Glorious Montana Sky (The Montana Sky Series) (4 page)

Her father didn’t wait for an answer. He led Delia into a parlor and motioned her to sit on a gold velvet settee. Then he took a seat next to her, turning so he could gaze into her eyes. “You’re so beautiful, Delia.” He touched her tignon and gave it a tiny tug. “May I?”

A lump in Delia’s throat kept her from speaking. She nodded.

Gently, he unknotted the cloth and pulled off the tignon, then settled back and stared at her. He waved at a portrait above the fireplace. “Your grandmother when she was about your age. Your hair is darker.” He fingered a curl that had escaped her braids. “With just a hint of red, your skin more olive, but you could be twins. Without your tignon, no one would know you weren’t as white as she.”

Delia stared at the portrait. Her grandmother was dressed in a white antebellum gown. Pearls circled her neck and dangled from her ears. “Her hair is so pretty.”

His grin made his eyes light to gold. “Maman hates her hair. She’s done her best to suppress my Yankee grandfather’s taint in our Creole blood. But the hair and eye colors give us away.” His expression sobered. “Now tell me, Delia. What is this about a relationship with a man you abhor? Why would Isadora do such a thing? Why not allow you to marry?”

The worried look in her father’s eyes melted the lump in Delia’s throat, and she began to speak. “Maman had found a wealthy man of color for me to wed, and we became engaged. But before we could marry, he sickened with a lingering illness. We hoped he’d get well, but after two years, he died. Maman has had some financial setbacks, although she won’t tell me what was the cause. She feels that at my age, mistress or wife doesn’t matter as long as the man is wealthy.” Delia went on to tell him the whole story about Marcel Dupuy.

As her father listened to her tale, his expression darkened. By the end, he’d risen and was pacing the room, obviously thinking. He stopped and stared at her, his jaw firm. “One of the reasons my liaison with your mother was so short was that I found her attitude to be far too mercenary. I understand the importance a woman would place upon security, and I was prepared to provide well for Isadora and any children we might have. But I never felt any warmth from her to me. And when the opportunity came to move to New York, I had no qualms about
leaving her behind. . .with a generous parting gift. But I didn’t know she was
enceinte
.”

Delia felt the caring in his words, a welcome contrast to her mother’s coldness.

“Why didn’t Isadora tell me?”

“She told your mother. Mrs. Bellaire has provided for my schooling at the convent.”

“Seems I need to have a talk with my mother,” Andre said grimly.
He sat and took her hand. “We’ll go visit Isadora. I’ll give her money so she’ll have no need to
sell
you.”

Delia pulled him back. “Marcel Dupuy is a powerful man. . .” She hesitated, not knowing how to address him.

His gaze tender, he touched her cheek. “Call me Papa.”

She couldn’t help a misty-eyed smile back at him. “Papa.” Just saying the word made warmth fill her. But in the next moment, the thought of Marcel Dupay chilled her again.

He patted her knee. “I don’t want you to worry.”

She shook her head. “Marcel Dupuy’s enemies often don’t survive. If he kills you and takes me anyway. . .” Her tone turned bitter. “Maman will have the money from both of you and be quite satisfied with herself.”

His fists clenched. “Then you’ll have to stay with me. I doubt either Isadora or Marcel Dupuy will think to look for you here. That will buy us some time while I decide how best to handle this matter.”

Stay with him?
Her heart sped. Delia looked down at her hands, twisted in her lap.

“Come, daughter.” He placed his hand on top of hers.

Daughter.
Hearing the word, uttered in a loving voice touched the loneliness in her heart. Her eyes filled with tears. She blinked them away and glanced up at him. “I doubt your mother and brother will approve.”

“My mother hasn’t approved of me for many years.”

She looked askance.

“I dared to
work
for a living.”

His comical expression when he said
work
made her giggle.

“Yes, the Creole gentleman dared to dirty his hands.”

Delia could feel her father’s hand. Whatever work he’d done had not involved physical labor. His palm was too smooth.

“My grandfather. . .” Andre paused, a smile lighting his face. “Your
great-grandfather
had his fingers in many industrial pies, most of them in the North. He’d gotten old and needed someone to take his place. Against the wishes of my mother and my brothers and sisters, I did just that.”

She absorbed the story, eager to learn more about him.

“My grandfather died many years ago, leaving me the bulk of his fortune. Now that I’m home, my family may in time forgive the taint of
trade
. And I suppose the more generous I am with them, the quicker that will happen. This old mansion does need a new roof. I’m sure if I offer to replace the roof, my daughter will be allowed to remain under it for a few days.”

