The Grand Masquerade (The Bold Women Series Book 4) (8 page)

“I notice that you visit him in his room every evening.
Tres bien,
I am glad there is progress. I shall write to Monsieur Saint-Yves apprising him of the situation.”

Sydnee nodded, swallowed hard and walked away.

*                  *                  *

Sunbeams filtered through Tristan's blinds, casting stripes of light on his bed in the
garçonnière.
  The boy rolled over and opened his eyes. Today there was no school and after daily Mass, he crawled back into bed. He stretched, hearing voices in the courtyard below. Throwing back the sheet, he walked to the French doors and listened.

“You must do something about the stench,” he heard Maxime say.

Tristan looked outside. Maxime stood below the balcony with a handkerchief to his nose, talking to Sydnee. The dogs were sitting at her feet.

“I want these creatures bathed immediately. It is to be done by the time I return.”

“Yes, Maxime,” Sydnee said.

Tristan yanked the sheet off the bed, and draped it over his nightshirt. Dashing out onto the balcony, he made sure Maxime was gone and then called, “I will help you.”

Sydnee looked up, nodding as she put on her apron.

Tristan pulled on his clothes and raced downstairs.

“You will ruin those,” she said.

Tristan looked down at his silk shirt and pantaloons. “I don't care.”

Sydnee smiled and shrugged.

“What do we do first?”

“Have you ever washed a dog?”

“I have never done anything like this in my life,” he announced with excitement. “A young gentleman must never dirty his hands,” he said and rolled his eyes.

“Well, we need soap and plenty of water. Are there wash tubs?”

“Yes, by the laundry.”

“Get some rope to hold the dogs, and I'll get water,” she ordered.

Tristan ran into the stable, and Sydnee walked to the back of the house with the dogs behind her. There was a laundry area with large crucibles, wash tubs and a clothes line. It was getting warm, and Sydnee was grateful for the large fronds giving her shade. She gathered soap and rags and started to fill the tubs with water from the cistern.

One of the kitchen workers walked past and said, “Don't use that good water from the cistern, Mademoiselle Sydnee. Them barrels over there is full of river water. Use those.”

Sydnee nodded. She hoped the woman would not tell Giselle. The head housekeeper did not like anyone touching her supplies.

“I have rope,” Tristan announced coming around the corner.

“Good, help me finish filling the tubs, and then you wash Baloo, and I will wash Atlantis.”

After filling the tubs, they started. Unsure of himself, Tristan mimicked Sydnee's every move. He was clumsy and fumbled with Baloo, trying to get him to step into the tub. He pulled him with the rope, and then pushed the dog from behind, but the mastiff would not budge.

Sydnee stopped washing and yanked Baloo's rope sharply. “Come!” she demanded, and the dog stepped in the tub.

Tristan sighed and said, “Yes, now we begin.”

Rolling up his sleeves, he poured several buckets of water over Baloo. The dog instantly shook all over him. The boy's shirt was soaked, his pantaloons were wet, and dirty water was spattered all over his face.

Sydnee started to laugh. Tristan wiped the water from his eyes and laughed too. “We are going to do this, Baloo,” he said with conviction, and the dog looked at him warily. Tristan poured soap all over his back, buried his hands in the wet fur and started to scrub him briskly.

In her own wash tub, Atlantis stood stiff-legged and resentful while Sydnee washed her. The water was black as mud.

Suddenly Tristan yelled, “No!”

Baloo had jumped out of the tub and was running into the courtyard with the rope trailing behind him. Tristan dashed after him. At last, he cornered him and threw himself on top of the dog as Sydnee grabbed the rope.

Wet and covered with mud, Tristan stood up, victorious. “I did it!”

An hour later they were finished.

“What's next?” Tristan asked with enthusiasm.

Sydnee pushed her damp locks off of her forehead. She was tired and hot. They were sitting in the courtyard on the ledge of the fountain. “Aren't you tired?” she asked.

“No, I've never had so much fun!”

Vivian swooped down and landed on her shoulder.

“Will she sit on my shoulder?” Tristan asked.

Vivian seemed to know what he wanted and glared at him.

“Let's see.” Sydnee reached up and Vivian stepped onto her forearm. “Now hold my hand,” she said to Tristan reaching out to him. She tilted her arm upward, hoping to get the crow to walk down her arm onto Tristan.

Vivian did not move. Sydnee shook her arm and said, “Go, Vivian.”

Vivian rode up and down, not moving. When Tristan reached up to touch her, she burst into a mass of flapping wings and pecked at him.

“Well, maybe later,” Sydnee said.

“Do you want to look at insects?” Tristan suggested. When Sydnee agreed, he ran up to his room and returned with a large magnifying glass. He handed it to her and said, “Now look through it.”

