Sweet Piracy

by Blake, Jennifer

  The walls of the dining room at Beau Repos above the wainscoting were hung with toile de Jouy in a pattern featuring Diana the huntress in red on a cream ground. Above the glittering board hung a chandelier in brass with dangling crystal lustres which featured the same goddess pursuing a stag around the base. The smell of myrtle wax candles filled the air vying with the smells of hot seafood soup and fresh crusty bread.

  On this occasion the younger children had been relegated to the pantry, a room half the size of the spacious dining room, where food from the outdoor kitchen was assembled and ladled onto serving dishes before being brought to the table. Colossus had charge of both pantry and main dining room. Standing just inside the door, he directed his minions with silent nods, insuring service so smooth that the diners were hardly aware of the change of courses.

  The Marquis, seated on Madame’s right, was able to give scant attention to his dinner. He was subjected to a thorough catechism by Tante Zizi, who had usurped the place on his right. Her presence caused the table to be uneven, with eleven places set. It could not be helped. In Creole society age had its prerogatives.

  Understandably, with the guest of honor being monopolized, conversation among the others lagged. Madame put a few questions to Victor Rochefort on her left. But when their voices began to intrude on the discussion between the Marquis and Tante Zizi, the old lady, who admitted to being a trifle hard of hearing, sent them such a quelling look that they lapsed into silence.

  Small cups of coffee were served in the salon following the meal. M’sieur Delacroix followed the French style, joining the ladies rather than lingering over the Madeira and claret as was the custom of English gentry. His guests seemed content to be guided by him.

  When the coffee things had been cleared away, Amélie was persuaded to entertain them on the Pleyel piano-forte. Victor Rochefort stood beside her to turn the pages of the music, a task he seemed to find most agreeable.

  The Marquis, cornered once more by Tante Zizi, had begun to look a little harried. Prompted by a fellow feeling — it had not been so long ago that she suffered much the same fate — Caroline determined to rescue him.

  Drawing up a chair beside the settee on which they were resting, she signaled unobtrusively to Theo. The Marquis, as best he could, was trying to explain his mother’s relationship to a branch of the Austrian peerage. The instant he ceased speaking, Caroline intervened.

  “I understand, my lord, that you have brought your carriage into the country with you. How convenient that will be, to be sure.”

  The Marquis turned to her, an odd light, almost of suppressed amusement, in his eyes. “I hope to find it so. In the country one can never be sure.”

  “A team of four should be equal to any road conditions, I should think, especially a team described as — ah, sweet goers? Grays, I believe they were?”

  “Not grays, matched blacks,” Theo corrected before Rochefort could answer.

  “Of what breed?” Tante Zizi asked, then smiled with an ironic lift of an arched white brow as Caroline looked startled, then gave a choke of laughter. “Never mind,” the old lady went on, reaching out to touch the sleeve of the Marquis’s coat with the fan of painted silk in her hand. “Whatever their lineage, I’m sure it is of the finest.”

  The Marquis rose admirably to what in a long-gone era would have been recognized as a flirtatious gesture. Taking the hand of the elderly woman, he carried it to his lips with a murmured acknowledgement of the compliment. “How could it be otherwise?” he murmured.

  That phrase, with its silky undercurrent of laughter, remained in Caroline’s memory long after Rochefort and his cousin had taken their leave. She could not rid her mind of it, nor of the peculiar feeling that the Marquis had indulged himself in the whimsy of a private joke.

  3

  THE EGRET ROCKED gently at its moorings, a gangway stretching from the landing of Beau Repos to its shining deck. Estelle, as she was handed aboard by the Marquis, exclaimed at its beauty. Coming behind her, Caroline and Amélie were quieter in their appreciation, while Theo simply stood and stared until Anatole had to push him aside to make his way aboard.

  The breeze across the water was fresh, the sun shone brightly, the river, high but past the spring flood, beckoned. No sooner had everyone stepped down onto the deck than the Marquis gave the order to cast off and they were away, drifting downstream until the sails were raised to catch the wind.

