Captive Innocence (20 page)

Manaus, for the week of the opera opening at least, had become a tropical Vienna. Music seemed to be everywhere, played on street corners and by marching bands; native minstrels wandered the streets begging coins for their songs; violinists and pianists displayed their talents at the numerous parties and soirees held in the performers' honor; and dark-eyed Latin singers,
cantante,
serenaded much like Christmas carolers did in Royall's New England.

From Europe artists and performers had traveled up the Amazon, tenors and sopranos, orchestras, all bound for the flagrantly opulent theater for the performing arts in Brazil. The trip was arduous, the cost to the opera guild, which seemed to include everyone in Manaus, was astronomical. But worth every penny. Sophistication and culture had come to Brazil.

In preparation for the festivities, Royall had moved to Manaus with Rosalie Quince, making herself at home in her friend's townhouse. Now, as she sat before the mirror putting the finishing touches to her hair, a heavy tap sounded on the door and Mrs. Quince strode briskly into the room. “Royall, aren't you dressed yet? The DuQuesnes are expecting us in thirty minutes! You'll have to hurry or we'll be quite unfashionably late.”

“I'm not going. You can tell the DuQuesnes for me that I have a very fashionable headache, and I can't join them for still another night of revelry.” Royall's tone was hostile and tinged with weariness.

“What are you saying?” Mrs. Quince squawked. “You can't disappoint the DuQuesnes; the table will be uneven, and I'm afraid it would take another century of festivals for Tilly DuQuesne to recover.”

Royall laughed, delighting in Rosalie's scorn. It was comforting to know that she, too, was bored and disgusted by the endless suppers and parties of Manaus's elite society.

“Mrs. Quince, it delights me to know that your feelings are the same as mine. You alone make this social parade bearable for me. It's the only thing that keeps me from running screaming back to the Reino.”

“I know, dear. Suzanne hated it too. But as I used to tell her, it's what's expected of us. Duty calls and all that posh!” she sighed.

“How do you do it every year? I'm warning you, friend, if I have to look at another gilt-edged anything, I'll reward myself with a case of the good old-fashioned vapors. The gowns, the perfumes, the jewelry!” she exclaimed. “The Queen's own jewels are trinkets compared to the rings and fobs and stickpins the men wear. And those geegaws the women wear!”

“I understand, but try to understand these people yourself. They're wealthy beyond imagination, thanks to rubber. And they've no outlet for their money and the frustrations that the remoteness of this part of the world imposes on them, aside from their homes and their dress. Take pity on them. If they were in America or Europe or somewhere civilized, they wouldn't need this show of success. But here, in the wilds of Brazil, it seems to bring them a feeling of security.”

“Homes! You call those decorated mausoleums homes? I'd sooner live in a thatched hut than in one of those painted, pretentious galleries of bad taste and worse art. The ceilings in the drawing rooms alone could rival the Sistine Chapel. Last night at the Beaumonts' I found myself eating through an orgy of an overseasoned, overcooked, nauseating seven-course meal while waiting for Mrs. Griswald's bosom to pop out of her gown and land in the tapioca pudding. And it all took place under the sweetly smiling gazes of the painted cherubs perched on the stone pedestal above her head.”

The women laughed together, trading gossip and catty remarks about the other women. To Mrs. Quince's relief, Royall continued primping, obviously forgetting her oath not to attend the dinner.

Royall was regal with her golden curls piled above her smooth brow. Her skin shone with health, and the sapphire of her gown complimented the golden flecks in her eyes.

Clasping a necklace about her slim, graceful neck, she thought better of it and instead fastened a small topaz brooch to her bodice. Satisfied with her reflection, she slid her narrow feet into a pair of sapphire blue slippers.

“It's time to go, Mrs. Quince. We certainly don't want to be unfashionably late to the DuQuesnes.”

Rosalie Quince wore her most victorious smile as she followed Royall from the bedroom. The art of persuasion had always been one of her strongest virtues, she thought smugly.

 

“Mrs. Quince, can you help me with these little hooks. I can't seem to reach them,” Royall called.

“In a moment, dear. I'm just about ready.”

