Sweet Piracy (12 page)

Rochefort took up the subject without further prompting. “The trouble with arranging a ball is the lack of a hostess. A woman to oversee the affair lends a certain necessary propriety. Without it, most mothers tend to suspect an air of debauchery about the proceedings. They become reluctant to allow their daughters to attend.”

Estelle gave an unhappy nod. “I see. But — could not your housekeeper serve in that capacity?”

“If she were related to me, she might, but she is not. In any case, she would not be comfortable in such a role, being too much of the — I do not wish to say lower class—”

“I understand perfectly. She is not of the
crème de la crème.”

“You have it in a phrase,” he agreed. “However, the time has not yet come for despair, Mademoiselle. There may still be something that can be done.”

Estelle opened her eyes wide in a trick newly learned to indicate questioning wonder, but Rochefort would not be drawn. A short time later Caroline suggested it was time they made a start for Beau Repos. They drove homeward in the pink afterglow of a setting sun and found on arriving their baskets of greenery waiting on the steps, delivered before them.

The date of the soirée dawned bright and clear, turning extra warm about midmorning. Little breakfast was eaten in the house and less luncheon. M’sieur Delacroix, harried at every step by women who feared he would track the polished floors or dent the cushions in the salon, got into his curricle and drove off in the direction of Bonne Chance. Anatole escaped the hubbub by the simple expedient of staying abed in the
garçonnière
. M’sieur Philippe took a book of poetry and, moving a chair outside into the shade cast by that plastered outbuilding, sat down to read.

Caroline did not have much more to do than the tutor at that time of the day. Estelle was busily embellishing the house with her hard-won greenery while Amélie was directing the arrangement of the chairs in the salon. Caroline, to prevent herself from offering advice that might be unwelcome, stepped out onto the gallery.

She was just in time to see Theo, bareback on one of the plantation mules, riding away along the top of the levee. Frowning a little, she stared after him. He was often gone these days, slipping away before daybreak, coming home when it was too dark to see. He was absentminded at times, even secretive, as if his mind were on other things.

Stepping to the bannister, Caroline called to the tutor.

M’sieur Philippe closed the volume he was perusing upon his forefinger to mark the page and, rising, trod across the newly cut grass. Coming to a halt below Caroline, he made her his best bow with his book of love poems held across his heart.

“You called, Mam’zelle?”

“Yes, M’sieur. Do you know where Theo goes when he leaves the house of a morning?”

The tutor allowed a pained expression to register for an instant on his face. “You wished to speak to me of Theo?”

With a sinking feeling, Caroline took notice of his romantic pose. She decided on the moment that ignoring such posturing might be the most efficacious remedy for it.

“Of course,” she replied with a show of carelessness. “What else?”

M’sieur Philippe looked nonplussed, then a crafty glint lit his eyes. He winked. “I am not slow of understanding,” he said, then continued in an overloud tone, “I am desolate that I cannot answer you, Mam’zelle. Theo does not see fit to consider me a confidant.”

“You have no idea where he may be going?”

“None.”

“Didn’t you think it wise to know?”

M’sieur Philippe drew himself up. “I am the teacher, not the keeper, of young Theo. Mine is not a nature that easily stoops to spying.”

Caroline eyed him, a sharp retort hovering on the tip of her tongue. Only the knowledge that the tutor was not wholly at fault held it back. They should all have been more watchful of Theo.

A great squawking and flurry of wings distracted her. The upheaval came from the
pigeonnier
, the large plastered dovecote to the right of the house, which balanced the
garçonnière
on the left. It was the gardener’s boys catching pigeons for dinner. The succulent squabs would be delicious when served at the table, but Caroline did not like to think of the beautiful, iridescent birds being slaughtered and divested of their plumage. With a muttered excuse, she left the tutor standing and hurried back into the house.

Despite Caroline’s misgivings, the house was beautiful when the time drew near for the guests to arrive. Greenery was looped in garlands up the outside staircase. A pair of wreaths backed the flambeaux burning at the entrance doors. Inside, bouquets made airy with fern were reflected in the mirror-like surfaces of the furniture. The house smelled of roses and magnolias, beeswax, and the spicy scent of myrtle-wax candles.

The serenity was all in appearance, however. From the direction of the master bedchamber, M’sieur Delacroix could be heard bellowing for his best shirt studs and castigating his valet for a fumble-fingered nitwit. He had returned home late from Bonne Chance and found that Theo had purloined the bath water left heating for him. Consequently, he was late dressing. Mathilde, after being a part of the gathering of the decorations for the soirée, was objecting strenuously to being excluded from it. Estelle, standing outside her mother’s boudoir door, was tearfully demanding to know why she must have her hair dressed in exactly the same style as Amélie’s. Theo alone was dressed. Intent on the great feast in store if not on the dancing afterward, he was happily denting cushions in the salon and whistling shrilly through his teeth.

At the sound of carriage wheels, all hubbub magically ceased. Colossus made one last inspection of the house servants designated as footmen, pulled on his pristine white gloves, and moved to station himself at the door.

Madame erupted from her chamber in the glory of violet muslin over black taffeta. On her head she wore a Turkish turban composed of black-and-violet-striped cotton with double poufs centered by an up-standing plume held in place by a brooch. M’sieur, in formal regalia of knee breeches, stockings, and pumps, was not far behind her. Amélie moved calmly into place in her white muslin with white roses in her hair. Estelle, with her maid trying in vain to place one pin more to secure her white roses, joined the reception line just as footsteps were heard ascending the stairs.

