Sweet Piracy Read online

  At Caroline’s entrance, the recumbent form of Estelle’s mother was galvanized into action. Her eyes flew open, and she sat up, dislodging lace-covered and velvet-tasseled pillows so that they slid to the floor in every direction. The bolster beneath her head shifted, revealing a quick glimpse of a French novel in a yellow cover before Madame Delacroix pushed it out of sight again.

  “There you are,” the older woman said in aggrieved accents. “Tell me, if you will, what this ridiculous child is talking about with her prattle of noblemen and new wardrobes. One would believe the King of France himself was about to descend upon us. Doubtless she has mistaken the matter completely.”

  Estelle, sitting on the steps which mounted to the four-poster bed jutting into the center of the room, sent her mother an oblique look. “I am not a child,” she said distinctly. Madame Delacroix paid no attention.

  “If rumors are to be believed, we are indeed to be honored by the nobility,” Caroline said easily. “According to the latest report, the Marquis de Rochefort has purchased the plantation that lies to the north of Beau Repos. I understand we may look to see the gentleman in residence within the week.”

  Madame Delacroix took a deep breath and let it out slowly, a smile growing on her face. “Mon Dieu,” she said, “that I should live to see it.” Abruptly she frowned. “You are certain it is as Estelle has sworn, the Marquis is unmarried?”

  “Why, no, that is, M’sieur Philippe thinks not, but—”

  “The tutor? What has he to do with anything?” the older woman demanded.

  “He has been one of our primary sources of information,” Caroline admitted.

  “I might have known,” Madame Delacroix exclaimed, throwing herself back upon the chaise, sending flying once more the pillows her maid had only just replaced. “It is probably all a farce, concocted to plague me. I will not be taken in, I will not.”

  Watching Madame Delacroix fling out her hand to her maid in a mute command for her vinaigrette, Caroline found herself thinking that Estelle came by her penchant for drama in the most natural way possible. Before she could speak, Estelle rose from her seat, moving quickly to her mother’s side.

  “It is not a hoax, Maman, I swear it,” she pleaded, falling to one knee and taking her mother’s hand.

  “If only I could believe it,” her mother said with a shake of her head that sent her mobcap of lace and ribbons falling over her eye. “Such an opportunity for Amélie, to form a connection with a rich, attractive, personable member of the aristocracy—”

  “We do not know his appearance or monetary standing,” Caroline reminded in a dry tone, but she might as well not have spoken for all the impression her words made.

  “When that Corsican monster is returned to his island prison once more and monarchy is restored in order, who knows what might happen? My dearest daughter might take her place among the noblest families of Europe.”

  “Hardly an honor with Europe in an uproar over Napoleon’s escape from Elba,” Caroline observed.

  Madame Delacroix turned a reproachful gaze upon her. “You do not think Amélie would be a suitable wife for the Marquis?”

  “I cannot venture to say, never having met the gentleman, but you understand the Marquis is said to be prepared to make his home here, and the title is useless in America.”

  “A great foolishness. Titles are never useless,” Madame declared.

  “Then you agree?” Estelle put in eagerly. “You will send for Madame Hérbert to make new gowns for Amélie and myself?”

  “Amélie cannot need many,” her mother objected. “She has creations made by the best modistes in New Orleans especially for the victory celebrations given for the heroic Jackson after the great battle on Chalmette Plain. You know she never wore the half of them.”

  “But I was not out, Maman. My wardrobe is bare and what I have are too short, too tight or — or not in the mode. May Madame Hébert not come for me?”

  “You give me the headache with your ceaseless demands, Estelle. I cannot think, really I cannot. Wait until your papa comes home. We will see what he has to say about this Marquis. We will see what he thinks about Madame Hébert. We will see what he feels we should do about everything.”

  It was Madame’s last word. Though Estelle, in a fury of impatience, railed at watching the rest of the day decline into evening with nothing done, she was forced to await the coming of her father.