Sydnee bent over and looked at an insect darting around on the surface of the water in the fountain. “Oh!” she exclaimed. “Look at that!”

She wandered off, and Tristan spied Vivian sitting in a magnolia tree. “What kind of food does Vivian like?” he called.

Sydnee was on her knees examining something on the ground. Sitting back on her ankles she said, “Oh, I don't know, anything, corn if you have some, or meat. She's a crow. They eat everything.”

Tristan went into the kitchen and returned with an assortment of treats on a plate. The bird was watching him closely. He held a piece of pork in the palm of his hand. “Come here. Look what I have,” he cooed.

Vivian did not move from her perch in the tree.

Next he held up a handful of corn and made kissing noises. Still the bird did nothing. Determined, Tristan picked up the plate and moved under the tree where Vivian was sitting. Holding up some cornbread, he murmured, “Good bird. Come and get it.”

Vivian flapped her wings and hopped around. Tristan was pleased. He believed that she was finally warming up to him. Just when he thought she was about to fly down to his arm, she turned around, lifted her tail and dropped feces onto his neck with a splat.

“Damn it!” he exclaimed, pulling his collar up to wipe his neck. “Damn it all! So that's the thanks I get! Well, here is your food,” and he threw it at Vivian.

Unconcerned, Vivian flew to a different tree.

*                   *                    *

In the afternoon, Sydnee and Tristan moved into the school room to work on a play about ancient Rome that Maxime had assigned.  Sydnee loved activities that had to do with school. Her quick mind combined with her enthusiasm for learning made her an excellent student. First they practiced their parts, and then they made costumes. They tied old sheets over their clothes for togas and made wreaths for their heads out of vines.

When Maxime returned from his errand, he heard them practicing and smiled. He was impressed with Sydnee, and it was obvious that Tristan adored her.

The cooks made bread pudding that evening, and Sydnee and Tristan took their dessert and orgeat drinks to the courtyard as the sun was setting. They sat down together on a wrought-iron bench when suddenly wings flapped around Tristan, and black feathers hit his face. He blinked and ducked, dumping his drink.

“Oh!” Sydnee gasped. When she realized what was happening, she laughed and exclaimed, “
Zut alors
!”

There sitting on Tristan's shoulder was Vivian.

Tristan sat stiffly on the bench, his eyes like saucers. The crow sat there proudly, looking down at Sydnee with a haughty attitude.

“She has never done that for anyone but me!” Sydnee exclaimed. “It is official, Vivian is now madly in love with you.”

Chapter 9

As the summer wore on, the heat and humidity became oppressive, and everyone grew out of sorts. The kitchen workers were surly and on edge. Giselle was glaring at everyone like a wildcat ready to pounce, and Maxime was a holy terror. His patience evaporated in the heat, and he would flare up at Sydnee and Tristan without cause. Even the dogs were crabby.

One morning after Mass, when they did not have school, Tristan whispered, “Sydnee, let’s go for a walk in the city.”

“What?” she said, surprised. “You told me that we cannot leave here unchaperoned.”

“I don't care. I have only seen New Orleans from the window of a carriage. I must escape for a while. It will only be for a short time. We will take the dogs to keep us safe.”

Sydnee looked around furtively. “Where is Maxime?”

“Composing his weekly letter to my father and going over his accounts. Please, please, please?”

Biting her lip, Sydnee nodded.

She gave a short whistle, the dogs came bounding up, and Vivian landed on Tristan's shoulder. He reached up and stroked her feathers. Looking around cautiously, they stepped out of the garden sanctuary onto Rue St. Louis. The street was glaringly hot and silent. Sydnee put her sleeve to her nose. In the heat, the odor of horse dung was overpowering.

“You forgot your gloves,” Tristan said.

“I must wear gloves?” Sydnee asked.

He blinked. “I think so. Never mind, let's go,” he said taking her arm.

They walked down the cobblestone street with the dogs behind them. Rows of houses were lined up, one flush against the other, painted in pastel hues with shutters of contrasting colors. A man came around the corner pushing a heavy cart. He stopped at each doorway dumping refuse into it.

Sydnee looked around. It was thrilling to be out of the confines of the courtyard. As much as she relished her new life at the Saint-Yves household, she missed being out in the open air. She missed the wind on her face and the trees whispering to her. When she was inside, the spirits were quiet and their voices indistinct.

Tristan was excited too and looked around smiling. “We will go down to market.”

“Is that where everyone is?” Sydnee said, looking at the empty street.

“Everyone abandons New Orleans this time of year, but the market will have more people. Most families leave for the North because of yellow jack, but there is very little fever this year.”

Sydnee wanted to ask why Tristan's parents left him behind but reconsidered.

