The Seven Sapphires of Mardi Gras (30 page)

A vision of his big, gleaming knife that day at his cabin filled my mind. Brule might have also been the one who had damaged my saddle, causing my fall.

Brule was about Nicholas’s size and height. Ian could have slipped into Edward’s study and taken the mask for him. Brule might have been the one wearing the voodoo mask that night in the garden, and again at the old house. Brule, not Nicholas, could be the man Lydia and Ian were working with, the man they both feared!

If so, then there was still just the slightest chance that Nicholas was innocent. I walked over to the window and stared out. The walls of Evangeline looked dark and empty against the cold rays of afternoon sunlight that peeked through the still, gray clouds.

Was Nicholas innocent, or had he killed Elica? I thought about him, waiting inside the old house. Waiting for the Mardi Gras. Waiting for Elica’s return?

The Mardi Gras was here. Tonight. What would happen to Nicholas when he realized that Elica was truly dead—that she was never coming back to him? Would it break Nicholas completely—or finally set him free?

Chapter Twenty-one

Christine had been running in and out of my room all afternoon, chattering endlessly about the parade and the dance that was to be held shortly afterward down by the water’s edge. Already in costume, she looked like a child playing dress-up in her lace-trimmed bodice and full, sweeping skirts of emerald silk. As if in rebellion to the current style of high necks and tight-fitting sleeves, the extravagant ball gown took a daring plunge in front. I frowned, certain that the neckline was just a shade lower than it had been when we had tried the gowns on together just a few days ago. I shuddered to think of what Edward would say when he saw her.

I sighed, glad that I had, at the least, been able to talk her out of the bustle. Somewhere she had discovered an enormous bone-cage bustle that she was determined to wear beneath the dress. This exaggerated accentuation of her southernmost parts had made matters even worse. Only my frantic insistence that it would be certain to impair her dancing convinced her to leave it behind. The dress, stripped of its support, trailed in a peculiar manner, even though I had donated several stiff petticoats to its cause. At last, I had caught up the loose material and gathered it in the back where it draped successfully, though rather unevenly, in a makeshift polonaise. In any event, Christine, who kept sneaking glances at her high-piled dark curls in
the mirror, seemed more than satisfied with her appearance.

Glancing down, I was reminded that my own dress was little less revealing than Christine’s slightly modified emerald silk. It, too, displayed a rather décolleté neckline, despite its modest sleeves and rich, subtle color. The dress, whose fitted chemise was seamed to fit the figure, required no bustle, hugging my curves in a natural, almost sensual way in spite of the layers of muslin petticoats underneath. The feel of deep-blue velvet and beaded satin seemed almost
too
luxurious.

Having assisted Christine with her hair and costume, I turned my own appearance over to her eager hands. She hovered over me, fussing with my hair, fastening the thousand little seed-pearl buttons of the blue velvet dress into place.

“Oh, but we’re in for a grand time!’’ she promised as she raised the tortoiseshell brush once more. I could feel her fingers gently lifting my curls, parting my hair into sections. Then there was the weight of the heavy combs she was deftly planting on either side of my head.

She stood back to admire her efforts. “You look perfect,” she said, her eyes bright above the shimmer of her emerald silk. Then she added, dark brows coming together critically over her gray eyes as she noticed the pendant I had selected. “Except for the necklace. It’s too bright and heavy to wear with the combs. We’ll have to find something else!” With a loud exclamation, she turned toward the black lacquer jewel box with its inlay of mother-of pearl that rested upon the vanity.

I could hear the sound of voices downstairs. It was almost time to go. “Christine, the others are waiting for us.”

A sudden gleam came into her eyes as she looked at me. “I know! Well trade. I’ll wear the heavy pendant, and you can wear my locket.”

“But, Christine, are you sure?” I had never seen her without the locket about her neck.

She slipped the delicate silver-chained miniature over her head. I’ll trust you not to lose it,” she said as we hastily traded. Eagerly, she tugged at my hand. “Come on, let’s go. We don’t want to keep them waiting.”

“But I’ve barely had a chance to look in the mirror!” I cried out. Curiosity rather than vanity made me protest. With all of Christine’s last-minute administrations, I had caught little more than a vague glimpse of myself in the tiny hand mirror.

