Bal Masque

by Fleeta Cunningham

  “I assumed you asked me to come so you could bid me adieu before you went bravely to your fate tomorrow.” He shrugged. “My heart will break, chèrie, but in time I will get over it, I suppose.”

  “Go to my fate?” Lucienne tossed her head. “Not the fate Papa has in mind. Not while I can find ways to avoid it.”

  Philippe laughed softly in the shadows. “And you’ve come up with yet another way to stop the wedding?”

  “Not exactly.” Lucienne crept past a thorned bush that dragged at her robe and tangled her loose hair. She realized she was hardly dressed for greeting visitors and tried to keep a bit of the low brush between them. “The original idea was to have someone—Pierrette—take my place at the wedding. But it works just as well the other way, having someone—you—take Armand’s place instead. In his costume and mask, of course.”

  “And, chèrie, you are so sure he will gladly relinquish his finery so someone else can stand up before Père Jean-Baptiste to recite those solemn vows?”

  Lucienne made an impatient gesture. “No, of course he won’t just stand aside and let you take his place. He’s staying at Deauville, in the garçonnier, all alone. The boys are still abroad or away at school. There’s plenty of room, and it’s more convenient for Armand than trying to ride from town every time there’s some event he’s supposed to attend. You only have to waylay him somehow—I’m sure you can think of something. When he’s indisposed, you tie him up, leave him in the garçonnier, take his costume, and appear at the wedding. No one will question things until the wedding and ball are over, and then it will be too late.”

  Philippe gave a cynical shrug. “No one will notice that the groom is somewhat shorter and his hair is quite a different shade than expected, I suppose. Or that our voices are very different.”

  Details. Details a man should be able to manage for himself, Lucienne fumed under her breath. “He’s not more than an inch taller. Your riding boots will make up that difference. And you cover your head with the mask and a cloak, a hooded one, to muffle your voice. I think his costume is something long and black. He may already have a cloak to wear with it. He said something about matching my butterfly gown. A lined cloak could be made to look like wings.”

  “So I’m to knock Dupre senseless, tie him up, leave him in the garçonnier, take his costume, and arrive at Mille Fleur in time for the wedding celebration. After the ball, the bride and groom will unmask and everyone will think it’s fine, eh?” He chuckled. “The groom will be fortunate not to find himself challenged to swords in the garden at dawn.”

  “Oh, no, Philippe. Armand doesn’t approve of dueling. He’ll not make a scene or challenge you over me. More likely he’ll be relieved to fade back into his accounts and business trips and not be heard from again.”

  “So you’ve planned it out and written scripts for all the actors, mam’selle.” He put his cigar out in the damp earth below the trees. “I told you before, it isn’t wise to put too much faith in another’s reliability. The very person you count on most is likely to be the one who doesn’t live up to your expectations.”

  “I don’t see what could go wrong this time. Armand will be where he’s supposed to be, I’m sure. There’s nothing else to worry about. I should have thought of this first instead of trying to change places myself. This is less complicated.”

  “I hope you will not be disappointed in the final result, mam’selle. May all go well on the night.” The man seemed to merge with his surroundings, and before she could call out a farewell, Lucienne saw only shadows among the mossy trees where afternoon deepened to evening. She hurried along the darker path, anxious to return to her room before she was missed. In her haste, she didn’t see the slender figure whose brown plaid gown made her part of the trees.

  “Well, Miss Lucy Ann, you got yourself another plan, it seems. Me, I wouldn’t put all that much trust in that rogue Philippe Pardue.” Dorcas ducked under a low branch and followed a smaller path back to her own garden.

  ****

  Throughout the next day Marie was troubled by her young charge’s moods. Sometimes Lucienne bubbled with gaiety, as if she were indeed caught up in the wave of wedding excitement. Sometimes she smirked like a cat lapping cream. At other moments, dark storms and turbulent dreams seemed to fill her brilliant black eyes. In spite of her concerns, and memories of the tantrum that had accompanied Lucienne’s betrothal, Marie had no time to delve into the girl’s vapors. If she remembered a sobbing voice vowing never to marry Armand Dupre, she now saw no hint of a plan to avoid it. Late afternoon on the day of the wedding, when family and guests had retired to their rooms, Marie hurried along with a myriad of chores. She glanced into the ballroom, opened only when the family hosted grand affairs and many guests, as she passed with a load of freshly starched and ironed petticoats. Lucienne would be taking her things to the Dupre house in New Orleans in a few days. Marie didn’t intend the city servants to find anything to criticize in their country-born mistress.

