Bal Masque

by Fleeta Cunningham

  Grateful for the practical suggestion, Lucienne crawled back into their hideaway and passed the pail to Dorcas.

  The last of her bread, wrapped in a bit of kitchen towel and her apron, was soggy, but they broke it into chunks and divided it.

  “It was pretty good bread when I made it,” Lucienne commented. She chewed the gooey morsels though they had no taste left.

  “You really made bread?” Dorcas looked dubious.

  “I make very good bread. My one domestic success. A nun taught me. She said I was a born baker.”

  “I swan, you beat all, Miss Lucy Ann. I’d bet you didn’t know a bread bowl from a kettle.” Dorcas licked the last damp crumbs from her fingers.

  “I guess we’d better think about trying to tighten up our nest.” Lucienne looked at the mangled mass over their retreat. “We won’t have long before the wind rises again.”

  Dorcas didn’t answer. She was peering through the broken pile of wood and shattered limbs, her eyes crinkled to slits in the harsh light. “Look there, Miss Lucy Ann. I do believe it’s that worthless Mort Jessup trying to get through the mess out there. And there’s somebody with him, a hunter or swamp man. You reckon he’s come back to get us after all? And even brought us some help?”

  Chapter Seventeen:

  More Than a Stranger, Less Than a Friend

  Lucienne scrambled over refuse. The fierce yellow glare temporarily blinded her, and she made her way by touch. An oppressive, waiting silence filled the bayou. The wild things know the storm’s not over. She clambered to the top of the heap of broken boards and crushed leaves, adjusting to the light as she went, to look out where Dorcas pointed. In the distance, kicking aside branches and rubble, came two men leading horses across the wind-tortured rise. Certain she hallucinated, Lucienne closed her eyes and looked again.

  “Someone is coming!” She pulled Dorcas to her feet. “The wind will start up again pretty soon. If we go meet them, we can get away quicker. Come on.”

  Dorcas held back. “What about those critters you was talkin’ about that like to get up out of the water, ’gators and snakes and things?”

  Lucienne closed her mind to those images and dangers. “No, I don’t care if the biggest alligator in Louisiana is out there. It better not get between me and a way out of this death trap.” Lucienne lifted the ragged edge of her skirt and leaped from one log to an uprooted tree trunk. From there she looked for an open bit of ground that would hold her. Shutting both eyes and leaping across the soggy expanse below, Dorcas landed beside her.

  “For a proper lady, you sure do beat all, Miss Lucy Ann, facin’ down a storm, and ’gators, too. That cousin of yours, that P’rrette, she’d up and faint iffen she was out here. Guess most young misses would.” The admiration in Dorcas’s words was only a little muffled by her slight breathlessness. Together they clung to an upright root as they looked for their next foothold. The men were closer now, and Lucienne could clearly see that one of them was the bearded giant Mort Jessup. The other man, a man dressed in riding leathers like a frontiersman, had a hat pulled low over his eyes. She couldn’t see his face. Some other refugee from the storm, she supposed.

  “See that piece of wood sticking up against the side of that big branch?” She pointed at what looked like a short fence post. “Do you think we can get to it? The ground looks fairly firm from here to there.”

  “It looks more like molasses, Miss Lucy Ann. There ain’t a square foot of solid ground within five acres of this place.” Dorcas found a small chunk of wood wedged in the tree roots and tossed it toward the post. Something slithered through the wet leaves. “Don’t think I want to try goin’ that way nohow.”

  Lucienne shivered. For all her brash words, she didn’t want to contest snakes or alligators for possession of a few inches of swampland.

  “Hold up, miss! We be comin’. Hold up!” Jessup’s words reached them across the drenched landscape.

  “I think we best wait,” Dorcas cautioned. “They’re almost here. Won’t do anybody any good if we’re sinkin’ in muck so’s they have to take time to pull us out.”

  Impatient though she was, Lucienne could see the logic in the words. The men and horses were slogging through mire more liquid than not, forcing downed limbs aside, and circling trees twisted and tossed away like discarded paper. She and Dorcas could hardly do as well as two strong men against the hazards ahead. The drenched girls wriggled to the outer limits of the tree supporting them.

