Eyes filled with tears, shattered by Philippe’s callous words, Lucienne let her pillowslip parcel slide from her grip. She wrapped her arms tightly around herself, huddling on her stone bench. Sounds above, doors opening and voices calling, reminded her she couldn’t stay where she was. Without thought of her destination, she trudged out of the courtyard. She’d been a fool, a giddy schoolgirl, tossing her bonnet at a man with no more feelings for her than he had for a dozen like her. All the plans, all the clever schemes—they’d been hers, not his. Philippe had never proposed. He’d never even said he wanted to go to Papa and ask for her. All the arrangements had been on her side.
She’d made excuses for him, not once admitting that Philippe could have put forth his case to Papa just as Armand had. She’d made herself believe a reason, a non-existent hindrance, prevented Philippe from speaking. What a laugh it must have given him to see her scrambling about, looking for ways to make the obstacles fall. Even if Pierrette had taken her place at the wedding, Lucienne was now certain there would have been no elopement. No ardent Philippe would have appeared to carry her away once she’d escaped through the side door. It had all been in her head, the whole romantic, thin-as-air plan. No wonder the man showed so little ingenuity, made no counter plans. He had no interest, and her great love was only a prank to him.
Lucienne stumbled mindlessly along the boardwalk. Humiliated beyond endurance, she recounted in her mind the unnumbered times she’d poured out her heart to that rogue Pardue. How he’d listened, encouraged, even challenged her to foil her family’s plans. Laughing to himself, no doubt, as he applauded her every indiscretion. Though she’d known his reputation for wooing and wandering away, she’d been certain his attentions to her were sincere. How could he not have loved her? She was the belle of Mille Fleur, the delight of New Orleans society. Her suitors had stood three deep around her at every ball and party. Among the crowd, only Philippe had taken her eye. He alone had stood out from the flock. But she had merely been a diversion for him. Her bruised pride all but bled with her suffering.
Lucienne told herself she was sorry that bullet had done so little damage! With luck she’d never see him again. But no one else must learn of her folly. That she couldn’t endure.
Slowly her surroundings began to penetrate Lucienne’s mental fog. The breeze, sharper now, cut through her threadbare dress. She felt unclothed without decent petticoats or stockings. At every step, her boot scraped at the blister on her heel. Too numb in mind to think, too distracted by discomfort and growing hunger to be wary, Lucienne limped away from the Pardue house and the disillusion it symbolized.
She walked a long time, turning in whatever direction chance took her before trying to take realistic stock of her situation. She had no money, could not ask for help. Her faded, ill-fitting dress blocked her from approaching anyone for assistance. No one would believe such a ragtag girl could be the daughter of Mille Fleur. What was she to do?
The blister on her heel broke. Raw skin and a pebble she’d collected in her boot brought her back to herself. She stopped, now much more aware of the chill in the air, and of her abused and sore feet. Where exactly was she? Lucienne looked at the buildings around her. Shops, some of them, but more were the cafés where the men of the town often gathered to play cards, billiards, and backgammon. She’d heard from Pierrette’s brothers that fortunes were made and lost gambling in such places. She must not linger here. She might be noticed. It wasn’t a good place to be, but at least she now knew where she was. The cathedral was ahead of her, as well as the cafés on Royal, and a few blocks beyond was Grandmère’s quiet house on St. Ann. Snatching at a possible solution, Lucienne hurried on. She could go to Grandmère’s, where she’d be offered food, a place to rest, and possibly find something to wear that didn’t cut off all circulation. Then she could think how to proceed. Lucienne breathed as deeply as the unyielding seams would permit, and with fresh determination tramped toward the Thierry home.
A light sprinkle of rain spattered on the banquette as Lucienne hurried toward her destination. She could see the tall windows that rose above the courtyard walls. It wouldn’t be more than two minutes till she’d be safe inside. If only that rain would hold off for a bit longer. Lucienne hurried as best she could, footsore and panting. The droplets increased. A distant rumble in the darkening clouds harried her. Disregarding the real pain stabbing her feet, Lucienne ran for the gates. The skies opened and pellets as sharp as hail pounded the ground. In five steps she was soaked to the skin, her braids slapping wet tails against her shoulders as she ran. She threw herself at the gates, their ornate bars rain-slick in her clutching hands.
