Bal Masque (10 page)

“Arrange it? No
, chèrie
, he most definitely didn’t arrange it. He fought against our marriage for as long as he lived. My Pierre was not a Creole. He sailed from France with Lafayette as a young man. When I met him, the sea had been his life. My papa didn’t believe Pierre would settle down here and said he’d never make a good husband or father. Papa was wrong, of course, as men frequently are. Pierre was devoted to me and to our little ones. He never completely gave up adventuring, though. And,
en fin
, his last adventure cost him his life. No, ours was anything but a well-planned marriage. Actually, we eloped and scandalized the family.”

“Eloped, Grandmère? How exciting!” Lucienne hugged herself. She wouldn’t be the first woman of the family to make her own choices and follow her heart. Grandmère had taken that path long before.

“Exciting?” Madame Thierry spared a slightly twisted smile. “I suppose it was, but
chèrie,
I think I would have liked a grand wedding and a lovely gown for the occasion. My second-best dress was nothing like the charming thing you’ll be wearing. And no one hosted an elegant masked ball to celebrate the event. Somehow I think you will enjoy the celebration more and will be retelling all the details to your children and grandchildren for a good many years to come.”

“But you married the man you loved, Grandmère,” Lucienne protested. “That had to be worth everything else.”

Grandmère sighed. “Love isn’t always what you think it is, Lucienne. It’s much more, and it’s much harder than you’d ever believe at your age. Be glad in your heart that Armand kissed you and you liked it. It’s a better start than most have.”

Lucienne examined her grandmother’s words during the rest of the afternoon. Of course she knew what love was and what it was not. It had nothing to do with sugar cane or the profit made for two families joined by an arranged marriage. Grandmère was old, and she’d probably forgotten what young love felt like. Lucienne didn’t make too much of Grandmère’s words, beyond the fact that she had eloped just as her granddaughter planned to do. All the rest, the words of caution and the words of prudence, she dismissed as just an old lady looking back over a long life. Philippe was her love, her future, and Lucienne took encouragement from her grandmother’s example in what she planned to do.

Through the rest of the day and into the evening Lucienne kept listening for the sound of horses or a carriage drawing near. She was sure Philippe would find a way to meet for a final confirmation of their plans. Other company was expected, primarily Uncle Gaston and his family. Lucienne was particularly anxious to talk things over with her cousin Pierrette. Any last-minute hesitation Pierrette had about the masquerade wedding should vanish once she learned their grandmother had made an equally unconventional start in married life.
She’s going to be able to do this because she really wants to marry Armand,
Lucienne assured herself. A brief flicker of the warmth from his lips stirred her memory. Would Pierrette feel that, too? Oh, no, not Pierrette. She was such a little goose.

The dinner hour approached, and still Charlotte’s sister and her family didn’t appear. Even René was becoming concerned. When dinner couldn’t be held any longer, the family assembled at the table. Père Jean-Baptiste was standing to ask a blessing when the sound of multiple horses on the drive reached them.

“That will be Gaston’s boys,” Charlotte told them, and rose to greet the new arrivals. “The carriage won’t be far behind. They must have started very late.” Lucienne stood to join her mother, but René gestured for her to remain.

“I know you’re anxious to see your cousin,” he told her, “but your mother will bring everyone along to dinner as soon as they arrive. We can wait that long.”

They waited, but Charlotte brought only Gaston and his two sons when she returned to the table. A look of grave concern touched her, though she moved with brisk certainty to seat the added guests at the table.

“Where is Pierrette, Uncle?” Lucienne couldn’t understand why the three men had come alone. Under what circumstance would her aunt agree to come with Pierrette and their trunks and boxes alone in the carriage? “Will she be here soon?”

“Eh,
p’tite
Lucienne, what can I say? It’s too bad that such a thing happened at the last moment before your wedding. Pierrette is inconsolable. And her mama will not stop weeping.” Her tall uncle bent to kiss her cheek. “I almost didn’t come myself, but I know Charlotte would rather have part of the family here than none.” He took the chair beside Lucienne and patted her hand. “It’s that new horse I gave Pierrette for her birthday. Such a fine animal, but I was afraid it was too big for her. I thought we had trained it to carry a lady in safety, but Pierrette is foolish sometimes and takes paths she shouldn’t. That devilish horse saw his chance and got away from her. Ran right under a low branch and scraped her out of the saddle.”