  Mounds of flowers filled the niches in the room, she noted. A temporary altar stood before the east window. Madame Toussaint had filled graceful crystal vases with camellias and budding fronds of oleander to decorate the rooms. Lit by silver candle trees, Mose and his men tuned fiddles to the pitch of the piano as Marie turned to the stairwell. It should be a lovely wedding, but Marie retained a faint worry that all was not as it seemed. A labyrinth of details, seeing to the placement of extra tables around the garden, spreading linens over them, instructing the small black boys who would carry trays of refreshments to the guests, kept her from examining her lingering doubts. Later, Lucienne needed constant attention as she bathed, dressed, and prepared for the moment when her father would escort her to the wedding.

  “Is my hair right? Will the mask sit down over it?” Lucienne spun and twisted, checking every view in her mirror.

  “All is perfect, chèrie,” Marie assured her. “You will start a new fashion among the young ladies of the parish.” She lifted the Dupre pearls from their box and twined them through the raven curls cascading down Lucienne’s back. “Are you ready for the gown, now? You are very pretty, but time flees as you stand admiring yourself.”

  “Yes, yes, now the gown,” Lucienne agreed but pirouetted and danced a moment more before the mirror. She wore an air of mischief in addition to the lovely pearls.

  The gown was a masterpiece, meant to represent a silver-and-white butterfly, Marie knew, with every stitch a credit to its Parisian designer. The lacy sleeves gathered into frothy puffs, with a filmy drape shirred from sleeves to the embroidered plastron, suggesting delicate upper wings. Flounced tulle skirts shimmering with silver needlework imitated butterfly patterns that drifted over misty silk. Lucienne’s tiny waist and ivory shoulders suited perfectly the wide, dipping neckline and gauzy swirls of illusion and lace.

  “Now the mask,” the girl commanded.

  “Are you sure you should?” Marie fingered the silk ribbons. “Everyone will want to see the bride’s face. And I’ve noticed a number of the guests are not wearing one.”

  “Oh, Marie.” Lucienne stamped her foot in exasperation. “It’s a masked ball before it’s a wedding. Of course I’m going to wear it. It’s part of the costume. The dress is nothing without it. Besides, an ordinary veil would cover my face just as that mask does. And Armand is wearing one. I don’t want to embarrass him by not doing as he does.”

  With some reluctance she couldn’t quite explain, Marie took the mask, a wide froth of pearls, satin, and frilled lace suggesting a flirtatious butterfly, and slipped it into place. Lucienne held the silk ribbons securely in place, and Marie dutifully fastened them. She slipped the pearl bracelet around Lucienne’s wrist. The earrings and brooch would have to wait for another occasion. A bride didn’t need that many jewels to finish her gown.

  “Here, chèrie, your flowers. You must have your bouquet.” She thrust the silver holder into Lucienne’s hand, the dew-kissed roses a final touch to the perfect whole. “And the ne
xt time I see you, you will no longer be Mam’selle Lucienne of Mille Fleur but Madame Dupre of New Orleans. Bon chance, chèrie. I pray you will be happy.”

  Lucienne gave a soft laugh. “I will be happy, Marie. I will be. Save your prayers for someone who needs them.” With no more words, the bride blew her a kiss and whirled through the door to glide down the long gallery to where René Toussaint waited to escort her to the ceremony.

  ****

  Marie tidied the room. The young couple would be returning here after the ball, to spend the next several days in seclusion until they departed for the Dupre home on Rue Dumaine. This bridal nest would be as perfect as Marie’s hands could manage. She heard strains of music, and the murmur of voices dropped. The wedding must be about to begin. She glanced out the windows and noted a few last-minute guests were still hurrying toward the open doors. She supposed Lucienne and her father would be waiting in his small office until everyone settled down.

