“She will never know. I’ll invite him for the entire week, and he can attend the ball for an hour or so. It will be good for him.”
Sydnee wondered about the boy. She hoped he had not witnessed the kind of violence she had seen in the Saint-Yves household.
“What about Isabel?” she asked. “She will be left out again.”
Tristan sighed. “Yes indeed,” he said, drumming his fingers on the table. “I know! We will make it a masquerade. No one will know it is her.”
“That might work.”
“And if she is unmasked for any reason, we can say she was spying on her husband and his mistress, the most natural thing in the world, and it will all be forgotten in a day.”
“Very well,” said Sydnee. “A masked ball will cost a great deal of money, but you are the one with the pocketbook. I will have all the fun planning.”
“That’s what I want to hear.” Holding up his wine glass Tristan said, “Let’s drink to the social event of the season.”
* * *
“I suppose you are going to Mademoiselle Sauveterre’s ball?” D’anton asked Fletcher one morning in late December at his office. They were discussing Locke’s properties and holdings in England.
“What ball?”
“Oh, can it be true? You fill me with delight,” said D’anton. “I thought I was the only one not going. She is hosting a Twelfth Night Masque, and Madame Delacroix will have none of it. She thinks Sydnee and Tristan are nothing more than decadent Creoles. I may be able to arrange an invitation for you though.”
Locke chuckled, “No, thank you.”
“Ah yes, you don’t dance,” D’anton laughed. “You are saving yourself for marriage.”
* * *
A diversion is just what Sydnee needed to sweep away her cobwebs of melancholy. She rented out the luxurious Orleans Ballroom, mailed invitations, and after planning the menu, she began the design of her costume.
Tristan and Isabel were positively ecstatic and chattered endlessly about the masquerade. Even D’anton, determined not to be left out, was formulating a plan so he could attend the event without Paula’s knowledge.
The night of the ball, to make it appear Isabel knew nothing of the affair, Tristan came to the town house with Charles to dress. Charles was a gangly, tawny-skinned boy with blue eyes and brown curly hair. Sydnee noticed Giselle immediately in his face. He had her high cheekbones and full lips.
“Welcome Charles,” Sydnee said. “You have your own room in which to change. Marie will take your costume and show you upstairs.”
The boy stared at Sydnee until Tristan gave him a nudge. When he disappeared upstairs, Tristan said, “I think you have a new admirer.”
“Nonsense, I am probably the first woman he has ever met socially.”
“Oh, I’m sure that’s it,” Tristan said, smirking.
“Well, do stay by his side tonight, Tristan. He will be uncomfortable at the ball.”
“I will. It will only be for an hour. This should be interesting. He told me that he is learning to dance.”
“Mademoiselle,” Marie interrupted, from the top of the stairs. “It is time.”
“Yes, thank you, Marie.”
Picking up her skirts, Sydnee started upstairs to her bed chamber which was flooded with candlelight. The first thing Marie did was fasten Sydnee into her corset and petticoats. Then she stepped into her gown. It was a voluminous garment of black satin, with a close fitting bodice, dropped shoulders, and three quarter length sleeves.
Marie fastened large black plumed wings to her shoulders. Next she covered Sydnee’s head with a hat of shiny black feathers which were slightly ruffled and combed back.
Sydnee sat down at the vanity and lined her eyes with charcoal, shadowing them so they appeared to be slanting upward. She finished off her make up with ruby red lips.
“Try your mask,” Marie suggested.
After pulling on her long black gloves, Sydnee picked up the black feathered mask with a beak of faux ebony. Holding it by the stick, Sydnee held it up to her face and looked in the mirror. “Voila,” she said.
There was a knock on the front door and Marie went downstairs to open it. It was Fletcher Locke. “Good evening. Is Mademoiselle Sauveterre in?” he asked, handing Marie his calling card. He was wearing a blue coat, vest and loosely tied cravat, but the front of his white shirt was soaked with perspiration. When Marie escorted him into the parlor, he stopped her. His face was flushed, and he self-consciously ran his hand through his long hair. “Please, I have been at the hospital all day, and my clothes are dirty. May I meet Mademoiselle outside in the garden?”
