Bal Masque (16 page)

As the doctor departed, Etienne turned to his brother. “So I can’t dissuade you, then? You’re bound to make this trip?”

Philippe clapped a hand to his brother’s shoulder. “I think it’s the best way. As long as they think they have a score to settle with me, the Blanchards will be waiting. It’s better if I’m somewhere else. Cousin Bowie makes this affair with the Texicans sound exciting. Fighting duels, that’s poor sport. Midwifing a revolution, that’s something else again.”

“James could always spin a yarn, I’ll grant you that. His tales almost entice me. When do you leave?”

Philippe shrugged. “No point in delaying. I’m not injured. This scratch will heal as well on a ship as in your house, and with less danger to you, Etienne. I’ll be on a schooner bound for Copano Bay this afternoon. The passage is arranged.”

Philippe was leaving! Lucienne couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She started to leap up, run to him, tell him he mustn’t go, but Etienne’s next words stopped her.

“And the young lady? Lucienne, la belle Toussaint? What of her?”

Philippe laughed shortly. “She made a very lovely bride.” The two men turned toward the house.

“You have no regrets, then? She’s quite a beauty, and an heiress, as well.”

“A lovely distraction for an evening or so. Very pretty, and often diverting. A pleasant flirtation, but”—Philippe shook his head—“she makes the fatal error of many beautiful young women. She becomes tiresome. Flirtation is one thing, but her petulance and pouts are something else. She may amuse for a day, but for a lifetime, no, I prefer someone less wearisome. Armand finds her foolishness endearing, her spirit refreshing. I wish him well. As for me, I’d rather face Santa Anna’s militia than a woman’s wiles, any day.”

“One day you’ll sing a different tune, Philippe. You’ll stop dodging the gentle threads of matrimony and willingly step into the web. Wait and see.” Etienne started into the house. Philippe followed.

“It could happen, I suppose.” His voice sounded doubtful. “If so, it won’t be because the lady expects me to comply with her romantic daydreams and elope. I’ll want something more substantial than girlish impulses to depend on.”

Stunned at his words, Lucienne watched the two men enter the house. Tears burned her eyes. Her first impulse was to run after Philippe, confront him, denounce him for a cad and a liar. Pride stopped her. She’d never let him see her like this, disheveled, looking like a wild woman of the swamp. He must never know she’d chased after him. Humiliated, wounded more deeply than words could describe, Lucienne wished the walls would fall on top of her. Philippe! Philippe! She’d given him her heart, risked her reputation and her family pride, but he had only toyed with her. He’d never wanted her. He found her
tiresome
, even
foolish
. A flirtation, that’s all he’d had in mind. He’d had no intention of marrying her. Sick with mortification, she hid her face in her hands. To think how he must have laughed at her, what amusement he’d had at her expense. Lucienne could scarcely bear to recall the endearing words she’d poured out to him.

He’d said over and over how he loved her, but it was all a lie, a game to him. How cruel. What a cad he was. He’d lied—lied at every turn. Every sweet word, every honeyed promise had been a lie. And she’d run away to be with him! She’d never be able to hold up her head in the parish again. Lucienne buried her face in her hands and sobbed.
Philippe, how could you deceive me so?
Bitter tears soaked her faded skirts.
Your code of honor requires you to risk your life defending your devious cousin but lets you lie to the woman you said you loved! That’s honor!

Sharp reflection intruded. No, honesty forced her to admit, Philippe never a
ctually said
he loved her. He’d often told her he was desolate at the thought of her marrying another man. His heart would break to see her with someone else. He’d not said he loved her. He hadn’t sincerely said he wanted to marry her. He’d only carried on an extended flirtation. How could she have been so blind! She’d flirted in the same way with one or two of her suitors, young men she liked a little but not enough to encourage.

Eyes filled with tears, shattered by Philippe’s callous words, Lucienne let her pillowslip parcel slide from her grip. She wrapped her arms tightly around herself, huddling on her stone bench. Sounds above, doors opening and voices calling, reminded her she couldn’t stay where she was. Without thought of her destination, she trudged out of the courtyard. She’d been a fool, a giddy schoolgirl, tossing her bonnet at a man with no more feelings for her than he had for a dozen like her. All the plans, all the clever schemes—they’d been hers, not his. Philippe had never proposed. He’d never even said he wanted to go to Papa and ask for her. All the arrangements had been on her side.

