Bal Masque

by Fleeta Cunningham

  “She wouldn’t trust a passing stranger,” Armand assured them, regaining his poise. “She has more sense than that.”

  “No, but she’d have no hesitation in taking passage on a riverboat. The Delta Belle would be in the area,” Grandmère answered.

  “It had no reason to stop, and Lucienne could scarcely depend on it being here at the right time. She couldn’t have signaled it. There wasn’t time,” Armand reasoned.

  “But the signal was already out,” Marie interrupted. “M’sieu Toussaint sent word up and down the river to signal the first boat passing. He dismissed M’sieu Price. The man had been taking supplies from the storehouse and selling them to overseers and traders along the river. He approached M’sieu Gaston’s overseer with some bottles of wine from the private stock here. The man told M’sieu Gaston, and they set a trap for Price. That girl Dorcas delivered the wine, and then the overseer and M’sieu Gaston reported the business to M’sieu René. Price was ordered to leave on the next boat. I think a position in the islands, as far from Louisiana as a ship could carry him, was suggested.”

  Armand slapped his forehead. “Mon Dieu! Price was waiting for a riverboat, Lucienne saw the signal lantern, and voilà, she’s gone!”

  Marie nodded. “She would feel safe with Price. Lucienne took an interest in his daughter, gave her clothes and visited often at the cottage. She could easily arrange to take passage with them.”

  Madame Thierry held up a hand. “She would have needed some money for her fare. Did she have any?”

  The vanity drawer still hung open, a bit crooked in its runners. Marie pulled it out and sorted through the tangled contents. “Some, but not a great deal, enough for ribbons and lemonade and such when she went to town. Probably enough for her fare and a bit more.” She let the last box drop into the shallow drawer. “I don’t see any coins here.” She paused wondering how to soften her words to Armand. “And the locket and ring you gave her are gone, as well, m’sieu. I suppose she could sell those, if she needed to.”

  Armand’s concern seemed to be elsewhere. He dismissed the missing jewelry with a shrug. “Price was discharged for theft this morning. Did anyone tell Lucienne?”

  Madame Thierry shook her head. “I hadn’t heard of it, but my sons-in-law prefer to pretend their ladies are ignorant of the mundane aspects of life. Charlotte may have known and probably did, since she’ll have to deal with stores and supplies till René finds a new man. Lucienne takes little interest in business affairs, and with the wedding preparations and all, I doubt anyone told her.”

  Glancing out the window toward the wharf, then pacing from bed to window again, Armand frowned in concentration. “Madame, I don’t want to alarm you further, but consider this. Price is making a nice little profit out of his endeavor, spending nothing for stock and selling it for a good price around the parish. He’s discovered and discharged for theft. He’s ordered out of the country, or at least strongly advised to take himself to other parts. Being found out is bound to rile him, raise a desire to get even. He is a man known for his temper. The daughter of his employer appears, running away in the night. No one knows she’s gone and probably won’t find out for a while. The situation’s made to order for an angry man. The girl is the joy of her papa’s life. And worth a fortune to a man out for revenge. Madame, our situation is more urgent than I suspected.”

  “Price may have helped Lucienne run away, only to take her for his hostage?” Grandmère Thierry turned pale. “No, he surely wouldn’t harm Lucienne. She’s been such a friend to his daughter. He’s a father himself.”

  “A father, yes,” Armand agreed, “but he’s also an angry man, and a dishonest one. I hope I’m seeing danger where none exists, madame, but I won’t rest till I know for sure that I’m wrong.”

  “And I think you may well have reason on your side, m’sieu. Price isn’t to be believed or trusted. If he could do the family a bad turn, he’d leap to the chance.” Marie thrust the loose objects back into the drawer. “I’ll pack my things and get Lucienne’s trunks ready to load. By the time your driver is at the door, I’ll be ready to depart.” The black kitten raised a furry head from the wealth of pillows around it. Marie scooped the little cat into her arms. “The only note Lucienne left was for me. She asked me to take care of Ninette. At least she truly loves this gift of yours. May I take the kitten along? If the family sees her, they may well ask more questions than is desirable.”