“Of course, Dr. Locke,” she said, taking him out to the courtyard.
Marie went back upstairs and handed Sydnee his calling card.
“What does he want? And tonight of all nights,” she said, clearly annoyed. “All right, tell him I will be right down.”
As she started down the stairs, Tristan and Charles came out of their rooms. They were both dressed in men’s formal attire from the previous century. They had on lacy shirts, colorful waistcoats, top coats and breeches. Charles wore the hat of a buccaneer. His mask was black, covering the upper half of his face and had two long braids of hair dangling from it. Tristan wore a smaller, elegant, black satin tri-cornered hat edged in gold lace with a half mask of black satin covered in gold jewels.
“Very nice, gentlemen,” Sydnee said, circling them and smiling. “Very handsome, both of you. Will you wait for me in the carriage? I will be there in a moment. Dr. Locke is in the courtyard.”
“Locke? What is he doing here? Certainly you didn’t forget to invite him?” Tristan said, walking down the stairs behind her.
“No, I didn’t forget to invite him,” she said, sweeping down the hall. “I just didn’t,” she mumbled to herself.
The sun had set, and Marie lit the Japanese lanterns over the fountain in the garden.
“Welcome Dr. Locke,” Sydnee said, in a business-like tone, stepping out into the courtyard.
He was standing with his back to her and when he turned around, he was stunned at her appearance. Collecting himself he said, “I-I had no idea the ball was tonight.”
“How may I help you?”
He looked at her red lips and then ran his eyes over her long graceful neck and arms. He was embarrassed and angry with himself for being dazzled by her. Setting his jaw, he shook his head. “Think no more of it, Mademoiselle Sauveterre. I see that doing charitable works was last year’s fancy. You have found other diversions. I won’t keep you. Good night.”
Taking long strides with his hat in his hand, he started for the gate.
Sydnee’s face flushed with anger. “Dr. Locke, you have interrupted my evening. You owe me an explanation. If it is an invitation to the ball you want--”
“Certainly not,” he said. “I came here tonight looking for your help. After the fever this season, I have found out that gangs are stealing children, mostly those orphaned from yellow jack, to sell in the north for labor and other unspeakable practices. I have every reason to believe they will be back again this summer.”
Sydnee stared at him, absorbing the news. “I see. What do you propose?”
He shrugged. “That is why I am here--to consult with you.”
“I would like to be involved--”
“But you cannot because,” he interrupted, assuming she would reject him.
“I said I would like to be involved, Dr. Locke.”
“Indeed,” he answered, with raised eyebrows. “Very well, I will call for you tomorrow morning at eight.”
“Eight!”
“Oh, forgive me, you will certainly be at Mass,” he said sarcastically. “Let’s make it nine.”
Sydnee scowled and said, “Very well, nine.”
Before he left, he turned back and asked, “By the way, your costume. What are you?”
Holding the mask over her face, Sydnee thrust her arm into the air, and Vivian swooped down to perch on her wrist. �
�Tonight I masquerade as an old friend.”
* * *
Dr. Locke took the long way home that night. He walked out of his way so he could watch guests arriving at the Orleans Ballroom for the masquerade. He stood in the shadows across the street with his hands in his pockets. Although he did not dance and most of these functions bored him, he would have liked to have attended this event. He hated to admit it, but something stirred within him when he was around that Sauveterre woman. It was mesmerizing to watch her move, and her personality was certainly unpredictable. One minute she was elegant and reserved, the next she was sharp-tongued and derisive.
At last the stream of guests arriving for the ball diminished, and the music began. He heard laughter and saw costumed figures sail past the ballroom windows. Locke thought of Sydnee once more, smiling when he remembered the sharp tone she used with him. He turned toward home wondering if she was like that with everyone, or if Fletcher Locke was the only one who could ruffle those feathers.
* * *
Tristan watched Sydnee in the carriage on the way to the ball. She sat stiffly in her seat, staring out the window. “What did Locke say that upset you, my love?” he asked.
