Iron Lace

by Lorena Dureau

  “They’re in a carriage, I suppose?”

  “Yes, in Maurice’s cabriolet.”

  Vidal gave an exasperated snort. “The fool! To attempt such a journey on a night like this in so light a vehicle!”

  Azema blocked his way impatiently. “Miguel, aren’t you being rather melodramatic?” she chided, a cool, half-amused tone in her voice. “After all, if your little cousin has chosen to elope, she may have good reasons for it.”

  Vidal looked down at her from his full height, making no attempt to hide his annoyance. “If you’re implying what I think you are, senora, you’re quite out of your mind. My ward is only a child… a foolish one, perhaps, but only a child. She may be naive and impetuous, but most certainly she isn’t trying to cover up any transgression.”

  Azema laughed with a touch of sarcasm now. “Really, Miguel, for all your worldliness in so many things, you can be so blind where those little cousins of yours are concerned. Surely you’ve noticed by now that your ward is more of a woman than a child? If she wants to get married, why not let her do so and give her and the boy your blessing?”

  Vidal pulled his sleeve almost angrily from her grasp. “I don’t have time to argue fine points with you, senora,” he snapped. “I’m sure that, under the circumstances, you won’t mind if I ask Henri to take you and Celeste home for me. There simply isn’t a minute to lose.”

  He turned again to his unhappy young cousin. “If she’s going to Acadian territory, then I suppose they’ve taken the West Gate out of the city?”

  Celeste vacillated. She saw the anguish on her guardian’s face, ashen now above the snow-white folds of his high cravat. She couldn’t let him go off chasing out into the night like that, frantically roaming the lonely roads of the dark wilderness looking in vain for her sister.

  She could feel his dark eyes fixed on her—pleading —waiting for her reply.

  “They… they left by the North Gate,” she said at last. “Then at the fork on the levee road, just a little before Le Rêve, they plan to turn off and continue westward.”

  Vidal didn’t wait to hear more. He went dashing off toward the exit, pausing only to say a few hurried words to Henri Ducole on his way out before clapping his beaver hat firmly down on his head and vanishing into the inclement night.

  Celeste sank down into the nearest chair she could find, afraid that her legs would give way on her at any moment. She had broken her sacred oath and betrayed her sister’s confidence in her. Monique would probably never speak to her again!

  Chapter Twenty-five

  They had been riding for several hours now, and it was well after midnight. Although it hadn’t begun to rain yet, the wind had been steadily increasing in velocity, and the small one-horse carriage swayed and creaked noisily as it made its way doggedly down the dark, winding road running beside the levee. The Mississippi looked like tarnished silver in the overcast night, for there was very little moonlight to reflect. Not even the lanterns bobbing on either side of the cabriolet had helped much to illumine the road as they had flickered and sputtered feebly to the rhythm of their feverish race against time.

  Now, however. Foucher had drawn the carriage up to the side of the road in order to give their hard-pressed horse a momentary rest after their three-hour sprint on the wings of the wind. They were at the junction where the road either turned off to the west or continued straight north.

  Monique sat huddled next to Maurice, the full skirts of her wilted ball dress crushed into the limited space of the small two-seater. If only the tumult raging inside of her would stop long enough to let her think! As they had ridden on and on into the damp, inclement night, with the wind rushing— almost pushing—them along their way, her confusion had continued to mount until now it overwhelmed her. Between Maurice and the wind and her own torment, she simply couldn’t collect her thoughts. How she wished she could at least blot out that image of her guardian and Azema Ducole dancing together and shut out the sounds of Maurice’s voice and the roaring wind in her ears! Somewhere amid the turmoil roaring around her and within her, she had begun to wonder whether she would really like everything that being married to Maurice Foucher would entail.

  Now, as they paused on the lonely, dimly lit road, she was beginning to realize that, in the future, it would be like that—just she and Maurice. He was the one who would always be by her side now—not Miguel. Was Maurice Foucher the man, then, who would be holding her, making love to her for the rest of her life? It seemed that, although Miguel Vidal filled her dreams, the reality would be Maurice.

