Bal Masque (9 page)

Lucienne looked across the room to where Philippe was chatting with his brother Etienne. Their heads were very close together and their faces serious enough for a funeral. It was happening, Lucienne was sure of it: The men were this very minute discussing the possibility of meeting with the Blanchards’ representatives. Bowie had been wounded, Grandmère said, and the Pardues would be seeking retribution.

Armand appeared at her side. “You seem distressed. Are you feeling faint?”

She turned to him as if to a lifeline. “M’sieu, we spoke earlier of the futility of dueling. The Pardues are cousins to the Bowie family, and I have learned they may well be taking up this foolish feud. Is there any way to stop such a thing?”

“It would pain you so much to see your neighbors involved in this affair?”

She couldn’t spell out her concern for Philippe directly to Armand. It would raise questions in his mind. “M’sieu Pardue is an old and dear friend of my parents. To see him lose a son in such a stupid cause would wound all of us.”

“I don’t know if I have any means of diverting or easing this matter,
chèrie
, but as it is of such concern to you, I’ll do all I can. I don’t want to see our wedding marred by the possibility of a friend’s funeral. You may trust me to see to that.” He raised her hand to his lips. “
Adieu
,
chèrie
, I’ll go now and learn what I can.”

Lucienne turned to the next partner awaiting her attention, but her mind was with the two men and their very different reactions to her concern. Philippe, who kicked away inconvenient social restrictions, had dismissed her questions as interference in matters she couldn’t understand. Armand, tedious and always correct in his manner, had listened to her and even concurred with her opinions to the extent of offering to assist in disrupting a duel. Maybe men weren’t as predictable as she’d believed. Armand, tedious and bland as he was, at least appreciated her distress.

Chapter Six:

Best Laid Plans

“A sedate pace, Lucienne. Remember, you’re a woman about to marry, not a romping child,” Charlotte cautioned.

As if I could forget that fact even for a moment.
Lucienne sulked. “Yes, Mama, I’ll be so sedate and calm our guests will take me for a garden statue.”

“I didn’t mean you shouldn’t enjoy the picnic and the performance Papa has arranged.”

Lucienne sighed. It was bad enough that custom decreed she must stay home from all the parties in the parish these three days before the wedding. To quash the high spirits today’s entertainment inspired was more than she could manage.

“Will there be music and comic acts along with the play, Mama? Did Papa tell you about it at all?”

“Your papa has planned a lovely afternoon for you and all our guests,” Charlotte assured her. “He was afraid you’d miss much this season, with your wedding moved up so precipitously. He wanted to make it up to you. How he managed to bring the actors and the musicians here at this time of the year, I don’t know. An
al fresco
luncheon and the showboat as well is quite an undertaking. Be sure you thank him for his efforts. He’ll want to know his Chou-Chou is happy. And mind your complexion,
chèrie.
Though it’s barely spring, the afternoon sun will leave freckles in an instant.”

“Yes, of course, Mama.” Lucienne kept her tone dutiful and reserved, though she wanted to skip across the green lawns and shout with pleasure over her father’s surprise. She tilted her parasol to shade her face from the pale sun, then adjusted it to miss the brim of her bonnet and the blue plumes dancing around the crown. The blue-and-white floral striped gown and bonnet were part of her trousseau. It had taken a week of pleading and pouting to gain permission to wear the becoming outfit today. Philippe always noticed what she wore. She expected he would seek her out this afternoon. He’d be sure to realize she’d dressed for his appreciation.

Armand met her and her mother at the end of the long front walk. He looked quite the dandy in his fawn-and-brown sporting garb. “Ladies, you have a pleasant spot under the willow trees waiting. Once you’ve greeted the guests and are ready to join them, you’ll be shaded from the sun but have an excellent view of the entertainment.” He offered an arm to each and led them along the stone path to the porte-cochère, where neighbors’ carriages would shortly arrive.

“M’sieu”—Charlotte nodded—“your timing is excellent. See, our guests begin to come.” She glanced up at the stairs, where René was hurrying from the gallery. “My husband is just in time to greet the first of them now. Stand here with Lucienne, if you will, and help us make our visitors welcome.”

