“Thirty is not old, far from it,” Caroline said in dry remonstrance.
“No!” M’sieur Philippe made his agreement emphatic.
“I wonder if he has a wife and children? The little ones here would like new playmates,” Amélie said.
Caroline glanced at the girl. There was no sign of guile in her soft brown eyes. Her face, with her fine dark hair caught in ringlets on either temple, held nothing but polite interest.
“There was no mention of a family,” the tutor answered, “though I understand his cousin, a young man a few years his junior, bears him company.”
“Tante Zizi will be happy,” Amélie commented. “She can probe into his lineage to her heart’s content. It will be a new interest”
Caroline could find it within herself to be sorry for the Marquis. She had been thoroughly quizzed concerning her own ancestors when she had first come to Beau Repos. She often felt that only the discovery of a belted earl on a lateral branch of her family tree had made her at all acceptable as governess to the Delacroix children.
“Clothes,” Estelle said abruptly. “We must have new clothes.”
“Must we?” Amélie asked.
“But certainly. There are certain to be entertainments given in the honor of the Marquis. He requires to be welcomed, does he not?”
“You go too fast,” Caroline said. “First your father must call on the Marquis and discover if he is the kind of gentlemen who would be acceptable company for his family.”
“Acceptable? He is a marquis!” Estelle objected.
“That does not necessarily make him a gentleman.”
“Mam’zelle!” the tutor protested.
“He was acceptable to Governor Claiborne,” Estelle pointed out.
“Even so, it is for M’sieur Delacroix to decide. When that is done will be time enough for you to worry about the entertainments for our new neighbor. You should not expect to be included in everything. You have not yet made your curtsy to the ton.”
“I am aware, but in the country and on such a special occasion it might be overlooked, don’t you think? I am sure Maman will agree if Papa can be persuaded. Oh, isn’t it exciting?”
“What is exciting?”
The new entrant into the conversation was Théophile Delacroix. He sauntered up the steep steps with their curved bannisters in the style known as “welcoming arms.” Bareheaded, he displayed a mop of brown hair, sun-bleached already to an auburn hue. His shirt sleeves were rolled to his elbows, and above the tops of his muddy boots his breeches appeared to be stained with river water. In one grimy hand was his white cravat, containing what looked to be a collection of plump purple dewberries.
M’sieur Philippe raised the quizzing glass he wore on a ribbon at his lapel. Leveling it at Theo’s breeches, he drawled, “I apprehend, sir, that you have been wading in the river — again.”
Theo agreed without a sign of repentance. “Anyone care for a dewberry?”
“The most famous thing has happened, Theo,” Estelle said, absently taking a berry. “We are to have a marquis for a neighbor.”
“I know,” Theo said.
“You know?” his sister repeated.
“Heard it a week ago. A real swell. Has a whole ship full of prime stuff, anchored out in the river waiting for all the legal business to be over with. Has a phaeton with a high perch and yellow wheels, and four of the sweetest goers you ever saw to pull it. Bought them in England, they say. Must be rich as a nabob to do that. Won’t Anatole be green?”
The tutor looked pained. “Your language is shocking, Theo. One can only surmise you have been associating with riffraff again.”
A grave expression descended on Theo’s snub-nosed face. “I do crave pardon, M’sieur. ‘Twas only Jack, the son of the overseer at Felicity. Did you wish to join me in my rambles instead? Shall I awaken you when I leave the house in the morning? I do not plan to be at the river until just before the sun rises.”
“No, no! I would not deprive you of companionship your own age,” the tutor said, barely suppressing a shudder. “It would not be — that is, I would not dream of intruding.”
“Jack is a good man to have about. He may not know the river as I do, but he’s a great hand with horses.”
“Very interesting, I’m sure,” M’sieur Philippe said, taking out his handkerchief and waving it languidly at a fly buzzing about, attracted by the sticky, sweet berries. “I believe we can wait to hear about your friend until after you have made yourself more presentable.”
“As you wish, M’sieur.” Theo inclined his head, completely unperturbed as he turned to do his tutor’s bidding.
