Iron Lace (20 page)

Foucher's freckled face became suddenly animated, and he
went on quickly, the words pouring out of his mouth now in a fountain
of hope. "Then why not? Why not marry? Surely you know I'd marry you in
a minute if you'd just say yes, and I promise I'd never try to dominate or mistreat you in any way. I'm
so in love with you, Monique, I'd be your slave. I'd do your every
bidding!"

Monique turned all her attention now to her enamored beau.
Yes, she knew, with that womanly instinct awakening in her, that being
married to Maurice would be the same as emancipation for her, if
independence was all she really wanted.

"But I'm not of age yet, and the authorities here know
Cousin Miguel. They wouldn't want to marry us without his consent, and
my guardian has told me often enough that he has no intention of giving
it as long as he holds that position, so there's no way…"

"But there is," insisted Maurice, pressing his suit now
that he saw she was at least receptive to the idea.

"It's not possible, I tell you… not now,
anyway. Perhaps if I could convince my grandmother to recommend to the
courts that my guardian be changed… But no, she'd never do
that. She and Cousin Miguel are closer than ever now."

"We could elope!" he whispered in her ear, suddenly made
bold by her seeming willingness to discuss at least the possibility of
marrying him, something she had never before given him an opportunity
to do.

On seeing that she still did not detain him, he rushed on
softly in her ear, elaborating on the theme while the lilting music of
the quadrille sounded in the background and Monique watched her
guardian going through the paces of the dance with Azema. Reluctant as
she was to admit it, they did make a striking couple. Azema Ducole was
a joy to behold at that moment as she did the two-hand turns, her
glorious red-gold mane streaming rhythmically be-hind her while her
pale blue skirts whirled about those long, shapely limbs of hers, so
tantalizingly glimpsed every time she gave a pretty turn.

Monique sighed. No wonder her cousin didn't even think of
her as a woman when he compared her to a full-blown creature like
that—with her sensuous breasts half exposed in the low sweep
of her simple, unadorned neckline and the rest of her so emphatically
marked by her tightly laced bodice! It didn't take much imagination to
picture how alluring Azema Ducole must look to her guardian every time
she lay naked in his arms responding to his caresses…

Monique turned suddenly to Maurice, trying to blot out the
image that had occurred to her, shocked and angry with herself for
having even entertained such thoughts. She had only half heard what
Maurice had been saying to her, but she had made her decision.

"If there really is a way it can be done, I'll marry you,"
she told him in a matter-of-fact tone.

Maurice Foucher's mouth hung open in the middle of a
sentence. Her unexpected acceptance left him momentarily speechless.
Still incredulous, yet not daring to give her time to change her mind,
he caught her limp hand in his and, after a quick glance around them to
be certain they couldn't be overheard, proceeded to discuss more fully
the details of his proposal.

"If you really want to elope," he told her
enthusiastically, "then the best time to do it is tonight."

Monique
slipped back into the ballroom while Maurice nervously
waited for her in the foyer with their wraps.

"I don't want Celeste or my grandmother to be worried,"
she had explained to him. "Just yesterday the
Moniteur
had a note about the disappearance of another girl. That's the second
one in only a few months, so Grandmother would think the worst right
away. No, I couldn't go off like that without at least telling them I
was going to be married and not to worry about me."

Celeste, however, was horrified by the whole idea. While
the orchestra sounded still another quadrille and Azema Ducole kept
their guardian busy going through his paces on the ballroom floor,
Monique tried to convince her sister that what she was doing was for
the best.

"We plan to leave a false trail by going out of the city
by the North Gate, but we'll cut over to the west once we get to the
fork farther up the river road about a half mile before Le Rêve. From
there we can go on into the Acadian country and be married at the
parish church in St. Martinville. Maurice says they're good-hearted
people and should receive us well, especially when we tell them how
we're fleeing from a cruel guardian."

Celeste shook her golden-brown head disapprovingly. "Oh,
Monique, Cousin Miguel has never been cruel to us!"