  Since M’sieur Delacroix had driven off in a northerly direction in his curricle after breakfast, there was some hope that his arrival might increase their store of knowledge of their prospective neighbor. Such was the case. At the dinner table, when at last M’sieur Delacroix put in his appearance, a brief question or two served to launch that gentleman on a vigorous account of his day. He had spent the better part of it sitting on the gallery of Cypress Grove, the home of an American gentleman with business connections in town. The American, Fletcher Masterson, had an interest in a commission house supplying ready cash against future crops to plantation owners, as well as sundry other services including the importation of food, wine, furnishings, and wearing apparel, and the arranging of domestic staff and field hands.

  “Yes, mignonne, I swear by my deceased relatives, what you have heard is true. Do you doubt my given word? Mystère Masterson has been these past two months employed in discovering a cook of the finest sort and a selection of servants from upstairs maids to gardener’s boys for Felicity. The Marquis’s secretary, a young gentleman who is a cousin of some variety, has been in residence these three days, in bivouac in the empty rooms.”

  “When is the Marquis expected?” Estelle asked with scant concern for domestic details.

  Her father shrugged. “One assumes when his business affairs are in order and the pleasures of the town no longer tempt.”

  From the foot of the table, Madame looked up from her dish of oysters in brown sauce to comment. “The Marquis must certainly be familiar with the pleasures of Paris. What can he find entertaining in a provincial backwater such as New Orleans?”

  “New Orleans has much to offer that Paris has not,” M’sieur Delacroix replied. “We must hope that the Marquis is not so very hard to please if he is to be much in our company, n’est-ce pas?”

  “Everyone will wish to entertain him, Papa,” Estelle pointed out.

  “That is true,” M’sieur Delacroix agreed, pursing his lips.

  “As I am to be presented this fall, might it not be possible for me to be included in the party from Beau Repos?”

  Her father glanced at his wife for confirmation. Receiving it, he gave his assent.

  “You would wish me to be a credit to the family—” his daughter continued.

  “Of a certainty,” her father said, his face solemn, though a glint of amusement lay at the back of his eyes.

  Caroline hid a smile as she watched Estelle. The child would get what she wanted, which in this case was little enough. The pity was that she should have to resort to such measures. Preparations for a suitable wardrobe should have been underway long ago.

  She shook her head with a rueful sigh. In a French Creole household, things were not done as in the English counterpart. For instance, the inclusion of all family members at meals. In England children were relegated to the nursery until they were out of the schoolroom. Here, except on those rare occasions when there were guests, everyone except the smallest babe sat at the enormous table, each child with his personal nurse beside him to attend to his wants and manners. She had schooled herself to accept these things, and for the most part she succeeded. Still, there were times when exasperation came near to overcoming resignation.

  “Why do you sigh, Mam’zelle Caroline?” M’sieur Delacroix asked. “There is no need for repining, I assure you. You are not forgotten. Mistaire Masterson sends his most kind regards to you and promises he will do himself the honor of calling upon you this Sunday.”

