Bal Masque (21 page)

****

Marie looked down at the small black boy standing on the steps. “You have a message for M’sieu Dupre?” she asked again.

“Yes’um, fo’ Mist’ Dupre hisself,” the boy insisted.

“Is that for M’sieu Raoul Dupre or M’sieu Armand Dupre?”

“Fo’ Mist’ Armand Dupre, just him, nobody else.” The boy in his white cotton pantaloons and worn shirt looked sincere. He stood with his bare feet spread and braced, staunch and immovable on the iron steps.

“You can leave the message with me,
garçon
, and I’ll see that M’sieu Dupre gets it when he comes home. It may be some time before he returns.”

“No, ma’am, I cain’t give it to nobody but him. It’s privut.” The little messenger parked himself against the railing with the look of a man on a mission he dared not fail.

“You could tell me from whom the message comes, then. It might help me to get M’sieu’s attention when he arrives.”

The youngster shook his head. “No, ma’am, I couldn’t do that. I was told it’s privut bizniz and not to give one word to nobody but Mist’ Dupre in person.” He hunched his knees up under his chin. “I waits.”

“I could get you a cool drink,” she suggested, “if you come around to the kitchen door.”

“I waits here.” It was the last word the boy had for her. From that moment he sat silently in the shade, his eyes half shut, as resolute and uninformative as the gatepost at the corner.

Marie checked on the small figure off and on during the next few hours. The boy hadn’t moved an inch. He might have some word of Lucienne, she hoped, but more likely it was some business matter. If anyone had seen the missing girl, that person wouldn’t have sent the boy with a message, not with a handsome reward in the offing. He would have come himself.

M’sieu Armand was wearing himself out searching for the girl. No one could do more, Marie was certain, nor could any man have been more discreet. It was difficult to carry on as if he were enjoying blissful days as a newly married man and still make quiet inquiries. Yet Armand spent as much time away from the house as circumstances required, venturing out to check with agents he’d placed about the city to watch for any sign of “a young girl gone missing.” He responded to invitations with kind regrets, saying he and his bride were not yet ready to re-enter the social whirl of the town. The strain was telling on him, Marie noticed. Always fashionably dressed and perfectly groomed, Armand nevertheless had the hint of worried shadows under his eyes. He didn’t seem aware of the excellent dishes his cook set before him, eating with little appetite and no interest. Marie’s concern for him was almost as great as her fears for Lucienne. It was a week and a day now that the silly girl had been gone. How had she managed to stay hidden for such a time? It seemed impossible that she had gone away with Philippe, yet who other than that irresponsible rogue would take her in? No, she did M’sieu Pardue a disservice, Marie reminded herself. If the man had wanted to take Lucienne with him, nothing could have been easier. He would only have had to appear at the wedding and she would have been his in an instant. He’d shown more good sense, if not much regard for Lucienne’s feelings, by quietly removing himself from the girl’s life. Marie could not bring herself to believe Pardue had gone back on his decision and taken Lucienne with him to Texas. Still, if her suppositions were correct, then where had the little vixen gone, Marie asked herself for the tenth time that day. She glanced out to check, and yes, the figure next to the jacaranda tree remained, still as a rock, unmoving as the statue on the courtyard fountain.

Not until mid-afternoon did Armand make his way from the café, where he drank coffee and collected gossip, to return to the shady courtyard inside the walls of his home. Intent on the confusion that seethed in his mind, he took no notice of the small figure half hidden in the foliage. He opened the door silently, hoping to put off the questions Marie would have for him the instant she knew he was home. It was cool in the entryway, no sound from the rest of the house carrying to this small alcove. Armand heard nothing from the rooms above. He crossed the tiled floor as softly as he could manage and took sanctuary in his book-lined study. The winged chair in the back corner invited him to hold off his meeting with Marie for a few moments more. Loosening his cravat and shedding his coat, he filled a crystal glass with sherry and let the slightly shabby chair cushion him in comfort. No more news of Lucienne today than he’d had the day before. And no sign of Dorcas Price. He dreaded sharing that information with Marie. Her sharp features were thinner than ever, and he was certain he detected threads of silver in her jet hair. The woman was worrying herself ragged. If he and Lucienne’s devoted watchdog were frantic trying to trace her movements, how was the girl herself managing without funds or even a change of clothing? He shook his head, all but defeated by the stress of keeping up appearances while maintaining the search.