Locked! The gates were locked, not giving an inch when she tore at them. Lucienne cringed under the inadequate overhang of the archway. Water tumbled in a sheet off the tiles and down to the street, splashing into her already sodden shoes. Grandmère wasn’t home. Of course she wasn’t. She was still at Mille Fleur with the rest of the family. Obadiah would be with her, cosseting and waiting on her as he did at home, vying with Marie for the opportunity to coddle the aging family matriarch. Lucienne peered through the stream washing over the gates. Surely someone was home. Someone would see her and let her in. The maids would still be there, and Grandmère’s ancient cook. Some member of the household would see her. She rattled the gates again. Over the roar of rain and incidental thunder, she could barely hear the sound of her own voice calling out. “C’est moi, Lucienne, c’est moi!” No one answered, no one came. The torrent increased till she couldn’t make out the windows in the walls across the courtyard.
Lucienne slumped against the garden wall as the deluge filled her shoes. No one was coming. No one could even hear her. If by chance the maids passing a window did catch sight of her, they’d only see a beggar girl looking for a place to get out of the storm. Without Madame Thierry to direct them, they’d never let a strange, half-dressed girl into that gracious house filled with precious, portable treasures. She would remain here, locked out of the world she knew, with nowhere to go. Lucienne, for the first time, began to understand what she had gotten herself into. No longer in her assured place in the world, she had no other place to fill.
As the storm buffeted her from all sides, Lucienne turned away from her grandmother’s house. With steps made cautious by treacherous puddles and coursing streams in every street, she forged on, turning back the way she’d come, no clear destination in mind. Rain pounded her back as wet strands of hair pulled free from her braids. She pushed back the black wisps that stuck to her face and covered her eyes. Surprised at the distance she’d covered, Lucienne found herself at the square surrounding the cathedral, once more near the marketplace. The long, narrow structure offered shelter, even if she couldn’t buy anything. Her sodden appearance would cause no stir among the swarms there. She ducked through the downpour and into the jostling crowds that filled the market. A dozen sensations assaulted her senses. The cacophony of a host of languages dinned in her ears. Aromas from a myriad of spices teased her nose. Rich coffee, cocoa, and ginger reminded her how long it had been since she had eaten. A feast of color from the vegetable bins accosted her, their ripe flavors making her stomach rumble. She’d never been empty with hunger before in her life. Shivering in her soaked dress, she clutched a post as a wave of weakness drained her strength. All around, in the milling, haggling, chattering horde, people crowded together in a colorful, faceless flock, buying produce, filling baskets. She longed to snatch a golden orange from the hands of a vendor but forced herself to walk away.
Here, at least, Lucienne knew she was safe from discovery as long as she didn’t call attention to herself. A pretty quadroon held out a bunch of violets. Lucienne shook her head and passed on. She made her way through the mob to a group of stalls well away from the food vendors. Here friends met to chat, exchange gossip, watch the colorful parade, and drink coffee or cocoa. She could tarry here as long as she needed, letting her dress dry until the rain stopped, and she could think what to d
o.
She supposed she had no option but to go home. Armand, well, he was still bland, tedious, and tiresome. Surely Papa now understood she would not, could not be married to him. Not that he was evil or ugly or even old. He just wasn’t a man she could face day after day over the course of her life. After Philippe’s revelations to his brother, she supposed she should see Armand in a new, more attractive light, but that wasn’t possible. It was all Papa’s fault, after all. He shouldn’t have taken it on himself to plan her life. Her feelings should have been paramount. So if Papa was appalled at what she’d done, well, he deserved it.
As for Philippe, she hoped he’d find Texas as hot and unpleasant as all the stories said it was. Even hotter and more miserable, if possible. He was low, cunning, deceitful, and not worth the anguish he’d caused her, not worth all that worrying she’d done over the duel and his possible death. No, he could go to Halifax, for all she cared.
