Sweet Piracy (27 page)

“He was the gentleman who used to come often with the man they called the Marquis. A tall gentleman, soft-spoken.”

It could be no one else. Amélie was eloping with Victor Rochefort. Setting her coffee aside, Caroline flung back the coverlet and slid from the bed. As a couple, Victor and Amélie might be beautifully suited, but this was not the way to their happiness. Amélie was not the kind to survive being ostracized, cut off from family and friends. While she might be willing, even glad, to give up everything for the man she loved, she would find in the end that the price was too dear. There was an additional objection, the question of what name he would bestow upon his bride. If Rochefort was nameless, then his cousin must be also.

Dressing hastily, Caroline went along the hall to Estelle’s bedchamber. That young lady might have something to add to what was already known. There was the possibility that she even knew the exact route the couple intended to take, or perhaps where they intended to stay on the road.

Tapping on the door yielded nothing. Caroline knocked again, this time using her knuckles. There was still no answer. Her mouth set in a grim line, she pushed into the room.

The scene which met her eyes was one of total confusion. Clothing torn from the armoire was spread over every surface. Bonnets spilled from boxes onto the floor, shawls were balled up and thrown into the corners. Trinkets were scattered over the dressing table in a tangle of necklet chains, broken feathers, toothless hair combs, and snapped fan sticks. It was possible to see, under the disarray, that the bed had been slept in. Estelle had been gone some time, however, for the candle she had used had burned to the socket and drowned in its own myrtle wax. It seemed absurd to suppose she had gone with the eloping couple, but still Caroline prayed that Estelle was with her sister.

It needed only one thing more to fill Caroline’s cup to overflowing. That was supplied by Colossus when she went in search of him to bid him wake Anatole and Hippolyte. He handed her a missive, from the tutor. It seemed their number was thinner by yet one more. M’sieur Philippe, grasping at the opportunity offered by the early-morning passing of the steamboat on its Natchez-to-New Orleans run, had also decamped. In a brief note to Caroline he declared that the humiliation of the discovery he had made the evening before was more than he could bear, coming as it did upon the pain of her cruel refusal of his suit. It was time he sought a larger field for his talents, time he left the stagnated backwaters for the swift rapids of the city. There was much more in a like vein, but Caroline did not trouble to read it. She directed Colossus to wake Anatole, inform him of what had happened, and tell him to make ready for a long drive. That done, she retired to the sitting room. Casting M’sieur Philippe’s note to one side, she drew up a chair to the secrétaire and prepared to write.

But what to say? While it seemed obvious that some message needed to be sent to Rochefort, she could not think how it should be worded. She did not want him to think she blamed him for what had happened, nor did she want it to seem she was begging for his help, though in this situation she was not certain his aid would not be the most valuable she could have. The only thing to do was to tell him plainly what had gone forth at Beau Repos, inquire as to the whereabouts of his cousin, and make certain before she went hazing off in all directions that Amélie and Estelle were not tucked up comfortably at Felicity enjoying their breakfast.

Caroline sealed the page covered with her writing and handed it to a waiting maid. The girl went quickly from the room to give it to the groom standing beside his saddled horse at the front steps. As she passed out the door, Tante Zizi entered.

“A good day to you, Caroline. You are up betimes this morning — but so is everyone else. There is such a stir, such a commotion and a running hither and yon of the servants, that no one answered my bell. I know I am the last to hear anything, tucked away in my room, but I told myself I really had to find out what is taking place.”

“You may as well know. Doubtless the entire community will be privy to the facts before the day is through. Estelle is missing, and apparently Amélie has eloped with Victor Rochefort.”

The old lady cocked her head on one side. “What are you going to do?”

“What
can
I do? Amélie cannot be allowed to ruin herself by indulging in a runaway marriage with a nameless nobody. I suppose as soon as Anatole is ready, and as soon as I can ascertain positively that they are on their way to the Indian Mission, that I will have to go after them.”

