The Grand Masquerade (The Bold Women Series Book 4)

by Amanda Hughes

  The man lumbered off, holding his ear.

  There was more thunder, and it started to pour. The gentleman turned to the girl and shouted over the wind and the rain, “Is this true?”

  “Yes,” she snapped, brushing blood from her lip.

  The gentleman pushed his hand through his thick mane of wet hair impatiently. He looked at Sydnee and demanded, “Who are you?”

  The rain drumming on the deck was deafening. “I was here when they came up on deck,” Sydnee shouted over the din. Her hair stuck to her forehead and rain soaked her gown.

  “Come along,” he said, taking the girl’s arm. “We are going to see the captain.”

  “Keep your goddamn hands off me!” the girl barked, jerking her arm free.

  Sydnee saw the man’s eyes flash, but he did not try to restrain her. “Go then!” he roared, flinging his arm.

  The three ran up to the pilot house. The crew member who assaulted the stowaway was just leaving the bridge and pushed past them with a surly look.

  Captain Petosky was leaning over a desk when they stepped inside. He was a leathery-skinned man in his middle years with graying hair. “I am sorry but I must have you wait a moment. You understand with this weather--” he said apologetically.

  The pilot handed them some towels and rejoined the captain to look at some charts.

  They began to dry themselves. The girl was soaked to the skin. Her face was bruised, and her lip was bleeding.

  Sydnee watched the gentleman as he peeled off his wet suit coat. He was probably in his early thirties, tall, broad shouldered, and well dressed in fine evening attire. He wore a white dress shirt with a cravat and a dark vest. He had long unkempt dark hair, very light skin and frown lines on his face.

  Feeling her studying him, he turned and glared at her as if she was being rude. Sydnee looked away quickly.

  She noticed the girl was shivering, and she wrapped a towel around her shoulders. With her head down, the waif watched everyone, her eyes darting from one to the other, like a cornered animal.

  At last Captain Petosky looked up. “Good evening Mademoiselle Sauveterre. I am sorry about this altercation on your last night with us. These things happen, but the crew is supposed to keep these problems on the lower decks.”

  Sydnee shrugged, dismissing it.

  “Dr. Locke, I am sorry that you have been involved in this too.”

  “If there is some problem, I will pay her fare,” Dr. Locke offered, reaching into his pocket.

  “That won’t be necessary,” Captain Petosky assured him. “She will be dealt with when we reach New Orleans.”

  Sydnee’s stomach lurched. After what she had seen on deck, she shuddered to think what punishment awaited the girl ashore. She noticed the look of concern on Dr. Locke’s face as well, and he said, “No, Captain Petosky. There has been a misunderstanding. She is--this is my servant girl.”

  “Your servant girl? I did not see her board with you earlier,” the captain said suspiciously.

  “I, ah--I had my brother purchase her ticket up north.” He turned and asked the girl, “Did you not receive it?”

  The girl darted a look around at the men, and then shook her head.

  “There you have it, Captain. My apologies,” said Dr. Locke cheerfully.

  Captain Petosky knew that he was lying, but did not press it further. He sighed and said to the girl, “Very well. Where did you board?”

  “Hannibal.”

  “Hannibal!” Dr. Locke exclaimed. Covering his mistake, he said quickly. “Y-yes, my brother has a farm up there.”

  Captain Petosky told him the cost of the fare, and he reached into his pocket, starting to count his bills. “I believe I am short. Would you take a sight draft, Captain?”

  Sydnee jumped in. “What is the remainder, if you please? Dr. Locke and I are old friends. It would be my pleasure to be of assistance.”

  “I will gratefully return your money when we arrive in New Orleans,” Locke said to her and Sydnee gave a little shrug, opening her bag.

  Paying the remainder of the fare, Sydnee followed them out of the pilot house. Locke reached out quickly and grabbed the stowaway as she tried to bolt down the stairs. “Not so fast, young lady. You have a debt to repay. Charity hospital needs help, and you will do nicely.”

  “I’m not working at any goddamned hospital emptying piss pots.”

  “You are indeed charming,” he said sarcastically and then looked at her lip. “I must attend to that.”

