Bal Masque

by Fleeta Cunningham

  “We could slip away tomorrow, when that big ox isn’t looking,” Lucienne suggested. “You and I could do it. And you could meet up with your papa in town.”

  “Cain’t do it, Miss Lucy Ann. I ain’t got the least idea how to get us out of this bayou. It all looks just alike to me, one stream running into another. Like as not, we’d get ourselves et up by those big ’gators prowling around out there.”

  ****

  Armand Dupre had no appetite for the enticing tray set before him. He was weary to the marrow of his bones, weary in body and mind, from a fruitless search of the streets and narrow calles of New Orleans. He sat back in his chair, the food before him untouched. He pushed the tray aside to pick up the black kitten batting the tassel on the cushion of his chair.

  “But you must eat, m’sieu,” Marie protested. “You can’t go on looking for Lucienne if your strength gives out.”

  Armand gave her a look of resignation and continued to stroke the silken black ears. The kitten purred loudly and wrapped black paws around his hand. “Have you fussed over Lucienne like a mother hen so long that you transfer your clucking to the next person available when she’s absent?”

  Marie frowned. “Pardon, m’sieu. I’ve spent too many years watching out for the family. It’s become a habit.”

  Armand gestured to the chair opposite. “I know, Marie, and your concern does you credit. Sit with me for a while. I’ll tell you what little I learned.” He put the kitten down and returned to his abandoned dinner. “And it will be easier to manage this late supper if I have company while I eat. Wouldn’t you like a glass of sherry yourself? I know you’re as spent as I am.”

  Marie accepted the glass he put before her with grace. Though not actually a servant, she rarely took meals or sat with the family. Her position was an odd one, but she’d found it comfortable over the years to be nursemaid and chaperone to the women in Madame Thierry’s family.

  “You found no trace of Lucienne, you said?” Marie sipped the pale wine carefully. “Did you hear some word of her?”

  “Not of Lucienne,” Armand answered. “I did verify Price and his daughter didn’t take passage to the islands as they’d planned. Their names were on the passenger list, but they failed to pick up their tickets. The passage was never paid.”

  Marie puzzled over his words. “They may still be in town then? And you think Lucienne may be with them, their hostage? She’ll try to get away.”

  “She may not be with them, but I’m sure if Price knows where she is, he’ll try to make use of her.” Armand held a bit of chicken out to the kitten weaving around his ankles. “If nothing else, embarrassing the prestigious Toussaints and Dupres would give Price some satisfaction. Spreading the word of her disappearance would certainly start a social scandal. After all, he was dismissed from a very comfortable position and probably thinks he has a grievance. From all I hear, the man’s not warm natured or likely to forgive even an imagined slight.”

  “But why did he and the girl not leave as planned?” Marie inquired.

  Armand leaned back in his chair, tenting his fingertips, and closed his eyes. “It appears that M’sieu Price has a great affection for the cards, usually games with stakes above his means, and I suspect he gambled away the passage money.” The thought of such stupidity offended his business sense. “So the gossip suggests in some of the dark corners of town at least.”

  “Would he go to M’sieu Toussaint or come here for money?” Marie shook her head. “Asking for money would be a blow to the man’s pride, even if he was determined to threaten scandal to get it.”

  “No, but he might send his daughter. He apparently uses her for errands like that. She sold Lucienne’s jewelry, probably to finance his gaming.” Armand showed her the locket and ring he kept in his pocket. “I keep these near me, hoping I can restore them to Lucienne. She thought enough of them to take them with her, at least.”

  Marie touched the filigree with a careful finger. “They did please her, m’sieu. She often told me so. The ring and locket and her kitten were treasured gifts.”

  He put the glittering trinkets away. “I went again to her grandmother’s house,” Armand went on. “I stopped by there, asking for messages for us from the family as an excuse. Still no visitors, the maid told me.”

  “Do you think the servants are hiding her? I could make some discreet inquiries. They’ve known me all their lives and have no reason not to speak frankly to me.”

