Bal Masque (5 page)

Lucienne clasped her hands. “Oh, yes, it’s the most beautiful gown ever. But it just isn’t suitable for a wedding—not a little family wedding, that is. Please, can you possibly do this for me? I know you’ve been so generous and sweet, and this must seem like a silly thing to worry about, but it would mean so much. Papa was so excited when he thought of it.”

“If it will please you and it’s something that M’sieu Toussaint desires, then certainly I have no objections.” Armand’s smile suggested satisfaction at a request so easily satisfied.

“And will you wear a costume, too? So that we match? My dress is made to look like a butterfly, a glittering, white-and-silver butterfly. Can you wear something suitable for that?”

“Ah, little one, I am sure that in all of New Orleans somewhere I can find a tailor who would love to turn me into a wiggly green caterpillar. Though I think it will be most difficult to waltz in such a garb.”

Lucienne clapped her hands and smiled up at him.
He’s as easy to manage as any other man. He might make a very good husband for someone—someone like Pierrette! Yes, Pierrette!
But Lucienne quailed at the thought of letting anyone, even her cousin, wear the gorgeous Dupre pearls.

“You are most amiable, m’sieu. And far too handsome to be a wiggly green caterpillar.” Lucienne flitted her fan and rewarded the man for his cooperation with her most dazzling smile.

An hour later, Armand joined the family for their midday meal, then rode beside the landau as the Toussaints made a leisurely drive to Belle Mer along the River Road for an afternoon of entertainment. In preparation for more formal races later in the spring, several plantation owners along the road had made up a private encounter to test the mettle of horses they planned to enter. It gave the horses experience with competition and enabled the owners to judge their prospects. Any occasion for merrymaking was welcomed in this lighthearted Creole society, so families gathered from riverside holdings to make a grand party of the event.

“Mama, it’s sprinkling; if it rains we’ll be drenched.”

“No, no, Chou-Chou,” her father insisted. “It’s going to clear. And we’re almost to the house now.”

As if the weather demons were listening, the light mist cleared when they turned up the long, winding drive to the Pardues’ gracious home. The ladies stepping down from carriages, landaus, and pony traps flocked like a swarm of pastel butterflies through the great doors and into the long salon. Lucienne joined the other women, accepted a glass of lemonade, and pondered how she could manage a few minutes alone with Philippe. Tormented by the possibility that he believed she’d willingly agreed to the engagement with Armand, Lucienne feared he might think she was only flirting with him when she pledged him her love. Apprehension had plagued her sleep. She must find a moment this afternoon to see him, to air her suffering, and to assure him of her eternal devotion. Or at least enlighten him about her attempts to derail her papa’s plans. Even as she withdrew to the gallery, her effort to catch Philippe’s attention failed. The men, bantering and laughing, began their pilgrimage to the sugar house, where they would “sample” the year’s production of taffia, a potent rum by-product from the plantation’s sugar crop, then make their wagers on the early evening race.

“I’ve secured comfortable chairs for you and your mama.” Armand interrupted her whirling thoughts. With reluctance Lucienne brought her mind back to the moment.

“How very kind of you. And will we be able to see the race? Papa has an interest in one of the horses.”

“The view is perfect. M’sieu Pardue plans for the race to be run on the wagon road this side of the fields. The surface is firmly packed and should give the horses sound footing.” He held out a hand to guide her down the wide steps. “Your mama is waiting at the other side of the house for us. I’ll take you to her.”

Seeing no alternative, and no sign of Philippe, Lucienne accepted his hand and allowed herself to be escorted to the wide green pavilion where the other women clustered to enjoy the cold supper waiting for them. Some of the men joined their ladies, but most, like Armand, bunched along the designated raceway and compared the various entrants. Since it was a small event among neighbors, the owners themselves would be riding. In a more formal affair, carefully chosen riders from the plantations would mount. The men prided themselves on training their jockeys as enthusiastically as their thoroughbred steeds.

“Who is that very tall man standing with the Dupres?” Lucienne asked her mother. The man in question stood taller and broader than the men around him. His glinting rust-red hair caught the fading light, and his massive shoulders dwarfed his companions.

“That, I think, is M’sieu Bowie, Rezin Bowie, a man about whom stories are told. Stories I trust are only rumors and exaggerations created by envious men, but he is not received.” Charlotte Toussaint looked away. “He’s not a man I’d care to know, whatever the truth may be.”

