The Grand Masquerade (The Bold Women Series Book 4)

by Amanda Hughes

  Tristan sat stiffly on the bench, his eyes like saucers. The crow sat there proudly, looking down at Sydnee with a haughty attitude.

  “She has never done that for anyone but me!” Sydnee exclaimed. “It is official, Vivian is now madly in love with you.”

  Chapter 9

  As the summer wore on, the heat and humidity became oppressive, and everyone grew out of sorts. The kitchen workers were surly and on edge. Giselle was glaring at everyone like a wildcat ready to pounce, and Maxime was a holy terror. His patience evaporated in the heat, and he would flare up at Sydnee and Tristan without cause. Even the dogs were crabby.

  One morning after Mass, when they did not have school, Tristan whispered, “Sydnee, let’s go for a walk in the city.”

  “What?” she said, surprised. “You told me that we cannot leave here unchaperoned.”

  “I don't care. I have only seen New Orleans from the window of a carriage. I must escape for a while. It will only be for a short time. We will take the dogs to keep us safe.”

  Sydnee looked around furtively. “Where is Maxime?”

  “Composing his weekly letter to my father and going over his accounts. Please, please, please?”

  Biting her lip, Sydnee nodded.

  She gave a short whistle, the dogs came bounding up, and Vivian landed on Tristan's shoulder. He reached up and stroked her feathers. Looking around cautiously, they stepped out of the garden sanctuary onto Rue St. Louis. The street was glaringly hot and silent. Sydnee put her sleeve to her nose. In the heat, the odor of horse dung was overpowering.

  “You forgot your gloves,” Tristan said.

  “I must wear gloves?” Sydnee asked.

  He blinked. “I think so. Never mind, let's go,” he said taking her arm.

  They walked down the cobblestone street with the dogs behind them. Rows of houses were lined up, one flush against the other, painted in pastel hues with shutters of contrasting colors. A man came around the corner pushing a heavy cart. He stopped at each doorway dumping refuse into it.

  Sydnee looked around. It was thrilling to be out of the confines of the courtyard. As much as she relished her new life at the Saint-Yves household, she missed being out in the open air. She missed the wind on her face and the trees whispering to her. When she was inside, the spirits were quiet and their voices indistinct.

  Tristan was excited too and looked around smiling. “We will go down to market.”

  “Is that where everyone is?” Sydnee said, looking at the empty street.

  “Everyone abandons New Orleans this time of year, but the market will have more people. Most families leave for the North because of yellow jack, but there is very little fever this year.”

  Sydnee wanted to ask why Tristan's parents left him behind but reconsidered.

  Almost as if he was reading her mind, he added, “I have already had the illness, so there is no danger for me. That is why I did not go with them.”

  Nevertheless Sydnee felt there was another reason.

  They walked several blocks and at last turned down a street with more activity. Dusky women walked with baskets on their heads, men lounged in doorways smoking, as children ran with sticks and hoops.

  Tristan thought better of having Vivian on his shoulder and tossed her into the air, so she would not attract attention. Sydnee noticed people staring at him as he walked along anyway. He was unaware of the admiration in their eyes. She knew they were impressed with his beauty in the same way she had been taken with it that first day over a month ago.

  The trottoirs or sidewalks were uneven, and when Sydnee wasn't paying attention, she tripped. The root from a huge tree had heaved the sidewalk up, cracking the bricks. Tristan caught her, and they laughed. As they walked, they stayed under the galleries for shade, keeping the dogs at their heels.

  Near Jackson Square there was a long stucco building Tristan called the Halles des Boucheries. It was the meat market, and the dogs sniffed the air. Men speaking Italian wearing white aprons haggled with shoppers over the rows of cutlets, roasts and seafood. Chickens, hams and sausages hung from hooks as slaves brushed flies away with palmetto fans. Sydnee had never seen so much food and activity. She could not imagine the market on a busy day.

  “Hey!” shouted one of the workers in a thick Italian accent. “Watch your dogs!”

  He gestured toward Baloo whose snout was on the same level as juicy pork cutlets resting on long trays.

  “Come, let's go to the Vegetable Market,” suggested Tristan.

