The Emerald Queen (A Vieux Carré Romance)

by Karen Jones Delk

  “Fabrice would like to,” she answered coolly. “You know he wants to marry her.”

  After a moment’s silence, Georges asked hoarsely, “How is it we are suddenly discussing a marriage you know I will not permit? Fabrice’s infatuation with Simone has been nothing but trouble for years. He knows, and you know, I will never give him permission to marry her. I told you, I am arranging a marriage, a very suitable marriage, for him.”

  “But, Georges--”

  “Just because she is your niece, madame, doesn’t mean she is a fit wife for my son,” Viviane’s husband cut her off. “Fabrice is heir to LeFleur, and Simone is a problem that must be resolved once and for all. Mon Dieu, first it was Nicholas with his drinking and gambling, and now his daughter with her scandalous behavior. Sometimes I don’t know what kind of family I married into.”

  In the hallway, Simone clenched her fists and fought the urge to burst in and confront him.

  In the study, Viviane drew herself up stiffly. “I’m sorry if you feel tainted by my family, Georges. You won’t have to deal with this difficulty, however. I will pay off Marcel Baudin.”

  “I didn’t mean to offend you, chère,” Georges soothed her quickly. “And I do not want you to pay him off. In fact, I forbid it. We must think of something else.”

  “I would pay him with money I brought to this marriage--”

  “Viviane, you know that under Louisiana law I, as your husband, control your wealth,” he interrupted patiently. “That money is set aside to purchase more land. I cannot let you spend it.”

  After a moment of mutinous silence, the woman said, “Then why don’t we send for the sheriff and let him straighten this out?”

  “Because if Baudin wants this matter kept quiet, and I believe he does, it is all the better for us. We must make other arrangements for Simone until de Vallière arrives,” her husband mused. “Let me see. What about Cousin Henri in the West Indies?” he said excitedly as the idea struck him. “His wife died last year, and he needs a governess for his children. If he hired Simone, she could repay Baudin from her earnings. She’d be safe with family, though distant, and temptation would be removed from Fabrice’s path. An excellent solution, I think. What do you say?”

  Simone did not remain to hear if her aunt would agree. In matters of importance, Viviane almost always bowed to Georges’s will. The girl fled noiselessly to her room. While her uncle was deciding her life downstairs, she sat down to plan.

  No matter what he thought, she did not wish to marry Fabrice, nor did she want to go to the West Indies. She would not become Marcel’s mistress, and she did not think she could bear to go to prison for debts or for attacking him. And to make matters worse, Alain would be returning soon to be her guardian.

  Her dull gaze fell on the newspaper Viviane had left open on her bed. Suddenly an advertisement came into sharp focus: Serge St. Michel needed a boy to assist him at his salle d’armes.

  Determination replaced hopelessness as Simone developed a scheme. She would disguise herself as a boy, she decided confidently. Maître St. Michel had seemed a kind man. If she could fool him and get the job at his fencing school, even for a few months, she could begin to pay off her father’s debts. Perhaps by then, Marcel, a notorious ladies’ man, would find someone else to warm his bed, and he would be more interested in cash than in an unwilling mistress. Then she would have only Alain de Vallière to fight.

  Her mind made up, the girl stole up to the attic to search the trunks for Fabrice’s old clothes.

  The bells at St. Louis Cathedral had rung the midday Angelus over the Vieux Carré when a handsome Creole dismounted in front of his tailor’s.

  “Hold your horse, m’sieur, for only a picayune?” a youngster appeared at his elbow to ask.

  “Oui.” Fabrice Chauvin tossed the reins to the lad with the merest glance.

  But that glance was enough. “Simone!” he gasped in shock.

  Clad in a boy’s baggy clothing, she looked lanky and underfed. Her beautiful light brown hair had been chopped off and darkened. It was plastered to her head from the heat, her face was caked with dust, and her nose was pink from the sun. But her merry green eyes and broad grin were unmistakable.

  Seizing the reins from her with one hand and her elbow tightly with the other, Fabrice tied his horse, then dragged his cousin into the alley beside the building.

