“I’m sure Papa will be glad to have your approval,” Lucienne murmured. “I think I promised this dance to Uncle Gaston, if you will excuse me.” A dance with her uncle would be a small price to pay for the chance to speak to Philippe. He’d be so pleased to know how well their plans were going.
“Surely this is our dance, mam’selle.” Philippe drew her into the dance the moment Uncle Gaston released her.
“I’ve been looking for you all evening,” she scolded. “I began to think you weren’t coming.”
“Not come, and miss the chance to dance one last time with the belle of Mille Fleur? Perish the thought.” He managed to look dismayed and amused at the same time. His black eyes danced with mischief even as his lips spoke apologetic words.
“Can we get to the veranda without making a stir? I must talk to you where we won’t be overheard.” Lucienne gestured toward the latticed doors.
“Done and done.” He guided their dance steps in a meandering circle till they stood next to the open doors.
She led him to a shadowed corner, darker than the one she had occupied with Armand earlier. “I’ve done it, Philippe. I’ve convinced Pierrette to take my place at the bal masque. She’ll be married to Armand, and I’ll be free. You and I can slip away as soon as Pierrette goes to join Papa for the ceremony. I can get down the back stairs. If I see anyone, I’ll just go through Papa’s office and meet you there. Père Jean-Baptiste drones on over every word and takes forever just to say grace, so the ceremony will take ages. Then the party won’t unmask until midnight. We’ll be well away from here before anyone discovers the bride is Pierrette.”
Philippe lounged casually against the veranda railing. “You’ve made a wealth of plans, mam’selle. What about Marie, that gargoyle of a chaperone of yours? Won’t she become suspicious of the substitute bride? She knows you very well.” His lazy tone sounded amused and indulgent.
“Bah, Marie will be kept so busy she won’t have a second to look too closely. She’ll see a girl in an elaborate costume, a masked girl with dark hair barely visible in the candlelight. It’s what she expects to see. Why would she think otherwise?”
Philippe laughed softly in the dark. “The best-laid plans, chèrie, can destruct in the wink of an eye. An unexpected turn of fate, an unforeseen interruption, anything at all can upset your arrangements.”
“Nothing will, not when Pierrette is so taken with Armand. I’ve got her fairly well convinced that he would prefer to marry her. My cousin is a scared rabbit, but I’ll keep her in hand.”
Philippe chuckled as if she were jesting. “It’s the soft, scared ones who often make the most trouble. Just when you need to depend on them, they give way at the last minute, and leave you grasping at thin air. Your cousin may well lose her nerve in the end. Her infatuation with Dupre might not be enough to keep her going.”
“I can manage Pierrette. I’ve been leading her along all her life. She never has an ounce of spirit unless I push her.”
“Perhaps, but mind what I say. The very one you think is most committed may well let you down.” He made a move as if to lead her back to the dancing.
“A moment, Philippe.” Lucienne stopped him. “This affair with Bowie and the Blanchards. Is it over?”
Philippe stepped back. “How did you hear of such gossip, mam’selle? Not from your papa, I’m sure.”
“I heard of it from Grandmère. She makes it a point to learn of everything that goes on around her. She told Pierrette and me about the feud and the duel.”
Philippe looked stern and implacable behind his folded arms. “Your grandmère should guard her tongue.”
Lucienne paid no attention to his words. “Philippe, you mustn’t challenge this Blanchard. I know your cousin was wounded and the family holds Blanchard responsible for the quarrel, but it’s their feud with the Blanchards and nothing to do with you. I’m sure you had no part in the trouble at the horse race. Apologize if you think you must, but stay out of the affair. You could be killed. Please, promise me you won’t confront the man or become part of the argument.”
“Mam’selle, there are affairs you do not understand. A man must defend his honor, or that of his family, against any stain. This isn’t your business, and we won’t speak of it again. It isn’t suitable conversation for your ears.”
Lucienne stamped her foot in fury. “If it concerns the life and death of the man I plan to marry, it very well is my business.”
