Bal Masque (11 page)

Lucienne waited till they were out of the room, then threw aside the netting. They thought she cared a fig for all their wedding plans. The wedding was far from her concern. It didn’t affect her. How could it? She had her own plans. What mattered was that she hadn’t heard from Philippe. She paced her curtained room in frustration. Dorcas had assured her the note had reached Philippe, and he was alone when he received it. Of course he’d read it right away. He must be as distraught over the changes as she was.

She rubbed Ninette’s fluffy fur and felt the responding purr. “Surely he understood, Ninette. I was as clear as I could be, given the circumstances. But he hasn’t come. Why isn’t he here, Ninette?” The kitten bumped her head against Lucienne’s hand. Lucienne buried her face in the soft fur.

Concern alone would have driven her to action if the situation had been reversed. Lucienne put the kitten on the pillows and paced, pausing to draw back sheer window curtains and look down into the grounds. Nothing stirred except the field hands returning to work, Price stalking out of his cottage, and one of the servants coming back from the kitchen building beyond the main house.

A handful of pebbles rattled against the window on the opposite side of the room. Lucienne bounded across the room and twitched back the curtain. She couldn’t see him at first, until Philippe stepped away from the shadows of the moss-draped trees and she saw him outlined against their darker bark. Without considering the propriety of such a meeting, Lucienne slipped a loose wrapper over her chemise and petticoats. She took the back way down the stairs and ducked under the cover of bougainvillea vines till she stood in the shelter of massive oaks.

“So little Pierrette managed to make hash of things after all.” Philippe lounged in the shadows, where he melted into his surroundings.

“The idiot fell off her horse. It’s nothing but bruises, more the pity. If she had to wreck my plans, she might at least have broken her arm or acquired a lump on her head.” Lucienne moved deeper into the grove toward him.

“So you will marry Dupre after all.” His words were soft but a little sardonic.

“Didn’t you understand my note?” Impatience filled her. How could he just stand there waiting for her to do everything? Couldn’t he make any effort to rectify things himself?

“I assumed you asked me to come so you could bid me
adieu
before you went bravely to your fate tomorrow.” He shrugged. “My heart will break,
chèrie
, but in time I will get over it, I suppose.”

“Go to my fate?” Lucienne tossed her head. “Not the fate Papa has in mind. Not while I can find ways to avoid it.”

Philippe laughed softly in the shadows. “And you’ve come up with yet another way to stop the wedding?”

“Not exactly.” Lucienne crept past a thorned bush that dragged at her robe and tangled her loose hair. She realized she was hardly dressed for greeting visitors and tried to keep a bit of the low brush between them. “The original idea was to have someone—Pierrette—take my place at the wedding. But it works just as well the other way, having someone—you—take Armand’s place instead. In his costume and mask, of course.”

“And,
chèrie
, you are so sure he will gladly relinquish his finery so someone else can stand up before Père Jean-Baptiste to recite those solemn vows?”

Lucienne made an impatient gesture. “No, of course he won’t just stand aside and let you take his place. He’s staying at Deauville, in the
garçonnier
, all alone. The boys are still abroad or away at school. There’s plenty of room, and it’s more convenient for Armand than trying to ride from town every time there’s some event he’s supposed to attend. You only have to waylay him somehow—I’m sure you can think of something. When he’s indisposed, you tie him up, leave him in the
garçonnier
, take his costume, and appear at the wedding. No one will question things until the wedding and ball are over, and then it will be too late.”

Philippe gave a cynical shrug. “No one will notice that the groom is somewhat shorter and his hair is quite a different shade than expected, I suppose. Or that our voices are very different.”

Details. Details a man should be able to manage for himself, Lucienne fumed under her breath. “He’s not more than an inch taller. Your riding boots will make up that difference. And you cover your head with the mask and a cloak, a hooded one, to muffle your voice. I think his costume is something long and black. He may already have a cloak to wear with it. He said something about matching my butterfly gown. A lined cloak could be made to look like wings.”

“So I’m to knock Dupre senseless, tie him up, leave him in the
garçonnier,
take his costume, and arrive at Mille Fleur in time for the wedding celebration. After the ball, the bride and groom will unmask and everyone will think it’s fine, eh?” He chuckled. “The groom will be fortunate not to find himself challenged to swords in the garden at dawn.”

