Midnight Masquerade

by Shirlee Busbee

  Etienne looked to be any age between fifty and seventy, and Melissa and Zachary had decided that he must be in the region of sixty-five, but it was difficult to tell. His hair was thick and black with no hint of gray, and Melissa rather thought that he was a little vain about it—he grew annoyed when she teased him about seeing a gray strand near his temple. The swarthy skin of his complexion gave no real clue to his age, and his intelligent black eyes gleamed with youthful humor and vitality. Certainly he never gave any clue, and from his actions and conversation, Melissa and Zachary treated him as their contemporary rather than their elder.

  But in matters to do with the stables Melissa deferred to him without question, and when he had suggested during the Virginia trip that instead of using all of Folly's winnings to pay off more debt they use a part of it to purchase a few young brood mares, Melissa had not hesitated to follow his advice. Consequently, they had all traveled to Virginia to Tree Hill plantation near Richmond, one of the increasingly well-known race tracks in America. After watching Folly once again beat every horse placed against him, Etienne had remained behind while Melissa and the others had returned to Willowglen.

  Melissa and Zachary had been home for nearly two weeks now and had been eagerly awaiting Etienne's return. As the days passed, Melissa had experienced a strong sense of deja vu; once before she had waited at Willowglen for someone she loved to return to start their stables. Anxiety darkened her eyes as she remembered the disaster of Hugh's trip to England. "You do," she asked carefully, "have good news for us."

  Etienne's smile softened. "Petite, I would not fail you." Shaking a finger at her, he added, "Not all men are like your father, and you should learn to trust."

  Melissa grimaced and shrugged her shoulders. It was an old argument between them, one she did not wish to pursue today. Removing her spectacles and laying them on a table nearby, she teased, "Don't try to change the subject. When, dear monsieur, may we see how you have spent our money? You did spend it wisely, I hope."

  Etienne gave his rich chuckle. "You are a shrew, ma coeur, but an adorable one at that, so come along now and see what awaits you at the stables."

  No more was needed to be said. Melissa and Zachary, followed more leisurely by Etienne, flew from the room and raced away in the direction of the stables. They darted inside, eager for their first sight of what they hoped fervently was the beginning of their excellent horse farm. But there were no signs of the new mares.

  Puzzled, they waited for Etienne to join them. "Where are they?" Zachary asked. "Didn't you bring them with you?"

  Etienne looked rueful. "It seems that one of the ladies was very, ah, desirous of meeting her new husband, and in the confusion, I'm afraid they all ended up in the paddock with Folly—much to his pleasure, I might add. I'm surprised you didn't hear him trumpeting his satisfaction up at the house!"

  Laughing and talking all at once, the three of them turned and walked the short distance to the large paddock that lay beyond the stables. Leaning against the freshly whitewashed rail fence, they stared at the five horses lazily cropping the profuse growth of green grass.

  Folly was easy to pick out amongst the newcomers, his great size—he stood sixteen hands high—and his powerful muscles in pleasing contrast to the slimmer, more delicately formed mares. For once, though, the stallion did not absorb all of Melissa's interest as she scrutinized the four mares who shared the paddock with him. There were several moments of silence as her gaze wandered over the new animals, two chestnuts, a bay and a black. All of them showed their Arabian blood, the small, finely shaped heads and the long, almost incredibly slim legs a clear indication of their background. And, Melissa admitted thankfully, they were undeniably gorgeous, precisely what she and Zack had wanted.

  Letting her breath out in a shaky sigh of relief, she spun to look at Etienne, who lounged at her side. "Oh, Etienne, they are everything we could have wished for! How did you find them—and how did you manage to purchase four horses with the amount I gave you? The most we had hoped you could buy was two."