Royall sat before her mirror winding the gold ribbon through her intricately braided hair. She and Mrs. Quince had left the DuQuesne dinner, as had all the other guests, to come back to the Quince's townhouse to dress for the masquerade. “I'll never understand,” she muttered to herself,

“why they begin a ball at the ungodly hour of ten-thirty.” A deep sigh escaped her; she wasn't looking forward to the festivities, knowing Sebastian would be there. It galls me the way every woman in town makes cow eyes at him. One would think he was some sort of god. It didn't occur to Royall to think that her anger stemmed from simple jealousy. Senor Rivera this, and Senor Rivera that, she snarled to her reflection. And what did he do? The bastard accepted it as his due. Arrogant, disgusting ... man.

Royall's eyes darkened till they were dancing flames. How well she recalled the scene at the Roswells' dinner party the evening before last. Sebastian had been paying compliments to the Roswells' pudgy, dull, giggling daughter, and Mrs. Roswell beamed a satisfied smile toward the disappointed mothers whose own daughters shot covetous looks at Nancy. And Sebastian loved every minute of it! Loathsome man! As if he could be interested in a dullard like Nancy Roswell.

And then to leave the poor lovesick girl to move on to another, and no doubt regale her with the same practiced compliments he had paid to Nancy! Several times Royall had seen Sebastian glancing her way, and once he deliberately moved over to a circle of women with whom she was talking and asked Cynthia Taylor to dance, greeting all in the circle and pointedly ignoring her. It was a public slap in the face, and one she wouldn't soon forget.

Rosalie Quince stepped into the room, her gaze meeting that of the grimacing girl.

“Royall, is something wrong? Are you ill? I know the duckling sauce was rich, but I swear I didn't see you take more than a bite! Ah, I can see Anna has outdone herself with her needle. You're lovely, young lady, simply lovely!” she said brightly.

Royall flushed with Mrs. Quince's complimentary words. She turned to face her reflection and stared at herself with unbending scrutiny. The soft white gown was empire in its lines, so popular during the reign of Napoleon's Josephine. Gold ribbon outlined the severe V of the neckline and crossed over her bosom to wrap around her midriff several times over. The stark white of the shimmering silk was offset by heavy gold bracelets worn on her upper arm, and complemented the gold kid slippers on her slim feet. In her hand she would carry a miniature bow and arrow. To pierce Sebastian Rivera where it would do the most good, she thought sourly.

Mrs. Quince's eyes swept Royall's golden head, down to the kid slippers on her feet. “I'm sure when the ancients spoke of ‘Diana the Huntress' they could never have imagined her to be as beautiful as you are.”

“Mrs. Quince, I wish you would stop referring to me as beautiful. I appreciate your kindness, but I'm sure you're much too extravagant in your praise.”

“Nonsense, child, when one gets to be my age, one has the privilege of speaking one's mind and posh and tother with all the amenities. You'd better be careful this evening, you'll find yourself in the midst of lovesick young men and irate old mothers, not that it would be such a surprise to you. I've seen the effect you have on the young gentlemen here in Manaus, and I can assure you, you'll not be lacking for partners this night! Sebastian will find himself hard pressed to get near you.”

Rosalie Quince fumbled with the tiny hooks at the back of Royall's costume, giving the girl more time to study herself in the glass.

Mrs. Quince was truthful in her judgment, Royall thought smugly. She knew she looked her best in Anna's handiwork. The dress accentuated her petite figure, and the severe neckline revealed a bosom more ample than her spare form should allow. If there was one thing that would draw a man's eyes, it was a woman's bosom.

“Royall, we'll have to hurry. Alonzo is downstairs waiting for us now.” Royall only half listened to the gray-haired lady whom she had come to love.

“That man,” Rosalie complained. “Sometimes I think he has a clock for a brain. You know how he hates to be kept waiting.”

Royall faintly listened to Mrs. Quince grumble until they reached the main staircase. Mrs. Quince suddenly became still. She stood there beaming down at her husband, Alonzo. He stood at the foot of the stairs and gazed upward at his wife. It was not the first time Royall had been a witness to the love the Quinces had for each other. Alonzo was a tall, pink-cheeked man with silvery white hair. Watery, faded blue eyes held a tenderness for Rosalie that was still evident after so many years. He clearly adored her, and the feeling was noticeably reciprocated. When they descended the staircase he lavished compliments on Rosalie's choice of dress, a pale blue satin, and only as an afterthought did he think to compliment Royall on her costume.

