Bal Masque

by Fleeta Cunningham

  “Combine the two? Is that possible?”

  “A masquerade wedding, you might say.”

  “It’s unheard of, René. I don’t think it’s ever been done. What will people think?”

  “Unheard of? I suppose so, but whatever others think, Chou-Chou is happy with the idea.”

  Charlotte sighed. “If Lucienne is happy about it, I’ll not oppose it. She’s been most distraught over this betrothal. I feared the marriage was not to her liking, but if you think it’s only that she will miss out on the excitement of a grand celebration, this certainly will fulfill her every dream. I think we can persuade the Dupres to agree. She’s our only child, after all.”

  “I hoped you would see it that way.”

  Lucienne had heard enough. She tripped back up the stairs and followed the open gallery around to the front of the house. The first part of her plan to escape this awful marriage was in place. Now she only had to find a willing accomplice.

  Not until midafternoon the next day could Lucienne put action to her intentions. Most everyone was sleeping off a substantial noon meal. Even the field hands were taking their time about getting back to work. Clouds had sprung up just before noon, and a heavy shower looked to be on the way.

  Lucienne lifted her rosy skirts and followed the shell path to the neat white cottage ahead. A slanting roof shaded the stone porch in summer, giving respite to the sultry heat. Now, in the last weeks of the mild Louisiana winter, it would shield the cottage from chilly rain and sudden gusts blowing off the river. The thick walls made a comfortable home for the overseer and his daughter. Lucienne knocked politely. No one came to answer.

  Where would—oh, the garden—Dorcas was always in the garden. Lucienne hurried the length of the porch and looked out at the small patch of damp earth that ran along the side of the house. Dorcas knelt in the dirt, sifting and leveling the spaded mounds.

  For a moment Lucienne envied the other girl. Dorcas had bundled her brown hair under a calico bonnet. Her skin, toned by sun and wind, glowed with the sheen of good health. No need for her to hide behind cumbersome hats or parasols. She lived in the outdoors during the day, running barefoot much of the time, with no raised eyebrows or reminders of what a lady of good breeding should do. Lucienne recognized the brown plaid dress Dorcas wore as one that had been her own a year or so before. Though faded and a bit short in the hem, it seemed to suit the gypsy-dark girl.

  “What are you planting so early, Dorcas?” she called. The girl looked up, her blue eyes bright, her cheeks reddened by a kiss from the sun.

  “Law, Miss Lucy Ann, I’m just plannin’ and thinkin’, getting the beds ready.” She stood up, brushed dirt stains from her knees, and wiped her square hands on a washed-out apron. “Hear tell there’s to be a weddin’ in your life right soon.”

  Lucienne nodded. “So it seems. Papa and M’sieu Dupre have agreed on it.”

  Dorcas looked at her sharply. “You don’t seem to be rejoicin’. From all I hear, Armand Dupre is pretty well thought of. Most of the young misses here ’round would be plumb silly over catchin’ his eye.”

  Dorcas spoke the truth, Lucienne knew. Even her cousin Pierrette had cast a moony look Armand’s way during the fall season. “If someone else didn’t hold my whole heart, I might feel that way. But to marry one when your affection belongs to another, that’s a cruel situation.”

  Dorcas shot her a sharp look. “Philippe Pardue, is it? I heard he called, but your pa didn’t suggest he linger. Somethin’ of a wild one, isn’t he?”

  “No, Philippe’s high spirited, that’s all. And he loves me as I love him. I know Papa would have agreed to the match if the Dupres hadn’t pushed so hard. Everyone likes Philippe. Given the choice, wouldn’t you rather have Philippe, who’s charming and lighthearted, than dull, stodgy Armand Dupre?”

  Dorcas shook her head. “’Twere me decidin’, I’d take Mr. Dupre. He looks solid, the kind you depend on when the baby’s sick or the crops don’t make. And nobody talks about how much he drinks or how often his horses finish dead last. Makes better sense to me.”

  “You’ve a tendresse for the man, Dorcas,” Lucienne exclaimed in feigned amazement, as if she hadn’t seen the long looks the girl sent his way when she caught sight of him coming to call.

  “If you mean I take him to be a gentleman of some distinction, I guess I’d say I do.”

