Catherine’s fears were confirmed when Gigi sidled into the cubicle after a wary glance into the shop.
“Is it true?” the girl asked, dropping her voice to a whisper. “Is it true what they are saying — that you actually attended a Bal du Cordon Bleu, that a duel was fought over you and the victor spirited you away? Sacre, Catherine. It is the most thrilling adventure I have ever heard.” Gigi spoke with excitement. “Tell me everything. What was it like? What did he do to you? Did you like it? I would die if such a thing were to happen — and yet you look so normal, so — so untouched. They say the man was Rafael Navarro. Was he as satanic as they say? I heard my older brother tell my father he has gone out of town, leaving you without a thought. The act of a corsair, or a devil, not of a gentleman. Are you sad? How do you feel? You must tell me.”
In her excitement Gigi clutched at Catherine’s arm. It was with difficulty Catherine refrained from shaking it off and fleeing from the room. Her face was ashen, drained of color by the certain knowledge that her name was on every tongue, her misfortune the topic of so much lascivious imagination.
“I am sorry, Gigi,” she said. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“You mean you won’t say!” Gigi cried. “I think you are mean not to tell me, when I so long to know.”
“You must excuse me,” Catherine insisted, bundling the gold cloth over her arm, edging toward the curtain.
But Gigi did not relax her grip. “Perhaps they are right. Perhaps you did ask for what you got — even enjoyed it. They say you will never marry, not here in New Orleans. Maman expects you to join the demi-monde. And I — I think that may be where you belong!”
She stared at Catherine, her face twisted with frustration.
“Gigi!”
The harsh cry made the girl jump. “Here, Maman!”
“What are you doing? Come away at once. At once, I tell you!”
A woman strongly resembling Gigi, except that her face was frozen into lines of permanent distaste, appeared in the doorway. Without speaking, she stood aside while her daughter scurried out. Her eyes bored into Catherine’s with cold contempt, then she followed her daughter. Her grim voice could be heard before the slamming of the shop door cut off the sound. “I told you to have nothing to do with that creature. You will pay for that disobedience when I get you home, my girl, you will pay dearly.”
Slowly Catherine turned to stare at her reflection in the mirror. What a terrible woman for a mother. An uncharitable witch. But was her attitude so unusual? Did she not reflect the general attitude of the women of her milieu?
To be condemned without a hearing; to have her name sniggered at or spoken with contempt was not to be borne. They expected her to join the ranks of the women of pleasure, the demi-monde, did they? Well then, they must not be too disappointed. She would show them.
“Madame Estelle?” she called.
“Oui, Mademoiselle?” The plump modiste swept aside the curtain. Yvonne Mayfield stood just behind her, her face tight with rage.
Catherine pushed the silk into the black-clad woman’s arms. “I will have the gold after all,” she said. “I wish something unusual — something flamboyant — something—”
“Something outrageous, ma chérie?” the modiste asked, her fine dark eyes filled with sadness.
“Exactly,” Catherine answered.
Her anger lasted until she reached home again. It was not proof, however, against the silence of her room or the softening of Dédé’s attitude. She did not cry but the effort of self-control left her spent. For long hours she lay on her bed, without eating, without sleeping, staring at the virginal white canopy above her head with wide, dry eyes.
So Navarro had gone. He had run away, leaving her to face the condemnation alone. He had gone without saying goodbye. She had not expected it of him. She had found no joy in his company; certainly she had no wish to marry him. She wanted to be angry with him, and yet she felt only a great emptiness, as if she had lost an ally. What reason had she for feeling this way? None, she thought — and knew herself for a fool.
To Dédé, sympathy was best expressed in service. Accordingly, she put aside her pique and brought soft custards and hot soups, coffee and cool drinks which Catherine barely touched. She treated her like an invalid, bathing and dressing her, brushing her hair for long, soothing hours, and dosing her with an herbal cordial Catherine suspected of containing a touch of something to make her sleep. She did not protest, nor did she forbid the burning of a candle which Dédé claimed would keep at bay the demons who seek to possess the souls of the young. Dédé also closed the shutters against the light, guarding the room as if from intruders, and a dozen times a day she inquired after Catherine’s health, in an effort to make up for the lack of inquiries and invitations from those she had considered her friends. Once there had been a dozen billets per day requesting her presence at levees, soirees, balls, and rout parties. Now there was nothing.
The attentions did not help. Catherine sank further and further into a listless apathy. Neither a visit from Marcus nor the arrival of the golden gown the same day could stir her to animation. Marcus she refused to see, so that her mother was forced to entertain him in the petite salon. Alone, Catherine stared at the dress with dull, unseeing eyes before turning away.
She was pretending to sleep when her mother entered her bedchamber after Marcus had gone. She knew who it was from her pervasive scent, still she lay without opening her eyes, hoping she would be discouraged and go away.
“Catherine?”
As she felt a hand on her shoulder, gently shaking it, Catherine sighed and opened her eyes.
“Chérie, how long will you go on like this? It has been three days now. You cannot hide here forever.”
“Can’t I?”
