Sweet Piracy (5 page)

It was Theo, coming from somewhere in the rear of the house to join the ladies on the better vantage point of the gallery, who spied the phaeton. Surrounded by boxes, crates, and burlap-wrapped bundles, the black and yellow vehicle sat across the boat’s bow, its silver fittings winking in the fading light.

“It’s the Marquis,” Theo exclaimed. “See, the boat carries no passengers — not one is standing at the rails — and the cabins on board are dark. It must be carrying the Marquis’s furnishings to Felicity.”

“Oh!” Estelle cried, leaning over the rail to crane after the boat which was fast becoming indistinct with distance. “Do you suppose he is on board?”

Theo sent her a scornful look without deigning to reply. “There is Anatole,” he said, nodding toward a horseman trotting up the dusty road that skirted the levee. “I wonder if he saw it?”

“Saw what?” Estelle asked.

“The phaeton, silly.” Theo replied.

“Personal remarks are unnecessary,” Caroline said automatically, her attention caught by a movement down the river, some distance behind the steamboat. She thought at first it was a water bird, then the white blur resolved itself into the triangular wing of a ship’s sail. It was a two-masted schooner ghosting along in silent grace, skimming the water as confidently as any swan.

Down on the levee the children fell silent. Beside her, Caroline heard Theo’s quick indrawn breath. It held the soft sound of pleasure near to pain.

On the ship’s deck stood a lone figure leaning against the mast, outlined against the pristine white of its sail. Catching sight of those watching, he lifted a hand for an instant, then, turning, went below.

“My faith,” Theo whispered. “Who will wager that was not the Marquis?”

M’sieur Delacroix was besieged at the breakfast table.

“
Bonjour, Papa,
” Estelle said, jumping up the instant he entered the dining room. “Let me pour your coffee. Will you have blackberry jam with your croissants? Or shall it be fig preserves?”

M’sieur Delacroix eased his ample figure into a chair and took up his napkin from its silver ring. A smile played over his mouth beneath his small trim moustache before he replied in a matter-of-fact tone, “Fig, if you please,
petite.
”

Amélie colored a little as she came under his gaze, but Caroline noticed she was quick to pass the sugar bowl when her father required it. It was, she thought, a promising sign. It was time and past that the girl took an interest in normal feminine pursuits.

The four of them were alone at the table for once. Madame breakfasted in bed always, and the younger children were fed as they arose. Theo, to judge from the scattering of crumbs at his plate, had eaten and departed, while Anatole seldom left his bed, even in the country, before noon.

With Gallic cunning, Estelle let her father get well into his meal before she commenced her attack.
“Papa?”

“Yes,
petite?
”

“I expect you mean to call upon our new neighbor?”

M’sieur Delacroix buttered a section of roll without looking up. “You speak of the Marquis de Rochefort?”

“But certainly!”

“Of course you did, foolish of me,” her father murmured, spreading fig preserves.

“Well — do you?”

“Do I what? Oh, I remember. Ah, no,
petite.”

“No?” Estelle choked. “But why not? It is your duty. You must make him welcome. It would be most unkind of you if you did not.”

“I should not like to be thought unkind,” M’sieur Delacroix said pensively.

“No, I was sure of it.” Estelle said with an eager smile. “Then you will do it?”

Her father shook his head. “I think not,
chérie.”

“But — why?” Estelle exploded.

Fearful of what her charge might say to embarrass both herself and her teacher, Caroline intervened. “I believe, Estelle, that you are being what we in England would call ‘roasted.’”

“Just so,” came the voice of her eldest brother from the doorway. “You might have guessed if you had the least understanding, my dear sister. You are always too busy talking and thinking of what you will say next to listen.”

With this pithy observation, Anatole strolled into the room. Surprise at seeing him so early held some of their number speechless; astonishment silenced the rest.