  The crew was small, less than a half dozen men. That they knew their job was obvious. The Marquis ignored them and their handling of the vessel, leading his guests to the afterdeck where he seated the ladies in armchairs cushioned in sea-blue velvet. Fittings of mahogany and brass gleamed about them. For their protection from the sun, an awning of blue and white canvas was stretched overhead with hanging side panels of azure silk that billowed in the wind.

  Theo, overcoming his first awe, began to rattle questions concerning the speed and capacity of the ship. With apologies for deserting the rest of the company, Rochefort gratified the boy’s curiosity by taking him on a detailed inspection tour. In the end, the Marquis left Theo in charge of one of the seamen where he sat rapt on a coil of rope, tying intricate knots and listening to the lore of deep blue water.

  When their host returned, they all took a turn about the deck. Amélie leaned on the arm of the Marquis and Estelle accepted Victor Rochefort’s guidance while Caroline brought up the rear with Anatole. They lined the rail at the bow, feeling the rise and fall of the ship, listening to the creak and hum of the rigging above them. On either side the green-and-brown tree line of the shore, hazed with distance, stretched away across the wide reach of blue-tinged brown water. The smell of the river, compounded of silt and fish, tree blooms and decaying vegetation, came to them in the freshness of the wind.

  Out of consideration for the coiffures of the ladies, the Marquis soon led the way back to the afterdeck, first pointing out a cabin where the ladies could make whatever repairs to their appearance they felt necessary.

  Caroline had been afraid the memories evoked by being on board a ship again might overset Amélie’s nerves. The girl had indeed been quiet and withdrawn at first, but the Marquis’s careful concern for her comfort and his tall presence beside her seemed to have a powerful restorative effect on her confidence. When they had regained their seats, Amélie looked up at him with what, for her, was almost a coquettish smile. “Where does the Egret take us?” she asked.

  “Wherever you will,” he replied — a gallant answer, but not very satisfactory.

  “You do have a destination in mind?”

  He had taken a seat on the cushioned bench which ran along the railing. Leaning back, he crossed his booted feet, quizzing her through narrowed eyes. “None in the world.”

  “What if I should say I wished to visit the haunted sandbar that lies upstream from here?”

  “Under the orders of such an attractive captain, the supernatural holds no terror for me. I would turn the ship about at once,” he drawled.

  “And if I should express a wish to visit Cathay,” Amélie mused, her fingers smoothing the ribbon that encircled the crown of the leghorn hat in her lap.

  “Why, I would give the order to sail on.”

  “And if I should request to be returned to my doorstep at once?”

  “You could not be so cruel.”

  Estelle, more than a little tired of being ignored in favor of her elder sister, asserted herself. “I could.”

  The Marquis gave her a swift appraisal. “Doubtless,” he murmured and turned back to Amélie.

  Caroline, an observer of that masterful set down, felt sorry for the younger girl. She was pleased to see Estelle’s first impulsive anger replaced by a blushing consciousness. She was not a bad girl, merely spoiled and thoughtless, and, above all, young.

  Glancing at Rochefort, Caroline found his green eyes turned upon her. For a disconcerting instant she met his steady gaze, then as his mouth curved in a smile he swung back to Amélie. />
  It was Victor Rochefort who took pity on them. “Never fear, Mesdemoiselles. You are not being abducted. My cousin Jean is being his usual maddening self. He has given orders to his crew to carry us but a few miles downriver, then turn about and sail home again.”

  “You take the adventure out of life, Victor,” Rochefort complained.

  Victor Rochefort, accepting Amélie’s pretty expressions of gratitude, affected not to hear.

  Later, when the Marquis and his cousin carried the two sisters forward to have a better view of an oaken barrel seen floating in the water, Caroline stayed behind. She was tired, suddenly, of playing propriety to girls scarce younger than herself. She did not feel like a duenna today. She felt restless and unsettled in mind, though oddly content in a physical sense.

