“I’ll try, Papa.”
Simone made her way along the streets for an hour, shopping for a few small items. She stopped by the jewelry store to try on a ring that she especially wanted, an opal that would go with a new dress she had just bought. She was tempted strongly but did not have enough money to buy it at the moment. She said as much to the clerk.
“Certainly, Mademoiselle d’Or,” the clerk said, smiling. “When you purchase the ring, it will look very beautiful on your hand.”
Leaving the store, Simone decided that she would go visit one of her old classmates after all—but not one of the Four Musketeers. This was another friend from the convent named Marie. She made her way down to Royal Street and climbed the stairs to the second floor, where Marie had rented an apartment.
She knocked on the door. When it opened, she smiled and said, “Hello, Marie. I’ve come to visit.”
“Simone, I’m so glad to see you! Come in at once.”
Marie Devois was a large woman of twenty-seven, three years older than Simone. She was strongly built with the big chest of a singer. Her coloring was spectacular: red hair, flashing green eyes, and a beau-tiful peachy complexion. She wore too much makeup for Simone’s taste, but she had found Marie to be a good friend. Marie had been at the convent only one year and had been an older girl, but the two had become close during that time. Marie could not tolerate the discipline of the convent and left with the professed intention of becoming a singer at the opera. She had traveled quite a bit and led an independ-ent life for a woman.
“I’ll make some tea, and we can have some beignets.”
“Well, I had breakfast, but that sounds good.”
Marie fixed the tea and the two went out on the balcony, where they watched the crowd through the black grillwork. Several times men looked up and saw the two women; they called out greetings, lift-ing their hats.
“How’s your career going, Marie?”
“Oh, all right, I suppose. I’m a stand-in for Louise Perlotta.” She took a bite of the beignet, which left a dust of powdered sugar on her upper lip. She licked it off and turned to Simone. “I want you to help me pray for something.”
“Pray for what?”
“That she’ll break her leg!”
Simone laughed and shook her head. “I couldn’t pray for that.” She barely believed in prayer, but she still couldn’t ask for such a silly thing.
“Of course you can! She’s got plenty of money, and I don’t have any at all. If she broke her leg, I could become a star.”
“Think of an easier request.”
“All right. There’s a new opera going to be put on. It’s called Juliet. It’s written by a Frenchman named Cuvier.”
“Yes, I’ve heard of it,” Simone said. Marie had obviously not heard of her doings with the marquis, and she did not want to discuss them. “Tell me about it.”
“They say it’s beautifully done. The last work that Lord Beaufort wrote. That’s the older Lord Beaufort. His son now has the title. But it’s going to be a smashing opera.”
“You always say that, Marie.”
“Well, this time it’s true. The lead’s going to be sung by Lord Beaufort himself. He’s the sensation of the French opera, Simone, a nobleman, and I hear he’s frighteningly handsome.”
“I think his name is Colin Seymour.”
Marie stared at her. “I thought he was Lord Beaufort.”
“Well, Colin Seymour is his American name. Lord Beaufort is his title. And he wasn’t really the son of Lord Beaufort except by adoption.”
“Well, I want you to pray that I’ll get a role in that new opera! Everyone says it’s going to be the best thing that ever hit New Orleans.”
The two women chatted for a while, and then Simone rose to leave. “I hope you get the role, Marie. I may even actually pray about it!”
“If he’s as good-looking as they say, and as rich, I’m going to try for more than just a little singing part.” Marie winked and said, “I may get the fellow himself.”
“You mean fall in love with him?”
Marie laughed. “That would help, but it’s not entirely necessary. When a man’s got a title, looks, and money, love can wait in the closet!”
It was Monday, three days after Simone’s conversation with Marie Devois, that Simone found Bayard out in the garden. His easel was set up, and he was painting a picture of a spectacularly colorful bank of roses.
Standing beside him, Simone looked at what he had done and said, “That’s very good, Bayard.”
“I suppose it’s all right.” He turned and looked at Simone. “Are you still angry at me for coming home drunk?”
