Sweet Piracy

by Blake, Jennifer

  “Those of my guests who feel so inclined are in costume tonight. You disapprove?”

  “It is no concern of mine,” she answered as evenly as possible. “What does concern me is the fact that Amélie and Estelle may be among the maskers.”

  A frown drew his brows together. “You have some reason for such a statement?”

  Quickly she outlined what had occurred. When she finished speaking, he swore softly and strode from the room. A quarter of an hour passed. Caroline was thinking seriously of going in search of the girls when the door was flung open. Rochefort stood back to allow Estelle in a purple domino to sweep past him. She was followed by Amélie with the hood of her cloak thrown back exposing her hair, and Victor in the guise of a “very parfit, gentle knight.”

  Estelle halted at the sight of Caroline; then, jostled by the others, she came forward more slowly. Beneath her demimask she chewed at her bottom lip. Amélie clung to Victor’s arm.

  “Your culprits,” Rochefort said, folding his arms to lean against the closed door.

  Caroline sent him a look of extreme irritation before she turned to the others. It was Victor who spoke first.

  “I realize how this must appear to you, Mademoiselle Pembroke,” he said. “Please accept my assurances that no harm was intended, only the most innocent of amusement to be added to the great privilege of seeing the woman who holds my heart, my Amélie. I cannot expect you to believe me, but I can, and will, make you understand that the blame is mine alone.”

  “No, no!” Amélie cried. “I wanted to come. It was I who received Victor’s note and concealed it, I who agreed to steal out of the house to meet him. Oh, Mam’zelle, I am sorry, so terribly sorry that I had to deceive you, but there was no other way! It was unreasonable of Maman to forbid us to meet, and I love Victor so. I would never have dreamed of disobeying if it were otherwise.”

  That was no doubt true. Caroline could not feature the gentle girl defying her parent’s command, and society’s dictates, plus the terrors of the night, for anything less than a genuine attachment. She had thought the girl captivated by Rochefort, and he, perhaps, just as infatuated. A covert glance revealed nothing of what might be passing through that gentleman’s mind, however. His sardonic gaze rested on Estelle, who stood twisting a fold of her domino in her hands.

  The girl looked from Rochefort to Caroline. “Coming here was my idea,” she said in a rush. “Victor and Amélie would have been content to do no more than stare at each other while I played gooseberry. It was ridiculous, taking a sister along for a clandestine meeting, as if there were such a thing as propriety to be observed at a rendezvous. It was much more sensible to arrange to go where they could be comfortable and where I could see Madame Fontaine.”

  Caroline looked from one to the other. What could she say to them? Where was her sense of outrage and indignation? The answer was that she could say nothing, for she did not feel at all as she knew she should. Given the choice and a hint of welcome, she would doubtless have preferred to attend the masquerade also.

  “Were you recognized?” she asked Amélie.

  Amélie glanced at her sister as if for confirmation. “No,” she said, shaking her head, “I don’t think so.”

  “Then perhaps there is no harm done. Come, let us go home before anything can happen to change that situation.”

  Rochefort held the door as the others filed through. Caroline had just stepped over the threshold when a loud cry echoed from the staircase that swept up to the ballroom.

  “Jean! Jean, my love, they told me you disappeared with Victor and a pair of ladybirds. I see now that it is worse than I thought. Three, mon cher! How many does it take to content you?”

  Caroline heard Amélie’s small gasp, but she did not take her eyes from the actress descending to meet them. Madame Fontaine wore a gown of flesh-colored muslin edged at the low neckline and about the sleeves with gold embroidery. A golden girdle clasped her slender waist, fastening with long, gold cords that fell below her knees. The gown itself was modest enough; the addition of a long chemise would have made it unexceptional though a trifle gaudy. But the actress wore no chemise. Beneath the transparent muslin gauze she wore nothing. She had even gone so far as to dampen the material so that its transparency was increased, and it clung to every line and curve of her body. Her black hair was unbound, held only by a gold fillet on her forehead. Kid sandals, strapped about her ankles and up the calves of her legs, adorned her feet. In the face of such a blatant display of her charms, the demimask she wore seemed a coy affectation. And yet, there was something so jaunty about her, so engagingly joyous as she moved down the stairs, that Caroline could not own herself shocked. Watching her step to Rochefort’s side and tuck her hand into his arm, the feeling uppermost in her mind was a paralyzing jealousy.