  “What is the meaning of this?” he demanded.

  “You recognized me.” Simone pouted as she straightened her jacket. How could he know her when she had hardly recognized herself in the mirror at LeFleur that morning?

  “Why shouldn’t I? I’ve known you all your life. Why are you dressed in my old clothes? And what have you done to your beautiful hair?”

  “I dyed it with café as old Madame Oliver used to do.” Simone ran her fingers through her cropped hair with a regretful smile. “Don’t you like it?”

  “It... it’s short,” her cousin sputtered.

  “It must be if I’m to masquerade as a boy.”

  “What are you thinking to appear in public like this?”

  “I must go into hiding, Fabrice, and this disguise is best,” she responded patiently.

  “What in the name of all the holy saints makes you think that?”

  “Because I’ve passed for a boy before.”

  “That was years ago, before, er, before...” He trailed off, blushing, unwilling to discuss the recent, rather appealing changes in her body. “What is this about hiding?” he asked brusquely.

  “If I tell you, do you promise to do as I ask?”

  “Absolutely not.” Fabrice was well acquainted with Simone’s escapades.

  “Then I won’t say.”

  “Don’t be absurd, Simone. Why are you doing this?”

  “Because I’m in trouble.”

  “You’ve been in trouble for one thing or another most of your life,” he snorted, “and haven’t I always gotten you out?”

  “I won’t let you this time,” she answered bluntly. “It’s too dangerous.”

  “You’re serious, aren’t you?” He regarded her soberly. “At least tell me about it.”

  “Not unless you promise to do things my way.”

  Fabrice grudgingly agreed, but his expression became increasingly grim as he heard of Marcel’s visit to the house on rue Orleans and his trip to LeFleur, of his father’s plan for Simone, and of the return of her guardian.

  “There’s no need for you to go through all of this alone, cousine.” He put a comforting arm around her shoulders. “I’ll challenge Baudin to a duel, and you’ll be free of him.”

  “I knew you would say that!” she cried in exasperation, shrugging off his companionable embrace. “Don’t interfere, Fabrice. Marcel Baudin killed my father. I don’t want him to kill you, too.”

  “Who is to say he would?” he asked stiffly.

  “I cannot take the chance.”

  A spark of hope came into his eyes, and the young Creole urged, “There must be another way. You can stay with me—with us at LeFleur. Maman will be worried sick about you.”

  “I left a note for Tante Viviane, but I can’t let your family know where I am. Not only do I wish to keep them safe, but I have no liking for your father’s plan to send me to the West Indies.”

  “Ah, yes, the West Indies,” Fabrice muttered gloomily.

  “Besides,” she said, “if I make some money, I can pay off Marcel. Once that threat is out of the way, I can turn my energy to freeing myself of Alain, as well.”

  “As I recall de Vallière, you’re taking on a formidable foe,” he warned.

  “Perhaps, but the fight will be worth it if I can marry whom I wish, when I wish. Or choose not to marry at all,” she went on.

  The young man looked crestfallen. “Couldn’t you take a job as a governess or a seamstress?”

  “Marcel would find me, as would Oncle Georges and Alain. Please, Fabrice, introduce me to Maître St. Michel,” she pleaded. “If you recommend me,
perhaps it will be easier for me to get the job.”

  “Recommend you?” He was taken aback. “What good would that do? He’ll never believe you’re a boy.”

  “Yes, he will. You’ll see.”

  “But, Simone, you’d be surrounded by men every day,” he argued. “They’re sure to see--”

  “What they will see is a boy. I’m hardly the belle of the ball in this costume,” she pointed out ruefully.

  “Non,” Fabrice agreed, heartsick at her changed appearance.

  “Don’t worry,” she soothed him. “I’ll keep to myself. The advertisement said a private room went with the job.”

  “But look at you,” he tried desperately once more. “Even like this, Simone, there’s no way--”

  “Are you going to help me or not?”

  “It’s against my better judgment,” he said reluctantly after a moment, “but I’ll take you to the salle d’armes.