He reached out to take her hand. “Lucienne, such distress shows your kind heart. But there are things in the lives of men that are beyond you. A man’s honor is sacred. If he is insulted, then he must respond. Don’t trouble yourself with things you don’t understand. Let a man deal with them. Your sweet concern is treasure enough for anyone. More on this dull subject of duels and such tarnishes the splendid evening, an evening made for dancing and courtship. Let’s put aside everything else and take pleasure in the moment.”
Lucienne permitted Philippe to take her back into the house. A thorn of dissatisfaction pricked her thoughts as she danced and flirted through the evening. Philippe had dismissed her worry. He’d pushed away her fears for his safety. He’d not given her his promise to curtail the hostilities between the Blanchards and his cousins. How could she fail to understand what he said about a man’s honor being sacred? Sacre bleu, she’d been brought up on the code of honor, but taking on his cousins’ quarrel still didn’t make sense. Even stodgy Armand Dupre admitted that.
Lucienne looked across the room to where Philippe was chatting with his brother Etienne. Their heads were very close together and their faces serious enough for a funeral. It was happening, Lucienne was sure of it: The men were this very minute discussing the possibility of meeting with the Blanchards’ representatives. Bowie had been wounded, Grandmère said, and the Pardues would be seeking retribution.
Armand appeared at her side. “You seem distressed. Are you feeling faint?”
She turned to him as if to a lifeline. “M’sieu, we spoke earlier of the futility of dueling. The Pardues are cousins to the Bowie family, and I have learned they may well be taking up this foolish feud. Is there any way to stop such a thing?”
“It would pain you so much to see your neighbors involved in this affair?”
She couldn’t spell out her concern for Philippe directly to Armand. It would raise questions in his mind. “M’sieu Pardue is an old and dear friend of my parents. To see him lose a son in such a stupid cause would wound all of us.”
“I don’t know if I have any means of diverting or easing this matter, chèrie, but as it is of such concern to you, I’ll do all I can. I don’t want to see our wedding marred by the possibility of a friend’s funeral. You may trust me to see to that.” He raised her hand to his lips. “Adieu, chèrie, I’ll go now and learn what I can.”
Lucienne turned to the next partner awaiting her attention, but her mind was with the two men and their very different reactions to her concern. Philippe, who kicked away inconvenient social restrictions, had dismissed her questions as interference in matters she couldn’t understand. Armand, tedious and always correct in his manner, had listened to her and even concurred with her opinions to the extent of offering to assist in disrupting a duel. Maybe men weren’t as predictable as she’d believed. Armand, tedious and bland as he was, at least appreciated her distress.
Chapter Six:
Best Laid Plans
“A sedate pace, Lucienne. Remember, you’re a woman about to marry, not a romping child,” Charlotte cautioned.
As if I could forget that fact even for a moment. Lucienne sulked. “Yes, Mama, I’ll be so sedate and calm our guests will take me for a garden statue.”
“I didn’t mean you shouldn’t enjoy the picnic and the performance Papa has arranged.”
Lucienne sighed. It was bad enough that custom decreed she must stay home from all the parties in the parish these three days before the wedding. To quash the high spirits today’s entertainment inspired was mor
e than she could manage.
“Will there be music and comic acts along with the play, Mama? Did Papa tell you about it at all?”
“Your papa has planned a lovely afternoon for you and all our guests,” Charlotte assured her. “He was afraid you’d miss much this season, with your wedding moved up so precipitously. He wanted to make it up to you. How he managed to bring the actors and the musicians here at this time of the year, I don’t know. An al fresco luncheon and the showboat as well is quite an undertaking. Be sure you thank him for his efforts. He’ll want to know his Chou-Chou is happy. And mind your complexion, chèrie. Though it’s barely spring, the afternoon sun will leave freckles in an instant.”
