“I — I will go,” Estelle said, then immediately looked doubtful of the wisdom of her decision.
“Don’t tarry,” Caroline advised. She turned her back at once to give Estelle to understand there was no hope of reprieve.
At Estelle’s sudden joyous cry, she swung around. A horseman was bearing down upon them. As he drew nearer Caroline’s first instinctive relief was tempered with dismay. It was Rochefort on a gray gelding. He carried himself with the stiffness associated with anger, and there was a grim look about his mouth.
He swung down from his horse and strode toward them. As he neared, he swept the four of them with a gaze far from cursory. He stared so long at Caroline’s face that she gained the irresistible impression that she must have a smudge on her nose. When he shifted his attention to their groom, she put up her hand to find her fingers stained with blood from a scratch across one cheek.
The Marquis ran his fingers down Jim’s leg in an examination both more expert and thorough than her own. “It’s broken,” he said, rising from a kneeling position. “Serves him right for getting you in this dustup.”
Caroline, annoyed by an attitude toward them that she considered unfeeling in the extreme, stated bluntly, “I was driving.”
If she hoped to see Rochefort discomposed, she was unrewarded.
“Indeed,” he said, leaving little doubt of his opinion of her skill.
Estelle entered the lists with unexpected support. “Mam’zelle is a very good driver, indeed yes! If it were not for her skill, we should have been smashed into the tree, completely to little pieces. I saw it coming and expected entirely to die, yes, and Mathilde with me. I find myself very surprised to be able to stand here. This I tell you!”
Caroline felt that if he said “indeed” in that odiously superior way to Estelle, she would want to strike him. Instead, he turned to stare back down the road in the direction he had come with the intensity of one who expects to see visions. He was rewarded by the appearance of a heavyset man riding on a farm cob. Without undue trouble, Caroline recognized the man who had acted as overseer at Felicity for the past few months, Mr. Pernell.
He nodded with a touch of his hat brim to the ladies. Without dismounting he listened to Rochefort’s instructions, then swung about to ride back to Felicity to carry them out.
“Please,” Caroline said. “One moment.” Turning to the Marquis, she asked, “Do I understand that it is your intention to have Jim carried to Felicity?”
“You do.” At her puzzled expression, he unbent a fraction. “It is closer, you know, and my valet has some experience with the setting of broken bones.”
“Closer?” Caroline was aware of Estelle’s hand on her arm, the fingers pressing into the skin.
“You realize this track is in some sense the boundary between Beau Repos and Felicity? Where it departs from the survey line it becomes a bridle path, which we have been using as a shortcut to the barns behind the main house.”
“I see. We are most grateful then for any service you may be able to render to Jim. If you would be so kind as to send a message to Beau Repos, you need not trouble with us—”
“I could not leave you here alone, nor could I allow you to wait here for deliverance in discomfort. I must insist that you return to Felicity with me. When your hurts have been attended to, I will be delighted to drive you to Beau Repos myself.”
“My lord, you cannot have considered our situation. Even my presence would not be enough if it became known Estelle had paid a visit to a bachelor stronghold.”
“You will be happy to learn that I have installed a housekeeper, a lady of sufficient age and respectability to soothe even your sense of propriety. Come, you cannot refuse.”
With Jim lying injured, Estelle clinging to her in mingled entreaty and weakness, and Mathilde, discovering her splinters and a scraped elbow, beginning to cry, it seemed heartless to stand arguing. Caroline agreed, though a moment later, like Estelle, she doubted the wisdom of doing so.
The housekeeper, a Madame Reau, was a thin woman with iron-gray hair worn in plaits, and dressed in a plain gown of gray cambric starched until it clashed, rather than rustled, as she walked. Combined with her white apron and stout shoes, the garment gave her an unmistakably bourgeois appearance. Her mouth was set in a straight line, and her black eyes behind steel-rimmed spectacles seemed never to blink except when she looked down to check the time, which she did often, on the steel-encased watch pinned to her flat chest. The singularly hard, prolonged blink given at this time gave the impression that the woman found it incredible so little time had passed since the last time she looked, and equally incredible that the person with her was still keeping her from going about her business.