  The Halles de Legumes was another open air building lined with cream-colored columns and green awnings. Wagons were backed up to the stalls in neat rows where the vendors unloaded and arranged colorful produce. Baskets of peanuts, onions and apples lined the walkway, next to bunches of herbs, trays of yellow peppers, bright green okra, and red potatoes. Sydnee stopped and examined a palmetto broom that was for sale next to large baskets filled with dried Spanish moss for stuffing mattresses. She closed her eyes and inhaled the dark scent of the herbs and the sweet aroma of the fruit.

  Farmers called to shoppers, describing the juiciest of fruits and the freshest of vegetables. Black women with baskets over their arms and tignons on their heads wove up and down the aisles scrutinizing the produce and haggling with the grocers. Some carried babies tied onto their backs while others had children trailing behind them in a row.

  Tristan stopped at a stand and picked up a handful of brittle brown sticks in a small basket. When Sydnee drew closer she realized they were dried grasshoppers.

  “For ze birds,” the old woman said with a toothless smile.

  Tristan nodded, reached into his pocket and gave her a picayune.

  “For Vivian,” he said to Sydnee, wrapping a handful into his handkerchief. The crow was nowhere to be found, but they knew she would reappear when they left the chaos of the market.

  Sydnee smiled. “Why do you do it? That bird already loves you.”

  They walked to the levee to sit on the grass. Long rows of empty docks stretched out before them. There was only a few riverboats on the landing, and they watched the men unloading crates and barrels. Sydnee ate a pear Tristan had purchased for her.

  “Any other time of year this landing is filled with paddle wheelers and flatboats,” Tristan explained, popping a fig into his mouth. “It is usually loud and filled with people.”

  Vivian swooped down and landed on the ground in front of them.

  “Look, Vivian,” he said. “I have a treat for you,” and he opened his handkerchief, handing her a dried grasshopper. The bird walked over and plucked it from his hand crunching it in her beak.

  “Maxime calls her 'The Albatross',” Sydnee said.

  “Yes, it is from a poem. She is my personal 'Albatross',” he said laughing and put the rest of the grasshoppers back in his handkerchief.

  Vivian cawed loudly in protest, but Tristan was firm. He swept his arm into the air signaling her to leave, and she flew up into a tree to sulk.

  A fashionably dressed couple walked past them arm in arm. The young woman had on a pink gown with white lace frills and twirled a sea foam green parasol on her shoulder. The young man wore a cream-colored coat with tan pantaloons. When he stole a kiss from her, Sydnee and Tristan looked away.

  “Sydnee,” Tristan said, pausing. “I know why you are here. Thank you for not trying to--” and he broke off.

  Sydnee stared straight ahead. When he looked at her, she nodded, keeping her eyes down.

  Tristan bit his lip. “I don't understand myself. I am sixteen years old, and I should like to kiss girls, but when Isabel and I were practicing last summer, I-I didn't like it. I couldn't wait to wipe my mouth.”

  He sighed and stood up. With his hands in his pockets he walked toward the river. He bent over and threw a rock. Turning suddenly, he came back with tears in his eyes and exclaimed, “But when Lucien did it, I liked--” and he choked, not finishing his sentence. His chest heaved. “I don't understand myself, Sydnee. I am so ash
amed.”

  He looked at her, his eyes red-rimmed. “When my father caught us, he beat me and sent Lucien away. He called me depraved. Am I depraved, Sydnee?” He looked at her beseechingly.

  She started to speak, but words would not come. Tristan stood over her, his hands in fists, waiting for an answer.

  “I-I do not know the meaning of that word,” she uttered at last. “But I do know that you are the finest person that I have ever met.”

  Tristan squeezed his eyes shut and turned away.

  Suddenly Vivian dropped down onto his shoulder. Startled, he half laughed and half sobbed. Reaching up, he stroked her head and sat back down on the grass by Sydnee.

  “And what of your mother? How is it with her?” Sydnee asked.

  Tristan looked surprised. “My mother? I don’t know. She never takes notice of me. Especially since my brother died.”

  “I thought you had no siblings.”