“It hurt Papa and Mama.”
“I know. I wish they wouldn’t feel so bad about my bad behavior.”
“How can they help it, Bayard?”
“It’s quite a burden being an only son.” He turned back, made several more passes with his brush, then asked abruptly, “Are you going to marry Claude?”
“Oh, I don’t know.”
“He’s very determined.”
“I’m not sure we’re suited for each other.”
“That’s not what he says.”
Simone did not want to speak of it and began to ask more ques-tions about his painting. He answered them absentmindedly. Finally he said, “Do you ever think about Lord Beaufort?”
“I haven’t forgotten him, of course.”
“The more I think about the duel, the more I hate it. Lord Beaufort was a nice chap, and he wound up a cripple. Do you feel any guilt about it?”
“Why should I feel guilt?” Simone answered sharply. “It was none of my doing.”
“Of course it was, Simone. The fight was over you.”
“I didn’t ask them to fight over me.”
“You didn’t do much to stop it, either. Well, it’s all in the past now, and I’ve done worse things. But do you remember Beaufort’s protégé?”
“Yes, his name was Seymour.”
“That’s right. Well, he’s back in New Orleans.”
“Yes, I’ve heard. He’s going to do an opera that his adopted father wrote.”
“How did you know that?”
“Marie told me. She wants a part in the opera.”
“Well, I’m worried. Claude has said something about Seymour. You know Seymour punched him at the duel. Claude doesn’t forget things like that. He may call Seymour to account for it.”
“You must try to talk him out of it, Bayard,” Simone said quickly.
“I have tried, but he’s not very reasonable about things like this.”
“I wish you’d find a different set of friends. Claude and his group aren’t good for you.”
“Why, I thought you were half in love with him.”
Ignoring his comment, Simone said, “They’re not the kind of people an artist needs. All they think about is drinking and wenching and going to balls. If you’re going to be a great artist, you’re going to have to work at it.”
“No sermons, Sister.”
“Well, I think they’re bad for you.” She suddenly took his arm, and he turned around to face her in surprise. “You’re the only son in our family, Bayard. Our hopes are in you.”
Bayard’s eyes softened, but he shook his head. “I’m just a prodi-gal, born to be so.” He dipped his brush in paint and returned to his work.
As Simone left, she thought of what he had said about Colin Seymour. I wish he had never come back, she thought. I’ll have to talk to Claude. He mustn’t fight the man.
Chapter eight
“Bayard, I want to speak to you about this young woman you’re tak-ing to the ball.”
Bayard, who was just putting the final touches on his tie, gave his father an odd look. Arching one eyebrow, he said, “You mean Miss Eileen Funderberg? Why would you want to discuss her?”
Bayard was standing in front of a full-length mirror, examining his costume, which consisted of a black-and-green silk waistcoat, a white shirt
, black tie, a single-breasted long-skirted frock coat made of green velvet, and a pair of black trousers. He was a fine-looking man and had the art of making anything he put on look fashionable. Even his oldest clothes showed style and good taste.
Louis d’Or studied his son glumly. He had gone to Bayard’s room specifically to speak with him on a rather touchy subject, but now he seemed to have difficulty finding the words. He paced up and down the room for a moment, pulling at his beard, which was beginning to show signs of gray. Finally he blurted out, “You’ve got to be careful how you treat this young woman, Bayard.”
“I’m always careful with young women.”
“No, you’re not.”
Bayard turned, slightly shocked. “Why, what do you mean, Father?”
“I mean you do what you please with young women. And to be blunt about it, with Claude Vernay’s crowd, you’ve been running with the wrong kind of young women. Do you think I don’t hear the sto-ries of things that you and your friends have done?”
“I’ve guarded myself against bringing any disgrace on you, sir.”
“Well, you’ve got to be cautious tonight.” Taking a deep breath, Louis said, “Eileen Funderberg’s father, Oscar, is an important man in this town. He’s also a man filled up with family pride.”