“Oh, no, Philippe. Armand doesn’t approve of dueling. He’ll not make a scene or challenge you over me. More likely he’ll be relieved to fade back into his accounts and business trips and not be heard from again.”

“So you’ve planned it out and written scripts for all the actors, mam’selle.” He put his cigar out in the damp earth below the trees. “I told you before, it isn’t wise to put too much faith in another’s reliability. The very person you count on most is likely to be the one who doesn’t live up to your expectations.”

“I don’t see what could go wrong this time. Armand will be where he’s supposed to be, I’m sure. There’s nothing else to worry about. I should have thought of this first instead of trying to change places myself. This is less complicated.”

“I hope you will not be disappointed in the final result, mam’selle. May all go well on the night.” The man seemed to merge with his surroundings, and before she could call out a farewell, Lucienne saw only shadows among the mossy trees where afternoon deepened to evening. She hurried along the darker path, anxious to return to her room before she was missed. In her haste, she didn’t see the slender figure whose brown plaid gown made her part of the trees.

“Well, Miss Lucy Ann, you got yourself another plan, it seems. Me, I wouldn’t put all that much trust in that rogue Philippe Pardue.” Dorcas ducked under a low branch and followed a smaller path back to her own garden.

****

Throughout the next day Marie was troubled by her young charge’s moods. Sometimes Lucienne bubbled with gaiety, as if she were indeed caught up in the wave of wedding excitement. Sometimes she smirked like a cat lapping cream. At other moments, dark storms and turbulent dreams seemed to fill her brilliant black eyes. In spite of her concerns, and memories of the tantrum that had accompanied Lucienne’s betrothal, Marie had no time to delve into the girl’s vapors. If she remembered a sobbing voice vowing never to marry Armand Dupre, she now saw no hint of a plan to avoid it. Late afternoon on the day of the wedding, when family and guests had retired to their rooms, Marie hurried along with a myriad of chores. She glanced into the ballroom, opened only when the family hosted grand affairs and many guests, as she passed with a load of freshly starched and ironed petticoats. Lucienne would be taking her things to the Dupre house in New Orleans in a few days. Marie didn’t intend the city servants to find anything to criticize in their country-born mistress.

Mounds of flowers filled the niches in the room, she noted. A temporary altar stood before the east window. Madame Toussaint had filled graceful crystal vases with camellias and budding fronds of oleander to decorate the rooms. Lit by silver candle trees, Mose and his men tuned fiddles to the pitch of the piano as Marie turned to the stairwell. It should be a lovely wedding, but Marie retained a faint worry that all was not as it seemed. A labyrinth of details, seeing to the placement of extra tables around the garden, spreading linens over them, instructing the small black boys who would carry trays of refreshments to the guests, kept her from examining her lingering doubts. Later, Lucienne needed constant attention as she bathed, dressed, and prepared for the moment when her father would escort her to the wedding.

“Is my hair right? Will the mask sit down over it?” Lucienne spun and twisted, checking every view in her mirror.

“All is perfect,
chèrie
,” Marie assured her. “You will start a new fashion among the young ladies of the parish.” She lifted the Dupre pearls from their box and twined them through the raven curls cascading down Lucienne’s back. “Are you ready for the gown, now? You are very pretty, but time flees as you stand admiring yourself.”

“Yes, yes, now the gown,” Lucienne agreed but pirouetted and danced a moment more before the mirror. She wore an air of mischief in addition to the lovely pearls.

The gown was a masterpiece, meant to represent a silver-and-white butterfly, Marie knew, with every stitch a credit to its Parisian designer. The lacy sleeves gathered into frothy puffs, with a filmy drape shirred from sleeves to the embroidered plastron, suggesting delicate upper wings. Flounced tulle skirts shimmering with silver needlework imitated butterfly patterns that drifted over misty silk. Lucienne’s tiny waist and ivory shoulders suited perfectly the wide, dipping neckline and gauzy swirls of illusion and lace.

“Now the mask,” the girl commanded.

“Are you sure you should?” Marie fingered the silk ribbons. “Everyone will want to see the bride’s face. And I’ve noticed a number of the guests are not wearing one.”