  “Why, it’s the little governess, isn’t it? Mademoiselle Pembroke, I believe? I have been wondering what became of you. I have a few things I would like to tell you regarding Jean’s past which you find so horrifying.”

  “Not now,” Rochefort interrupted. “The ladies were just leaving.”

  “Were they?” the actress asked, her mouth growing harder beneath her mask. “How sad, just when we were having so much fun.”

  “You must forgive us,” Caroline said, her voice stiff as her face in her effort to hide her distress. “Mesdemoiselles, shall we—”

  Estelle glanced at Caroline apologetically before she stepped toward the actress. “Before I go, Madame Fontaine, I would like to tell you how much I admire you, and how much I enjoyed your performances last winter in New Orleans.”

  “How nice of you to say so,” the actress exclaimed, extending her hand impulsively to grasp Estelle’s. “You must come backstage the next time you see me perform. I am always glad to see an admirer.”

  “Do you mean that?” Estelle asked in wonder.

  “But of course I mean it, ma petite. I would not have said it else.”

  “I would be so thrilled, I cannot tell you what it would mean to me.”

  The sound of footsteps on the stairs brought Caroline’s head up. The lively fear that Estelle and Amélie might still be discovered here among what could only be described as the demimonde sent alarm coursing along her veins. Instinctively, she turned to Rochefort.

  “There, I told you it was your sister’s voice I heard,” Hippolyte said to Anatole as they came into view around the landing. “I knew I could not be mistaken.”

  Anatole paid no attention as he hurried down the last few steps. “Mam’zelle Caroline,” he said in a low tone, “what can you be thinking of to bring my sisters here? It will not do, it will not do at all.”

  Caroline wasted no time in defending herself. “What I am doing at the moment is trying to get them away,” she said. “I would appreciate your escort and the use of your curricle, if you have no objections. It was going to be a bit crowded in the cart.”

  “Came in the cart, did you?” Hippolyte said, casting a shrewd eye over Estelle, who had gone suddenly pale and silent. “Wouldn’t surprise me to learn you came on a rescue mission. Thought I saw that purple domino peeping out of one of the retiring rooms earlier, but it popped back in before I could get a good look at it.”

  “You needn’t talk as if I had done something criminal!” Estelle said, her eyes sparkling with wrath at this uncomplimentary description of her conduct. “After all, you have been making yourself at home here anytime this past week!”

  “Not the same at all, kitten, and you know it. There’s no need to fire up at me because you know you did wrong.”

  “I know no such thing! And just who gave you leave to criticize my conduct?”

  “You did when you decided to behave like a hoyden.”

  “A hoyden! How dare you?” Estelle cried. She would have said more had Rochefort not intervened.

  “I would advise you to continue this quarrel elsewhere,” he drawled, “or Mademoiselle Pembroke’s efforts will be in vain. May I send for your curricle
, Anatole?”

  Caroline took Amélie up with herself and Jim in the cart, leaving Estelle to come with her brother and Hippolyte. It was not the most diplomatic arrangement, but it could not be helped since Estelle, while Amélie was making her tearful farewells to Victor, clambered up over the wheel of the curricle and sat there huddled into her domino.

  The curricle, being a much swifter vehicle, reached Beau Repos well ahead of the cart. That the occupants of the first carriage had quarreled all the way home became obvious the moment Caroline and Amélie stepped down on the drive. Estelle’s slippers were found on the front steps, lying there as if she had lost them while hurrying inside or had flung them at someone. The purple domino lay in a crumpled heap in the hall, and the contents of Estelle’s reticule were scattered about as if she had vented her rage upon it. From the direction of her bedchamber came the sound of an armoire door slamming.

