The orchestra began to play the opening chords of another quadrille, and she watched angrily as she saw Vidal leading the lissome redhead out on the floor again to complete a group of dancers. With a sigh she turned back to Maurice.
“I’m sorry I didn’t hear you,” she confessed. “You were saying?”
“That, all considered, your cousin does have a right to his private life. He’s a bachelor and a free agent. But… but… you really didn’t hear what else I said?”
“No, I’m sorry. I was momentarily distracted.”
“Well, I… I was only trying to point out to you that, just as Vidal has a right to live his own life, so do you. After all, you’ll be eighteen this coming January. You should begin thinking about making your own world… one more to your liking.”
“Yes, I’d like that,” Monique admitted. “But the courts wouldn’t emancipate me unless my grandmother and guardian said they agreed to my being completely independent before I was twenty-one, and I doubt they’d do that.”
“I do, too,” agreed Maurice, “but there is another way.”
Monique’s eyes lit up. “I’d like that. If only I could… especially before that Azema Ducole completely dominates my guardian and succeeds in convincing him to make an honest woman of her. I hate to think of the day when he walks in with her on his arm as the new lady of the house! I use the term ‘lady’ lightly, of course!”
“If you were married yourself, neither he nor anyone he’d marry would have anything more to do with you,” Maurice declared, anxiously watching her reaction to the idea.
The frilly pink fan stopped fluttering for a moment. “Yes,” she said slowly. “I confess the thought has occurred to me, but…”
Foucher’s freckled face became suddenly animated, and he went on quickly, the words pouring out of his mouth now in a fountain of hope. “Then why not? Why not marry? Surely you know I’d marry you in a minute if you’d just say yes, and I promise I’d never try to dominate or mistreat you in any way. I’m so in love with you, Monique, I’d be your slave. I’d do your every bidding!”
Monique turned all her attention now to her enamored beau. Yes, she knew, with that womanly instinct awakening in her, that being married to Maurice would be the same as emancipation for her, if independence was all she really wanted.
“But I’m not of age yet, and the authorities here know Cousin Miguel. They wouldn’t want to marry us without his consent, and my guardian has told me often enough that he has no intention of giving it as long as he holds that position, so there’s no way…”
“But there is,” insisted Maurice, pressing his suit now that he saw she was at least receptive to the idea.
“It’s not possible, I tell you… not now, anyway. Perhaps if I could convince my grandmother to recommend to the courts that my guardian be changed… But no, she’d never do that. She and Cousin Miguel are closer than ever now.”
“We could elope!” he whispered in her ear, suddenly made bold by her seeming willingness to discuss at least the possibility of marrying him, something she had never before given him an opportunity to do.
On seeing that she still did not detain him, he rushed on softly in her ear, elaborating on the theme while the lilting music of the quadrille sounded in the background and Monique watched her guardian going through the paces of the dance with Azema. Reluctant as she was to admit it, they did make a striking couple. Azema Ducole was a joy to behold at that moment as she did the two-hand turns, her glorious red-gold mane streaming rhythmically be-hind her while her pale blue skirts whirled about those long, shapely limbs of hers, so tantalizingly glimpsed every time she gave a pretty turn.
Monique sighed. No wonder her cousin didn’t even think of her as a woman when he compared her to a full-blown creature like that—with her sensuous breasts half exposed in the low sweep of her simple, unadorned neckline and the rest of her so emphatically marked by her tightly laced bodice! It didn’t take much imagination to picture how alluring Azema Ducole must look to her guardian every time she lay naked in his arms responding to his caresses…
Monique turned suddenly to Maurice, trying to blot out the image that had occurred to her, shocked and angry with herself for having even entertained such thoughts. She had only half heard what Maurice had been saying to her, but she had made her decision.
“If there really is a way it can be done, I’ll marry you,” she told him in a matter-of-fact tone.