  “You may use my stateroom, if you wish,” Sydnee offered.

  “I will get my bag and be right there.”

  “Room 27A,” she said.

  When they arrived at her stateroom, Sydnee had the girl change out of her wet clothes into a dressing gown behind a lacquered screen. Sydnee sat down at her dressing table and pulled the pins out of her hair. She ran a brush through her wet tresses and in no time she rearranged her hair and pinned it back up again.

  “You’re rich,” the girl observed as she sat down on a footstool. Sydnee walked behind the screen to step into a fresh gown.

  “What’s your name?” she asked the girl.

  “Ruth Barstow.”

  “I am Sydnee Sauveterre.”

  There was knock on the door, and Dr. Locke stepped in holding a black medical bag. He looked around the luxurious stateroom and then ran his eyes over Sydnee’s change of clothing. She suddenly felt spoiled and overdressed.

  “I apologize for my tardiness,” he said. “I had to attend to that crew member whose ear you bit,” he said, looking at Ruth.

  “Why did you help him?” she said with a frown.

  “I am a doctor. I cannot pick and choose who to help.”

  He knelt down on one knee and took Ruth’s chin, turning her face from side to side, examining her split lip. He opened his bag and rummaged through it mumbling, “Where is my ointment?”

  “I have some Balm of Gilead that should help,” Sydnee offered, stepping over to her dressing table.

  Dr. Locke looked at her sharply. “There will be no African remedies used on my patients.”

  “But it is most effective and from the cottonwood poplar—“

  “Folklore nonsense,” he stated and turned back to Ruth.

  Sydnee did not like this man. He was officious, bossy and had a high opinion of himself.

  Opening a bottle, he soaked a cloth with tincture. When he dabbed it on Ruth’s lip, she jumped and swore at him.

  He snapped his bag shut, stood up and asked the girl, “Why did you stowaway?”

  “The old man was beating me back in Hannibal.”

  “Your father?”

  “No,” she said, as if he was stupid. “He’s dead. So’s my ma. I grew up in St. Louis. I was taken by a thug who sold me to a farmer up north. The bastard worked me to death.”

  “Well, when we get to New Orleans, you must work too, but we will pay you wages. I won’t force you to stay, but if you want a roof over your head, you must work.”

  Ruth looked at him suspiciously and then started digging in her pocket.

  Dr. Locke turned to Sydnee. “I would be most grateful if you could put her up for the night. She could sleep-” and he looked around. “On the floor or something.”

  Sydnee nodded, just wishing he would leave. Suddenly she smelled something and looked at Ruth. She had lit a cigar.

  Dr. Locke barked, “What is wrong with you!” He yanked the cigar from her mouth, opened the door and pitched the tobacco in the river.

  “Hey!” Ruth bellowed.

  “Where did you get that?” he demanded.

  “From your pocket.”

  Locke’s eyes grew wide, and he looked at Sydnee. “I must say, I am most grateful to you for taking her tonight,” and he walked out.

  * * *

  After getting Ruth something to eat, and making up a bed for her, the night passed without incident. Sydnee slept little, ruminating about what to do with the girl. Things had happened faster than she
had planned. The spirits had been right to hurry her. She found it ironic that she had everything organized to smuggle women and children out of New Orleans, and now she was scrambling to bring someone into the city.

  Initially she thought Ruth could stay in the livery, but she realized that she did not want anyone residing in the city to know of the hiding place. Ruth would have to stay at the town house until accommodations could be arranged. Sydnee also laid awake worrying about Ruth’s reports of kidnappings. It was the start of yellow jack season, and these abductors would be flooding the city soon.

  The following morning when they docked in New Orleans, Dr. Locke accompanied them off the boat. He was dressed more casually this time in a white shirt, vest and a Panama hat cocked to the side. He had slung his frock coat over his shoulder because of the heat. Again he ran his eyes over Sydnee’s gown. It was saffron yellow, with short capped sleeves and cut low over the shoulders. She wore a smart black belt around her waist and carried a pale yellow parasol. Although it was daywear, it was of the latest fashion. Again she felt as if she should apologize for her appearance.

