Iron Ships, Iron Men Page 10

  ‘So what is it? Catholic, or Protestant, or what?’

  ‘Protestant, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Hm. And do you hold strong views on the subject?’

  It occurred to Rod that he had been given a way out; Claudine Grahame was most definitely a Catholic. But did he want a way out? He still had not got his thoughts together, hated every glass of champagne he had drunk the previous night. But he simply had to decline such a proposal. ‘I’m afraid I do, sir.’

  Grahame nodded. ‘Never could stand a man who’d changes his religion just for a woman. But some do. I’m a Protestant myself. Sort of.’ He held out his hand. ‘You’ll do, boy.’

  Rod grasped the proffered fingers, feeling in more of a daze than ever.

  ‘There’ll have to be arrangements made for the children,’ Grahame explained. Obviously he was a man who believed in thinking ahead, Rod thought, feeling weaker than ever. ‘They’ll have to be brought up as Catholics, you see. And there are other bits of nonsense, as well. You can’t have music at your wedding. What the hell? I went through it all, myself. Don’t mean a Goddamned bit of sense when you’re between the sheets.’ Suddenly he frowned. ‘That’s something else. You be kind to my little girl, eh? She ... well, she’s lived a secluded life. That was her mother’s idea. She sure lived a secluded life herself before I came on the scene. Had to teach her everything she knows, and then some. But she reckons that’s right, for well-brought-up girls. They’d never been further than New Orleans before I took them to New York last fall. Never even been out of Antoinette’s sight before then. I had to fight for that, but I felt they should see the world. And then it went sour. Goddamned Yankee abolitionists,’ he said morosely, pointing at his cup, which was promptly refilled by the waiting slave. ‘What wouldn’t I give to have some of those yellow-livered bastards down here on this plantation? I’d make them sing, that I would. But you don’t hold with the rascals. That’s a big mark in your favour, boy.’

  Rod opened his mouth and then closed it again. Things were happening too fast for him to stick to too many principles until he had a better idea of just what was coming next.

  ‘So all that remains to be done is to find you something to do, as my son-in-law. Know anything about sugar?’

  ‘No, sir. I’ve been at sea since the age of fifteen.’

  Grahame nodded. ‘That’s what I reckon. Well, you’ll have to learn, if you’re going to take over the plantation. One day. But I can’t see Marguerite ever marrying. She likes her independence too much. She should’ve been my son. That was a damned shame. But a woman can’t run a sugar plantation, that’s for sure. Meanwhile, we’ll hurry slowly. Let you and Claudine settle down first. Trouble is, my son-in-law can’t just be mate of theScarlet Belle. But Lunis is a good man. I’m not sure I want to get rid of him, just to give you a leg up.’

  ‘I should hate you to do that, Mr Grahame,’ Rod said.

  ‘So what I’d better do is make you my agent in New Orleans,’ Grahame said. ‘You can look after the shipping of goods, keep an eye on theBelle, generally make yourself useful. And you’ll come out here every couple of months and get some first-hand experience of planting. How does that take you?’

  Although his mind was still spinning, Rod felt it was necessary to dot one or two i’s and cross an equal number of t’s, just to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. ‘May I get something straight, Mr Grahame?’ he asked. ‘Are you actually proposing that Claudine and I should marry?’

  ‘What the hell do you think I’m proposing?’ Grahame demanded. His eyes narrowed. ‘You saying you don’t want to marry my daughter, after hugging and kissing her in public? By God, boy, if I thought that ...’

  ‘I should be very happy to marry your daughter,’ Rod said hastily, still uncertain whether or not he was lying, but reckoning he had no choice at that moment, in view of Grahame’s remarks. ‘I’m just a little, well, overwhelmed, I suppose.’

  ‘You’ll get used to the idea.’

  ‘Of course, sir.’ Rod found himself thinking of the most absurdly irrelevant details, such as ... ‘Where would we live? I should point out that I have no house. Only a cabin on board theBelle.’