  “Not anymore. My brother, Guy sailed for Paris several months ago. There was a storm, and he was lost at sea. My mother is convinced he will return, so she has a light put in the window for him every night.”

  Sydnee remembered the lamp lit by Giselle in the bed chamber every sunset.

  “What should I do about how I feel?” Tristan asked desperately.

  “What do the spirits tell you to do?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The voices that comfort you, guide you.”

  “You mean God?” Tristan asked, rubbing his forehead. “I don't know. I can't hear anything.”

  “Sometimes I cannot hear them either, but they are always there. For me they are in the wind and the trees and sometimes the creatures around me. Look how Vivian landed on your shoulder to give you comfort when you needed it.”

  Tristan laughed. “Oh, that was just Vivian.” He looked up at the crow in the tree and then looked back at Sydnee. “This talk does not sound like something Bishop de Neckere would like.”

  “Margarite taught these things to me.”

  Tristan remembered how awkward Sydnee had been in Mass, and he realized now that she had never been to church. “Are talking about Voodoo, Sydnee?”

  “No, it's Hoodoo. We say the same prayers and speak to the same saints as you do at St. Louis Cathedral.”

  Tristan rubbed his eyes. He was suddenly very tired. “I want to hear all about it, but not today. Maxime will be finishing up soon,” he said. “We should go home.”

  * * *

  There were many more excursions after that day. Tristan was eager to experience freedom from the walls of his townhome on St. Louis Street. He was tired of schoolrooms, garçonnières and courtyards. He wanted to fish, watch riverboats on the Mississippi, hear music on the landing, and eat food from street vendors.

  Slipping away proved to be quite easy. Before every excursion, they would go into Tristan's bedroom, lock the door and then crawl down a tree into the courtyard where they would slip out onto the street. Maxime would not disturb them, thinking that Sydnee was teaching Tristan the sensual arts.

  Some days they would simply walk through Jackson Square and talk, other afternoons they would run with the dogs to the outskirts of town looking for butterflies. The old grand-dames would shake their heads at Sydnee as she darted through the streets of New Orleans with no bonnet or gloves, disgracefully showing her ankles as she ran alongside Tristan Saint-Yves, but the youngsters did not care. Tristan and Sydnee were having too much fun.

  Tristan's favorite activity was to fish the Mississippi. After catching an abundance of catfish and crappies, they would collect branches, build a fire, and fry their meal upon the riverbank. Sometimes they would bring okra or onions to sauté and add a freshly baked baguette to accompany their meal.

  One Sunday afternoon at the end of September when Maxime was bookkeeping, Tristan and Sydnee stole away to their favorite field off Orleans Street to run the dogs. It was a beautiful open area just outside the city with groves of large oak trees. Sometimes they would watch boys playing raquettes or catch insects to examine under the magnifying glass but this time, as they drew near, they heard singing and drumming. Slaves and Creoles of color were flooding the streets, laughing and talking, carrying children, baskets of food and blankets. Some of the men had bright sashes tied around their waists and women wore colorful skirts and tignons. Everyone seemed to be going in the direction of the open field.

  When Tristan and Sydnee arrived, they were amazed. Their favorite field had been transformed into a festival attended by the black residents of New Orleans. Only a handful of spectators were white townspeople. Perhaps four hundred souls turned out for the shopping, music, and dance.

  “I have heard the kitchen women speak of this,” Tristan shouted to Sydnee over noise. “They call it La Place Publique, or Congo Square, but I didn't know that it was here.”

  Keeping the dogs close, they wound through the crowd, stopping to watch groups of black men and women dancing to the rhythm of drums and gourds, dressed in free flowing garments trimmed with ribbons, bells or shells. They would jiggle and jump to the music, stomping in time to the music. The women would shake their shoulders seductively as the men beat a frenzied rhythm on the drums.

  Sydnee could feel the sound of the drums resonate in her bones and began to tap her foot. They walked from one end of the field to the other watching performances. One group plucked stringed instruments and tapped agogos, chanting and singing songs in an African dialect. Another cluster of people chanted and clapped while participants took turns shimmying under a pole.

  Scattered throughout La Place Publique, vendors had booths where they sold yarn dolls, brightly colored scarves and wooden jewelry. There was food for sale too including fruit, nuts, gumbo, and fried catfish.