“I thought you liked family pride.”
“I do, and I wish I saw more determination in you to have it.”
“I’m sorry I disappoint you, Father.”
“No, you’re not sorry, Bayard. Don’t pretend you are.” Sadness came into Louis d’Or’s voice, and his shoulders slumped. “I don’t know what to think of you. You’re smart, fine-looking, and you could be anything you want to, but all you do is play with paint and run around after women at these Creole balls and worse. I’m ashamed of you, Bayard.”
Bayard flushed. “I know you are. To tell the truth, I’m ashamed of myself.”
“Then why don’t you change, son? Why do you keep pursuing this disastrous lifestyle?”
“I don’t know. I wish I did.”
Louis threw his hands out in a gesture of despair. “Your mother and I want the very best for you, and your sister, too, of course. I’ve been against your becoming a painter because it seems a frivolous occupation to me, but if that’s what you want to do, then by heavens, be a good one! You’re nothing now but a dabbler. You need to find something and throw yourself into it with all of your heart.”
Bayard d’Or listened as his father continued to speak passion-ately. He had grown pale and could find no argument to confront his father’s words. He was, indeed, rather weary of the endless round of parties, balls, hunts, and other social functions that had filled his life since he was seventeen years old. For a time he had been excited about becoming an artist. He knew he had talent, but he did not have drive. His professor of art had grown angry at him. “You are throwing your life away,” he had shouted, “and your talent also! I’m fed up with you!”
The professor’s words seemed to echo in Bayard’s memory, and he stood silently as his father continued to speak. Finally, when he saw an answer was expected, he shrugged his trim shoulders and said, “I wish I were a different sort of man, but I’m just what I am.”
“But people can change, son.”
“Maybe some people. I don’t seem to be one of them.”
Louis stood silently, his lips drawn tightly together. Of all the dis-appointments in his life, Bayard’s failure to grow up and become a man of purpose, a man who counted, was the keenest. He said wearily, “Well, we’ve argued about this for years now, but I want to tell you that you must not play with Miss Funderberg’s affections.”
“I have no intention of doing so.”
“You never have an intention of doing so, as you put it, but her father is a good friend of mine. He’s also very protective of his daugh-ter. There have been enough young bucks trying to marry her for her money, and he’s suspicious. If you have any sense at all, you won’t trifle with her.”
“I think I can promise that, Father.” Bayard pulled at his tie and said, “She’s a nice girl, but not at all the sort of woman that interests me.”
“Then why did you ask her to the ball?”
“Mother talked me into it. I wish she hadn’t.”
Louis stared at his son, then turned and walked out. As he reached the door, Bayard said, “Father, I’m sorry I’m not the kind of son that you had hoped for.”
“I haven’t given up, Bayard. You need something to bring you out of this mood of helplessness. You are our hope. You’ll bear my name, and I hope you will bear it proudly. That’s my prayer.”
The door closed, and Bayard sat down. He leaned forward, put his forehead against his open palms, and sat slumped over, the picture of misery. Finally he lifted his head and whispered, “I just wish you had a better son, but you don’t.” He got up then, and thoughts of the ball were almost painful. He liked Eileen Funderberg well enough, but he knew that she was not the kind of woman who could make him happy, nor indeed the kind he could make happy. He moved toward the door, wishing that the evening were over.
The ball was held at the rotunda of the St. Louis Hotel—the same place sometimes used during the daylight hours to sell slaves. The mayor had spared no expense to make a spectacular scene.
The room was large and very ornate. The walls were white, the floors marble, and chandeliers of delicately cut crystal hung in a line down the middle of the room. These were lit with hundreds of candles. Tables stretched along one long wall of the room and were covered with fine, white linen. The finest china and crystal dishes held delicate foods of all sorts. Damask-covered chairs of gold, green, and blue lined three of the four walls of the room, and along the back wall was the orchestra, sitting four deep in a half circle.
As Simone entered the ballroom holding Claude’s arm, she whis-pered to him, “The mayor is going all out.”
