“I must ask you to hold me excused,” Caroline answered as she caught sight of Estelle and Hippolyte making their way through the press of people toward them. “There is not time to tell you just now. The matter is rather personal.”
“What is personal?” Estelle, catching the last, asked in saucy gaiety.
“M’sieur Masterson seems to feel Caroline has caused some sort of altercation between two gentlemen in the garden,” her mother replied.
“No!” Estelle sounded intrigued. “Which two men?”
“Please,” Caroline said, but she was ignored.
“She was seen leaving the ballroom with our M’sieur Philippe and returning in some haste with the Marquis. She refuses to explain, therefore she must be in some way at fault. Do you not agree?”
Estelle said nothing. A worried frown drew her brows together. She met Caroline’s eyes, then looked quickly away.
“Don’t you agree, Estelle?”
Estelle glanced at her mother. “What? No. No, I don’t see that Mam’zelle must be at fault. There are dozens of other explanations; hundreds, even.”
“It is always the same,” Madame lamented to no one in particular, though Hippolyte moved restively as her accusing gaze touched him. “Never am I supported by my own blood. They take another view purely to annoy me, I know they do.”
There might have been more if Rochefort had not chosen that moment to present himself, soliciting Amélie for the supper dance she had promised to him.
Supper was a tedious affair. Dancing had given everyone such an appetite that they crowded about the food-laden tables. The selection brought to Caroline by Fletcher was uninspired, a poor representation of the marvelous variety of exotic dishes available. It did not matter, she could not swallow a morsel. She sipped a glass of champagne to ease her tight throat and played with her fork. Though Caroline suspected him of using it as an excuse to avoid conversation, Fletcher seemed to feel no lack of appetite. He ate his way steadily through three separate platefuls, then asked Caroline if she intended to eat the slice of turkey breast left on her plate.
The champagne on an empty stomach gave Caroline a headache. It was, all in all, a relief when Madame declared after supper that they had had enough frivolity for one evening.
During the last hour the distant storm had drawn nearer. Standing beneath the portico waiting for their carriage to be brought round, they could see the flare of lightning reflected in the river and feel the jar of thunder through the floor beneath their feet. The rising wind fluttered the light skirts of their evening gowns and tugged at the ends of their shawls, while the air seemed charged with energy. Nothing Rochefort could say would dissuade Madame, however. She insisted on leaving.
As the Marquis had predicted, the rain caught them halfway home. The dash up the steps of Beau Repos left them all damp, disheveled, and completely out of sorts, a condition Caroline credited with saving her from the summons from Madame she had expected.
According to Colossus, the tutor had arrived home hours before and was tucked up dry in his bed.
6
DESPITE THE LATENESS of the hour, Caroline could not sleep. Her mind was filled with images of the things that had taken place during the evening. They haunted her, returning again and again no matter how hard she tried to shut them out. At last she gave up the battle and lay staring into the dark, listening to the steadily falling rain, trying to sort out her feelings. It was not an easy task. She had run the gamut from excitement through anger and resentment to fear. Poor Fletcher. He could not understand her. Small wonder; she could not understand herself. She found it difficult to forgive him for pouring out his grievance to Madame; still she could not hold a grudge. Her behavior must have seemed incomprehensible to a man who had every right to believe she was not indifferent to him. She had received him when he came to call, had made herself agreeable. Unless she was willfully blind, she must have seen the trend he was taking when he singled her out with his weekly visits. The trouble was, she had been blind. She had accepted his faithful attendance without a thought for the construction he might put upon it. That he could feel he had some claim upon her affections had never crossed her mind. Oh, she had toyed with the idea of marriage as an alliance of the only two English-speaking residents of the district. In truth, she suspected that was her greatest attraction for Fletcher. She had always known she must refuse such a cold-blooded arrangement. It was not in her character to do otherwise.
With M’sieur Philippe the situation was entirely different. Try as she might, she could find no reason to accuse herself of encouraging him. She had her suspicions as to the cause of his sudden passion. If she could prove them, she was certain she could put an even more effective end to his persecution of her than had been brought about already.
At the memory of the tutor’s undignified descent from the summerhouse, Caroline chuckled. He had been well served for going about pouncing on ladies in the dark. She wondered if his satin breeches had survived such Turkish treatment. If only she had been rescued by anyone other than Rochefort. What must he think of her! Not that it mattered, she told herself, flouncing over in bed and giving her pillow a fierce thump. She was by no means certain that the honorable Marquis would not have behaved in exactly the same manner given the chance.
What did he want of her? Since he had remained single this long, it was doubtful he intended to alter his state for the sake of an English governess. How did he see her? As fair prey, a female alone in the world for all practical purposes, without prospects, without protectors? Perhaps he thought she would be honored to grace his bed without benefit of clergy? No, more than likely he was indulging in nothing more than a mild flirtation to enliven his stay in the country. He had chosen her to receive his attentions because he considered her of an age and position to expect nothing more. Of the two possibilities, she could not have said at that moment which she found less appealing.