“No. It is enough. I have left it so long because I thought — but never mind that. Marcus has been with the this hour or more. He has shown himself truly repentant, and quite willing, still, to marry you — in spite of the vicious scandale that has been made of the incident. You will, I think, be wise to consider accepting him.” Her mother seated herself on the side of the bed, staring at her in earnest entreaty.
“Maman—”
“Hear me out, Catherine. He is not the man I would have chosen for you, but it is a respectable alliance. And I expect, once the customary five days following the wedding are over, you will find him an accommodating husband. You will be able to live very much as you wish.”
“That will be a comfort, of course.”
“You will find it so, when you are older. In a few weeks fresh food for the gossip-mongers will come along. With the blessing of matrimony on your escapade you will see less interest in your affairs.”
“Another comfort,” Catherine murmured with her eyes closed.
Madame Mayfield arose with a fretful movement that shook the bed. “Very well. Be difficult then. It is no more than I expected. But attend to me. Tonight you will dress yourself in something modest and becoming — not that gold creation that was delivered this morning — and you will allow Marcus to escort you to the theatre as he has requested. If you do not, you will regret it all your days. Moreover, if you will not help yourself in this way, you need expect no more sympathy from me. I am at the end of my patience. I begin to wonder if a nunnery in the south of France would not be more comfortable for you than living in this house with me. I understand that in the Carmelite order they value silence and solitude. I do not!”
6
The door vibrated in its frame as her mother slammed it behind her. Catherine stared after her. A nunnery. Was it a threat?
She seemed to have three choices. The demi-monde, marriage to Marcus, or to become a nun. Strange. Of the three, the first was most intriguing — the kind of reasoning which had landed her in this intolerable situation, no doubt.
On her mother’s orders, a bath was prepared, and Dédé was instructed to wash and dress her hair. A white muslin striped with apple-green ribbon, and a headdres
s made of bunched ribbon and small, green-dyed egret plumes was laid out upon the bed.
Catherine submitted to the nursemaid’s ministrations. It was easier than arguing. Wrapped in her dressing gown, an extravagance of peacock brocade given to her as a New Year’s gift by her mother, she watched with stoic calm as Dédé brushed her hair dry and dressed it à la Helene. With swift, competent hands, the nurse gathered her hair into a soft knot atop her head, from which fell a single thick, shining lock. To relieve the severity she coaxed tendril curls to lie upon Catherine’s forehead and before her ears.
“It is not everyone who can wear this style, but you it suits to perfection, enfant,” Dédé said when she was done. “You are pale, but still tres, tres belle. I must leave you now to see to your maman, but I will be back in a little while to help you into your gown and place your headdress. I will bring one of the red papers from Spain your mother depends on to give her color, no?”
Catherine smiled at her concern. “No, thank you, Dédé. I’m not at all sure that I’m not supposed to look wan and penitent.”
The humor was lost on the nurse. A troubled frown drew her brows together. “You must not be bitter against your maman, chérie. She does not mean to hurt you — ever. She is only a woman. She does the best she can. Sometimes it is bad, sometimes good.”
“It is good of you to defend her, and I expect you are right. But this is my life she is deciding. I’m the one who will live it. Why can I not decide for myself?”
“But chérie, it is not done so. And for all this time you have lain on your bed as if you would spend your life shut up in here. This cannot be. It is not right; your maman would be wrong to allow it.”
“I suppose,” Catherine agreed.
The nurse left so quietly it was a moment before Catherine realized she had gone. She got to her feet. Dédé was right. She had done nothing to influence the direction her life was taking. It was not enough to wait, hoping that something would happen to return her to the same comfortable position she had once held. Nothing was going to do that. That fact, as unpalatable as it was, must be faced. Her alternatives were clear. All that remained to be done was to choose among them.
She stared at the white and green gown that had been laid out for her. At last she turned away, moving toward the door.
The upper hall was empty as she crossed it to the stair landing. Below, in the entrance hall, a manservant was on duty, sitting on a small claret velvet covered bench.
He stood up quickly as she appeared at the head of the stairs above him.
“Yes, Mam’zelle?”
“Jules, when M’sieur Fitzgerald arrives you will tell him, please, that I am indisposed.”
The news did not delay in reaching Madame Mayfield, but neither protests, threats, nor entreaties would move Catherine to obedience and in the end Madame Mayfield herself went with Marcus to the theatre. The man must not be humiliated further. His sensibilities must be soothed and her daughter’s idiosyncrasies explained.
Catherine watched from behind the curtain of one of the small sitting rooms that fronted the house as her mother was handed into the carriage. She wondered if the older woman still had some hope of salvaging something for her stubborn daughter in that quarter. Catherine feared she was doomed to disappointment. Marcus could be an amusing companion, but his betrayal had gone deep. Her decision had not been lightly taken. It was, however, the correct one. She was not sure what she intended to do, but she thought even a convent would be preferable to spending the rest of her life at the side of Marcus Fitzgerald.
The house was quiet, with a feeling of emptiness. There were one or two servants about, including Jules at his front door post, but the others had retired for the night to the servants’ quarters at the back of the courtyard. Even Dédé had gone along the arcade from the house to the kitchen beside the servants’ wing for her evening meal. The privacy was welcome.
