“Well, Papa, do we go?” he asked.
“We?” M’sieur Delacroix asked, fixing his eldest son with a jaundiced eye.
“I thought I might bear you company,” Anatole explained, a shade of defensiveness in his voice.
“You do me too much honor, M’sieur,” his father said.
“Now don’t try to — roast me, sir, I know you will uphold the standing of Beau Repos by paying the required visit. The only question is, when?”
“As much as I dislike causing you distress, I must tell you I do not go until tomorrow at the earliest, perhaps the next day. You have expended the energies of yourself and your valet this morning for nothing.”
Anatole glanced at the older man as if he suspected a double entendre in the statement.
“However,” M’sieur Delacroix went on, “so long as you have left your bed you may accompany me to the barns. I saw a dealer in mules at Cypress Grove yesterday, and he is to bring some prime stock, Tennessee-bred, for my inspection this morning.”
Anatole shuddered visibly. “What does one wear to view mules?” he inquired in pained tones.
“Something that will not give them a disgust of you,” his father replied. Pushing back his chair, he dropped his napkin on the table and strode from the room.
Amélie stared at her plate. Estelle, her eyes dancing, turned to her brother.
“One word, only one word,” he threatened, a dull red color beneath his olive complexion, “and I will fling you into the river.”
“You cannot frighten me,” Estelle shot back at him. “I have no fear, for to do this you must get your so-long breeches muddy, a thing I do not look to see.”
Before he could reply, she jumped up, gave a toss of her curls, and ran from the room.
The petty bickering between the brother and his sister increased in the next two days until Caroline was driven nearly to distraction. A peculiar restlessness gripped them, like that of a theatre audience before the curtain goes up. Caroline herself felt it, but it annoyed rather than unsettled her. She found herself wishing at odd times that the Marquis de Rochefort had chosen any place in the world for his residence other than Felicity. Since he had not, she wanted nothing so much as for M’sieur Delacroix to pay his call and be done with it. The close inspection that must follow would, no doubt, disclose the Marquis to be a man with human faults and frailties and without mystery. His title would become, in this land of democracy, an empty honor. A few entertainments would be enjoyed on his account, he would soon find a suitable bride, and in time he would become no more than any other landowner along the river. That settled, they could all be comfortable again.
Such happy reflections proved overly optimistic. Judging the time right, M’sieur Delacroix one afternoon donned his most modish buff breeches and snuff-brown coat, clapped on his tricorn, and with Anatole somewhat more nattily tamed out beside him, drove off in the direction of Felicity.
With a brave show of spirits, Madame rose from her chaise to dress herself in blue bombazine ornamented with fringes and tottered into the salon where Caroline, Estelle, and Amélie had composed themselves to await M’sieur Delacroix’s return with news of their neighbor.
They were not kept long in suspense. Some time before they had any reason to expect the return of the head of the household, they heard the sound of carriage wheels on the drive.
Colossus moved with a heavy if stately tread to open the door and take the gentlemen’s hats, gloves, and canes. M’sieur Delacroix lingered in the hall for a few words with the butler, allowing Anatole to reach the salon ahead of him.
That young man entered precipitously, his face alight with mingled glee and anticipation. “The most marvelous thing, Maman, the Marquis has condescended to dine with us.”
“Nom de Dieu,” his mother exclaimed, starting up from her seat, only to stop short as she caught sight of her husband in the doorway with the tall shapes of two other men looming behind him.
“My dear,” M’sieur Delacroix said, moving toward her, “allow me to present the Marquis de Rochefort, and his cousin, M’sieur Victor Rochefort.”
Madame made a gallant recovery. As the noble Marquis bowed over her hand, she managed to speak the polite response, at the same time directing his attention to her two daughters.
“Charmante,” the Marquis said, saluting them in turn before moving expectantly to Caroline.
“Mademoiselle Caroline Pembroke, an Englishwoman and distant relative by marriage who acts as governess for my children.”
“My lord,” Caroline said, extending her hand.
