The Grand Masquerade (The Bold Women Series Book 4)

by Amanda Hughes

  “Good evening, I am Dr. Locke,” he said to the mother.

  Roisin O’Malley was wringing her hands, and she stood up, with tears in her eyes. “Thank you for coming, doctor.”

  Looking at the twins, he said, “Greetings, boys.” There was no response. Turning to Atlantis he bellowed, “I understand this dog is feeling poorly.”

  Out of the side of his mouth Fletcher murmured to Sydnee, “Dog’s name?”

  “Atlantis,” she whispered.

  “Atlantis sent me a note today and told me to come and take a look at him.”

  “Her,” Sydnee corrected quietly.

  “Her,” he echoed.

  “May I, Atlantis?” Walking over, he squatted down by the dog.

  The boys were watching carefully.

  Atlantis looked at Sydnee, nervously. “Yes, Atlantis. You will be all right,” she said.

  The dog sat very still while Dr. Locke petted her, lifted her paw, gently poked her in the ribs and put a wooden tube to her chest to listen to her heart. Fletcher even opened her mouth and looked inside.

  “I beg your pardon?” he said putting his ear to the dog’s mouth. Weak smiles passed over the boy’s faces. “Yes, yes, very well. I will ask them.”

  Dr. Locke stood up. “Atlantis said that it might be a good idea if I took a look at you two as well.”

  The boys did not protest when he sat down on the bed. “Can you tell me your name?” he asked the child in the big bed. There was no reply. His mother said, “Killian, and the other is Kyle.”

  “I will do the same things to you that I did to your friend, Atlantis. Is that all right?”

  Killian nodded. Fletcher examined both the boys thoroughly and then stood up. “Well, I have good news for you all, including Atlantis. Everyone will feel much better if they drink lots and lots of water and eat rice and crackers.”

  He rumpled Kyle’s hair and said, “Now, time to rest. That goes for you too, Atlantis.”

  The dog looked at him with her ears perked.

  Dr. Locke took the women into the front room and murmured, “Well, this is not yellow fever but it is dysentery. I imagine they contracted it on the ship. This disease can be deadly for children if they do not drink enough fluids. Boil all their water first, allow it to cool and give them as much as you can manage, also bland food. They are not in danger yet, but they will be if they do not drink. I cannot stress this enough.”

  He ran his hand through his thick mop of hair and said, “Good God, it’s hot.”

  As he started for the door, Mrs. O’Malley said, “Thank you, Dr. Locke. I have nothing to pay you but--”

  “Say no more,” he said. Jerking his head toward Sydnee, he declared, “I will take payment from this woman. Send for me if anything changes for the worse.”

  Sydnee walked out with Fletcher and locked the door. He watched her and frowned.

  Frederick stepped up, “Where to, Mademoiselle?”

  “To Mademoiselle’s house,” Locke replied, before Sydnee could speak. “She owes me a meal and an explanation.”

  When they climbed in the carriage, Sydnee said with relief, “I am very grateful to you, Dr. Locke. Thank you so very much.” She reached into her drawstring bag to pay him, and he stopped her.

  “I meant what I said. You owe me a meal and an explanation.”

  Sydnee looked dismayed.

  “If you are worried about what people may say if they see a man enter your home after midnight, you are too late.”

  Sydnee started to laugh and so did Locke.

  “You have a caustic wit, Fletcher Locke,” Sydnee said.

  “So I have been told,” he replied.

  He sat back and looked out the window. Something stirred in him a moment ago when Sydnee had used his given name. But he dismissed it as another curiosity about the evening.

  When they arrived at Sydnee’s town house, Fletcher told Frederick he would walk home and that it was not necessary he wait up.

  “Tres bien, Monsieur,” Frederick said with a bow.

  Sydnee stopped in the front entry and lit a candle. Locke followed her down the hall to the kitchen. He glanced quickly in the parlor. He remembered seeing Saint-Yves’ portrait hanging over the mantel. He met the man on one occasion and found him good looking and charming.