Lucienne watched for a moment, still hoping to encounter Philippe. Philippe had attention only for the man Bowie at first. Then the older Pardue left, and Philippe drifted farther along the line of men assembling for the race. She had no chance of getting his attention now, she realized, as yet another visitor, a stranger, joined him. Though the unknown guest’s coat was well cut and his demeanor perfect, something about the slim, dark man declared without words he was not a gentleman. Lucienne couldn’t have explained how she knew, any more than she could explain how she knew a cob from a saddle horse, but she knew the difference.

“And who is that, Mama?”

“I have no idea, but he isn’t someone you’ll meet, Chou-Chou. Your papa will see to that.”

Lucienne lost sight of both men, as well as Armand, when a wave of excitement swelled among the bystanders. The horses came to the line, dancing as they felt the interest of the crowd. With some surprise Lucienne saw Bowie mount a beautiful chestnut gelding and take a place in the line. Then the small dark stranger pushed in beside him on the back of a powerful black stallion. Philippe, as host, had not entered. It would be poor manners to compete with his guests, but Lucienne knew he’d prefer to ride rather than act as keeper of the hefty wagers laid down by the other men.

A shot started the race. Dust rose in a curtain from the road as hooves pounded the surface to grit. One horse took the lead, the pretty grey René Toussaint hoped to buy after the race. It was quickly displaced by another, and then a third shoved ahead. The lead wavered back and forth until the pack turned at the wagon crossing, and Bowie’s chestnut roared to the front, tightly followed by the rangy black stallion. The two were neck and neck heading into the final curve. Then something, no one was close enough to say exactly what, went awry. The black bolted or was goaded into the flank of the chestnut. The chestnut faltered and for a second Lucienne was sure Bowie would fall. He clutched the reins, somehow righted himself, and stayed in the saddle, but his horse had lost pace and fell back. The stranger, awkward on his mount, raced home to victory.

“M’sieu Bowie will be so disappointed,” Charlotte Toussaint remarked. Looking at Bowie’s flushed and angry face, Lucienne thought disappointment didn’t begin to describe the man’s rage. Still, as a gentleman, he had no course of action here but to brush off the incident and make light of his losses, losses which she knew could well be a considerable amount of money.

Armand appeared at the edge of the crowd and made his way to Lucienne’s side. “I trust the event proved entertaining, ladies?”

“Yes, but the dust is thick and the afternoon light is fading. I’d like to go back to the house while we can see the way,” Madame Toussaint suggested. “Lucienne must be ready to get away from the dust here, as well.”

With a final sweep of the crowd for Philippe’s dark profile, Lucienne took Armand’s arm and made her way along the narrow path back to the house. She must find some way to speak to Philippe. Time was running short. As soon as the men settled their wagers and shared a final cup, the party would begin to break up. She’d see him, Lucienne vowed, if she had to make a minor scandal to do it. Philippe must know she had no intention of marrying Armand, no matter what that endless marriage contract said. She had to tell him of her marvelous plan to foil those tiresome designs created by men trying to run her life.

The gentlemen lingered longer than usual, probably discussing the race and its spoiled finish, the ladies said. Lucienne sat demurely in the corner, holding her lemonade and cake, and inwardly screaming with frustration. When talk turned to babies, and who was in the family way, and other boring topics that captured the interest of the ladies, she took the opportunity to slip out the open side door and creep into the shadows. Philippe was bound to come back soon to wish his guests a goodnight. The full moon provided enough light to make anyone crossing the grounds obvious. She’d wait for him.

Actually Lucienne had a very short wait. She’d just settled into a corner when movement caught her eye. She was certain she saw Philippe walking swiftly from the sugar house. He seemed to be heading for the barn. Even better—she’d have less chance of being overheard if she spoke to him away from the house. Lucienne gathered up her skirts and ran, feet barely skimming the ground, across the open terrain. She reached the door of the barn and paused. Tomblike darkness stopped her. She stepped in and waited for the interior to develop shadows and lights.

Someone, a silhouette just beyond the door, moved. Lucienne started to call out when she realized the form was much too small to be either of the tall Pardue men. She froze in place.

“Bowie, I know you’re in here.”

“I told you I would be, you river rat. You cheated, clipped my horse deliberately. Man who’d stoop that low is beneath a yellow-bellied snake.”