Lucienne thought the wave of arrivals would never end. From the moment her mother kissed the cheek of the autocratic widow of Deauville, the plantation opposite, until Raoul Dupre suggested he and René Toussaint seek refreshment inside the house, the guests made a wandering line from the front of the house to the picnic area.

Low chairs had been set about earlier for the comfort of their guests. Tables dressed with snowy linen and numerous covered dishes made a buffet at one side. “I’ll get you a plate and something to drink,” Armand offered after the last guest had been welcomed and best wishes exchanged.

“Oh, yes, something to drink, please,” Lucienne agreed. “I’m as parched as a sandhill, after kissing and cooing with all those people.” Longing to take off her bonnet and the narrow half-boots that had begun to pinch her toes, she sank into her low chair.

“At your service, mam’selle.” Armand put a cool glass into her hands.

“Oh, most refreshing, m’sieu.”

As the afternoon sun lowered in the sky, the party milled about the river’s edge, consuming cold chicken, savory stuffed pastries, mounds of snowy rice, and the delicate lemon
gateau
that made Mille Fleur parties famous. When trips to the buffet slowed and the visitors settled in groups that grew quiet, René Toussaint’s valet Mose and a quartet of musicians with stringed instruments took places on the long wharf stretching into the river. Old tunes, ballads, and riddle songs invited the listeners to join in. Everybody knew the words to music that had been part of their lives when the grandparents in the audience were youngsters. Lucienne looked around to find Armand at her elbow singing an old love song as if he meant the words as a message to her. Flustered by the intimacy in his tone, she lost her place and stopped.

“You have a very sweet voice, mam’selle.” His words just reached her through the chorus around them.

Lucienne didn’t know what she might have answered to the conventional compliment delivered in such a caressing manner, but she was saved a reply. From farther down the river came the long low whistle of a riverboat.

“Showboat’s coming, showboat’s coming.” The words rippled through the crowd. Just as the sun dipped below the trees on the opposite shore, the gaily painted craft churned into view.

The play, a merry comedy about a man and his valet trading places to avoid an arranged marriage, seemed a prophetic choice to Lucienne, but the farce was so broad and the humor so good-natured that she all but cried with laughter. The performers managed with minimal scenery or props. They sauntered or stalked along the rude wharf, yet convinced the audience they stood in a grand drawing room or intimate boudoir, finally taking bows to thunderous applause. Between acts, a spirited group of Spanish dancers flicked castanets, and a band of daring acrobats thrilled the audience on the grassy embankment.

Though torches lit the landing area and made paths from the lawns to the doors of the house, after dark Mille Fleur’s guests began to trickle away. Lucienne and her mother made their farewells to each small group, while René and Armand assisted ladies into carriages and exchanged pleasant words with the men. Carriage after carriage rolled down the long drive and into the night.

Armand offered Lucienne his arm and led her halfway up the darkened stairs. “A moment before we go, mam’selle.”

“But we should go in.”

“A moment,” he repeated. “You were concerned about a certain family that might be drawn into an affair of arms.”

“Yes, yes.” She turned to him eagerly. Philippe and his family had been conspicuously absent this evening. She’d half feared the duel was planned for the next dawn.

“I think I’ve been successful, for the moment, in preventing a confrontation. I mentioned to a person of some authority that the Blanchards are attempting to provoke a situation. He promised to keep an eye on them and to be sure they were aware of his interest. It may give tempers time to cool. With luck, the Blanchards will return to their own home upriver with no challenge issued or answered.”

In three days Philippe would be unavailable to provoke a duel, Lucienne assured herself. Their elopement would take him away from the quarrel and its consequences. If the simmering pot could be kept from boiling over for that long, she’d see that Philippe stayed out of the fight forever. As his wife, she was certain, she would make him listen.

“Thank you, m’sieu, a hundred times thank you.” Lucienne let out a great sigh of relief. “I feel sure all the Pardues, when they have time to think, will be relieved to hear no further talk of duels.”