For the occasion, he had donned a dressing gown of silver brocade with lapels of royal-purple velvet worn over a shirt whose collar points jutted out level with his cheek bones. His cravat was lace-edged and tied in imitation of a waterfall, while black jet shirt studs drew the eye irresistibly to his chest. His hair curled over his head in careful abandon
à la
Titus, and peeping from beneath pantaloons of mustard yellow were a pair of bedroom slippers fashioned like sabots.

After the first look, M’sieur Delacroix averted his eyes. Seeing this, a measure of Anatole’s assurance fell away from him. Moving to the table, he dropped into a chair.

“Coffee,” he said, propping his head on one hand. “I am like to expire if I do not have my coffee.”

It was Amélie who signaled to the butler Colossus, standing at ready next to the sideboard, to fill his cup. Anatole took a sip and set the cup back down.

“Well, Papa, do we go?” he asked.

“We?” M’sieur Delacroix asked, fixing his eldest son with a jaundiced eye.

“I thought I might bear you company,” Anatole explained, a shade of defensiveness in his voice.

“You do me too much honor, M’sieur,” his father said.

“Now don’t try to — roast me, sir, I know you will uphold the standing of Beau Repos by paying the required visit. The only question is, when?”

“As much as I dislike causing you distress, I must tell you I do not go until tomorrow at the earliest, perhaps the next day. You have expended the energies of yourself and your valet this morning for nothing.”

Anatole glanced at the older man as if he suspected a double entendre in the statement.

“However,” M’sieur Delacroix went on, “so long as you have left your bed you may accompany me to the barns. I saw a dealer in mules at Cypress Grove yesterday, and he is to bring some prime stock, Tennessee-bred, for my inspection this morning.”

Anatole shuddered visibly. “What does one wear to view mules?” he inquired in pained tones.

“Something that will not give them a disgust of you,” his father replied. Pushing back his chair, he dropped his napkin on the table and strode from the room.

Amélie stared at her plate. Estelle, her eyes dancing, turned to her brother.

“One word, only one word,” he threatened, a dull red color beneath his olive complexion, “and I will fling you into the river.”

“You cannot frighten me,” Estelle shot back at him. “I have no fear, for to do this you must get your so-long breeches muddy, a thing I do not look to see.”

Before he could reply, she jumped up, gave a toss of her curls, and ran from the room.

The petty bickering between the brother and his sister increased in the next two days until Caroline was driven nearly to distraction. A peculiar restlessness gripped them, like that of a theatre audience before the curtain goes up. Caroline herself felt it, but it annoyed rather than unsettled her. She found herself wishing at odd times that the Marquis de Rochefort had chosen any place in the world for his residence other than Felicity. Since he had not, she wanted nothing so much as for M’sieur Delacroix to pay his call and be done with it. The close inspection that must follow would, no doubt, disclose the Marquis to be a man with human faults and frailties and without mystery. His title would become, in this land of democracy, an empty honor. A few entertainments would be enjoyed on his account, he would soon find a suitable bride, and in time he would become no more than any other landowner along the river. That settled, they could all be comfortable again.

Such happy reflections proved overly optimistic. Judging the time right, M’sieur Delacroix one afternoon donned his most modish buff breeches and snuff-brown coat, clapped on his tricorn, and with Anatole somewhat more nattily tamed out beside him, drove off in the direction of Felicity.

With a brave show of spirits, Madame rose from her chaise to dress herself in blue bombazine ornamented with fringes and tottered into the salon where Caroline, Estelle, and Amélie had composed themselves to await M’sieur Delacroix’s return with news of their neighbor.

They were not kept long in suspense. Some time before they had any reason to expect the return of the head of the household, they heard the sound of carriage wheels on the drive.

Colossus moved with a heavy if stately tread to open the door and take the gentlemen’s hats, gloves, and canes. M’sieur Delacroix lingered in the hall for a few words with the butler, allowing Anatole to reach the salon ahead of him.