  Lucienne leaned against the whitewashed fence. Can I actually do this? she asked herself. It meant giving up that gorgeous gown. And the scandal would rock the parish. She steeled herself to the idea. A girl in New Orleans had eloped with her lover last winter. The family cringed, but in the end, they’d accepted the situation. The Toussaints would do the same. She could do it; she would do it. To have Philippe, yes, it would all be worth it, even giving up the butterfly gown.

  “Dorcas, how would you like to be married to Armand Dupre? And have a glorious wedding with dozens of guests and flowers and music and all that goes with it? With a gown to make every other girl in the room pea-green envious?”

  “Miss Lucy Ann, what is goin’ on in your head? Armand Dupre wouldn’t marry an overseer’s daughter if she was the only single girl left in Louisiana.” Dorcas laughed heartily at the idea.

  “No, he might not, if he knew, but if he didn’t, and you were the girl on the other side of the altar after it was all over, he’d be too honorable and decent not to stay with you.” Lucienne grinned, a wicked chuckle bubbling up at the look on Dorcas’s face. “And I know how to make sure you’re that girl.”

  “It don’t sound like somethin’ that would work, more like some fairy story somebody made up a long time ago.” Dorcas untied her apron and wiped her forehead with the hem.

  “No, listen to me.” Lucienne told her of the masquerade ball wedding and the marvelous butterfly gown with its beaded mask. “Now, all we have to do is get you into my room, dress you up in that gown and mask, and let you take my place. We’re almost the same size, and the mask would cover your face. When the ball is over, you take off the mask and there you are, married to Armand Dupre. Meanwhile Philippe and I are a good distance away and getting married, too. Everybody is happier than if I marry Armand.”

  “I suppose Pardue has asked you to marry him.”

  “Oh, I know he would have if the Dupres hadn’t rushed Papa so much. Philippe said he loves me, and I know this arrangement is as dreadful for him as it is for me. He’s too much of a gentleman, too honorable, to interfere with another man’s fiancée.”

  “But he’d elope with her?” Dorcas raised a skeptical eyebrow.

  “When he realizes I’m as willing as he is, he’ll see the sense of it. So would you like to be Madame Dupre, Dorcas? Will you take the chance?”

  Dorcas leaned against the fence, her sturdy brown arms crossed before her. “You know, I would, I sure enough would, if I thought there was one chance in ten thousand that we’d get by with it.”

  “We would, I just know we would. How could we fail?”

  By way of an answer Dorcas said, “Miss Lucy Ann, hold out your hand.” Bewildered, Lucienne held out her left hand, the soft white skin covered by a delicate lace mitt. Dorcas put her own beside it. “Now, don’t you think that when that man took this rough old paw of mine and started puttin’ that sweet little band of gold on it, right off he’d notice somethin’ wrong? That is, if he hadn’t already seen that I don’t know one thing about behavin’ in fine company like you got comin’ to this masked ball. Or realized I don’t talk like you little Louisiana gals. And somehow I think he’d notice that the eyes lookin’ out at him from that fancy mask were a lot more blue than he expected.” She shook her head. A distant rumble of thunder seemed to echo her doubts. “No, Miss Lucy Ann, I’d be purely proud to be marryin’ in with that Dupre family, but it ain’t gonna work like you’re thinkin’. It just ain’t. I guess you’ll have to find someone else to stand in for you, come the day.”

  Chapter Three:

  Pearls and Plots

&nb
sp; “You’ve kept M’sieu Armand waiting, Lucienne.”

  Lucienne brushed Marie’s insistent urging aside. She turned before the mirror to check the fall of her skirts and the drape of her full sleeves again. The lilac-and-white promenade dress was most becoming, she thought. Armand should appreciate the picture of demure charm she made.

  “He made a special trip from the city to ride with your family to Belle Mer for the picnic and horse race this afternoon. It’s poor manners for you to delay greeting him.”

  Lucienne ignored the scolding tone. “He brought gifts, I suppose. At least he should have. Ten days is far too long for him to wait for something so important.”

  “He brought a most elegant betrothal casque. Taking his time shows he wanted exactly the right gifts for his bride; he wouldn’t be satisfied with trifles or second-rate choices.”

