Sweet Piracy

by Blake, Jennifer

  “You have no idea where he may be going?”

  “None.”

  “Didn’t you think it wise to know?”

  M’sieur Philippe drew himself up. “I am the teacher, not the keeper, of young Theo. Mine is not a nature that easily stoops to spying.”

  Caroline eyed him, a sharp retort hovering on the tip of her tongue. Only the knowledge that the tutor was not wholly at fault held it back. They should all have been more watchful of Theo.

  A great squawking and flurry of wings distracted her. The upheaval came from the pigeonnier, the large plastered dovecote to the right of the house, which balanced the garçonnière on the left. It was the gardener’s boys catching pigeons for dinner. The succulent squabs would be delicious when served at the table, but Caroline did not like to think of the beautiful, iridescent birds being slaughtered and divested of their plumage. With a muttered excuse, she left the tutor standing and hurried back into the house.

  Despite Caroline’s misgivings, the house was beautiful when the time drew near for the guests to arrive. Greenery was looped in garlands up the outside staircase. A pair of wreaths backed the flambeaux burning at the entrance doors. Inside, bouquets made airy with fern were reflected in the mirror-like surfaces of the furniture. The house smelled of roses and magnolias, beeswax, and the spicy scent of myrtle-wax candles.

  The serenity was all in appearance, however. From the direction of the master bedchamber, M’sieur Delacroix could be heard bellowing for his best shirt studs and castigating his valet for a fumble-fingered nitwit. He had returned home late from Bonne Chance and found that Theo had purloined the bath water left heating for him. Consequently, he was late dressing. Mathilde, after being a part of the gathering of the decorations for the soirée, was objecting strenuously to being excluded from it. Estelle, standing outside her mother’s boudoir door, was tearfully demanding to know why she must have her hair dressed in exactly the same style as Amélie’s. Theo alone was dressed. Intent on the great feast in store if not on the dancing afterward, he was happily denting cushions in the salon and whistling shrilly through his teeth.

  At the sound of carriage wheels, all hubbub magically ceased. Colossus made one last inspection of the house servants designated as footmen, pulled on his pristine white gloves, and moved to station himself at the door.

  Madame erupted from her chamber in the glory of violet muslin over black taffeta. On her head she wore a Turkish turban composed of black-and-violet-striped cotton with double poufs centered by an up-standing plume held in place by a brooch. M’sieur, in formal regalia of knee breeches, stockings, and pumps, was not far behind her. Amélie moved calmly into place in her white muslin with white roses in her hair. Estelle, with her maid trying in vain to place one pin more to secure her white roses, joined the reception line just as footsteps were heard ascending the stairs.

  And then, seconds before Colossus swung open the door, Tante Zizi emerged. She wore a powdered wig that swept high into curls and poufs ornamented with loops of pearls and bunches of satin ribbon. Her gown of palest celestial blue had a square neck filled in with tiny frills of lace and elbow-length sleeves with falling cuffs interfaced with lace. The wide overskirt was draped over panniers and opened in the center to reveal a petticoat of cascading lace ruffles. The pale color and the faintly yellowed lace were kind to her wrinkled skin. The headdress, an oddity certainly in this age, gave her a curious dignity.

  Madame Delacroix’s face flushed alarmingly. It was seldom that Tante Zizi condescended to be present at one of her entertainments, much less putting herself forward in the grande toilette of the French Court, which must inevitably remind everyone of things better left forgotten. One did not wash one’s soiled linen in public. Still, it was too late now for changing. Upon Tante Zizi’s own head be it!

  It was not long before Madame could congratulate herself on the success of her soirée. It began to look like a comfortable crush, with every single guest she had invited, save one, putting in an appearance. She had done her best to see that this would be so. The groom who carried around the cards had been instructed to go first to Felicity and ascertain if the gentlemen intended to honor their cards. If not, he was to return to Beau Repos, and the soirée would be changed to another more acceptable date. If acceptance was assured, the groom was to proceed on his appointed rounds, making certain at each stop that the lady of the house not only had the opportunity of turning over the remaining invitations while searching for her own, but that she also knew who would be the guest of honor.