  Mort reached them first. Without a word of greeting or explanation, his huge hands spanning her small waist, he lifted Dorcas and swung her up into the saddle. He turned back the way he came, pulling to the side to let the second man and horse pass him.

  The frontiersman drew near Lucienne. She still couldn’t see his face, but something a little familiar in his movements stirred in her memory. She associated his agility, that of a dancer, and his economy of effort with someone she knew.

  “I thank you for having the courage to come out in this frightful storm, m’sieu. I will see your efforts are rewarded.” She held out a hand to the tall figure.

  “If I can get you safely away from your most recent escapade without strangling you, Chou-Chou, it will be reward enough.”

  “Armand?” Lucienne drew back, clutching a muddy tree root for support. “Is it truly you? What are you doing here?”

  “C’est moi, chèrie, and I suggest we save our tender words of reunion for another time. The wind and rain will not hold off to suit us. Let’s get you back to a safe place.” Armand lifted her effortlessly from the tree and tossed her into the saddle. “I trust riding astride will not be too inconvenient. I had no time to procure a lady’s saddle.”

  “I’ll manage,” she answered, thankful for all the hours she’d spent cantering bareback over the fields of Mille Fleur, even though she’d caught a switching for it more than once.

  Armand didn’t speak as he led the horse across the oozing countryside. Lucienne, disconcerted by his unexpected presence, held her tongue as well. How had the man found her? And why was he dressed like a backwoods bumpkin? She’d never expected Armand Dupre to come into such a place after her. Why would he bother? He had her dowry, the reason for their wretched marriage. Besides, she’d humiliated him before the entire parish. His pride must have taken a pummeling in all the cafés in town by now. He had nothing to salvage by tracking her down. Not that she wasn’t relieved to be out of the rubble of that fishing cabin, she admitted, but she wished someone else had come to her rescue.

  “Armand, where are we going? Is there really a house nearby?”

  Armand swung up into the saddle behind her. “Not a house, Chou-Chou, but a site that will give us shelter. Not a place that young ladies frequent, I suppose, but it’s considerably better than the spot where I found you. Unless you’d rather take your chances with the hurricane?”

  She vaguely registered his use of her family’s pet name for her. “I hope never to see that heap of rubble again. Nor face such a storm. I’m happy to have whatever shelter you offer us.”

  They reached what might have been solid footing the day before. Now it was a sodden path of pulpy leaves and flattened vegetation. Still the horse was able to pick up speed and managed an uneven lope at Armand’s urging. Just ahead Lucienne could see the second horse carrying Dorcas and Mort Jessup. At least she wouldn’t have to be alone with Armand for long.

  “Is it much farther?” Lucienne felt a few raindrops sting her face. In minutes the downpour would start again and the wind would begin to rise.

  Armand pushed their mount to a hard gallop. The horse lathered with its effort to cover the unstable ground. “Far enough we’ll be soaked by the time we get there. Pray the wind doesn’t sweep us from the saddle.”

  Their situation might be perilous, but Lucienne had exhausted her stock of fear when the shack fell before the wind. She had no terrors left. Somehow she and Armand, and Dorcas and Jessup as well, were going to reach safety. She was sure of it. She
hadn’t faced all the failure and disappointment of the last two weeks only to fall victim to the elements. She leaned back against Armand, his firm arms solid around her.

  “We’ll be all right. Wet won’t kill us, and we can beat the wind.”

  “I wish I had your certainty, madame.”

  Moments later the rain came down. It washed over Lucienne’s face like a wave, till she could scarcely breathe without drawing in water as well as air. Hooves thudded into a ground too soaked to sustain the animal’s pace. At any moment she expected their mount to slip and topple them into the spongy turf. Armand leaned forward to shield her as much as he could, but it made little difference. Instantly her wet garments were soaked anew. Lucienne shivered and clutched the pommel of the saddle, hoping the rising wind wouldn’t spook the poor horse.

  “It’s just ahead,” Armand shouted in her ear. The wind struck them, not with full force but hard enough to slow the horse.

  “I see a light.” She doubted he heard, the way the wind tore words from her lips.