  Amélie, venturing to approach her bedchamber door to inquire if Estelle was all right, had her head bitten off for her pains. It was decided after some consultation to let Estelle calm down alone.

  At the door of her own bedchamber Amélie paused. “I suppose I owe you some — some attempt at an explanation,” she said with difficulty. “I — quite see what Estelle and I did tonight will inevitably affect you. I mean — if Maman should find out, she will be furious and it is you she will blame. I hadn’t thought until we were on our way home just now, but you could lose your position.”

  “That doesn’t matter,” Caroline told her. “What matters is your good name. It is no pleasant matter to be ruined, even if it is for love.”

  “No, I’m sure you are right.”

  Caroline hesitated. “You are certain, quite certain, that it is Victor you love?”

  “Oh, yes, Mam’zelle Caroline.”

  “Not — not Rochefort?”

  Amélie shook her head. “He has been extremely kind to me. In spite of everything — that has happened, I still admire him. But love him? I couldn’t, not when there is Victor.”

  “I see,” Caroline said, smiling a little at her vehemence. “I must have misunderstood. Never mind.”

  “But the explanation—”

  “Let it go for tonight,” Caroline told her dismissingly as she noted with pity the girl’s exhaustion, the dark circles under her eyes, and the faint tremor that could be heard in her voice. “We will talk in the morning. By then everything will look better.”

  She was wrong. She discovered the extent of her error with the arrival of her morning coffee.

  “Forgive me, Mam’zelle,” said the little maid who stood beside her bed, tray in hand. “I would not wake you so early after a late night, but it is most important.”

  Caroline struggled to a sitting position before reaching to take the petit noir, the small black cup of coffee, which she had come to like in place of chocolate as a morning reviver. Beyond the window curtain, the day was gray-green with the promise of rain. It was not early at all, closer to midmorning. “What is it?” she asked in tones still husky with sleep.

  “It is Mam’zelle Amélie. She is gone.”

  Her hand jerked so she nearly spilled the hot coffee. “Gone? What do you mean, gone?”

  “She is not in her room. One of the gardener’s boys said that a carriage came just after daybreak. The driver met Mam’zelle Amélie on the drive. They talked, and then Mam’zelle Amélie went back into the house. When she came out she had on her bonnet and shawl and carried a bandbox. She got into the carriage and they drove away at a great pace down the River Road.”

  “A bandbox?” Caroline said faintly. No, it could not be. And yet, why else would a young lady get into a carriage with a man, carrying what must assuredly be provisions for a change of clothing, if not for a runaway marriage?

  “Did the boy recognize the driver of the carriage?”

  “He was the gentleman who used to come often with the man they called the Marquis. A tall gentleman, soft-spoken.”

  It could be no one else. Amélie was eloping with Victor Rochefort. Setting her coffee aside, Caroline flung back the coverlet and slid from the bed. As a couple, Victor and Amélie might be beautifully suited, but this was not the way to their happiness. Amélie was not the kind to survive being ostracized, cut off from family and friends. While she might be willing, even glad, to give up everything for the man she loved, she would find in the end that the price was too dear. There was an additional objection, the question of what name he would bestow upon his bride. If Rochefort was nameless, then his cousin must be also.

  Dressing hastily, Caroline went along the hall to Estelle’s bedchamber. That young lady might have something to add to what was already known. There was the possibility that she even knew the exact route the couple intended to take, or perhaps where they intended to stay on the road.

  Tapping on the door yielded nothing. Caroline knocked again, this time using her knuckles. There was still no answer. Her mouth set in a grim line, she pushed into the room.

  The scene which met her eyes was one of total confusion. Clothing torn from the armoire was spread over every surface. Bonnets spilled from boxes onto the floor, shawls were balled up and thrown into the corners. Trinkets were scattered over the dressing table in a tangle of necklet chains, broken feathers, toothless hair combs, and snapped fan sticks. It was possible to see, under the disarray, that the bed had been slept in. Estelle had been gone some time, however, for the candle she had used had burned to the socket and drowned in its own myrtle wax. It seemed absurd to suppose she had gone with the eloping couple, but still Caroline prayed that Estelle was with her sister.