  Next he looked at Ruth. Sydnee had given her a dress to wear, but the fit was poor. He scowled. “I see you found some shoes, but couldn’t you have given the girl a proper dress?”

  “I will look again,” Sydnee said, her face flushing with anger. “I’m sure there’s something in my vast wardrobe that would suit your tastes.”

  Uncertain about whether she was being sarcastic, he darted a look at her and then continued to walk down the landing stage.

  “We will go to Charity Hospital first,” Locke said to Ruth. “And you can meet the nuns.”

  “Nuns?” Ruth said, curling her lip.

  “Yes, nuns and plenty of them. At least I think so.” He scanned Jackson Square, busy with vendors and foot traffic.

  “You don’t live here?” Sydnee asked.

  “What?” he replied absent-mindedly. “No, I accepted a position at the hospital and the Ursuline Orphanage. I like working with children.”

  “So you live in Natchez?”

  “Yes, I recently inherited a home from my uncle up there, but I was raised in Gloucestershire.”

  At that moment Frederick pulled up in the open landau with the dogs in the back. Atlantis and Baloo jumped out and bound up to Sydnee, wagging their entire bodies. She squatted down, hugged them and said to Locke, “Allow me to give you a lift to the hospital. You don’t know the city, and it is far too warm to walk.”

  “Thank you.” Dr. Locke helped Frederick with the bags and then sat opposite Sydnee and Ruth. Frederick snapped the whip and they were off, trotting through the streets of New Orleans.

  Ruth said little, but her eyes were like saucers. Sydnee knew that everything was new to her, from the magnolias and Spanish moss to the people on the street from every race and walk of life.

  Dr. Locke seemed to be enjoying the ride as well. He took his hat off running his hands through his thick hair. Sydnee actually saw him smile at the dogs loping along behind the carriage. Even though this man is attractive, Sydnee thought, his arrogance ruins him. Such a pity, and she turned away.

  The Sisters of Charity Hospital in Faubourg St. Marie was a large stucco building similar in appearance to the Ursuline Convent. When they arrived Dr. Locke helped Ruth out and said to Sydnee, “My thanks. I will make inquiries today about a residence for Ruth, but if nothing is found may I bring her to you for one more night?”

  Sydnee looked at Ruth. The girl was picking at her nails, trying to act bored, but Sydnee knew it was a ruse to cover her fear. “Of course, I planned on it,” and she handed him her calling card.

  As expected, late that evening there was a knock at the door of Sydnee’s town house. Marie showed Ruth and Dr. Locke into the parlor. Ruth gawked at the tall windows dressed in silver drapes, the richly upholstery furniture and crystal wall sconces. Dr. Locke was less impressed. Instead he looked up at the portrait of Tristan.

  “Welcome, please sit down,” Sydnee said, sweeping into the room.

  “I am sorry to call so late, but the dormitories were locked when we finally finished for the night.”

  She offered Locke a glass of sherry as Marie took Ruth upstairs to bathe.

  Dr. Locke eyed Sydnee. He was interested in this woman and her relationship with this man in the painting. Seeing no ring on her left hand, he asked, “Is your husband at home? I should like to meet him.”

  Sydnee stopped pouring the sherry and looked at him. “Dr. Locke, as you have probably already guessed, I am not married. The portrait over the mantel is of a dear friend, Tristan Saint-Yves. Our relationship is no secret here in New Orleans. Would you care to explore the details further?”

  They locked eyes a moment and then he said, “Not interested.”

  After sipping his sherry, he put his glass on the end table and stated, “It has been a long day. I appreciate your hospitality, but I must be going.”

  Shaking with anger, Sydnee walked him to the entry. The man was rude and presumptuous. It was all she could do to restrain herself from slamming the door after him.

  * * *

  The next morning when Sydnee woke up, Ruth was gone. It appeared as if she had slept only a few hours than left the house. Sydnee sent a note to the hospital, but Dr. Locke had not seen her. Sydnee noticed that her liquor and cigars were gone and someone had tried to force the lock on her silver cabinet. She believed that as the day wore on she would find other objects of value stolen too. Mother Baptista had been right. Using her house as a refuge was not a good option.