  It would all be over soon. The little vixen had made some kind of plan to foil her father’s wishes, Marie was sure, but it had all come to nothing. She’d thought the cousin, Pierrette, might be helping to terminate the engagement. The girl had made calf eyes at M’sieu Dupre every time she was in the room with him. Perhaps she’d thought to steal his affections, though Marie couldn’t picture Lucienne quietly accepting the role of abandoned fiancée. Just as well the chit had managed to get thrown from her horse before she made real trouble.

  Marie heard the rumble of wheels coming more quickly down the drive than was proper. Someone was arriving very late. She looked out. She knew that vehicle, and it was one she’d not expected. A pony trap rattled over the drive and up to the side of the house. A pony trap? Madame’s sister? Why would she be coming in such a haphazard way? As Marie watched, a figure emerged, female but swathed from head to heels in a voluminous cloak. A young woman, trim and elegant, her ball gown showing as the folds of the cloak fell away. The visitor turned to face the doors and as she did, the light fell on her face. Pierrette! Marie gasped. The little minx had come after all—wearing the silvery butterfly gown her grandmother had given her. A gown so like Lucienne’s that Marie was hard pressed to tell it was not Lucienne herself standing in the courtyard below.

  “Sacre bleu!” The reason struck Marie as hard as a blow. The little fools are planning to trade places! That was the cause of all the whispers and cunning looks during the last few weeks. She must put a stop to this thing immediately. The family would be dishonored. The scandal would rock the parish. Marie lifted her skirts and ran for the back stairs. If she could intercept Pierrette, she would stop the girl, sit on her if necessary, until the ceremony ended. Marie reached the side of the house. No young woman in a silvery butterfly gown was there. Nor in any of the side rooms or lurking behind the great étagère in the hallway. Marie slipped out the side door and circled the outer wall of the house until she could look through the window into the festive ballroom.

  The bride floating in clouds of illusion was Lucienne, wasn’t she? Marie paused. Did Lucienne’s gown have that wisp of drapery, those bits of lace at the low neckline? Marie tried to assure herself the bride was indeed Lucienne, but the foliage outside the window and the flowing bouquets inside masked much of her view. Light from a dozen tiered candle trees gave the room a romantic glow, lovely, but revealing nothing of the people standing near the aged priest. She couldn’t be sure. If the bride was a substitute, Père Jean-Baptiste would never realize it. He was too nearsighted to distinguish Madame Thierry from her own granddaughter, much less a masked woman standing in this light. Still, the girl looked like, moved like Lucienne. Marie breathed a sigh. It had to be Lucienne standing beside the caped and hooded groom.

  The ceremony went beautifully. The bride was as merry, as lovely, as fond parents could expect. Through the evening she danced with delight, smiling and curtseying to the well-wishers who came to offer their congratulations. All in all, though she couldn’t spot Pierrette among the dancers, Marie thought the evening could not have gone better. She sat on a hidden bench near the window and watched as the ball approached midnight, when the company would unmask and promenade into the garden for the wedding feast. Marie pulled her cloak closer and permitted a sigh of relief to escape.

  “You came to watch the little girl you’ve known so long become a bride, eh, Marie?”

  The whispered words startled Marie, and she spun slightly to regard the speaker. He wore tailored evening dress, not a costume, but his swirling, hooded cloak glowed garnet red and hid his features as well as any mask.

  “M’sieu,” she acknowledged, and rose, prepared to walk away.

  “No, Marie, don’t go. Stay and see the evening through. I think you’ll be amused, and Lucienne has gone to so much trouble to make this little drama take place.”

  “What?” Marie stared and frantically searched her memory to give a name to this tall figure beside her.

  A low chuckle answered her. “Lucienne’s heart was not in the marriage, you know. She made other plans.”

  “I knew she’d done something! It’s her cousin Pierrette in there, isn’t it? She convinced the girl to take her place. It’s Pierrette who has married Armand Dupre!”

  Laughter rumbled softly again. “Is that what you think? Pierrette has taken her cousin’s place?” He laughed again. “But both bride and groom are masked. Perhaps it’s not the bride who is the duplicate, but the groom. Mam’selle Lucienne may have convinced someone to take not her place but his.”