  She wondered whether she would react the same way to him as she had with Claude that night on the gallery. When the moment came and Maurice would begin to kiss and fondle her, how would she feel on opening her eyes to see it was Maurice’s face bending over her instead of her guardian’s?

  She tried to imagine how it would be to have Maurice kissing her and cupping his hands over her breasts and drawing her into the apex of his thighs, but the thought revolted her.

  Suddenly she realized Maurice had put his arm around her shoulder and at that very moment was drawing her closer to him. She stiffened and drew away.

  “What… what are you doing?” she demanded uneasily.

  “I’d just like to kiss you,” he said, bending eagerly toward her lips.

  But she pushed him away so violently that the carriage vibrated all the more in the wind.

  “Oh, don’t you dare!” she exclaimed indignantly.

  “But if we’re to be married… All I want is a little kiss, my dear, nothing else. I mean no disrespect.”

  “Well, we’re not married yet,” she declared emphatically, “so don’t think you can take liberties with me just because we’re alone out here in the middle of the night.”

  Maurice flushed self-consciously. “I wouldn’t dream of it!” he protested. “I… I just thought you might at least like me to kiss you. It’s all rather romantic, don’t you think? I mean, our eloping like this on the spur of the moment and all.”

  Monique frowned. She really didn’t find anything very romantic about being parked on the side of a dark road at one o’clock in the morning on a damp, windy night with rain threatening to come down on them at any moment. Actually, much as she had always liked to share her feelings of patriotism and mutual hatred of Spaniards with Maurice, she had just about come to the conclusion that she didn’t want to share any other kinds of feelings with him at all.

  “I don’t think we should try to go on any farther tonight,” she told him crossly. “The weather seems to be getting worse. How populated is the road to Acadiana?”

  “I’m not really sure,” admitted her prospective bridegroom, rather crestfallen now over his bride-to-be’s reaction to his efforts to add a little more romanticism to their flight. “But it does look as though we might be in for a bad storm, even a hurricane. Perhaps we should continue up the river road as far as Le Rêve and spend the night there. It’s our nearest refuge from this point… just up the road a piece. Is there anyone there now? I mean, would we be able to get in?”

  “Roselle and the field hands should be in their quarters out back, and usually grandmother leaves Old Meggie in charge of the main house when we’re not there, but the poor old soul is almost deaf and usually sleeps in her room up in the attic.”

  “Do you think it would occur to your guardian to look for us there?”

  “I doubt it. But you can never tell anything for sure about him. It’s never easy to predict what my cousin will do.”

  “Perhaps we ought to backtrack to my place. I’m sure my family would welcome us.”

  Monique was pensive for a moment. “I still think it might be better to go on to Le Rêve,” she said at last. “Even if Cousin Miguel were to find out about our elopement and that we took this road out of town, he’d probably go look for us at your place first.”

  There was the sound of horses’ hooves coming toward them over the road they had just traveled.

  “Listen
… someone’s coming!” exclaimed Monique, almost glad to know there were still other people abroad in that part of the world.

  “Some lone traveler, I wager, probably trying to get to his destination before the storm breaks. We probably should be doing the same thing,” declared Foucher.

  “Oh, Maurice, let’s hurry and stop off somewhere,” she begged, suddenly feeling very alone and afraid. “I don’t want to go any farther tonight!”

  “All right, my dear, whatever you want,” soothed Maurice. “The weather does seem to be getting worse. What’s more, I just remembered some friends of mine who live about two or three miles from here. They’ll help us, I’m sure, and that’s the least likely spot where Vidal would look for us.”

  He turned the carriage into the road forking off toward the west, but suddenly, without warning, the lone rider behind them came tearing out of the darkness.

