two voices, the soft, feminine one and the gently croaking one of Améliore, seemed so loud that Connor could overhear their conversation now. He shouldn’t listen, he knew, but he couldn’t help hearing them through the open windows as clearly as if they were standing right next to him.
“My dear,” Améliore was saying, “I’ve known you since you were a child. Are you certain this is what you want?” He was coughing a little. Améliore always coughed when he felt highly agitated. Too many cigars, Connor assumed, yet out of politeness he’d still brought him a box of the finest the West Indies could offer.
“Yes, Monsieur Améliore, I am. This marriage, which exists only on paper, I might add, has brought me nothing but grief. I haven’t seen my husband in over four years, and I do believe we have both moved on. He will be delighted to sign the papers, I’m sure.”
Améliore murmured something into his fist; Connor could hear the muffled mumbling. He knew the lawyer used to do that when he was deep in thought.
“Your father—” the lawyer set out but was cut off by the lady again.
“My father!” she exclaimed, and judging from the sound of a chair scraping over the hardwood, followed by the rapid clicking of heels on the floor, she was up and pacing. “May his soul rest in peace, my father died four years ago and my good-for-nothing husband didn’t even send a note of condolence, much less come to his funeral. I wish to be free of this marriage. At once. It’s quite obvious my husband doesn’t desire to have anything to do with me or Bougainvilla.”
Instantly, Connor’s eyes snapped open and he felt a frosty shiver down his back. He was wide awake—and careful not to breathe too deeply and miss a bit of the conversation that was to come.
Could it be? When had they last seen each other? At the wedding?
“Very well, then,” Améliore muttered reluctantly.
Connor heard him get up from his seat as well and, so he assumed, the lawyer walked to the huge old sideboard where he kept preprinted documents. Connor leaned forward, alert.
Améliore sat down at his desk again. The slight protest of the lawyer’s chair told Connor so. Then he heard the lawyer grunt, “So, do you know where we might find Captain Barhydt to make him aware of your request?”
“I’m sure I have no idea where Reinier is at the moment. Most likely, he’s on the ship he built with my dowry. But I’m also sure you can hire people to track him down. Last time I saw him, he was blond. I’m afraid I cannot recall anything beyond that, having seen only his back as he ran.”
Sarcasm? Connor’s jaw dropped. So, the “little, too sweet-tempered and naïve wife,” as Reinier had described her, was asking the family lawyer, who also happened to be the lawyer of the Barhydt-O’Driscoll Shipping Company, to draw up the divorce papers? Now that was an interesting twist to his day.
Not that he could blame her. In fact, Connor wasn’t really surprised. Reinier was restless and always sought the freedom of the sea.
When Reinier had married her five years ago, Emiline du Ronde was no match for the Dutchman. She was barely 18, privileged, and judging from what little Reinier had told him, infinitely spoiled. Reinier had built his ship and ran soon afterward. She hadn’t been able to hold him.
Never in Connor’s wildest dreams—and they could be quite wild—would he have thought it could turn out like this.
He quickly walked over to where the young secretary sat, asked him for a paper and a quill, and wrote a short note to Améliore. But just as the salt had dried the viscous ink and he was about to fold the note, the door to Améliore’s office opened.
Connor stood straight and smirked when his eyes met the turquoise blue depths of Reinier’s wife’s. He saw recognition cross Emiline du Ronde-Barhydt’s lovely face; then she halted and inhaled deeply. Despite her delicate café-au-lait complexion, she blanched. Her eyes widened with what must have been shock at seeing him, her husband’s partner, right there by the secretary’s desk.
“Monsieur O’Driscoll,” she murmured civilly as she curtly bowed her head. The coolness of her tone made his name sound like that of an evil sprite one wished away.
Connor felt his smug expression broaden as he bowed to her in turn. “Mrs. Barhydt, what a pleasure to see you here.”
Emiline’s eyes paled to a chilly light blue at the deliberate address. She said a quick farewell to Améliore and left the office without looking at him again.
Connor watched her speedy retreat, the smile on his lips slowly vanishing. A very interesting twist, indeed.
Emiline was careful to uphold a calm, sedate exterior when she ducked into Polilla’s, the tiny bookstore right around the corner. The instant she entered the bookshop, she felt better. Not only did the coolness calm her overheated body, as always, the scent of old paper and ink, vaguely moldy and bitter, had a soothing effect on her.
Emiline loved books. They were her escape from the burdens her life had become. There was no more need for decisions, no responsibility, no more hard work to do while she lost herself in her books. Poetry was her favorite; it made her feel again when everything else had dulled her.
Polilla, the owner of the shop, was a frail, old bookworm, but his eyes twinkled with delight when he saw her standing in his gloomy little store. “Ahh, Señorita du Ronde, how wonderful to see you,” he greeted her warmly. Before she could answer, he promptly bent under the ancient counter to retrieve a package. “Come, have a look. I’ve had these ordered exclusively with you in mind.”
She quickly shed her crochet gloves and let her fingers run gently over the exquisite leather bindings of the two books. She examined them, well aware of Señor Polilla closely watching her. It was too rare that somebody shared her passion for books, but Polilla did.
“Señorita, if it weren’t for you, I would have had to close this shop years ago.”
All he got was a tentative smile when she briefly glanced up from the poem that had captured her attention.
“Pray, forgive my speaking so openly, but there should be more in your life than printed words. I do think you need a husband.”
She shut the book a little too loudly. The smile on her lips froze to a friendly grimace at the mention of a husband once again.
“Pardon. I shouldn’t have…” Polilla bowed, averting his eyes.
“I’d like both of them. Thank you.” Emiline’s tone was warm and friendly to silently reassure him that she hadn’t taken offense where none was meant.
Gnarled fingers wrapped brown paper around the two books, and a simple twine secured the bundle. “Shall I keep these here for you until you’re ready to sail?”
“No, thank you. I’ll take them now.” Emiline reached for the purse in the small pocket of her gown and paid the old bookseller. Then, holding her precious package to her chest, she braced herself against the temperature outside.
Her feet carried her quickly back down the winding road to the harbor. She made her way swiftly through the dozens of sailors, traders, and marketers. St. George’s was the main port in the Caribbean to purchase and advertise all manner of traded goods like sugarcane and indigo, among other things. At this time of day, the Carenage, the deep water harbor,