The man before her carried himself with an upright ease, his bearing neither too stiff nor too informal. His hair was cut close to his head in a perfection that scorned the currently fashionable tousled look. Startlingly green eyes looked out from under heavy black brows in contrast to a complexion that seemed, compared to the olive tone of the Delacroix males, rather pale. His snowy cravat was unadorned by lace and tied in a deceptively simple style. His coat of gray superfine clung to his broad shoulders with the fit imparted by only the finest tailors. Soft buckskins molded to his muscular thighs without a wrinkle, and his black topboots shone with a diamond-like sparkle. The effect was one of severe elegance, an impression so strongly felt it made Anatole, resplendent in a bottle-green coat with padded shoulders and nipped-in waist, canary breeches, and gold-tasseled hessians, seem the veriest dandy.
A gentleman did not touch his lips to the hand of an unmarried lady. “Mademoiselle Pembroke,” the Marquis said, giving her a brief impersonal smile before releasing her fingers and returning his attention to his hostess. As Caroline made ready to greet his cousin, she heard the Marquis embark on his apologies for descending upon them, adding an explanation that seemed to involve a cat, the chef, and a fall from a ladder.
Victor Rochefort looked infinitely more approachable than his noble relative, though his manner of dress was similar. His brown hair had a copper tint while his hazel eyes and ready smile held an engaging friendliness. Since Madame’s attention was centered on the Marquis to the exclusion of all else, Caroline indicated a place beside Amélie on the settee for the cousin and slipped from the room to go and hold a conference with the butler and the cook.
Returning to the salon a short time later, she gave a quiet nod in answer to Madame’s imperative glance. All was well in the kitchen, or as well as might be expected under the circumstances. Their cook, an enormous Negress with an imperturbable calm, blood sister to the aptly named Colossus, had accepted the news of their important guest without a visible change in demeanor. Without fuss, she had agreed to add savory atterreau, mushrooms farci, and liver pâté to her menu of seafood soap, roast duckling, beef grillades, fresh vegetables, and various puddings and tarts. Caroline had left her muttering something to herself about the foolishness of people who climb ladders leaving their masters with nothing prepared to eat.
With Colossus in charge of setting the table with the best crystal and china and choosing wine to complement the food, she felt fairly confident that the Marquis would find nothing lacking in the hospitality of Beau Repos.
“Tell us how you came to decide to settle among us?” Madame was saying to the Marquis.
“The situation in Europe is so unstable,” he answered. “I felt the need, after some years of unrest, for a peaceful existence.”
From an odd undercurrent in his tone, Caroline suspected Rochefort of mocking the older woman. Flinging him a quick glance, she found his gaze resting almost idly on her face. His expression gave nothing away, however. Without haste, he transferred his regard to Amélie, who sat enjoying a quiet chat with Victor Rochefort.
“You intend to make Felicity your home always?” Estelle inquired.
“Always is a long time,” their guest answered. “If you mean do I plan to return to France in the near future, the answer is no. Felicity shall be my home for the present, and for as much of the future as I can predict.”
The smile he gave the young
girl transformed his face, giving him an undeniable charm. Estelle, thrown off balance at drawing his full notice to herself, dropped her lashes, retreating from the conversation behind a blush.
Amusement at the girl’s sudden self-consciousness brought a tiny smile to Caroline’s lips. Flicking a glance at the Marquis, she found herself once more the object of his regard. She tilted her head a fraction, meeting his green gaze squarely. He was mistaken if he thought he could stare her out of countenance so easily. She was not a young girl fresh from the schoolroom. Still, she knew an inordinate relief when a quiet comment from Amélie gave her a reason to look away. For some reason that she could not explain, she felt there was something faintly dangerous about their new neighbor.
“What do you intend to plant on your acreage?” M’sieur Delacroix asked, sitting forward in obvious anticipation of a thorough discussion of the value of sugarcane versus cotton.
Estelle cast a despairing look in Caroline’s direction. In answer to the unspoken plea, Caroline began to cast about in her mind for some means of changing the subject.