  The single guest who failed was Fletcher Masterson. He sent his regrets both to Caroline as well as to his nominal hostess, pleading business engagements in town.

  Caroline, in a gown of jonquil muslin with yellow roses set among her curls, took first turn at the piano. Though she did not profess a great talent for music, she was a competent pianist. Her fingers moved over the keys easily, allowing her to keep an eye on the dancers. In just such a manner she had played in the past week while M’sieur Philippe, an acknowledged dancing master, had capered with Amélie and Estelle, polishing their performance of the quadrille, the gavotte, the contredanse, and, of course, the wicked new waltz.

  The tutor, in the full glory of cerise satin and the doubtful lace, was present also. His surname, an ancient and honorable Creole appellation, guaranteed his acceptance despite his status in the Delacroix household. In addition, he was responsible for the skill on the dance floor of many a young lady from the neighboring plantations, and could be depended on to rescue his protégées who looked like they might be left to sit partnerless beside their mamans making tapestry.

  M’sieur Delacroix led the way onto the floor with his eldest daughter. The Marquis sacrificed himself to a coquettish gesture from Madame, and Victor made his bow before Estelle. With the way thus paved, the floor became crowded with couples.

  The salon of the house had been thrown open by means of a porte à coulisse at one end. With these folding doors open, the small sitting room became a part of the other room, forming a grand salon through the center of the house.

  Every inch of the space was needed as the company swung with spirit into the fast-moving contredanses. More would not have come amiss.

  As the evening progressed and the dancers became overheated, the outer doors were thrown open, and the level of the contents in the punch bowl set up in the pantry began to sink.

  Except for the Marquis and his cousin, all the guests were neighbors well known to each other. Among them there was little ceremony, nor did they extend any to the strangers in their midst. Unlike England, where an introduction performed by a third party would have been necessary before anyone could have spoken to the new owner of Felicity, here the fact that he was accepted by the Delacroix family was enough.

  Rochefort was besieged, there was no other word for it. The sight was not without a certain humor as determined mamans with white-clad daughters in tow sought by fair means and foul to bring their offspring to his notice. The man could not stand still a moment without two or three girls “accidentally” dropping their dance programs at his feet, or as Theo, standing beside Caroline to turn the pages for her, put it, shedding scarves, handkerchiefs, and bits of ribbon like chickens in moult. If Rochefort sat down, he was nearly pushed from the settee by females jockeying for the seat beside him. If he appeared with a glass of punch, every girl in sight did her best to appear to be perishing from thirst. It was no wonder he took refuge by dancing again and again with Amélie. She was a good dancer, she had the knack of making light conversation without seeming to cast about too desperately for subjects, and she made no effort to cling either during the dance or when it was over. These attributes were to be counted over and above her gentle beauty.

  Estelle came in for her share of dances with their honored guest at first, but since she tended to show by small gestures, a flirt of her skirt, the toss of her head, that she considered it a triumph over the other girls, Rochefort soon failed to seek her out.
She consoled herself by creating havoc among her brother’s set of friends and singling out Hippolyte Gravier for special attention. She bade fair to being able to say, all in all, that she had not sat down a minute the whole night long.

  “Do you not dance?”

  Caroline looked up to find Theo’s place taken by Rochefort. He stood waiting to turn the music, awaiting also her answer.

  “Certainly, but someone must provide the music for the others,” she said.

  “A fate reserved always for the governess, I make no doubt?”

  “Just so.”

  “Are you resigned, or do you think at some time to exchange your state for a pleasanter one?”

  “I find my present state most pleasant, my lord,” she replied in a cool tone.

  “That isn’t an answer, but let it go. I wish you will not go on calling me ‘my lord’ in that starched-up voice. It gives me the distinct feeling that I am being put in my place.”

  “I never realized you were out of place.” She ventured a glance at him, her eyes alight with laughter.

  “No, I can see that.”

