Sweet Piracy (15 page)

“Be pleased not to fidget, my love,” Madame said from the corner of the coach. “You will crush your gown.”

Estelle pulled a face but settled back obediently. With careful fingers, she smoothed imaginary creases from the skirt of her blush-pink silk embroidered in white. Her eyes were bright with the excitement that gripped them all. The feeling that this would be a special night was a palpable thing within the confines of the carriage filled with females. Madame’s color ran high as she surveyed her daughters. Amélie looked about her with a tremulous anticipation. Caroline sat upright with her hands clasped in her lap as if to hold on to her precarious composure.

The steady thud of horses’ hooves accompanied them. To leave more room for the dresses of the ladies, M’sieur Delacroix, his two sons, and their tutor rode horseback. With the coachman and a groom on the box, it was an impressive cavalcade that roiled up the drive to the steps of Felicity.

Lantern light, aided by the flare of torches, threw a golden path of welcome across the portico. As the butler showed them into the salon, Rochefort and Victor got to their feet.

“Here we are at last!” M’sieur Delacroix said with a roguish smile. “I do hope you had not given us up.”

Rochefort bowed over Madame’s hand. “Not at all. I knew your lovely lady wife would not fail me.”

Madame simpered under his approving gaze, watching with a benign eye as he turned to Amélie and Estelle. Caroline received no more than a nod as Madame claimed his attention once more, demanding to be shown the ballroom and the arrangements for the late supper. Rochefort compiled, and the rest trooped behind them.

Caroline, dropping behind the others, could not prevent herself from looking about for some sign of the actress. She found none. No doubt the woman was still above stairs, dressing.

The ball was well underway before she was able to satisfy her curiosity. Rochefort, claiming the prerogative of host, had ruthlessly chosen the two dances he desired from the programs of each of the ladies from Beau Repos. When the second waltz began, he presented himself before Caroline, swinging her out onto the floor before she could utter the excuse trembling on her lips. Her movements to the lilting music blended perfectly with his. His arm about her waist was firm, his guidance sure. After a moment, she found herself enjoying the dance almost against her will.

Drawing back a little, he said, “You see? You did not really wish to refuse.”

“No indeed,” she answered, steadying her voice with an effort. “How could you think it?”

“You had every appearance of being about to snub me in my own ballroom.”

“I hope I am not so rag-mannered.”

“No, not if taken by surprise. Then you become stiff with the famous English reserve. I wonder what you would be like if you did and said exactly what you pleased?”

“Insufferable, I don’t doubt.”

“Or enchanting,” he said.

Caroline refused to lift her eyes above the level of his pure white cravat. As they whirled she caught a glimpse of them in one of the pier glasses that lined the walls reflecting the dancers, multiplying their numbers. She saw a tall figure in a black coat of superfine and gray evening breeches holding a girl in Mediterranean-blue muslin. The dark head inclined toward the blonde one, giving the impression of intimacy between them. An instant later the impression was gone as other dancers intervened between them and the mirror image.

“You are angry with me because of Francine — Madame Fontaine.”

She nearly gasped at his casual introduction of the name. Involuntarily, she flicked him an upward glance. His expression was serious, even stern.

“It is not my place—”

“
Mon Dieu!”
‘ he exclaimed wrathfully, “if once more in my hearing you mention your place I will not be responsible for what I do!”

Caroline stiffened, her gray eyes stormy. “My emotions can be of no consequence to you.”

“Allow me to be the judge of that. For now, look about you. Look at the people in this ballroom. Do you see Madame Fontaine among them?”

Caroline could not resist a quick glance.

“Do you?” he insisted.

Goaded, Caroline said sharply, “No!”

“Do you wish to know why?”

“Not particularly.”

“Because she was uninvited. That being made plain to her, she found urgent reason for journeying on to Natchez on the steamboat.”

Caroline knew a fleeting sympathy for the departed woman. From the grim curve of Rochefort’s mouth, she thought it could not have been a pleasant interview.

“My lord,” she began with elaborate calm.

There was a balcony that opened out from the rear of the third-story ballroom. With a gliding turn, Rochefort whirled Caroline out through French windows onto its dimly lighted expanse.

Out of view of those inside, Rochefort drew her close. His arms were steel bands which held her motionless. “I did warn you,” he said, a low note of amusement in his voice.

A shaft of excitement pierced the armor of Caroline’s composure. She felt a trembling deep inside as her strength seemed to desert her.

“Caroline?”

The moment was shattered as Victor stepped through the window. Rochefort released her with a soft imprecation.

“Y-yes?” Caroline’s voice was distressingly unsteady as she answered.

Victor looked from one to the other before he spoke. “Amélie sent me to find you. Like a clumsy oaf I have stepped on a flounce of her gown and torn it. She begs you to assist her in pinning it up.”

“Of course,” Caroline murmured, and reentered the ballroom without a backward glance.

When she let herself into the retiring room set aside for the use of the ladies, Amélie swung away from the mirror where she was patting her curls into place.

“Oh, Mam’zelle Caroline. It was good of you to come. There was a maid on duty, but she could not manage the tear without its looking obviously repaired. That would not do at all because I particularly told Victor it was the merest rent, easily hidden. I will not have him flaying himself with remorse on my account.”

Caroline made herself smile. “I’m sure something can be done. Let me see the damage.”

“Why, Mam’zelle,” Amélie said as Caroline knelt to pick up the hem. “You are as pale as a ghost. Are you well?”

“Perfectly,” Caroline assured her. “I wonder if it would be possible to have the use of a needle and thread, if there are such things in this establishment?”

Amélie nodded. “I was told I might ring for whatever I required.”

“Very well. Do so!”

With the essentials in hand, the repairs did not take long. Caroline and Amélie soon joined the others. Victor, as though lying in wait, whisked Amélie onto the floor the moment they emerged.