She’d made excuses for him, not once admitting that Philippe could have put forth his case to Papa just as Armand had. She’d made herself believe a reason, a non-existent hindrance, prevented Philippe from speaking. What a laugh it must have given him to see her scrambling about, looking for ways to make the obstacles fall. Even if Pierrette had taken her place at the wedding, Lucienne was now certain there would have been no elopement. No ardent Philippe would have appeared to carry her away once she’d escaped through the side door. It had all been in her head, the whole romantic, thin-as-air plan. No wonder the man showed so little ingenuity, made no counter plans. He had no interest, and her great love was only a prank to him.

Lucienne stumbled mindlessly along the boardwalk. Humiliated beyond endurance, she recounted in her mind the unnumbered times she’d poured out her heart to that rogue Pardue. How he’d listened, encouraged, even challenged her to foil her family’s plans. Laughing to himself, no doubt, as he applauded her every indiscretion. Though she’d known his reputation for wooing and wandering away, she’d been certain his attentions to her were sincere. How could he not have loved her? She was the belle of Mille Fleur, the delight of New Orleans society. Her suitors had stood three deep around her at every ball and party. Among the crowd, only Philippe had taken her eye. He alone had stood out from the flock. But she had merely been a diversion for him. Her bruised pride all but bled with her suffering.

Lucienne told herself she was sorry that bullet had done so little damage! With luck she’d never see him again. But no one else must learn of her folly. That she couldn’t endure.

Slowly her surroundings began to penetrate Lucienne’s mental fog. The breeze, sharper now, cut through her threadbare dress. She felt unclothed without decent petticoats or stockings. At every step, her boot scraped at the blister on her heel. Too numb in mind to think, too distracted by discomfort and growing hunger to be wary, Lucienne limped away from the Pardue house and the disillusion it symbolized.

She walked a long time, turning in whatever direction chance took her before trying to take realistic stock of her situation. She had no money, could not ask for help. Her faded, ill-fitting dress blocked her from approaching anyone for assistance. No one would believe such a ragtag girl could be the daughter of Mille Fleur. What was she to do?

The blister on her heel broke. Raw skin and a pebble she’d collected in her boot brought her back to herself. She stopped, now much more aware of the chill in the air, and of her abused and sore feet. Where exactly was she? Lucienne looked at the buildings around her. Shops, some of them, but more were the cafés where the men of the town often gathered to play cards, billiards, and backgammon. She’d heard from Pierrette’s brothers that fortunes were made and lost gambling in such places. She must not linger here. She might be noticed. It wasn’t a good place to be, but at least she now knew where she was. The cathedral was ahead of her, as well as the cafés on Royal, and a few blocks beyond was Grandmère’s quiet house on St. Ann. Snatching at a possible solution, Lucienne hurried on. She could go to Grandmère’s, where she’d be offered food, a place to rest, and possibly find something to wear that didn’t cut off all circulation. Then she could think how to proceed. Lucienne breathed as deeply as the unyielding seams would permit, and with fresh determination tramped toward the Thierry home.

A light sprinkle of rain spattered on the banquette as Lucienne hurried toward her destination. She could see the tall windows that rose above the courtyard walls. It wouldn’t be more than two minutes till she’d be safe inside. If only that rain would hold off for a bit longer. Lucienne hurried as best she could, footsore and panting. The droplets increased. A distant rumble in the darkening clouds harried her. Disregarding the real pain stabbing her feet, Lucienne ran for the gates. The skies opened and pellets as sharp as hail pounded the ground. In five steps she was soaked to the skin, her braids slapping wet tails against her shoulders as she ran. She threw herself at the gates, their ornate bars rain-slick in her clutching hands.

Locked! The gates were locked, not giving an inch when she tore at them. Lucienne cringed under the inadequate overhang of the archway. Water tumbled in a sheet off the tiles and down to the street, splashing into her already sodden shoes. Grandmère wasn’t home. Of course she wasn’t. She was still at Mille Fleur with the rest of the family. Obadiah would be with her, cosseting and waiting on her as he did at home, vying with Marie for the opportunity to coddle the aging family matriarch. Lucienne peered through the stream washing over the gates. Surely someone was home. Someone would see her and let her in. The maids would still be there, and Grandmère’s ancient cook. Some member of the household would see her. She rattled the gates again. Over the roar of rain and incidental thunder, she could barely hear the sound of her own voice calling out.
“C’est moi, Lucienne, c’est moi!”
No one answered, no one came. The torrent increased till she couldn’t make out the windows in the walls across the courtyard.

