Sister Mary Agnes, the nun in charge of the kitchen, a little brown stick of a woman, gave her one quick glance. “You look strong enough, and I’m glad of the help. There’s dishes to wash. The water’s nearly hot. You start with that while I begin tomorrow’s bread.”
The mountain of crockery filled the table along the wall. Heat from a brick oven made the low-ceilinged kitchen stifling. Lucienne stood helplessly in the center of the room. She had no idea how to begin. “Never done kitchen work before?” Sister Mary Agnes asked.
Lucienne shook her head. She’d never even been in the kitchen buildings at home. Mama took care of running that part of the plantation, along with a good number of maids, a cook, and several small black boys whose job it was to carry food from the kitchen to the dining room.
“Take this rag, dip the dish in the hot water, rub the rag on this lye soap, scrub the dish till it’s clean, then rinse in more hot water, like this.” Sister Mary Agnes demonstrated, then plopped the soapy rag into Lucienne’s hands. “You do the rest. Make sure that water stays good and hot.” She took a huge wooden bowl from a stack at the end of the table. “If I don’t get the next batch of bread started, some people won’t have food tomorrow.” She watched Lucienne’s fumbling efforts. “You’re getting the idea,” she encouraged. “Just scrub those plates clean, then go on to the cups and spoons.” She observed for another minute. “You ever made bread, Lucie?”
Lucienne wiped a trickle of sweat from her forehead. “No, I don’t know how to make bread, either.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll teach you. I’ll be glad to have a good strong girl to do some of the stirring and kneading. I’m a little old and stiff to do it all by myself.”
The bones of Lucienne’s feet protested every step on the hard brick floor. They actually felt as if they were coming through the flesh. The strong soap burned her skin, turning her hands red and raw. Greasy water dripping under her sleeves made her arms itch unbearably. Her back ached as she lost track of the number of times she dipped from the kettle of steaming water. Lucienne repeated her movements mindlessly. She was too numb, too weary, too hungry, to protest. The pile of plates and cups and cutlery looked endless. Somehow the thought of stirring and kneading bread dough barely penetrated her mental fog. She just kept moving, one spoon, one mug, one bowl at a time.
“You’ve done a good job of work there, Lucie. I think we’d best stop and have our own dinner now, or we won’t be ready to serve when the others sit down. There’s buttermilk in a pitcher out in the pantry. You can fetch that while I get some plates ready for us. Then we’ll get back to setting the loaves to rise. I’ll get you up in the morning in time to help put them in the oven. The priests at the cathedral will want their bread hot on the table after morning mass.”
A wave of hunger strong enough to make her grasp the table for support washed over Lucienne. The aroma of Sister Mary Agnes’s fish stew filled the kitchen. Lucienne shuddered. She’d never dreamed she could be so famished and still live. She hoped her feet would carry her to the pantry and back before she crumpled in a whimpering heap at Sister’s knees.
****
Three days had passed since Armand brought Marie and a curious black kitten into his home on Dumaine Street. On arrival, he’d gone first to Etienne Pardue’s house. If Lucienne was running to Philippe, she’d go directly to his brother’s house, Armand reasoned. Etienne met him at the door with some surprise.
“I thought you’d still be at Mille Fleur celebrating your marriage, my friend.” Etienne, plump where his brother was whippet thin, fair where Philippe was dark, welcomed the visitor to his elegant home.
Armand chose his words carefully. If Lucienne had not come here, he had no desire to expose her escapade to anyone. “We’re spending some days here. With my father gone, we have more privacy in town than at Mille Fleur.”
“Oh, very wise, start life in your own home, let things settle naturally.” Etienne led his guest into a shaded parlor. “My wife will want to call as soon as you’re receiving, but she took the children to visit her mama. I’ll let her know you’re in town when she returns.” His manner didn’t suggest he’d seen Lucienne. Armand saw nothing hesitant or guarded in Etienne’s expression.
“I know Lucienne will be happy to see her. She’s very fond of your family.”