  “Didn’t you have two dogs before?” he asked looking around.

  “I do, but Baloo suffers so in this heat. He sleeps out in the courtyard where it is cooler.”

  Sydnee lit a few more lamps in the kitchen. “Marie has retired for the night, but I will see what she has left us,” she said, walking into the pantry.

  Fletcher sat down on a tall stool by the work table.

  “There is some leftover meat pie. Does that sound good?” she called.

  “Yes, that will do nicely.”

  Sydnee brought the tin out and set it on the table with two plates and forks. She went to the cupboard, took two glasses down and poured them some wine.

  As she was cutting a slice of pie, he said, “I was making a steak and kidney pie when you called tonight.”

  Sydnee looked across the table at him. “No, that is not possible.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the English cannot cook,” she said with a smirk.

  “This Englishman can,” he said proudly.

  He took a bite, wiped his mouth and said, “Now suppose you tell me what is going on down at that livery.”

  Even in the candlelight, Sydnee could see the intensity in his eyes. He was not about to be put off any longer. Sydnee did not want to tell him. Locke was the kind of man who would try to shut her operation down. A moment ago she was actually amused by him, but now she remembered how pompous and self-righteous he could be.

  “I want the truth. I know you have been concocting a story all night.”

  She put her fork down and said, “You are reading into things, Dr. Locke. Rosin O’Malley is staying at the livery until her room is ready here. She is my new house--“

  “Don’t waste my time!” he barked, tossing his napkin on the table and standing up. “The authorities will be more persuasive. I assure you.”

  Sydnee blanched. This was just what she feared. If she didn’t tell him, he most certainly would expose her. Now all she could do is tell him the truth and hope for his silence.

  “Please sit down,” she said.

  Locke was pleased. His bluff worked. He sat back down on the chair and took another bite, staring at her.

  She pressed her eyes shut a moment, gathering her thoughts. “I help women and children who are being beaten escape to new lives elsewhere.”

  He stopped chewing. This was more than he imagined. “What?”

  “Women come to me, and I put them in hiding at the livery until I can ship them away. Each situation is different. Most are wives being beaten by their husbands but some are servants or apprentices being beaten by their masters. Some are prostitutes being forced to solicit. Many have children who are being beaten too.”

  “How do you find them?”

  “I have a contact.”

  “Have you been successful? That is to say, how many times have you done this?”

  Sydnee had to think. She said at last, “Eighty, perhaps ninety times.”

  “What!” he roared, standing up again. This was unthinkable. This elegant New Orleans’ courtesan was leading two lives: one as a prominent socialite, and one as a smuggler. All this time he believed she was shallow and self-absorbed.

  He began to pace the kitchen while Sydnee watched him, her hands in fists in her lap. “Outrageous,” he mumbled. Turning suddenly, he said, “Dangerous, extremely dangerous. What of the men?”

  “There have been incidents, but we have been lucky so far.”

  “Yes, so far.” He looked at her as if she was daft. “I have heard of this for slaves but--”

  Sydnee swallowed hard and asked, “Are you going to report us?”

  Locke did not answer. He was too preoccupied.
/>
  “Dr. Locke?” Sydnee said firmly.

  “Yes?’

  “Will you report us?”

  “Oh, of course not,” he said.

  Sydnee put her head back and gasped.

  “You aren’t breaking any laws. Even if you were I--” and his voice trailed off. He was lost in his thoughts.

  Running his hand through his hair, Locke mumbled, “I’m-I’m really not hungry anymore.”

  He picked up his coat and went home.

  Chapter 23

  Fletcher Locke did not sleep well that night. His mind was racing with the information he had just received. It all seemed so fantastic. This petite young woman was goading the leviathan and tempting fate at the same time. There was no doubt that it would end badly, but there she stood before him, her spirit undaunted.