  ‘So we’ll buy you a house. Leave that side of it to me.’ Grahame pointed his cigar. ‘You’re what my girl wants, boy. Just so long as she wants you, you can have anything you want. And I reckon you have some good points. So the deal’s on, just so long as you keep her happy.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Rod agreed. He had just accumulated a wife, regardless of what he felt about the matter. The alternative was to cut and run. But did he want to do that? He was being offered a most tremendous future. Possibly the mastery of the Martine Plantation. But in any event, and immediately, a position of wealth and power. He’d be able to repay the McGanns for all their generosity. And then settle back to enjoy a way of life which had already made a most powerful appeal to his senses.

  And in addition, he would be married to a most beautiful and desirable woman. Who was a total innocent, according to her father. But he had already thought that teaching her the facts of life would have to be a most enjoyable prospect.

  ‘Well, then,’ Grahame said. ‘You’d better go on back to bed and get some sleep, boy. You’ll be staying out here for the rest of the week. Lunis can manage without you. He’ll have to set about finding a new mate, anyway. And Claudine wants you to become part of the family right away. So I’ll expect you to lunch. It won’t be early. Not today.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Rod got up, somewhat uncertainly. ‘And thank you, sir.’

  ‘Me, boy? Thank Claudine. Just don’t let me, or her, down.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ He went outside, closed the door behind him, and leaned against the wall. He had to be dreaming; it was incredible to appreciate that he could so have fallen on his feet. Had he fallen on his feet? How could there be any argument about that? Six months ago, a penniless disgrace, dependent on the charity of friends he hardly knew, and now, in another few months, the heir of Wilbur Grahame. It was a heady thought.

  A black girl smiled at him as she hurried by, and he smiled back, and then hastily recalled himself to his position. He was leaning against the wall of Wilbur Grahame’s study, clad only in an undressing robe. He pushed himself away from the support, hurried along the corridor, seeking the stairs which would lead him back to his room — he wondered what room they would move him to, now that he was part of the family? — and found himself facing Marguerite Grahame, as she descended the very stairs he sought.

  She too wore an undressing robe, but hers was sufficiently elegant, consisting of yards and yards of flowing silk, to be considered as a gown. Her hair was loose, and fluttering behind her, but there was no evidence of any heavy drinking or even of a sleepless night. On the contrary, her green eyes were as bright as Rod had ever seen them.

  He would have passed her with a smile, in all the circumstances, but she forced him to halt by standing in front of him. ‘Good morning, Rod,’ she said. ‘And a Happy New Year.’

  So much had happened during the previous hour Rod had even forgotten that it was, indeed, 1859. ‘And to you,’ he said.

  ‘You may kiss me, if you wish,’ she suggested. ‘As we are to be related.’

  He hesitated, frowning.

  ‘Oh, Claudine has been in my room already,’ Marguerite said. ‘Telling me all about it. She has just fallen asleep in my bed.’

  They gazed at each other. She was, actually, far more lovely than her sister, if only because her face was the more composed. He realised that he could very happily have married her instead — and thus, with a pang of conscience, that he certainly could not be in love with Claudine.

  Marguerite raised her eyebrows. ‘You could at least look happy at the prospect,’ she remarked. ‘Or aren’t you happy at the prospect?’

  He was realising that for all her smiles and banter, she was very angry; her eyes were cold, and her expression was brittle. Her father had said she would never marry, because she valued her
independence too much. Had Wilbur Grahame been wrong about that? Or was she merely angry that her sister should have chosen to sacrificeher independence?

  Either way, if she was setting up to oppose the marriage, he could not afford to give her any ammunition — if he intended to go through with it. ‘I am more happy than I can say,’ he told her. ‘Or possibly express. I am just overwhelmed, I suppose.’ Which was close enough to the truth.

  Still she gazed at him, then stepped against him. ‘So kiss your future sister-in-law,’ she commanded.

  Tentatively he held her shoulders, and felt her arms go round his neck to hold him tightly. And in place of the chaste peck on the cheek of the previous night, her tongue licked his lips and forced them apart. ‘You are going to bemiserable, with Claudine,’ she whispered in his ear. ‘And I shall laugh at your misfortune.’

