court.”
“Then,” he drawled, unfolding his arms and coming around to her side of the desk, “while I appreciate your moral support in the present situation, I really—”
“What I have is a story to tell you,” she interjected before he could actually gesture to the door and ask her to leave.
“A story.”
He was more irritated than he was interested. But she’d committed herself to trusting him for the moment and there was nothing to do now but plow ahead and hope he was gentleman enough to listen and desperate enough to offer his assistance. “Tell me, Mr. Stanbridge,” she began, “have you ever heard the name Jean Lafitte?”
With a sigh of obviously strained patience, he sat on the corner of his desk, refolded his arms and answered, “He was a pirate, as I recall. Turn of the century. That’s the sum total of my recollection. History was not one of my favorite subjects in school.”
“He was a Baratarian pirate,” Isabella clarified. “A reformed one, depending on who’s telling the story. What do you know of the 1814 Battle of New Orleans?”
Shrugging, he supplied simply, “It was a slaughter of British troops. A needless one since the war had ended some days earlier.”
His lack of interest in the topic didn’t, unfortunately, make it any less vital to the explanation she had to give him. “Yes, the news didn’t reach America in time to prevent it,” Isabella said, trudging on. “Andrew Jackson was the commander of the American army in New Orleans. Such as it was. If accolades are to be awarded for the victory, they rightly go to Jean Lafitte. It was his men and his knowledge of the terrain that tipped the advantage to the American side.”
He cocked a brow and sighed, not bothering to make it politely quiet. “And the point of this history lesson?”
She bristled at his tone, but deliberately set her irritation aside to continue. “Andrew Jackson not only became a national hero as a result of that battle, but also our seventh president.”
“So you’re a Yank.”
“Yankees are Northerners,” she corrected, trying, and failing, to sound unruffled. It took considerable effort, but she summoned a smile and a softer tone of voice to add, “I am a Southerner, Mr. Stanbridge. A Louisianian of Acadian descent.”
“My apologies,” he offered with a strained smile. “The insult was unintentional, a consequence of English ignorance. Please continue.”
Despite his obvious hope that she wouldn’t, Isabella did, saying, “Jackson may have had a good number of faults, but he was loyal to those he considered friends. And he reportedly counted Jean Lafitte as a member of that small group. He is also reported to have believed it quite appropriate to use his influence to reward his friends handsomely for their respective services to him and their country.”
In the pause she took for a breath, he asked dryly, “What does all this have to do with your cousin?”
“I’m working my way in that direction,” she retorted, months of worry and frustration bubbling to the surface. She tamped down her irritation to add, “Please try to have just a bit of patience. The foundation of the past must be carefully laid or the present circumstances won’t make any sort of sense at all.”
He nodded and eased off the desk. Gesturing at the chair beside her, he asked, “Would you care for a cup of coffee?”
“I’d love one,” she admitted, gratefully dropping down onto the upholstered seat. “Thank you,” she added, more for the fact that he’d at least resigned himself to hearing her out than anything else.
Barrett watched her out of the corner of his eye as he made his way to the sideboard and the silver coffee service. He had thought, in the first moments she’d walked in, that he was seeing a ghost, but, after that initial shock had passed, the differences had been more apparent than the similarities. She was more slightly built than her cousin had been. And definitely more
“Then,” he drawled, unfolding his arms and coming around to her side of the desk, “while I appreciate your moral support in the present situation, I really—”
“What I have is a story to tell you,” she interjected before he could actually gesture to the door and ask her to leave.
“A story.”
He was more irritated than he was interested. But she’d committed herself to trusting him for the moment and there was nothing to do now but plow ahead and hope he was gentleman enough to listen and desperate enough to offer his assistance. “Tell me, Mr. Stanbridge,” she began, “have you ever heard the name Jean Lafitte?”
With a sigh of obviously strained patience, he sat on the corner of his desk, refolded his arms and answered, “He was a pirate, as I recall. Turn of the century. That’s the sum total of my recollection. History was not one of my favorite subjects in school.”
“He was a Baratarian pirate,” Isabella clarified. “A reformed one, depending on who’s telling the story. What do you know of the 1814 Battle of New Orleans?”
Shrugging, he supplied simply, “It was a slaughter of British troops. A needless one since the war had ended some days earlier.”
His lack of interest in the topic didn’t, unfortunately, make it any less vital to the explanation she had to give him. “Yes, the news didn’t reach America in time to prevent it,” Isabella said, trudging on. “Andrew Jackson was the commander of the American army in New Orleans. Such as it was. If accolades are to be awarded for the victory, they rightly go to Jean Lafitte. It was his men and his knowledge of the terrain that tipped the advantage to the American side.”
He cocked a brow and sighed, not bothering to make it politely quiet. “And the point of this history lesson?”
She bristled at his tone, but deliberately set her irritation aside to continue. “Andrew Jackson not only became a national hero as a result of that battle, but also our seventh president.”
“So you’re a Yank.”
“Yankees are Northerners,” she corrected, trying, and failing, to sound unruffled. It took considerable effort, but she summoned a smile and a softer tone of voice to add, “I am a Southerner, Mr. Stanbridge. A Louisianian of Acadian descent.”
“My apologies,” he offered with a strained smile. “The insult was unintentional, a consequence of English ignorance. Please continue.”
Despite his obvious hope that she wouldn’t, Isabella did, saying, “Jackson may have had a good number of faults, but he was loyal to those he considered friends. And he reportedly counted Jean Lafitte as a member of that small group. He is also reported to have believed it quite appropriate to use his influence to reward his friends handsomely for their respective services to him and their country.”
In the pause she took for a breath, he asked dryly, “What does all this have to do with your cousin?”
“I’m working my way in that direction,” she retorted, months of worry and frustration bubbling to the surface. She tamped down her irritation to add, “Please try to have just a bit of patience. The foundation of the past must be carefully laid or the present circumstances won’t make any sort of sense at all.”
He nodded and eased off the desk. Gesturing at the chair beside her, he asked, “Would you care for a cup of coffee?”
“I’d love one,” she admitted, gratefully dropping down onto the upholstered seat. “Thank you,” she added, more for the fact that he’d at least resigned himself to hearing her out than anything else.
Barrett watched her out of the corner of his eye as he made his way to the sideboard and the silver coffee service. He had thought, in the first moments she’d walked in, that he was seeing a ghost, but, after that initial shock had passed, the differences had been more apparent than the similarities. She was more slightly built than her cousin had been. And definitely more
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