“And if I did cheat, I only matched your fiddle with the horse, Bowie. It wasn’t yours to ride. You planned to ride in his place and then split the winnings. You
gentlemen
and your vaunted honor.” A nasty laugh punctuated the sarcasm.

A sound of steps, muffled as the men cut across the mat of hay, echoed in the barn; then Lucienne saw the outline of the antagonists picked out by the moonlight. Their voices dropped so she heard only the word “challenge.” She didn’t need to hear the next exchange. The big man, Bowie, drew back a hard fist and rammed it into the midsection of the smaller man. He went down like a wet sack of grain. “At your convenience, sir,” Bowie said as he walked away.

“
Chèrie
, I think it’s time we made a rapid retreat to the house.” The voice in her ear was too low to carry far. Lucienne whirled to find not Philippe but Armand standing at her elbow. “It’s very well to be interested in the horses, but I suggest a visit at another time.”

Chapter Four:

Confidences and Conspiracies

Lucienne found herself thinking with nostalgia of the ten days Armand had stayed away. After the horse race he seemed to appear far too often for her peace of mind. Frustration at his constant presence and Philippe’s continued absence gnawed at her. She still hadn’t had so much as a moment to enlighten Philippe of the bounty awaiting him. Her vexation had reached a fever point when Armand appeared again one afternoon and stayed in closed conversation with her papa until evening.

The gentlemen smoked cigars and had made themselves easy in Papa’s office when Lucienne went to call them to dinner. Speaking in lowered tones, they sat with their backs to the door, so the smoke drifted out the slightly open windows. She had a clear view of them, though they could not see her.

“
Eh bien
, they will do it, those hotheaded young men,” René was saying.

“At least there was no fatality this time, but I know the family was concerned. A wound like that is quite serious.” Armand stubbed out his cigar. “Since you have some dealings with the family, I was sure you would want to know.”

“I’m always concerned for residents of my parish, especially when one of them becomes involved in such a foolhardy enterprise as a duel.” A duel! Bowie and the man in the barn after the horserace? Lucienne strained to hear more, but the men had fallen silent. She waited, but nothing further was said. Had Bowie and that unpleasant man fought a duel? Which one was injured? Had honor been satisfied, or would there be another challenge? She wanted to know more, but it was hardly a suitable topic for dinner. The men were unlikely to continue the discussion in the presence of ladies.

Armand lingered after dessert, then left in time to board the riverboat that toiled its way overnight toward the city. Lucienne told herself it was a relief to see the back of him, but she developed a restlessness after his departure. She attributed her inability to settle to her unsatisfied curiosity. As the household relaxed at the end of the evening, she flitted from her chair to the window, from her needlework to the writing desk.

“Chou-Chou, I believe you were very sorry to see M’sieu Armand leave us this evening,” Charlotte commented. “It was a most pleasant visit, and I’m sure he’ll be back as soon as he is able to come.”

“Oh, no, Mama, I understood he needed to return to town.” Lucienne felt exasperation mingled with amusement that her feelings were so misunderstood. Her parents obviously thought she’d enjoyed the tiresome man’s company. “I have a bit of a headache.” She saw the smile her parents exchanged and held back the denial leaping to her lips. She couldn’t tell her parents the evening with Armand and his tedious, conventional courtship left her on the verge of throwing her slippers at him. The snatch of conversation she’d overheard before dinner, of a duel in the parish, had not been continued. The men steadfastly avoided all such gossip, giving her no opportunity to get details. Papa would tell his wife, of course, but not as long as Lucienne was in the room. Frustrated and unable to give her mind to any diversion, she at last excused herself and went to her room. Perhaps she could eavesdrop from the landing when her parents headed for their bedroom.

The rosewood casque sat on the vanity. Its carved vines and blossoms caught the lamplight and glowed with a polished patina she couldn’t resist. Its satiny finish was warm to her touch. A spicy scent of wood and oil hovered around it, offering the distraction she craved. She opened it, pushed aside the beribboned parcels to lift out the jewelry box. The wide bed creaked as she sat. Pearls, those beautiful pearls. She held the long rope to her face, letting shimmering droplets trickle through her fingers. It would almost be worth marrying Armand just to get to wear them…
but my heart is promised to Philippe.
She supposed she’d have to give the pearls back after she and Philippe eloped. Well, Armand claimed they’d never look as well on any other woman as they would on her. Like the butterfly dress, the cascade of pearls was the sacrifice her love required. She sighed dramatically for the burdens men put on the women who loved them.