Sweet Piracy (23 page)

“Then I am afraid you will have to spread your tale about as best you can. I have no intention of confessing what you consider to be my sins.”

Behind them the door swung open with a crash. Madame, her face purple with rage, stood in the opening. “It will not be necessary for you to confess it, base-born scoundrel! I have heard it all! You will leave my house at once, and never, ever, return!”

The man known as Rochefort hesitated only a moment, surveying Madame Delacroix who stood dramatically pointing the way out. Estelle and a sea of curious servants gathered behind her. With an imperturbable hauteur which gave credence to his aristocratic claims, he inclined his head and walked from the house. It was only after his carriage had cleared the drive that Caroline realized he had passed Colossus, holding his hat and cane, as if the enormous butler did not exist.

Caroline looked up as a knock fell on her bedchamber door. Around her lay clothing — gowns, chemises, shifts, nightgowns, bonnets, shawls, stockings, and endless knick-knackery — all waiting to be put into the trunks and boxes that sat about on the floor. She had not wanted anyone to know that she was packing just yet. Time enough to tell them when she had some definite plans for how she would leave and where she would go. Still, it could not be helped.

“Come in,” she called.

Estelle came tripping through the door, her eyes gleaming with excitement. Her good spirits were dimmed only momentarily by the confusion that met her. “Going visiting? I thought it was time you paid your yearly visit of duty to your uncle. A shame that you must leave us at such an entrancing time.”

“Entrancing?” Caroline asked skeptically.

“Well, interesting then,” Estelle amended, dropping into the slipper chair that stood beside the bed.

“Ah, my robe?” Caroline said, holding out her hand for the velvet dressing gown that had been occupying the chair before Estelle.

With a quick apology, Estelle jumped up, passed over the robe, and sat down again. “No, really, Mam’zelle, you should delay, if only a little. You will never guess what thing Rochefort has done now!”

“His name is not Rochefort.”

Estelle shrugged. “He still calls himself so, and one must give him a name of some description. What does it matter?”

“I suspect it matters a great deal to the true Marquis de Rochefort.”

“Let him come and complain, then. For myself, I do not care. Only let me tell you what has happened.”

“Very well, if you must,” Caroline replied, busying herself with folding her handkerchiefs to a uniform size.

“Yesterday a steamboat bringing many guests was seen to arrive at Felicity. Among the guests was one who is special, one with many trunks and cases and bandboxes.”

Caroline looked up. “Bandboxes?”

“But yes, bandboxes. The special guest is a beautiful woman. They say she has with her two dogs of the kind favored by the Empress Joséphine, longhaired with small black faces, also a talking bird from India, and a tiny woman who comes no higher than her waist but who has the shape and the voice of an adult.”

“Good heavens,” Caroline exclaimed.

“Yes,” Estelle agreed, pleased with the impression she had made. “They say Rochefort tried to send the bird and the little woman back to New Orleans, but the lady cried so much he allowed them all to stay.”

“She comes from New Orleans,” Caroline said, carefully smoothing the creases from a vetiver-scented handkerchief.

“Did I not say so? She is the actress at the new Théâtre d’Orléans. You must have seen her — but no, that was the night Mathilde had the earache, was it not. But surely you have at least heard of Madame Francine Fontaine?”

“Yes, I believe I have heard of her,” Caroline answered. She had never mentioned meeting the actress to anyone at Beau Repos. Apparently, neither had Anatole.

“I adored seeing her on the stage. She was so gay, so
drôle
. She could never play serious parts, but she is perfect in what she does.”

A thoroughly feline remark rose to Caroline’s tongue, but she suppressed it. “It’s an intelligent person who recognizes her own limitations,” she said in her governess voice.

As was proper, Estelle ignored this comment. “I would love to see Madame Fontaine and to speak to her.”