  “Oh?” she said, unable to resist a bit of drollery at his expense. “I had begun to wonder at your powers of observation since I have seen you step over any number of dropped handkerchiefs and such trifles this evening.”

  “Half blind I may be,” he said, leaning closer, “but you must credit me with being nimble of foot.”

  Caroline hit a wrong note and made a recovery before she dared risk a swift glance upward. The Marquis’s face was bland, though a warm light, perhaps a reflection from the candelabra on the pianoforte, shone in his deep green eyes.

  As the melody she was playing came to an end, Rochefort nodded across the room. “And now here is Amélie coming, I think, to relieve you. If you are agreeable, you shall have an opportunity to try how nimble-footed I am.”

  There were only a few dances more before supper. Caroline chided him with hiding behind her skirts for protection from the matchmaking mamans. Regardless, he still circled the floor with her twice more, relinquishing her only to Victor and Anatole respectively before taking her in to supper.

  She might have guessed that such a state of affairs would not escape Madame Delacroix’s notice. That lady came bearing down upon where Caroline and Rochefort sat with Amélie and Victor. There was a militant look in her eye and her bosom heaved with indignation at the sight of her noble guest of honor seated beside her daughter’s English governess.

  Caroline did not fear the woman’s wrath, knowing it to be mostly bombast, but she had a great dislike of public scenes.

  At her sudden stillness, Rochefort looked up, following her gaze. A frown drew his brows together for an instant, then with smiling aplomb, he rose.

  “Madame Delacroix,” he said, “I was just about to go in search of you. You are to be congratulated on the magnificence of your entertainment. Truly you are an entrepreneuse par excellence. I have been cudgeling my brains trying to decide whom I might ask to serve as my hostess for the ball I mean to give to christen Felicity. I believe in you I have found that lady!”

  His hostess was stopped in midstride. Speechless pleasure held her silent while her spleen dissolved as if it had never been. Finding tongue, she gushed, “Oh, my lord, you are too kind.”

  5

  FOLLOWING THE soirée at Beau Repos the social pace of the surrounding community picked up considerably. There were morning calls without number. The visiting cards accumulated in piles in the entrance hall. There were routs, levées, and breakfasts al fresco given by the hopeful mamans of young beauties. A constant stream of grooms bearing baskets of invitations flowed back and forth along the levee road. They always stopped at Beau Repos. It was a lamentable but recognized fact that the best way for a hostess to insure the presence of the Marquis and his cousin at her entertainment was to secure first the acceptance of the party from Beau Repos.

  Frivolity and amusement became the order of the day. The ladies of the Delacroix household took to sleeping later each morning, keeping what amounted to town hours as their days took on much the same tempo as the winter season. Madame, her pregnancy confirmed, redoubled the time she spent on her chaise. It prepared her, she said, for the fatigue of escorting her daughters to their amusements. Occasionally she allowed Caroline to chaperone the girls alone, but she never allowed her condition to prevent her from attending the most elaborate of the evening parties held in the vicinity. Soon enough she would have to retire from sight of all except family and close friends. She did not intend to hasten that seclusion.

  Fletcher Masterson, riding up to the front door of the house ten days after the soirée, found only Caroline awake enough to be dressed and out upon the gallery. He was not displeased. Tossing the reins of his gelding to a waiting stableboy with instructions to walk the animal, he mounted the steps. Colossus waited at the top to relieve him of his hat and riding crop. Refusing refreshments, Fletcher turned to Caroline with his slow smile.

  “I hope I don’t come too early?”

  “Not at all,” Caroline said, giving him her hand. “If you see little stirring about the place, it is because we are recovering from the latest pass of our current round of gay dissipation. Do you intend to be at Cypress Grove long enough to join us?”

  A grave look crossed his face as he took the place she indicated beside her. “Rumors of what you are pleased to call your dissipation have penetrated even to New Orleans. I fear my temperament is ill-suited to such. However, I hope to give myself the pleasure of standing up with you at the ball of our near neighbor.”