  Sydnee decided to focus on something happier. Today she was going to meet Isabel and Tristan’s new child, and she was very excited. She put on a hat with a dark veil and had Frederick drop her off at the cathedral. After Mass she walked to their home with her face covered.

  She was delighted to meet Delphine. She was a good-natured child with curly white hair and blue eyes. The three-year-old girl was frail but extremely alert and quick to smile.

  “She is beautiful,” Sydnee said. “And I am sure she is brilliant as well.”

  “Oh, she is,” agreed Tristan. He held Delphine as she rode a rocking horse. He adored the little girl, and his eyes sparkled whenever he looked at her.

  Isabel sat nearby, watching serenely with her hands folded in her lap. The color had returned to her face, and she was starting to fill out again. She had taken to motherhood instantly and was in constant communication with her mother on everything from discipline to baby bonnets.

  Tristan was miserable that he had to leave for Saratoga so soon. D’anton, finding he too was taken with the child suggested they cancel their trip, but Tristan was meeting with several cotton manufacturers, and it could not wait.

  Sydnee left the house that afternoon feeling grateful to a thin, little wisp of a girl for healing so many broken hearts.

  * * *

  Months passed and no word came from the convent on women and children in need of transport. Everything was ready in the livery, Sydnee had obtained the uniform of a mourner, and she had even found a suitable escort to take refugees up The Trace if the need arose. All she needed now were women and children to help escape.

  September came and Sydnee was starting to grow restless. When she checked at the convent, Mother Baptista said that there had been several potential candidates who were prostitutes, but in the end they decided to return to their former lives. “In my experience,” the nun said with authority. “Few of these women are interested in true reform.”

  Sydnee clenched her teeth. She wanted to say more to the nun but respect for the church stopped her. She stepped out into the hall feeling angry and frustrated. It was apparent now that Mother Baptista was not going to refer anyone to her. She pulled open the heavy front door and stepped out into the sunlight and stifling heat. Atlantis jumped up from the shade and stood by her side. Baloo elected to remain home. He was getting up in years and sleeping more and more lately. The heat and humidity bothered hi
m.

  As she started down the walk she noticed the girl who had been scrubbing floors the first time she had come to the convent was outside washing windows. The bruises were gone from her face and she looked healthier.

  “Are you going to wash all of these windows?” Sydnee asked, running her eyes over the huge building.

  “I am,” the girl said with a smile. “It will take weeks, but it is worth it to see the sun stream through so bright and strong.”

  * * *

  That evening at supper Sydnee’s demeanor was lackluster, and it took great effort to make conversation. She had invited a small group to dine with her and to play cards. Most of her gatherings were small this time of year, and during a round of whist, Madame Cardona, a Creole from an old New Orleans family, observed, “You are pale, my darling child. What is it?”

  Sydnee smiled weakly and said, “Thank you, but it is nothing.”

  “Do you miss our dear Tristan?”

  “Indeed I do,” Sydnee said.

  The elderly woman recommended, “Drink some of your friend Margarite’s sickness tea. That will help.”

  “I will. Thank you, Madame Cardona.”

  Hoping the tea and a good night’s sleep would cure her, Sydnee went to bed early, but instead, she tossed and turned. Feelings of disappointment nagged her, and she felt utterly discouraged. Her plans to help women and children had failed. She felt as if she had been foolish and misguided to even consider the undertaking. She could still see the look in Mother Baptista’s eyes when she first proposed it. That same look was on Dr. Locke’s face on the riverboat. They thought she was shallow and spoiled. Sydnee sat up in bed and covered her face. “Maybe I am,” she said, tears filling her eyes.

  Baloo, who was sleeping by her bed, looked up, his tail thumping. Sydnee turned back the covers and slid down on the floor, hugging his neck. “You know me better than anyone, old friend. Is that what I have become?”

  He thumped his tail and leaned against her.

  In her bare feet, she walked downstairs to make more of Margarite’s sickness tea. Taking the tea outside, she sat on the steps of the courtyard, sipping it. The bugs had cleared for the night, and she watched the moon, seeking guidance from the spirits.