Andre stood and pulled Delia to her feet. “Come. Let us tell the others.” Retaining her hand, he escorted her out the door, across the entry, and into a room housing a desk and bookshelves. In one corner of the room, a silver tea set, along with several platters of cookies and dainty sandwiches, sat on a round table surrounded by four leather wing chairs. Her grandmother and uncle sat there, cups of fragrant tea and plates of food in front of them.

Neither looked pleased to see Andre enter with Delia.

He stepped back and ushered her to the table.

Her uncle and grandmother exchanged glances of disapproval.

Ignoring the tension in the room, her father rubbed his hands together. “Ah, good, tea time. We’ll join you.”

“Andre!” Adelaide protested.

Her father acted as if Delia were an invited guest, pulling out a chair for her. Feeling awkward, Delia sat and smoothed her skirt.

Andre took the last seat. He glanced at his mother, and, when she didn’t move to serve them, he picked up the extra cup and saucer from the tray, poured some tea into the cup, and handed it to Delia.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

“Maman, I’ll need the loan of the guest room for Delia for a few days. I don’t want her returning home.”

Adelaide made a shocked sound of protest.

Bernard, who’d been holding his cup and saucer, placed them on the table. The cup rattled. “It’s not just about putting the girl up, Andre. It’s about Marcel Dupuy. You’ve been gone from New Orleans for too long and don’t know the major players in our fair city. Believe me, you don’t want to run afoul of Dupuy.”

Andre raised his eyebrow. “So Delia said. What could the man possibly do to me?”

“Besides have you beaten or murdered?”

At Andre’s look of disbelief, Bernard nodded. “I’m sorry to say, this is the truth. And the man fights dirty. He might not directly attack you. But he could go after those who are far more vulnerable.”

“My nieces?” Andre’s tea cup rattled in the saucer.

“You know how little it takes to ruin a girl’s reputation. I cannot allow you to endanger my daughters and their cousins.”

Andre’s face reddened. He started to speak, then stopped, one hand massaging his chest. “Then we’ll leave. Tomorrow. I have some business affairs to put in order first.” He turned to Delia. “Does anyone know you are here?”

She shook her head and wondered what to do about her clothes and other possessions.

“That’s settled then.”

“Andre
, don’t go,” Mrs. Bellaire protested, placing her hand on his arm as if to keep him with her. “You’ve just returned home. It’s time you settled down in New Orleans. Married. I have several possible women picked out for you. It’s not too late for you to have children.
Legitimate
children.”

He clenched his jaw. “Yes, it is too late, Maman. I’m sorry to bring up this delicate subject to you and in front of a young lady.” He glanced at Delia. “But the circumstance renders a frank discussion necessary.” Shaking his head, he paused. “I’m sterile.”

His mother gasped. “No. No. You can’t know that!”

“An illness I contracted caused my condition.”

“What illness? You must see another doctor,” Mrs. Bellaire said in a decisive tone.

Andre gave her a grim smile. “I saw many.”

Bernard cleared his throat. “And you, ah,
tested
this diagnosis.”

“Believe me,” her father said, his tone wry. “I’ve had plenty of opportunities.” With a gentle move, he brought Delia’s hand to his lips. “I thought never to have a child of my own. I
mourned
the loss of children. Now to find I have a daughter. You can’t know what a miracle Delia is to me.” He shot his mother a grim look. “If only I had known about her earlier.”

Adelaide held out a shaky hand, looking suddenly aged. “If only you hadn’t left, Andre. I thought you’d return, marry, have a family. But you were too stubborn.”

“I haven’t changed, Maman. I’m still stubborn. And I’ll not budge on protecting Delia.”

“Will you return to New York?” Bernard asked.

Her father shook his head. “I’m too well known there. We’ll go West where no one knows me and standards are different.” He smiled at Delia. “You, my daughter, will no longer be Delia Fortier, woman of color. You will become Delia Bellaire, my white legitimate daughter.”

CHAPTER THREE

J
oshua stood on the train platform at the station in St. Louis, allowing Micah to explore and let off some steam before they returned to their seats. While idly watching the passersby, he noticed a striking young woman gliding toward him on the arm of an older gentleman.

She was fashionably dressed in a loose traveling coat, the front open to show a forest green shirtwaist and skirt. But her eyes—large and hazel and twinkling with life—were what caught his attention and sparked an instant attraction to her. The rest of her was just as beautiful. She had a small straight nose. Dark curls with a shimmer of red framed her oval face. Her shapely pink lips, already curved into a smile, widened when she saw him watching her.

He touched his hat. “Good afternoon.”