Toward morning the storm returned in all its fury. Thunder rolled around the house and lightning flashed continuously. The rain marched across the cypress shingles overhead in windblown sheets, drowning all other sound.
Caroline raised herself on her elbow to listen. The constant, keening wind had almost the sound of a hurricane, though she knew it was too early in the season. On impulse, she threw back the covers and slid out of bed. Sleep was made doubly impossible in this weather. She might as well get up.
By the time she had dressed in a gown of light blue cambric, the rain had begun to slacken. Giving a last pat to the low chignon on the nape of her neck, she let herself out of her room and started along the hall.
A sound, like the slamming of a door, drew her up short. She stood still, protecting her candle flame from draughts with her cupped hand. Who could be abroad at this hour, on such a day? M’sieur Delacroix would not even think to venture out to inspect the damage done by the storm until the rain had stopped.
After a moment she moved on. She must have been mistaken. Perhaps there was a jalousie blind loose. These had been closed over the windows the night before by the servants. Or the morning might be more advanced than she thought due to the darkening effect of the rain clouds. If the servants were stirring, there might soon be a cup of coffee to be had. That was a welcome thought.
She had left her Berlin embroidery in the sitting room. Working at it served to pass the time. When that palled, she threw a shawl around her shoulders and went to stand on the back gallery, staring at the falling rain, watching the drenched garden take shape in the gradually increasing light.
It was there that Colossus found her as he trod up the stairs from his room on the lower floor. “Mam’zelle!” he said with a start. “I thought you were a ghost, standing there in your pale gown. Here, come into the salon and I will bring your morning café. That should warm your bones.”
His concern warmed her as much as the coffee. As he fussed, bringing her a footstool, asking if she wanted a roll or tattler to tide her over until the breakfast croissants were t
aken from the oven, Caroline wondered how much he guessed of her problems. It was well known that the servants in a French Creole household kept abreast of the affairs of those they served. It would not surprise her to learn that Colossus was as well aware of what had taken place the night before as she was herself.
The sound of hoof beats brought her head up. She set down her cup and got to her feet. At the tread of booted feet on the steps, she nodded to Colossus to unbolt the front door. He swung it open to reveal Rochefort on the gallery using the lyre-shaped foot scraper to clean the mud from his boots. Rain dripped from the brim of his low-crowned hat and beaded the oilskin cape that hung from his shoulders.
“Good morning, Colossus,” he said and looked past the butler to where Caroline stood in the hall, giving her a civil bow. “Could you tell me if young Theo is in his bed?”
“I don’t know, M’sieur. I have not looked in this morning.”
“Do so, if you please.”
“Certainly, M’sieur.”
Very much on his dignity at this peremptory order without explanation, Colossus went away to do as he was told.
“Won’t you step inside?” Caroline said.
Rochefort took off his hat, shaking it free of water, but made no move to enter the house. “I can’t stay.”
“Is something wrong?”
He looked for a moment as if he doubted the wisdom of confiding in her, then he said shortly, “Jack Pernell, the son of my overseer, is missing. It was thought best to see if the two boys are together.”
“I see,” Caroline said slowly. Theo had returned home with them the night before. If he had gone out this morning, he had not used the main doors, for both had been securely bolted. There were many doors and French windows which led out of the house onto the galleries, however. The sound she had heard earlier could easily have been one of them.
“You look as if you did not sleep well,” he told her abruptly.
“Thank you,” she returned, smiling. “A woman always likes to know when she looks haggard.”
“You should have something better to keep you awake than worry over a caper merchant.”
“You think so? Considering the company you keep, I would not have thought your standards to be so lofty.”
“If you are referring to Francine — Madame Fontaine—”
“I do wish you could make up your mind how you wish to call her, my lord!” The words came pouring out before Caroline could stop them. It was as if they had taken up their quarrel where they had left off the evening before. It was uncertainty allied to an ancient protective instinct that caused her to fire up so quickly. She could not help herself, nor could she explain her urgent need for protection.
What he might have said or done she would never know. His gaze went beyond her to where Colossus, dignity forgotten, came quickly toward them down the hall.
“M’sieur Theo, he is not in his bed,” the butler said the moment he was in range.
Rochefort swore. Swinging about, he clapped his hat on his head.
“Wait!” Caroline called and quickly related what she had heard.
“What time was this?” Rochefort demanded.
“Two, perhaps two and a half hours ago.”
“Did you hear a horse?”
Caroline shook her head, frowning. “It was raining pretty heavily. I might not have.”
“I heard no horse,” Colossus volunteered.
“He is on foot, then. Tell me, do you have any idea exactly where the raft the boys were constructing is located?”
Caroline shook her head. Mutely, Colossus copied the action.
“I should have made it my business to find out when Pernell first mentioned the project,” Rochefort said unhappily. “I would give a lot to know it is still unfinished.”
The trend of his thoughts was obvious. The mere possibility of the idea he was entertaining drew their eyes irresistibly toward the river winding before the house. It lay like a wide silver banner, shrouded in the mist-like rain.
