Table of Contents
Bal Masque
Copyright
Dedication
Praise for Fleeta Cunningham
Chapter One:
Chapter Two:
Chapter Three:
Chapter Four:
Chapter Five:
Chapter Six:
Chapter Seven:
Chapter Eight:
Chapter Nine:
Chapter Ten:
Chapter Eleven:
Chapter Twelve:
Chapter Thirteen:
Chapter Fourteen:
Chapter Fifteen:
Chapter Sixteen:
Chapter Seventeen:
Chapter Eighteen:
Chapter Nineteen:
Chapter Twenty:
Chapter Twenty-One:
A word about the author...
Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
Also available from The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
Bal Masque
by
Fleeta Cunningham
Confronting Destiny, Book One
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Bal Masque
COPYRIGHT © 2014 by Fleeta Cunningham
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by Debbie Taylor
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First American Rose Edition, 2014
Print ISBN 978-1-62830-177-9
Digital ISBN 978-1-62830-178-6
Confronting Destiny, Book One
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
For Kayleigh and Logan,
the perfect grandchildren, who keep me young.
You are always in my heart.
Love, Tutu
Praise for Fleeta Cunningham
Author of five books in the vintage Santa Rita Series, with more publications in process with The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
ELOPEMENT FOR ONE
“Well-crafted story… exciting plot… interesting characters… The love between the two main characters is precious, from beginning to the final, exciting conclusion…. I am now determined to read the rest of the series.”
~The Romance Studio (5 Stars)
BLACK RAIN RISING
“One of the most fantastic books I’ve read this year… grabbed my attention from the first sentence…. A memorable, entertaining, and well-written story…. An author of increasing distinction who will never disappoint her readers.”
~Two Lips Reviews (5 Lips, Recommended)
DON’T CALL ME DARLIN’
“A warm, thought-provoking book… an enticing hero and a wounded yet proud heroine. A realistic picture of 1957… an image of small town America that both warms and terrifies…. The best thing is she balances the build-up with a really good ending.”
~WRDF (rated Fantastic)
HALF PAST MOURNING
“Delightful to read. Fleeta Cunningham slips in mores, styles, and pastimes of the 1950s era…. Her subtle, understated writing style moves along smooth as silk…a sparkling, enjoyable vicarious experience.”
~Camellia, Long and Short Reviews (4.5 Stars)
Chapter One:
Wedding Arrangements
“So it’s all planned, as Papa intended, and I’m to marry Armand Dupre.” Lucienne Toussaint stomped into the room and threw herself down on the vanity bench, eyes bright with unshed tears, voice quivering with misery. “The wretched wedding will take place before Lent, Papa says. He says the Dupres are eager to have the business concluded ahead of the spring planting. The Dupres are eager! What about me? I am not eager!” Her shoulders shook with the force of her frustration.
As chaperone and confidante to the plantation’s willful daughter, Marie was used to Lucienne’s outbursts. She felt some sympathy for her young charge; the girl might have had hopes and dreams, but she had no voice in the plans made for her future.
“Lucienne, you will find the marriage to your liking in time.” She consoled the girl but had little patience with Lucienne’s petulance. You have small reason to complain, ma fille. She brushed the girl’s dark hair with long, soothing strokes. So, you’ll marry a man who will provide the endless comforts and pleasures you’ve had all your life. Is it such a sacrifice? When far younger than Lucienne, Marie had fled the mob-filled, blood-soaked streets of Paris in revolt, fearing for her life.
Lucienne thrust Marie’s hand away and shoved the vanity bench aside. It teetered for a second, then toppled to the floor as the girl flounced across the room. Tears, the tears that had threatened since she entered the room, spilled. “No, I won’t!” She hurled herself across the bed. “Never, never!” She sobbed and buried her face in her hands. “How could I find this—this arrangement—to my liking? You know I love Philippe Pardue!” She curled into a ball, wailing, her arms covering her head. “He’s had my heart for two years. And I have his. How can I marry Armand when my very soul belongs to Philippe?” Marie reached out, but the girl jerked away from her touch, pounding a silk pillow in vexation. “I can’t marry Armand—I won’t marry him!” Her flailing fist split the thin pillow cover. “It’s unbearable, Marie! My life is ruined! I’d be happier inside the walls of the convent!”