She laughed indulgently. “I’ve told you, you look perfect. Let their expressions be your guide.” Impatiently, she tugged me toward the door. She slipped the emerald veil over her eye mask to better conceal her features and instructed me to do the same with my blue one. “Remember the surprise, Louise?” she whispered, as we started down the stairs together. The gauzy blue film of scarf distorted my vision. “Well, it’s Nicholas! Since he won’t be going to the celebration tonight, I rode out this morning and invited him here to view our costumes!”

“Christine, you didn’t!” I cried out, alarmed at her boldness. But she was no longer listening.

Surely he would not come! He had made it clear to us that he wanted nothing to do with the Mardi Gras. I could only hope that her impulsive invitation had not angered him.

“Here we come,” Christine announced loudly. “Queen Louise of France and her lady, Princess Christine!”

I could hear the sound of polite laughter. The others, also dressed in costume, were gathered at the foot of the stairs as if waiting for our grand entrance. I first recognized the stout Mrs. Lividais wearing her smiling, apple-cheeked mask, colorful
tignon,
and bright Gypsy skirts.

Near her was Lydia and, close by, Ian. Lydia wore the spotted gold-and-black dress of a leopard trimmed with real sable fur about the collar. The glamorized feline appearance suited her. Except for sinister arched cat’s brows which rose so ominously above her pointed golden eye mask, she was almost beautiful. Ian was jauntily dressed as a prince in tights and a royal purple robe. On his head was a yellow paper crown bedecked with pasted-on jewels. He was barefaced; the dark mask he intended to wear dangled from
his hand.

Edward, wearing his usual dark suit, seemed stark and austere in contrast to the others. Though he had agreed to accompany his wife to the feast and dance, he had assured us yesterday that he would take no active part in such foolishness as a masquerade.

I scanned the small group, surprised to find myself searching for Nicholas’s tall form. Of course, he was nowhere in sight. I knew that it was foolish of me to have really expected him to appear this evening. But, like Christine, I could not keep from secretly hoping that he might join us.

My first thought was that Christine must have done a remarkable job with our costumes. The tiny ripple of laughter had stopped. Absolute silence fell over the room as we descended the stairs, I in my blue velvet, Christine in her emerald silk. Was it the enchantment of Mardi Gras night that made them all so still and somber? Where was the mirthful reaction that I had come to expect? Why, not even Ian had a smile for us beneath his paper crown.

I caught my breath as a tall, dark shape suddenly stepped from the parlor to join the others. My heart hammered in my chest. Nicholas! So he had accepted Christine’s invitation to come and admire our costumes after all! I wondered if his unexpected appearance wasn’t responsible for the subdued atmosphere below.

His rough, homespun clothing stood out as sharply as Edward’s plain dark suit in the midst of the garish Mardi Gras costumes that surrounded him. I could not help but notice how broad his shoulders were, how proud and tall he stood.

An odd, tingly sensation swept over me. The elegant ball gown, the stairway, the darkly handsome man who waited below—it all seemed so hauntingly familiar. I suddenly felt stricken by déjà vu. Yes, I had lived this very moment before, over and over again—it was like a scene right out of one of my most wonderful daydreams!

Secretly delighted that Nicolas had come, I made my way eagerly down the stairs. Wearing the lovely dress, my hair
done up so nicely by Christine, I was confident that I looked my best. With a special smile, I pushed the blue veil aside and gazed down at him. My smile faded as I saw that he was staring back at me in horror!

All color drained from his face, leaving his skin a ghastly white in contrast to the thick shocks of wild black hair that framed his stony features. He seemed numb, frozen. Only his eyes were alive. His eyes, those frightening, wounded eyes, were burning with rage and pain. What had gone wrong? For a moment we stood staring at each other as if through a chasm of time. Then, suddenly, he whirled and rushed from the room.

I stared after him in confused, miserable silence. It was as if he had seen a ghost! My frantic gaze wandered from person to person, but masked and unmasked faces alike revealed no inkling of what had gone wrong. Lydia, Edward, Mrs. Lividais, Ian—they all stared up at me in embarrassed silence. It was as if I had committed some unspeakable social blunder. Quickly, I glanced down at my dress to see if the petticoats were slipping or if any of my buttons had come undone. But all seemed in perfect order.

I turned back toward Christine, searching for an explanation. She stood behind me, neither looking at me nor at the awkward, costumed gathering at the foot of the stairs. Her expression seemed as bewildered as my own.