That she was an exceptional housekeeper was evident. Felicity glistened; there was no other word for it. The soaring Corinthian columns of the front portico shone dazzling white, as did the outside wall, which was set off by blue-green shutters. The stair railing in the entrance hall gleamed with polish. The beautifully carved and inlaid furniture which stood about had the patina that comes from age and diligent rubbing. The walls were hung with linen damask, the windows with Lyons velvet and Swiss muslin. The floors were laid with soft, shimmering carpets from Europe and the Far East. The countless gold-leaf mirrors which hung above the fireplaces and between the windows reflected the faceted brilliance of chandeliers which would not have disgraced a chateau in France.
In Caroline’s opinion, the effect, though breathtakingly lovely, was not nearly so welcoming as the practical, rather cluttered comfort of Beau Repos. The rooms were elegant but not particularly inviting.
The housekeeper had been waiting as though on instructions when they arrived. She led the way upstairs to a sumptuous bedchamber featuring a carved bed with soaring spiral posts, ciel de lit, footboard, and headboard highlighted in gold leaf. The ciel de lit was covered with straw-colored silk and hung with a white mosquito baire weighted at the bottom with gold braid.
The bed, with the other pieces that went with it to make the suite, fascinated Estelle to the point that she could barely bring her attention to bear on the task of removing the ravages of their accident. Caroline could have admitted to a share of curiosity herself. It was so indisputably a woman’s bed they were looking at, designed with a woman’s pleasure and small vanities in mind.
Their toilettes repaired as best they might be, their splinters and various scratches, grazes, and bruises treated, the three descended to the salon.
Their host awaited them in that room, a tray of refreshments ready to hand on a console table. He had used the time since he left them to good advantage, changing from his riding clothes into a frock coat, fresh linen, and breeches. He looked so debonair and unrumpled that Caroline cast him a jaundiced glance before she took the chair he indicated.
“I have English tea,” he said in the dulcet tones used to tempt a sullen child.
She could not resist a quick glance of anticipation in the direction of the silver tea service with the pot reposing under a genuine knitted tea cozy. Such a pleasure was practically unknown at Beau Repos. With all the good will in the world, neither her employers nor their servants could be brought to see why she did not prefer chocolate or coffee as they did. And considering the black, ink-like brew served up to her in the name of pekoe, she had come slowly to their way of thinking.
Now a reluctant smile lit her gray eyes, like the sun after rain, as she looked in gratitude at the man above her. Satisfied with the transformation, he turned to greet Estelle and inquire gravely after Mathilde’s injuries.
“And Jim?” Caroline asked when he had finished admiring the little girl’s bandaged finger.
“Resting in the infirmary behind the bake house. His leg is splintered, but he has a demijohn of Monongahela beside him and the attention of half the scullery maids to take his mind off the pain.”
A small frown appeared between Caroline’s brows. “I had not thought — I suppose it would be best to leave J
im where he is for a day or two?”
“So my man says.”
“M’sieur Delacroix will regret the inconvenience to you exceedingly. I am sure he will say I should have had the groom brought to Beau Repos.”
“I beg you will not let it disturb you. I will explain to M’sieur Delacroix how it all came about. As to the inconvenience, think nothing of it. I am sure M’sieur would do the same for a servant of mine!”
“Yes, naturally—”
“Eh bien,” he said in a voice which brooked no more discussion. “It is natural to me also. May I ask you, Mademoiselle Pembroke, to pour tea since I am without a hostess?”
Estelle was inclined to pout at not being singled out for this honor, until she noticed Rochefort’s sardonic gaze resting upon her. Dropping her lashes, she accepted the cup of tea offered her with good grace. Showing great fortitude, she even managed to praise it.