  Resting her head on the back of her chair, she watched the two couples standing at the rail. How attractive they were, and how suitably matched, Rochefort with Amélie, Victor with Estelle. Suitable matches in every particular. There could be little difficulty in money matters. Time would give them the same circle of friends, the same concerns, whether weather or crops, social events or children. Rochefort had in his manner the challenging self-assurance that marked self-made men and rakes. It was said, however, that the latter made the best husbands.

  “Mam’zelle Caroline?”

  It was Anatole, taking the chair beside her, who interrupted her reverie. She turned to him inquiringly.

  “Give to me, if you please, the benefit of your opinion?”

  “Certainly.”

  He nodded in the direction of Rochefort, and said. “Regard you the style of dress of this so-esteemed gentleman, the Marquis. It finds favor with you?”

  Caroline dutifully regarded the leaf-green coat, canary breeches, tucked shirt, waistcoat of buff and yellow stripes, and simply knotted cravat of their host. “I see no fault in it.”

  “But so plain, so lacking in — in flair,” Anatole protested.

  “And yet, it becomes the man.”

  “Ah,” Anatole nodded. “That is the heart of the matter. Think you, Mam’zelle, such a lack of ornamentation would suit someone of my age and station?”

  Shifting in her seat, Caroline considered him. The cream buckskins were not a bad choice with a brown frac coat, though the latter was embellished with a velvet collar and revers. His waistcoat, however, was a riotous paisley design embroidered in a rainbow of colors, and his cravat was a veritable fountain of linen and lace. A quizzing glass dangled about his neck and a collection of jangling seals hung from his watch fob. Worst of all, his boots appeared dull compared to the glassy finish of those of the man he was thinking of emulating.

  At last Caroline said, “I see no reason why the style should not suit. You would like to give your apparel your own private stamp, perhaps a color or a single piece of jewelry that has meaning to you alone. This goes without saying. Still, an overall simplicity can only be pleasing.”

  Anatole surprised her by taking her hand and pressing his lips to it. “You are as wise as you are beautiful,” he said with gratitude. Embarrassed by his own gesture, he stammered an excuse to leave her and went off to pretend to search for Theo.

  Looking after Anatole with a fond smile, she failed to notice the approach of the Marquis.

  “I see you have an admirer,” he said, taking the chair Anatole had vacated.

  Caroline controlled a start of surprise. “Only because I had the good sense to agree with his judgment.”

  “You are too modest.”

  “And you too kind, though I daresay the word you were searching for was honest.”

  “Not I. I never insult females to their face.”

  “Then — I must thank you for the compliment, must I not?” she said doubtfully.

  “That is the accepted thing.” His voice was so bland she very nearly missed the gleam in his eye. A smile curved her mouth before she was aware of it, and then it was too late to stand on her dignity.

  “That’s better,” he said, propping one elbow on the chair arm and clasping his hands for all the world as if he had no intention of moving for some time. “Now tell me what a young woman with the accent of the English upper class is doing employed as a governess to a Creole family in the last stronghold of the French language in the New World?”

  “Only if you will tell me how you came to speak my language so well.”

  “Like many of the ancien régime, my family fled to England from France during the Terror. I lived there for fourteen years and was educated, after a fashion, at Harrow. And you?”

  “I hope I may be as brief, though I doubt it,” she said dryly. “My father was one of three sons. The eldest inherited the estates of my grandfather, of course, leaving the two youngest to make their own way in the world. My father stayed in London, where he married, as the saying goes, to disoblige his family and was cast off. My mother had a small fortune which was augmented, more or less, by my father’s skill at cards. His brother, Benjamin, went to Natchez. This was more than thirty years ago, before the takeover of the British settlement there by Spain. My uncle Benjamin prospered as a merchant, bought land, built a fine home, and managed over the years to keep up a fairly regular correspondence with my father. My mother died while I was still in the schoolroom. Then, five years ago my father lost his life in a hunting accident, only a few months after I was launched into society. I discovered to my dismay that my father had not made his way in the world particularly well. He died penniless. In fact, he was head over heels in debt—”

  The Marquis made a soft sound which Caroline took to be commiseration.