  “You heard of Rochefort’s ball in town also, I apprehend?”

  He nodded. “Orders of the size and variety as this fellow has placed with the suppliers make quite a stir.”

  “I suppose they do.”

  “A commission house like mine must of course be grateful for such gestures of hospitality. Still, there is an aspect of the affair I cannot like.”

  “Oh?” Caroline said helpfully as he came to pause, indecision written large on his face.

  “While in town I chanced to speak to a lady who enjoys a correspondence with Madame Delacroix. She let fall that Madame is to act in the place of Rochefort’s hostess for the occasion.”

  “That is correct.”

  “Meaning no disrespect to the lady, I think I have her measure. I foresee a great deal of extra labor for you in the undertaking; labor which cannot by any stretch of the imagination be said to come under the duties of a governess.”

  Caroline did not attempt to deny it. “I shall not mind.”

  “There is another aspect,” he went on doggedly, looking away from her smile. “You cannot have considered the appearances. You must of necessity be in close contact with the Marquis. I know you think your age and station will protect you from the consequences of flouting the conventions, but it will not do to be seen overmuch in private conversation with him, or to be seen at Felicity without proper chaperonage.”

  “I appreciate your concern,” Caroline began in cool tones only to be stopped by an upheld hand.

  “I realize only too well that you have given me no right to consider myself the arbiter of your conduct. Nevertheless, I feel it is my duty to prevent you from inadvertently placing yourself in a position you will find distasteful. You will perhaps take my meaning if I tell you that while in town the Marquis was known for his association with female members of the cast of the Théâtre d’Orléans.”

  In a moment of insight, two things were made plain to Caroline. The first was the puritanical outlook of the man at her side. The second was the reason for his extraordinary visit on a day that was not the Sabbath and at a time before noon to boot. He was jealous. Despite the reasons he gave, he was fearful of her association with the Marquis.

  Raising her head, she said, “I fail to see how that concerns me.”

  Fletcher Masterson actually flushed. “You must see—”

  “I see you consider any attentions paid
to me by Rochefort cannot, must not, be honorable because as a governess I am beneath such consideration. I thank you, Mr. Masterson!”

  “No, upon my honor I meant no such thing. I meant only to warn you to have a care of your reputation.”

  “Your concern is unnecessary. May we not talk of something else?”

  They did so, but it availed them little. Hardly had Fletcher embarked on an explanation of the business that had taken him into town when the subject of their previous conversation was seen tooling his phaeton along the road and up the drive of Beau Repos.

  Rochefort tossed a coin and a smile to the eager boy who leaped for his reins. There was no need for instructions. The boy began at once to care for the Marquis’s horses while their owner trod up the steps. The manner in which Rochefort flipped his curly brimmed beaver and his stick to Colossus, accepting the offer of a glass of Madeira, spoke aloud of familiarity. Caroline could feel the disapproval of the American, and his antagonism.

  “I trust I see you well,” Rochefort said, bowing over her hand, then giving a curt nod to the man beside her. “Masterson.”

  “Rochefort.”

  Caroline returned a civil answer to the Marquis’s inquiry. There was a small silence.

  Fletcher cleared his throat before initiating a pleasantry about the weather. It was Caroline who answered. Once more conversation lagged.

  His expression earnest, the large American swung suddenly to Caroline. “I must not forget. I don’t mean to push my nose into what does not concern me or to suggest any sort of negligence, but are you aware of young Théophile’s activities? As I was driving along the levee, I saw him with another person disappearing into the woods in what I can only describe as a suspicious fashion.”

  “A suspicious fashion?” Caroline queried, a frown drawing her brows together.

  “They clearly did not wish to be seen.”

  “The actions of a boy Theo’s age cannot be controlled like, those of a nursery tot,” Caroline pointed out. “In any case I take leave to doubt that Theo is involved in anything underhanded.” It was all very well for her to wonder at Theo’s absence; her loyalty rose up in protest when anyone else cast a doubt upon the purpose of his activities away from Beau Repos.