“I’m afraid it’s impossible. Your
maman—”

“Oh, I know,” the girl agreed, the corners of her mouth drooping. “But it is still what I would like above all things. They say Madame Fontaine likes things to be lively about her, which is why she brought her friends. These ladies and gentlemen dance every night. They have card parties, masquerades, musicales, and sometimes they even have amateur theatricals.”

Caroline returned to her packing. The silence of the somnolent afternoon stretched around them. Estelle stirred in her chair and sighed gustily. “Mam’zelle?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you think Madame Fontaine is the
chérie-amie
of Rochefort?”

“Estelle! Where did you hear such a phrase?”

“What does it matter?” the girl asked in a sulky tone. “I know what it means, and I know that a man may have a mistress. You haven’t answered my question.”

“I suppose this is also something
they
say?”

She nodded.

“I have no idea if she is or is not. It is not my business to know,” Caroline said primly.

“Perhaps not, but that wouldn’t keep you from guessing,” Estelle said reasonably.

“I wouldn’t be any closer to the truth,” Caroline said.

“Oh, well, I don’t suppose it matters,” Estelle shrugged.

Caroline did not answer.

Estelle’s wandering attention alighted on Caroline’s face. “You don’t appear too happy about your forthcoming visit. In fact, I don’t believe I have ever seen you so pale and, if I may say so, moody. I believe you have gotten thinner. I do hope nothing is wrong with your uncle?”

“No, nothing like that,” Caroline assured her. “I just haven’t been sleeping well lately.”

“It’s this thing with Rochefort, is it not?” the girl said with sympathy. “I know how you must feel. I don’t think I have ever been so shocked in my life, and I was never on board a ship he had captured, nor have I been kissed by him in the salon. At first I thought how exciting it must have been, but now that I consider, I don’t believe I would have liked it at all!”

Hovering between tears and laughter, Caroline opted for the latter. “I’m sure that in either case, if it had been you, he would have been made to regret his want of conduct.”

“I’m not so sure,” she said with a heretofore unwonted lack of confidence. “The other day I wouldn’t have been in your shoes for anything!”

When Estelle had gone, Caroline sat before her trunk, clutching a lawn handkerchief in her hand and staring at nothing with dry, burning eyes. The truth was, she had not minded at all being kissed. That was hardly surprising, since she had discovered that she was in love with the privateer who called himself Jean Rochefort. Recite his faults as she might, she could not alter her feelings. There was only one course left to her, and that was flight.

They were granted the opportunity late that evening to confirm the truth of at least one aspect of the rumor so rife in the countryside. Caroline and the two young ladies, with Anatole, Theo, and M’sieur Delacroix in attendance, were enjoying the cool after the setting of the sun. Suddenly a carriage came into view. It was being driven at a furious pace, and the dust fogged in long rolls that were wafted toward them on the evening breeze.

“Rochefort’s phaeton,” Theo said, but none needed his identification. That dashing vehicle could not be mistaken, nor could the man who sat holding the reins. The only thing in doubt was the name of the lady who sat up beside him.

She wore a driving costume of cerulean blue with fitted sleeves and a frogged bodice. On her head was a cavalier’s hat complete with a plume so long that it swept around the brim to wave in Rochefort’s face. The wind of their passage made the hat’s perch so precarious that the lady was forced to hold it on her head with one hand. The final touch was added as the phaeton bowled past. A small dog with a furry coat and a black face jumped upon its mistress’s lap to bark at those seated on the gallery.

Anatole exchanged a look with his father.

Estelle sat forward to exclaim, “It is she! It is Madame Fontaine!”

“Silly widgeon, to carry a dog with her in an open carriage,” was Theo’s comment. “And I’ll wager she’s abominably hot in that rig, too.”

No sooner had he spoken than there was a piercing scream from the carriage. The little dog had jumped from the high body of the phaeton onto the road. It rolled end over end, sat up, yelped once, and then set off the way the carriage had come, growling furiously.