“Wait!” Estelle cried. “You haven’t finished telling us about the Marquis.”
“What else is there to tell?” Theo inquired, popping the rest of the dewberries into his mouth and wiping his hands on his shirt. “Anyway, you’ll see soon enough. They expect him at Felicity within the week.”
As Theo disappeared into the house, Estelle let out her pent-up breath. “Odious boy,” she said, then promptly forgot him. “There is so little time. Maman must be persuaded to increase our wardrobes, and you must help me see to it, Amélie. She will do it for you. Next to seeing you take the veil as a nun, she would like to see you take a noble husband to wed.”
“You know I have no ambition in that direction,” Amélie protested.
“Yes I do, but it can’t hurt to pretend, can it?”
“You still have no idea of the man’s circumstances,” Caroline said, a warning tone in her voice. “For all you know, he may have a wife waiting on board ship with his furnishings.”
“It doesn’t signify in the least,” Estelle replied with an airy wave of her hand. “Married or no, there are sure to be fêtes of every sort given to make him welcome. It can’t hurt to be prepared.”
“Maman may be resting,” Amélie protested as her sister started toward the door.
“Isn’t she always?” Estelle asked, and turned into the dim interior.
The tutor got to his feet. “I am desolate to leave you, Mademoiselles, but one must place duty before pleasure, n’est-ce pas? I go to prepare a lesson worthy of young M’sieur Theo. A tout à I’heure.”
His bow was a masterpiece of style. Watching him walk away, Caroline reflected that manners and a stylish bow were two things that should not, in this society, be undervalued.
Leaning back in her chair with a sigh, she tucked wisps of soft blonde hair into the chignon coiled on the nape of her neck. At times she wondered if she were accomplishing as much as the tutor. It was not easy to handle the volatile Estelle and still remain on terms of friendship with her. The girl’s mother made little attempt to control her, and her father was more likely to laugh and cosset her with bonbons and almond dragées than to establish any kind of discipline. A part of that could be traced to their expectation during the girl’s adolescence of losing their eldest daughter to the cloister, but a far greater portion stemmed from Estelle’s intelligence and high temper. It was impossible to tell what she would take into her head to do next. Only a few weeks ago she had declared her intention of going upon the stage, and had irritated all their nerves by striking dramatic poses at inopportune moments.
She had the looks for it, classical features, a straight, upright bearing, enormous black eyes, and a cloud of hair so dark it had a blue-black sheen. Such a thing was impossible, however. The theater was the milieu of the demimonde. It was unthinkable that Estelle should join their company.
Caroline had thought that ambition forgotten until a few moments before when Estelle had displayed her unusual talent for committing lines to memory. It was to be hoped that the arrival of the Marquis would push all such foolish ideas to the back of her mind, and come spring, a suitable parti could be found who could oust them completely.
Amélie was a different child altogether, Caroline thought, letting her gaze drift to where Estelle’s sister sat diligently plying her needle. The wonder of it was that she had eve
r found the courage to tell the Mother Superior at the convent where she was a novice that she lacked the vocation to become a nun. It was this momentous decision which had set in motion the Great Adventure, as Estelle liked to term it.
When the letter had come from Amélie asking to be allowed to come home, Madame Delacroix had been within weeks of accouchement. She could neither travel to France to fetch her daughter nor would she allow her husband to leave her side for that purpose. Caroline had been dispatched to chaperone Amélie on the homeward voyage.
In the fall of 1814, the war with Britain had seemed stalemated. Except for skirmishes far away near the Canadian border, there was little fighting and much talk of a peace by negotiation.
Taking ship from New Orleans was not difficult, nor did it seem particularly dangerous. The voyage was smooth and uneventful. They had not so much as a glimpse of the infamous British blockade which had stifled trade in recent years, nor of the privateers set by the United States to combat it.
Two weeks in France sufficed to cut Amélie’s ties there. The girl was happy, excited at the prospect of seeing her family again. Her leave-taking from the nunnery in the north of France where she had spent the past three years was amicable, though she could not prevent a few tears from falling as they drove away in their carriage.