  “You have logic as well as compassion, Marie. By all means, take Lucienne’s little friend along.” Armand turned to Madame Thierry. “If there is a demand for ransom, can you get word to Marie in town? It will change our plans completely if the family learns she isn’t safely at my house. I’d want to confer with René Toussaint before he attempted to find Price.”

  “My houseman Obadiah is here with me. He drives my carriage. I’ll send him to Marie in town if there’s any such word.”

  Armand grabbed his bundle and started for the door. “Eh, bien, madame, we must hurry. I’ll arrange to get word to you the moment I know where your granddaughter is. And if you hear anything, you will do the same for us. Marie, get your things and whatever you’ll need for the small one.”

  In the silence of Lucienne’s abandoned room, Madame Thierry sat alone in the shadows. Her pet, her darling Lucienne, must not come to harm. The girl was mad to have run off into the night, alone like this. She should know how fortunate she was to have married one like Armand Dupre. He was, she thought, a little like her Pierre—strong, reliable, and unafraid to fly in the face of convention. That was the problem with her sons-in-law, she concluded. They were too trapped by meaningless social conventions to do anything truly daring or original. This situation was as much René’s fault as Lucienne’s. He’d been far too busy making the social and financial arrangements of an orthodox match for his daughter. He’d never listened to a single thought Lucienne had on the matter. He would amaze his friends by staging a masked wedding, but he’d never think to ask why his daughter requested such a thing. Like most men, he was a fool. Most, she admitted, but not all. Armand Dupre had a little vinegar in his veins, more spirit to him than pallid sherry. He’d do for Lucienne if she ever found sense enough to appreciate him.

  Madame Thierry looked around the disorderly room. It had been a long and emotionally draining day. She felt useless. An old woman couldn’t do much to help. She was weary and too worried to think of anything other than the crisis before her. Wrapping her shawl tightly against the night’s chill, she stiffened her spine and again began to fold garments. Here was something she could do, work for her hands and distraction for her mind.

  “I’m fairly certain our little Pierrette isn’t totally innocent of all this chicanery. Come daylight, before her papa can get her away, I think she and I must have a talk. She’s a sweet child, but much too fond of gossip to make a good conspirator. If she knows of Lucienne’s plans, she’ll tell someone, likely her convention-bound papa, and that will set the fox among the chickens.” Madame Thierry tidied the room as she continued to consider the sudden appearance of her younger granddaughter at the wedding. “Yes, the girls had some plan in mind, and Pierrette will never hold her tongue. Far better she should confide in me as tell all to anyone else.”

  Chapter Ten:

  Rejection, Rain, and Resolution

  Philippe. She had to find Philippe. Morning was far along, and that wretched duel would have taken place hours ago. Even now her beloved might be injured—dying—dead. Searching for direction, Lucienne stood on the New Orleans dock clutching the pillowslip that contained everything she owned, one shredded nightgown. Scarcely aware she held it, she tried to make her eyes focus on the scene around her. To one side, the marketplace pulsed with color and life, echoing the throbbing in her head. She closed her eyes to shut out the clamor and glare around her and think out her next step. Philippe would go to Etienne’s house, if he could go anywhere. She tried to remember how to get there. If only her head would stop pounding so she
could recall the way the streets went.

  A rotund black woman with an intricately tied tignon and a well-filled market basket bumped her. Lucienne grimaced and shut her eyes. Even a slight movement intensified her pounding headache. She put out a hand to keep from falling.

  “You all right there, missy?” The woman caught her arm and held her upright. “You not lookin’ so good, kinda sick-like.”

  Lucienne drew a shaky breath. “I’ll be fine. Just a little upset from the boat.”

  “I knows about dat. Took dat boat ride myself once, thought the flo’ never stop rollin’. Where you tryin’ to git, girl? Maybe I can help you.”

  “The Pardue house, at Chartres and Bienville. You know it?”

  “Long walk. Iffen I get you to the street, you know the house when you sees it?”

  Lucienne nodded and instantly regretted the motion. “Yes, I know the house.”

  “Come along wid you, then.” Her guide moved with considerable speed for a woman of such bulk. Lucienne, her stockingless feet chafed by her boots, scurried to keep up.