  Sydnee noticed Hoodoo charms, candles, and herbal remedies for sale. Practitioners and spiritualists spread their wares out on blankets and consulted with customers, shaking rattles, chanting or doing readings. Margarite told her that Hoodoo was practiced widely among the slaves and free people of color in New Orleans. It all seemed very innocent but a voice whispered to Sydnee that some of the practitioners here indulged in the dark arts.

  Tristan tugged on Sydnee's sleeve. It was time to go back. His parents were returning to New Orleans that night on a riverboat.

  When they arrived home, the dogs loped to the trough to drink water, and Tristan grabbed Sydnee's arm. He looked concerned.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “I am worried about the dogs. My parents will not tolerate them. They may even have them shot.”

  Sydnee's stomach lurched. “Then I must leave.”

  “No, wait. I have been thinking all day, and I have an idea.” He took her wrist and led her to the stable. “Mortimer?” Tristan called.

  There was no reply.

  “Mortimer Gish?”

  “Coming, Monsieur Saint-Yves,” someone said, from the courtyard.

  Sydnee turned and looked. Walking quickly toward them on the flagstone path was a boy about Tristan's age. He was tall but thin to the point of emaciation with unkempt brown hair and a sallow complexion. The characteristic which was so unusual about the boy was his curious gait. Mortimer did not swing his arms when he walked, and he always kept his head down.

  “Mortimer, I want to ask you something,” Tristan said as the boy drew nearer. He still did not look up. “Would you consider taking Mademoiselle Sydnee's dogs with you to the livery? I will pay Monsieur Schinden their boarding.”

  Mortimer stole a look out of the corner of his eye at Sydnee and then looked back down at the ground. “Yes, I like Atlantis and Baloo,” he murmured.

  Sydnee's eyebrows shot up. He knew their names.

  “Mortimer is our groom, and he has an uncanny ability with animals,” Tristan explained. “He seems to understand what they need, and they always like him.” Turning back to Mortimer, he asked, “You are sure that Monsieur Schinden will not mind having the dogs at the livery stable?”

  “No
sir, not if you pay him, and I take care of the dogs myself.”

  “Sydnee,” Tristan said, turning to her. “The stable is just down the street. Would you be comfortable with this?”

  “Yes,” she said with relief. “I will get the dogs.”

  * * *

  Tristan's parents returned that night, and instantly a dark cloud fell over the Saint-Yves household. Sydnee sat in a wing back chair by a window in the schoolroom, trying to read. Her efforts were unsuccessful though. She was too preoccupied listening to Tristan pace back and forth overhead, getting ready for supper. Tense and stiff, he descended down the steps at last. He was dressed in a light blue frock coat and dark pantaloons. On any other day, his eyes would have shown bright blue, but today they were a pale gray. He swallowed hard and said, “I am going into supper now.” He looked at her empty plate on the end table. “I would have much rather eaten with you. I'm so sorry. Everything will change now.”

  She nodded.

  At sunset, Giselle called for her to come to the back entry. “Monsieur wants to look at you.”

  In anticipation of this, Sydnee had washed her hands and face and put on a fresh apron. She stood up, straightened her skirt and took a deep breath. The moment she stepped inside, she saw Monsieur Cuthbert Saint-Yves. Although the light was dim, Sydnee could see that he was a tall thin man with a long face and sunken cheeks. He wore a black frock coat, and his hair was thin and gray. He frowned and looked down his sharp nose at her.

  “Madame Saint-Yves!” he called loudly, keeping his eyes on Sydnee. “Here. Now!”

  “I will find her, Master,” Giselle murmured and brushed past them. She returned with Madame Augusta Saint-Yves. Cuthbert jerked his wife around in front of him so she could see Sydnee, holding her by the arm. She was a woman of middle age with narrow eyes and ivory skin. The dark haired Frenchwoman exclaimed, “Oh!” and put her hanky over her nose and mouth.

  Sydnee blinked. She was confused. She had been bathing regularly, and her clothes were clean.

  Turning her face away, Madame Saint-Yves murmured, “Yes, now I have seen her.”