeline flattened herself against the door, now far more concerned for her own safety than for the poor souls hiding upstairs. But he strode past her to station himself next to the door’s hinges, ignoring her completely, his intense gaze focused solely on the door itself.

  She backed to the center of the room again only to shriek when a heavy pounding shook the door in its frame.

  “Open this damn door!” a belligerent voice shouted and, since the voice seemed hostile while the man still lingering at her elbow seemed both unwilling to capture the slaves and had a lethal weapon, Emmeline looked at the man for direction. He nodded once slowly, and she closed her eyes to say a quick prayer before she pulled the latch.

  “Where are they?” a short man breathlessly gasped as he made to step inside but Emmeline kept one hand on the door to block his entrance.

  “Pardon, monsieur?” She hoped her voice wasn’t shaki
ng as much as her knees.

  “I don’t speak French. Now get out of my way.”

  He was obviously American. His clothing looked homespun, his red hair greasy and matted as if it had recently been crushed beneath a hat. He had sweat trickling down his face into his patchy, rust-colored beard as if he had just run a great distance but was not used to the activity. His eyes, like small black buttons, glared piggishly from his pale face.

  “Monsieur, I do not allow anyone to enter this home uninvited. State your business and I will inform Madame Peche of your visit. Though I doubt she will approve of your calling in the middle of the night.”

  Her voice quavered but she hoped it had enough conviction to make him believe that the mistress of the house was sleeping soundly.

  “Listen, you little darky, I know those negroes came into this house.” He grabbed her left wrist in a fierce grip causing Emmeline to gasp in shock more than pain. “I want my property back.”

  The horrible little man was still taking in great gulps of air so his heavy breathing prevented him from hearing the swoosh of a sword being pulled from its scabbard. Emmeline did however and she made a calming motion with her right hand around the back of door.

  She didn’t need a sword to make quick work of this interloper and she certainly couldn’t have any blood spilled in Monsieur Peche’s house.

  With a twist of her wrist and a sharp downward motion, Emmeline freed herself from the red-bearded man’s grasp and drew herself up to her full height, easily four inches taller than the American.

  “I have no idea what you are talking about. And before you think of barging into this home, please know that I am the free daughter of Monsieur Peche, the most respected gentleman in New Orleans. Nicolas Girard – or as you might know him, the mayor – is a frequent guest at this home. I have dined with French diplomats and the governor. One scream from me will have the whole street calling for your head. Who do you think the city will believe? I thought they didn’t even allow Kaintucks past Canal Street.”

  Her last barb seemed to have hit a nerve because the man shrank back like a wounded dog. He swung his head from side to side as if looking for an ally down the empty street but realized that he had none. Every Creole would take her side despite being slaveowners themselves – they’d be too insulted at the notion of a clearly unrefined American accusing a Vieux Carré resident of any wrongdoing.

  “You haughty little bitch.” He shook his matted head in impotent fury as he stared at her face for a full minute, his burning eyes memorizing her every feature while he considered his limited options. Finally, he spat on the floor as he turned to go. “I’ll be back for what’s rightfully mine.”

  Emmeline managed to slam the door and secure the latch before sinking to the floor, her hands covering her mouth in shock now that she was out of imminent danger.

  She had never spoken to a man that way.

  Before this, she had never said she was Emile Peche’s daughter.

  It was liberating…and terrifying. Her whole life had been skating on the edge of respectability in a city where everyone knew but no one told. And now she had blurted her truth to the world. Well, her truth to two strangers – one who certainly wanted to do her harm and another who still could.

  “You are remarkable.” The stranger latched the door before pulling her up from the floor. Emmeline lifted her gaze to see him grinning broadly at her. His teeth shown startlingly white against his darker skin and his obsidian eyes glittered.

  “I’m so glad I didn’t interrupt you entertaining the governor,” he continued with a low chuckle as he led her by the elbow towards to the stairs.

  “That was a lie,” Emmeline confessed, still in awe at her own boldness, her whole body shaking, “But his predecessor dined with us six times.”

  His steadying hand guided her to the first floor and Emmeline searched the shadows, expecting the fugitives to be waiting at the top of the stairs but all rooms were eerily silent.

  “Just one more good deed, dear girl, before I go,” the stranger promised as he led her towards the parlor’s balcony. “Our unpleasant friend may still be lurking on the street. Or he may be searching for a sympathetic ear. We can’t leave until we know he won’t follow us again.”

  She should have never called out to the refugees. She should have these criminals arrested and returned to their proper place. All of New Orleans would thank her. Now she had made an enemy of a strange American and she couldn’t imagine Madame Peche’s reaction if her stepmother returned now to find fugitives throughout her house.