  He turned over in bed, exasperated and feeling guilty. How many times had he railed at the injustices he had seen in the hospitals? How many wounds had he bandaged or bones had he set after a woman had been stabbed or a child beaten? And what had he done? Nothing. He had passively accepted all of it as a fact of life. But this woman, this wisp of female, had found the courage to make a difference. Again he tossed over in bed, punching his pillow. It was going to be a long night.

  * * *

  Sydnee too was having difficulty sleeping. She was no longer worried about Locke reporting her to the authorities, but something different nagged her. It was something far more personal. Tonight she had seen Fletcher Locke at home in his world. She had seen an esteemed and talented physician drop all of his lofty pretensions and take great pains to gain the trust of two fearful children. She had witnessed patience and tenderness in him even when he approached a wary canine. She could not understand it. How could one person have two so very different sides to his character?

  These new impressions disturbed her, and she wished this had never happened. It was much more comfortable disliking the man. At least she had been able to sleep.

  The next morning Sydnee was stiff and tired. She had managed to rest for only a few hours. The house was quiet. Marie had gone to market, so Sydnee took some coffee and went out into the courtyard to sit and think about what had transpired last night. She decided to consult with her ever-faithful confidant, Baloo about this new turn of events. She found Vivian first, sitting in the magnolia tree.

  “Good morning, Vivian,” she said, walking over to the bird.

  She held up her arm for her to come and perch, but Vivian did not move. She just stared at Sydnee. “What’s wrong?” she asked, perplexed. She could feel that something was wrong. She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, and then looked down. There was Baloo curled up under the tree, sleeping peacefully. His nose was tucked under one paw, and his head was on his leg. Sometime during the night, her old friend had fallen asleep and never woke up again.

  * * *

  She buried Baloo where he died, in the shade of the magnolia tree. She knew that it would be cooler for him there. From that day on, Vivian would sleep every night on the branch above his last resting place. Sydnee marveled at the old crow. She may be a nag, but she is a good mother.

  Sydnee grieved terribly for Baloo. He had been her rock and her oldest friend. He was from the old days on The Trace when she had been a child, and he had protected her like a father. Time would be a soothing balm, but the scar would never fully heal.

  In late September, Tristan, Isabel and Delphine returned home. It was a welcome diversion for Sydnee to listen to news about their travels. Isabel chattered endlessly about Mortimer and delivered news that some of the families Sydnee smuggled up the Mississippi were thriving and happy. Most of them Mortimer never heard from again but a few stayed in touch, stopping by his livery to visit.

  “I am so grateful to have had the summer with him,” Isabel said. “But it was excruciating to leave. Oh, how I wish I was born in another time and place, Sydnee,” she said wistfully. “How I detest the confines here in the South. Just look at all of us, laced so tightly in these corsets of convention that we are suffocating to death.”

  With Tristan back, the salon season began again. Business had been difficult for him lately. Although his enterprises were thriving, he was spending a great deal of time helping his father sort through financial difficulties. Cuthbert Saint-Yves had speculated poorly and lost a great deal of money over the past few months. He resented help from his son but needed him if he was going to continue his lavish lifestyle in Natchez and at Saint-Denis.

  Many nights, Tristan sought refuge at the town house with Sydnee, and it was good for her to have him around once more, but D’anton’s visits in the evening had stopped. He had taken a wife, a woman his parents had introduced to him when he was in Saratoga over the summer. Like Tristan, his marriage had been arranged, but he had not been as lucky. Paula Delacroix was from New York, not familiar with the ways of the Creole and certainly not as understanding a wife as Isabel. She jealously guarded D’anton’s affection and would never abide him taking a lover.

  Paula Delacroix was completely unaware of her husband’s devotion to Tristan, believing the two men were merely business associates. D’anton and Tristan had to meet at Sydnee’s townhome in the afternoon to be alone when Paula believed D’anton was at the office. At those times, Sydnee would give them the entire house, and she would go to market or call on friends. This was the understanding she had with Tristan from the start, that they would protect each other.

  Paula Delacroix was aware of Sydnee’s salon, but she did not acknowledge that it existed. In her eyes it was just one more decadent gentleman’s club in New Orleans, nothing more than a chic whore house. She was not sure if D’anton ever attended a supper there, but she did not ask.