Maurice Foucher’s mouth hung open in the middle of a sentence. Her unexpected acceptance left him momentarily speechless. Still incredulous, yet not daring to give her time to change her mind, he caught her limp hand in his and, after a quick glance around them to be certain they couldn’t be overheard, proceeded to discuss more fully the details of his proposal.
“If you really want to elope,” he told her enthusiastically, “then the best time to do it is tonight.”
Chapter Twenty-three
Monique slipped back into the ballroom while Maurice nervously waited for her in the foyer with their wraps.
“I don’t want Celeste or my grandmother to be worried,” she had explained to him. “Just yesterday the Moniteur had a note about the disappearance of another girl. That’s the second one in only a few months, so Grandmother would think the worst right away. No, I couldn’t go off like that without at least telling them I was going to be married and not to worry about me.”
Celeste, however, was horrified by the whole idea. While the orchestra sounded still another quadrille and Azema Ducole kept their guardian busy going through his paces on the ballroom floor, Monique tried to convince her sister that what she was doing was for the best.
“We plan to leave a false trail by going out of the city by the North Gate, but we’ll cut over to the west once we get to the fork farther up the river road about a half mile before Le Rêve. From there we can go on into the Acadian country and be married at the parish church in St. Martinville. Maurice says they’re good-hearted people and should receive us well, especially when we tell them how we’re fleeing from a cruel guardian.”
Celeste shook her golden-brown head disapprovingly. “Oh, Monique, Cousin Miguel has never been cruel to us!”
“He’s a despot, stifling us at every turn while he goes merrily along taking his pleasures where he pleases!”
“But to elope? I’m sure if you talked it over with Grandmother and Cousin Miguel, they’d take your wishes into consideration and would give you and Maurice their blessing. Wouldn’t it be better to do it that way?”
“Oh, no, Cousin Miguel would never give his consent. He’s told me time and again that he’ll never permit me to marry as long as he’s my guardian, and most certainly he’ll never accept Maurice. I daresay he hates Maurice as much… as much as I hate that cat-eyed Azema!”
“But tonight? Merciful heavens! So soon? Why must it be precisely tonight? Shouldn’t you… both of you… consider things just a little more? Marriage is such a big step!”
“We’ve been working out the details all evening,” insisted Monique, “and I tell you, we’ll never have a better opportunity to get away undetected than we do right now. No one will even notice we’ve gone until we’re well on our way. What’s more, with the ball, there’s been so much activity at the gates all evening that one more carriage won’t attract attention.”
Celeste was near tears, her voice trembling with emotion. “Oh, Monique, please… please don’t do this thing! You’re so impulsive. Maurice is a good friend, I know, but to marry him? Are you sure? And there’s a storm brewing outside, too. It’s no night to travel.”
“Now, Celeste, please don’t try to stop me,” begged Monique, but she was near to weeping now herself. She cast a final glance toward Miguel Vidal where he was still dancing with Azema. “I’m so miserable here,” she said sadly. “I just want to go away from this horrid place… away from the Spanish yoke and… and Cousin Miguel and… and that horrid Ducole woman. I know I won’t be satisfied until I’m free o
f them all, and the sooner the better. But you must promise me, on your sacred oath, that you won’t tell anyone where we’re going.”
“I… I can’t hide the truth from Grandmother. You know she’ll be beside herself when she learns about this.”
Monique lowered her eyes with momentary remorse. “All right,” she acquiesced. “You can tell her, but at least give us a day or two before you do. By that time, there will be little Cousin Miguel will be able to do except accept the facts.”
Celeste was weeping so uncontrollably that Monique feared someone might notice and come over to see what was the matter. “Please, my dear, don’t fret so,” she begged gently. “It’s not as though we’ll never see each other again. Maurice and I will come back when things are better here. I promise. Be sure to tell Grandmother that.”
With a quick embrace, Monique brushed her wet cheek against her sister’s in a discreet adieu. Then she dashed away, trying to keep her head turned so no one could see the hot tears scalding her flushed face. The ball was at its height at that moment, however, and everyone was too busy enjoying the dancing or the chatter on the sidelines near the buffet tables to concern themselves over a few excited youngsters running to and fro.
