The Grand Masquerade (The Bold Women Series Book 4) (35 page)

When he tried to move around her, she stepped in front of him. “You are getting on that boat,” she said.

Tristan towered over her petite frame, but she did not move. Atlantis sat nearby watching anxiously. Tristan pushed Sydnee out of the way, and she grabbed him again.

With madness in his eyes, he raised his hand to strike her. “So you will hit me, Tristan? I will take it and stand firm. Get on that boat.”

A sob escaped him, and he dropped his hand and then his head.

Isabel came forward and put her arm around him. Delphine stopped crying and touched her father. “Papa?” she said.

He looked up. “Papa is coming now,” he murmured.

Wiping his face with the heels of his hands, he nodded to Isabel.

The whistle blew a final time, and Sydnee ran ahead to tell the steward that they were still coming.

The Saint-Yveses walked up the landing stage and onto the paddle wheeler headed for Memphis. The only one who waved goodbye to Sydnee was Delphine.

Chapter 31

Sydnee stepped off the landing stage into Natchez. It was good to be out of New Orleans and close to Fletcher once more. With him, she was safe, but when she arrived at the house he was gone. Her first thought was that they had crossed paths, and now he was in New Orleans, but his housekeeper said otherwise. “There was a change of plans, Mademoiselle Sauveterre. He had to go to Vicksburg yesterday to help with a breakout of fever.”

Sydnee was sorely disappointed. “Did he say when he would be back?”

“No, Mademoiselle. Please come in by the fire. There is chill in the air. I will make you something to eat and prepare a room.”

“Thank you, Questa,” she said, pulling her gloves off. “Don’t go to any trouble.”

The woman built a fire, curtsied and left Sydnee alone in the parlor. A steady mist fell the rest of the evening which added to Sydnee’s malaise. She grieved not only for D’anton but for the sake of Tristan. She knew that D’anton had been the great love of his life, and he would never fully recover.

She ate and retired early, hoping that when she awoke, Fletcher would be home. Although Questa made up a room for her, Sydnee slept in Fletcher’s bed. It was comforting to have his scent all around her.

She rose late, the morning sun being obscured by gray clouds and rain again. When Sydnee reached for the mask to tuck it into her bodice, she hesitated. Even though the ledgers were in Saint-Yves’ possession once more, the mask was still of importance, and she no longer felt comfortable carrying it. The judge in Natchez would not want it without access to the ledgers, so she decided to hide it somewhere at Fletcher’s house.

Walking down to the library, she scanned his books. She remembered him saying once that he was reading
La Vendetta
, and she found it. She smiled when she opened it. His bookmark was only one quarter of the way through the book, and she deduced that reading in French proved too challenging for him. She slipped the mask inside the book and replaced it on the shelf.

After breakfast, she walked into town and posted a letter to Fletcher, telling him the location of the mask as well as a full explanation of her discoveries. The letter could only be picked up by him. This way if something happened to her, the mask was safe.

She took a deep breath, put her umbrella up and walked back home. She wished Atlantis was with her. The thought of Cuthbert Saint-Yves and the man in the greatcoat sent a shudder through her. She scanned the rainy streets of Natchez for the Saint-Yveses’ carriage but saw nothing.

The rest of the afternoon, Sydnee sat by the fire in her day gown and slippers, reading. She was restless though, continually walking to the window looking for Fletcher. A sick feeling in the pit of her stomach accompanied her all day; and she knew it was not only anxiety, but grief. The grand masquerade had finally ended. It had protected and sheltered them for years, but inevitably it came crashing down around them.

Sunset came early and rather than bother Questa for food, Sydnee went to the kitchen to help herself to some soup. She brought it back to the parlor to sit in front of the fire.

Sydnee did not see the man in the greatcoat behind the door.

As she walked into the room, he lunged forward and clapped his hand over her mouth. Her bowl of soup crashed to the floor. Like a band of iron, he wrapped his arm around her waist and growled in her ear, “Cry for the servants and I will slit their throats.”

Sydnee’s terror was so great, she thought she would swoon. “Where is it?” he demanded removing his hand from her mouth. His arm was so tight around her that she could not speak. He groped her body for the envelope and when he found nothing, he took a handful of her hair, yanked her head back and held a gutting knife to her neck.