  “Ain’t no bizniss of mine, missy, but you ain’t lookin’ too much like a caller to one of these fine houses. You askin’ for work, maybe? ’Cause if you is, I can tell you these folks done got lots of hands available, hands what don’t have to be paid.”

  The woman took her for a beggar, Lucienne realized, suddenly self-conscious in her shoddy garb. If anyone should recognize her, she’d never live it down. Embarrassed at the thought, Lucienne stumbled. She couldn’t go up to the Pardue door and expect admittance, she fretted. Not the way she looked.

  “I have a message for the family there.” It was the first thing that came into her head.

  “Mind you go to the back door, then. The quality folk ain’t gonna let somebody like you come through the front.” They threaded their way down Royal, the banquettes still damp from a morning shower, and dodged the stream of people—flower girls and businessmen, society matrons and mountebanks—out and about their business. Once they passed the cathedral, its white central bell tower disappearing against puffy spring clouds tinged dark on the bottom, they turned into a street Lucienne recognized. A few blocks farther along the way, Lucienne’s guide turned to follow another street. “This here’s Toulouse, missy. I stops here. You go along straight up this road and you’ll find that place you lookin’ for. Mind you move sharp. My bones tells me we got more rain comin’.”

  It didn’t feel like rain to Lucienne. The morning was bright, with a fresh breeze lightly teasing skirts and bending plumes on hats. Her head was easier, and she noticed a definite hunger pang. It had been a long time since the festive wedding supper she couldn’t eat. No time to think on that, she reminded herself. She had to find Philippe. He’d take charge of everything. If he could, she added, flinching at the memory of that dawn engagement, certain it was the only thing that had kept him from her side. The thought hurried her steps.

  She saw the house. Lucienne knew it at once. She dashed up the block and across Bienville, narrowly missing a horse and rider plodding along the street. Breathless from the run, her tight waist permitting only a shallow panting, she stopped beneath the arched porte-cochère, thankful that the great gates stood open. No one stirred inside the paved courtyard, but a horse waited, hitched to the gatepost beside the wide stone archway, suggesting someone had just arrived or planned to leave. A doctor? Philippe wounded, or worse? The question tormented her, and she started for the house. No, no, she couldn’t go to the door. Again conscious of her bedraggled appearance, Lucienne crept along the courtyard wall. An ornamental fountain splashed sparkling cascades and covered the sound of her steps. Shrubs, heavy with buds and new leaves, blocked her view, but she could see the stairway that led to the upper gallery. Colorful pots of ferns surrounded the long windows. She was sure no one could see her from the house, but she was certain to see Philippe or Etienne if either one passed a window. Then she could make her presence known with a handful of pebbles flung at the glass. The trickling water in the fountain reminded her she’d had nothing to eat or drink since she left the boat. She scooped a palmful of water. It cooled her throat, though it did little to quench her thirst. A second handful helped a bit more. As she reached for a third, the sound of an opening door stopped her. She whirled, looking for a hiding place. A stone bench filled a corner niche in the garden wall. She squirmed through greenery and curled up on it. She’d keep watch until she saw who came; if it was someone who’d know she wasn’t a beggar or thief spying on the household, then she could make her presence known.

  Footsteps at the top of the stairs suggested more than one person. Voices reached her as the door closed and boots struck the treads. Three men, Philippe, Etienne, and a man she didn’t recognize came into sight. Philippe’s alive, alive and well! Then she saw the black sling cradling his left arm. He’d been wounded! Her heart pounded. How serious was the wound? The third man must be the doctor. She shrank back into the shadows, suddenly glad for the nondescript brown plaid dress that made her almost part of the stonework. Philippe wouldn’t want her throwing herself at him in front of the other men. He’d be alone in a minute; she could find out how serious his wound was then. Not too serious, she assured herself. He was ambulatory.

  “You’re well enough for a man who was wounded a few hours ago,” the stranger was saying.

  “Only grazed,” Philippe answered. “It might have been far worse, if Blanchard were as good a shot as he thinks.”