She dipped her head in a gracious acknowledgment.

Micah raced up to him.

With a hand on the boy’s shoulder, Joshua pulled his son out of the couple’s way.

She nodded, and her eyes glinted with obvious awareness of his interest in her. The green feathers on her perky straw hat fluttered as they passed by.

He couldn’t help turning his head to watch her.

Micah pulled on his arm. “Father, there’s an old lady selling cookies. Can I have one?”

Still bemused by his reaction to the lady, Joshua fished out a coin. Then he saw the old woman’s tattered shawl, her fingers bulging with painful gout or the crippling joint disease. “Buy half a dozen. We’ll have one now and save some for later.”

“Thank you.” Micah clasped the coin and turned to dash off.

“Wait.” Joshua grabbed the boy’s arm. He pulled out a clean handkerchief and handed it over, fairly certain his son’s was grubby, if, indeed, he hadn’t already lost it. “Put them in this.”

Micah grabbed the handkerchief, gave him a cheeky grin, and dashed off.

For a moment, the boy seemed his usual animated self. He wished the child’s transformation would last. So much of the time, Micah was unhappy and resentful, and Joshua welcomed the hope his son would soon regain his former cheerful personality.

Micah dodged around people. Luckily, the boy was agile enough not to bash into anyone, although he caused a porter wheeling a cart of luggage to pull up short.

Joshua smiled and shook his head. Best the boy go burn off some of his energy now. The novelty of the train trip had long worn off and keeping a bored Micah sitting for hours had taken considerable effort on Joshua’s part.

He turned to look for the lady but didn’t see her. Perhaps it was just as well. If the man was her husband, Joshua had no business searching for her.

Yet, she was the first woman since Esther’s death who’d attracted him, making him remember the warmth and love of his early marriage. Someday, he hoped to find those feelings again; although this time he’d choose his wife more wisely—find someone compatible who could join him in his dream, rather than him following hers.
First, though, I need to figure out what my dream is.

For now, he had nothing more than an intense desire to return home.

Delia took the memory of the man’s eyes with her—vivid blue and full of interest in her. The interest wasn’t unusual. She’d had men leering at her since she’d developed breasts. But his attraction wasn’t laden with the heavy sensuality of men’s usual stares—as if sizing her up as a possession to acquire, whether or not they could afford her. No, his gaze had only held admiration—a refreshing. . .no, a
freeing
change.

Papa glanced down at her. “There’s time for something to eat,” he said with his usual solicitude.

She shook her head. “I’m not hungry. I’d rather walk. And we have the basket of food for later. But if you’re hungry. . . .”

“No, I was just concerned about you.”

Delia’s thoughts strayed to the man she’d just seen. Was he traveling on the same train? He had a boy with him, so maybe he was married. But just the fact that a man could view her as a lady, instead of a possession, sparked a whole new awareness in her.

All of a sudden, Delia realized this scheme Andre Bellaire had concocted would provide her more than financial security with the father she’d quickly come to adore. She hadn’t thought past escaping Marcel Dupuy, hadn’t known what living as a white woman would feel like. Even during the few days they’d spent in St. Louis, where her father insisted she acquire a whole new wardrobe, she’d kept looking over her shoulder, not yet feeling secure. They dined in nice restaurants and attended the theater. She remembered her first sip of champagne—the bubbly taste of the liquid on her tongue, biting as it slid down her throat. Everything had seemed a dream—one from which she might awake and find herself back in New Orleans.

“Are you happy, Delia?”

Her father had asked her the question before, and she’d always dutifully answered that she was, although the main feeling she’d carried for the first few days with him was an intense sense of relief and gratitude. But now. . . ?

Delia straightened her shoulders and took as deep a breath as her corset would allow, feeling lighter than she could remember in a long time—perhaps ever.
I feel full of champagne.
“Oh yes, Papa!” She squeezed his arm. “I’m looking forward to beginning our new life together.”

Her father patted her hand. “So am I, daughter.” He hesitated, his gaze scanning her face. “I know everything is different for you.”

“Yes, but I find I’m settling into the pretense,” Delia said with a wry twist of her mouth.

A look of pain crossed her father’s face, making her regret her words. “You are my beloved daughter. That is
not
a pretense.”

She smiled up at him with warmth. “And you’re my beloved papa.”

Instead of relaxing and returning her smile, Andre rubbed his chest. “Thank goodness, I found you in time.”

The remark was one her father had made before, but now there was a heaviness to his words that made her study him. He appeared tired, his skin paler than usual, with shadows under his eyes. “Are you well, Papa?”