Monique was already beginning to have second thoughts by the time she had joined her impatient bridegroom nervously waiting for her in the entrance hall. But he immediately rushed to meet her and, throwing her long hooded cape around her shoulders, led her quickly toward the exit before she had time to think or hesitate any longer.
As soon as they stepped out into the heavy night air, a moist breeze greeted them and set her skirts to flapping about her legs. Tiny droplets of rain hit her face as they made their way toward Maurice’s cabriolet, so she drew the hood of her cloak closer about her head. Her new ball gown would probably be ruined, but she was past caring about such things now.
Chapter Twenty-four
On the pretext of going to find refreshments, Vidal had at last managed to tear himself away from Azema. He walked rapidly over to where the youngsters seemed to be congregating the most.
He was anxious to see Monique again. She had been so furious about Azema… The extent of her anger had surprised him. Could she possibly care about him as a woman cares about a man? Certainly she had looked like a desirable, sensual woman tonight with her flushed cheeks, her smoldering eyes, and those seductive curves of her young body. He longed to feast his eyes on her once more and, if possible, fathom the depths of that anger.
He hadn’t seen Monique in well over an hour now, and all the time he had been dancing and conversing and then dancing again, he had been trying to catch a glimpse of that familiar head of wheat-colored curls bobbing about somewhere among the milling guests who filled the salon.
But his ward was nowhere to be seen. Just the fact that he couldn’t see her filled him with apprehension. With that impulsive nature of hers, the girl had a knack for getting into trouble. He had left her in a spiteful mood… there was no telling what she might do if left to her own wiles.
He found himself trying to spot the shaggy blond head of Maurice Foucher, fearful there might be another scene in the making like the one on the gallery that summer.
At last he caught sight of Celeste’s slim little figure in lavender sitting over in a corner looking strangely doleful. By all the saints! What was the matter with the men of New Orleans to leave a pretty young girl like that sitting on the sidelines?
He made his way hurriedly over to her, determined to perk up his little ward by inviting her to dance. Why, the girl looked positively crushed. It annoyed him to see her neglected like that.
But even as he made his way over to her, he saw how she was refusing a young boy’s invitation to dance at that very moment.
“Why, Celeste aren’t you feeling well?” he asked solicitously, reaching her side just as her disappointed admirer was walking away from her.
The girl’s amber eyes looked up at him like a startled fawn’s. At the sight of him, she seemed to pale even more, and her reply was so disconnected that Vidal couldn’t make any sense of it.
“Celeste, child, if you’re ill, I’ll take you home this minute,” he offered, sitting down quickly in an empty chair beside her. The orchestra had begun to play a cotillion, and almost everyone was out on the dance floor once more. “You should have called me sooner,” he told her.
“Oh, mon Dieu! Mon Dieu!” was all the girl could murmur as she sat there, her kerchief crumpled in her hand. She indeed looked ill—as though she were about to faint away at any moment.
Vidal took her by the arm. “Come, my dear, we’ll go home this minute. Where’s Monique?” He cast a glance curiously around the room once more. “Your sister should have never left you alone like this if you weren’t feeling well.”
He assumed the girl felt too ill to reply, for she simply continued to sit there in mute despair.
“Where in the world is Monique?” he asked her again. “I don’t see her anywhere.” The terrified look creeping into the young girl’s eyes suddenly aroused his suspicions. Could it be his younger ward was indeed sick—very sick with fright? Something or someone seemed to have upset the young girl terribly, and Miguel Vidal had a fairly good idea now who was responsible.
“Come now, tell me, where’s that sister of yours?” he insisted, his blood beginning to boil at the thought of his more adventurous ward wandering off somewhere in Almonester’s mansion probably trapped behind another palmetto!
But Celeste only stared at him with large, frightened eyes and stubbornly shook her head. “I… I don’t know,” she faltered.