Catherine wandered from the sitting room and along the hall, her dressing gown flowing about her ankles with each step. It was growing cooler she thought, hugging her elbows. Not unusual. It had been a mild spring until now. But did the chill come from the night, or from within? She did not know. She let her mind wander. Paris in the summer. A man, a man much like Navarro, at her side. Or the cloistered walls of a nunnery in France, peaceful, quiet, until broken by the destructive malice of the new regime; the wealthy religious house had come under the censure. There was danger there from overzealous officials.
Still, she could not really imagine herself in those places. She knew too little of them. How was she to make a decision, she asked in despair, when ignorance hid the consequences from her?
In her bedchamber, she flung herself down on the bed with her forearm across her eyes. The smoke from the candle made them sting. She had the beginnings of a headache.
She was almost asleep when a tentative knock sounded on the door. It was a long moment before she could drag her attention back from wherever it had fled.
“Yes?”
“Mam’zelle, there is a gentleman to see you.”
A gentleman? Who — But it did not matter. She could not receive a man while alone in the house.
“Make my excuses, Jules,” she called in a low voice. “And ask him to call again tomorrow.”
“Yes, Mam’zelle.”
But, though she knew she had made the only possible decision, curiosity tugged at the back of her mind. On impulse she swung her feet off the bed and stood up. If she hurried she might catch a glimpse of his carriage before it pulled away, or even of the man himself, if he was walking.
She was halfway to the door when a firm knock fell on the panel and it opened. A tall, dark man, dressed in impeccable evening clothes, complete to the ankle-length cloak lined with red silk, stood in the doorway.
“Navarro,” she breathed.
“Catherine.” He inclined his head in a mocking bow and strolled into the room, pushing the door closed behind him. “It was unkind of you not to receive me.”
“You can’t come in here,” she protested, ignoring his bantering remark.
“But I am in.”
Catherine, recovering her wits, drew herself up. “You cannot stay then. You must leave at once. What will the servants think?”
“Not knowing the caliber of your servants, I couldn’t begin to guess,” he answered, glancing around her bedchamber with an infuriatingly knowing smile.
“I can,” she said, her face frozen with distaste. “And if you have the slightest hint of decency you will spare me this further disgrace.”
His smile faded. “Catherine,” he said softly, “I have found that the best defense against gratuitous insults is swift retribution. You would do well to remember it.”
Alarm fluttered along her nerves, but Catherine refused to be intimidated. “If you do not leave at once I will scream for Jules,” she said distinctly.
“If you care at all for the health of your manservant you will not do anything so unwise. I would not like to have to kill him.”
The slight touch on the sword cane at his side was enough. She stared at him, her eyes huge in the oval of her face. What choice did she have except to believe him?
She moistened her lips. “What do you want?”
A devil of amusement leapt into his dark eyes. “I came, sweet Catherine, for you.”
“What?” she asked, her voice a thread of sound.
“I have come to save you from this vale of shrinking self-pity into which you have cast yourself.”
“I don’t understand.”
“The theatre, chérie. I must beg you to give me the honor of escorting you there.”
“I see.” She took a deep relieved breath, letting it out slowly. “I regret that I must refuse.”
“That is not possible.”
“Of course it is,” she said, her voice rising. “I don’t want to go, therefore I will not.”
“It is not so simple,” he informed her. “When I saw your mother as she alighted fro
m her carriage tonight, I promised her I would use my persuasive powers to bring you to the theatre. I would not like to destroy her faith in me.”
Catherine looked away from that beguiling smile with an effort. “I am certain you will both recover from the blow.”
“Heartless,” he said softly. He shrugged. “Your only real choice is how we go.”
There was a look of steel determination in his eyes as he moved toward her. Unconsciously Catherine took a step backward.
“You can’t force me to go with you. I’m not dressed.”
“So I see, but, when the occasion demands it, I have been known to act the ladies’ maid.”
“I shudder to think of the results.” She threw the words at him more in bravado than for effect, her nerves stretched taut by his slow advance.
“Then you would do well not to put me to the trouble,” he answered.
A few steps more and she would be trapped in the corner of the room. It appeared that she must concede him the victory. Then her gaze fastened on the key to her room dangling from a ribbon on a hook beside the door.
“Very — very well,” she said. “I will go with you — if you will wait for me downstairs.”
After a narrow-eyed moment he nodded. “I will give you that much.”
He went from the room with a swirl of his cape. Catherine closed the door behind him. She waited until his footsteps had faded, then with trembling fingers she took down the key, put it in the lock, and turned it.
Her sigh of relief was loud in the room. Suddenly weak, she pressed her forehead against the door.
“You disappoint me, Catherine,” Navarro said behind her. “I did not expect cowardice.”
Catherine whirled around. He stood in the door between her bedchamber and the room where Dédé slept. How had he moved so quietly down the hallway and through that tiny room? For a long moment surprise and a kind of superstitious fear held Catherine mute, then rage swept over her.
Love and Adventure Collection - Part 1 (Love and Adventure Boxed Sets) Page 54