  It needed only one thing more to fill Caroline’s cup to overflowing. That was supplied by Colossus when she went in search of him to bid him wake Anatole and Hippolyte. He handed her a missive, from the tutor. It seemed their number was thinner by yet one more. M’sieur Philippe, grasping at the opportunity offered by the early-morning passing of the steamboat on its Natchez-to-New Orleans run, had also decamped. In a brief note to Caroline he declared that the humiliation of the discovery he had made the evening before was more than he could bear, coming as it did upon the pain of her cruel refusal of his suit. It was time he sought a larger field for his talents, time he left the stagnated backwaters for the swift rapids of the city. There was much more in a like vein, but Caroline did not trouble to read it. She directed Colossus to wake Anatole, inform him of what had happened, and tell him to make ready for a long drive. That done, she retired to the sitting room. Casting M’sieur Philippe’s note to one side, she drew up a chair to the secrétaire and prepared to write.

  But what to say? While it seemed obvious that some message needed to be sent to Rochefort, she could not think how it should be worded. She did not want him to think she blamed him for what had happened, nor did she want it to seem she was begging for his help, though in this situation she was not certain his aid would not be the most valuable she could have. The only thing to do was to tell him plainly what had gone forth at Beau Repos, inquire as to the whereabouts of his cousin, and make certain before she went hazing off in all directions that Amélie and Estelle were not tucked up comfortably at Felicity enjoying their breakfast.

  Caroline sealed the page covered with her writing and handed it to a waiting maid. The girl went quickly from the room to give it to the groom standing beside his saddled horse at the front steps. As she passed out the door, Tante Zizi entered.

  “A good day to you, Caroline. You are up betimes this morning — but so is everyone else. There is such a stir, such a commotion and a running hither and yon of the servants, that no one answered my bell. I know I am the last to hear anything, tucked away in my room, but I told myself I really had to find out what is taking place.”

  “You may as well know. Doubtless the entire community will be privy to the facts before the day is through. Estelle is missing, and apparently Amélie has eloped with Victor Rochefort.”

  The old lady cocked her head on one side. “What
are you going to do?”

  “What can I do? Amélie cannot be allowed to ruin herself by indulging in a runaway marriage with a nameless nobody. I suppose as soon as Anatole is ready, and as soon as I can ascertain positively that they are on their way to the Indian Mission, that I will have to go after them.”

  “I for one, cannot understand the objection to Victor Rochefort. He seems an unexceptionable young man to me, with a temperament one might expect to match ideally with that of my grand-niece. True, he has no title, but you cannot precisely call him nameless. He comes from a very good family.”

  Caroline stared at her in surprise. “Surely someone must have told you that the Marquis de Rochefort is the name assumed by the notorious privateer, the man I, myself, recognized as the Black Eagle?”

  “Oh, yes. Most enterprising of the young man to mend his fortunes in such a manner, I thought in my day we appreciated a bit of dash in a man, a hint of daring deeds. I cannot see that such a trifle makes him or his cousin ineligible, especially if he has mended his ways and intends to remain at home.”

  Was the old lady being deliberately obtuse? Caroline could not tell. “But Tante Zizi, the man, both men, are imposters. Heavens alone knows what their real names may be.”

  “My dear child!” the old lady exclaimed. “Whatever gave you such an odd notion? A privateer the man may have been, that is as may be; the nobility of France has turned its hand to stranger things in these last years. But he is also indisputably Jean Charles Henri, the Marquis de Rochefort. I could not mistake the look of the Rocheforts, a family I knew well when at Court. The present Marquis has exactly the look of his grandfather. Moreover, he gave to me details of that gentleman and of his grandmother, a good friend of mine, that none but a blood relative could have known. His knowledge of the family seat in the Loire valley was exact, his memory of relations, older men and women I had known, could not have been gathered by anything other than personal experience. No, no. The owner of Felicity is most definitely the Marquis de Rochefort!”