  His expression sly, Etienne replied, "Petite, you forget that I am a Frenchman, and a Frenchman is noted for his thrift. I merely cast about for an imprudent planter who happened to own blooded stock, and voila! I was able to strike an excellent bargain for one of the chestnuts and the bay. The other two I had to pay considerably more for, but I think that I have done very well!" Smiling, he added, "I am quite wonderful, am I not?"

  As it was well known to them that modesty was a virtue that Etienne did not possess, neither Melissa nor Zachary was the least disturbed by his statement. He was quite wonderful as far as they were concerned. They stood there for some time watching the horses and talking amongst themselves, and later, when they began to walk toward the house, there was an air of contentment about the oddly assorted trio, Melissa and Zachary towering above the gesticulating, dapper little Frenchman.

  The feeling of contentment stayed with Melissa for the rest of the day, and it was only on Wednesday, when she put on another of the ill-fitting and unattractive gowns she had found in the attic, that she experienced a lowering of her spirits. She tried to convince herself it was only a natural reaction after the excitement of yesterday and that no young woman would enjoy making herself look a dowd, but she knew that there was more to it than just an ugly gown and a return to normal events.

  And yet, she admitted later that day as she sat on a pile of hay near the entrance to the stables, there was much that she had to be satisfied about right now. Folly's latest winnings from the races at Tree Hill had not only enabled her to give the money to Etienne to purchase some new stock, but she had been able to spend a small amount on Willowglen, and more importantly, pay off all but one of Hugh's remaining debts.

  Being Melissa, the money she spent on Willowglen had gone into the stables area. Not only had the fences of Folly's paddock been repaired and whitewashed, but so had the fences of two other paddocks and the main large stable itself. The stalls and tack room, as well, had been put in as good a condition as she could afford. And though the area was still shabby, at least now, she told herself, if a prospective breeder came to inspect their premises, they need not feel too ashamed.

  If there was an improved appearance in the vicinity of the main stable, it was the only place on Willowglen that was not in pressing need of money and repair. Things had somewhat improved financially these past weeks, but the future was still not very rosy, she thought heavily as she picked up a piece of straw and began to chew on it.

  The fact that there was now only one person owed money was heartening. Unfortunately, the last of Hugh's debts was by far the largest amount owed, and in many respects it was the most troubling. Primarily, the debts had been centered in the Baton Rouge area; a few had even been in New Orleans. But it was that trip of his to England in 1809 that had come back to haunt his children, and Melissa suspected that her father had, as he had done with so many unpleasant things, pretended that it did not exist. The holder of Hugh's voucher did not, however, subscribe to such tactics, and during the past several years he had written polite letters requesting payment of the twenty-five thousand American dollars owed him. Letters that Hugh had seen fit to ignore, which Melissa thought uncharitably, was just like Hugh. She and Zachary had been appalled and frightened when they'd learned of the voucher's existence, their only consolation the knowledge that Mr. Robert Weatherby, the holder of the damning voucher, was safely far away in England—they would not be dunned for payment until at least the current war ended.

  Or so they had thought. Despite the war, Melissa had written to London, informing Mr. Weatherby of her father's death and requesting time in which to make restitution. She had been stunned when, some six months later, a letter from Mr. Weatherby's man of business, Mr. Honeywell, had arrived and imparted the unwelcome information that Mr. Robert Weatherby was dead and that his heir, Mr. Julius Latimer, was not in England at present. Mr. Latimer's sympathies with the American cause had led him to visit that co
untry and he was domiciled for the duration of the war, somewhere in the northern section of the United States. Mr. Latimer had taken the voucher with him, intending to personally collect the debt, which was long overdue. Mr. Honeywell would forward her letter to Mr. Latimer, but, considering the war...

  That had been last fall, and Melissa and Zachary had lived in dread since then that someday Mr. Julius Latimer would appear on their doorstep demanding payment—payment which was rightfully his. And just prior to the Virginia trip, that was precisely what had occurred. Fortunately, it had not been as bad as they had feared—at least that was what Melissa had thought in the beginning.