“Pardon?” Sydnee said absent-mindedly. “Oh, nothing that matters now. We must forget ourselves and attend to our guests tonight.”
“Very well, Madame Picard,” Tristan teased.
Charles looked at him, confused.
The carriage stopped, and the coachman pulled the door open. Sydnee slid forward, took the driver’s gloved hand and stepped out, followed by Tristan and Charles. The three of them stood by the front door of the Orleans Ballroom to receive guests.
Charles dreaded having to talk with strangers and shake their hands. He was never comfortable around people and when he had to talk, he was often tongue-tied.
He was surprised that Mademoiselle Sauveterre did not seem comfortable either. She stood staring straight ahead, clearly preoccupied. But the moment the first guest arrived, her transformation was miraculous. She smiled gaily and offered her gloved hand for kisses. She cooed and gushed over costumes, laughed and made small talk with everyone young and old. She made every person that walked through that door feel comfortable and welcome. Uncle Tristan had the same knack for hospitality. They both were poised and comfortable.
Charles wished he was like them. He was mortified when someone talked to him, he stammered and blushed and struggled for words. Without fail, Mademoiselle Sauveterre would rescue him, or Uncle Tristan would jump into the conversation.
Mademoiselle Sauveterre was the most beautiful woman Charles had ever seen. He admitted that many of the ladies present were more buxom and full-figured. Many of them were more flirtatious and coy, but Mademoiselle Sauveterre had a grace and charm that enchanted him. Uncle Tristan called her captivating. He guessed that was a good word to describe her.
The Orleans Ballroom was ablaze with candles, casting a golden glow over everything. A massive crystal chandelier was in the center of the ballroom, and the chamber was lined with tall mullioned windows. French doors opened on one side into a courtyard with a fountain where guests could sit and listen to the water or move into the shadows for a kiss.
The orchestra was seated at the far end of the ballroom, and with a nod from Sydnee, they opened the ball with a Polonaise so everyone could display their costumes. The dress was an opulent mix of the beautiful and macabre. There were jesters wearing pointed hats with bells, sultans in gold with turbans, and royalty from the 17th Century. Some of the guests were dressed as Chinamen, or buccaneers in black and gold. There were tropical birds with colorful plumes and hideous creatures with long noses, horns and sharp teeth. Isabel came dressed as Marie Antoinette and spent the night laughing and dancing, hiding successfully behind her white mask and plumed fan. Sydnee looked for D’anton in vain. He could have been anyone hiding behind a costume.
Her first dance was with Tristan, and then she continued on with others, dancing two quadrilles and a cotillion. Staggering over for a glass of claret, she heard someone say, “May I have the pleasure of this next dance?” It was Charles. His face was flushed, and he bowed stiffly.
Sydnee took a breath, smiled and said, “I would be delighted.”
She could feel his hand shaking as he put it on her waist. He was so thin that Sydnee felt like she was holding a bag of bones. She looked down at him as he struggled to start the waltz. “You mustn’t worry,” she whispered. “It is the lady’s responsibility to follow whatever step you take. Even if it is wrong, I will not mind. I will follow.”
Tristan was talking to a group of people nearby, and Sydnee saw him stop and watch. Charles started out the dance stiffly, stepping on Sydnee’s feet several times, but by the end of the waltz, he had mastered the steps.
“Thank you, Monsieur Saint-Yves. That was delightful,” she said to him.
He looked up at her with delight. “May I have another?”
“You would like to try it again?”
“Yes, I would!”
They danced another waltz, this time more smoothly, and Sydnee laughed when the boy whirled her around several times. When the music ended, Tristan complimented Charles on his dancing but told him that it was time to go home. Sydnee could see that the boy was disappointed, but he was a perfect gentleman, bowing and asking to be excused.
The rest of the masquerade was a grand success. When Sydnee fell into bed that night she was utterly exhausted. She had consumed too much wine, and her head was filled with the sounds of waltzes, laughter and accolades. But as she drifted to sleep, it was not the success of the party that excited her but the fact that once more her life had direction and purpose, and it would all begin with Fletcher Locke in the morning.
