The Countess Misbehaves

by Nan Ryan

  “Heavens, no. I do so enjoy going out.”

  As if she hadn’t spoken, Colfax mused, “I recall that the mosquito population was so sparse in ’53 one could sleep without the baire enclosing the bed. But bronze john swept through this city all summer and took countless lives. Barrels of burning tar constantly blackened the skies and burned our eyes and choked us. The cathedral bell tolled each time another poor soul died and it seemed that the terrible tolling never stopped. Night and day it pealed.”

  “You were in no danger since you had the fever all those years ago?”

  “That’s true. I’ve been immune ever since…since the summer of…” He shook his head sadly, fell silent, and his eyes clouded.

  Madeleine knew he was looking back into the past, to that dreadful summer of 1816 and the sad events that had changed his life forever. He had been a young man who was to be married to a beautiful Creole belle. The two had been madly in love, but a yellow fever epidemic had ended their dreams. Both contracted the fever, but Colfax survived. His beloved had not. Twenty-four hours before they were to be married, she died in his arms and was buried in her white wedding gown.

  As if there had been no lapse in the conversation, Colfax said, “Yes, thankfully, I am immune. That’s why I didn’t flee upriver to the safety of the plantation with Avalina in ’53. Many of the sick were good friends and they needed me. I did what I could for them, but in many cases it wasn’t enough.”

  “I know you did,” Madeleine said and affectionately patted his arm. Quickly changing the subject, she said, “Desmond is coming for dinner and afterward we are going to the theater. Why don’t you come with us?”

  “Some other time,” he begged off. “I’ve some reading and paperwork to catch up on.”

  “Well, don’t say I didn’t ask,” she said, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek before she hurried upstairs to dress.

  On those evenings when Lord Enfield wasn’t taking Lady Madeleine out to dinner or to the theater, he dined with her and her uncle at the Royal Street town house. Or else he invited them to join him for the evening meal at his own Dumaine Street home.

  Whether at the Sumner town house or his own home, the earl, ever the caring consort, was careful not to keep either of them up too late. He insisted that the countess should continue to get plenty of rest. Colfax readily concurred, pleased that Lord Enfield was such a thoughtful man.

  Madeleine, too, was grateful that Desmond was concerned for her welfare. A true blue-blooded gentleman, he expected nothing more from her than brief good-night kisses in the flower-filled courtyard. Which made her feel terribly guilty. What would he think if he knew how wantonly she had behaved with a total stranger?

  One such evening, Madeleine returned to the parlor after kissing Desmond good-night beneath the porte cochere. When she came into the room, Avalina looked at her, then looked at the French clock on the white marble mantel. Nine-thirty. Avalina pursed her lips.

  “What? What is it?” Madeleine asked, puzzled.

  The black woman shrugged. “Nothing.”

  “I know better,” said Madeleine. “Something’s on your mind. What is it?”

  Avalina made a face. “Seems to me it’s mighty early for a lovestruck gentleman to be leaving his fiancée.”

  “For heaven’s sake, Desmond’s only being considerate,” Madeleine promptly defended him. “And I appreciate it.”

  Avalina rolled her eyes heavenward and said, “Will you need me anymore this evening?”

  “No. No, I can undress without you.”

  “Then, good night, my lady.” Avalina turned and left the room.

  Madeleine stared after her. She had the distinct impression that Avalina did not like Lord Enfield. But why? Desmond was unfailingly cordial to Avalina and even brought her little presents on occasion. Which she accepted almost grudgingly.

  Madeleine sighed and climbed the stairs to her room. It was too early for bed. She wasn’t sleepy. She was hot and she was restless. The latitude and climate of New Orleans had a disturbingly potent effect on her. The tropical heat of the sultry summer days made her feel lazy and content.

  But the long languorous nights had the opposite effect. The New Orleans nights were powerfully provocative. The humid, heavy air. The moonlight on the Mississippi. The sweet scent of jasmine and gardenias. The faint sound of music from a street musician’s banjo.

  Madeleine wandered out onto the streetside iron lace balcony and inhaled deeply of the warm moist air. Almost wistfully, she looked out over the sprawling city.