"He's a despot, stifling us at every turn while he goes
merrily along taking his pleasures where he pleases!"

"But to elope? I'm sure if you talked it over with
Grandmother and Cousin Miguel, they'd take your wishes into
consideration and would give you and Maurice their blessing. Wouldn't
it be better to do it that way?"

"Oh, no, Cousin Miguel would never give his consent. He's
told me time and again that he'll never permit me to marry as long as
he's my guardian, and most certainly he'll never accept Maurice. I
daresay he hates Maurice as much… as much as I hate that
cat-eyed Azema!"

"But tonight? Merciful heavens! So soon? Why must it be
precisely tonight? Shouldn't you… both of you…
consider things just a little more? Marriage is such a big step!"

"We've been working out the details all evening," insisted
Monique, "and I tell you, we'll never have a better opportunity to get
away undetected than we do right now. No one will even notice we've
gone until we're well on our way. What's more, with the ball, there's
been so much activity at the gates all evening that one more carriage
won't attract attention."

Celeste was near tears, her voice trembling with emotion.
"Oh, Monique, please…
please
don't do
this thing! You're so impulsive. Maurice is a good friend, I know, but
to
marry
him? Are you sure? And there's a storm
brewing outside, too. It's no night to travel."

"Now, Celeste, please don't try to stop me," begged
Monique, but she was near to weeping now herself. She cast a final
glance toward Miguel Vidal where he was still dancing with Azema. "I'm
so miserable here," she said sadly. "I just want to go away from this
horrid place… away from the Spanish yoke and… and
Cousin Miguel and… and that horrid Ducole woman. I know I
won't be satisfied until I'm free of them all, and the sooner the
better. But you must promise me, on your sacred oath, that you won't
tell anyone where we're going."

"I… I can't hide the truth from Grandmother.
You know she'll be beside herself when she learns about this."

Monique lowered her eyes with momentary remorse. "All
right," she acquiesced. "You can tell her, but at least give us a day
or two before you do. By that time, there will be little Cousin Miguel
will be able to do except accept the facts."

Celeste was weeping so uncontrollably that Monique feared
someone might notice and come over to see what was the matter. "Please,
my dear, don't fret so," she begged gently. "It's not as though we'll
never see each other again. Maurice and I will come back when things
are better here. I promise. Be sure to tell Grandmother that."

With a quick embrace, Monique brushed her wet cheek
against her sister's in a discreet adieu. Then she dashed away, trying
to keep her head turned so no one could see the hot tears scalding her
flushed face. The ball was at its height at that moment, however, and
everyone was too busy enjoying the dancing or the chatter on the
sidelines near the buffet tables to concern themselves over a few
excited youngsters running to and fro.

Monique was already beginning to have second thoughts by
the time she had joined her impatient bridegroom nervously waiting for
her in the en-trance hall. But he immediately rushed to meet her and,
throwing her long hooded cape around her shoulders, led her quickly
toward the exit before she had time to think or hesitate any longer.

As soon as they stepped out into the heavy night air, a
moist breeze greeted them and set her skirts to flapping about her
legs. Tiny droplets of rain hit her face as they made their way toward
Maurice's cabriolet, so she drew the hood of her cloak closer about her
head. Her new ball gown would probably be ruined, but she was past
caring about such things now.

On
the pretext of going to find refreshments, Vidal had at
last managed to tear himself away from Azema. He walked rapidly over to
where the youngsters seemed to be congregating the most.

He was anxious to see Monique again. She had been so
furious about Azema… The extent of her anger had surprised
him. Could she possibly care about him as a woman cares about a man?
Certainly she had looked like a desirable, sensual woman tonight with
her flushed cheeks, her smoldering eyes, and those seductive curves of
her young body. He longed to feast his eyes on her once more and, if
possible, fathom the depths of that anger.

He hadn't seen Monique in well over an hour now, and all
the time he had been dancing and conversing and then dancing again, he
had been trying to catch a glimpse of that familiar head of
wheat-colored curls bobbing about somewhere among the milling guests
who filled the salon.