Armand lifted her hand. “A pleasure to relieve your mind,
chèrie
. And I, too, am pleased that there will be no blood spilled to spoil our wedding day.” His lips touched the fabric of her lace mitt, and for a second the warmth of his breath lit a small flame under her skin. “I’m not permitted to see you until that occasion,” he reminded her. “But surely a man condemned to such a long wait is allowed one small liberty.” He tilted her chin up and brushed a kiss across her lips. “A very small liberty, Lucienne.” Her mouth felt seared from his caress. She trembled at his touch, and for a span of seconds she was sure her knees would fail her. Drawing away with faltering steps, she escaped to the dim parlor inside the louvered doors. She took several minutes to still her heart and compose her face.

****

The memory of Armand’s “small liberty” crept up on her at odd moments during the two days before the wedding. At one moment she thought she should tell someone, certainly not her mother, but someone, then knew she could not. For an unmarried woman to permit a man outside the family to kiss her, even on the forehead as a favorite uncle might, breached the strict rules of conduct. It suggested the man held her reputation lightly, regarded her with little respect. Still, it was an exciting memory, giving her a quick chill and a sudden flush when it slipped into her mind. No one she knew, at least no one who would admit it, had ever been kissed in such a manner. She longed to discuss it, to examine the sensation, but Lucienne felt she had no one she could take into her confidence. She had no one, that is, until Grandmère Thierry came to stay for the wedding. Her grandmother had a different view of life. Perhaps the older woman would be able to sort things out for her.

“Grandmère,” Lucienne began, “would you like to walk down to the paddock and see Papa’s new colt?”

Madame Thierry looked sharply up from her embroidery. Her shrewd glance said she knew full well Lucienne had no more interest in the new colt than she did in gathering eggs from the henhouse.

“I’ve heard a good bit about this wonderful new colt, and I do believe I’d like to take a good look at it for myself.” With her needlework thrust into an embroidered bag, she smoothed her skirts and brushed a bit of thread from her bottle-green gown. “Fetch my parasol while I put on my bonnet
,
and we’ll go take a look at this amazing creature.”

The two women walked across the lawns to the paddock in silence. Lucienne wondered how she could approach a talk with her grandmother and felt quite bemused, unsure how to begin.

“So it’s not the colt that drew you down here or brought you to seek me out, is it, Lucienne?”

Black curls slipped loose with the vigor of Lucienne’s denial. “No, Grandmère, I wanted to talk to you where no one would hear.”

“It sounds serious
, p’tite.
What is so enormous that you need to slip away to speak of it? Something about the wedding? You will be married shortly. It’s not surprising if you have concerns at this point.”

Lucienne flicked an insect off the paddock fence, her face hot with embarrassment. Overwhelmed with guilt, she hurried to push the words out before she lost her nerve. “Armand kissed me. The night of the picnic, he kissed me.”

Grandmère looked amused. “Did he, indeed? And did you slap his face or scream, or any of those female things that are supposed to suit the situation?”

“No, I was too…” She stumbled for the word. “Too…astonished…to know what to do.”

“Eh bien
, and you rather liked it, I fancy.”

“I know it’s awful, but—” She stopped. “You don’t think it was a very wicked thing for him to do, Grandmère?”

A small smile framed the slightly rouged lips, and a silent chuckle escaped the older woman. “No, I don’t think it was particularly wicked, Lucienne. And I quite understand that you liked it. Being kissed by a handsome man is not an unpleasant event. I’ve known engaged couples who managed to find any number of opportunities to do something of the sort. It might not be a suitable subject for dinner conversation, but since you and young Dupre will be married shortly, I doubt your parents would have very serious objections if you told them. I rather think they may have indulged in a similar activity during their courtship.”

Married, yes, she would be married, but not to Armand. How could she ever tell Philippe that another man had kissed her? And that she’d liked it? And for that matter, why had Philippe never even tried to kiss her? Quickly she answered that question for herself. Because Philippe had too much regard for her to take such a liberty, even though he knew they would be married soon. That was another telling trait against Armand. No gentleman would take such a liberty, even with his fiancée, if he had an ounce of breeding or any respect for his betrothed.

“Did your papa arrange your marriage with Grandpère, Grandmère?” Lucienne asked suddenly. She’d never known the grandfather who died with his oldest son in the battle of New Orleans, almost three years before her birth.