  “Indeed, not an unusual story,” she went on. “My father was a good man, warm and friendly, full of life; it was just that he chose an unfortunate moment to try a wall with a ditch on the other side. A few months earlier, a few later, and he would have been in funds—”

  “But not, I apprehend, enough to establish you as a young woman of independent means?”

  “No,” she said baldly. “I sold what there was to sell and went to live with my mother’s sister. It was a temporary arrangement since she was barely able to keep herself and her children on her husband’s stipend. It was she who suggested I write to Uncle Benjamin.”

  “Surely there was some other alternative? A husband, for instance? You need not try to convince me you had no prospects in the London marriage mart, for I won’t believe you.”

  “No indeed, I am as vain as anyone of my conquests. The week before my father died I was forced to listen to no fewer than three protestations of undying love. The prospect of receiving a dowerless bride, however, dealt a death blow to the ardor of all three. My pride, I assure you, was no less affected.”

  “So you turned your back on England?”

  “I sat down and listed those accomplishments I possessed which I felt might have a value. They were few. I am an indifferent needlewoman, a punishing pianist, and an only passable sketch artist. I am fairly proficient in the French tongue, a good rider, and a veritable paragon on the dance floor. Something more was required to please a mother of young daughters, at least in England.”

  Flicking a glance over the soft curls about her face, teased from her tidy chignon by the breeze, and her wide-spaced, smoke-colored eyes, he seemed about to speak, then obviously thought better of it.

  When he remained silent, she went on. “I wrote to my uncle and was assured of a welcome. Within a month I packed my trunks and my boxes and took ship. All might have been well except for my uncle’s Creole wife. She was not disposed to like me, and nothing she saw when I arrived changed her mind. The — disharmony — between us was most uncomfortable both for me and my Uncle Benjamin. I made the discovery, however, that as an Englishwoman here in this portion of the United States I had a value I did not possess in England. I have a certain uniqueness, you see, what might be called a snob appeal. The Creoles, the French and Spanish people born in this foreign land, begin to see the value of cultivating the despised Americans. The
Americans are indisputably the controllers of the commerce along the river, and thus the wealth, you see? But in order to effect this cultivation in the most lucrative manner, the Creole sons and daughters must be taught to converse in the barbarous language, English.”

  “I see,” the Marquis said, his expression so remote that Caroline feared she was boring him.

  She finished quickly. “My uncle’s wife is connected by marriage to the family of Madame Delacroix, who was in need of supervision for her daughters. The thing arranged itself.”

  The Marquis frowned, his eyes focused on the middle distance between the ship and the passing shoreline. Abruptly he got to his feet. “Your pardon, Mademoiselle Pembroke,” he said with a half bow, and walked briskly away to where his first officer stood amidships.

  His purpose was made plain as orders were shouted and the ship began to lose way.

  “Why are we turning so soon?” Victor called.

  Rochefort made a sweeping gesture with one arm. “Look around you.”

  Caroline looked but could see little. The trees along the near shore had fallen still. Clouds, white edged in gray, rolled in the high, wide sky, and the brown water reflected their glow with a silver sheen. The sun still shone, though with less strength, touching the dancing waves, the spars, rigging, and bright-work of the ship with an odd lambent light.

  “Is it going to rain?” Estelle asked a shade nervously.

  “There is that possibility,” Rochefort replied. “Shall we enjoy our luncheon now, just in case?”

  A pair of woven hampers covered with cloths were brought from below with a pair of ingenious folding tables. Seeing their green baize tops, Caroline was of the opinion that their primary use was as gaming tables, but she was too hungry to cavil over such a detail.

  The cloths were spread over the tables and the Marquis and his cousin began to unpack the laden baskets.

  “If you will slice the bread, Mademoiselle?” Rochefort suggested, handing Caroline a wrapped loaf and a knife. When she had finished that chore he asked her to serve the cold breast of chicken and huge boiled shrimp in their shells, and to see that the pastries and nougat confections were evenly divided.