Marie smothered an impulse to laugh at the idea of this pampered child facing the rigors of convent life. The coarse habit alone would deter her, never mind the labor performed by those within the walls.
Lucienne’s thrashing feet snapped the ribbons holding one slipper, leaving a small embellishment to the floor’s polished wood. Frustration robbing her of words, Lucienne howled in inarticulate dismay. She clutched the torn pillow, its lacy cover a bunched, shapeless mass. Feathers spilled over the coverlet. Blindly she heaved the bundle off the bed, down filling the air. A few bits clung to Lucienne’s tumbled hair as she sat up. Brushing them aside, she knocked over two Venetian glass flasks on the bedside table but paid no attention to the scent of jasmine flooding the room. “How can Papa expect me to live with one man when another is my whole world?”
Marie sniffed again, not so silently this time, contemplating the mess around her. “Here, chèrie. Let me help you out of this dress. You’re fretting yourself into an illness. Think rationally about this for a bit. Your papa wouldn’t make plans that would lead only to your despair.”
Nimbly she loosened the squirming girl’s muslin gown, helped her out of twisted petticoats, removed the other slipper. Marie had no desire to give Lucienne the chance to vent her anguish on a dress that would take hours to repair. The feathers and perfume made quite enough extra work. She fetched a linen cloth and moistened it with cologne from the only remaining vial. As she wiped the tearstained cheeks and chivvied the girl back to the froth of pillows, she shook her head at Lucienne’s perversity. Truly the girl exhausted herself—and Marie, too. Surreptitiously she wiped her own brow. The choice isn’t the one Lucienne would have made, but how often does the bride have a say in the selection of her groom? The decision is made for the wellbeing of the family. And it’s better so. Left to her own devices, look at the man our girl would choose. The young Pardue! Indeed!
Mari
e knew this Pardue, second son of Belle Mer, the plantation to the east. Lucienne might think she held his heart, but Marie knew his eyes never rested long on any one pretty face. Common gossip said he took far too many liberties with the servant girls wherever he visited. His talents for consuming wine and gambling on slow horses were widely known. And foolish Lucienne would trade this coxcomb for the gracious and elegant Dupre? Spoiled child, a baby begging to grasp a burning brand.
“You will follow your papa’s wishes. He is a good man with only your happiness at heart. He would not arrange a marriage that would make you miserable.” She tucked a handkerchief into the girl’s hand to guard against another outburst.
Tossing the bit of linen aside, Lucienne glared, her dark eyes glistening. She shoved herself up by her elbows. “Miserable? Marie, I am already miserable!” Another flood of tears threatened. “I carry such misery, I would pull down these very walls if it would free me from this abominable marriage!” Marie saw anger overcoming the girl’s dejection. As she expected, Lucienne reached for something weighty to throw—a bedside book—and sailed it toward the windows. Marie dived and caught the book in flight, saving the long glass pane, but her shoulder took the brunt as she lunged against the window frame.
“Enough of that! Behave, Lucienne.” M’sieu Armand doesn’t know the consequences of the bargain he’s made. She turned away, rubbing her shoulder. Why did he offer for this flighty girl who has never shown him an ounce of encouragement? Should he ever see his intended bride like this, Marie believed M’sieu Dupre would hastily take his suit elsewhere. A ribbon torn from the discarded slipper edged under the netting of the bed. The movement caught her attention. A black paw batted at the bit of silk. Marie picked up the kitten peering with enormous blue eyes from beneath the bed. “Look, all this turmoil has frightened Ninette.” She smoothed the glossy coat.