  Under a beguiling tropic sky, carriages noisily rolled down the streets and laughing people crowded the banquettes. At 10:00 p.m., the Crescent City was alive with merrymakers hurrying to the restaurants and theaters and gaming palaces.

  Many were just now leaving their homes to go out for the evening. Avalina was right. It was early for Desmond to have gone. He could have stayed a while longer.

  She frowned and went back inside.

  Madeleine began to undress in the darkness, knowing that she would not sleep. It would be another of those nights when, tormented by the heat and the buzzing of mosquitoes and a shameful yearning for a dead, dark lover, she would toss and turn and sigh.

  Feeling edgy and irritated, Madeleine finished undressing. She picked up the fresh nightgown Avalina had laid out for her, then shook her head and tossed the gown across the back of a chair. Naked, her russet hair pinned atop her head for coolness, she climbed into the big four-poster bed. She lowered the mosquito baire, punched the feather pillows and lay down on her back.

  Her eyes on the cream satin bed hangings above, she exhaled heavily and stretched her long, slender legs, wiggling her toes, ordering herself to think only of Desmond and their wonderful future together.

  She assumed that her fiancé was home by now. He lived only a few short blocks away. He was probably having a nightcap before bed.

  The weather finally turned.

  The damp, sticky heat of summer gave way to clear, brisk autumn air. The mosquitoes subsided and a cool breeze blew in off the river.

  On a chilly evening in early October, Lady Madeleine was extraordinarily excited. She was to attend, with her tall blond earl, the first masked ball of the season. She was in high spirits. Memories and regrets had begun to fade. The dark, handsome face that had haunted her dreams was less clear. It blurred. She couldn’t recall exactly what Armand de Chevalier looked like.

  And she vowed to herself that she would be a faithful, loving wife to Lord Enfield and never look at another man for as long as she lived.

  Now as she finished dressing for the momentous occasion, Madeleine smiled as she gazed at herself in the mirror. She had kept her choice of costumes a secret, except from Avalina, who was helping her dress. She was going to the ball as Shakespeare’s tragic heroine, Juliet. Biting her lips to give them color, Madeleine idly wondered, would the earl guess and show up dressed as her Romeo?

  At shortly after 8:00 p.m., a cortege of carriages rolled up before the French Quarter’s grand St. Louis Hotel. The hotel’s façade boasted no outthrust portico, but instead a line of six graceful columns. In the New Orleans tradition, intricate iron-work galleries opened before the outer rooms. The structure was impressive in every way, but a large domed rotunda was the hotel’s real marvel.

  The imposing Creole hotel was the center of the city’s French business, entertainment and cultural district. It was here that throngs attended the bals de société, subscription affairs given by the aristocratic Creoles.

  On this evening, gorgeously costumed ladies and gentlemen alighted from gleaming coaches and hurried inside and through the rotunda. Beautiful milky-skinned, dark-eyed Creole belles clung to the arms of the city’s gay handsome blades.

  This glittering gala in the hotel’s opulent ballroom was one of the season’s major affairs, attended by the city’s elite. Bowers of fresh-cut flowers sweetened the air. French champagne flowed freely. An orchestra, in full evening dress, played waltze
s.

  And Lady Madeleine, in a flowing gown of virginal white chiffon, her russet hair hidden beneath the long conical hennan headdress with shimmering white silk streamers trailing from its tip, wore an elaborate mask adorned with semiprecious jewels. She fairly glowed as she turned about on the dance floor in Lord Enfield’s arms. Her fiancé was dressed as Robin Hood.

  She waved to Melissa Ann Ledette, an exotic Cleopatra, as Melissa danced by in the arms of her latest beau, a striking young man wearing the robes of a desert sheik. Madeleine nodded to others on the floor. She was having a wonderful time.

  In fact, Madeleine felt more carefree and gay than she had since arriving in New Orleans.

  But that warm sense of well-being faltered when she spotted, across the crowded dance floor, a tall, raven-haired, masked Romeo in a brilliant Harlequin vest. She couldn’t see his face—most of it was covered with a jet-back mask—but there was something disturbingly familiar about the set of his wide shoulders, the tilt of his dark head and the easy, fluid way he danced. He moved with a provocative, feline grace that instantly set off alarm bells in Madeleine’s head.