There was no way Royall could feel affronted by his lack of enthusiasm regarding her costume. Instead, she felt lighthearted, as always, at the steady, deep love that was shared between them.

 

The carriage turned into the Parradays' circular drive, where the ball was to be held. The traffic of carriages suddenly came to a standstill.

“Alonzo, I'm supposed to be on the receiving line. As a judge, it's one of my duties.”

Alonzo Quince glanced at his wife and smiled, and Royall felt the unspoken recriminations of Rosalie's habitual tardiness.

“I can see where we're going to be tied up here for a while. Why don't you and Royall step down now and walk to the front. It's just a short distance.”

“Alonzo, I never cease to marvel at your astuteness. Of course, we'll walk!” Royall could see this was just what practical Mrs. Quince intended all along, but she allowed her husband to claim the idea for his own. Alonzo proceeded to assist his wife and Royall. While he gave orders to the coachman, Royall turned to see Mrs. Quince favor her with a decidedly conspiratorial wink.

Rosalie tugged at her arm as they approached the bright lanterns lighting the entrance to the Parradays' palatial home.

Royall's eyes flicked over the crowd. Her gaze settled on the Baron peering into the distance, searching the melee of carriages, no doubt searching for Mrs. Quince's party. As they approached the main entrance, he turned suddenly and saw her. Shouldering his way through the throng, he was beside them in a matter of seconds.

“Royall, you're beautiful!” He nodded his greetings to Mrs. Quince, remarking on Rosalie's choice of gown. “I'm sure you have duties to perform, Mrs. Quince, as you're one of the receiving line. I'll see to Royall.”

Mrs. Quince sniffed her acquiescence and went up the marble steps to the ball. Her bearing was regal, that of a dowager queen. It was silently understood between Alonzo and Royall that she, by her very actions, had dismissed the Baron.

“I think we might be wise if we waited for the crowd to thin. I don't want to see you trampled in this melee of party goers,” the Baron said in an intimate tone. Deftly, he guided her to the side, out of the way of the arriving guests.

Royall felt a chill run down her arms. She didn't like his tone, nor did she appreciate the way he was touching her arm. His touch somehow inferred an intimacy she had no intention of sharing. Imperceptibly, she moved her arm, only to find the Baron's grip become tighter. “You are quite beautiful, Royall. I know that every man's eyes will be on you this evening. How fitting that you should come as Diana. Many times since you arrived at the Casa I've found myself equating your beauty with that of a goddess.”

“Yes, I know,” Royall said haughtily. “What I mean, Baron, is that I know that I look beautiful, and others beside yourself have said the same. I fear all this attention is going to my head. As a matter of fact, if you'll excuse me, I feel a trifle light-headed. I'll just find the powder room. Perhaps there's some other young lady you can ... help.” Without another word Royall extricated herself from his grasp. She jostled her way through the crowd, intent on finding Rosalie Quince. Anything or anyone just so she wouldn't have to be in the Baron's company. If necessary, she would hide out in the powder room all night just so she could avoid him. Her skin prickled as she remembered the feel of his hand on her arm, pressing ever so slightly into the side of her breast.

Inside, her intention of finding the powder room was forgotten. The gaily decorated ballroom was ablaze with gaslights. A monstrous chandelier suffused its lights into shimmering rainbows on the merrymakers dressed in jewel colors. Brilliant crimson chairs lined one wall for the ladies. Opposite the gilt chairs were two thronelike chairs decorated with tropical flowers of all descriptions.

Within minutes Royall's dance card was full, save for two dances that she hoped Sebastian might claim for himself.

The voice was neutral when she turned to see who was addressing her. “I'm glad to see that your headache is better, my dear. Or was it that you were light-headed with all the guests milling about. Young people are so resilient.” Royall cringed. His voice when he spoke again reminded Royall of oiled silk. She realized that she detested Baron Carlyle Newsome and dreaded even the thought of having to dance with him.

“My dear, allow me,” he said reaching for her dance card.