  Mr. Latimer was all that was kindness and politeness, a true English gentleman. He was also, she was startled to discover, a much younger man than she would have suspected, being just over thirty years of age. He was very good-looking, a golden-haired Adonis, one of the gushing young ladies of the neighborhood had exclaimed after meeting him. Melissa hadn't cared particularly for his sister, who was traveling with him, but overall, she rather liked the Latimers and had been grateful when Julius had confided to her that he was more than willing to wait for payment.

  A charming smile on his perfectly chiseled mouth, he had murmured, at their first meeting, "After all, dear Miss Seymour, my uncle had already waited several years, and as far as I am concerned, you may have all the time you need."

  She had been so relieved that he had not instantly begun proceedings to have Willowglen sold that she had not looked for any deeper meaning to his words. But the last week or so, she had discovered that she was increasingly uneasy in his presence and that she didn't quite like the way his eyes lingered on her mouth and bosom or the certain way he smiled and repeatedly assured her, "...not to worry over the voucher—I'm positive that we can decide upon some method of payment which will please us both." There was nothing overtly sinister about his statement, but there was something about the way he said it...

  Melissa shook herself. She was being a ninnyhammer. Looking for trouble where there was none, and heaven knew, she had enough to worry about without creating more for herself. Her mouth set in a stubborn line, she forced herself to think of other things.

  Despite the strides forward they had taken since April, Melissa knew that what they had accomplished was paltry when compared with what must still be done before Willowglen could become profitable again. Folly's winnings always seemed to disappear at an alarming rate, and as yet, nothing but the barest minimum had been spent toward rectifying the effects of decay and mismanagement caused by Hugh's careless and eccentric behavior.

  Melissa didn't let herself dwell on failure very often, but today she was unable to lift her flagging spirits. The jubilance that had been hers yesterday upon Etienne's return had faded, and she was aware that the situation hadn't changed that much: Willowglen was still dilapidated and in desperate need of money, men and repair; their only source of revenue was Folly's winnings, and Melissa lived in constant fear that something dreadful might happen to the stallion, that some terrible injury would occur which would end his racing days, if not his life. And, of course, there was the unpleasant situation existing between her and Uncle Josh.

  She gave a heavy sigh. Would the day ever come that she was not besieged by so many worries? She didn't think so; there were far too many hurdles ahead for her and Zachary, and any one of them might spell disaster.

  "I might have known this was where I would find you!" A sharp voice cut into her melancholy thoughts. "Young lady, you're supposed to be helping Martha with the hoeing, not lolling about the stables this way!"

  Not a bit discomforted by the stringent tone and words, Melissa grinned up at the speaker. "Yes, ma'am," she said meekly, her eyes resting fondly on the tiny, gray-haired lady standing before her.

  Neither the grin nor the affection in Melissa's clear gaze seemed to affect the woman, but there was just the tiniest hint of amusement in her hazel eyes as she said, "And don't think that you can fool me by that soft-as-butter answer. I've known you since the moment you were born and I'm not about to be taken in by your antics! You and that hell-born brother of yours don't fool me in the least."

  While Etienne held sway over all matters to do with the stables, it was this little Englishwoman who ruled the household and all its environs. Frances Osborne had been a novice lady's maid, not yet twenty, when she had accompanied her mistress, Melissa's mother, from England many years before, to settle in America. But in time her role had changed, the death of her mistress suddenly putting her in the position of nanny to the two young children as well as housekeeper for the widowed Hugh. And in spite of the uncertain conditions in which she found herself, she had never considered deserting either her charges or Willowglen. As she had told Melissa on more than one occasion, "Your dear sainted mother wouldn't have it! I loved my mistress, Anne, and I love you and your brother, and it will be over my dead body that I leave you!"