The problem arose when it came time to arrange their passage to New Orleans. There was not a ship destined for North America in the harbor at Le Havre, and none was expected for a se’nnight. Caroline was for settling down to wait, but Amélie, after so many years away from her family, was anxious for the reunion. She had set her heart on being with them for Christmas, and, though she did not make a fuss, it was plain that her disappointment would be deep if that proved impossible. Accordingly they removed to the port of Calais. Here, too, they met nothing except delay.
In the end, their best plan appeared to be to cross the channel to England, and from there take a British vessel sailing for Havana via the West Indies. There was a steady stream of traffic plying between that Spanish port and New Orleans. Finding a ship homeward-bound should be no problem.
Doubts about this circuitous route plagued Caroline from the moment the plans were made. Once in England her hesitations were reinforced by the tales of the unofficial blockade of British shipping by America’s legal pirates. Not even the Irish Channel, the British Channel, or the Bay of Biscay was safe from them, according to one report. Still, the war was nearing its end. The danger was not so great as in the past. The thought of retracing their route back to France was too wearisome to be borne. Papa and Maman and all the little ones waited in New Orleans. They turned their faces toward home and set sail within a week of landing at Dover.
It was not a pleasant voyage. Gray days of lashing rain and high seas followed one behind the other. Confined to a small airless cabin, tending Amélie who had fallen prey to seasickness, Caroline found it hard to keep her doubts from transforming themselves into a dismal premonition of disaster. Then, eleven days out from England, it ceased to be necessary to try.
They were awakened in a pink-tinged dawn by the boom of a cannon. The British merchantman carried no guns or armaments. She was no match for the sleek ship with the lines of a Baltimore clipper which had put a shot across her bow.
From the porthole Caroline and Amélie watched as the privateer moved in for the kill. Seeing the great, black, spread-winged bird of prey which served as a figurehead and the proud name emblazoned on her side, Aiglon Noir, the Black Eagle, they could hardly be blamed for expecting the worst.
If the captain and crew of the merchantman resisted in any way, there was no indication of it. The sound of grappling hooks being set, the grinding of the ships’ hulls together, the triumphant sound of the boarding privateers had a nightmarish quality.
The side of the other ship blocked the porthole of the cabin, leaving it dim. At the sound of feet pounding along the companionway, Caroline snatched up the small pistol, a parting gift from her uncle when she had left his house to make her own way, one she always carried with her. Her mouth set in a grim line, she stationed herself behind the door.
Still in her nightgown of virginal white, Amélie dropped to her knees beside the narrow bunk, with her hair spread in disarray upon her shoulders. She presented an angelic picture, but Caroline could not feel that the privateers would be suitably moved by it.
They could hear other cabins being entered and searched. The footsteps, the jovial shouts and called orders, drew nearer. Amélie’s fingers clenched convulsively on her rosary, while Caroline gripped the wood-grained butt of her pistol, glancing one last time at the priming. The voices and footsteps paused in the corridor outside the cabin. The lock was tried. Then came a splintering crash and the door flew open, swinging on its hinges to bound off the cabin wall.
Caroline sidestepped, halting in the center of the tiny cabin. In the brief moment of quiet she heard Amélie’s soft sigh as she fell forward in merciful unconsciousness. She had no time to look to her. A man, tall, broad-shouldered, black-bearded in the Spanish style, detached himself from the group gathered beyond the opening and stepped over the threshold.
The man carried himself with an easy air of command though his dress was casual. He wore a white shirt of cheap muslin without the decency of a cravat or shirt studs to hold it closed. His breeches were tucked into knee boots with wide revers. The red sash at his waist held a brace of pistols and a wicked-looking knife with a curved blade. He wore his dark hair long, tied back with a sealskin bag. In his sun-bronzed face, his eyes were narrowed, obscuring their color behind a screen of womanishly long lashes, though there was nothing soft about him. His presence in the small cabin was overwhelming, and, as he advanced, Caroline took an involuntary step backward, coming up against the edge of the bunks.