  “I still say it won’t work,” he complained as they headed toward the salle of Serge St. Michel, their footsteps echoing hollowly on the wooden banquette. But when he glanced down at his companion, Fabrice’s jaw dropped in surprise.

  Walking beside him was a pint-sized lad who looked to be about twelve years old. Every vestige of his lovely, dainty cousin was gone as she added a swagger to her step, tucked her head close to her shoulders, and squinted at the world through skeptical green eyes, whistling tunelessly as she matched her stride with his.

  At the head of Exchange Alley, Simone stopped whistling, her breath quickening. She had not been here since her visit as a child, but it looked just as she remembered. She recognized St, Michel’s salle even before Fabrice halted at the foot of the stairs to ask imploringly, “Are you sure you wish to do this, Simone?”

  She nodded nervously and answered in a husky voice, “Oui, and the name is Jean-Paul, Jean-Paul Sonnier from Bayou Teche.”

  “I still don’t like it,” Fabrice muttered under his breath as he led her up the stairs.

  The oddly matched pair found the fencing master at a small table with a cup of coffee, a cigar, and a newspaper.

  “Bonjour, Chauvin,” Serge called as they crossed the deserted room toward him. “What brings you here when everyone else is at lunch?”

  “I’ve brought someone who is interested in the job you advertised. His name is J-Jean-Paul.” Fabrice nearly choked on the name.

  “Bonjour, Maître.” Simone extended a small hand in greeting.

  “How do you do, Jean-Paul. So you’ve come about the job.” The mulatto’s amber eyes looked the youngster over. “I must say, you’re small for such work.”

  “But I need this job, m’sieur. I know I can do it. I’m a hard worker, and I’m strong for my age.”

  “What age is that?” “

  “Fourteen,” she answered confidently.

  “Let us start our friendship with honesty, little one,” Serge requested.

  “Wh-what do you mean?” Simone stared at him through startled green eyes.

  “Only that you are more likely only twelve years old, mon ami, perhaps less. Where are your parents?”

  “Both dead,” she answered truthfully, meeting his gaze without flinching.

  “And have you no family to care for you?”

  “None I can stay with.” She offered her own version of the truth. “I’m on my own now. I take care of myself.”

  “I see.” Serge rose and began to pace. The lad was a puzzle. The clothes, while ill-fitting and outmoded, were of good quality, and the hand he had offered was smooth and white. This Jean-Paul was obviously from a good family fallen on hard times. There must be a dozen reasons he should not hire this scrawny orphan, but the swordsman’s soft heart was touched by the boy’s bravado.

  “All right, Jean-Paul.” He sighed in resignation. “I’ll give you a week to prove yourself. If you keep the salle clean, tend the equipment with the greatest of care, set up before classes and run errands for me, the job will be yours at... let us say, six dollars a month.”

  The boy’s eyes widened at the princely sum. “Before you thank me,” he cautioned, “remember that, although there is a room here for you, I do not furnish meals.”

  “It’s still more than I had hoped for,” Simone fairly squeaked.

  So the lad was not so old. Serge smiled. “You can start first thing tomorrow. Today you may settle into the chamber beside the equipment room.” He indicated a pair of doors at the back of the room.

  “Merci, Maître.” Turning so Serge could not see her dancing eyes, she flashed her cousin a radiant smile and said politely, “Merci, M’sieur Chauvin. I won’t disappoint you.”

  Alone that night in her tiny, spartan room, Simone locked the doors. After hiding her mother’s necklace in a bedpost, she unpacked a small trunk Fabrice had spirited away from the Chauvin town house. He had not found clothes for her, but he had brought a nightshirt and a broad-brimmed straw hat, giving her strict orders to wear the hat when she went out of doors so she would not ruin her complexion.

  Rummaging in the trunk, Simone found a few household items Fabrice thought Viviane would not miss: some linens, soap, candles, and, improbably, a looking glass on a wooden stand. Though she would not keep it where others could see it, she was grateful for Fabrice’s thoughtful gift. It would help her maintain her masquerade as Jean-Paul. Deliberately, she schooled her features into a rebellious boy’s scornful scowl.

