It was Maurelle, next morning, who forced her to face the greatest of her fears.
"What have you decided, chère? Shall it be the bombazine or no?"
The question jerked Ariadne from her headachy reverie where she and Maurelle sat at the breakfast table with cafe au lait and buttered brioche in front of them. It was an instant before she could think to what her hostess referred, much less bring her mind to bear on the problem.
"I don't know, I really don't," she said on a sigh as she propped her head on her hand. "Do you think I should really go into black for a stepfather and stepsister I never saw while they were alive and certainly can never claim
to have known? I am not unsympathetic, but I foresee only problems." What she could not tell Maurelle, of course, was that she wished particularly to avoid curiosity on the part of the sword master.
Maurelle bent a judicious gaze on the brioche in her hand. "I do understand what you are saying, but that isn't the point. You remember the old saying, Si un chat mourrait dans la famille, tout le monde portrait de deuil."
If a cat should die in the family, everyone would be in mourning. Ariadne's lips curved in a wan smile as she nodded.
"It's a gesture of respect, you understand. No one must be behind hand with such things, it just isn't done. It's also from the knowledge that the next to take the ride behind black horses wearing black plumes might be you. One would not like to make the journey alone."
"I realize, and don't object in principle," Ariadne said seriously. "Oh, but then there is the condolence call and everything else."
"Yes, though I think you can avoid the ordeal of sitting with the remains through the night. That is, unless you prefer it. As for the burial, I am told arrangements are being made to transport the bodies and mourners back upriver to their place in the country."
Ariadne had hoped for that outcome. To hear it confirmed was an enormous relief. As embarrassed as she might be by that obvious self-interest, one question concerning it stood out above the rest.
"You think my mother will return to New Orleans afterward?"
"No one knows, though I should think it unlikely." Maurelle reached for her coffee cup, cradling it between her hands. "She will hardly rejoin the social round while in mourning, even if she should wish to continue the pursuit of a husband for your sister. The girl herself could attend only the most staid of entertainments, so may as well remain at home."
Had her problem been so easily resolved? Ariadne hardly dared accept it. After a moment, she asked, "What of the condolences?"
"Calling on your mother at once will be best. At least you may choose the time and duration of the visit and will not appear backward in your filial duty. As for whether to join them on their sad homeward journey, you must please yourself."
"Yes, I suppose so," Ariadne said gratefully. Leaving New Orleans was the last thing on her mind.
"You will naturally wear black for the visit. Afterward, I should recommend gray at the very least."
Gray seemed a workable compromise. Being a fashionable color this season, it might easily pass without remark by a certain swordsman, at least for the short time required. "Do you think many know of the connection?" she asked after a moment.
"Perhaps not at present, but this tragedy may resurrect the memories of those who knew of your adoption. It is sure to be grist for the gossip mill in time."
She could only hope that it was later rather than sooner, Ariadne thought as her lips tightened. As for the rest, Maurelle might be a fairly free spirit but no one knew the refinements of the New Orleans social code so well. If she thought a condolence call while in black was necessary, then there was no escaping it.
"You will accompany me for the visit, I hope."
"If you like," her hostess said, though there was a question in her direct gaze.
Ariadne was not sure whether her request was made from a need for support or merely for the sake of company in her misery, but she smiled and thanked her friend, regardless.
They set out during the afternoon, Maurelle in subdued gray with lavender piping and Ariadne in a gown and bonnet rushed from the nimble fingers of Madame Pluche who kept black ensembles on hand for just such emergencies. They walked, since the rain was in abeyance for the time being and it was only a few blocks to the Hotel St. Louis where her mother was in residence. A note had been sent asking if their call was convenient, given that her mother was in seclusion. The reply was brief, but in the affirmative. At least they could expect to be received.
They entered by the side door reserved for ladies without male escorts, nodding to the porter who held it open for them. Another time Ariadne might have been annoyed at the extra steps required to reach it, but in this case she was happy to use the more discreet entrance. It allowed her to avoid the front door which opened on the Passage de la Bourse and a chance sighting from the gentleman who had his atelier there.
The suite they entered was in chaos. Beyond the open doors of the two bedchambers connected to the sitting room, trunks could be seen with their lids flung open. A pair of maids bustled here and there with clothing over their arms and collections of oddments in their hands from button hooks to sewing boxes. The opulence of the hotel room with its swag-and-fringe-laden draperies, Brussels carpet and brocatelle-covered furnishings, seemed to suggest a change for the better in the circumstances of Ariadne's mother since her remarriage. It was an impression aided by jet jewelry which complemented the deep, lusterless black worn by her and the daughter of marriageable age for whose sake she had been in the city.
One of the maids was sent for a tray of refreshment from the hotel kitchen while the other withdrew, muttering, into one of the bedchambers, shutting the door behind her. Ariadne and Maurelle were left in the sitting room with Ariadne's mother and her half sister.
"It's very good of you to come," Madame Arpegé said with great dignity when the greetings and introductions were out of the way. "I would not have had it be under these circumstances for anything in the world, but—" She stopped, pressing a black-edged handkerchief to her eyes.
