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Unwilling Warrior (Seasons of Redemption series #1)

By Andrea Kuhn Boeshaar

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Chapter One
New Orleans, December 1861

Raindrops splattered against the garden’s cobblestone
walkway, forming puddles in low-lying areas.
Above, the heavens seemed to mourn in tearful shades of gray.

Staring out the floor-to-ceiling window, Valerie Fontaine realized
she’d forgotten the dreariness of the season. She’d been back
in New Orleans only a week, arriving Christmas Eve, but now
she questioned her decision to leave Miss C. J. Hollingsworth’s
Finishing School for Young Ladies, a year-round boarding school
in Virginia where she’d studied for the last sixteen months. She
let out a long, slow sigh. Life here at home was—well, worse than
the weather.

Closing the shutters, she stepped away and hugged her knitted
shawl more tightly around her shoulders. She strolled from the
solarium to the parlor, steeling herself against her father’s continuing
tirade. But at least they were talking now. He hadn’t said more
than six words to her since she’d been home. “You should have
stayed at school.” She had thought Father would be glad to see
her, given that it was their first Christmas without Mama.
But such wasn’t the case. Instead of spending the holiday with
her, he’d been at his gentlemen’s club almost continuously. His
actions hurt Valerie deeply. Nevertheless, he was the only family
she had left now.

“You should have stayed at school,” Edward Fontaine muttered
as he poured himself another scotch. His third.

“Yes, so you’ve stated. But isn’t it obvious why I came home?
I’m grieving, and I need the love and support of my father.” She
gave him a once-over, from the tip of his polished shoes to his
shiny, straight black hair. “And it might not seem like it, but I
think you need me too.”

“Need you? I should say not!” He teetered slightly but caught
her reaction. “And don’t roll those pretty blue eyes at me either.”

Valerie turned toward the roaring hearth so he wouldn’t see
her exasperated expression.

Holding out her hands, she warmed them by the fire. Although
temperatures registered well above the freezing mark, the cold and
dampness had a way of seeping into her bones. She shivered.

“I told you, ma fille, your efforts, as you call them, aren’t
needed.”

She flicked him a glance. “I think perhaps they are.” She
sensed her father mourned Mama’s death too. However, drowning
himself in scotch would hardly help, and he’d lose his good
standing in society if anyone found out about his . . . weakness.
Did neighbors and friends already know?

“Bah!”

Valerie turned to watch as he seated himself in a floralpatterned,
Louis XV wingback chair.

“You were to stay in Virginia and complete your education.”
Father gave a derisive snort. “I doubt Miss Hollingsworth will
give me a refund on your tuition.”

Valerie placed her hands on her hips. “How can you value
money over my well-being?”

“This is not a question of one or the other. These are dangerous times . . . there are plans that you know nothing of . . . ”

“What plans?” Curious, Valerie tipped her head.

Silence.

“Father?”

He lifted his gaze to hers, and she saw a flicker of something
in his eyes—regret perhaps? Then his face hardened. “My plans
were for you to stay in school and marry a young man from an
established family.”

Valerie groaned. Running her hands down the wide skirt of
her black dress, she gathered the muslin in clenched fists of frustration.
How could she make him understand? She simply had
to follow her heart and come home. Otherwise, she surely would
have stayed at Miss Hollingsworth’s, as many students did. On
most holidays, like this one, time constraints restricted travel.
School let out the Friday before Christmas and began next week,
on the sixth of January. However, Valerie didn’t plan on returning,
and her reasons to leave boarding school ran deep.

She lifted her fingertips to her temples as a headache formed.
“Father, school proved too much for me after Mama’s untimely
death. I tried to make it, stayed all last summer, but after the war
broke out I had to come home.”

“Silly girl. You risked your life traveling through that part of
the country. Did you think I wanted to bury a daughter too?”

“No, of course not. But I thought you would have wanted to
see me at Christmastime.”

He didn’t comment on her remark. “So, what am I going to do
with you? I can’t very well send you back. It’s too dangerous.”

“It’s not as if I need a nanny.” Indignation pulsed through
Valerie’s veins. “I’m almost nineteen, and I can take care of
myself—and manage the household for you too.”

“I manage my own household.”

Hardly! she quipped inwardly. Thankfully for him, Adalia,
their precious and loyal maid, had seen to almost everything
since Mama died.

But Valerie wouldn’t tell her father that. She’d learned neither
retorts nor reasoning did much good when he’d been imbibing—
which was frequently of late.

She watched as he swallowed the dark golden liquid, emptying
the crystal tumbler in his hand. He made a sorrowful sight,
to be sure. And yet Valerie knew her father as an honorable man,
a capable man who owned and operated a large business. Her
grandfather had started Fontaine Shipping when he had come
from France. Father grew up near the docks and learned everything
about ships and cargo, importing and exporting, and then
he took over the business after he had finished his education at
Harvard. Grandpapa had been so proud. And now Father secured
his importance among the international shipping community as
well as in New Orleans’s society.

Or at least that’s the way she had remembered him.

“I see I’ll have to marry you off myself.”

“Oh, Father, I’ll marry when I’m good and ready. Right now I
can’t think of a single man I’m even remotely interested in.”