“Oh, Uncle Gaston, no!” Lucienne felt her bright plans falling into heaps of shattered dreams.
How could Pierrette be such a fool?

“She’s not injured, Lucienne, not really hurt at all. Just bruised and scraped, and she has a masterpiece of a black eye. Of course, she couldn’t show herself at your wedding in such a condition. She’s bawled all day about missing it, but we said you’d understand. She just couldn’t come, looking as she does.”

Lucienne left the dinner table in a state of combined fury and exasperation. Just as Philippe had warned her, the softest link in her plan had given way. What to do? How to fix this thing? Darkness enclosed the house and outbuildings as Lucienne escaped the family. She found a darker place on the veranda and hid herself in the shadows. She had to think, think quickly, how once more to salvage her plans—plans which did not include marriage to Armand Dupre, she assured herself.

Dorcas wouldn’t attempt to trade roles. That possibility had been eliminated. Now Pierrette, the little fool, had managed to get thrown from her horse, a thing Lucienne couldn’t imagine happening to herself.
Did the silly chit actually get thrown, or did she lose her nerve at the last minute?
No matter, Pierrette wouldn’t be here for the wedding. That was the situation. No one else, not one single person, could Lucienne bring to mind who would be able to manage the masquerade. It was so easy before, just trade one bride for another. With the bridal couple in costume and hidden by masks, the substitution was easily managed. A bride for a bride, so to speak. A bride for a… Lucienne bolted upright. Of course, if a bride could be substituted for a bride, then the same could be said for a groom. And the matter was even easier.

Lucienne paced the dark corner, looking at all the angles of the plan that had popped into her head. It would work. There was no reason it shouldn’t. Philippe would think it hilarious, exactly the kind of high-spirited scrape to tempt him. She just had to inform him of the change of plans. How to accomplish that? There had been no more word about the possible duel, so Armand’s intervention must have been successful. Still she hadn’t seen Philippe since the small masquerade. It had been misery for her, but he was being discreet, she supposed. It would be hard to be in the same room with him and not let her true feelings show. He was better at hiding his love than she was, but it must be difficult for him, as well. Of course he’d been absent from the festivities to protect their secret. She understood that.

Somehow she had to reach him, tell him how things had changed. She couldn’t go to him herself, she knew. Propriety demanded her presence within her own home until the wedding. She supposed she could send a note. Yes, a note would do, but who could she trust to carry it? Who could leave the plantation without creating gossip? One of Pierrette’s brothers? Oh, no, they’d reveal everything to Uncle Gaston. Marie? No, she couldn’t risk that. Someone… She must be able to trust someone!

Lucienne stared out into the darkness, searching the skies for a solution. She wasn’t sure how long it took for the answer to come, but it came from the flicker of a moving lantern. Out in the dark, Dorcas was planting her early potatoes by the light of the spring moon and one small lantern. Dorcas! Lucienne was sure she’d carry a note to the
garçonnier
at Belle Mer. She could get word to Philippe. Her plan wasn’t lost yet. She dashed to her room, tumbled paraphernalia out of her lap desk, and quickly scribbled a note. Would it do? She scanned it again. Yes, it was innocent enough to reveal nothing if it fell into the wrong hands, but it should be clear to Philippe.

Lucienne wrapped a dark paisley shawl over her light dress and hurried down the stairs and through the night.

“Dorcas,” she whispered to the girl in the garden, “Dorcas, could you take the mule and ride to Belle Mer for me?”

Chapter Seven:

Consequences

Philippe Pardue sat alone in the garden, smoking and fondling the long ears of a hound, when he heard hoofbeats coming down the River Road to Belle Mer. He’d been on his way to the
garçonnier
, bachelor quarters for unmarried sons on the plantation, quietly cursing the misfortune of being born near kin to the Bowie brothers. Gambling schemes, rigged horse races, and now pistols at dawn! The seconds would be coming soon; perhaps the horse he heard meant they were coming now. He had to face the man, but he damned the necessity. The situation left no alternative. How far could honor demand a man go when disaster was the reasonable outcome? He’d soon find out, he supposed.