Lucienne slumped against the garden wall as the deluge filled her shoes. No one was coming. No one could even hear her. If by chance the maids passing a window did catch sight of her, they’d only see a beggar girl looking for a place to get out of the storm. Without Madame Thierry to direct them, they’d never let a strange, half-dressed girl into that gracious house filled with precious, portable treasures. She would remain here, locked out of the world she knew, with nowhere to go. Lucienne, for the first time, began to understand what she had gotten herself into. No longer in her assured place in the world, she had no other place to fill.

As the storm buffeted her from all sides, Lucienne turned away from her grandmother’s house. With steps made cautious by treacherous puddles and coursing streams in every street, she forged on, turning back the way she’d come, no clear destination in mind. Rain pounded her back as wet strands of hair pulled free from her braids. She pushed back the black wisps that stuck to her face and covered her eyes. Surprised at the distance she’d covered, Lucienne found herself at the square surrounding the cathedral, once more near the marketplace. The long, narrow structure offered shelter, even if she couldn’t buy anything. Her sodden appearance would cause no stir among the swarms there. She ducked through the downpour and into the jostling crowds that filled the market. A dozen sensations assaulted her senses. The cacophony of a host of languages dinned in her ears. Aromas from a myriad of spices teased her nose. Rich coffee, cocoa, and ginger reminded her how long it had been since she had eaten. A feast of color from the vegetable bins accosted her, their ripe flavors making her stomach rumble. She’d never been empty with hunger before in her life. Shivering in her soaked dress, she clutched a post as a wave of weakness drained her strength. All around, in the milling, haggling, chattering horde, people crowded together in a colorful, faceless flock, buying produce, filling baskets. She longed to snatch a golden orange from the hands of a vendor but forced herself to walk away.

Here, at least, Lucienne knew she was safe from discovery as long as she didn’t call attention to herself. A pretty quadroon held out a bunch of violets. Lucienne shook her head and passed on. She made her way through the mob to a group of stalls well away from the food vendors. Here friends met to chat, exchange gossip, watch the colorful parade, and drink coffee or cocoa. She could tarry here as long as she needed, letting her dress dry until the rain stopped, and she could think what to do.

She supposed she had no option but to go home. Armand, well, he was still bland, tedious, and tiresome. Surely Papa now understood she would not, could not be married to him. Not that he was evil or ugly or even old. He just wasn’t a man she could face day after day over the course of her life. After Philippe’s revelations to his brother, she supposed she should see Armand in a new, more attractive light, but that wasn’t possible. It was all Papa’s fault, after all. He shouldn’t have taken it on himself to plan her life. Her feelings should have been paramount. So if Papa was appalled at what she’d done, well, he deserved it.

As for Philippe, she hoped he’d find Texas as hot and unpleasant as all the stories said it was. Even hotter and more miserable, if possible. He was low, cunning, deceitful, and not worth the anguish he’d caused her, not worth all that worrying she’d done over the duel and his possible death. No, he could go to Halifax, for all she cared.

And Armand? Certainly Armand should be counting himself better off with her out of his life. She’d only make him miserable, or at least she’d put all her energy into trying. In fact, if she knew a way to live without men, any men at all, she’d leap to it in a heartbeat.

Life without a man to direct her life—what a pleasant idea. Days without watching every word and act for fear some poor man would be demolished upon finding the lady had a mind of her own—what freedom. Whole years of not asking the authoritative gentleman what he thought when a woman had already seen the problem and the solution in a trice—a novel concept. An entire life without a constant reminder not to upset the menfolk—liberty indeed. No wonder Grandmère had such a poor opinion of men in general and her sons-in-law in particular. Lucienne wished she were old enough to imitate her spirited grandmother. Lured by such outrageous thoughts, Lucienne forgot where she was. She laughed aloud, surprising herself, then turned away in embarrassment when a number of people stared, raised disapproving eyebrows, and stepped back from her.