The music just beginning indicated a quadrille. The name opposite the dance on Caroline’s program was Fletcher Masterson. She had no more than looked about her for the location of the party from Beau Repos when she saw her scheduled partner bearing down upon her.

“There you are. I’ve been looking for you this past quarter of an hour.”

Caroline was in no mood for explanations. “You have found me,” she replied and gave him her hand to lead her into the set.

There was not much opportunity for conversation as the movement of the dance forced them to part and come together, and in any case most of their breath was needed to keep up with the swift pace. For this Caroline was thankful. Her relief was short-lived. Following the dance came an interval in which the musicians and dancers alike took a well-earned rest. Fletcher showed every indication of spending the interval at her side. Hoping he would accept it as a dismissal, Caroline requested him to return her to the chairs reserved by Madame and her two daughters. It did not serve. Madame, whose presence might have discouraged him, was on the far side of the room in animated conversation with a lady in a Nile-green turban, while Amélie was standing some distance away with Victor and Rochefort in attendance. Only Estelle, surrounded by her court; was left to hold their places. The clamor of six high-spirited young men, each demanding to be allowed to take Estelle in to supper, proved no bar to a discussion of the economies of entertaining by Fletcher.

“Look at the candles, look at them. There must be thousands, and no myrtle wax, either. Beeswax, imported beeswax. I daresay the cost of the candles alone would keep a reasonable man for the better part of a year. Silver worth a king’s ransom. And ice, real ice! They say he had a special shipment brought in by steamboat from north of the Ohio. A terrible waste, terrible. Think of the money spent for something that will melt away before the night is over.”

“You must admit it is a noble gesture. And as long as he can afford it, we have nothing to complain of.”

“That isn’t the point,” he answered, a testy note in his voice.

“What is the point? That you could think of better ways of spending his money?” Caroline had not meant to sound quite so ill-natured, but the words were out before she could stop them.

“My dear Caroline. Surely you agree that such profligacy is to be deplored? I could not have been so mistaken in your character.”

Contrite, Caroline gave him her best smile. It was not fair to take her odd humor out on him. “Tomorrow I will deplore his shocking waste of his resources. Tonight I have a craving for a cup of punch cooled by some of that hideously expensive ice.”

By the time Fletcher returned and the punch was drunk, the musicians had mounted the dais once more. Theo, dressed in his first set of evening clothes, stepped forward to claim his dance with her. He swung her with a hardy will through a
contredanse
, though he had little to say for himself. Caroline was not too surprised; the boy was an indifferent conversationalist at best, so involved was he in his own pursuits.

“Are you enjoying yourself at your first large ball?”

“Huh? I beg pardon, Mam’zelle?”

Caroline repeated the question.

“I’ve been to dances before,” he answered, his attention moving from the skylight of the belvedere overhead to the windows that led to the balcony. “Was that lightning?”

“I don’t know, I didn’t see it. The dances at Beau Repos can hardly be classed as balls.”

“I suppose not.”

His answer was vague, though he had switched his attention to the figure being called in the dance.

“Is anything the matter?” Caroline asked.

“Matter?” His head came up. “Why should anything be the matter?”

His voice held the right amount of surprise and curiosity. Caroline shrugged and passed it off, though she still had the niggling feeling that some form of anxiety, or perhaps excitement, gripped him. Another time she might have probed deeper, but not this night.

The French windows to the balcony were open, as were the tall windows that lined the walls between the pier mirrors, and yet the only air that stirred was set in motion by the dancers. The atmosphere within the room grew more oppressive as the evening wore on. The ladies’ fans came into vigorous play. Faces were flushed and curls began to fall in the damp heat. There was a run on the punch bowl, and soon, despite the best efforts of protesting mamas, couples began to wind their way down the stairs to the coolness of the gardens.

It might have been unwise of Caroline to elect to join them when M’sieur Philippe made his bow before her for the quadrille, but she could not bear the prospect of taking the floor with him. It was not that he was not a good dancer; he was. It was his style which was at fault. He had a tendency to make an exhibition of a dance when given a partner of anywhere near equal skill, executing complicated steps and sweeping turns which practically compelled all other dancers to yield the major expanse of the floor to him.

“You are quite certain you do not wish to dance?” he inquired with a consciously graceful gesture of one hand, half covered with lace, toward the floor.

“I trust you are not disappointed,” Caroline answered, her tone grave.

“Not at all.” He touched his forehead, his lips, and his heart in a flourishing bow. “Your wish is my command, my dear. I will escort you to the depths of hell if you so wish.”

Caroline smiled, laying her fingers on the arm he offered. “I would prefer somewhere a bit cooler.”

He made no reply. Once in the dimness of the stairwell lit only by candelabra on the landings, she thought she saw his thin lips curl in a smile tinged with satisfaction. A small shiver of distaste passed over her, but she conquered it. With a lift of her chin she told herself she was well able to correct any misconception the tutor might be entertaining.

A fitful wind lifted the soft blonde tendrils of hair on Caroline’s forehead as she stepped out into the darkness. Compared to the noisy, overwarm ballroom, the garden held a sense of peace. It was possible to ignore the rustling of the wind in the trees, the moving shapes, and the low voices that came from the dimness.

She sighed, permitting M’sieur Philippe to lead her farther from the house. The path to Rochefort’s Folly or summerhouse presented itself, and they took it, wandering along without speaking as the music grew fainter behind them.

The brick path leading to the elevation on which the summerhouse stood was damp and slippery beneath her thin slippers. It was a relief to stand upon the smooth mosaic floor, to turn and gaze at the dark, rippling surface of the river. The moon had retreated behind a ceiling of dark clouds, but the water seemed to hold luminescence enough to show the winding water course.