  Frances had proved as good as her word, and Melissa was grateful to have her competent hands on the reins of the household. For all her tiny size, she was a despotic, if loving, ruler and no one ever questioned her precepts—except Etienne. There had been a continuous running battle between the Frenchman and the tart-tongued Englishwoman for years, and Melissa sometimes wondered if they didn't enjoy their arguments far more than either would ever admit. They were both, however, jealous of the other's influence on what they considered their charges, but since Hugh's death, an uneasy peace existed between them. Etienne grudgingly admitted that Melissa should not spend quite so much time in the stables, and Frances reluctantly agreed to act as chaperone when Melissa accompanied Etienne and Zachary to the various race meets. The truce was a fragile one, and each was quick to resist what they perceived as encroachment upon their own territory, so Melissa was just a little surprised that Frances had sought her out here, where it was, unquestionably, Etienne's domain.

  Rising up from the pile of hay, she teased, "I suppose we had better hurry away before Etienne discovers your presence in his beloved stable."

  Frances sniffed. "I can assure you that what that strutting little coxcomb thinks doesn't matter to me at all!"

  Relishing the scene that would have erupted if the "strutting little coxcomb" had heard Frances' comment, Melissa smothered a laugh and, putting her arm through Frances', hustled the older woman away. It was a lovely May morning and they lingered over their walk to the house, discussing what plans Frances had in store for the day. The plans were mundane, and Melissa pushed aside the unworthy wish that Frances had had something more exciting in mind than seeing that the garden patch was kept weed-free and that the faded carpets of the main salon were taken outside and beaten soundly.

  Martha was already hard at work in the garden that lay just beyond the kitchen, and after exchanging greetings with the black girl, Melissa found a hoe and attacked the persistent weeds with vigor. Watching her, Martha exclaimed, "Miss, you gonna drop over dead if you doan stop workin' so hard in dis heah heat!"

  Melissa grinned at her. Martha was a big, strapping girl of eighteen, her round face seemingly always to have a smile on it. Martha and her family were the only slaves who had not been sold when Hugh died. In addition to Martha, there were her parents, Martin and Ada, an older brother, Stanley, and a sister, Sarah, and two younger brothers, Joseph and Harlan, who ranged in age from sixteen to twelve. Ada had been the cook for the Seymours ever since Melissa could remember, and Martin had been her father's head groom.

  The two women worked in companionable silence until Ada called them for the midday meal. Melissa gladly put away her hoe and hastened to the house.

  Zachary was already in the dining room when she arrived, sitting in his usual place at the head of the table. They greeted each other as Melissa sat down, and after she had taken a long swallow of lemonade from her tall glass, she said, "That tasted delicious. Especially since I have spent the morning hoeing and was about to perish from thirst." For a second, she scowled. "I hate hoeing!"

/>   "Well, don't expect me to sympathize," Zachary replied unfeelingly. "I spent the entire morning mucking out the brood mare stalls, and believe me, I would have traded the air inside those stalls for what you had to breathe!"

  A grimace crossed Melissa's face and, thinking of how fortunate they were to have a stable to clean and a garden to hoe, she muttered, "What ungrateful wretches we are! At least Willowglen is still ours." She did not look at the huge water stain on the ceiling above her head and kept her gaze from the old, sun-rotted draperies that hung at the window. "And," she continued in a bracing tone of voice, "we have Folly!"

  But she might not have felt so fortunate if she had known that at that very moment, Dominic Slade had just arrived in Baton Rouge for the express purpose of buying a particular bay stallion.

  Chapter 4

  Arriving in the small town of Baton Rouge, pleasantly situated on a bluff on the left bank of the wide Mississippi River, Dominic found himself a room at a comfortable tavern and proceeded to inquire about the whereabouts and owner of Folly. The proprietor of the tavern, Jeremy Denham, was helpful, nodding his balding head.

  "Josh Manchester is the man you want to see," said Jeremy as he placed a large tankard of foaming ale before Dominic. "He would have the handling of the family affairs. You'll find him at Oak Hollow, about three miles up the River Road north of town."