  Caroline could not prevent a tinge of color from spreading across her cheekbones. On the
other hand, she could not be angry with M’sieur Delacroix for his teasing, either. Beneath his rather puckish sense of humor, he had a romantic disposition overlaid by a genuine concern for her unmarried state. Nevertheless, Caroline was grateful when Madame Delacroix turned the conversation to other channels and she was able to eat her dinner in peace.

  ~~~

  THE DAYS THAT followed were filled with preparations, leaving little time for lessons. Madame Hébert, with two assistant seamstresses in tow, dutifully arrived from New Orleans. She brought with her several gowns already made up for the approval of Mademoiselle, plus bundles of mousseline indienne, batiste, tulle, silks, crêpe, and, for later in the season, cashmere, velvet, brocade, and satin. She brought also a generous selection of bonnets, shawls, slippers, stockings, ribbons, fans, pomade, and scent — everything, in fact, a fashionable lady might need to complete her toilette.

  Seeing the redoubtable modiste comfortably ensconced in one of the best bedchambers proved a day’s work in itself, especially with Estelle and Amélie stopping to exclaim over the treasure trove which came tumbling from her trunks and bandboxes. Persuading Estelle that certain colors and outré styles did not suit either her coloring or her youth filled the best portion of another day. In the process Caroline and Madame Hébert discovered in each other a similarity of tastes and ideas that made them allies.

  The temptations so cunningly spread were too much for Madame Delacroix to resist. Though she lamented the possibility, as yet unconfirmed, of another winter season spent in the loges grilles of the Opera House, a part of the theatre arranged for ladies either large with child or in mourning, she ordered several gowns to her own measurements. Characteristically, she chose those very colors and styles denied to Estelle. Nor was Amélie left out. It was discovered that much of her wardrobe was unsuitable for warm weather, and soon she too was cheerfully sipping orange flower water in the midst of pins and tapes and sewing scraps, and poring over the latest editions of the Journal des Modes and the Courrier des Dames.

  Even Tante Zizi, one memorable afternoon, summoned the modiste to her apartments. Madame Hébert stayed the better part of two hours and was seen to leave the elderly lady’s chamber with a satisfied smile on her sallow face.

  Caroline was not immune to such delights. She was happy to give her opinion when asked to debate the rival merits of the simple Grecian style à la Madame Récamier, or the rich ornamentation preferred by Leroy, the great designer to the royal courts of Europe. However, her own purchases were restricted to a clutch of ribbons for refreshing a gown or a handful of plumes to rescue a bonnet from fashion oblivion.

  Something drastic was required to distract the attention of the ladies. It came at sunset on the fourth day following Madame Hébert’s arrival.

  A mournful whistle, long and wailing, intruded on the evening peace. Pandemonium immediately broke loose.

  “Steamboat! Steamboat!” From the direction of the nursery came a bang and a clatter followed by the sound of running feet. The children, Jules, six years old, Mathilde, who was five, Ange-Marie, four, Baptiste, three, and Thérèse, a toddler of two, tore through the house with their nurses, calling at every breath, right behind them.

  Baptiste, an imp with sparkling black eyes and fine brown curls, stopped long enough to put his head in at the door of Madame Hébert’s room. “Steamboat, Maman,” he said, patently inviting them to come view the spectacle. They accepted the invitation with alacrity and were joined within minutes by M’sieur Delacroix and M’sieur Philippe who, wineglasses in hand, stepped from inside the study.

  The steamboat was still new enough on the river to be a novelty to them all. The year before, they had counted twenty-one plying up and down, quite an increase in the three years’ time since the first of them, the New Orleans, had made its initial appearance.

  This boat was the General Jackson. In bulky splendor, it steamed past the landing of Beau Repos, trailing a cloud of black smoke shot with orange sparks. In the dusk of evening, the surface of the river had a pearl sheen, reflecting the pink tint of the afterglow. The bow of the steamboat cleft the iridescent water, sending back a foaming wake like a dowager trailing a train of lace.

  The children pelted down the steps and struck out along the path to the levee. There they lined the embankment waving and jumping up and down in imminent danger of a dunking until firmly collared by their distraught nurses.

  With a fine appreciation for his audience, the pilot blew another ear-splitting blast on the boat’s whistle. The sound echoed back from the dense forest that stretched on the opposite side of the river and roused M’sieur Delacroix’s hunting hounds, penned near the barns, to a frenzy of baying.