“And what of James Ladden?” Father asked

“James is . . . a friend. That’s all.” Valerie moved to the
burgundy-colored settee. Gathering her black hoop skirts, she sat
down. Her fingers played across the rose-patterned, embroidered
armrest. Her father’s gaze seemed troubled. She shifted. “Perhaps
I should ask Chastean to bring you some coffee.”

He gave her a blank look, as though she’d spoken in a foreign
tongue.

“Our cook . . . will bring you some coffee.”

He held up his empty scotch glass and said, “I’m fine with this.”

Valerie sighed when he rose to pour another drink. His fourth.
How she wished she could hide that scotch bottle!

“We’re having a houseguest tonight,” he said.

“What?” Her jaw slacked at the surprising news.

“You heard me.” He eyed the amber potion glistening in his
glass. “A houseguest.”

“Who is it?”

He lifted his slim shoulders and wagged his dark head. “Last
name’s McCabe. Don’t know his first. He’s the son of an acquaintance.”
He looked her way. “I extended the invitation before I
knew you would burst in from school unannounced.”

Valerie chose to ignore the slight. “Where did you meet him,
or rather, his father?”

Father’s gaze met hers. His brown bloodshot eyes watered
slightly, and his Adam’s apple bobbed several times as if he were
struggling to contain his emotions. “I met him,” he continued in
a pinched voice, “just after your mother passed away.”

Valerie swallowed an anguished lump of her own. He’d so
rarely spoken of Mama since her death.

Her mind drifted back to that terrible day she’d received the
news. She’d been at school, getting ready to paint with the other
girls when a telegram had been delivered. The weighty sorrow
that descended then returned now as she recalled the words:
Your mother took ill with a fever on 23 June 1861 and
has died. You have our sympathies and our prayers. The
telegram was signed Mrs. Vincent Dupont, the doctor’s wife.
Upon returning home, Valerie learned that a tropical storm
had detained the family physician when her mother had taken
ill. He hadn’t been able to reach Mama in time to help her.
Valerie had never gotten a chance to say good-bye or even
attend Mama’s funeral.

“I miss her too.” Valerie whispered the admission, hoping this
time it wouldn’t fall on deaf ears.

But Father drained his glass and poured another. Number five.

“Our guest will be arriving some time tonight. I’ll be out. I’ve
left instructions with Adalia.”

“You won’t be here to greet him?” Valerie swiped away an
errant tear and squared her shoulders.

“Not tonight.” He suddenly hollered for his coat, hat, and
walking stick.

“Where are you going?” Stunned, Valerie strode toward him.

“The club. For supper.”

“Again? But I had so hoped you’d come to the Donahues’
tonight and celebrate the coming of the New Year with me.”

“You should know right now, ma fille, that hope is a useless word
in the English vocabulary. All of mine died with your mother.”

Valerie’s breath caught at the admission, tears obscuring her
vision as the portly British maid, who’d been part of the family
ever since Valerie could recall, entered the room carrying Father’s
belongings. He donned his winter coat.

“I hadn’t planned to stay home to entertain a houseguest.”

“I don’t expect you to.” He moved into the foyer and adjusted
his black top hat. “Adalia will show him to his room, and you
can go to your party.”

“But—”

He swung open the front door and disappeared, closing it
behind him before Valerie could speak again. All she could do
was stand there, stunned.

At last she exhaled, her lower lip extended so the puff of air
soared upward and wafted over the strands on her forehead. “Oh,
this is a fine mess.” She folded her arms.

“You needn’t worry. I’ll be sure to tidy the gentleman’s room.”

“I know you will.” Valerie smiled at the good-natured woman.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, dearie. But here now—” Adalia bustled
across the room and slipped one arm around Valerie’s shoulders.
“Don’t look so glum.”

“I can’t help it.” Valerie’s bottom lip quivered as she peered
into the maid’s bright green eyes. “My father has no room in his
life for me, Adalia. I’m a burden to him.” She paused. “Maybe I
always have been, but I never noticed because of Mama.”

Adalia patted her shoulder.

When the moment passed, Valerie straightened. “Well, Father
said I can go to the party. I’ve been looking forward to it.”

“Go. I’ll take care of Mr. McCabe. Now you’d best be getting
yourself ready.”

Valerie gazed down at her dark skirts. “And another thing. I’m
tired of this dreary mourning garb. It’s been six months.”

“That it has, and you’ve fulfilled your societal obligations and
behaved as any good daughter would.” Holding her by the shoulders,
she turned Valerie so they stood face-to-face. “I don’t think
I’m out of place to say that y’ mother’d want each of us to go on
with our living. So go and have fun tonight. As for y’ father’s guest,
he can occupy himself in the library. Plenty o’ books in there.”

Valerie sighed, remembering some of Father’s former houseguests.
“He’s probably some eccentric old geezer who’ll just want
to read and go to sleep anyway.”

Adalia snorted. Her eyes twinkled with amusement. “We’ve
seen our share of those over the years, now haven’t we?”

“Yes.” A smile crept across Valerie’s face. “We certainly have
at that.”

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