"No, nor would I." Ariadne swallowed an unaccountable knot in her own throat before she went on. "My every sympathy is with you, I assure you, though you must realize that I hardly..."
"No, no, of course you don't know us, I quite understand that. We have lived apart for so many years, so very many years." Her mother summoned a smile which lifted the lines of her face, making her seem endearingly familiar to Ariadne for an instant, as if she might recall that expression from childhood.
Ariadne's half sister moved closer to where their mother sat on the settee, reached out to take her free hand, holding it between both of hers. This was Sylvanie Renee who had not been born when Ariadne was given for adoption, daughter of the stepfather who had died. She appeared fifteen or sixteen perhaps but mature with it, not at all an unusual age for the marriage market. Though not quite as tall or as thin as Ariadne, she had the same pale skin, and dark eyes and hair, the same steady way of looking at people. Yes, and even the same expression of mistrust.
"Oh, but I expect you are wondering why I tried to contact you at the theater the other night. It was the call of a mother's heart. I didn't mean to intrude but saw you and had to speak to you, to explain. No matter how many children a woman may have, the loss of even one must forever be felt inside. Hardly a day has gone by in all the time since I gave you up that I haven't regretted parting with you, regretted even more the move which took me, took all of us, so far away."
Ariadne leaned forward in her chair. "Why—" She stopped, cleared her throat. "Why did you?"
Madame Arpegé met her eyes, her own drowned in tears. "How to explain when it was so many things, really. I was so tired, you see; that is the first thing. I loved your father desperately and the babies came almost every year, one after the other. You were barely two and I was already increasing again. A hurricane ruined the sugarcane harvest and we could not repay the money we owed against it. Your father ga
mbled away the last of our reserves trying to recoup the loss, then was so distraught I feared.. .feared he might do away with himself. My cousin Josephine, your marraine, came to visit and fell in love with you. She begged so to have you, and her husband, your parrain, offered...offered a loan that seemed our salvation. I thought...I thought..."
"Please. I understand."
"Do you? I'm not sure I do. I've wondered so many times how I, your mother, could..." Her mother made a helpless gesture with her handkerchief. "We lost our home anyway, the next season, you know. By then, Francis was born. I pleaded that you be returned to me but Josephine wouldn't hear of it. You had become hers and you adored baby Francis. He needed a sister, she said, she might never have another child. In the end, we went away."
"I never knew... was never told that you asked to have me back." Ariadne could see why it had been kept from her; still she wondered if everything might not have been different if she had known. Hearing it now, she felt the easing of a hard knot of old resentment.
"Josephine was afraid you would hate her, I think, and so..." Her mother lifted her shoulder in a fatalistic gesture. "But it must have seemed strange to you, our desertion. I quite realize that now. At the time, it was simply less painful to go away where I need not see your sweet face, would not be reminded. Then your father died, and it was like...like a judgment upon us."
"Please, you must not upset yourself further," Ariadne said, her voice not quite even. "It's all in the past now."
"Yes, and then you were sent farther away, to Paris," her mother continued as if she did not hear. "All thought of ever seeing you again was ended, or so I thought. But by chance, the most astonishing chance, I heard you had returned to the city."
"It's fortunate that you were here as well." For a brief moment, Ariadne remembered her suspicion that it was Jean Marc's fortune that had brought her mother to her, and was ashamed.
"As to that, your oldest sister lives here now. You know that you have nine living sisters as well as three stepsisters? Three were lost as children to fever soon after we moved upriver, and then you know of my poor, darling Cecilia and the horror of...."
She trailed off, searched for a dry corner on her handkerchief, used it again. Ariadne looked down at her hands fighting her own tears. It was Maurelle who took up the conversation.
"You say you have a daughter in residence here?"
"But yes, since last year, my Beatrice. It's she who has been helping with invitations for Sylvanie during this season. Her husband is a cotton factor with an office in the Passage de la Bourse."
Ariadne shared a quick glance with Maurelle even as she felt the hair rise on the back of her neck. The Passage was not a long street, being only a pedestrian alleyway leading from the business district of lower Canal Street to the Hotel St. Louis and through its great central rotunda onward to the Cabildo where records were filed and legal business transacted. Any sort of office would be only a step away from the salon d'assaut kept by Gavin Blackford.
"How providential for your Sylvanie. I am assuming Beatrice's husband has family connections here?" Maurelle asked with a pleasant smile in the girl's direction.
Madame Arpegé made a distracted sound of agreement before turning back to Ariadne. "What I have told you— it isn't all what I meant to say, ma chère... You don't mind that I address you so?"
Ariadne shook her head, too anxious over what else her mother might tell her to voice an objection.
"I wanted to see you, most of all, because word came to me that you were alone in the world. No one should be without family, especially when there are those of their blood waiting to take them in their arms. Family is everything, n'est pas? Monsieur Arpegé, my dear Theophile, quite agreed. He doesn't.. .didn't.. .care for the city, but felt he should join me here, the better to convince you. Oh, but now..."
Ariadne put a hand to her throat where her breathing was suddenly constricted. "You are saying he died because of me?"