“Yes, of course, Mama.” Lucienne kept her tone dutiful and reserved, though she wanted to skip across the green lawns and shout with pleasure over her father’s surprise. She tilted her parasol to shade her face from the pale sun, then adjusted it to miss the brim of her bonnet and the blue plumes dancing around the crown. The blue-and-white floral striped gown and bonnet were part of her trousseau. It had taken a week of pleading and pouting to gain permission to wear the becoming outfit today. Philippe always noticed what she wore. She expected he would seek her out this afternoon. He’d be sure to realize she’d dressed for his appreciation.
Armand met her and her mother at the end of the long front walk. He looked quite the dandy in his fawn-and-brown sporting garb. “Ladies, you have a pleasant spot under the willow trees waiting. Once you’ve greeted the guests and are ready to join them, you’ll be shaded from the sun but have an excellent view of the entertainment.” He offered an arm to each and led them along the stone path to the porte-cochère, where neighbors’ carriages would shortly arrive.
“M’sieu”—Charlotte nodded—“your timing is excellent. See, our guests begin to come.” She glanced up at the stairs, where René was hurrying from the gallery. “My husband is just in time to greet the first of them now. Stand here with Lucienne, if you will, and help us make our visitors welcome.”
Lucienne thought the wave of arrivals would never end. From the moment her mother kissed the cheek of the autocratic widow of Deauville, the plantation opposite, until Raoul Dupre suggested he and René Toussaint seek refreshment inside the house, the guests made a wandering line from the front of the house to the picnic area.
Low chairs had been set about earlier for the comfort of their guests. Tables dressed with snowy linen and numerous covered dishes made a buffet at one side. “I’ll get you a plate and something to drink,” Armand offered after the last guest had been welcomed and best wishes exchanged.
“Oh, yes, something to drink, please,” Lucienne agreed. “I’m as parched as a sandhill, after kissing and cooing with all those people.” Longing to take off her bonnet and the narrow half-boots that had begun to pinch her toes, she sank into her low chair.
“At your service, mam’selle.” Armand put a cool glass into her hands.
“Oh, most refreshing, m’sieu.”
As the afternoon sun lowered in the sky, the party milled about the river’s edge, consuming cold chicken, savory stuffed pastries, mounds of snowy rice, and the delicate lemon gateau that made Mille Fleur parties famous. When trips to the buffet slowed and the visitors settled in groups that grew quiet, René Toussaint’s valet Mose and a quartet of musicians with stringed instruments took places on the long wharf stretching into the river. Old tunes, ballads, and riddle songs invited the listeners to join in. Everybody knew the words to music that had been part of their lives when the grandparents in the audience were youngsters. Lucienne looked around to find Armand at her elbow singing an old love song as if he meant the words as a message to her. Flustered by the intimacy in his tone, she lost her place and stopped.
“You have a very sweet voice, mam’selle.” His words just reached her through the chorus around them.
Lucienne didn’t know what she might have answered to the conventional compliment delivered in such a caressing manner, but she was saved a reply. From farther down the river came the long low whistle of a riverboat.
“Showboat’s coming, showboat’s coming.” The words rippled through the crowd. Just as the sun dipped below the trees on the opposite shore, the gaily painted craft churned into view.
The play, a merry comedy about a man and his valet trading places to avoid an arranged marriage, seemed a prophetic choice to Lucienne, but the farce was so broad and the humor so good-natured that she all but cried with laughter. The performers managed with minimal scenery or props. They sauntered or stalked along the rude wharf, yet convinced the audience they stood in a grand drawing room or intimate boudoir, finally taking bows to thunderous applause. Between acts, a spirited group of Spanish dancers flicked castanets, and a band of daring acrobats thrilled the audience on the grassy embankment.
Though torches lit the landing area and made paths from the lawns to the doors of the house, after dark Mille Fleur’s guests began to trickle away. Lucienne and her mother made their farewells to each small group, while René and Armand assisted ladies into carriages and exchanged pleasant words with the men. Carriage after carriage rolled down the long drive and into the night.