  Marie stepped away. “No, she couldn’t do that. M’sieu Dupre wouldn’t be agreeable, surely. He wished this marriage.” Marie peered in vain through the window, trying to see something of the masked and hooded man beside the girl in white.

  “She wouldn’t need Armand’s cooperation so much as that of someone else, someone willing to go along with the plan. Do you not agree?” The man in the shadows held up his hand. “Is there not someone else the lady wished to marry, someone who could be persuaded to waylay Armand and take his place?”

  Marie recalled the smug, almost catlike air of satisfaction she had seen the girl wear at times during the last two days. “Philippe Pardue!” Yes, it had to be. He would find Lucienne’s trick amusing. Without a thought of the girl’s ruined reputation or any other consequences, he’d join such a plot. How he must have been smirking beneath that mask as he spoke those sacred vows. The Toussaints would be humiliated, the whole family would become the talk of the parish. Somehow this farce must be stopped, the scandal averted. Marie gathered her skirts and turned to storm into the ballroom. An iron hand caught and held her.

  “Wait, wait,” the man beside her counseled. “It’s too late to stop the proceedings now. The good father has pronounced the blessing of the union. They are husband and wife. The moment comes for them to unmask. We will see who is married to whom.”

  Marie watched, weak and scarcely breathing, as the bride untied the silken strands holding her mask. Lucienne, it is Lucienne! Marie breathed easier. With laughter in her eyes, Lucienne held out a hand, inviting her groom to unmask as well. He bowed, acceding to her request, drew back his hood and loosened the ribbons holding his own disguise. Drawing away the black silk band, he held it out to her. Marie could not see his face but she could clearly see Lucienne. The girl went starkly white, her mask and bouquet falling unnoticed to the floor. She stood stiff as a mechanical doll, then seemed near to fainting.

  The groom gravely offered her his arm as support as they turned to lead the wedding guests out to supper. Like a broken puppet Lucienne leaned on him and nodded to the applauding audience. Marie gasped as she saw the groom’s face at last.

  The man beside her took her arm and turned her toward the garden. “Come, Madame, and I will take you back to the side door. I suspect the bride will shortly require your attention.” He led her along the path carefully. “It will take time, but I think she will see Armand was the better groom for her after all. He’s a good man, and he cares for her a great deal.
Her ways amuse him; she will outgrow her tantrums in time.” He swept back the hood of his cloak. “I, on the other hand, would make her a poor husband. While I care for the lady, Armand cares more, and I would shortly run out of patience with her.” Her escort deposited Marie at the door. “Her plan tempted me, I will admit, but honor made other demands. And he is the better man. Will you tell her that for me, Marie? I pray one day she’ll know that I was right.”

  Marie nodded gravely at her caped escort. “You’re a better man than I realized, Philippe Pardue. I thank you for your decision. Perhaps Lucienne someday will thank you as well. Au revoir, m’sieu.”

  Chapter Eight:

  Girl in the Mirror

  “You are as lovely as any bride could hope to be, Chou-Chou.” Lucienne barely heard her mother’s words. Her heart beat so loudly it muffled all other sound. She stared into the glass as Marie smoothed black curls into a shining cascade held by a blue satin bow. The white face looking back at her with eyes too wide and staring couldn’t be her own. Not that pinched, colorless ghost of a girl swathed in yards of lace and linen; she wasn’t anyone Lucienne knew.

  “Of course you are a little nervous, chèrie, but don’t fret. Your groom will be along in a little bit. He’ll wait till you are all settled before he joins you. He can’t leave his own party too soon, so be patient,” Charlotte counseled.

  Patient! Lucienne almost spat at the word. She’d be patient through eternity if Armand would just disappear into the night. Her heart had all but stopped the moment he removed his mask. She’d been so sure it was Philippe, so confident that all her plans had worked as they were supposed to. Then to see that hood drop and the mask fall to reveal Armand’s bland face across from her—it was more than she could bear. She didn’t know how she’d made it through the rest of the evening. The ball was a merciful blur. She must have said the right things, not revealed the turmoil in her mind.