And then she was staring with enormous eyes at the locket about my neck. A sense of recognition, then a flush of sheer horror crept into my blood. I cupped the silver locket in my palm, studying the tiny miniature. The sad, haunted face of Elica smiled back at me. Dark waves of hair piled into a neat chignon; the rise of bare flesh above the soft blue velvet. My eyes fastened upon the neckline of the dress. It was decorated with tiny seed-pearl buttons and trimmed with soft satin.

I raised an inquisitive hand to my hair. Surely not! But in my heart, I had already guessed what had happened. Christine, with the help of a few old clothes and a little makeup, had made me into the reincarnation of Nicholas’s late wife!

Christine was watching me now, her lashes filmy with
sudden tears. “I didn’t mean this—the way you think I did!” she exclaimed in a choked voice. “Louise, you must believe me. Louise!”

But this time she had gone too far. It was all so terrible! The gaily dressed people at the foot of the stairs were only a blur to me as I pushed past Christine. All I could hear was her sobbing, loud and heartbroken. The hysterical sound followed me as I ran blindly back to the sanctuary of my room.

I was still tearing the pins from my hair when the door swung open. Turning, I expected to find Christine, weeping and begging forgiveness. But it was Lydia who stepped slowly inside. The sweep of the gold-and-black leopard dress accentuated the feline grace of her movements. Her face, free of the shiny mask, seemed satirical with its carefully arched cat’s brows.

“It’s not so much the hair,” she commented in a slightly derisive tone. “You don’t really resemble Elica at all, though I must admit that Christine was exact.” She reached out a hand to indicate the artificial beauty mark that Christine had painted upon my cheek. Oh, why hadn’t I realized what was happening? I should have suspected something when she had refused to let me get a good look at my reflection in the mirror. I should have known when she had practically shoved me into the hallway near the stairs that she was up to some wild scheme. And when she had so coyly mentioned upon the stairway that she had invited Nicholas to view our costumes, why hadn’t I second-guessed her motive? I was a fool to have been so trusting!

And Nicholas! I could hardly bear to think of his reaction to this ghastly parody. What if he thought that this mocking simulation of Elica’s clothing and hairstyle was my idea? He would despise me for it!

“I warned you not to trust her,” Lydia said, as if echoing my own thoughts. “Of course, it’s the dress that must have really startled him. Seeing it after all this time—It’s Elica’s dress, you know. The very gown that Nicholas had made for her in Paris. It was to be part of her wedding trousseau.”

“How terrible!” I gasped, feeling faint. I knew that the
style and color were both alarmingly similar to the miniature, but the very dress—The gown seemed tight now, restrictive. I found it hard to draw breath. “But how—how could it have been Elica’s?”

Lydia lowered her lashes. “It was one of the few personal items of hers that escaped the fire. There was a slight tear, a bad seam in one of the sleeves, which she discovered shortly before the wedding. I offered to send it to the dressmaker with some of my own gowns for repair.”

“Christine claimed to have found the dresses in an old trunk in the attic.”

“Elica died before I even had a chance to send the dress away. I couldn’t bear to look at it, so I had it packed up in the attic with some of my old clothing”

“Christine may not have known the dress was Elica’s,” I ventured hopefully.

Lydia raised one sharply defined black brow. “Oh, she knew, all right.” Then she began to move away, the smooth silk of her leopard costume rustling across the floor. At the doorway she turned, tossing me a look of pity. “Change into the yellow dress,” she suggested over her shoulder, glancing to where the extra gown, the one Christine had laughingly declared made her look like a frosted wedding cake, still lay draped over a chair. “Don’t worry,” she added, slipping the golden half-mask daintily back over her eyes. “It was one of mine.”

When Lydia was safely out of sight, I scrubbed the damning beauty mark from my cheek. Then I combed out my long hair, allowing it to hang thick and loose about my shoulders. I wanted to destroy any resemblance between the ghastly parody of Elica and myself. When I was done with my hair, I hastily tore off the wretched velvet dress, tossing it into a crumpled blue heap upon me white carpet. The miniature of Elica seemed to burn my skin. I unclasped the locket and threw it, along with the mask and filmy veil, upon the velvet gown. Then, still in my petticoats, I sank down upon a chair. What should I do now?