“I for one, cannot understand the objection to Victor Rochefort. He seems an unexceptionable young man to me, with a temperament one might expect to match ideally with that of my grand-niece. True, he has no title, but you cannot precisely call him nameless. He comes from a very good family.”

Caroline stared at her in surprise. “Surely someone must have told you that the Marquis de Rochefort is the name assumed by the notorious privateer, the man I, myself, recognized as the Black Eagle?”

“Oh, yes. Most enterprising of the young man to mend his fortunes in such a manner, I thought in my day we appreciated a bit of dash in a man, a hint of daring deeds. I cannot see that such a trifle makes him or his cousin ineligible, especially if he has mended his ways and intends to remain at home.”

Was the old lady being deliberately obtuse? Caroline could not tell. “But Tante Zizi, the man, both men, are imposters. Heavens alone knows what their real names may be.”

“My dear child!” the old lady exclaimed. “Whatever gave you such an odd notion? A privateer the man may have been, that is as may be; the nobility of France has turned its hand to stranger things in these last years. But he is also indisputably Jean Charles Henri, the Marquis de Rochefort. I could not mistake the look of the Rocheforts, a family I knew well when at Court. The present Marquis has exactly the look of his grandfather. Moreover, he gave to me details of that gentleman and of his grandmother, a good friend of mine, that none but a blood relative could have known. His knowledge of the family seat in the Loire valley was exact, his memory of relations, older men and women I had known, could not have been gathered by anything other than personal experience. No, no. The owner of Felicity is most definitely the Marquis de Rochefort!”

A feeling of sickness moved over Caroline. On the strength of her word, a man had been shunned, branded an imposter, and held up to scorn and ridicule. She alone had turned him into an outcast in the society where he had hoped to find acceptance.

“Why?” she whispered over the tightness in her chest. “Why didn’t he defend himself? Why didn’t he tell me I was wrong when I flung the charge into his face?”

“At a guess, pride. They were always proud, the Rochefort men.”

“But to let himself be falsely accused—”

“To be falsely accused was nothing compared to being accused at all. To a Rochefort, what he is and who he is must be obvious to those who have eyes to see.”

Caroline suddenly raised her hands to her face as she remembered the arrested look that had come into his eyes as she told him she had recognized him, the bitter irony with which he had asked her to be his wife. Why had he done that? What had caused him to treat her revelation in such a manner? He had promised to whisper his real name into the ear of the priest who would marry them. Was that to have been her punishment, to discover his true identity after they were wed? Or would he have repudiated her at the altar? Worse, could he have really thought she had some such ploy to persuade him into marriage in mind when she denounced him?

“Why — why?” she whispered almost to herself.

“Why the proposal which was so rudely interrupted? I cannot say, though I refuse to think his motives are anything but honorable. Perhaps next time you will consider longer before refusing such a prize.”

“There will never be a next time, and even if there were I could not accept. How could I, when it must seem the title is more important to me than the man?”

“Such a thing is difficult, I agree, but it can be explained.”

With a wan smile, Caroline shook her head.

Such considerations had to be thrust to one side as Anatole and Hippolyte erupted into the room. “What? You are not ready, Mam’zelle? Send a maid after your bonnet and gloves at once and let’s be off. There’s no time to waste if we are to catch up to them.”

“A moment, gentlemen,” she said as Anatole took her arm. “We don’t even know where they have gone.”

“But it is as plain as the nose on your face. The Indian Mission, of course. Why anyone would take Estelle with them on an elopement is more than I can see. Silly of Amélie to think such a poor excuse for a duenna would make everything all right, but I expect she wasn’t thinking straight — fact is, she couldn’t have been or she wouldn’t have gone in the first place!”