Etienne looked as if he expected an explanation of this somewhat unconventional call. Armand found a reason. “I actually wanted to speak to Philippe, if he’s here. Your brother wanted to buy a horse, a brood mare, from my new father-in-law, and I thought to see if he was still interested. It’s convenient for me to take care of such details for the family while I’m in town, and it gives my wife a little time to do the things to the house that she enjoys.” A bald lie obvious to anyone who knew Lucienne at all, Armand realized, but it would have to do.
“Alas, mon ami, I fear the transaction completely slipped my brother’s mind. He had a small interruption, one of those ridiculous affaires d’honneur that young and passionate men like Philippe fall into, the morning after your wedding. My apologies for missing such a celebration, but my impetuous brother will rush in where cooler men turn away.” Etienne offered a cigar, but Armand waved it aside. The duel, of course. Armand was certain Etienne referred to the duel that had led Lucienne to run away to the city.
“I trust Philippe escaped injury?”
“A slight wound only, nothing of concern. The affair goes back some years, however; the culmination of a quarrel my brother and our cousins had with a family called Blanchard. Bad feelings all around. Philippe feared the affair might not be at an end and chose to absent himself from New Orleans for a time. He’s gone to Texas at the invitation of our cousin James Bowie. It’s only fair, as James got Philippe into this situation in the first place.”
Pardue had gone to Texas? Had Lucienne secretly followed him? Armand fought the vision of the girl being near that powderkeg ready to erupt.
“I’ve seen notices that there are commissioners recruiting men willing to aid the colonists,” Armand said slowly. “I suppose Philippe knows Santa Anna and his Mexican army will stop at nothing to put down any rebellion.”
“That’s part of the appeal, the chance to be there, I think. But Philippe didn’t join one of the commissioners. He went alone. He took passage to Copano Bay three days back. I took him to the schooner and saw him off. I hope his wound will heal quickly, and he’ll be fit to ride by the time he arrives. He’ll be little help to Cousin James with one arm still in a sling.”
So Lucienne hadn’t run off to Texas with Philippe Pardue, Armand reassured himself as he left the Pardue house. In that event, where had the girl gone?
****
“Work the dough, Lucie. Push into it. You get a lumpy, doughy mess if you don’t work it well.” Sister Mary Agnes put her hard, thin hands over Lucienne’s.
“I hate making bread,” Lucienne snapped. “I don’t want to make bread.”
“Well, there’s still a good load of dishes over there you can wash. You manage that pretty well now. I think you only broke three cups and a bowl last night.”
“I don’t see what washing dishes and making bread has to do with being a nun,” she fumed, tying the big floppy apron over her grey gown.
“Obedience, Lucie, obedience,” Sister chided. “It’s one of our vows. You’ll come to it if your vocation is strong.”
Lucienne held her tongue, a remarkable feat in itself. In the last three days she’d seen enough dirty dishes, hot water, and mounds of bread dough to do for a lifetime. Her hands felt stiff from all the scrubbing they’d done. Even the blisters on her feet had hard little calluses forming. She hated coming in here. She could barely get her breath in this cave of a room. The kitchen always felt like a wet blanket from steam, heat, and the endless loaves rising in wooden bowls.
“The floor needs a good washing, too, Lucie. When you finish the dishes, fetch a bucket of water from the cistern. You’ll find scrub brushes in the scullery. This old br
ick holds onto everything that drops on it. My shoes are sticking where you spilled the flour. Mind you get it all up, and give it a second brushing just to be sure.” Sister Mary Agnes moved her mound of dough to the other end of the table, leaving the whitened brick floor to Lucienne.
Scrub a floor? On her hands and knees? Protests flooded Lucienne’s mouth, but a cold wave of caution stopped them. If she refused, Sister Ann Marie would find out. She might say Lucienne wasn’t suited to be a nun and send her away, not even waiting for Mother Superior to return. And where could she go? Only one place—home to face Papa and Armand. At least there were no men here. Swallowing her words, Lucienne dipped up the steaming water and turned back to the endless supply of dirty plates and cups.
****
Convinced that Price and his daughter had traveled with Lucienne, Armand searched the dock area, describing the man and both girls. By paying a little lagniappe to loiterers around the dock, he assured himself Lucienne had not been on any ship that departed in the past few days. Price had booked passage on a ship bound for the islands for himself and his daughter. They would seem to be out of the picture. It wasn’t until he found the deckhand of the Delta Belle that Armand got any word of his runaway bride.