  It was Theo, coming from somewhere in the rear of the house to join the ladies on the better vantage point of the gallery, who spied the phaeton. Surrounded by boxes, crates, and burlap-wrapped bundles, the black and yellow vehicle sat across the boat’s bow, its silver fittings winking in the fading light.

  “It’s the Marquis,” Theo exclaimed. “See, the boat carries no passengers — not one is standing at the rails — and the cabins on board are dark. It must be carrying the Marquis’s furnishings to Felicity.”

  “Oh!” Estelle cried, leaning over the rail to crane after the boat which was fast becoming indistinct with distance. “Do you suppose he is on board?”

  Theo sent her a scornful look without deigning to reply. “There is Anatole,” he said, nodding toward a horseman trotting up the dusty road that skirted the levee. “I wonder if he saw it?”

  “Saw what?” Estelle asked.

  “The phaeton, silly.” Theo replied.

  “Personal remarks are unnecessary,” Caroline said automatically, her attention caught by a movement down the river, some distance behind the steamboat. She thought at first it was a water bird, then the white blur resolved itself into the triangular wing of a ship’s sail. It was a two-masted schooner ghosting along in silent grace, skimming the water as confidently as any swan.

  Down on the levee the children fell silent. Beside her, Caroline heard Theo’s quick indrawn breath. It held the soft sound of pleasure near to pain.

  On the ship’s deck stood a lone figure leaning against the mast, outlined against the pristine white of its sail. Catching sight of those watching, he lifted a hand for an instant, then, turning, went below.

  “My faith,” Theo whispered. “Who will wager that was not the Marquis?”

  M’sieur Delacroix was besieged at the breakfast table.

  “Bonjour, Papa,” Estelle said, jumping up the instant he entered the dining room. “Let me pour your coffee. Will you have blackberry jam with your croissants? Or shall it be fig preserves?”

  M’sieur Delacroix eased his ample figure into a chair and took up his napkin from its silver ring. A smile played over his mouth beneath his small trim moustache before he replied in a matter-of-fact tone, “Fig, if you please, petite.”

  Amélie colored a little as she came under his gaze, but Caroline noticed she was quick to pass the sugar bowl when her father required it. It was, she thought, a promising sign. It was time and past that the girl took an interest in normal feminine pursuits.

  The four of them were alone at the table for once. Madame breakfasted in bed always, and the younger children were fed as they arose. Theo, to judge from the scattering of crumbs at his plate, had eaten and departed, while Anatole seldom left his bed, even in the country, before noon.

  With Gallic cunning, Estelle let her father get well into his meal before she commenced her attack. “Papa?”

  “Yes, petite?”

  “I expect you mean to call upon our new neighbor?”

  M’sieur Delacroix buttered a section of roll without looking up. “You speak of the Marquis de Rochefort?”

  “But certainly!”

  “Of course you did, foolish of me,” her father murmured, spreading fig preserves.

  “Well — do you?”

  “Do I what? Oh, I remember. Ah, no
, petite.”

  “No?” Estelle choked. “But why not? It is your duty. You must make him welcome. It would be most unkind of you if you did not.”

  “I should not like to be thought unkind,” M’sieur Delacroix said pensively.

  “No, I was sure of it.” Estelle said with an eager smile. “Then you will do it?”

  Her father shook his head. “I think not, chérie.”

  “But — why?” Estelle exploded.

  Fearful of what her charge might say to embarrass both herself and her teacher, Caroline intervened. “I believe, Estelle, that you are being what we in England would call ‘roasted.’”

  “Just so,” came the voice of her eldest brother from the doorway. “You might have guessed if you had the least understanding, my dear sister. You are always too busy talking and thinking of what you will say next to listen.”

  With this pithy observation, Anatole strolled into the room. Surprise at seeing him so early held some of their number speechless; astonishment silenced the rest.

  For the occasion, he had donned a dressing gown of silver brocade with lapels of royal-purple velvet worn over a shirt whose collar points jutted out level with his cheek bones. His cravat was lace-edged and tied in imitation of a waterfall, while black jet shirt studs drew the eye irresistibly to his chest. His hair curled over his head in careful abandon à la Titus, and peeping from beneath pantaloons of mustard yellow were a pair of bedroom slippers fashioned like sabots.

  After the first look, M’sieur Delacroix averted his eyes. Seeing this, a measure of Anatole’s assurance fell away from him. Moving to the table, he dropped into a chair.

  “Coffee,” he said, propping his head on one hand. “I am like to expire if I do not have my coffee.”

  It was Amélie who signaled to the butler Colossus, standing at ready next to the sideboard, to fill his cup. Anatole took a sip and set the cup back down.