  Lucienne sniffed but held back the sharp comment that came to mind. Armand’s visit marked her first opportunity to enlist his cooperation with the changed wedding plans. She must have his consent as well as her papa’s. Securing his help might require all the charm she could muster. She checked the reflection in the mirror once more. Her hair shone in well-arranged curls, the ribbons a perfect match to the lilac in her dress. Her gigot sleeves shirred to the low-shouldered bodice were not only the last stare of fashion but vastly becoming, as well. This year’s slightly shortened skirts showed her delicate ankles and dainty slippers. Whatever M’sieu Dupre’s betrothal gifts brought her, he gained a pretty package, as well, in her estimation.

  Lucienne put on a delighted smile, as if it were another accessory, and glided down the stairs to the front parlor where Charlotte was entertaining her future son-in-law. Though formally engaged, the couple could not meet without a chaperone before the wedding. Lucienne was relieved she wouldn’t have to find ways to charm and amuse Armand by herself. Frivolous chitchat and girlish glee quickly became tiresome. Armand, tediously conventional, was easier to cope with if Mama was in the room. Apparently Charlotte had enjoyed his company, smiling at him as she continued her needlework on an ornate set of napkins for the trousseau when Lucienne came to the doorway.

  Armand stood up as she entered, but Lucienne spied the elaborate rosewood box before she greeted him. Indeed he had done some extensive shopping if he’d filled that impressive box. Lucienne held out her lace-mittened hand. “M’sieu, I had begun to feel quite abandoned, having been so long without your presence.”

  He took her hand and barely touched it to his lips. “I would not give myself the pleasure of your company until I could bring gifts worthy of your glance.” His response was as orthodox as Lucienne expected. She only hoped the betrothal gifts were singular and unique, so she wouldn’t have to manufacture her appropriate coos of delight and surprise.

  “Oh, all of this for me? How gallant of you.” She settled with studied grace on the settee and touched the carved box hesitantly. “I’m sure it’s something too wonderful.” She raised the top of the box a fraction. “May I open it now? I’m worse than a child about presents; I can’t bear to wait.”

  Armand joined her on the settee and lifted the lid for her. “Here, let me help you. The heavy lid might pinch those pretty fingers.” He drew the top back and invited her to look at the ribbon-tied parcels inside. She drew the first into her lap and untied the elaborate bindings. Waves of fine Honiton lace spilled across her skirt, yards and yards of it.

  “I’ve never seen such lovely lace! Look, Mama, how pretty it is.” Lucienne spread the fabric farther, and the ecru cobweb rippled through her hands.

  “M’sieu Dupre, I fear you’re spoiling my daughter already.” Charlotte took the bundle of lace from Lucienne and began refolding it. Her words chided, but a softer note took the edge from her tone.

  “I thought this might please you.” Armand put a smaller packet into Lucienne’s hands. A fan covered in the same lace and dusted with tiny seed pearls opened at her touch.

  “Isn’t that just the sweetest thing?” Lucienne fluttered it, casting a flirtatious glance over the lacy edge. Extravagant but so predictable! Ah, well, Armand looks very pleased with himself. She noted that he also looked quite debonair in his nankeen coat. The buff tone contrasted with his mahogany hair and eyes nicely. Her cousin Pierrette thought him the most handsome man in New Orleans. Lucienne had to admit he drew the eye well enough alone, though in company Philippe’s dashing style left him far behind.

  “The gift is no prettier than the cheek it touches. And this small thing is perhaps more practical.” The “small thing” was a packet of handkerchiefs, the linen so fine it was nearly transparent. “It was presumptuous of me, but I did take the liberty of having your future initials embroidered on them. I know it’s supposed to be bad luck to mark the bride’s change of initials before the wedding. I hope you’re not superstitious.” He ran a tapered finger over the elaborate monogram.

  Superstitions be hanged! Lucienne promised silently. If I have my way, you’ll regret being so presumptuous. “Not at all. Why, I think it’s just charming, don’t you, Mama? Look what wonderful work went into all that embroidery. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen such fine stitches.” She passed the packet to Charlotte, who lifted one of the fragile squares to the light.

  “Mother Superior must have had every nun under her roof working night and day to create this set.” She examined the flawless stitches with a critical eye. Charlotte Toussaint was an accomplished needlewoman herself. “Only our good sisters could do such intricate work.”