But his ward was nowhere to be seen. Just the fact that he
couldn't see her filled him with apprehension. With that impulsive
nature of hers, the girl had a knack for getting into trouble. He had
left her in a spiteful mood… there was no telling what she
might do if left to her own wiles.

He found himself trying to spot the shaggy blond head of
Maurice Foucher, fearful there might be another scene in the making
like the one on the gallery that summer.

At last he caught sight of Celeste's slim little figure in
lavender sitting over in a corner looking strangely doleful. By all the
saints! What was the matter with the men of New Orleans to leave a
pretty young girl like that sitting on the sidelines?

He made his way hurriedly over to her, determined to perk
up his little ward by inviting her to dance. Why, the girl looked
positively crushed. It annoyed him to see her neglected like that.

But even as he made his way over to her, he saw how she
was refusing a young boy's invitation to dance at that very moment.

"Why, Celeste aren't you feeling well?" he asked
solicitously, reaching her side just as her disappointed admirer was
walking away from her.

The girl's amber eyes looked up at him like a startled
fawn's. At the sight of him, she seemed to pale even more, and her
reply was so disconnected that Vidal couldn't make any sense of it.

"Celeste, child, if you're ill, I'll take you home this
minute," he offered, sitting down quickly in an empty chair beside her.
The orchestra had begun to play a cotillion, and almost everyone was
out on the dance floor once more. "You should have called me sooner,"
he told her.

"Oh,
mon Dieu! Mon Dieu
!" was all
the girl could murmur as she sat there, her kerchief crumpled in her
hand. She indeed looked ill—as though she were about to faint
away at any moment.

Vidal took her by the arm. "Come, my dear, we'll go home
this minute. Where's Monique?" He cast a glance curiously around the
room once more. "Your sister should have never left you alone like this
if you weren't feeling well."

He assumed the girl felt too ill to reply, for she simply
continued to sit there in mute despair.

"Where in the world is Monique?" he asked her again. "I
don't see her anywhere." The terrified look creeping into the young
girl's eyes suddenly aroused his suspicions. Could it be his younger
ward was indeed sick—very sick with fright? Something or
someone seemed to have upset the young girl terribly, and Miguel Vidal
had a fairly good idea now who was responsible.

"Come now, tell me, where's that sister of yours?" he
insisted, his blood beginning to boil at the thought of his more
adventurous ward wandering off somewhere in Almonester's mansion
probably trapped behind another palmetto!

But Celeste only stared at him with large, frightened eyes
and stubbornly shook her head. "I… I don't know," she
faltered.

At that moment Azema came up to them rather impatiently.

"Really, Miguel! Whatever has been keeping you?" she asked
crossly. "Here I am prostrate with thirst, waiting anxiously for you to
bring me something, and all the while you're sitting here chatting with
this child!"

But Vidal was in no mood to humor his mistress's tantrums.
Ignoring her, he continued to direct his attention to Celeste. "I think
you do know where your sister is," he persisted, "and for her own good,
you must tell me."

"I… I can't. Please, Cousin Miguel, don't ask
me!" pleaded the girl, twisting her kerchief nervously.

"If that other ward of yours is missing, you can be sure
she's off in some dark corner with one of her beaux, that's all,"
volunteered Azema with an amused laugh. From what she had caught of
their conversation, they were making a fuss over nothing.

But Vidal was not to be put off. "Now look, Celeste," he
continued, addressing her in a sterner tone of voice now. "If you know
anything, you'd better tell me. I'd prefer not to have to start
searching Don Andres's house from top to bottom for her. For Monica's
sake, let's not make a scandal."

At his last words, Celeste burst into tears. "Oh, Cousin
Miguel, she… she isn't here. She's gone!"

"Gone?" echoed Vidal, his jaw dropping in disbelief. "You
mean she's left the premises?"

"Yes," came the muffled reply between sobs.

Vidal sputtered helplessly for a moment as his thoughts
raced wildly ahead of his speech. "She… she's gone off
with… with that Foucher boy, hasn't she?" He caught her
almost roughly by the arm.