Armand savored his sherry. It eased his anxiety a little. In a moment he must let Marie know he’d returned, tell her there was nothing else of note. Perhaps she’d go to her own dinner and retire early, thus saving him from continuing his pretense of hope and confidence. He couldn’t afford for her to see how truly discouraged he was. If she gave way to her fears, Armand didn’t know how he could go on.

The door to his study opened. “M’sieu, I didn’t realize you’d returned,” Marie apologized as she entered.

“Just this moment.” He might as well get the daily report over with. “I’m afraid I’ve not heard anything of Lucienne from any quarter. I’ll speak to some of my acquaintances near the dock and the marketplace tomorrow.”

Her shoulders drooped a little at his words, but Marie gave him a consoling smile. “Eh, I’d hoped that the little messenger boy brought you some news. I suppose it was only something about your business concerns, after all. Still it was something to keep my hopes alive for the day.”

Armand stood abruptly as her comment penetrated the weariness in his head. “A messenger came? Who? Where did he go?”

“You didn’t see him, m’sieu? A small boy near the railing? He said he’d wait. He wouldn’t give the message to anyone but you, only to you in person. Very private, he said.”

“Quick! Is he still there?” Armand and Marie all but collided racing each other to the door. There, near the steps, the white figure in the shade of new leaves sat curled into a ball, napping as comfortably as if he were in his own cot. Armand shook him, not as gently as he might under other conditions.

“You have a message,
garçon
? A private message?”

The boy scrubbed at his eyes and scrambled to his feet. “You Mist’ Armand Dupre?” he asked, sleep still making his tongue a bit thick.

“Yes, yes, I’m Armand Dupre.” He waited as the boy righted himself and stood as tall as his small frame permitted.

“I was sent from the ladies, the old ones in the long black dresses, the ones what live all together out on Dauphine— You knows the ones I mean? They looks like bird ladies, sorta, with white things on they haids?”

“The nuns? The Catholic sisters?” Armand demanded. “Are those the ladies you mean?”

The boy nodded. “Those the ones. The head lady, the one they call Mother, she say go to the Dupre house on Dumaine Street, ask for Mist’ Armand, and don’t tell nobody but him.”

Armand reined in his impatience. “Yes, you found the right house, and I’m Armand Dupre. What is it you’re to tell me?”

The boy glanced at Marie. “It’s privut and I’s not to tell nobody but you.”

“You can speak in front of Marie,
mon fils
; it’s all right to tell her.”

“Iffen you says so.” The boy shrugged. “The Mother lady, she say tell you that you can call fo’ you wife at the ladies’ place. She been there all week, and the Mother lady thinks she ready to come home.”

****

Lucienne paced the floor of her small room. She’d been turning over one plan after another and discarding each in disgust. Nothing appealed to her or seemed reasonable. Even if she sold the gold ring now on her left hand, she wouldn’t have funds for ship passage to the islands where her father still had family. The idea lured her, but it wasn’t practical. She supposed she could find a way to follow Philippe to Texas, but he didn’t want her, and she couldn’t bring herself to beg. How would she ever find him if she did follow him? She was weary of stewing and fussing only to find gaping holes in every scheme. At least she had a couple of days to work things out. If the family sent someone for her, and she was certain it would be Armand, he’d have a slow trip into town. That gave her, let’s see, at least another forty-eight hours. He couldn’t come faster than that. She could plan anything with that much time. She stopped, struck by another thought.
He could come faster if he were right here in town.

Dumbfounded that she could have overlooked something so obvious, Lucienne bit down, grinding her teeth at her blind assumption. Of course, he would have come to town to look for her once her absence was discovered. He had his carriage at hand, the road had been dry then, and he could make good time. Armand might have been in town almost as long as she had. And if Mother Superior thought of it, it wasn’t a very long walk to the Dupre house. Armand could locate his errant wife in an afternoon, less if Mother Superior chose to make it so. Lucienne tried to think how long she’d been in her room. Hours, perhaps? Yes, she was sure it had been at least two hours. Armand might be on his way this minute. She wouldn’t—mustn’t—be here if he came. She had no time to think out a course of action.