“Oh, you poor little thing! I’m sorry I scared you.” Lucienne reached for the kitten and cuddled it to her cheek, stroking the tiny ears. Lucienne’s voice softened as she tucked the bit of black fur to her shoulder. Caressing the kitten seemed to calm her. Lucienne drew a long breath as her fury subsided a little. “You know why Papa made this bargain with the devil, Marie?” She rolled from the bed, crossed the room to jerk back sheer window curtains, and pointed at the distant fields. “For that. For the prosperity of Mille Fleur. Papa sees he’ll gain a shipping advantage for the sugar crop if I marry Armand. He says the union of a plantation family with a shipping family will make fortunes for both, because my dowry will expand the business.” She turned, scorn narrowing her eyes. “It’s just a partnership to them, Marie. It’s nothing about Armand and me, not our happiness, not our feelings. It’s nothing to do with us at all.” She turned away, leaning her head against the window.
The girl was right, of course. The arrangement didn’t have anything to do with the couple. It profited the two financial endeavors involved. But it could hardly disillusion either party, not when it assured the continuation of the sugar plantations.
“Still, chèrie, planning a wedding—only two months away—this hardly seems feasible. Your maman will be beside herself. Your papa will see we must have more time. Time could change matters for you, make the idea less distressing. And is Armand Dupre such a bad choice? He brought you Ninette, and I know you love the little thing.” Silently Marie appealed to the Holy Virgin. The household, just recovering from Christmas and New Year’s, would soon deal with the expected Mardi Gras guests. A small party would fill one weekend, and the household would provide daily entertainment, as well as the grand masquerade ball ending the festival season. Prepare the ballroom, add a family wedding—hosts of visitors, quantities of food and drink, all requiring days of planning—the family and servants would be strained beyond endurance. Lucienne’s papa routinely disregarded the domestic problems he created by inviting a dozen friends to stay for a month at a time. Gracious and calm, his wife welcomed everyone, but even Madame Toussaint might find the addition of a sudden wedding daunting. Of course, Marie reminded herself, Madame Toussaint was not consulted.
“Ninette is the only benefit I see in this wretched marriage contract with the Dupres. And the only spark of originality I’ve observed in Armand. The Dupres and Papa made all the decisions about the wedding. I sat across the room as if I were invisible. No one even asked what I thought! And the time they chose is terrible, but Papa won’t hear of a change.” Lucienne made a pale shadow in the dim light, her lace-trimmed chemise a white blur. She sat at the window, holding her kitten and staring down at the garden. Marie started to protest, then stopped. Lucienne was in no danger of being seen. The long gallery outside provided a shady barrier. All household members would be sleeping off the midday meal, while the servants should still be occupied with their own food. The girl was virtually invisible.
Lucienne continued to look down, the manicured lawns empty of human traffic. “We’ll only have the small party, just for family and our closest friends. Papa says we won’t have a ball for Mardi Gras this year.” Lucienne made her father’s decision sound as if it meant the end of civilized society. “Papa says we’ll have the wedding instead. Papa says we’ll do the small masquerade and put the grand ball aside. Papa has decided everything!”
She turned from the window, her shoulders hunched forward, her dark hair shadowing her face. A portrait of burdened, wronged, despondent womanhood, she sighed wearily. A single tear dropped into Ninette’s fluffy fur. “I’m not even going to have my wedding in the Cathedral in New Orleans! It will be right here at the house. And Père Jean-Baptiste will do the ceremony.” She sighed, a deep, dramatic note of tragedy. “Not a proper wedding, just a little family thing, because it will be too close to Lent and too much is going on for us to stay in town for the weeks it would take to do it appropriately. A colorless little family wedding with no guests, no ball, and no wonderful dress.” She hunched over her kitten, bravely holding back her tears, the personification of a victim sorely put upon by life.
Marie, though touched by the girl’s genuine despair, thought Lucienne overplayed her part. I’ve seen victims of Madame Guillotine show less despondency on the scaffold steps. “So it will be a smaller wedding, then,” she murmured, gratified that the household would not have the complete upheaval she’d feared.