Almost as if he was reading her mind, he added, “I have already had the illness, so there is no danger for me. That is why I did not go with them.”

Nevertheless Sydnee felt there was another reason.

They walked several blocks and at last turned down a street with more activity. Dusky women walked with baskets on their heads, men lounged in doorways smoking, as children ran with sticks and hoops.

Tristan thought better of having Vivian on his shoulder and tossed her into the air, so she would not attract attention. Sydnee noticed people staring at him as he walked along anyway. He was unaware of the admiration in their eyes. She knew they were impressed with his beauty in the same way she had been taken with it that first day over a month ago.

The
trottoirs
or sidewalks
were uneven, and when Sydnee wasn't paying attention, she tripped. The root from a huge tree had heaved the sidewalk up, cracking the bricks. Tristan caught her, and they laughed. As they walked, they stayed under the galleries for shade, keeping the dogs at their heels.

Near Jackson Square there was a long stucco building Tristan called the
Halles des Boucheries.
It was the meat market, and the dogs sniffed the air. Men speaking Italian wearing white aprons haggled with shoppers over the rows of cutlets, roasts and seafood. Chickens, hams and sausages hung from hooks as slaves brushed flies away with palmetto fans. Sydnee had never seen so much food and activity. She could not imagine the market on a busy day.

“Hey!” shouted one of the workers in a thick Italian accent. “Watch your dogs!”

He gestured toward Baloo whose snout was on the same level as juicy pork cutlets resting on long trays.

“Come, let's go to the Vegetable Market,” suggested Tristan.

The
Halles de Legumes
was another open air building lined with cream-colored columns and green awnings. Wagons were backed up to the stalls in neat rows where the vendors unloaded and arranged colorful produce. Baskets of peanuts, onions and apples lined the walkway, next to bunches of herbs, trays of yellow peppers, bright green okra, and red potatoes. Sydnee stopped and examined a palmetto broom that was for sale next to large baskets filled with dried Spanish moss for stuffing mattresses. She closed her eyes and inhaled the dark scent of the herbs and the sweet aroma of the fruit.

Farmers called to shoppers, describing the juiciest of fruits and the freshest of vegetables. Black women with baskets over their arms and
tignons
on their heads wove up and down the aisles scrutinizing the produce and haggling with the grocers. Some carried babies tied onto their backs while others had children trailing behind them in a row.

Tristan stopped at a stand and picked up a handful of brittle brown sticks in a small basket. When Sydnee drew closer she realized they were dried grasshoppers.

“For ze birds,” the old woman said with a toothless smile.

Tristan nodded, reached into his pocket and gave her a picayune.

“For Vivian,” he said to Sydnee, wrapping a handful into his handkerchief. The crow was nowhere to be found, but they knew she would reappear when they left the chaos of the market.

Sydnee smiled. “Why do you do it? That bird already loves you.”

They walked to the levee to sit on the grass. Long rows of empty docks stretched out before them. There was only a few riverboats on the landing, and they watched the men unloading crates and barrels. Sydnee ate a pear Tristan had purchased for her. 

“Any other time of year this landing is filled with paddle wheelers and flatboats,” Tristan explained, popping a fig into his mouth. “It is usually loud and filled with people.”

Vivian swooped down and landed on the ground in front of them.

“Look, Vivian,” he said. “I have a treat for you,” and he opened his handkerchief, handing her a dried grasshopper. The bird walked over and plucked it from his hand crunching it in her beak.

“Maxime calls her 'The Albatross',” Sydnee said.

“Yes, it is from a poem. She is
my
personal 'Albatross',” he said laughing and put the rest of the grasshoppers back in his handkerchief.

Vivian cawed loudly in protest, but Tristan was firm. He swept his arm into the air signaling her to leave, and she flew up into a tree to sulk. 

A fashionably dressed couple walked past them arm in arm. The young woman had on a pink gown with white lace frills and twirled a sea foam green parasol on her shoulder. The young man wore a cream-colored coat with tan pantaloons. When he stole a kiss from her, Sydnee and Tristan looked away.

“Sydnee,” Tristan said, pausing. “I know why you are here. Thank you for not trying to--” and he broke off.

Sydnee stared straight ahead. When he looked at her, she nodded, keeping her eyes down.

Tristan bit his lip. “I don't understand myself. I am sixteen years old, and I should like to kiss girls, but when Isabel and I were practicing last summer, I-I didn't like it. I couldn't wait to wipe my mouth.”

He sighed and stood up. With his hands in his pockets he walked toward the river. He bent over and threw a rock. Turning suddenly, he came back with tears in his eyes and exclaimed, “But when Lucien did it, I liked--” and he choked, not finishing his sentence. His chest heaved. “I don't understand myself, Sydnee. I am so ashamed.”