  Armand considered the suggestion. “I don’t think so, Marie. I don’t think Lucienne’s persuaded them to conceal her, and there’s no point in making them suspicious. I’ll make a fresh search in some of the places where Price might find a game. I’m certain he and his daughter took Lucienne’s things. If it’s as I believe, then they know something about her. At least where she might have gone. And I’ll visit the Pardue house again. Surely someone has seen our sojourner.”

  ****

  Not until the day was well spent did Lucienne awaken in the weathered shack by the bayou. Stiff from a night spent on lumpy straw, she sat up carefully. The swelling in her hands and feet had subsided, but she had ugly bruises from her bindings. The cord had overlapped the burn on her hand and pulled at the rough scab forming over the reddened skin. She rubbed it fretfully.

  “You finally awake, Miss Lucy Ann?” Dorcas walked with soft steps into the room. “Pa and Orman went on into town a couple of hours back. Mort, he’s out on the pier with a fishin’ pole. You want to come out in t’other room and sit a spell? I reckon Mort might bring a mess of fish in and we can fry up a batch. Made some fresh coffee, too.”

  Blindly Lucienne followed the other girl into the second room, obviously the only other part of the house. The rough planked floors were warped from years of dampness. Though the walls at some time had had the cracks between the boards filled with a mud-and-moss compound, she could clearly see daylight through the chinks. The open windows had no glazing. A woven mat of reeds hung above the frames, the mat rolled up to permit afternoon light to trickle into the dim interior.

  “It’s a mite stuffy in here,” Dorcas apologized. “I lit a fire to dry out our clothes and to warm the coffee. Heat took all the freshness out of the air. We might go sit on the stoop a spell. Seems like there’s precious little breeze out there, either.”

  Dorcas was correct. Lucienne sat on a three-legged stool and stared out into the bayou beyond. The house sat well back from the sluggish stream, but the ground was spongy nonetheless. She could see Mort’s footprints across the verdant ground cover, a puddle filling each depression. Near the water, the huge bearded man patiently dropped a line into the dark green depths. A tall stand of weedy marsh reeds blocked the edge of the stream. Small islands, brighter green and dotted with yellow blooms, rose up in the misty distance. Against the dark waterscape a snowy egret posed on a frail limb far down the stream. Cypress, knee deep in black pools, hid twisted limbs behind grey moss curtains. The hum of insects and the reek of decayed vegetation filled the air.

  Dorcas joined Lucienne on the crude porch. A splintery railing fenced the uneven floor. Small logs, split in half, had been lashed to the frame with some kind of vines to make the narrow deck. Lucienne didn’t think it was actually attached to the house, just butted up against the outside wall with a half-log step cutting the distance to the door.

  “Sure feels sultry out here.” Dorcas sat on the edge of the weathered rail. “Mort says we prob’ly got a storm brewin’. Be rainin’ by late tonight, or mornin’, for sure. Reckon you’d just as soon stay here another day as go out in a bad blow, Miss Lucy Ann. Jessups say it’s terrible tricky out here when the wind gets high. Hope Pa and Orman make it back before the rains come.”

  Lucienne looked up at the narrow edge of sky barely visible above the ancient trees bordering the water. Sullen clouds cut off the sun. Sluggish as the water below them, they seemed to hang scant inches above the treeline. Haze and mist, tinged with a yellow light, rose above the dark water. Its eerie glow g
ave her a shiver. In the distance a white-tailed deer glided across a stand of bracken. The sad cry of a mourning dove filled the air, air that felt thick and sagged against Lucienne’s upturned face.

  “If it’s going to storm, we should find a better place than this.” She looked at the rickety walls and warped roof of the shack. “This house would come down around our ears if a hard wind hit it. Good thing it’s too early for hurricanes.”

  “Way too early, Miss Lucy Ann, though I did hear talk of some that came real early, from the old folks at your place.” Dorcas gave the sky another speculative look. “The Jessups don’t know much, but they lived here all their lives. Reckon they understand somethin’ about the weather. If Mort says we’re safe here, I guess he knows. And Pa’s sure to come back as soon as he gets the money for finding you.”

  “If he doesn’t find a card game first.”