  She told herself that she was being silly.

  Returning her full attention to her fiancé, Madeleine was more than gracious when—at the request of the orchestra leader—everyone changed partners. She laughed merrily at the stricken look on the lord’s face when a short, rotund Maid Marion with bouncing sausage curls eagerly grabbed him and lifted her short, plump arms up around his neck. Still laughing, Madeleine turned to receive her new partner.

  The tall, dark, masked Romeo.

  His black eyes glittering dangerously through the twin holes in his mask, he smiled engagingly, drew her close, and waited for her acknowledgement.

  Her breath now short, her heart pounding furiously, she said as he began to slowly move to the music, “And who are you?”

  “Why, Juliet,” he said, “I’m your brave and handsome Romeo.”

  The deep, pleasing baritone was vaguely familiar, but still she was uncertain. It couldn’t be. He had drowned. He was dead. He couldn’t possibly be here in New Orleans at the St. Louis Hotel.

  But then he bent his head, put his lips near her ear, and repeated the words she had once so foolishly said to him.

  “Make love to me.”

  Lady Madeleine was struck speechless. Aghast. Unable to respond. He quickly took advantage of the situation. As he had on the ship, Armand de Chevalier smoothly danced her out of the stuffy, crowded ballroom and onto the deserted stone balcony.

  There he repeated what he had said on the doomed ocean liner, “Kiss me, Countess. Kiss me once.”

  Before she could protest, Armand kissed Madeleine, sending her wits scattering. He raised his head, looked about and swiftly guided her to a secluded alcove hidden between two tall stone pillars.

  He drew her closer and kissed her again.

  It was a kiss of such potent heat, she melted in his arms. Nobody had ever kissed her the way this masked man kissed her and she couldn’t bring herself to resist. Their masks still firmly in place, the tall, dark Romeo and the beautiful russet-haired Juliet stood on the chill, windswept balcony embracing ardently like two long-lost lovers.

  They kissed greedily. They gasped for breath. They changed positions and kissed again. They clung to each other in a daze of building passion.

  But finally, when Armand’s warm, lean hand slipped down inside her low-cut bodice to cup and caress her soft, warm breast, Lady Madeleine came to her senses. She pushed his hand away and began to struggle.

  “You!” she cried. “What are you doing here? I thought that you…you…”

  “Drowned?” He supplied the word she was searching for and again reached for her.

  “Yes.” She was almost shouting now, anxiously tearing his lean fingers away from her waist.

  “Now, Countess, you of all people should have known that I’m not that easy to kill,” he said with a self-deprecating smile as he stripped off his black mask.

  She stared at him, her lips parted, her breath caught in her throat. She had forgotten how devastatingly handsome he was. The imposing height. The smooth olive skin. The dark flashing eyes. The arrogant nose. The explicitly sensual mouth.

  Seeing him again—kissing him again—brought back vivid memories of their unforgettable lovemaking.

  And with them returned the shame and remorse.

  Confused and upset, she said quickly, “Mr. de Chevalier, I must tell you that I am engaged to be married, and so…”

  “You forgot me that quickly?” he quipped, shaking his head as if in disbelief. “I am deeply wounded,” he said, placing a spread hand over his heart.

  As if he hadn’t spoken, she said, “If there is an ounce of decency in you, you will not…you must promise me that…surely no gentleman would…”

  Smoothly interrupting, Armand said, “But as you learned firsthand, I’m no gentleman.”

  Taken aback, for a moment she said nothing. Just gritted her teeth and looked daggers at him.

  “Oh you—you blackhearted knave!” she finally sniffed indignantly and turned to flee. “Say anything you please!”

  Armand called after her, “Relax, Countess, your guilty secret is safe with me.”

  She was not convinced.

  Ten

  At the Royal Street town house that same October evening, Avalina stood in the foyer holding Colfax Sumner’s cloak as the tall cased clock struck the hour of nine. She had been standing there for a full fifteen minutes, wondering what could be keeping him. She was beginning to grow annoyed.