  “And there is this.” Armand put an oblong box of some weight into Lucienne’s hands. “It’s been in the family for several generations, but I don’t believe it was as becoming to any woman as it will be to my lovely bride on our wedding day.”

  Lucienne opened the box and gasped. She had no need to manufacture pleasure over this gift. The shimmer of pearls, barely pink in their black velvet nest, took her breath. The necklace, a rope long enough to loop three times around her neck, or through her hair if she wished, filled most of the case. Beside it a brooch, bracelet, and earrings glowed in smaller velvet hollows.

  Lucienne took the bracelet and held it against her cheek. “It’s warm, warm as my skin.”

  “Pearls take their color and glow from the woman who wears them,” Armand told her. “They always seem to retain their warmth. Do you like them, truly?”

  “They are the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.” Lucienne stroked the long strand with a tentative finger. Lustrous and rich, they would suit her ivory-and-ebony coloring to perfection.

  “They will be the perfect thing,” her mother cautioned, “on your wedding day. Of course, you can’t wear them before that.”

  Lucienne wanted to rebel at that ridiculous social restraint. Armand was giving them to her; he certainly intended for her to wear them. Why should she have to wait, her vanity demanded, especially since this man wouldn’t see her at all on their hypothetical wedding day. Even as she thought it, Armand was drawing the box from her grasp.

  “I long to see you wear my family’s pearls, but I know that I must wait for that pleasure.” He tucked the box back into the rosewood casque but paused to put a smaller box into her hands. “I wouldn’t breach convention so blatantly, no matter how much I desire to, but I thought you might wear a token of our betrothal now.” He took a gold-and-ivory locket from the box and let it sway a moment on its delicate gold chain. The fine filigree was set with a number of small pearls and opals glowing pink in their fanciful settings. “Would you wear this until I can see you wearing the actual Dupre pearls?”

  “It’s very lovely.” Madame Toussaint looked over her daughter’s shoulder. “I think the locket would be socially acceptable.”

  “Oh, I have a matching ring, as well,” Armand added, withdrawing a chaste opal-and-pearl ring from his pocket. “I want to give my bride something as unique as she is. May I?” He held up the thin chain with a questioning look toward Charlotte.

  “It would not be improper un
der the circumstances.”

  Armand unclasped the chain, walked behind Lucienne, and let the locket rest against her skin. His supple fingers barely stroked the curve of her neck, but they left lingering warmth where his skin touched hers. Something intimate, almost teasing, remained after his shielded touch. He came back to the settee and took her hand. “And this?” He held out the ring.

  Still mesmerized by the pearls, Lucienne unbuttoned her lace mitt and eased it away from her hand. Armand slipped the ring onto her finger and brushed it with his lips. The caress suggested something more, something tantalizing, and his dark gaze met hers. A flame lit his eyes, a fire that warmed her and somehow startled her with its intensity.

  For a moment she couldn’t turn away. To break the spell of his look, Lucienne glanced at her mother. “It’s a beautiful ring, isn’t it, Mama?” Lucienne held out her hand. “So very unusual in its style. I’ll be the envy of every girl in the parish.”

  “Beautiful indeed, Lucienne. I’ve not seen anything more exquisite.”

  Lucienne admired the band of glowing stones for a moment and tried to collect herself. She needed something from Armand, something… Oh, how could she have been so distracted, and by Armand, of all people... The wedding! She needed to discuss the masquerade with him. He must agree to do it the way she wanted.

  “You’ve been so generous and brought me such lovely things, I feel terrible asking for yet something else.” She lowered her eyelashes and wished her heart would stop fluttering so she could breathe properly. The sight of those magnificent pearls must have shaken her wits.

  “If you wish for something and it’s in my power to give it to you, you have only to ask.”

  “It’s the wedding,” she began. “Or the timing of it. Our family always hosts a grand bal masque for Mardi Gras. People look forward to it, plan for it every year. They even have wonderful costumes made for it. Last year Grandmère had special gowns made for my cousin Pierrette and me. Made in Paris by a very famous couturier.” Lucienne cast a beguiling glance up at him. “The ball is terribly important to all Mama and Papa’s friends.”