His brief smile seemed forced. “Fatigued. All this traveling wears on one.” He took a few more steps and stopped. “Delia. . .”

The gravity in his tone worried her.

“Before we left New Orleans, I made provision for you in my will. If something happens to me, you’ll be taken care of.”

Fear clenched her heart. “Don’t talk that way, Papa, as if you are dying.” She tried to speak lightly and ran a soothing hard over his arm. “You’re just tired.”

But even as Delia spoke the optimistic words, she couldn’t help the dread that clutched at her heart.

With his fist tight around the coin, Micah
trotted along the train platform, on the lookout to avoid running into anyone. The old lady had hobbled away, and he hurried to catch up with her. His mouth watered. If the cookies tasted as good as they smelled. . . . He could hardly wait to try one.

In Uganda, cookies had been an uncommon treat. The only thing he liked about America so far was having dessert every day.

His steps faltered as he remembered the few occasions he’d have a chance to split a cookie or piece of candy with Kimu. His friend would take a bite, and his eyes would grow big. He’d flash his wide smile—the one that always made Micah grin back at him—the gratifying feeling he received from the other boy’s pleasure worth the sacrifice of the rare sweet.
How I miss Kimu.

A dissatisfied-sounding grumble made Micah glance up.

A portly man, his face buried in a train schedule, carried a suitcase, with a valise tucked under each arm, held in place only by his elbows. He tried to read the print without lifting the elbow that pressed the bag against his side.

Micah stopped, wondering if he should offer to help.

Still looking at the paper, the man gasped and made a sudden, sharp swerve, bashing into Micah and, in the process, losing his grip on the bags.

Knocked off his feet, Micah tumbled to the ground, somehow ending up beneath the big man’s luggage, a valise on his lap. Micah managed to retain his hold on the precious coin.

His father hurried up to him. “Micah, are you all right?”

“Yes,” he ground out.

“What happened?”

“I didn’t do
anything!
”

Father reached toward him. “You have to be careful. Watch where you’re going.”

Stung by the injustice of the accusation, Micah swatted away his father’s hand and scrambled to his feet, still clutching the valise. Before he could hand the bag over to the owner, the man grabbed it, as if he thought Micah would steal it.

With the valise once again tucked under his arm, the portly man shook his finger in Micah’s face. “Watch where you’re going, young man.”

Resentment rose in him. “I was.
You
were the one who had your nose in the paper. You swerved into me.”

“Micah,” his father reprimanded. “Don’t speak that way to your elders. Apologize at once.” He picked up a suitcase and gave it to the man.

The resentment flared to hot anger. “I didn’t do anything wrong to apologize for!” Micah turned to run, but a woman blocked his way, and he almost smacked into her. He caught a hint of her sweet perfume.

“The boy is right,” the woman said in a softly accented voice, touching Micah’s shoulder. “It wasn’t his fault. Indeed, he did stop. But this gentleman—” she gestured to the indignant man “—wasn’t paying attention to where he was going and swerved into him.”

Shocked by the intersession, Micah glanced up at her. The lady was pretty, her green-gold eyes full of compassion. He couldn’t believe she’d just stuck up for him. His mother would have scolded him, regardless of who’d caused the problem. Speechless, he had to fumble for words. “Thank you, ma’am.” Her smile dazzled him.

“Such nice manners.” She sent a glance of appeal to Father. “Please don’t be angry with the boy.”

His father blinked several times, seeming as stunned as Micah had been.

“Of course not. I appreciate you intervening on my son’s behalf.”

Her gaze traveled from Father to the man who’d gathered his possessions and huffed off. “It was the right thing to do.”

Father smiled at her, his expression lighter than Micah had seen for a long time.

“Not everyone does the right thing.”

The woman pursed her lips. “Unfortunately, that’s true.”

Father set his hands on Micah’s shoulders. “I’m sorry, son. I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions.”

Micah wasn’t ready to stop being angry. Not about Father scolding him, or bringing him to America, or leaving him alone so much in Uganda. . .for not saving his mother. Nor would he forgive Father for making him leave Kimu. He would
never
forgive him for that. He shrugged away Father’s hands.

His father sighed, a resigned look on his face.

Micah remembered his errand. “Can I still buy the cookies?”

“Yes. Hurry, though. The train is about to leave.”

Micah looked up to thank the lady, but she’d moved away with an older gentleman. He gazed at her wistfully for a moment with an ache inside of him, wishing. . . .

The cookie woman shuffled into his line of sight.

He shook off his feelings Extra careful to avoid bumping anyone, Micah ran over to buy his treats.