Armand offered Lucienne his arm and led her halfway up the darkened stairs. “A moment before we go, mam’selle.”
“But we should go in.”
“A moment,” he repeated. “You were concerned about a certain family that might be drawn into an affair of arms.”
“Yes, yes.” She turned to him eagerly. Philippe and his family had been conspicuously absent this evening. She’d half feared the duel was planned for the next dawn.
“I think I’ve been successful, for the moment, in preventing a confrontation. I mentioned to a person of some authority that the Blanchards are attempting to provoke a situation. He promised to keep an eye on them and to be sure they were aware of his interest. It may give tempers time to cool. With luck, the Blanchards will return to their own home upriver with no challenge issued or answered.”
In three days Philippe would be unavailable to provoke a duel, Lucienne assured herself. Their elopement would take him away from the quarrel and its consequences. If the simmering pot could be kept from boiling over for that long, she’d see that Philippe stayed out of the fight forever. As his wife, she was certain, she would make him listen.
“Thank you, m’sieu, a hundred times thank you.” Lucienne let out a great sigh of relief. “I feel sure all the Pardues, when they have time to think, will be relieved to hear no further talk of duels.”
Armand lifted her hand. “A pleasure to relieve your mind, chèrie. And I, too, am pleased that there will be no blood spilled to spoil our wedding day.” His lips touched the fabric of her lace mitt, and for a second the warmth of his breath lit a small flame under her skin. “I’m not permitted to see you until that occasion,” he reminded her. “But surely a man condemned to such a long wait is allowed one small liberty.” He tilted her chin up and brushed a kiss across her lips. “A very small liberty, Lucienne.” Her mouth felt seared from his caress. She trembled at his touch, and for a span of seconds she was sure her knees would fail her. Drawing away with faltering steps, she escaped to the dim parlor inside the louvered doors. She took several minutes to still her heart and compose her face.
****
The memory of Armand’s “small liberty” crept up on her at odd moments during the two days before the wedding. At one moment she thought she should tell someone, certainly not her mother, but someone, then knew she could not. For an unmarried woman to permit a man outside the family to kiss her, even on the forehead as a favorite uncle might, breached the strict rules of conduct. It suggested the man held her reputation lightly, regarded her with little respect. Still, it was an exciting memory, giving her a quick chill and a sudden flush when it slipped into her mind. No one she knew, at least no one who would admit it, had ever been kissed in such a manner. She longed to discuss it, to examine the sensation, but Lucienne felt she had no one sh
e could take into her confidence. She had no one, that is, until Grandmère Thierry came to stay for the wedding. Her grandmother had a different view of life. Perhaps the older woman would be able to sort things out for her.
“Grandmère,” Lucienne began, “would you like to walk down to the paddock and see Papa’s new colt?”
Madame Thierry looked sharply up from her embroidery. Her shrewd glance said she knew full well Lucienne had no more interest in the new colt than she did in gathering eggs from the henhouse.
“I’ve heard a good bit about this wonderful new colt, and I do believe I’d like to take a good look at it for myself.” With her needlework thrust into an embroidered bag, she smoothed her skirts and brushed a bit of thread from her bottle-green gown. “Fetch my parasol while I put on my bonnet, and we’ll go take a look at this amazing creature.”
The two women walked across the lawns to the paddock in silence. Lucienne wondered how she could approach a talk with her grandmother and felt quite bemused, unsure how to begin.
“So it’s not the colt that drew you down here or brought you to seek me out, is it, Lucienne?”
Black curls slipped loose with the vigor of Lucienne’s denial. “No, Grandmère, I wanted to talk to you where no one would hear.”
“It sounds serious, p’tite. What is so enormous that you need to slip away to speak of it? Something about the wedding? You will be married shortly. It’s not surprising if you have concerns at this point.”
Lucienne flicked an insect off the paddock fence, her face hot with embarrassment. Overwhelmed with guilt, she hurried to push the words out before she lost her nerve. “Armand kissed me. The night of the picnic, he kissed me.”
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