Lucienne took off her apron and pulled the grey sacklike garment from the peg on the wall where it was still drying. She tossed it into the center of the apron, tying up the corners to make an awkward pack.
What else,
she muttered, glancing over the room. Nothing here she could use, she decided, and slipped into the hallway. She hesitated, listening intently. No one coming either way. A moment of caution stopped her. The last time she’d run away from a meeting with Armand, she’d wound up penniless, with nothing to wear and no food for hours and hours. She’d be more prudent this time. She still had no money and little in the way of clothing, but she could make sure she didn’t go hungry while she found her way again. Lucienne worked her way to Sister Mary Agnes’s kitchen. It must be mid-afternoon, the hour when the kitchen sister went to the herb garden for fresh supplies. No one was stirring pots or making up mounds of bread. It only took Lucienne a moment to dash in, collect two loaves of her own carefully made bread, and wrap them in a clean cloth. At least she’d enjoy some of the fruit of her hard-won expertise.

Lucienne scurried through the grounds to the gate between the walls. She glanced left and right, saw no one who noticed her, and hurried into the street. With no better plan at hand, she decided she could find refuge at Grandmère’s house, for the night if not longer. Regardless of the consequences, at least she was away from the convent and was sure Armand couldn’t trace her now, no matter how quickly he came.

Chapter Fourteen:

Old Acquaintances, New Encounters

The walk was warm and dusty, made longer by the circuitous route Lucienne chose. She feared someone might note her passing if she took the most direct road back into town. A dozen ideas had run though her brain as she slipped away from the convent walls. She could think of only one place where she would be free to think through her situation, a place where she would find sanctuary till she could make sense of her life. Facing her situation squarely, Lucienne decided at this point Grandmère’s house was the only place to go. Her other option was to wait at the convent for Armand and return with him, something she’d vowed never to do. Still, Grandmère’s house shouldn’t be this far, no matter how indirectly she’d come, and the neighborhood looked unfamiliar, the houses poorly kept. She ducked into a byway that seemed as if it might turn toward the river, chose a turn that didn’t, and found herself back at the cross street she’d left half an hour earlier. Lost, that’s what she was, she admitted at last. She’d taken too many narrow side streets, followed too many misleading landmarks, and had no idea which way to go next. The cathedral. If she could get to the cathedral, she knew she could find the Thierry residence. Lucienne raised her eyes and scanned for the familiar bell tower against the cloudy sky. She turned in a slow circle.
Sacre bleu
, she’d been walking directly away from her destination. The tower barely showed above the canopy of budding trees. How had she become so turned around? Setting herself for yet a longer walk, Lucienne resolutely retraced her way, keeping the outline of the tower in her line of sight as she plodded on.

Grandmère surely would be home by now. The thought served as a talisman to keep her moving as the sun dropped lower in the sky. If Grandmère was there, and oh, please let her be back, she would help Lucienne decide how to proceed. Nothing daunted Grandmère, certainly not any foolish escapade her beloved granddaughter might attempt.

Lucienne kept her spirits up with such promises to herself, and imagined her grandmother laughing like a schoolgirl over the plight facing the family. Grandmère had no great regard for society’s opinions. Likely a botched elopement wouldn’t disturb her any more than that discussion of kissing had. A flash of memory caught Lucienne off guard. That brief kiss, Armand’s lips brushing hers—remembering it made breathing nearly impossible. Grandmère hadn’t disapproved. No, she’d seemed more amused than anything else, as if she rather liked the idea that Armand wanted to take such a liberty. Lucienne remembered her grandmother dancing with Armand at the little masquerade and flirting with him as if she were sixteen again. She’d said she liked the man her granddaughter had promised to marry, even given Papa some rare words of approval. Would she turn her back on Lucienne because she’d created a scandal? No, Grandmère might enjoy his attentions, might find him handsome and pleasant, but she’d never choose Armand over the granddaughter she adored. Lucienne felt certain of that if nothing else.

At last, through the masses of tree branches and the darkening shadows of late afternoon, Lucienne found herself in a neighborhood she remembered. The rooflines were elegant, the gardens elaborate, the stucco walls bright with color, and the streets recognizable. She was only blocks away from her destination, only steps from the security of a welcome rest. In a few minutes she’d see friendly faces, a meal she’d had no hand in serving, and a decent bed made up with fine linens and downy pillows.