And Armand? Certainly Armand should be counting himself better off with her out of his life. She’d only make him miserable, or at least she’d put all her energy into trying. In fact, if she knew a way to live without men, any men at all, she’d leap to it in a heartbeat.
Life without a man to direct her life—what a pleasant idea. Days without watching every word and act for fear some poor man would be demolished upon finding the lady had a mind of her own—what freedom. Whole years of not asking the authoritative gentleman what he thought when a woman had already seen the problem and the solution in a trice—a novel concept. An entire life without a constant reminder not to upset the menfolk—liberty indeed. No wonder Grandmère had such a poor opinion of men in general and her sons-in-law in particular. Lucienne wished she were old enough to imitate her spirited grandmother. Lured by such outrageous thoughts, Lucienne forgot where she was. She laughed aloud, surprising herself, then turned away in embarrassment when a number of people stared, raised disapproving eyebrows, and stepped back from her.
No, that idea wasn’t possible. No woman, not even Grandmère, lived in a world free of constant social constraint. A woman made her place in the world by the man she married and the children she gave him. It was just the way of things, though such restriction sounded ghastly when she considered it. The years ahead had seemed more exciting, more hopeful when she and the other girls at school speculated about life and marriage and the future in store for them. How many afternoons had they spent asking the question, “Who will he be?” Now most of her schoolmates had that question answered. Lucienne hoped they were more pleased with the result than she had been. The good sisters discouraged such talk. The nuns counseled sound preparation for the future, whatever it held, by learning grammar in French and English so a girl fit well in her husband’s social world. They suggested needlework and domestic arts to help her run an efficient home. None of that satisfied a young girl’s curiosity, of course. How could a nun, no matter how kind, do that? There were no men, except priests, in the lives of those gentle souls. They had no knowledge of the life men planned for their women. No men at all, no fathers or brothers, or suitors, or anything. “No men,” Lucienne murmured, “no men behind those great, closed walls. No one to order their lives for them.”
Lucienne looked through the crowd. The rain had passed, and the streets were again filled with people. The sun had begun to come out, and it was dropping toward the horizon. Afternoon had advanced while she muddled through her misery. She began to edge toward the opening at the end of the market. Go home? No, she wouldn’t go home. She had no way to get there, and no desire to find one. She had another destination and another future in mind. It would be a long walk, she realized. Her feet already felt swollen and raw from her wet shoes, but she’d come this far. She’d chosen her own path, stumbling and cross-grained though it had been. Now she had a goal and a means of doing what she wanted. She just had to get there before the gates closed for the day.
Lucienne set out, determined she would not give up or go home. She saw a life where she wouldn’t have to follow the whim of any man. Others had done it. She had even threatened it herself. Now it looked to be the only place for her. She was sure Mother Superior would see the right of it. The sisters should be delighted to have a lady of good breeding among them. Lucienne Toussaint would make a beautiful nun.
Chapter Eleven:
Revelations From Bread and Buttons
“I want to see Mother Superior,” Lucienne announced. The older woman across the table looked up in mild surprise.
“Why do you need to speak to her, child?” The wrinkled hands were still, folded as if for prayer, on the polished wood. “Could another sister be of help, instead? All of us are here to offer counsel and help when asked.”
Lucienne reined in her impatience. Mother Superior would be the person in charge. No one else would do. “No, I want to see her. Nobody else.”
The elderly nun stood, taller than she appeared sitting down. Her veil and coif hid most of her expression, but Lucienne felt a shade of coolness in her manner. “Mother Superior is away. I’m taking care of things in her absence. If you’d care to come back?” She moved toward the door as if to show Lucienne out.
“Away? Where is she? Will she be back today?” Lucienne sputtered questions in confusion. She’d never known Mother Superior to leave the grounds in the whole four years she’d been at the school.
The sister shook her head. “I’m sure I can’t tell you when she’ll return. An elderly sister of our order is near death, and Mother is keeping vigil for her. It may be several days.”