“Oh, Marie.” Lucienne stamped her foot in exasperation. “It’s a masked ball before it’s a wedding. Of course I’m going to wear it. It’s part of the costume. The dress is nothing without it. Besides, an ordinary veil would cover my face just as that mask does. And Armand is wearing one. I don’t want to embarrass him by not doing as he does.”

With some reluctance she couldn’t quite explain, Marie took the mask, a wide froth of pearls, satin, and frilled lace suggesting a flirtatious butterfly, and slipped it into place. Lucienne held the silk ribbons securely in place, and Marie dutifully fastened them. She slipped the pearl bracelet around Lucienne’s wrist. The earrings and brooch would have to wait for another occasion. A bride didn’t need that many jewels to finish her gown.

“Here
, chèrie,
your flowers. You must have your bouquet.” She thrust the silver holder into Lucienne’s hand, the dew-kissed roses a final touch to the perfect whole. “And the next time I see you, you will no longer be Mam’selle Lucienne of Mille Fleur but Madame Dupre of New Orleans.
Bon chance, chèrie
. I pray you will be happy.”

Lucienne gave a soft laugh. “I will be happy, Marie. I will be. Save your prayers for someone who needs them.” With no more words, the bride blew her a kiss and whirled through the door to glide down the long gallery to where René Toussaint waited to escort her to the ceremony.

****

Marie tidied the room. The young couple would be returning here after the ball, to spend the next several days in seclusion until they departed for the Dupre home on Rue Dumaine. This bridal nest would be as perfect as Marie’s hands could manage. She heard strains of music, and the murmur of voices dropped. The wedding must be about to begin. She glanced out the windows and noted a few last-minute guests were still hurrying toward the open doors. She supposed Lucienne and her father would be waiting in his small office until everyone settled down.

It would all be over soon. The little vixen had made some kind of plan to foil her father’s wishes, Marie was sure, but it had all come to nothing. She’d thought the cousin, Pierrette, might be helping to terminate the engagement. The girl had made calf eyes at M’sieu Dupre every time she was in the room with him. Perhaps she’d thought to steal his affections, though Marie couldn’t picture Lucienne quietly accepting the role of abandoned fiancée. Just as well the chit had managed to get thrown from her horse before she made real trouble.

Marie heard the rumble of wheels coming more quickly down the drive than was proper. Someone was arriving very late. She looked out. She knew that vehicle, and it was one she’d not expected. A pony trap rattled over the drive and up to the side of the house.
A pony trap? Madame’s sister? Why would she be coming in such a haphazard way?
As Marie watched, a figure emerged, female but swathed from head to heels in a voluminous cloak. A young woman, trim and elegant, her ball gown showing as the folds of the cloak fell away. The visitor turned to face the doors and as she did, the light fell on her face.
Pierrette!
Marie gasped. The little minx had come after all—wearing the silvery butterfly gown her grandmother had given her. A gown so like Lucienne’s that Marie was hard pressed to tell it was not Lucienne herself standing in the courtyard below.

“
Sacre bleu!”
The reason struck Marie as hard as a blow.
The little fools are planning to trade places!
That was the cause of all the whispers and cunning looks during the last few weeks. She must put a stop to this thing immediately. The family would be dishonored. The scandal would rock the parish. Marie lifted her skirts and ran for the back stairs. If she could intercept Pierrette, she would stop the girl, sit on her if necessary, until the ceremony ended. Marie reached the side of the house. No young woman in a silvery butterfly gown was there. Nor in any of the side rooms or lurking behind the great étagère in the hallway. Marie slipped out the side door and circled the outer wall of the house until she could look through the window into the festive ballroom.

The bride floating in clouds of illusion was Lucienne, wasn’t she? Marie paused. Did Lucienne’s gown have that wisp of drapery, those bits of lace at the low neckline? Marie tried to assure herself the bride was indeed Lucienne, but the foliage outside the window and the flowing bouquets inside masked much of her view. Light from a dozen tiered candle trees gave the room a romantic glow, lovely, but revealing nothing of the people standing near the aged priest. She couldn’t be sure. If the bride was a substitute, Père Jean-Baptiste would never realize it. He was too nearsighted to distinguish Madame Thierry from her own granddaughter, much less a masked woman standing in this light. Still, the girl looked like, moved like Lucienne. Marie breathed a sigh. It had to be Lucienne standing beside the caped and hooded groom.