The Grand Masquerade (The Bold Women Series Book 4) (13 page)

“Open it,” Isabel said.

He carefully unwrapped the package, held up a book and smiled. “
The Talisman.
You remembered that I like Scott. Thank you.”

Isabel was beaming. “Now that you live near us, we can talk books together every day.”

“Now it is my turn,” Mortimer said, rising.

Isabel looked surprised. He walked over to his saddlebag, pulled out a battered leather notebook and handed it to her. “It is all I have to give.”

Mortimer sat back down stiffly. He seemed nervous.

Isabel opened the notebook, read one of the pages, and her lips parted. She looked up for a moment at Mortimer then read another page. With tears in her eyes, she said, “It is your poetry.”

Mortimer looked down. He was embarrassed and mumbled, “It isn't very good, but—but I mean what I say to you.”

“To me?” Isabel's eyes grew wide.

Suddenly Sydnee felt uncomfortable. It was not right to be part of such an intimate moment. She stood up and announced, “Isabel, I am taking your dogs for a walk.”

Isabel continued to stare at Mortimer, and he returned her gaze. They never heard Sydnee.

Calling the dogs, she walked swiftly out of the stable. As she walked along the river that Christmas afternoon, she considered the plight of her new friends. Sydnee could see that each one of them was walking a dangerous path to fulfill their dreams. They were sharing their most intimate and tender feelings with someone forbidden to them. She realized then that although they lived in a world of wealth and opulence, it came at a price.

Chapter 13

The festivities continued until Twelfth Night when friends and family gathered once more at the Trudeau plantation for farewell toasts and King Cake. This signaled the end of the Christmas season for everyone, and they now turned their attention back to work and business.

Tristan and D'anton had been inseparable during the holiday. In the landau on the way back to New Orleans, Tristan told Sydnee that he was in love.

“I am happy for you, but you must be careful,” she warned. “Your parents return tonight.”

“Yes, and they return months early. I will have to find a safe way to see him.”

“Is his ankle improved?”

Tristan nodded. “It is almost completely healed. He returns to the city tomorrow.”

Sydnee left the dogs at
Saint-Denis
to be safe
.
She took comfort in
the knowledge that
they had acres to run and that they adored Mortimer.

When they arrived at the town house on St. Louis Street, Monsieur and Madame Saint-Yves had already returned. Tristan went right in to greet them as Sydnee ducked out through the courtyard and into the schoolroom of the
garçonnière
. She peeked out at the house. The atmosphere was so much like mourning that she half expected to see a funeral crepe hanging on the door.

The next morning, Maxime resumed class, and in the evening, Tristan and Sydnee returned to Madame Picard's school. Everyone seemed to settle back into a routine, albeit an uneasy one. Sydnee missed Isabel and Mortimer desperately, and it seemed to her as if the carefree days of Christmas had been a long lost dream. Although she saw Tristan daily, he was distant from her too. He was so busy trying to please his parents and preoccupied with his thoughts of D'anton, that she felt quite alone.

Another disconcerting occurrence was the sudden attention Monsieur Saint-Yves was giving her. Several times when she was alone in the schoolroom he appeared with the excuse that he was looking for Maxime. Another time he brushed past her closely in the hall when she was going to bed. Each time he tried to catch and hold her eye. Memories of the men at The Devil's Backbone began to haunt her again, and she started having nightmares.

Things had certainly taken a turn for the worse in the new year.

*                   *                    *

“Tristan,” said Monsieur Saint-Yves one night at supper. “It has come to my attention that you are acquainted with a young gentleman by the name of D'anton Delacroix.”

Tristan almost dropped his spoon into the bisque. Putting his hands into his lap to steady them, he looked up at his father. Swallowing hard, he raised his chin and said, “Yes, we met at the fox hunt.”

“His father is a business associate of mine, and they have moved here recently from Paris. Monsieur Delacroix would like his son to be introduced to other young men of good family in New Orleans. I have suggested the two of you attend one of the balls this evening.”

“Very well, Father,” said Tristan, trying to act nonchalant. He did not notice his mother purse her lips and raise an eyebrow.