“But I want to join the order. I want to be a nun. Mother Superior is the only one who can give permission.” Lucienne remembered all the fuss made about a classmate who had wanted to be a nun. Mother Superior finally had convinced the family that the girl had a true vocation. Lucienne might need the same advocacy.
“You believe you have a vocation, child?” The black-and-white figure sat again.
“Oh, yes, I’ve always wanted to join the order,” she gushed. “I just couldn’t convince my family.”
“I’m Sister Ann Marie.” Lucienne saw the blue eyes under the white coif grow warmer, a gleam of interest lighting them. “Tell me about yourself, and why you think we should admit you to our order. And what is your name?”
Lucienne ducked her head. If her family came here searching for her, her name would immediately give her away. “Lucie,” she mumbled, “I’m called Lucie.”
“Lucie,” Sister Ann Marie repeated. “It means light or a child of the light. A lovely old name. Where are you from, Lucie? What is your home like?”
“I lived on a farm upriver,” she said keeping as near the truth as she could. “My parents and I, no brothers or sisters. I always wanted to be a nun, you see, even when I was a little girl. But Papa thought it was foolish. He wants me to marry so someone will continue to run the farm when he can’t anymore. He arranged for me to marry, but I don’t want to. And I ran away to come here.”
“You can’t be old enough to marry, not yet. What are you, twelve, perhaps thirteen? You may change your mind in two or three years.”
Lucienne thought of her tangled braids and the skimpy, wet gown that showed too much of her legs for a proper young lady. “No, sister, I’m sixteen, nearly seventeen, and certainly old enough to marry if Papa insists.” She was eighteen, but disguising her age would help her stay hidden.
The nun seemed doubtful but made no further objections. “Well, Lucie, you seem sincere enough in your intentions, but I can make no decisions about anything so serious without the counsel of Mother Superior. That will have to wait for her return.”
Frustration combined with hunger and desperation to make Lucienne’s great black eyes fill with tears. “Please, sister, I have no place to go. I can’t go home. They’ll never let me get away again. I want to stay here.” A sob, not hard to create given her circumstances, welled up in her words.
“Now, now, Lucie, I had no intention of turning you out tonight. We’ll do nothing before
Mother Superior returns, but until then you may stay here. If you make yourself useful and your vocation is sincere, I think Mother will look kindly on your request.” Sister Ann Marie took her by the hand. “Come along. We’ll find you some dry garments, at least. What can you do, Lucie? We must find work for you.”
Work? The word scarcely existed in Lucienne’s vocabulary. She’d expected to be welcomed, fed, and tucked into a warm bed. Her poor feet needed ointment and linen bandages. Her wounded spirit needed solace. This ignorant sister was telling her she’d have to do some kind of tasks to be kept here? Lucienne swallowed her outrage.
“I sew neatly,” she answered. “I read French and English. I sing a little and can play twelve tunes on the pianoforte.”
Sister Ann Marie smiled at the list. Lucienne suspected it didn’t sound much like the accomplishments of the daughter of a small farmer, but she couldn’t claim other talents. “We don’t have need for those tasks just now. We have mending, of course, and in the fall, we’ll make new habits to replace those too worn to wear. At the moment, we need some help for Sister Mary Agnes in the kitchen. At home, I’m sure you did your part with the cooking and washing up. We’ll start you with her. Pots and dishes always need willing hands.” She looked at the damp dress still clinging in wet folds to Lucienne’s legs. “First, let’s get some dry clothes on you. You’ll take cold wearing that soggy dress.”
The grey gown was dry. That was the only benefit Lucienne found in it. It fell straight from her shoulders, as loose as the discarded brown one had been tight. If her feet and legs showed beneath the hem of the first, the second puddled to the floor. She tied a braided cord at the waist, then bloused the fullness over so she wouldn’t trip on the hem. Hanging over her hands, the sleeves had to be turned up three times to leave her fingers free. The fabric felt coarse, and the dress was drab and ugly. If she hadn’t been so relieved to be rid of the tight seams and chilly, damp fabric of Dorcas’s faded gown, she’d have kicked the dowdy garment into a corner.
Bal Masque Page 13