  “No, he’ll get us out this time. I know he will. Those men he was mixed up with before gave him a bad scare. Like to have never stopped goin’ on about it last night. You can tell when Pa’s really got to the end of his fever ’cause he talks and talks, goes over things four or five times, tells about ever’ card and ever’ hand he played, till he’s talked it all through. Then he’s kinda off cards for a good while. That’s what he was doin’ last night, after you went to sleep. Just talked himself out, I reckon.”

  Lucienne looked up at the sky again. It had an ugly, sulphurous cast, and the chatter of the insects and birds seemed to fill an ominous void around them. She hadn’t wanted to go back to Armand, but at that moment Lucienne would have agreed to leave with the devil himself, if she’d been sure she could get away from that tumbledown house in the bayou.

  ****

  “Now, M’sieu Jessup, you are certain that this man, this bon homme, has told you nothing of where the lady is hidden?” Armand looked over the scruffy giant across the table with suspicion. There was something uncertain in the man’s eyes, something smacking of a child telling fibs.

  “No, no, no,” Orman insisted. “Just said he could show where she is. For the reward. Wants the money first. Then he tell us where. Money’s all he wants.”

  “And where do I find this man to give him the money? Will he have the girl with him?” Dubious and not sure why the man’s words rang false, Armand pressed for details. He listened intently, trying to assess the value of this new information.

  “You don’t find him, Mist’ Dupre, nossir, you don’t find him. I take the money, give it to the man, he says where the girl is. I tell you. Man don’t trust nobody. Bad men huntin’ him.”

  Armand looked around the seedy coffee house, hoping to see Jessup’s principal. The place catered to the scum of the wharves, seamen in port for a few days, riffraff off the streets, gamblers and the wharf rats who made their living off gamblers.

  Gamblers.

  The word struck a chord in Armand’s mind. Price and gambling! Could Price have a connection to Jessup or his brother? The Jessups, too simpleminded to have steady work, made a meager living from whatever make-work they could find on the dock. Two men of such size and strength were often in demand when ships were loading and unloading, especially the banana boats. Price had been at the dock booking that passage he’d not claimed, and rumor had it he’d formed a connection with the inhabitants of the area. Yes, he might well know the hulking brothers.

  “The girl is safe, though? She’s well and in no danger?”

  “Safe, nothing gonna hurt her. Got a friend with her,” Orman Jessup added.

  “A friend?” Armand wanted to press that point more, to try to pin down the name of the friend looking after Lucienne, but his informant suddenly stood up.

  “Enough talk. You bring the money here in the morning. I’ll tell you where to find the girl.” He moved through the crowd and out into the street before Armand could question him further. The Jessups were big men, but they moved with speed when they needed to.

  He mused on Orman’s words and the things unsaid between them as he walked back to the house on St. Phillip. Lucienne had a friend with her. That was what Jessup said. What friend, Armand asked himself. The Price girl. He’d bet money on it. It had to be. Price or his daughter took Lucienne’s belongings and sold her jewelry. Price booked passage to the islands but failed to pay for it. He couldn’t resist a card game, but he generally lost, probably lost the money for their passage. So he needed money, money had been offered for Lucienne’s return, and he likely had a passing acquaintance with Orman, who had just made an overture to Armand. It all added up. Price and his daughter were at the bottom of things; Armand was certain of that. He was equally certain the Jessup brothers were tools in the enterprise.