  *

  He anticipated the family lunch with some alarm, but she was sweetness itself in the company of her parents and her sister and the few privileged guests who had been invited to remain for the day. So was her mother, who gave no indication of disapproval as Wilbur Grahame announced, unofficially, his younger daughter’s engagement; indeed, she hugged Rod close and kissed him on both cheeks, while Marguerite appeared to be ecstatic with delight — Rod couldn’t make up his mind whether she was an utterly two-faced woman, or someone hiding her feelings very well. Which had to mean that she wished she could be marrying him herself. How that idea made him wish he could somehow turn back the clock — but he had wished that after the wreck of theSplendid as well, and had wound up deciding that he would have acted no differently. Because of Claudine’s happiness there could be no doubt. She sat at his side, and held his arm, and smiled at him, and seemed the proudest girl in the world. None of the Grahames gave the slightest evidence of having observed the very obvious disapproval of their guests, several of whom were Martine cousins, clearly disconcerted at seeing the family plantation being perpetuated in alien hands.

  Therefore, Rod reckoned, he must also be oblivious to their feelings, to anyone’s feelings, save Claudine’s, because, as Wilbur Grahame had told him, his entire future depended on those feelings. It was his business to fall as much in love with her as she appeared to be with him, and as rapidly as possible.

  As a matter of fact, he found himself doing this with the greatest ease during the following months, as preparations for the wedding went ahead. To stand beside her at the great party thrown for the official announcement; to ride in a carriage beside her through the streets of New Orleans, the cynosure of all eyes; to inspect their new home to be, with her and Wilbur Grahame and Marguerite — one of those Canal Street mansions which had so taken his fancy when he had first arrived in Louisiana — was always a pleasure, much as it was a pleasure to smile at the hostility of the young male Creoles who imagined he had stolen a prize from under their noses. Again, his business was simply to be the man Claudine wanted, and to share her bustling energy and excitement with the house, deciding which room was to be the nursery — another heady thought — and which would be her sewing room, commanding the decor in the reception rooms to be changed, issuing orders for new iron work to be prepared on one of the balconies, all of which Wilbur Grahame agreed to without question.

  Less enjoyable was the visit to a slave auction to select their domestics, Claudine wishing to have slaves of her very own rather than take some of those who had known her all her life on Martine’s. Rod was quite taken aback by the way she went about it, chatting with the dealers about the finer points of each girl, or the muscles of the man who would be her butler, even as he was humiliated that human beings could be so treated as cattle. Here was something else he would have to become used to, he supposed, and glanced at Marguerite, who had as usual accompanied them in her role of chaperone. But Marguerite’s expression remained totally closed; she did not even indicate contempt for his weakness.

  He took care not to allow himself to be alone with her for a moment, and she herself showed no desire to be alone with him. Claudine wanted to be alone with him all the time, and as this was banned on the grounds of propriety, insisted that Marguerite share her duties with a large Negress who had been the girls’ nurse in their childhood, and who solemnly sat in the back of Rod’s new barouche — a present from Wilbur Grahame — whenever they went for a drive together. This effectively meant that they were not chaperoned at all, for whenever they reached a suitably shaded and private spot Claudine would merely command Mary to wander off and pick wild flowers and leave them to themselves.

  Here again Rod felt out of his depth, at least in the early days of their engagement. Because however often he had observed this girl, however well he thought he knew her, of course he did not know her at all in regard to her true feelings or desires — and he was still in the damnable position of beingher fiancé, rather than she his. He did not know whether she wanted him to take the lead — she gave no indication of it — or how far she wanted him to go in pre-nuptial love-making. Or even how far he wanted to go himself. His relationships with women had always been of the most perfunctory sort, due to his preoccupation with his career. That Claudine would have to be an utter delight to share a bed with could not be doubted, but he was not sure that in his own state of apprehension and uncertainty he could do her any sort of justice at the moment, and was thus hung up on a very thorny dilemma: if he made no attempt, would she consider him lacking in passion, or, if he did make an attempt, would she consider him too forward?