  But the stranger’s dark eyes smiled encouragingly, and Emmeline gave a jerky nod before walking out onto the balcony to carefully scan both sides of the street. Every home had balconies and overhangs which provided convenient shadows for lurkers and near-do-wells. After two minutes of narrowing her eyes at every possible hiding place, she had to accept that the furious slave catcher was either too well concealed for her to spy or he had truly left the area. She turned and nodded back towards the high-arched windows, knowing that he would be watching from the shadows and the four unexpected guests would all slip silently into the night.

  But she did want to see them off safely now, these strangers that she knew nothing of only minutes before. By the time she descended the stairs again, she heard the tail end of urgently whispered instructions and then saw three figures disappear out the door.

  “I must thank you again, Mademoiselle Peche.” The man bowed over her hand and her face flamed scarlet at his dramatically gallant gesture.

  He straightened again and his eyes narrowed thoughtfully before pulling her lace cap from her head. A few pins fell to the floor and her curls expressed their delight in escaping confinement by bouncing riotously about her head.

  “You, Mademoiselle, have no need for hiding behind hideous lace caps and aprons. Those are for old ladies with thinning hair who are jealous of the young. You should make your own fashion. You are a fiery woman who wins quarrels with uncouth dogs and harbors criminals. Your glorious hair suits such a spirit very well.”

  “Monsieur,” she protested lamely, unnaturally pleased at his compliments even as she snatched the cap back from his hands and crammed the curls back into their proper place.

  “Though I suppose we are both criminals now. I’m a thief of private property. And now you have harbored stolen goods. If we are caught, we’ll both be hanged.”

  His wide grin didn’t falter at the threat of the gallows, but Emmeline couldn’t repress the shudder that shook her core at the thought. She couldn’t imagine the scandal, the neighbors’ shock if she were accused of such a crime. Poor Monsieur Peche would be rolling in his grave.

  “Yes, you are quite a daring young lady. Opening your home to fugitives, spying for criminals…”

  The bells of Saint Louis Cathedral interrupted him, signaling midnight.

  “Kissing strangers at midnight.”

  She jolted in surprise at his words, her emerald gaze flying up in alarm but he hadn’t moved any closer or threatened her. The bell’s measured clanging seemed to slow down in her ears but perhaps that was only because her heartbeat had quickened almost painfully. His grin now seemed challenging, daring her to continue on this exciting path of defying every expectation that had been drilled into her since birth.

  And she wanted to accept his dare. She had not felt this much excitement since…since she couldn’t even remember. First Monsieur Peche had been too busy to escort her from the house and then Madame Peche had unreasonably refused to allow her to even venture to the market. But temptation had managed to find her within these restricting walls.

  She swallowed thickly before murmuring, “It seems I am completely corrupted.”

  Despite her moment of bravado, her eyes quickly closed even as her lips puckered, still too cowardly to actually see him move closer. Her held breath pushed against her chest as she waited in painful anticipation even as her mind gave a million warnings about goading danger.


  His lips barely brushed against hers for only fleeting second, more the flutter of a butterfly’s wings than a kiss, and Emmeline’s green eyes popped back open in surprise and disappointment.

  “Bon nuit, mademoiselle. Et merci.”

  Before she could raise a hand in farewell or even protest the sadly platonic kiss, he was gone, silently melting into the darkness again before the church’s bell had even stopped ringing.

  Chapter 2

  Emmeline jumped at the three sharp raps on the front door, her stomach leaping into her throat as it did with any unsuspected noise for the past week. Every time someone called, she had peeked through the curtains, half terrified that the slave catcher would be ready to pounce, this time with intimidating authorities, and half hoping that the stranger who invaded her house had returned. She had yet to see a sign of either of them.

  To her surprise, two women waited, both of them wearing identical expressions of expectation and neither likely to be calling upon Madame Peche. Both were wearing smart gowns several years out of fashion and were past the first blush of youth but too pretty to be dismissed as old. One, petite and curvaceous appeared to be European while the other, nearly as dark skinned as Emmeline’s mother had been, bounced on the spot, too excited to even attempt a façade of cool gentility.

  “Hello, how may I help you?” Emmeline asked after opening the door and the two women looked at each other in surprise.

  “Does everyone now speak English?” the paler one asked her still bouncing companion disdainfully before returning coolly to Emmeline. “We’re calling on Mademoiselle Martineau.”

  “Madamois…But…she is not here. My mother, Nanette Martineau, is dead.”

  “What? When?”

  “She died of the yellow fever six years ago. Along with my brothers.” Emmeline was surprised at how shaken both of them looked at this old news and opened the door wider. “But you must come in. I will fetch you some water.”

  She ushered them inside and when she indicated they should follow her through to the parlor, they both shook their heads and assured her that the kitchen table down the stairs by the servants’ entrance would serve them well enough.