At that moment Azema came up to them rather impatiently.
“Really, Miguel! Whatever has been keeping you?” she asked crossly. “Here I am prostrate with thirst, waiting anxiously for you to bring me something, and all the while you’re sitting here chatting with this child!”
But Vidal was in no mood to humor his mistress’s tantrums. Ignoring her, he continued to direct his attention to Celeste. “I think you do know where your sister is,” he persisted, “and for her own good, you must tell me.”
“I… I can’t. Please, Cousin Miguel, don’t ask me!” pleaded the girl, twisting her kerchief nervously.
“If that other ward of yours is missing, you can be sure she’s off in some dark corner with one of her beaux, that’s all,” volunteered Azema with an amused laugh. From what she had caught of their conversation, they were making a fuss over nothing.
But Vidal was not to be put off. “Now look, Celeste,” he continued, addressing her in a sterner tone of voice now. “If you know anything, you’d better tell me. I’d prefer not to have to start searching Don Andres’s house from top to bottom for her. For Monica’s sake, let’s not make a scandal.”
At his last words, Celeste burst into tears. “Oh, Cousin Miguel, she… she isn’t here. She’s gone!”
“Gone?” echoed Vidal, his jaw dropping in disbelief. “You mean she’s left the premises?”
“Yes,” came the muffled reply between sobs.
Vidal sputtered helplessly for a moment as his thoughts raced wildly ahead of his speech. “She… she’s gone off with… with that Foucher boy, hasn’t she?” He caught her almost roughly by the arm.
“Oh, yes,” wailed Celeste. “She’s with Maurice. They’re eloping!”
“Eloping? Qué barbaridad! That’s all I needed!” A flood of Spanish exclamations poured out of him. “But the girl is daft!”
“She… she told me to tell you and Grandmother not to… not to worry—that she’ll be all right,” Celeste added meekly, trying to soothe him a little, although it was evident she didn’t fully believe her own words of consolation.
Suddenly the full impact of the news hit him. Only one thought was foremost in his mind now. He had to stop Monique before it was too late.
“Quick! Where did they go?”
His grip was on Celeste’s tiny wrist, but she hesitated. “I… I don’t know,” she insisted.
“Come now, I’m sure she told you something of their plans.”
The poor girl was sobbing uncontrollably now. “I… I don’t know,” she insisted.
Vidal pulled her up out of the chair and drew her aside so that those who were beginning to eye them with budding curiosity couldn’t hear what they were saying. “Come now, Celeste,” he coaxed more gently now, trying not to frighten the youngster more than she already was. “You must tell me what you know… for your sister’s sake. She can’t be permitted to do this idiotic thing.”
“I… I can’t.” She stood there hanging her honey-colored curls in stubborn silence.
Vidal was beside himself. “Celeste, please! We’re wasting precious time. You’ll regret it to your dying day if you don’t tell me.”
“But I gave my sacred oath. She made me swear…”
Vidal ran his hand desperately through the shock of dark ringlets framing his anguished face.
“Don’t let false loyalty blind you to the greater things at stake here. Your sister’s whole future is in jeopardy,” he pleaded fervently. “And think of your grandmother. This could kill her.”
Poor Celeste was weakening. The burden of so great a secret was too much for her scant years.
“They’re… they’re going to… to the Acadian settlement,” she finally replied, seeming to be wringing the information out of her twisted handkerchief. “She said something about the parish church at St. Martinville.”
Vidal seemed to be about to sprout wings, but he paused a moment longer. “What time did they leave here? Quickly, how much head start do they have?”
“They left about an hour—no, an hour and a half ago, I think. Oh, I’m really not sure!”
Azema, who had been listening in aloof silence, suddenly caught Vidal by the sleeve to detain him. “Really, Miguel, you’re not thinking of riding out into the night after them?”
“Of course I am!” he retorted, surprised she would even ask such a question. “I’m sure I can overtake them if I go on horseback.” He turned again to Celeste.
Iron Lace Page 15