  “If you had the sense God gave a rabbit, you’d have avoided the whole thing.” Etienne added, “Doctor, you’re invited to lunch if you can stay.”

  “Merci, it is kind of you, but at the edge of town a new baby is ready to arrive any moment, mes amis, and I’ll be on my way. Another time, when there is no need first to tidy up foolish men who wager their lives over mangled pride, eh?” The doctor gathered his reins and mounted.

  As the doctor departed, Etienne turned to his brother. “So I can’t dissuade you, then? You’re bound to make this trip?”

  Philippe clapped a hand to his brother’s shoulder. “I think it’s the best way. As long as they think they have a score to settle with me, the Blanchards will be waiting. It’s better if I’m somewhere else. Cousin Bowie makes this affair with the Texicans sound exciting. Fighting duels, that’s poor sport. Midwifing a revolution, that’s something else again.”

  “James could always spin a yarn, I’ll grant you that. His tales almost entice me. When do you leave?”

  Philippe shrugged. “No point in delaying. I’m not injured. This scratch will heal as well on a ship as in your house, and with less danger to you, Etienne. I’ll be on a schooner bound for Copano Bay this afternoon. The passage is arranged.”

  Philippe was leaving! Lucienne couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She started to leap up, run to him, tell him he mustn’t go, but Etienne’s next words stopped her.

  “And the young lady? Lucienne, la belle Toussaint? What of her?”

  Philippe laughed shortly. “She made a very lovely bride.” The two men turned toward the house.

  “You have no regrets, then? She’s quite a beauty, and an heiress, as well.”

  “A lovely distraction for an evening or so. Very pretty, and often diverting. A pleasant flirtation, but”—Philippe shook his head—“she makes the fatal error of many beautiful young women. She becomes tiresome. Flirtation is one thing, but her petulance and pouts are something else. She may amuse for a day, but for a lifetime, no, I prefer someone less wearisome. Armand finds her foolishness endearing, her spirit refreshing. I wish him well. As for me, I’d rather face Santa Anna’s militia than a woman’s wiles, any day.”

  “One day you’ll sing a different tune, Philippe. You’ll stop dodging the gentle threads of matrimony and willingly step into the web. Wait and see.” Etienne started into the house. Philippe followed.

  “It could happen, I suppose.” His voice sounded doubtful. “If so, it won’t be because the lady expects me t
o comply with her romantic daydreams and elope. I’ll want something more substantial than girlish impulses to depend on.”

  Stunned at his words, Lucienne watched the two men enter the house. Tears burned her eyes. Her first impulse was to run after Philippe, confront him, denounce him for a cad and a liar. Pride stopped her. She’d never let him see her like this, disheveled, looking like a wild woman of the swamp. He must never know she’d chased after him. Humiliated, wounded more deeply than words could describe, Lucienne wished the walls would fall on top of her. Philippe! Philippe! She’d given him her heart, risked her reputation and her family pride, but he had only toyed with her. He’d never wanted her. He found her tiresome, even foolish. A flirtation, that’s all he’d had in mind. He’d had no intention of marrying her. Sick with mortification, she hid her face in her hands. To think how he must have laughed at her, what amusement he’d had at her expense. Lucienne could scarcely bear to recall the endearing words she’d poured out to him.

  He’d said over and over how he loved her, but it was all a lie, a game to him. How cruel. What a cad he was. He’d lied—lied at every turn. Every sweet word, every honeyed promise had been a lie. And she’d run away to be with him! She’d never be able to hold up her head in the parish again. Lucienne buried her face in her hands and sobbed. Philippe, how could you deceive me so? Bitter tears soaked her faded skirts. Your code of honor requires you to risk your life defending your devious cousin but lets you lie to the woman you said you loved! That’s honor!

  Sharp reflection intruded. No, honesty forced her to admit, Philippe never actually said he loved her. He’d often told her he was desolate at the thought of her marrying another man. His heart would break to see her with someone else. He’d not said he loved her. He hadn’t sincerely said he wanted to marry her. He’d only carried on an extended flirtation. How could she have been so blind! She’d flirted in the same way with one or two of her suitors, young men she liked a little but not enough to encourage.