“I won’t even get to wear my wonderful new masquerade ball gown!” Her dark hair tumbling loose, Lucienne threw her hands out in disgust. “Isn’t that just unspeakable of Papa? I’ve waited almost a whole year to wear that gown, ever since Grandmère had the two of them sent from Paris, one for me and one for Cousin Pierrette. It’s the most beautiful, perfect gown in all Louisiana! Now I won’t get to wear it; instead, I’ll just have some ordinary wedding dress run up in a hurry here at home. No style, no charm. Just a tacky, commonplace dress. Beside my ball gown, my wedding dress will be nothing. Everyone will laugh at such a poor show.” She held the kitten up to eye level. “Ninette, how can Papa expect me to give up Philippe and my ball gown, too?”
Marie turned, collecting loose feathers to hide her face. Apparently the girl was as upset at not getting to wear her fabulous ball gown as she was over giving up her attachment to the wastrel Pardue!
“Your papa might arrange a grand ball later in the summer, to greet the newlyweds and make up for some of the informality of the wedding.”
“It won’t be the grand bal masque.” Lucienne disentangled the kitten’s tiny claws from her curls. “It wouldn’t be nearly as pleasant. At the bal masque, I would be receiving suitors, and wearing my butterfly dress with the fancy mask, and dancing with all the acceptable young men. If Papa waits till summer, I’ll just be another married lady with no one paying court or making pretty speeches.” Lucienne hobbled to the damask chair, mimicking a shrunken, aged crone. “I might as well be as old as Grandmère. I’ll only get to dance with the grandfathers and widowers and half-deaf old soldiers, who will stomp on my feet and smell of tobacco and horses.”
Marie laughed alo
ud at Lucienne’s theatrics. The girl had a gift for mimicry that often amused and sometimes horrified her family. At sixteen Lucienne had made her debut and cut quite a path through all the suitable young men of the parish. For two years she had enjoyed the attentions of a good many swains, but she often came back from an entertainment with a mocking imitation of the foolish admirers who persisted in their attentions. Marie had scolded her more than once for such performances, then hurried to her own rooms to laugh over Lucienne’s antics in private. She would find it difficult, Marie supposed, to put aside the young people’s balls and diversions to assume wife and hostess responsibilities at the Dupre house in New Orleans. Still, when Lucienne was introduced to society, Marie had heard only of picnics, theater evenings, house parties, and balls from the younger married set. She did not recall the young matrons suffered any great restrictions.
“You will find compensations as the Dupre bride. The opera, the theater—those will be part of your life. You’ll have guests to entertain. And in time, children will fill your home, I think.”
“Children!” Lucienne looked aghast at the word. “I…don’t… I won’t even discuss that. It isn’t decent.”
Marie shrugged. People married, produced children to carry on the family name, to make the future secure. What else was the point of these alliances? Could Lucienne not think in such terms? She had been reared to it.
“I suppose life in New Orleans could have some interest.” Lucienne shook back her hair and drew a resigned breath. “The theater was very gay when we were there in the fall. And I met some amusing people. Armand knows everybody worth knowing. It appears he’s quite popular, though heaven knows why.” Her voice dismissed her future husband. “It could be a pleasant life, if I were married to someone less—less—tedious.”
Marie suspected she knew the girl’s thoughts. The Dupres, father and son, lived in a quiet quarter of the city, comfortable but somewhat sedate. The Pardues, however, not only had a stylish house, the home of Philippe’s older brother Etienne, in a fashionable area of the city. Their father also had a fine plantation along the river, permitting his son Philippe to amuse himself by circling between the two centers. Etienne cared for the financial affairs of the whole family, entertaining often and holding open house to a host of sophisticated business associates. If Etienne’s diversions in the city palled, Philippe could always escape to country life and its leisurely pace of house visits, courtship, horses, and cards. Marie could see life in the Pardue family held far more appeal for Lucienne than becoming mistress of the staid house of Dupre.
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