Rustling in the leaves and the sound of hesitant footsteps made him crush his cigar and step deeper into the shadows. A form, lithe and feminine, emerged into the pale moon rays.
Lucienne? Here?
Clouds parted. Moonlight cast a clearer light on the upturned face.
Not Lucienne. That snippy little daughter of the Mille Fleur overseer. What does she want here?

Shaking off the apprehension he’d felt at her stealthy approach, Philippe drew near the girl before he spoke in a soft tone. “Mam’selle?” She whirled to face him.

“Mr. Pardue?” She clutched a thin shawl, her hands knotted in its folds. “I swear I never heard you come up.” Fumbling in her pocket, she pulled a small packet free. “Miss Lucy Ann asked me to bring this to you, personal.” Dorcas pressed a folded page of paper into his hand and scurried a few feet into the darkness. “She said tell you ever’thin’ would work out just fine.”

“Mam’selle Lucienne Toussaint, she sent you with this?”

“Yessir, she did. Came out and asked me to bring it to you personal, and it had to be tonight. I gotta get back now, ’fore somebody finds me gone.”

“Yes, you go along, now,” Philippe muttered. “I’ll see to Mam’selle Lucienne.” A distant rustle in the flowerbed and the pad of bare feet on the stone path told him he was alone again. He stood in the darkness a moment, fingering the folded sheet of paper.
What convoluted plan has Lucienne concocted now?
Between a duel and Lucienne’s escapades, he wasn’t certain which offered the greater threat, possible death or certain disgrace.

He took his time before reading her newest plan. In the thick of the cloudy night, he made his way through the garden to enter the long apartment beyond. In deeper darkness he crossed to the sideboard, where two tapers waited. Minutes passed before he bothered to light them. Even then he didn’t rush to break the seal on the paper in his hand. Whatever words the young lady had sent would be better read with a glass of brandy in his hand. And sitting would be better than standing.

Monsieur,
he read at last.

I know you will be as distressed as I am to hear that Mlle. Pierrette Ebert is indisposed. She will be unable to attend the wedding on Tuesday. However another young lady would be most pleased to receive your attentions if you are able to spare her some time before that day. Perhaps it would be possible for you to make a slight detour to admire the garden during the afternoon.

Philippe savored his brandy and read the note again.
High marks for your discretion, mam’selle. So plans for an elopement have once more gone astray.
And you have brewed up yet another recipe for avoiding Papa’s wishes. I’ll look forward to hearing the new version. It’s bound to be more amusing than my other recent communication.

****

“This hairstyle makes me look a fright!” Lucienne cast the bits of lace and flowers aside. Impatiently she pushed Marie’s hands away. “The wedding is tomorrow, and every hairstyle is worse than the one before. I won’t go to my wedding looking like a hag!” She flounced away from the vanity and threw herself into the slipper chair.

“Now, Chou-Chou, it’s a lovely style on you,” her mother assured her.

“It’s not. It’s the worst yet.” Lucienne hunkered her shoulders and glowered. The room seemed filled with her frustration.

“I think you’re overwrought,
chèrie
.” Her grandmother placed a calming hand on Lucienne’s frowning forehead. “You’ll give yourself wrinkles and ruin your complexion if you keep this up. Perhaps an hour of rest with a cool compress will help.”

“I don’t want a cool compress,” Lucienne insisted. She tugged the dozen pins from her hair, letting the ebony waves cascade down her back.

“I think you do, Chou-Chou,” her mother disagreed. “I believe you have a bit of bridal nerves and need a little time to compose yourself. A wedding is bound to have moments of strain. You mustn’t wear yourself out over trifles.” She went around the room drawing the curtains to close out the afternoon light.

“I feel the strain myself,” Grandmère agreed. “Marie, if you’d make up my tisane, I believe I’ll have a rest, as well.”

Lucienne glared. “Very well, I’ll rest a while, anything, if I just don’t have to endure another frightful hairstyle with all of you pulling at me. Leave me alone. Just let me be.” She flopped onto her bed in resignation and gathered Ninette close. In moments of stress the black kitten seemed the only one who understood her. At least Ninette was sympathetic to her plight.

Dropping the netting around her bed, the three women left her, muttering phrases about all brides having these spells and how well everything was going. “We have everything in hand, Chou-Chou. Stop worrying,” her mother said, pausing at the door. “You’ll see. It will all be perfectly lovely.”