"No, no, there is no blame! I didn't mean to...it's only...oh, please, please don't think so! It's merely the terrible sadness of it. He adored having a family of girls, loved seeing them in their new finery as they tripped down the stairs to show him." She shook her head, mopping tears. "He so looked forward to adding you to their number, one who could speak to him of Paris where he studied as a young man during his grand tour."
"I'm.. .sorry that I shall not have the pleasure of his acquaintance." It was actually true, Ariadne realized as she said it. He sounded like a gentleman it might have been a privilege to know.
Her mother wiped her eyes yet again, keeping them closed for a long instant before she released a sigh. "Yes. Oh, yes. He will be greatly missed by us all. As for our Cecilia.. .but I must not think of that or... Our time is short, and I should tell you that you are an aunt, yes, several times over. You were my fourth-before-the-last child, so have older sisters who have been married these several years. The count is six nieces and four nephews to whom you must be introduced."
It was too much, being presented with such a large family after thinking of herself as solitary. Ariadne could not quite take it in or decide how she felt. The close relationship was not something she could claim while pretending to be without family connections. Gavin Blackford already knew too much about her; if she turned up with a long-lost mother, he could well begin to put together her past.
She rose to her feet with a swiftness which so startled the maidservant just coming through the outer door that the china rattled on the tray she carried. "You go too fast, Madame Arpegé—"
"Maman, your maman."
"My maman, the woman I knew by that name, passed away almost four years ago. I must tell you that I have a life of my own now, one I cannot abandon in an instant because of an accident of birth."
"Of course, you do. I would not..."
"You can't simply take me back and expect everything to be the same," Ariadne continued a little desperately. "I must have a choice this time, since I had none when I was small."
"Oh, ma chère." Her mother shook her head in distress while Sylvanie Renee stared at her in reproach.
"You gave me away as if I was a doll with no rights or affections. I cried after you, but still you went away and left me."
Her mother's face crumpled. "You were so young. I didn't realize, didn't think you would remember."
"I'm not a child any more. I am a woman in my own right with plans, hopes, needs, things that must be done before I can rest." She went on in near incoherence. "I have much to accomplish before I can even begin to think of what else I may do."
"Yes... Yes, I see. You will not be traveling home with us then?"
Ariadne made a helpless gesture. "It's impossible."
"As you say." Her mother seemed to age before her eyes. Tears dripped down her face and she let them, as if she had forgotten the handkerchief she shredded between her fingers. Then she squared her shoulders and rose to face her visitors. "You must do what you will, my Ariadne. You will see that I won't give you up this time; I bore you and will always feel the connection of blood between us. When you are clear in your mind, and if the decision is in our favor, you will be welcome wherever I am and you will be loved as always. And now, I must bid you good afternoon. I have much to do and steamboats and funerals will not wait."
Mere moments later, Ariadne was back out on the banquette with Maurelle walking at her side. Disturbance rang in her mind more loudly than their footsteps. She had said nothing she did not feel, and yet her voice echoed in her own ears as shrill and anguished, like a child protesting unfairness in a world where nothing was fair. If her mother had taken her in her arms...
But no, nothing would have been changed, nothing made different. It could not be.
Nothing seemed to be going as it should with her plans. No one was turning out as she expected.
Her mother had been magnificent at the end of the visit; that she freely admitted. Perhaps something of her own determination and clear-speaking had been d
erived from her. It would have been nice to know what else she might have inherited. Only thinking of it left her in a pall of regret. It also made her afraid in some manner she could not quite grasp.
It brought Gavin Blackford far too vividly to mind.
She had returned in spirit a thousand times during the night before to their phrase d'armes in the garçonnière. The mere thought of it made her heart beat faster while heat suffused her. Like partners in a dangerous dance, they had moved together with her following his lead. It had seemed right that it should be so at the time, though she wondered now at her acquiescence. It was as if she had been in a thrall; she could think of no other explanation.
He fascinated her, no matter how she might deny it. How powerfully he moved, the muscles of his legs and arms flexing, elongating, gliding to the direction of a superior intellect. His gaze was mesmerizing, so concentrated, as if nothing existed except the moment and their place, with the two of them in it. No movement she made escaped him. That he approved of her form, her style, could not be doubted, since he was quick to point out her errors otherwise. The knowledge was exhilarating, almost intoxicating in its way.
Not that she was under his spell or anywhere near it. She noted his formidable strength and approach to swordplay for the use such knowledge might be to her later. That was all. Most certainly, that was all. If she was sometimes confused, sometimes wondered if she could cling to the vow of revenge made before she left Paris, well, she was female after all and subject to the same mixed feelings as the rest of her sex. Second thoughts in the dark of the night were only natural.
Did he know? Was it possible?
These questions obsessed her. Could Gavin Blackford have learned in some manner that he was her enemy, the man she had sworn to kill?
Surely not, for what man, knowing, would or could continue as if nothing had changed? Why would he appear for their lessons while aware he was instructing someone who longed to press a sword's point into his chest?
It had been a mistake to tell him anything of her design in the beginning. And yet, he would never have agreed to take her on as a client if she had not used it to rouse his interest. She would not have had the shadow of a chance to defeat him.
Guarded Heart Page 13