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his cousin, extending his hand. He was grateful to Jerome for trying to help him gain his inheritance and help the plantation, but he still wasn’t quite convinced that this was a good idea.
    “Thank you, Jerome,” he said as they shook hands. “I appreciate your help. And when you get back to the plantation, will you make my apologies for me, and also ask Bernadette to take this young lady shopping tomorrow for a new wardrobe? She may as well have some decent clothes.”
    Jerome’s eyebrows raised and his grin spread. “All right. And don’t forget, her name is Josephine,” he said as he turned and walked toward the buggy.

Chapter Eight
    J osephine ran her fingers along the soft, pale green velvet drapes hanging alongside the big window of her room. She’d lain down again after her bath, unable to keep her eyes open after scrubbing herself clean. She hadn’t anything else to do, anyway, while she waited for Bernadette to fetch her to help cook--and she groaned at the prospect of fumbling around in the kitchen.
    Jerome had made it very clear that if she wanted to make this arrangement work that she’d need to be able to fit in society, and that Pierre’s father had insisted--although she didn’t know why.
    A knot of anxiety had become a permanent fixture in her stomach since she and Jerome had spoken, and as she looked out the window, she found her finger in her mouth, just about ready to bite her fingernail--a habit her mother had joked might be the end of her. She gasped and pulled her finger back, putting it in the pocket of the work apron she’d brought with her.
    How would she ever remember little things like that? They actually might be her undoing.
    Her body tensed as plumes of dust rose from the end of the drive, the rays of the setting fall sun laying dappled shadows from the willow trees that lined the drive. She placed her hand on her belly and closed her eyes for a moment at the thought that this might be her future husband--and she actually hoped it would be him so she could get past this part of her ordeal.
    Bernadette had said she’d come for her, but her nerves propelled her toward the mirror for one last look at her hair. She sighed and patted her chignon, her eyes falling to her apron and her dress--the best one she had--and her cheeks flushed. She looked around the room once more and lifted her skirts, resigned to the fact that it was all she had and she might as well make the best of it.
    She opened her door slowly and peeked down the long hallway, its dark walls covered with portraits. She saw no one, so with one ragged-booted foot she stepped out and squared her shoulders.
    She hadn’t gotten a tour of the house and didn’t really know where she was going, but she knew she’d burst if she stayed in her room one more minute, wondering if her future husband was even now coming up the steps.
    As she walked toward the stairs and glanced at the portraits, she stopped before one, its gilded frame catching her eye. The woman in the portrait was strikingly beautiful, her hair cascading over an exquisite white dress, pearls around her neck.
    The man standing next to her had his hand on her shoulder and looked down at her--and at the beautiful little boy sitting on her lap. She wished she knew more about her future family--at least who this lovely young family was. Her heart swelled at how happy they looked. Dare she even hope--no, she wouldn’t allow herself hope. Not after what she’d heard from Jerome.
    She just wanted to get on with it. She’d always been a hard worker, and she’d spent many years making sure that whatever she did pleased her father. She had experience at this and vowed once again to do whatever it took to make this work.
    She pulled her gaze away from the young family and took a few more steps toward the top of the grand, curved staircase. Portraits lined this wall, as well, and she closed her eyes, imagining the lovely lady in the portrait sweeping down the staircase,