“See? Music is the key to our souls.”
She giggled. “Dancing seems to be.”
“Except for that fella over there,” he nodded to the left.
She glanced over. The couple dancing to the right were having a difficult time. The man was stumbling through the steps and she looked like she wanted to kill him. It made her laugh.
“Thankfully, that isn’t us.”
He gave her a quizzical glance. “How so?”
“Your injury, my dear sir, could have been much worse.”
“Amen! God deemed you fit to fix this old soul and I thank you,” he said as they came to a stop, the last strum of the strings indicating it was over. He pulled her hand up to his lips. As he kissed the back of her hand, he winked at her.
Her cheeks flooded with heat. Charming, he got her blushing and she mulled the response she wanted to give. But before she had a chance to say a word, he took her arm and escorted her back to the spot he gotten her from.
“I am parched!” He tugged at his collar. “May I get you a drink as well?”
The room did seem rather warm. “Yes, that would be delightful.”
He gave her a half bow and told her he’d be right back. She watched him walk away. Despite the dance last night and this spin on the floor, he was managing his pace rather smoothly. She was rather pleased, because despite her attempt to fix the break, that part of his foot made it hard to tell if she was successful on the operating table, and afterwards. Once this dance was over, and they returned home, she’d insist he rest.
That thought made her scan the room for Will. He’d hinted he had a plan…
“Well, hello darling.”
She jerked her head to the right, the smile on her face growing by the moment.
“Richard!”
Francois made it across the room, stifling the pain that screamed inside him. The waltz should’ve been a slow dance, and it was, except his foot ached and if given a choice, his body would’ve refused him the dance, but the opportunity to have her in his arms drove him onward. If what Dr. Leonard suggested was true, their time together was almost at its end and he needed to drink every memory with her in.
Once at the refreshment table, as the servant poured the drinks, Francois looked up and found the host, Reginald Amherst. Francois wanted to chuckle. He’d met the man years ago, at a lawn party here in New York. Amherst Shipping specialized in sugar and cotton transport, a commodity in short supply, he thought. But the man still had boats and one way to return South was by water. His ticket home stood at the end of the table, retrieving a glass of champagne. He wondered if the shipper would remember him. Taking a gulp as he lifted the glasses served him, and straightening his back, he took a step toward him.
“Mr. Amherst, I wanted to extend my thank you for a grand evening.” When the elder man narrowed his gaze, his brows furrowing, Francois added, “Francois Fontaine, sir.”
“Ah, yes, Pierre Fontaine’s son? Louisiana, correct?”
Francois grinned. “Oui, I wondered if you remembered my family.”
The older man chuckled. “Throwing that French at me, just like the ole times. When things flowed so much better, hey? Cheers!”
Francois raised his glass. “Cheers.”
Reginald Amherst was a few pounds heavier than Francois recalled. The large sideburns and mustache also an addition. The shipping magnate was dressed in the best wool frock coat and waistcoat, in jewel tones, with black trousers and white gloves looped over his frock coat pockets. Obviously, the war had not hit his pocketbooks. Francois inwardly grumbled.
“What brought a good Southern boy like you up here?”
Francois snorted, looking down at his injured foot. “Unexpected business.” He straightened, pushing his shoulders back. “As you might recall, the Fontaines own a house near here.”
“Ha, like the rest of you rich planters. Come north to beat the summer heat. I had forgotten.” He downed another gulp.
Francois waggled his lips, his mind racing. Amherst ran one of the top shipping lines in the north. He knew his father had done business with several, but Amherst Shipping was always one of the major lines Pierre Fontaine utilized for the sugar they harvested. That got his mind turning.
“How has business run for you now? Not much cotton or sugar to haul, I’d reckon.”
Amherst shook his head. “Sadly, the usual consignments have been terminated with the blockade. It has made me going to haunts like the West Indies for sugar. Feisty set down there, those Europeans. They’re making a killing on the War, of course.” He gave Francois a narrow gaze. “Periodically, we send boats to the Carolinas and Florida, when we can, that is.”
That caught Francois’s attention. “You don’t say? Very interesting.” He casually looked around, finding that most others near them were really far enough away from earshot, plus locked into their own conversations. Considering the circumstances, and the ill-fated return to Yankee imprisonment, Francois leaned closer. “So, have you taken passengers on these unexpected chances to land in the South?”
Amherst’s chin tilted up. “Passengers, no. But I have crew that land. Why?” He gave him a tight grin. “Yankee cold making you long for home? Or you and