He looked at her, his eyes red-rimmed. “When my father caught us, he beat me and sent Lucien away. He called me depraved. Am I depraved, Sydnee?” He looked at her beseechingly.

She started to speak, but words would not come. Tristan stood over her, his hands in fists, waiting for an answer.

“I-I do not know the meaning of that word,” she uttered at last. “But I do know that you are the finest person that I have ever met.”

Tristan squeezed his eyes shut and turned away.

Suddenly Vivian dropped down onto his shoulder. Startled, he half laughed and half sobbed. Reaching up, he stroked her head and sat back down on the grass by Sydnee.

“And what of your mother? How is it with her?” Sydnee asked.

Tristan looked surprised. “My mother? I don’t know. She never takes notice of me. Especially since my brother died.”

“I thought you had no siblings.”

“Not anymore. My brother, Guy sailed for Paris several months ago. There was a storm, and he was lost at sea. My mother is convinced he will return, so she has a light put in the window for him every night.”

Sydnee remembered the lamp lit by Giselle in the bed chamber every sunset.

“What should I do about how I feel?” Tristan asked desperately.

“What do the spirits tell you to do?”

“What do you mean?”

“The voices that comfort you, guide you.”

“You mean God?” Tristan asked, rubbing his forehead. “I don't know. I can't hear anything.”

“Sometimes I cannot hear them either, but they are always there. For me they are in the wind and the trees and sometimes the creatures around me. Look how Vivian landed on your shoulder to give you comfort when you needed it.”

Tristan laughed. “Oh, that was just Vivian.” He looked up at the crow in the tree and then looked back at Sydnee. “This talk does not sound like something Bishop de Neckere would like.”

“Margarite taught these things to me.”

Tristan remembered how awkward Sydnee had been in Mass, and he realized now that she had never been to church. “Are talking about Voodoo, Sydnee?”

“No, it's Hoodoo. We say the same prayers and speak to the same saints as you do at St. Louis Cathedral.”

Tristan rubbed his eyes. He was suddenly very tired. “I want to hear all about it, but not today. Maxime will be finishing up soon,” he said. “We should go home.”

*                      *                   *

There were many more excursions after that day. Tristan was eager to experience freedom from the walls of his townhome on St. Louis Street. He was tired of schoolrooms,
garçonnières
and courtyards
. He wanted to fish, watch riverboats on the Mississippi, hear music on the landing, and eat food from street vendors.

Slipping away proved to be quite easy. Before every excursion, they would go into Tristan's bedroom, lock the door and then crawl down a tree into the courtyard where they would slip out onto the street. Maxime would not disturb them, thinking that Sydnee was teaching Tristan the sensual arts.

Some days they would simply walk through Jackson Square and talk, other afternoons they would run with the dogs to the outskirts of town looking for butterflies. The old grand-dames would shake their heads at Sydnee as she darted through the streets of New Orleans with no bonnet or gloves, disgracefully showing her ankles as she ran alongside Tristan Saint-Yves, but the youngsters did not care. Tristan and Sydnee were having too much fun.

Tristan's favorite activity was to fish the Mississippi. After catching an abundance of catfish and crappies, they would collect branches, build a fire, and fry their meal upon the riverbank. Sometimes they would bring okra or onions to sauté and add a freshly baked baguette to accompany their meal.

One Sunday afternoon at the end of September when Maxime was bookkeeping, Tristan and Sydnee stole away to their favorite field off Orleans Street to run the dogs. It was a beautiful open area just outside the city with groves of large oak trees. Sometimes they would watch boys playing
raquettes
or catch insects to examine under the magnifying glass but this time, as they drew near, they heard singing and drumming. Slaves and Creoles of color were flooding the streets, laughing and talking, carrying children, baskets of food and blankets. Some of the men had bright sashes tied around their waists and women wore colorful skirts and
tignons
. Everyone seemed to be going in the direction of the open field.

When Tristan and Sydnee arrived, they were amazed. Their favorite field had been transformed into a festival attended by the black residents of New Orleans. Only a handful of spectators were white townspeople. Perhaps four hundred souls turned out for the shopping, music, and dance.

“I have heard the kitchen women speak of this,” Tristan shouted to Sydnee over noise. “They call it
La Place Publique,
or Congo Square,
but I didn't know that it was here.”

Keeping the dogs close, they wound through the crowd, stopping to watch groups of black men and women dancing to the rhythm of drums and gourds, dressed in free flowing garments trimmed with ribbons, bells or shells. They would jiggle and jump to the music, stomping in time to the music. The women would shake their shoulders seductively as the men beat a frenzied rhythm on the drums.