Mathilde, receiving her tea diluted with milk, made inroads on the plate of cakes, tarts, and meringues. The conversation she left to those who, for some reason she could not perceive, preferred talking to eating.
Caroline was pouring Rochefort a second cup when the door opened to admit Victor.
“They said I would find you here,” he began as he closed the door and advanced toward them. His gaze made a quick reconnaissance of the room, as if he felt their number to be inadequate. Seeing the teapot poised over Rochefort’s cup, he checked for a perceptible instant, an arrested look on his face, before he continued forward to take a seat on the settee beside Mathilde.
“Tea, Victor?” Rochefort murmured.
His cousin swallowed visibly. “If you please,” he said finally as he saw Caroline was waiting for his decision.
When the cup was placed in his hand he sat stirring the hot liquid as if uncertain what to do with it. He looked up at last. “I heard in the pantry just now of your mishap. I trust that other than your servant the damage was minor?” Assured that it was, he went on. “You relieve my mind. I feared since Mademoiselle Amélie Delacroix is not here with you she might be lying injured above stairs.”
“Nothing so calamitous,” Caroline hastened to reassure him. “She was merely reluctant to put aside her apron long enough to accompany us. She is overseeing the cleaning girls, you understand. I do hope we may expect to see you at Beau Repos tomorrow evening?”
The restrained fervor of his answer was all she could have wished. Thoughtfully she stared down into the dark reflective surface of her tea. Quiet, introspective Amélie would be better suited to Victor Rochefort than to the Marquis. Madame would not, of course, be pleased with such a match. What Amélie felt, if anything at all, was unknown. She was such a biddable girl, dutiful in the extreme to her parent’s wishes. Caroline could not think it would be difficult for her to be persuaded to marry where her heart was not given. To give him credit however, Rochefort did not look like a man to be satisfied with a dutiful bride.
Glancing up, she found the Marquis’s gaze fixed on her, his look exactly the same as when he had chided Estelle with a wordless, sardonic smile.
On the far side of the room from where the tea table had been set hung a group of exquisite miniatures. Most of the small paintings were of people, but one was of a large stone mansion, almost a castle, and another depicted a ship. For lack of some other place to look, Caroline found herself staring at them. She narrowed her eyes, the better to make out the minute details of facial features, clothing, and the formal garden before the mansion.
Abruptly Rochefort set down his cup and stood up. “Before you go, Mademoiselle Pembroke, I wish you would give me your opinion of my ‘Folly.’”
“Your what, my lord?” She turned puzzled eyes up to him as he stepped in front of her.
“My Folly,” he said, ruthlessly removing her cup from her hand and drawing her to her feet. “It is a kind of summerhouse I am constructing in the garden. Its primary purpose is to provide shade, a seat, and a view at the end of a walk. You must tell me if it will serve.”
It seemed she had no choice except to comply with his whim. With the others trailing after them, they traipsed out of the front door and down the steps, making their way along the brick path which led through the clipped boxwood of a formal garden. The path wound across a small stream and up the side of an artificial mound. The Folly was perched on top of this vantage point. An octagon-shaped structure, it was capped with an onion dome. Arabesque windows pierced seven of its eight sides, stretching from bench level above the floor to the ceiling. Inside, the floor was laid with a colorful stone mosaic pattern of birds and flowers and trailing vines. The walls were not yet finished, nor was the bench that would be used for sitting. Still, there was enough work done to give an idea of how the summerhouse would look when completed.
“Well?” the Marquis prompted.
“It is enchanting. Anyone must like it.”
Estelle, stationed at a back window, said over her shoulder, “It’s marvelous. The dome matches the covers on Felicity’s water cisterns.”
Victor bowed. “A masterly touch, I thought.”
“You see how modest he is,” Rochefort said in an aside to Caroline.
“Well, I think it most handsome and an uncommonly inspired idea,” Estelle declared, dimpling at Victor.
“Ah, if only all females had your excellent taste, Mademoiselle,” he replied.
“Now that I look at it,” Estelle continued with her head cocked on one side, “it also bears a resemblance to the belvedere on the rooftop of Felicity.”