  She was glad she was petite, realizing it would be easier to pass for a twelve-year-old than a swaggering adolescent. Even so, acting the part of Jean-Paul was likely to be difficult. Though she must be careful never to challenge, she must make sure those around her knew she was not to be bullied. For the first time, she had doubts about her plan. Resolutely, she pushed them aside and prepared for bed.

  Under the boy’s shirt, Jean-Paul’s scrawny shoulders were shapely and white. Unfastening her baggy trousers, Simone allowed them to slide down over rounded hips. With relief, she unpinned the cloth wrapped tightly around her chest and breathed deeply. Between her firm young breasts was the imprint of her father’s emerald wedding band, which she wore on a ribbon around her neck.

  As she inspected the mark, her eyes drifted up her unfamiliar reflection. She had never been a beauty, but no one would recognize Simone Devereaux now, she thought sadly. The luxuriant brown tresses that had been her pride were nearly black and chopped haphazardly, making her elfin face look angular and gaunt. Her cheeks were smudged with dust and grime.

  She felt tears pricking at her eyelids, but she had made her choice, and she would not cry. Still, as she crawled into bed, it seemed that the emerald ring nestled between her breasts was her sole link to her old life, the only thing that reminded her who she was.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Her hat shoved back on her untidy hair, Simone sprawled on the grass under a tree in the Place d’Armes, watching churchgoers emerge from the cathedral. She loved Sundays, when the market was packed with people, when the streets were noisy, and the river-scented breeze carried music from every corner.

  The Kaintocks, the unpolished, industrious Americans who lived on the other side of Canal Street, could not seem to understand the Creoles’ careless Sunday leisure. But in the sophisticated French section, windows and doors were thrown open, and the inhabitants greeted friends who passed.

  Lying on her stomach, Simone propped herself on her elbows and plucked juicy strawberries from a basket she had positioned conveniently close to her mouth. There were definitely some advantages to being a boy, she mused, popping another berry past her stained lips. She had a great sense of well-being today, for she was thriving in her job, and the maître seemed satisfied. Serge’s last assistant had been lax at best. Though the work was strenuous and she had fallen into bed without supper several times, Simone had met the challenge with zeal.

  During the past week, young men had casually stripped off their shirts in front of her, and she had heard talk that left her face flaming in embarrassment, so tha
t most thought Jean-Paul naive and shy and left him alone. Now she had money in her pocket, an afternoon to spend as she pleased, and no one bothered with a boy lazing in the shade. No one except Fabrice.

  “Dieu, what a sight,” he hissed when he spied her.

  She rolled over and smiled up at him, “Bonjour, m’sieur. Just coming from church? Care for a berry?” She offered a handful in sticky fingers.

  The immaculately dressed Creole looked down his nose at her. “You have juice all over you. I wish you’d give up this masquerade, Simone.”

  “Jean-Paul,” she corrected, her voice low. “How can I give it up when Marcel is turning the city upside down for me?”

  Lounging against the tree trunk, Fabrice confided, “He has offered to reward any of your neighbors who will notify him if Simone Devereaux is seen.”

  “Then she must not be seen. Sure you won’t have a berry?” When he refused, she popped another into her mouth and asked, “Has Marcel bothered Oncle Georges and Tante Viviane anymore?”

  “Non, but LeFleur is being watched.” At her scowl, he added, “Do not worry. I wasn’t followed.”

  “Marcel hasn’t troubled you?”

  “He sent his bodyguard, Guy la Roche, a big Cajun to question me. I’m afraid I seemed completely addle-pated. I didn’t even realize ma petite cousine Simone was missing.”

  “Merci, Fabrice,” she sighed in relief. “You’re a true gentleman.”

  “I didn’t feel like one,” he grumbled.

  “But you are.” She beamed up at him for one unguarded moment, and he almost forgot he was dealing with Jean-Paul at all.

  “Monsieur Chauvin, bonjour,” a feminine voice called shrilly. The pair under the tree turned to see a young couple out for a promenade around the square.

  “Bonjour, mademoiselle, monsieur.” Fabrice swept off his hat and bowed politely.