Rochefort pulled up, not an easy task with high-spirited thoroughbreds hitched in tandem, running flat out. He could be seen trying to pass the ribbons to the actress so that he might get down to fetch her pet. Madame Fontaine spurned them and got to her feet. She teetered on the edge of the carriage, then jumped down, catching her skirts on the high wheel. For an instant her audience was afforded an excellent view of the latest fashion in Parisian clocked hose, then with one hand holding her hat, she trotted after the dog. “Fifi!” she called. “Wait for me, my little one! Oh, Fifi! Someone stop her!”

Estelle gave a gurgle of laughter. M’sieur Delacroix hid a smile. Theo, a wide grin splitting his face, started down the steps to the aid of the lady, while Anatole stepped to the railing, the better to see.

The commotion had brought Colossus and one of the maids to the door. They gave way to Madame as that lady, clad in her dressing sacque with her hair about her shoulders and her maid trailing behind, stepped outside. She took in the situation at a glance.

“Theo!” she called. “Come back at once! At once, do you hear? Estelle, Amélie, you will enter the house. Pray do not argue! I know what is best.”

Theo hesitated, his mother’s command going against the teachings of a lifetime. In that small amount of time, the little dog’s enthusiasm for the chastisement of the humans who had the bad manners to stare departed. She sat down to wait for her mistress.

Madame Fontaine scooped up her pet. Scolding in a monotone, she hurried back to the phaeton. She handed the dog up and, with the aid of Rochefort, climbed over the wheel and settled herself once more. Backs stiff, the pair of them drove off without looking back.

“Detestable creature,” Madame was heard to mutter.

M’sieur Delacroix looked around in mock surprise. “I thought it was a charming little dog.”

With a sound suspiciously like a snort, Madame turned back into the house.

A dozen emotions warred in Caroline’s breast. Among them were anger, jealousy, and pain, but prominent also were genuine amusement and a rather shocking satisfaction that Rochefort had saddled himself with a woman guaranteed to drive him distracted within a week. She told herself she might have expected him to behave in some such outrageous way. He was not the kind to go slinking off in the night. Even stripped of his pretenses, he was still a force to be reckoned with. They would be lucky indeed if installing a mistress at Felicity was the only way he found in which to flaunt his disregard of the standards of the people in the community.

It was the height of stupidity to worry over the mad starts the man might get up to, of course. She had other, more important things to occupy her mind — such as where she was going and what she was going to do when she left Beau Repos. She might return to her uncle’s home in Natchez for a few days, just long enough to take her bearings. Then, New Orleans, she supposed. Or perhaps she would go there directly. She had a little money put by, enough to keep her for several weeks, if it took that long to find a new situation.

These plans, so laboriously considered, were brought to nothing only hours after they were made. The family was at the dinner table when a clamor was heard outside the front door. Colossus left the dining salon with his unhurried tread. A few minutes later, with much distaste, he ushered in a dust-covered messenger dressed in wine-colored livery. His brown face grave with portent, the man made his apologies for disturbing them at their evening meal, then presented a sealed envelope to M’sieur Delacroix. It escaped the notice of no one that the envelope was edged in dark gray, the color of demi-mourning.

“Colossus, see that this man has food and drink,” M’sieur Delacroix instructed. When the pair departed in the direction of the kitchen, he carefully broke the black seal of the message, drew a candelabrum nearer, and unfolded the parchment.

“Well, sir?” Madame demanded after a moment.

Her husband folded the message and dropped it on the table before he replied. “It is from your sister at Cabanocey. It seems,
ma chére
, that your great-aunt, Tante Titine, is gravely ill.”

“We must go at once,” Madame said, setting down her demitasse as if she intended to leave on the instant.

“But Marie, you should not think of it. Your condition—”

“My condition? If I considered that, I should never move out of my bed,” she said with some justification.

“Surely there is no need?” Her husband frowned.

“There is every need. It is a matter of family. Have I not always made certain of every observance due your relations?” Madame asked with a significant nod of her head in the direction of Tante Zizi’s bedchamber where that elderly lady was eating her solitary dinner.