She took short gasps of air.

“Where
is
it?” he snarled.

“M-mailed it.”

“To who?”

“A judge,” she said, choking.

“We’ll see if you’re lying,” he said in a hoarse voice.

He kicked the door aside and backed out of the room, dragging her with him. Looking up and down the hall, he pulled her through the kitchen and out to the carriage house. After gagging her and lashing her hands tightly, he put her on the bed of a utility wagon and threw a tarp over her.

With her heart beating madly, Sydnee listened to him hitch a horse. There was little doubt that he was taking her somewhere to either torture her or kill her. She closed her eyes and called on all the power of the spirits, “Lord God, Jesus protect me. All the angels and saints please shelter me from harm. Danbala, who delivered Margarite from this monster, please help me now!”

Sydnee waited in terror as he drove her down the streets of Natchez and out of town. Her hands grew numb, they were bound so tightly. She knew that he was taking her far out into the surrounding wilds of Mississippi probably onto The Trace where no one could hear her. She slipped into a swoon, and when she awoke she was unsure how far they traveled.

The wagon stopped with a jolt, and she heard the crunch of his feet. He flipped back the tarp and then rolled her over untying the rope on her hands and pulled off the gag.

Taking her arm, he yanked her off the wagon and dragged her into the brush. They were indeed on The Trace in a swampy area thick with vegetation. The ground was soggy and littered with fallen trees and moss-covered logs. A swamp lay nearby filled with cypress, tupelo, and standing water. In the gloom she saw a shack across the road.

Grabbing her from behind, the man put the gutting knife to her throat once more. “Where is it?” he said.

Sydnee tried to speak but she could not. Her terror was too great.

“Tell me or I will--” Suddenly there was a loud crack, and the man grunted. Releasing her, he stumbled backward and clutched his arm.

Sydnee saw Cuthbert Saint-Yves climb down from his horse, holding a gun. “So you’ll blackmail me, Underwood?”

Wide-eyed, Sydnee backed away.

Saint-Yves continued, “You think I didn’t see you listening outside my office window that night? I watched you, and when you stole the ledgers I knew what you intended. Now you will have the mask too.”

“You smug bastard,” Underwood growled, and he charged Saint-Yves.

The old man raised his gun, but it misfired. When Underwood slammed into him, the weapon fell to the ground, and the horse bolted. They locked together in a struggle. Underwood’s coat was soaked with blood from the gunshot. They staggered down the embankment slogging through the mud, each trying to break free. Underwood was weakened from the wound, and when his grip slipped, Saint-Yves put his hands around his neck. The two men dropped into the water.

Sydnee backed up the embankment, watching, and then turned and ran. She ran down The Trace around the edge of the swamp and looked back. The two men were still wrestling in the water, splashing and kicking. She saw Saint-Yves try to stand, but Underwood pulled him back down and pushed his head under water.

Something along the shore caught Sydnee’s eye, and she saw an alligator slip into the water. Across the swamp, another one crawled in as well.

Cuthbert broke free and staggered to his feet, drenched and covered with weeds. The men continued to struggle and then fell back into the water. All at once there were garbled screams, a heavy churning of water and then silence.

*                 *                   *

Sydnee ran and continued to run for what seemed like hours. Even though she knew the men were dead, she was still terrified and would not feel safe until she was inside Fletcher’s home with the doors locked.

When she was too spent to run any longer, she staggered down the road by the light of a full moon. The rain had stopped, and the skies cleared. She was not afraid of the The Trace after dark. It would always be her home.

The spirits accompanied her all the way back to Natchez, urging her forward and guarding her. She was deeply thankful to them for rescuing her and promised good works and offerings as gratitude.

It was late by the time she stumbled up to Fletcher’s house. She knew that at this hour it would be locked, so she went around to the kitchen where she saw a light.

“Mademoiselle Sauveterre!” Questa exclaimed when she opened the door. The servant was banking the fire for the night. “What happened?”