It was not necessary. Rochefort refused to be drawn. He shrugged with magnificent sangfroid. “I doubt I will trouble with a crop this season. Next year, perhaps.”
M’sieur Delacroix was so taken aback at this flagrant disregard for good husbandry that he seemed at a temporary loss for words.
It was Theo who bridged the uncomfortable pause. Bursting into the room with M’sieur Philippe tripping along behind him, he checked his rush, a flash of dismay in his eyes as he caught sight of the formal assembly, then stepped forward, making his bow with all the dignity possible for a boy in shirt sleeves, muddy breeches, and minus his shoes.
“M’sieur Rochefort, may I make you known to my scapegrace son, Théophile,” M’sieur Delacroix presented him with dry humor. “Theo, Jean Charles Henri, Marquis de Rochefort, and his cousin Victor.”
“M’sieur Victor Rochefort and I have met, mon père,” Theo said.
The Marquis’s cousin nodded. “Theo has been most helpful in making us familiar with the countryside and our new neighbors.”
“I hope he has not made a nuisance of himself,” Madame Delacroix said with an anxious glance in the Marquis’s direction.
“Not at all,” Victor answered promptly before his noble relative could speak. “I’m sure I would not have known he was anywhere near the estate if I had not made a habit of going down to the boat landing at dawn.”
“Theo?” M’sieur Delacroix said, fixing his son with a fulminating frown.
“I wanted only to view the ship at close hand. She is called the Egret, Papa. Did you know?”
At this point, M’sieur Philippe, motivated by either exasperation with being ignored or else an unlikely desire to distract parental disfavor from his pupil, cleared his throat with a loud rasp.
“Eh? Oh, yes,” M’sieur Delacroix said, recalling his duties, “My lord, may I make known to you my son’s tutor, M’sieur Philippe Hautrive.”
The Marquis gave the man a civil nod to which the tutor replied with a deep obeisance complete with a sweep of his handkerchief. “You must not think ill of Theo, M’sieur, really you must not. He was but carried away by his excessive fascination with things nautical — in short, sir, his admiration for your vessel.”
Caroline, with her past knowledge of their own consequence usually assumed by those of noble birth, fully expected the Marquis to administer a freezing setdown to both Theo and his tutor.
Instead, he smiled at the grubby young man standing so stiffly before him. “So you like ships? Would you care to sail in the Egret?”
Theo flushed with pleasure. “Do you mean it, sir? If so, I would — that is, I accept with pleasure, and thank you most sincerely for your generous offer,” he said, a gruff note coming to his voice in his excitement.
With the lift of a brow, Caroline exchanged a look of wonder with Amélie at the spectacle of Theo behaving with such ceremony. He had flatly refused to do the pretty, as he called it, in the past. No doubt they had never made him so aware of a need for proper gratitude.
“Perhaps some of the others share your interest?” Rochefort said, sweeping the room with an encompassing glance. “Shall we make it an excursion? I feel sure my chef will be equal to packing a luncheon basket.”
Anatole, not to be outdone, signified his intention of taking a place in the expedition.
Estelle turned to her mother. “Oh, Maman. I have never been on such a ship. Say we may go. Please, say we may.”
Madame sighed with a shake of her head. “I regret, my lord, that I am not equal to this outing. The motion of a ship, even on such quiet waters as these, quite oversets me. I must beg to be excused.”
“Papa?” Estelle swung to her father.
“I could not, in all conscience, leave Madame Delacroix to go on a pleasure outing. However—”
“But there is Mam’zelle Caroline. Surely if she could be thought a suitable dame de compagnie for Amélie for a voyage across the ocean, she should be chaperone enough for this occasion.”
M’sieur Delacroix directed his second eldest daughter a quelling look. “As I was about to say, there is Mam’zelle Caroline to play propriety, though she looks in need of a duenna herself, in all faith.”
“Good,” the Marquis said before turning to Amélie. Bending a most beguiling smile upon her, he asked, “And do you go?”
“Yes,” she answered with a breathless catch in her voice, “as long as Estelle and Mam’zelle Caroline will be in the party.”