  Hours later, as night fell, weighing the information he had, Armand sat alone in his study, examining his conclusions. He was sure he was right. The “friend” had to be Dorcas, and the girl was her father’s instrument. He had only to find Price to find Lucienne. Outside the street was silent, unusually so, and the air gloomy with threatening rain. He rose to pull back the long curtains shielding the room. Clouds scudded across the thin moon as if driven by devils, signifying a torrent about to deluge the area. He watched and studied the elements. Storm would be reaching the bayous soon; that was the message he read. A big one, by the hints he saw. He’d not want to be out in the swamps with that kind of storm building out there. He wondered if Jessup had tried to get back to the fishing shack he and his brother called home. If he had, Armand doubted he’d be meeting either one of them the next morning. By daylight there would be a downpour, and the bayou streams unfit for navigation. Armand drew the curtain and turned away. At least he was certain Lucienne wouldn’t be caught in it. By what Jessup said, she was safely housed and cared for somewhere in town. Unless Armand misread the man and for some reason she was hidden somewhere else. The thought hit him with the force of thunder. Somewhere else—like out in the bayous—with only the simple Jessups and Dorcas Price to keep her safe! The look on Jessup’s face, the look of a man not used to lying. A man who had a rundown house out in the place where land and water became one. A place where no one would ever think to look for pampered Lucienne Toussaint. Exactly the place, Armand was suddenly certain, where he could find his headstrong, beautiful wife. If he could find her before the storm washed ashore in full force. If Jessup had gone back to the bayou before the storm, then he had to find Price!

  Armand raced upstairs, taking two and three steps at a time, to his bedroom at the end of the hall. Flinging the chamber door wide, he dashed to the copious dressing room at the far end. When he emerged minutes later, not one of his intimate friends would have recognized the dapper Monsieur Armand Dupre. A battered hat sloped down over his eyes. Boots, worn and scarred, covered leather pants. No fine broadcloth jacketed his wide shoulders. Fringed doeskin had replaced his tailored shirt and cravat. Armand paused a second to unlock a tall cabinet beside the doorway. When he rushed down the grand staircase, a Tennessee long rifle rested on his shoulder and a pair of deadly pepperpot pistols braced the serviceable belt at his waist.

  He paused long enough to scratch out a note to Marie, then ducked out into rain charged with the promise of danger. If Lucienne was in the place he suspected, he had precious little time. Either Orman Jessup, if he was in still in town, or Price himself must be persuaded to lead him there—willingly or under whatever duress it took.

  Chapter Sixteen:

  Surviving a Nightmare

  “It doesn’t feel like a regular thunderstorm. It’s not moving. It just hangs there like a threat.” Lucienne watched the sky as she and Dorcas shared the last of Mort Jessup’s catch of the day. The fish was greasy and unseasoned, but it was a meal.

  “Mort said it was gonna be a bad one.” Dorcas wiped her fingers on the stained rag across her lap. “Said iffen we had the boat, we’d just hightail it on out of here before this thing hits us.”

  Frogs in the bayou were in fine voice. Lucienne barely heard Dorcas above them. The night was deeply black.
No blue relieved the darkness. No stars shone through, and the moon couldn’t pierce the mass of clouds sagging above the trees. From time to time a sheet of lightning bounced silently between the cloudbanks. Lucienne stared into the night. The isolation frightened her. She hadn’t seen Mort Jessup in hours, not since he brought the string of fish to the door and thrust it at Dorcas. She guessed he’d come back and taken a portion of the fish once they were cleaned and cooked, but he’d been silent about it. “You suppose that man left us here alone with that storm coming?”

  “I wouldn’t put it past him,” Dorcas admitted. “He wants the money Pa promised him for helpin’, so I don’t think he’d go far.” She put the tin plate aside. “It’s gettin’ late. I’m gonna try to get a little sleep before the thunder starts. You comin’ in?”

  Lucienne gave the sky another apprehensive look. “I suppose I might as well.”

  ****

  Armand Dupre glared at the man across the table and silently cursed him as a miserable excuse for a human being. Everyone Armand questioned said Jessup must have returned to the bayou, but Price’s gambling reputation had marked a clear path. Armand had wasted precious hours trailing the man through the lowest dives of the Vieux Carré till he forced a confrontation. Price held a coarse mug in both hands and swallowed half the steaming contents.

  “You can see how it is, Dupre.” He sounded as if he were making a reasonable argument to an unreasonable man. “Them girls are as good as dead, what with the size of the storm that’s coming out there. I was gonna go after them, Jessup would tell you that. But I cain’t get through, no chance. The girls—just no way to get to ’em. No point in losin’ another life when we cain’t get there nohow. Nobody’s fault, o’ course. Couldn’t have figured on a bad storm, not this time of year.” He took the remains of his whiskey-laced coffee in one gulp, not his first of the evening.