  Faintly she saw shadows of horse and riders as Dorcas and Jessup passed before the faint glow and through the outline of a doorway. She and Armand reached the same point just as a screaming howl announced the second half of the hurricane. Its force tumbled her from the saddle. Only Mort Jessup’s huge hand kept her upright.

  Dorcas threw her arms around Lucienne. “We’re safe now, Miss Lucy Ann, safe and sound.”

  Doors blew shut with a mighty crash and a moment later Lucienne heard, just above the roar of the wind, a hefty bar drop into place. Out of the shadows Orman Jessup hobbled toward them. He leaned heavily on a makeshift crutch and carried a lantern in one hand. The flame danced as gusts of wind pushed around the door and under the roof.

  “Take the wimmin through, Dupre. I see to the horses.”

  “No, mon ami, you’ve done yeoman service already, and that leg needs no more strain. You see the ladies to safety while your brother and I take care of the horses.” Armand clapped a hand to the man’s shoulder. “We owe our success to you, Jessup. If you hadn’t known of that Indian trail, the storm would have beaten us.”

  “Man has to know more’n one way home,” Jessup muttered. “This way.” He nodded toward the shadowy depths of what Lucienne assumed was a barn.

  Dorcas caught her hand, and they followed the lumbering hulk into the darkness. The wet hair in her eyes and the gloom inside made it impossible for Lucienne to see where Jessup was leading, but Dorcas seemed confident. Lucienne felt the mantle of exhaustion settle over her. Rivulets ran down her back and dribbled from her soaked skirt. Her sodden boots seemed to sink into the floor. It took all her strength to lift one weary foot and move it forward. The next steps took even more determination.

  At last Jessup stopped. Sounds of creaking wood and grating iron cut through the howl of the wind. A rectangle of lighter grey appeared as a door, long unused, screeched open. Lucienne followed Dorcas through.

  “What is this place?” she asked as they stepped over a low threshold and into a dim and dusty cave-like room. She could see chinks of faint light seeping around heavy shutters covering the three narrow windows. A table tilted against a wall. Assorted stools and chairs, some missing a leg, some with broken backs, all overturned, littered the dusty floor.

  “River pirates’ hideout,” Jessup answered.

  “Pirates!” Lucienne recoiled in disgust. River pirates, the scourge of Louisiana river commerce, still stirred havoc among steamboats and watercraft even as law and order tried to tame the Mississippi.

  “They’s still around, but nobody’s been here fer a long time now. Buildin’s safe enough.” He hobbled over to the table and righted it, then dragged two chairs beside it. He sank into one and propped his bandaged leg on the other.

  “I don’t care who used it for what.” Lucienne’s stiff limbs protested as she bent to stand another chair up on its legs. She wrung out her wet skirts and wrapped them around her, sitting with her legs stretched straight out before her. “As long as the walls are standing and the roof doesn’t come down on top of me, I’m not interested in its history.”

  Silence, except for the raging storm outside, filled the room. All three were too weary, too depleted, to speak. Lucienne’s wet dress chilled her, but she couldn’t find energy to do more than endure her stiffness and bone-deep cold. Her hair hung in tangled ropes over her shoulders. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a comb or the chance to use it. Her dress, not new when she received it, was little more than mud-tinted rags. Streaks of brown and green marked her arms where she’d dodged broken limbs. Her half-boots, once smart and dressy, had nothing of their original color and little of their soles intact. Ragamuffins were better dressed. At that moment Lucienne just didn’t care. The room was dry; the floor seemed sound. If a few drops managed to get through the roof, at least it remained attached to the walls. Here was refuge, sanctuary, and she didn’t have the will to ask for more.

  The sound of movements filled the room, followed by the smell of wood smoke, and a clank of metal implements. Lucienne ignored them. In a fog of exhaustion she sat immobile, her eyes closed, her thoughts elusive and muddled.

  “Here, chèrie, try to drink a little of this.” A warm mug and the smell of pungent coffee accompanied Armand’s words. Lucienne couldn’t summon the energy to grasp the cup. “Try a little,” he insisted. “You’re cold, Lucienne, chilled all the way through. Drink a little of this.” The cup was at her lips and, without thinking, Lucienne sipped. A bit of warmth trickled into her frozen interior. “A little more?”