  Late getting home from his office. Now late getting ready for the gala. It wasn’t like him.

  Colfax had intended to go to the masked ball with Lady Madeleine and Lord Enfield. But since he been late coming home, he had urged them to go on without him; he would meet them there. They had agreed and, accompanied by the ever watchful Big Montro, had gone on ahead.

  Now, more than an hour later, Colfax was still in his room. With each tick of the clock, Avalina felt her irritation rising. Big Montro had returned a good forty-five minutes ago and was patiently waiting down in the porte cochere to see Colfax safely to the hotel.

  Avalina finally huffed and hung the dark evening cloak on the coat tree. Hands going to her hips, she marched down the hall to Colfax’s quarters.

  Pausing before the closed door, she rapped loudly on it and shouted, “A vain woman could have been dressed by now! You’re late and it’s high time…”

  The door opened and Colfax Sumner stood there, dressed in evening attire. He looked pale and drawn and Avalina’s aggravation instantly evaporated.

  “Colfax,” she said, using his given name, which she only did when the two of them were alone. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong,” he said to the loyal black woman who was his trusted friend as well as his valued housekeeper. He tried a faint smile. “Guess I’m just getting slow in my old age.”

  “You don’t look well, Colfax. Maybe you should stay home this evening. Get to bed early.”

  He shook his gray head. “I promised Madeleine I would be there.” He coughed needlessly then and, attempting to sound casual, asked, “Did Montro come back?”

  She nodded. “He’s down in the courtyard waiting for you.”

  “Ah, good,” he said, and the astute Avalina noted the look of relief that came into his pale eyes.

  He was afraid of something. She could sense it. And that made her afraid.

  Together they walked down the hall to the front door. When they paused in the foyer and she took his evening cloak from the tree and draped it around his shoulders, a slight shudder swept through his body.

  She felt it, stepped around in front of him, and said, “There is something wrong, Colfax. You are trembling.” Her voice was low, soft and her big, dark eyes were wide with worry.

  “Just one of those times when a cat walked across my grave,” he said with a smile, making light of it. “Now
, good night, Avalina, I must be on my way.”

  “Very well, but you be very careful, you hear?”

  “I hear.”

  As soon as he was gone, a troubled Avalina hurried out to her garçonnière. She went into her bedroom, fell to her knees before a heavy oak chest and pulled out the bottom drawer. After rummaging around beneath some folded winter clothes, she withdrew a small velvet pouch with a drawstring.

  She rose and hurried back across the courtyard to the main house. Inside she went directly to Colfax’s bedroom. From a small compartment within the velvet pouch, she withdrew an amulet she had gotten years ago from an old voodoo queen. Softly uttering incantations that she hoped would cast a magical spell of safekeeping over the house and its occupants, she placed the sacred charm beneath Colfax Sumner’s four-poster bed.

  Then she rose and hurrying to the streetside balcony, pushed the double doors open. There she carefully sprinkled some magical powders from the velvet pouch. She repeated the exercise on the balcony opening onto the courtyard. She even sprinkled some of the precious powder on each windowsill.

  Rising to her feet, she left his room, went down the corridor to the front door. There she sprinkled more powder. Softly chanting as she worked, Avalina didn’t stop until all the doors on all three levels of the town house had been lightly dusted with the magical powder.

  Colfax would surely laugh and tease her if he knew what she was doing. But she didn’t care. She fully believed in the evil power of voodoo and knew that it was up to her to try to ward away the danger threatening the master of the house.

  Finally Avalina pulled the velvet bag’s drawstring tight, and looked about, nodding her tignoned head approvingly. She felt better.

  Colfax should be safe now.

  At least in his own home.

  Back inside the ballroom, Lady Madeleine stopped and leaned against the wall for a minute to catch her breath and calm herself. Pale and shaken, she searched anxiously for Lord Enfield. Nervously scanning the crowd, she saw her Uncle Colfax, arriving late for the ball, warmly greeting none other than Armand de Chevalier as if the Creole were a long-lost son.