  The tall silhouetted figure on horseback rushed past them as though he were part of the wind itself, but all at once reined in abruptly and, catching the horse drawing the cabriolet by its bridle, forced it to come to a halt.

  At that same moment the flickering lights of the carriage fell across a face as dark and stormy as the night.

  “God in heaven! It’s Miguel!” gasped Monique incredulously.

  The two runaways sat in guilty confusion as they watched Vidal dismount and walk directly up to their carriage, leading his panting, snorting horse behind him by its reins, while the wind lapped at the long tails of his frock coat and his sword danced a menacing rhythm against his boot tops. The high-crowned black hat, pulled down tightly over his frowning brow, made him look all the taller and more imposing as he unceremoniously reached into the carriage and, without so much as a word, pulled his amazed ward brusquely out to the ground beside him. Then, with his hand on his sword hilt, he motioned to Foucher to step down, too.

  Even the freckles on the young man’s face paled. He had always had a healthy respect for Don Miguel Vidal de la Fuente, and his awe had never been greater than at that moment, but he realized he had no other recourse at this point except to descend from his cabriolet and brazen it out with his future bride’s irate guardian.

  “Now, Don Miguel, before you say or do anything we might both regret, I think you should know that your ward and I are on our way to St. Martinville to be married,” he began in an unsteady voice, eyeing Vidal’s sword hand all the while. “Monique is with me of her own accord.”

  “My ward is under age, Foucher, as you well know, so she can have no ‘accord’ of her own whatsoever,” snapped Vidal. “Under the circumstances, I’d say it’ll be generous of me if I don’t run you through right here on the spot.”

  “I assure you I want to marry Monique.”

  “I wouldn’t call running off with a girl in the middle of the night the best way to prove your good intentions.”

  “I’m afraid it’s precisely because of your uncompromising attitude that Monique and I have had to resort to such unorthodox means,” retorted the young man, finally beginning to muster enough courage to stand up to Vidal’s wrath. “After all, if you’ll permit me to remind you, once Monique and I are married, the courts will recognize my rights over her as her husband—rights that will supersede all others, including yours as her guardian.”

  Vidal smiled sardonically. “Perhaps, but you’re not her husband yet, so there’s nothing to recognize at this moment except my legal guardianship over Mlle. Monique, and I tell you, senor, I will never consent to this.”

  Monique, who had been standing beside Vidal listening in dismay to the two men discussing her future, suddenly found her tongue and dared to break in.

  “I think I should have some voice in all of this,” she ventured indignantly, but her guardian turned angrily toward her and cut her short.

  “You just be quiet!” he snapped.

  “Am I not to have any say-so, then?”

  “If you don’t hush, you’ll have your say-so from a convent.”

  Monique glared at him from out of the ruffled frame of her black silk hood, which she was trying to hold close around her throat despite the nagging wind pulling at it. “Oh, but you’re horrid! A despicable tyrant!” she hissed at him between clenched teeth.

  “At this moment I feel every bit that and more,” he warned her with equal fury. “I’ve been riding the wind at top speed now for well over two hours so I could reach you in time to save you from this latest childish caprice of yours. One thing is certain, I’m in no mood for any arguments in the middle of a deserted road in the wee hours of the morning with a thunderstorm about to come down at any moment!”

  “Really, Vidal. my intentions toward your cousin are entirely honorable,” interrupted Maurice, trying to keep a conciliatory tone in his voice. He, too, was sporting a fancy rapier by his side, but he was painfully aware of the fact that next to Vidal’s finely tempered Toledo blade, his own seemed like a toy. Also, he was certain that his fair-to-middling swordsmanship would be found equally wanting if forced into competition with the Spaniard’s. “If you’d but give your consent, all of this would be unnecessary,” he pleaded.

  Vidal tried to hold on to the last vestiges of his patience. “Mira, Foucher, I may as well be frank with you and settle this matter once and for all. First of all, I don’t think Monica is mature enough to marry anyone right now, but even if she were, I’d never consent to her marrying you.”