Sydnee told her nothing, saying only that she visited someone on The Trace and had gotten lost. Questa brought water, and after bathing, Sydnee dropped into Fletcher’s bed, sick with exhaustion.

She slept late into the next day, and when she opened her eyes Fletcher was standing over her. He sat down on the bed and put his hand to her cheek. “What is it? Are you ill? I have been so worried.”

Sydnee sat up and hugged his neck, overjoyed to see him.

“When did you return?” she asked.

“Early this morning. Questa said that you were lost on The Trace, and I knew that was a lie. What happened?”

She pushed the hair from her face, sat cross-legged on the bed and told him everything. Fletcher listened wide-eyed. In less than an hour, he learned about Sydnee’s relationship with Tristan, the love affair between Mortimer and Isabel and the death of D’anton. When she told him about Cuthbert Saint-Yves and Underwood, he grew pale. Overwhelmed with all the information, he would pace and then sit back down, then pace again. He shook his head in disbelief and would gasp with astonishment.

“All this happened in just a few days, Sydnee. I am in shock.” He looked her over anxiously. “Have you been hurt in anyway?”

“Mosquito bites, and that’s all,” she said with relief.

Fletcher was dumbfounded. Standing up, he went to the window. “Tomorrow I will retrieve the horse and wagon, if they haven’t been stolen.”

“I want to go with you,” Sydnee said.

“No, you should not go back there.”

“That shack on The Trace was probably Underwood’s hideout,” she explained. “I believe he may have taken the ledgers there. Even though the ringleaders are dead, I want those ledgers, and I want the authorities to know of the operation so others like Brother Jackson cannot resurrect it.”

Fletcher sighed. “Very well.”

They pored over and over the events throughout the day and slept in each other’s arms that night. Fletcher could at last put his mind to rest about Sydnee’s devotion to him, and Sydnee felt secure once more.

The next morning they rode out to where Underwood had taken Sydnee and found the horse grazing along the road still hitched to the wagon. “I am surprised she wasn’t stolen or attacked by a panther,” Fletcher said, dismounting.

“I am surprised too,” Sydnee said, looking around the area with a frown.

“Where were they fighting, Sydnee?”

She pointed to the edge of the swamp. Fletcher walked over and looked at the water. There was no trace of clothing and no signs of a struggle. He murmured, “Gone, just like that. Good riddance.”

Sydnee dismounted. “I am going into the shack.”

“Are you sure?”

She swallowed hard and nodded.

It was a one room broken down hovel which was filthy, smelled of urine, and unwashed bedding. Sydnee put her sleeve to her nose and scanned the room. There was just a rickety bed, table, one chair, and a few cooking implements.

Fletcher put gloves on. He pulled the mattress up and looked underneath it, opened a dusty cupboard and then scanned the rafters. Sydnee pulled up some loose floor boards, but there was nothing under them but damp earth.

They walked around the outside of the house which was overgrown with weeds, and Fletcher looked down into an old dried up well. He pulled the bucket up and inside was a burlap bag. “Sydnee!” he called.

She ran over as he opened it. The ledgers were inside. “Oh!” she gasped with relief. “Thank God!”

“Let’s go home and look at these things.”

They took their midday meal to the library, pulled the mask out of the book and started looking at dates and names. “I recognize some of these names,” Fletcher said. “Relatives have contacted the hospital looking for these children. With any luck we can reunite them.”

For hours they examined the documents and then in the middle of the afternoon, Sydnee thought of something. Saying nothing to Fletcher, she grabbed the earliest ledger that they had recovered. Placing the mask over several pages, she scanned the entries. Her palms were sweating, and her heart was pounding. She stopped at the bottom of one of the pages. It read,

Newborn, Victor Sauveterre, Natchez Trace, July 1831.

Sydnee stared at the page. Her baby had not died at birth. Holding her breath, she read the next line,

Purchased, Denis and Magali Germain, St. Louis, Missouri, August 1831

When she looked up, Fletcher was watching her. “What is it?”

With clenched fists, she walked to the window. Now she knew that her father had sold her baby to the man in the greatcoat. Sometime that night when she had given birth, he had sold her child.

Sydnee turned to Fletcher and said, “I have something else to tell you.”

*                   *                       *