  With summer ending and salon season resuming, Sydnee was busier than ever. Several evenings in October she had musicians perform for her guests. Sydnee liked to introduce these young virtuosos to potential patrons and après supper performances were the perfect setting.

  It was during one of these performances that Frederick delivered a disturbing note to her. It was regarding a woman who wanted to be smuggled out that night. Liesl had been instructed never to write down the name of a woman in crisis, but this woman was the wife of one of the wealthiest planters in Louisiana, and Liesl wanted Sydnee to be aware of the danger.

  “Thank you, Frederick,” Sydnee murmured. “I will be there.”

  Sydnee told herself that this escape was no different than any of the others, but she felt uneasy. She knew that tonight more than any other night, her anonymity was in jeopardy. Although she did not know Charisse Archambeau personally, there was a good chance that even in her disguise this woman might recognize her. She would have to drop her at the livery, and have Frederick takeover from there. Sydnee had met the husband, Royden Archambeau, on one occasion and found him to be pompous and ineffectual. She was not surprised when she learned that he had merely inherited the successful plantation, not built it.

  Immediately when Sydnee arrived home she burned the note from Liesl. She would take no chances tonight. Changing quickly into her disguise, she headed to the livery with Frederick.

  It was raining and the streets were deserted when she left with the hearse. She pulled up her collar, adjusted her mourner hat so the water would not run down her back and snapped the reins. She wound through the city, listening to the rain splash on the cobblestones. It was a lonely sound.

  When she arrived at the convent, she waited only moments before the infirmary door opened, and Liesl stepped out with Madame Archambeau. She was an attractive young woman with dark hair, wearing a travelling cloak and carrying a leather bag. Sydnee stayed in the driver’s seat to protect her identity.

  When the woman was safely inside the back of the hearse with Atlantis, Liesl came around and said to Sydnee, “In the past when women have escaped, the nuns have always assumed they went home during the night, but with this one there will be questions. What shall I say, Mademoiselle?”

  Just as Syd
nee was about to reply she heard a man’s voice from the back of the hearse. With her heart in her throat, she jumped down to see what was happening.

  They found Madame Archambeau standing in the pouring rain with her head down and her arms crossed over her chest. A well-dressed man in a cutaway stood in front of her, his wet hair plastered to his forehead. Sydnee knew him immediately as Royden Archambeau. Rain and tears streamed down his face.

  “How could you do this to me?” he whined. “I have always loved you.”

  “Please, Royden,” Charisse Archambeau pleaded. “Just let me go.”

  He looked at Sydnee and Liesl. “Who are they?”

  Charisse did not reply.

  He wiped his nose and snuffed. “This is none of your affair,” he said in a shrill voice. Turning back to his wife, he appealed once more. “I have been under a lot of strain lately. It won’t happen again.”

  “Please, I just need some time--”

  “No!” he screeched.

  Sydnee jumped.

  Realizing Atlantis was still locked in the back of the hearse, she moved to unlatch the door, but someone stepped up from the shadows, and she stopped. It was an older woman, impeccably dressed with white hair.

  “Mother!” Charisse cried.

  “My darling,” the woman said, rushing up and taking her daughter’s hand. “I know this is difficult, but listen to Royden. Your place is with your husband.”

  Charisse stared at her mother, dumbfounded. “So you were the one who told him where I was tonight. That note was meant only for you.”

  “But dearest--” her mother said.

  Archambeau stepped forward and took Charisse’s arm. “We are going home now.” He looked at Sydnee and warned, “And you stay away from her.”

  Charisse jerked her arm free and started to back up.

  “Come,” he said, flicking his fingers at her as if he was calling his dog. “Come now,” he demanded.

  Tears streamed down Charisse’s face, and she shook her head.

  “Why are you doing this? Why, why, why?” he whined.

  “I mean what I say, Royden. I have to go,” she said with conviction.