“Very good,” he repeated and sounded as if he meant it.
By the time the arrangements for the outing had been completed, the thirty minutes Caroline had specified had elapsed, and Colossus, on her instructions, appeared at the door of the salon bearing glasses of claret for the gentlemen. Leaving them to the enjoyment of it, the ladies made haste to their chambers to change for dinner.
Fashion had made no drastic changes since Caroline’s presentation four years before. The enormous wardrobe thought necessary for a London season had stood her in good stead in her present situation. Many of the gowns, especially those for evening wear, had not been off their hangers above twice.
As a governess Caroline usually restricted herself to rather dull colors, gray and mauve and brown. Impulsively she took a gown of champagne-yellow moire taffeta from the armoire that occupied one wall of her bedchamber. The neckline was rather daringly décolleté, edged with blonde lace. From a high waist just under the bust, the skirt fell straight to the floor, ending in a demitrain. The waist seam was covered with black velvet threaded through blonde lace, and black embroidery stiffened the hem. Lacking jewels, a length of black velvet ribbon at her throat seemed the perfect distraction from the nakedness of her shoulders.
She had become adept in the past few years at putting up her own hair. It was not difficult to pile her honey-blonde curls on the top of her head, letting them cascade down the back. Giving herself a last inspection in the cheval mirror, she found the effect not unpleasing. The touches of black emphasized the darkness of her brows and lashes and turned her eyes the color of woodsmoke. A vague apprehension troubled her. Perhaps the effect was too grand? It could not be helped, however. It was too late now to change.
She need not have worried. Madame, attired in rose satin with an overlay of black lace, had brought out the Delacroix diamonds. A necklace camouflaged the beginnings of a double chin; a bracelet graced one dimpled wrist, and a brooch held a rose-tinted aigrette in her silver-streaked black hair. That she was dressed in such a short space of time, Caroline knew, was due to the exalted rank of their guest. Any lesser mortal would have had to wait an additional three-quarters of an hour before he could expect to see his hostess.
Amélie, charming in apple-blossom muslin with amethysts and whorls of pink ribbon threading her curls, was waiting also in the back sitting room when Caroline put in her appearance. The delicate colors, combined with her own fragile quality, gave her an e
thereal, almost angelic, look.
It was Estelle who kept them waiting. From the direction of her bedchamber could be heard her muted complaints mingled with the scolding of the ladies’ maid she shared with her maman and older sister. It did not take Caroline long to understand that the girl objected to being dressed in insipid white without jewels or feathers. It was true such a costume could not do the girl’s vivid coloring justice, but it was customary for her age group, and nothing short of a papal edict could save her from it. When Estelle finally emerged, she looked young, fresh, and extremely attractive. The placement of a white gardenia, just plucked from the garden, completed her costume, which was enhanced by the flush of temper on the girl’s cheeks and the angry sparkle in her eyes.
Viewing her daughter, Madame sighed, then turned in the direction of the dining room.
They found their way blocked at the sitting room door. In the opening stood an elderly lady dressed in all the austere elegance of black silk with long sleeves covering her hands à la mamelouk and a high neckline relieved by a collar of white lace. Her hair was covered by a white wig over which was placed a white muslin cap with lappets that tied beneath her chin.
“Tante Zizi,” Madame said in a fading voice.
The elderly woman surveyed their elaborate toilettes, her black eyes brilliant, her somewhat prominent nose held high. “I understand we are entertaining nobility. Why was I not informed?”
“Bernard brought them to dinner when he returned from Felicity. It was not planned in this scrambling way, I do assure you. I did not think you would wish to throw on your clothing in so much haste—”
“You did not think at all,” Tante Zizi said with the bluntness acceptable only in the aged. “If you had, you would know I am grateful for anything that relieves my ennui”
“But you never join us for dinner,” Madame protested.
Ignoring the justice of the comment, Tante Zizi replied regally, “In this case I shall make an exception. Well! For what do we wait? Let us join the gentlemen.”
Sweet Piracy Page 4