* * *
Morning came quickly, but Sydnee was ready when Fletcher came to the door. “It is a beautiful morning,” he said. “I left the carriage at home. Is it all right if we walk?”
“Of course,” Sydnee said, picking up her parasol. She was dressed in a green and gold plaid day dress. She looked down, and there was Atlantis sitting next to Locke.
“I have prescribed exercise for my patient,” he said. “So it is imperative, the dog join us.”
Sydnee narrowed her eyes at Atlantis teasingly, and she wagged her tail. “Very well, but you must behave.”
“I thought we could walk to market and perhaps pick up some breakfast,” Fletcher suggested.
“Good idea.” Sydnee said, snapping her parasol open.
They strolled down the street with Atlantis behind them. Locke did not enjoy small talk, so he started right in about his concerns. He told Sydnee about the sudden disappearance of children and about his talk with Mother Baptista. As they approached the market, he swept his arm out and said, “Ordinarily after a summer of fever, there are children of all ages loitering and begging in this area. This year in a matter of days, they disappeared. I would like to believe some were taken to good homes but--” and he shook his head.
“Do you think the kidnappers are taking them upriver?”
“That is what I believe.”
“How are they seizing them? Do they snatch them, gag them?” Sydnee asked.
He shrugged. “I don’t know.”
Thinking of her father, Sydnee said, “Is it possible some of them are surrendered by their parents?”
Fletcher stopped and looked at her. “Sold by their parents?”
Sydnee suddenly felt uncomfortable. She cleared her throat and said, “Well, yes. Sometimes parents can no longer feed and clothe their children, so they give them up. But sometimes—yes, there are those that see their young as a financial opportunity.”
Locke sighed and rubbed his forehead. “So we fight wars on several fronts.”
They walked in silence for a while.
At last, Sydnee asked, “If we can stop this, what will we do with these homeless children?”
“Well, there is the Poydras Asylum, but it is badly overcrowded. I would like to start my
own orphanage. But how to do it--” He stopped walking and put his fist to his lips, deep in thought.
Sydnee studied him a moment. Although he was naturally fair skinned, he had grown tan in the Louisiana sun. He was a handsome man, but he had lines in his brow from frowning. Sydnee wondered if these were from constant worry about his patients. She had to remind herself that although he was caring and warm to children, he could be difficult and intolerant of spoiled adults and the privileged classes.
“What was your home like in England?” she asked abruptly.
He frowned and shrugged. “It was a house not a home.”
Sydnee pressed further. “It is a large estate in Gloucestershire. Am I correct?”
“Yes. Your friend, Monsieur Delacroix should not be discussing my affairs.”
“He has not,” Sydnee said quickly. “But there has been talk around town.”
“None of this is relevant. Let’s keep to our topic.”
In reality, Sydnee heard very little gossip about Locke, but he confirmed her suspicions. He scorned the aristocracy because his own background had been privileged.
When they arrived at the market, Fletcher bought coffee and beignets for them, and they sat under an awning at a café table. Atlantis sprawled at their feet.
“Are you still helping women?” he asked, taking a sip of his chicory coffee.
“No.”
“Good, so you can give this a bit of your attention between the soirees and garden parties?”
“Dr. Locke,” Sydnee said firmly.
“Oh yes, my apologies. Where do you think we should start?”
Sydnee put her cup down and stared out over the market. “We must catch the orphans before they are abducted.”
“Indeed. From now on, when a patient is admitted to the hospital, I will obtain names of all the family members. That way if someone dies, I know where to find the children.”
“And we must determine if there are relatives to take them in,” she added. “If there is no one, we must have housing, food and clothing for them.”
“Poydras can take them at first, but once summer begins, they will not have room.”
“We will need to find a building suitable for an orphanage,” Sydnee said. “But most importantly we must put a stop to the abductions. We must dig out the rotten core of this thing and find out who is behind these kidnappings.”
The Grand Masquerade (The Bold Women Series Book 4) Page 26