Day Dreamer by Jill Marie Landis Page B

kerchiefs tied about their heads and faces, hiding under parasols to keep every bit of sun off their fair skin. Don’t go out at all during the day; they say it’s—”
    Cord cut him off effectively. “My mother was English. She never even wore a hat.”
    “I’d say she defied convention,” Captain Thompson said.
    “You might say that,” Cord replied. Then so softly that he was almost speaking to himself, he added, “She liked to dance beneath the stars, too.”
    Celine reminded herself to ask him more about his mother.
    The doctor looked over at Celine. “You’re not English, I take it, Mrs. Moreau?”
    “She’s Irish,” Cord volunteered.
    “I’m not,” she said. “Actually, I am English. I was born in London.”
    “Quite exotic features for an Englishwoman,” Dr. Campbell noted to no one in particular.
    The ship lurched, and Celine nearly fell off the bench. When Cord reached out to steady her, she quickly righted herself.
    “My father was a gypsy,” she said, hoping to shock Cord. With his Creole background, she doubted he wanted a wife whose blood was tainted in any way. She hoped the disclosure would keep him from wanting to bed her. But when she glanced up at him, she could see that her admission had not disturbed him in the least.
    “You’ll stand the heat better than a fair-skinned woman. Extreme heat doesn’t bother the slaves, they say,” the doctor noted sagely.
    “That’s merely an argument made in favor of keeping them toiling in the hot sun during the heat of the day,” Cord told him. “It’s been my experience that they drop from the heat just like anyone else.”
    The first mate, a redheaded man, younger than the others by far and even younger than Cord, had been silent up to now. He tore his gaze away from Celine’s breasts long enough to comment.
    “Are you against slavery, then, sir, if you see them as men? If so, you are going to meet opposition on St. Stephen.”
    Cord let the captain fill his wineglass again and took a sip before he answered. “I have no idea what awaits me on St. Stephen.”
    “But you have land there?”
    Celine listened with interest.
    “Dunstain Place. A plantation of nearly two hundred and fifty acres.”
    “I assume that, as an absentee owner, you have an overseer?” the captain asked.
    “A manager,” Cord replied.
    “Do you intend to grow sugar? That requires quite a labor force. You may have to change your views on slavery.”
    “I’m not sure what condition the plantation is in at this point. There were fields and fields of sugar when my father was alive. I’ll have to see what it will take to put the place back into production.
Most
of my plans are still quite indefinite, in fact. I live one day at a time.”
    When Cord looked down at Celine and smiled, she knew that he was subtly letting her know that his plans for tonight were quite definite. She shivered despite the closeness of the quarters and the heat from the warming stove in the pantry.
    Celine traced the floral design on the rim of her dinner plate as the mate entered into quiet conversation with the doctor. The idea that if she chose to remain with Cord she would have to take her rightful place as mistress of well over two hundred acres of land and an estate filled her with dread. Along with running the household, all responsibility for the health and welfare of any slaves he might own or acquire would fall to her. It was one thing to learn to be self-sufficient in a small shop in New Orleans, but she had no idea how to cope with the role of mistress of a sugar plantation.
    The captain had emptied another plate of food. He signaled one of the men waiting in the pantry and the sailor began to clear the table.
    The scent of lamb and onions lingered in the saloon, and Celine longed to go back on deck. Captain Thompson wiped his mouth with a napkin and then said, “I hope you don’t mind being the only woman aboard, Mrs. Moreau.”
    “Not at all.” It wouldn’t matter if