  Lucienne grasped the cup herself and breathed in the steam. She swallowed a mouthful and then another. “Merci,” she managed between swallows. “I never knew coffee could restore life.”

  Armand drew up a chair and sat beside her. “You look in need of restoration, p’tite. These days out in the world have not been so easy for you.”

  Indignation fueled her reaction. She’d managed pretty well in spite of all the adversity. “As easy as the world I tried to leave behind, m’sieu! And if things have been hard, I have only you to thank for it.”

  Something flared in Armand’s eyes, as if a slumbering volcano suddenly spewed a shower of sparks. “I don’t think this is the time to begin that discussion, madame. We have a good many hours ahead of us here before the storm subsides. Perhaps a flooding river to manage after that. Try to be as agreeable as possible and save yourself some misery.”

  “Agreeable!” Lucienne threw the cup and its contents at him. Coffee spilled down Armand’s doeskin shirt. The cup missed his head by an inch.

  His hands gripped Lucienne’s wrists. “Lucienne, we have gone to some trouble to bring you out of the peril you so rashly embraced. Pray do not make me regret the effort.”

  Lucienne wrenched herself away from him. She darted as far from him as the room permitted. “Why did you bother? You have the dowry you and your father wanted. That’s all the marriage was about, wasn’t it? Has gossip in the cafés been more than you could bear? Is your poor male pride shredded by whispers that your bride ran away rather than face living with you? Did someone laugh or make a rude joke? How awful for you, m’sieu. Wouldn’t it have been simpler to just leave me out there and let the storm conveniently dispose of me?”

  “Mon Dieu! Would it not!” Two paces brought him to her. The pains he’d taken to save her reputation! The endless conniving to keep gossip about her rash action away from the loose tongues of society! And to have her throw his efforts back in his face? It was too much! He reached for her, intending to shake her like a wet puppy.

  Two days of fear and fury ignited Lucienne. She snatched up a broken chair and brought it down with all the strength left in her arms. He sidestepped, missing a concussion by the width of the shoulder that shoved her attack aside.

  “Lucy Ann Toussaint! You stop that, you hear?” Dorcas thrust herself between them. She pushed Lucienne back to the wall, holding her shoulders so hard no amount of wriggli
ng could free her. “Miss Lucy Ann, the man risked his life to come get us. Now behave yourself. He came, where my pa didn’t. You gotta respect a man what does that for you.”

  Lucienne shuddered and, sobbing with exhaustion, went limp as all the fight went out of her. Dorcas held her shaking form closer. “And Mr. Dupre, you can’t rightly blame Miss Lucy Ann for all this. She’s been a mite foolish, it’s true, but she’s not out here ’cause she wanted to be. You can blame me and my pa for that part of it. Hadn’t been for us, she’d be safe at her grandma’s and you woulda found her easy enough. It’s our fault she’s in this fix.” Her rough hand stroked Lucienne’s hair back and wiped away the tears Lucienne was helpless to stop. “I gotta say she’s got more courage and general gumption than most menfolk. If it hadn’t been for her figurin’ a way to fix up that hidey-hole for us, her and me would be floatin’ into the Gulf of Mexico by now, I reckon. So you let up on her, you hear?”

  Armand’s face changed as he reined in his emotions. Days of frustration and fear subsided as he fought to master himself. The angry color receded, leaving his face white with exhaustion and heavily shadowed by grime and whiskers. He leaned back against the wall.

  “Eh, bien, Chou-Chou, it’s a hard road we’ve traveled these past days. We’re all worn raw from anxiety and fighting through this storm. Myself as much as anyone.” He drew her from Dorcas’s arms and into his own. “Marie is sick with worry for you. These last days I’ve seen corners of New Orleans that I didn’t suspect existed till I began to hunt for you. You’re safe now, and if we have a little luck, the worst is over.”

  Lucienne made nothing of his words. Their angry exchange had taken the last of her energy. Her strength was spent, her body too drained to care whose arms held her or what warm heart offered her comfort. She drew succor from the cocoon surrounding her, regardless of its source. The security of his arms and the strength of his care were all that reached her.