And then, seconds before Colossus swung open the door, Tante Zizi emerged. She wore a powdered wig that swept high into curls and poufs ornamented with loops of pearls and bunches of satin ribbon. Her gown of palest celestial blue had a square neck filled in with tiny frills of lace and elbow-length sleeves with falling cuffs interfaced with lace. The wide overskirt was draped over panniers and opened in the center to reveal a petticoat of cascading lace ruffles. The pale color and the faintly yellowed lace were kind to her wrinkled skin. The headdress, an oddity certainly in this age, gave her a curious dignity.

Madame Delacroix’s face flushed alarmingly. It was seldom that Tante Zizi condescended to be present at one of her entertainments, much less putting herself forward in the
grande toilette
of the French Court, which must inevitably remind everyone of things better left forgotten. One did not wash one’s soiled linen in public. Still, it was too late now for changing. Upon Tante Zizi’s own head be it!

It was not long before Madame could congratulate herself on the success of her soirée. It began to look like a comfortable crush, with every single guest she had invited, save one, putting in an appearance. She had done her best to see that this would be so. The groom who carried around the cards had been instructed to go first to Felicity and ascertain if the gentlemen intended to honor their cards. If not, he was to return to Beau Repos, and the soirée would be changed to another more acceptable date. If acceptance was assured, the groom was to proceed on his appointed rounds, making certain at each stop that the lady of the house not only had the opportunity of turning over the remaining invitations while searching for her own, but that she also knew who would be the guest of honor.

The single guest who failed was Fletcher Masterson. He sent his regrets both to Caroline as well as to his nominal hostess, pleading business engagements in town.

Caroline, in a gown of jonquil muslin with yellow roses set among her curls, took first turn at the piano. Though she did not profess a great talent for music, she was a competent pianist. Her fingers moved over the keys easily, allowing her to keep an eye on the dancers. In just such a manner she had played in the past week while M’sieur Philippe, an acknowledged dancing master, had capered with Amélie and Estelle, polishing their performance of the quadrille, the gavotte, the
contredanse
, and, of course, the wicked new waltz.

The tutor, in the full glory of cerise satin and the doubtful lace, was present also. His surname, an ancient and honorable Creole appellation, guaranteed his acceptance despite his status in the Delacroix household. In addition, he was responsible for the skill on the dance floor of many a young lady from the neighboring plantations, and could be depended on to rescue his protégées who looked like they might be left to sit partnerless beside their
mamans
making tapestry.

M’sieur Delacroix led the way onto the floor with his eldest daughter. The Marquis sacrificed himself to a coquettish gesture from Madame, and Victor made his bow before Estelle. With the way thus paved, the floor became crowded with couples.

The salon of the house had been thrown open by means of a
porte à coulisse
at one end. With these folding doors open, the small sitting room became a part of the other room, forming a grand salon through the center of the house.

Every inch of the space was needed as the company swung with spirit into the fast-moving
contredanses
. More would not have come amiss.

As the evening progressed and the dancers became overheated, the outer doors were thrown open, and the level of the contents in the punch bowl set up in the pantry began to sink.

Except for the Marquis and his cousin, all the guests were neighbors well known to each other. Among them there was little ceremony, nor did they extend any to the strangers in their midst. Unlike England, where an introduction performed by a third party would have been necessary before anyone could have spoken to the new owner of Felicity, here the fact that he was accepted by the Delacroix family was enough.

Rochefort was besieged, there was no other word for it. The sight was not without a certain humor as determined
mamans
with white-clad daughters in tow sought by fair means and foul to bring their offspring to his notice. The man could not stand still a moment without two or three girls “accidentally” dropping their dance programs at his feet, or as Theo, standing beside Caroline to turn the pages for her, put it, shedding scarves, handkerchiefs, and bits of ribbon like chickens in moult. If Rochefort sat down, he was nearly pushed from the settee by females jockeying for the seat beside him. If he appeared with a glass of punch, every girl in sight did her best to appear to be perishing from thirst. It was no wonder he took refuge by dancing again and again with Amélie. She was a good dancer, she had the knack of making light conversation without seeming to cast about too desperately for subjects, and she made no effort to cling either during the dance or when it was over. These attributes were to be counted over and above her gentle beauty.

Estelle came in for her share of dances with their honored guest at first, but since she tended to show by small gestures, a flirt of her skirt, the toss of her head, that she considered it a triumph over the other girls, Rochefort soon failed to seek her out. She consoled herself by creating havoc among her brother’s set of friends and singling out Hippolyte Gravier for special attention. She bade fair to being able to say, all in all, that she had not sat down a minute the whole night long.

“Do you not dance?”

Caroline looked up to find Theo’s place taken by Rochefort. He stood waiting to turn the music, awaiting also her answer.

“Certainly, but someone must provide the music for the others,” she said.

“A fate reserved always for the governess, I make no doubt?”

“Just so.”

“Are you resigned, or do you think at some time to exchange your state for a pleasanter one?”

“I find my present state most pleasant, my lord,” she replied in a cool tone.

“That isn’t an answer, but let it go. I wish you will not go on calling me ‘my lord’ in that starched-up voice. It gives me the distinct feeling that I am being put in my place.”

“I never realized you were out of place.” She ventured a glance at him, her eyes alight with laughter.

“No, I can see that.”

“Oh?” she said, unable to resist a bit of drollery at his expense. “I had begun to wonder at your powers of observation since I have seen you step over any number of dropped handkerchiefs and such trifles this evening.”

“Half blind I may be,” he said, leaning closer, “but you must credit me with being nimble of foot.”

Caroline hit a wrong note and made a recovery before she dared risk a swift glance upward. The Marquis’s face was bland, though a warm light, perhaps a reflection from the candelabra on the pianoforte, shone in his deep green eyes.

As the melody she was playing came to an end, Rochefort nodded across the room. “And now here is Amélie coming, I think, to relieve you. If you are agreeable, you shall have an opportunity to try how nimble-footed I am.”