That young man entered precipitously, his face alight with mingled glee and anticipation. “The most marvelous thing,
Maman,
the Marquis has condescended to dine with us.”

“
Nom de Dieu
,” his mother exclaimed, starting up from her seat, only to stop short as she caught sight of her husband in the doorway with the tall shapes of two other men looming behind him.

“My dear,” M’sieur Delacroix said, moving toward her, “allow me to present the Marquis de Rochefort, and his cousin, M’sieur Victor Rochefort.”

Madame made a gallant recovery. As the noble Marquis bowed over her hand, she managed to speak the polite response, at the same time directing his attention to her two daughters.

“
Charmante,
” the Marquis said, saluting them in turn before moving expectantly to Caroline.

“Mademoiselle Caroline Pembroke, an Englishwoman and distant relative by marriage who acts as governess for my children.”

“My lord,” Caroline said, extending her hand.

The man before her carried himself with an upright ease, his bearing neither too stiff nor too informal. His hair was cut close to his head in a perfection that scorned the currently fashionable tousled look. Startlingly green eyes looked out from under heavy black brows in contrast to a complexion that seemed, compared to the olive tone of the Delacroix males, rather pale. His snowy cravat was unadorned by lace and tied in a deceptively simple style. His coat of gray superfine clung to his broad shoulders with the fit imparted by only the finest tailors. Soft buckskins molded to his muscular thighs without a wrinkle, and his black topboots shone with a diamond-like sparkle. The effect was one of severe elegance, an impression so strongly felt it made Anatole, resplendent in a bottle-green coat with padded shoulders and nipped-in waist, canary breeches, and gold-tasseled hessians, seem the veriest dandy.

A gentleman did not touch his lips to the hand of an unmarried lady. “Mademoiselle Pembroke,” the Marquis said, giving her a brief impersonal smile before releasing her fingers and returning his attention to his hostess. As Caroline made ready to greet his cousin, she heard the Marquis embark on his apologies for descending upon them, adding an explanation that seemed to involve a cat, the chef, and a fall from a ladder.

Victor Rochefort looked infinitely more approachable than his noble relative, though his manner of dress was similar. His brown hair had a copper tint while his hazel eyes and ready smile held an engaging friendliness. Since Madame’s attention was centered on the Marquis to the exclusion of all else, Caroline indicated a place beside Amélie on the settee for the cousin and slipped from the room to go and hold a conference with the butler and the cook.

Returning to the salon a short time later, she gave a quiet nod in answer to Madame’s imperative glance. All was well in the kitchen, or as well as might be expected under the circumstances. Their cook, an enormous Negress with an imperturbable calm, blood sister to the aptly named Colossus, had accepted the news of their important guest without a visible change in demeanor. Without fuss, she had agreed to add savory
atterreau
, mushrooms
farci,
and liver pâté to her menu of seafood soap, roast duckling, beef grillades, fresh vegetables, and various puddings and tarts. Caroline had left her muttering something to herself about the foolishness of people who climb ladders leaving their masters with nothing prepared to eat.

With Colossus in charge of setting the table with the best crystal and china and choosing wine to complement the food, she felt fairly confident that the Marquis would find nothing lacking in the hospitality of Beau Repos.

“Tell us how you came to decide to settle among us?” Madame was saying to the Marquis.

“The situation in Europe is so unstable,” he answered. “I felt the need, after some years of unrest, for a peaceful existence.”

From an odd undercurrent in his tone, Caroline suspected Rochefort of mocking the older woman. Flinging him a quick glance, she found his gaze resting almost idly on her face. His expression gave nothing away, however. Without haste, he transferred his regard to Amélie, who sat enjoying a quiet chat with Victor Rochefort.

“You intend to make Felicity your home always?” Estelle inquired.

“Always is a long time,” their guest answered. “If you mean do I plan to return to France in the near future, the answer is no. Felicity shall be my home for the present, and for as much of the future as I can predict.”