“Yes, he is. I expect all this money could have been spent better on something else—but I can’t think of what that might be.”
Music filled the room, and Simone and Claude glided around the floor. They knew almost everyone, and soon Bayard entered with Eileen Funderberg on his arm. She was a small girl with cinnamon-colored hair and light green eyes. When the dance concluded, Simone and Claude walked over to greet them.
“Eileen, you look beautiful,” Simone said and kissed her cheek.
“Thank you, Simone. Of course, you outshine everyone here.”
The two talked for a moment, and then the orchestra—which Simone noticed was the same one that played for Enoch Herzhaft’s opera house—provided the music. They were excellent musicians, and Simone enjoyed herself.
Thirty minutes after Simone and Claude arrived, the mayor, George Ahern, stepped up on the podium. As soon as the music stopped, he said, “My dear friends, I have already welcomed you to the dance celebrating my daughter’s betrothal, but I have a very spe-cial treat for you.”
“He’s probably going to take up a collection to pay for this party,” Claude whispered.
Simone shushed him but smiled. “I think he’s got enough money to take care of that himself.”
“I am happy to announce that we have a very special guest with us tonight. Some of you are aware that the Marquis Colin Seymour, Lord Beaufort by his title, has come to our fair city to put on an opera by his late, lamented father. Lord Beaufort, as some of you who follow the opera know, has become the sensation of France with his performances there in Paris. I have prevailed upon the marquis to favor us with a song. Lord Beaufort, we await with expectation your offering.”
Simone was shocked. She stared at Colin Seymour, who stepped up on the podium and stood smiling over the crowd. I would never have known him! she thought. Then the orchestra began to play, and he sang an aria in Italian from Julius Caesar by Handel. Simone could not believe the tone and the quality of Seymour’s voice as he sang. There was a sweetness to it that she had never heard in the voice of any man, but at the same time a r
obust power that she knew he held back; he could have rattled the chandeliers if he had chosen.
And his appearance! He had gained weight and wore a plain gray suit with a frilled white shirt and no ornament except a simple ring on his right hand. More than that, he had matured beyond belief. When she had seen him before, he had been almost a callow youth, but now there was strength in every aspect of his body and maturity in his face. He was clean-shaven, and his skin was a slight bronze. The freshness of his complexion made his cornflower-blue eyes even more notice-able, and she saw that time and something else had tempered him and made him into a man of purpose and determination.
Colin sang the love song, which was humorous at times, and his eyes reflected the quick wit that lay behind the words, but when he reached the part of the solo that called for the profession of love, there was something real and startling about him. She knew that most singers were poor actors indeed, standing woodenly on the stage, not moving except from one side of the stage to the other. But Seymour moved his arms and once lifted his hands when he held a note that spoke of his feelings for his beloved.
When the song ended, the crowd burst into a spontaneous ova-tion. People called, “Bravo!” just as they did at the opera, and Simone saw that Colin Seymour took the applause with dignity, smiling and bowing slightly and finally stepping off the podium.
“Well, he’s back.”
Simone turned to look at Claude. “Yes, he is. He looks so different.”
“I agree. He’s moved up in the world. Come, let’s dance.”
Simone caught the curtness of Claude’s voice and noted the hard look that came into his eyes. She started to say something about what Bayard had warned her of, but she decided it was not the place. She moved around the floor, and then when the music ended, they applauded. Simone turned with Claude to leave the floor, but Mayor Ahern met her instead.
“Ah, Miss d’Or, how lovely you look tonight.”
“Thank you, Mayor. How kind of you to say so.”
“I say only the truth. But Miss d’Or, you must allow me to intro-duce our guest to you. I promised him a dance with the most beauti-ful woman at the ball, and of course, you can’t refuse.” He turned and said, “Lord Beaufort, may I present to you Miss Simone d’Or. Miss d’Or, the marquis.”
The Creole Historical Romance 4-In-1 Bundle Page 61