“Very true. For that inspiration you must congratulate Jean.”
“Must I? Then I do so sincerely. I have always heard that the belvedere is in reality a dome above the third-story ballroom. Is it indeed so?”
“Quite true.” The Marquis very carefully did not elaborate.
“In the past Felicity has had absentee owners. The ballroom was never used, which has always seemed a great shame to me.”
“Yes,” he answered, a look in his green eyes that might have been amusement or a species of affectionate indulgence.
“It must be wonderfully thrilling to dance beneath the dome and look up to see the stars and moon shining in the night sky.”
“Estelle—” Caroline said with a warning tone in her voice as she saw her charge inching nearer and nearer to asking Rochefort to host a ball.
“It must be,” he agreed solemnly.
Estelle opened her mouth, then closed it, daunted by both her governess’s warning glance and Rochefort’s expression. It crossed Caroline’s mind that the girl was a bit more afraid of receiving another snub from the Marquis than of a scolding from her.
Rochefort took up the subject without further prompting. “The trouble with arranging a ball is the lack of a hostess. A woman to oversee the affair lends a certain necessary propriety. Without it, most mothers tend to suspect an air of debauchery about the proceedings. They become reluctant to allow their daughters to attend.”
Estelle gave an unhappy nod. “I see. But — could not your housekeeper serve in that capacity?”
“If she were related to me, she might, but she is not. In any case, she would not be comfortable in such a role, being too much of the — I do not wish to say lower class—”
“I understand perfectly. She is not of the crème de la crème.”
“You have it in a phrase,” he agreed. “However, the time has not yet come for despair, Mademoiselle. There may still be something that can be done.”
Estelle opened her eyes wide in a trick newly learned to indicate questioning wonder, but Rochefort would not be drawn. A short time later Caroline suggested it was time they made a start for Beau Repos. They drove homeward in the pink afterglow of a setting sun and found on arriving their baskets of greenery waiting on the steps, delivered before them.
The date of the soirée dawned bright and clear, turning extra warm about midmorning. Little breakfast was eaten in the house and less luncheon. M’sieur Delacroix, harried at every ste
p by women who feared he would track the polished floors or dent the cushions in the salon, got into his curricle and drove off in the direction of Bonne Chance. Anatole escaped the hubbub by the simple expedient of staying abed in the garçonnière. M’sieur Philippe took a book of poetry and, moving a chair outside into the shade cast by that plastered outbuilding, sat down to read.
Caroline did not have much more to do than the tutor at that time of the day. Estelle was busily embellishing the house with her hard-won greenery while Amélie was directing the arrangement of the chairs in the salon. Caroline, to prevent herself from offering advice that might be unwelcome, stepped out onto the gallery.
She was just in time to see Theo, bareback on one of the plantation mules, riding away along the top of the levee. Frowning a little, she stared after him. He was often gone these days, slipping away before daybreak, coming home when it was too dark to see. He was absentminded at times, even secretive, as if his mind were on other things.
Stepping to the bannister, Caroline called to the tutor.
M’sieur Philippe closed the volume he was perusing upon his forefinger to mark the page and, rising, trod across the newly cut grass. Coming to a halt below Caroline, he made her his best bow with his book of love poems held across his heart.
“You called, Mam’zelle?”
“Yes, M’sieur. Do you know where Theo goes when he leaves the house of a morning?”
The tutor allowed a pained expression to register for an instant on his face. “You wished to speak to me of Theo?”
With a sinking feeling, Caroline took notice of his romantic pose. She decided on the moment that ignoring such posturing might be the most efficacious remedy for it.
“Of course,” she replied with a show of carelessness. “What else?”
M’sieur Philippe looked nonplussed, then a crafty glint lit his eyes. He winked. “I am not slow of understanding,” he said, then continued in an overloud tone, “I am desolate that I cannot answer you, Mam’zelle. Theo does not see fit to consider me a confidant.”
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