“I tell you what I think,
mon ami
,” Hippolyte said. “I think she took that miserable tutor with her. She was enraged with me for daring to criticize her behavior, even threw her slipper at me, did she not? She said to my face she would rather marry the devil than me. What I mean to say is, maybe she did. There was this Philippe moaning about the place because Mam’zelle Caroline had refused him. Maybe she decided to run away with him to this Indian Mission she was in such raptures over.”

“And you think M’sieur Philippe would take her?” Anatole asked, his skepticism plain.

“Why not? I would,” Hippolyte answered simply.

“Then you should have told her so and saved us all a lot of trouble!”

“I didn’t say I wanted that kind of helter-skelter wedding,” Hippolyte protested, “only that I would have settled for it above nothing.”

Caroline hastily interrupted a scene that had the makings of a fine quarrel. “I am glad to say, M’sieur Gravier, that you are wrong in your conjecture. M’sieur Philippe did not go with Estelle, or she with him. He left us on the boat that passed the night at Felicity and steamed by here just after dawn.”

“I would think a frippery fellow like him would have a difficult time getting up so early,” Anatole commented. Then he went on, “Still, it doesn’t matter. Regardless of who Estelle was going with or what she is going for, she and Amélie must be stopped. I have been thinking, Mam’zelle, that we could put the story about that my sisters have gone to be with my parents at the deathbed of my great-aunt. Hippolyte and I, when we come up to them, can send Victor Rochefort about his business, then escort you and the girls along to the house of my mother’s brother. That should silence busy tongues, don’t you think?”

“An excellent suggestion, if you should happen to be right, and if you can overcome the objections M’sieur Rochefort is certain to put forth. He will not thank you for disarranging his wedding plans for him.”

“Perhaps not. We shall have to take care of that eventuality when it arises,” Anatole said, a grim look about his mouth.

“You don’t mean to use force?” Caroline asked in concern.

“If it becomes necessary — and should the gentleman object to my methods, I suppose I will have to give him whatever satisfaction he may demand.”

“Anatole, not a duel—”

“Pray don’t upset yourself, Mam’zelle. Affairs of this sort sometimes come to that. I’m not at all sure that I should not call the fellow out for daring to spirit my sister away in such an irresponsible manner.”

“I believe it is your father who has the right to demand an explanation.”

“My father is absent.”

There was no arguing that fact, but as she rang for her bonnet and gloves Caroline vowed there would be no duel if she could possibly prevent it.

There were a few things to be attended to, especially if they were to be gone for any length of time. While Anatole strode up and down the hall with his timepiece in his hand, Caroline gave instructions concerning the children and made certain Tante Zizi understood where they were going and why.

She was tying the strings of her bonnet before the mirror of polished steel in the hall when the sound of carriage wheels penetrated the house. Anatole’s curricle already stood waiting upon the drive. This could only be a new arrival.

It was Rochefort. Impeccably clad in a caped driving coat and curly-brimmed beaver, he tossed the reins of his matched blacks to a stable hand and strode up the steps. There was no need for Colossus. Anatole stood waiting in the door.

Caroline fumbled a little as she pulled her gloves on. Settling the fingers and smoothing away the wrinkles gave her an excellent reason for not looking up as he approached.

“Rochefort,” Anatole said with a businesslike economy of words. “I am glad you came before we set out. You can tell us if Amélie and your cousin are at Felicity.”

“They are not,” Rochefort replied in the same clipped tones. “Victor was disturbed in mind about the effect of last night upon Mademoiselle Amélie. He set out early this morning to try to obtain a word with her and has not returned. That is all I know.”

“Then it is the Indian Mission. Mam’zelle, if you are ready?” Anatole held out his arm to Caroline.

“The Indian Mission?” Rochefort asked, a frown between his brows. “Are you seriously suggesting Victor is taking Mademoiselle Amélie there to be married?”

“It seems so,” Anatole replied. “We can no more conceive of Amélie doing it than you can your cousin, but the facts speak for themselves. In any case, there is no time to stand here talking of it. If we are to have the least chance of catching up with them, we must be gone.”