  Maurice was taken aback. “But I love your cousin,” he protested. “I swear to you, Don Miguel, it wasn’t my intention just to run off with her. We were going to be married in—”

  “I don’t question your feelings, senor, nor do they interest me. Frankly, it’s only Monique’s future that concerns me.”

  “But what do you have against me? Is it simply because my loyalties are with the French instead of your country?”

  “I don’t give a damn about your loyalties, either, as long as you don’t drag my ward into your foolhardy world of radicalism and fantasy. Your very actions tonight simply show that you are as irrational in your private life as you are in your politics.”

  “Many a true patriot has been slandered before…”

  Vidal gave a short sarcastic laugh. “Patriot of what, may I ask? You’re simply a pigheaded fool, risking your life and the lives of those around you in treasonous activities on behalf of a country that doesn’t even want you… that doesn’t even know you exist! But permit me to remind you again, this is neither the time nor the place to be discussing politics or anything else. I’m afraid we’re in for a bad storm and we’d better get going before we find ourselves caught out here in the mud and rain… another situation brought about by your idiotic behavior!”

  Somewhat abashed, Foucher yielded. At least Vidal was right in one thing. They’d better get wherever they were going before the storm broke. The wind was increasing in force, and large drops of rain were beginning to fall.

  “For Monique’s sake, I agree we should get to some shelter,” acquiesced Maurice.

  “I don’t know where you’re going,” Vidal corrected him acidly. “It can be to hell for all I care, but for what it’s worth, I’d suggest that wherever you go, it be as far away as possible from me and my ward! And let me add that in the future you’ll approach my cousin at your peril. I’d hate to have to take certain actions unless they were absolutely necessary.”

  Foucher’s rain-spattered countenance colored despite his efforts to remain conciliatory. “Are you threatening me, senor?”

  Vidal shrugged his rapidly dampening shoulders with an exasperated sigh. “I don’t like making threats, and it’s not my usual manner of doing things, but if it’s a choice between your life or my ward’s, I’m afraid I wouldn’t hesitate for a moment in deciding which it would be. I’m sorry, but that’s the way it is.”

  Monique shook a tiny fist up at her guardian.

  “You’re… you’re ruthless and… and utterly detestable!”

  He looked down at her calmly from where
he towered over her, apparently unmoved by her outburst. “Yes, I’m afraid I could be both of those things if pushed far enough,” he agreed, “so I suggest that you and your friend here remember that.”

  Foucher held his ground for one last moment. “I won’t trouble you with my presence,” he told Vidal stiffly, “but for Monique’s sake, I’d still like to offer you my carriage so she can travel more comfortably.”

  Monique took a step toward the cabriolet, but Vidal caught her by the wrist and suddenly, without any preamble, hoisted her with one swift movement to the top of his horse. Then, before she could react, he had swung himself up behind her.

  “Thank you, Foucher, but I think we can make better time on horseback,” he replied curtly.

  Monique was about to dismount in protest, but he clamped his arm firmly around her waist and pinioned her there in front of him. “The carriage would be too cumbersome to maneuver on a muddy road,” he continued addressing himself to the young man, “and yet it would be too fragile to offer much protection if a heavy storm hit us. Frankly, if you’ll permit me to point out, you, too, might do well to abandon the cabriolet and just make all speed on your horse to wherever you plan to go.”

  Monique was squirming restlessly in the crook of his arm, but he only tightened his grip on her.

  “I think we’ve wasted enough time,” he told Maurice as the latter stood there alone on the road looking up at them rather bewilderedly from beside his carriage. Under the circumstances, the young man didn’t know what else to do except let her guardian take the girl wherever he wished.

  “I think we’re in for a bad one,” Vidal observed from his perch atop his horse. “Time is of the essence now.”

  His last words trailed off behind him as he flicked his roan and was off, riding on again on the crest of the rain-laden wind, holding his indignant ward fast in his arms.

  Chapter Twenty-six