“Onliest gal I ’member was a little thing, black-haired, in a temper about sum’pin, sho’ nuf,” the man told him. “Spent half the day clearing up that mess what she left, glass broke and one of them fancy sofa cushions half ripped open. Said somebody done took her v’lise.” The description sounded like Lucienne, Armand agreed—but glass broken and a pillow torn? Her valise gone? That sounded more like a struggle. “Where did she go when she got off the boat?”
“I din see her go, suh, but there was a piller kiver gone when I checked later. Mebbe she took it to carry sum’pin. Leastways, she done gone when I got to the ladies’ cabin.” He took the gold coin Armand tossed him and went back into the passageway. “Thank you kindly, suh, and I hopes you find the lady. Doan think that black-haired imp is the one you lookin’ for; she’s some kinda trouble.”
Armand muttered an oath under his breath. Lucienne had been the girl on the Delta Belle, he was certain. He had no definite proof she’d been in the company of the Prices, but someone had taken her bag, and he would guess it had been Price’s daughter. He couldn’t imagine Lucienne had any money in that pillowslip the dockhand had noticed. If the Prices had taken her bag, it was unlikely they’d overlooked her money or anything else of value. Still, she’d left the Delta Belle on her own. If she hadn’t gone with either the Prices or Philippe, and she had no money, where had the girl gone? Was there a friend in town, some young lady who would take pity on the runaway? No, her grandmother’s house was only a few blocks away. She might have prevailed on a housemaid to let her stay there. The servants would recognize her, of course. They’d have no hesitation about making her welcome. At least he’d try there.
An hour later Armand found no news at the Thierry house. Madame was still away, she’d sent no messages, and no one had called. He turned away from the house. Where else could he go? What other possibility remained? It had been days since he visited the Pardue’s. Perhaps he’d try again. He started briskly along the garden path toward the gates. Blast the girl! Why couldn’t she have waited an hour, remained in her room for just a while till he could free himself of the wedding guests? They could have talked. He would have listened to her, been willing to do…do what? She’d married him because René and old Raoul Dupre wished it. All the while her heart had longed for another man. Armand had known it, but he’d also known that Philippe Pardue paid passionate courtship to a dozen girls. Neither man had taken her infatuation seriously. Pardue couldn’t appreciate the splendid spirit Lucienne possessed. Her vivacious sparkle and willful mind would never appeal to a self-serving rascal like Philippe. Armand, weary of docile debutantes and mademoiselles as mindless as their dressmaker’s dummies, valued those very traits. He found Lucienne’s rebellious mind refreshing, and her willfulness an indication of strong character. When out of her chaperone’s hearing, the young lady showed intelligence and curiosity that deserved cultivation.
If only she’d waited, if she’d trusted him just a little. Or if he’d spoken more clearly to her heart! Regrets and recriminations and a growing fear that somehow she’d slipped out of his life gnawed at him.
Armand reached the Pardue house and learned no one was home. Etienne was taking advantage of his family’s absence to entertain friends at the Café Napoleon.
In exasperation Armand kicked an inoffensive rosebush. It made him feel childish but relieved some of his frustration. The toe of his boot released a golden shower of early petals and all but uprooted the plant. He bent to tuck it back into the soil. Something, soiled white rags, he thought, lodged next to the bush. Careless of the gardener to leave trash in the flowerbeds.
Since he’d damaged the plant, Armand admonished himself, he’d do well at least to retrieve the rags and dispose of them. The fabric, a sturdy cotton, he discovered, had tangled tightly in the thorns of the rose. He had to kneel on the pavers to work it loose.
“A bag?” Armand spoke in surprise. Standing, he rubbed dirt and leaves from the surface and unwound the knot that held it closed. A small, neatly inked emblem caught his eye. A capital D entwined with a B appeared under one edge.
A pillowslip from the Delta Belle? Is it possible that Lucienne was here?
He upended the white bag. A froth of linen and lace tumbled into his hand. Shaking it free, Armand realized the garment was a nightgown, a small woman’s nightrail trimmed with a wealth of fragile lace. He smoothed the top to look more closely at a patch of embroidery decorating the yoke. A monogram, one he knew well, adorned the delicate linen. He’d had the convent sisters add the same monogram to a dozen handkerchiefs he’d given Lucienne in her betrothal box. She’d been here, no doubt about it, but how long ago, and where had she gone?