“Stay where you are!” she said, steadying the pistol with both hands on the target of the man’s broad chest. “Stop right there, or I will fire.”
“Put down the pistol and you will not be harmed. I give you my word as Captain of the Black Eagle.”
He spoke in English in deference to her as a passenger on an English ship, though his speech held a French inflection. Whatever the accent, his words carried conviction. Caroline might have believed him if the men behind him had not been edging forward, a strained waiting in their stance. Somewhere in the back of the group a man laughed, an ugly sound in the tense silence.
Caroline was hideously aware of the trembling in her arms and lower limbs. It was an effort to unclench her teeth enough to speak. “You broke down the door merely to inform us of that, I suppose?”
“A mistake. This is war. One does not often find women on the seas.” His tone was conciliatory. Caroline wavered, and he made his second mistake. He eased forward.
“I warn you—” she began, then had time for no more as with a swordsman’s catlike grace he lunged at her. Instinctively she brought the pistol to bear, pressed the trigger.
The explosion was deafening. The recoil shuddered through her, throwing her off balance for a moment. Acrid blue smoke filled the room, making her eyes water.
Then the pistol was wrenched from her nerveless fingers. As her vision cleared, Caroline found the Captain of the Black Eagle perilously close, almost against her as he clung with one hand to the upright of the bunk above her head. Blood splattered his shirt, spreading in an ever-widening patch from a wound low in his side.
A grim smile crossed his bearded face. “Clear the cabin,” he said over his shoulder. “Post a guard outside this door.”
Caroline had an instant in which to ream the complete helplessness of her position, and then as the men departed and the room grew quiet, she received the full attention of the Captain.
His speech was slower than before and had a forced sound. “As I said, you will not be harmed. I claim this ship as a prize according to the rules of the sea and the letter of marque and reprisal granted me by the President of the United States. It will be manned by my men and sailed to th
e nearest American port. From there you should be able to find your way to your destination. Do I make myself clear?”
Swallowing with difficulty, Caroline nodded.
“Neither you, nor your companion,” he went on with a glance at Amélie lying with her eyes closed half across the bunk, “have anything to fear from my men, though I have posted a guard to insure your protection.”
“Your wound — shouldn’t you — summon help?” Caroline whispered.
“Your concern is touching,” he said with the ghost of a laugh.
Caroline compressed her lips into a line, aware of an absurd desire to cry. Sheer nerves, she told herself fiercely, or the effect of the smoke.
“No, no, don’t frown so,” he said. “I will live. Who knows? Perhaps you will have the chance to try your skill with firearms another time. If it will ease your conscience, however, I will claim a forfeit.”
Before she could move, he used the butt of her pistol to tip her chin upward. His lips came down on hers in a firm demand, lingering for an instant to taste the sweetness of an infinitesimal response before her hands came up to push with all her strength against his chest.
He stepped back, a shuttered look coming down over his face as he inclined his head in a polite bow. Turning on his heel, he strode from the cabin, though he moved with a certain stiffness, holding his right arm to his side.
Her mind in a turmoil, Caroline stood unmoving as the cabin door closed behind him. It was a relief when Amélie stirred, diverting her thoughts, requiring her complete attention.
It was Amélie who broke her absorption once more.
“Mam’zelle?” she said, her gentle voice insistent. “Mam’zelle, it is Maman’s personal maid. Maman requires your presence.”
“I beg your pardon, I must have been woolgathering,” Caroline murmured apologetically with a quick glance to the stately Negro woman waiting in the doorway. Rising, she went quickly into the house.
2
MADAME DELACROIX LAY upon a brocade-upholstered chaise longue. Her ample form was covered by a wrapper of puce satin edged at the collar, sleeves, and hem with blonde lace. On her feet were Turkish slippers with embroidered, upturned toes. Her eyes were closed, and upon her broad forehead rested a cloth soaked in violet-scented cologne water.
Sweet Piracy Page 2