Suddenly Rochefort stepped to the edge of the gallery. With a hoarse, indrawn breath, Colossus followed. Narrowing her eyes, Caroline searched for whatever it was that riveted their attention.
Tree limbs torn down during the night, patches of shredded bark and rotted wood littered the wind-ruffled surface of the water. Among so much debris, it was hard to pick out a single object. Still, without being told, Caroline knew she was looking for the square shape of a log raft.
She located it by the mast, a log pole amidships from which dangled a flapping, bedraggled sail. With a hand over her mouth, she stopped the cry that rose to her lips. There was no sign of anyone on board the pitching craft.
Rochefort took the stairs in two bounds. Flinging aside hat, oilskins, coat, cravat, and shirt as he ran, he made for the levee. By the time Caroline and Colossus reached it, only his boots stood on the earthen embankment. Rochefort, his strokes clean and strong, was in the water, already halfway to the raft and swimming at an angle to intercept it.
From this closer vantage point, Caroline could see what Rochefort must have seen all along. At the edge of the tied logs bobbed a sleek black head — no, two heads. Tears of reaction sprang into her eyes, and she wiped them away impatiently so that she could see. She could not tell which boy was which. As Rochefort came nearer a feeble shout echoed over the water, nearly lost in the spatter of the rain.
“What is the man going to do? What can he do?” Colossus muttered.
“He will do something,” Caroline replied, and was amazed at how sure she was of it.
“M’sieur Bernard, and M’sieur Anatole, I should go and rouse them. They might be needed.”
“Yes,” Caroline agreed, but the butler did not move until he had seen Rochefort heave himself onto the raft and drag first one boy and then the other up beside him.
For a moment, Rochefort bent over the boys; then he straightened. He stepped to the mast with its sagging sail and made a few adjustments, and the cloth came alive. It struggled in his hands, billowing, snapping taut with its belly full of wind. Slowly the raft came about and pointed its square bow toward the levee.
Caroline watched long enough to see that it would reach the bank downriver from where she stood. Uncaring of the rain or mud, she splashed after it. Her spirits soared, and she wanted to laugh aloud in her relief. The knot of her hair came loose and uncoiled like a snake down her back. She did not notice. She had to keep wiping the raindrops from her eyes so she could see. Jack, Theo, Rochefort; all were safe.
The raft was nudging gently against the levee by the time she reached it. She caught the rope Rochefort tossed her, holding it taut while he helped the boys one at a time to the wet and muddy shore. They stumbled a little, they were pale and blue from cold, but otherwise unhurt. Theo would have tried to express his gratitude, tried to explain their escapade. Rochefort, his voice curt, stopped him. “Later,” he said.
With a thankful glance, the boy subsided.
Back along the river road could be seen running figures. Soon enough would come the questions and explanations as well as warm drinks, blankets, dry clothes. Her eyes bright, Caroline turned to Rochefort who stood half supporting Jack. She lifted her gaze to his face, then froze, staring.
River water ran from his black hair, dripping down his face and over his muscled torso. The effect was to pull his cropped hair back, as though it were tied in a queue. He had not taken the time to shave this morning, and a blue growth of beard shadowed his chin and upper lip. Stripped of the trappings of a well-dressed gentleman, he was more the primitive male, dominating and self-assured. The storm, the sight, movements before, of the billowing sail in his hands, combined with his appearance to force the truth upon Caroline. Her mind filled with a burgeoning pain, she dropped her eyes to his side, knowing what she would find. It was there, the puckered scar of an old wound, exactly where she had shot him.
The man before her was not Jean Charles Henri, Marquis de Rochefort. He was an imposter, a scou
ndrel, a privateer. He was the man once feared by British merchants, hated by British seamen, and cursed by the captains of British ships. He was the man known, like his vessel, as the Black Eagle.
~~~
AT THE SOUND of scratching on the French window, Caroline raised her head. A soft, almost hesitant knock followed. Putting aside her Berlin work, she moved to the glass-paned panel which opened from Theo’s bedchamber out onto the gallery.
M’sieur Philippe stood outside. “Forgive me for disturbing you, Mam’zelle,” he said, his hand going nervously to the ruffles at his throat. “I wished only to inquire after Theo. How does he go on?”
“Very well. He is sleeping just now or I know he would be glad to see you. He is to be allowed visitors today.”
“Ah, that is wonderful. So brave he has been, fighting the river and this terrible congestion of the lungs. His is a gallant heart.”
“That is certainly true,” she agreed.
“How close these thoughtless boys came to tragedy, hein? To ride the river on such a tiny raft in such weather, such a great foolishness, was it not? But we needs must forgive them. It is to be hoped that this Mistaire Pernell realizes that our Theo could have saved himself with ease when they were swept overboard. But no, he must risk all to save his friend who could not swim. Such self-sacrifice must surely be rewarded with a return to health.”
“I think you must give some small credit to M’sieur le Marquis. Theo was too spent by his exertions to be able to pull his friend and himself back onto the raft.”
“Naturally,” the tutor made haste to agree. “My one regret is that I was not able to render such a service.”
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