  But he soon realised that like her mother, Claudine existed very much in a world of her own creation, which was not to be invaded by anyone else, not even her future husband. If she appeared to adore him, and sought privacy with him, it was in the first instance to hold him in her arms and kiss him, a pastime she rarely tired of. But she never sought more than that, seemed totally disinterested in him below the neck — and assumed that he was equally interested only in her face and lips. When he once, half by accident and half by design, touched her bodice she seemed to regard it entirely as an accident. Nor did it appear to induce any reaction.

  Her other great pleasure was talking about their future life together, the children they would have — she seemed to want a large number, which was a reassuring thought — the travelling they would do, the places they would visit, and as ever was eager to hear of his experiences in faraway places. That having a clutch of children might interfere either with her health or her plans did not seem to occur to her at all, and he did not feel in a position to suggest that there might be certain problems in implementing all of her ambitions. But her ebullient confidence was difficult to resist; he grew more fond of her every day.

  He also had sufficient to do, preparing for his own role in the coming event. Quite apart from his sessions with the priest who would perform the ceremony, and who happened to be a crony of Wilbur Grahame, and therefore one of the least hostile to the proposed union, and to his new duties as shipping agent for his future father-in-law’s merchandise out of New Orleans, and the time he was required to spend on the plantation learning about the art of growing sugar cane successfully — and itwas an art, for the nuances of planting profitably were far more complicated than he had ever imagined, as for example, by adding just the right amount of water to each crushing of the cane, maceration it was called, the sugar yield could be enormously increased — as well as accompanying Wilbur Grahame and various male friends into the bayous to shoot alligators — always at night, when the reptiles were comatose — or playing at interminable card games with Antoinette Grahame and her daughters, there was the very time consuming business of being outfitted not only for the wedding itself, but always to appear as a male Martine should. This constant reminder that he was nothing more than an appendage of a lovely young woman was an embarrassment, but it did not prevent him from writing to Jerry McGann, inviting him to be his best man at the same time as he paid off the last of the money expended on his behalf by the McGann family. To his great delight, Jerry replied in
the affirmative; Rod suspected he was curious as to this remarkable society in which his friend had become enmeshed.

  Wilbur Grahame was impressed. ‘Sounds like a real friend,’ he commented. ‘Navy family, you say. Not a lot of dough, I’d wager.’

  ‘Maybe not in cash,’ Rod agreed. ‘But they have a lot of prime acreage up in Long Island. And they’re the best people on earth.’

  ‘Then I’ll be glad to meet him,’ Grahame agreed.

  He had, in fact, turned out to be far less aggressive and difficult than Rod had supposed he would be, on their first acquaintance. But that the aggression lurked beneath his easy-going demeanour could not be doubted. Wilbur Grahame knew he was looked down upon by the Louisiana aristocracy, as much for his background as for his industry which had raised him financially above them, and Rod was sure that his ready acceptance of an English ne’er-do-well as a son-in-law had been at least in part due to his desire for a permanent and necessary ally, dependent on himself. As he had said, if he had had a son of his own, things would have been vastly different. Instead he had two daughters, of whom only Marguerite had anything like the drive of her father ... but Marguerite was doomed to exclusion, unless she too married a man on whom Wilbur Grahame could count.

  Thus apprehensions, even fears, concerns and anticipations, made Rod’s life a whirlpool of mixed emotions as the great day approached. Without knowing how, he had plunged into the midst of a world he did not understand and which vaguely frightened him, so different from the spartan life on board a warship, so unlike the simplicity of a Somerset village. And it was a society in which he was now destined to play an important part; Wilbur Grahame left him in no doubts about that, which increased his own self-doubts. He was never so happy in his life as when theScarlet Belle docked in New Orleans in the fall of 1859, and down the gangplank strode the huge, unmistakeable figure of Jerry McGann.

  *