Apprehension froze him to the spot. Buttons torn from the gown! Button loops wrenched from the facing! He’d suspected an altercation, but had it been more? Had someone attacked Lucienne on the riverboat? Did she come here for help only to find Philippe gone?
Armand stuffed the torn gown back into the cotton bag. He could make no sense of things, and his imagination was running wild. Where had foolish Lucienne gone, and what terrifying consequences was she facing?
Chapter Twelve:
Evidence Misread
In spite of the half-healed burn across the back of her hand and her stiff, dry palms, Lucienne felt a wealth of satisfaction. She looked over the brown, warm mounds filling an array of panniers along the worn table. Damp strands of hair plastered her forehead, and her arms were too weary to lift. Still, she’d turned out a perfect batch of bread, and for some reason that mundane accomplishment gave her a sense of pride. Was it seven days she’d been here? She tried to count back, but the endless pans of dishwater and heaps of bread dough had all run together. She no longer knew what day it was. The bells for matins and compline, mass, and the meals she shared with Sister Mary Agnes apportioned her hours. Time had become a dull blur, but in spite of the monotony, she was proud of her bread.
“She has the makings of a good baker,” Sister Mary Agnes decreed. “Some never get the feel for the dough, but Lucie has the knack of it.” She pointed to the row of baskets ready for delivery to the poor about the city. “You see, Sister Ann Marie, we’ve found new hands to carry on God’s work here.”
“I am so happy that Lucie found herself a place with you, sister. I came down to get a report for Mother Superior. She’s back, but very tired from her long vigil, of course. When I spoke to her, I mentioned Lucie.” With a small wave Sister Ann Marie summoned the girl. “She’ll want to see you in the morning. You’ll need a clean dress. This came in the donations for the poor yesterday.” She held out a blue bundle. “And be sure your hair is neat and your face washed. Mother has no use for vanity, but she does believe that our sisters show respect for others by maintaining dece
nt standards in themselves.”
Lucienne looked down at her stained, flour-streaked skirt and the braided cord that held it up from the floor. A change would be very welcome. The brown dress, washed and mended, had been sent on, Lucienne hoped to someone it fit better.
“If Mother Superior approves your request to join us, you’ll have the regular habit of a novice,” Sister Mary Agnes assured her. “But this will do for you to wear in the morning. Even washed, yours isn’t suitable, and it will never dry in time.” Another woman’s cast-off garments? Till she’d left home, Lucienne had never worn anything that wasn’t new and made expressly for her of fine fabric and rich trim. She’d been the one who tired of things and tossed them aside. How carelessly she’d dropped a gown to the floor and told Marie to get rid of it because she didn’t like it any more. The irony of her position struck her. She’d made do with that faded brown dress Dorcas had left behind. The coarse grey gown the sister had given her was certainly not new, but she’d been relieved to have it. Her situation didn’t permit pride. She wouldn’t reject a fresh dress now, no matter the source.
An hour later, when Lucienne had a few moments between her meal and the next load of dishes, she had a chance to try on the garment Sister Ann Marie had found for her. The plain blue cotton housedress wasn’t stylish, but it was soft to the touch. If the neckline wasn’t in fashion, neither did it bind or chafe.
“I think it will do nicely, if you put that loose hem back,” Sister Ann Marie told her. “It’s clean, neat, and not too badly worn.”
Lucienne glanced at the waist that was too loose and the skirt striped by faded streaks. Her mother would hesitate to let one of the housemaids wear anything so many times washed and mended. Still, it was better than the grey sacklike garment held up by a cord. At least the sleeves, though not a fashionable gigot cut or even softly puffed, didn’t flop over her hands. “I found a nice little apron that will cover the worst of the fading in the skirt,” the nun added, spreading a bit of yellow-and-white calico for her to see. “I’ll hang it out tonight and freshen it up.” She lifted a handful of skirt where the hem drooped limply to the floor. “You said you could sew, didn’t you? I’ll see about a needle and thread for you.”
Bal Masque Page 14