Her look was not lost on Monsieur Saint-Yves though. He knew that his wife objected to these soirees. It was common knowledge that young women of mixed race would attend these balls where a suitable match may be made with white gentlemen of property. Contracts would sometimes be negotiated for a suitable long term sexual relationship. This is where Monsieur Saint-Yves had found his mistress.

“Odette,” he said to the slave who was attending their supper. “Please pour some wine for your mistress. She needs to calm her nerves.”

Augusta Saint-Yves looked up sharply. “What is this?”

“You are correct, Madame. I don't ordinarily allow you wine at supper, but tonight you seem somewhat—anxious.”

Odette brought the decanter around to her mistress and poured her a glass. Madame Saint-Yves looked at her husband suspiciously as she tipped the crystal wine glass to her lips.

The rest of the meal was taken in silence. Monsieur watched his wife, as she refused food and consumed glass after glass of wine. When dinner was finished Odette had to help her up the stairs because she was so inebriated.

“Take her to Guy's room,” Cuthbert Saint-Yves ordered, watching them climb the steps. “She is most comfortable there.”

“What time does the carriage come around for me, Father?” Tristan asked, his face flushed with excitement.

“At half past the hour.”

Tristan dashed upstairs to get dressed. When he was ready he knocked on the door of Sydnee's bed chamber. “How do I look?” he asked. He was dressed in his finest frock coat of dark green with black pantaloons and a gold waistcoat.

“Very nice,” she said. “Where are you going?”

“To a Quadroon Ball. D'anton's father arranged it. I am guessing our fathers want us to look for mistresses.”

Sydnee went to bed that night wondering about this new turn of events for Tristan. She was anxious to ask him more about it in the morning. She fell asleep quickly but was awakened with a knock on the door. Putting her wrap on, she stumbled across the room, opened the door, and there was Maxime. “Monsieur wants to see you in his bed chamber.”

Sydnee stared at him. He gave her a look of mixed pity and apology, before dropping his eyes. 

She nodded and closed the door. Sydnee knew that she could not refuse the master of the house. Reluctantly she pulled on her everyday gown, slipped on her shoes and stepped out of the room. Pausing a moment, she squeezed her eyes shut to try to steady herself.
So it is starting again.
As if it was yesterday, she could hear her father roaring for her to come to the cabin. She could feel the men groping her and smell their stinking breath.

As if she was going into battle, she took a deep breath and started down the hall. As she passed Guy's bed chamber, she hesitated. Someone inside was sobbing. It raised the hair on her arms to hear sounds coming from that room, and then she realized it was Madame Saint-Yves. She bit her lip and continued down the hall.

When she stepped up to the Master's bedroom, she squared her shoulders and knocked.

“Enter,” was the reply.

Cuthbert Saint-Yves was standing by the mantel in a long burgundy dressing gown, smoking a cigar in the candlelight. His long face was white and his narrow eyes were cold. Putting out his cigar, he ordered, “Go stand by the bed.”

Her heart hammering in her chest, Sydnee complied. When he walked over, he seemed to be seven feet tall. Suddenly, he reached up, grabbed a handful of hair and bent her over the bed, facedown. She cried out, terrified. With the violence of a madman he pushed her head into the bedclothes as he lifted her skirts. Sydnee squeezed her eyes shut trying to endure the pain and humiliation.
Give me strength. Please take me away.

Gradually her petitions were answered, and she could hear the gentle tinkling of wind chimes and see the blue expanse of the Mississippi. There were birds soaring overhead.

“You filthy whore,” a hoarse voice whispered. It was Saint-Yves mumbling obscenities in her ear. She listened to his vile language and squeezed her eyes shut. The man’s violence was terrifying.

Just as she was struggling to escape to someplace peaceful once more, there was a shriek from another room. Saint-Yves pushed himself up off of Sydnee and ran from the room. Through the open door, Sydnee could see light flickering and heavy smoke rolling down the hall. Something was on fire.

She dashed down the hall to see Guy's room in a blaze. The vigil lamp was smashed on the floor, and the bed curtains were in flames. In the middle of the inferno, Monsieur and Madame Saint-Yves were struggling. She was in a long white nightgown, biting and kicking her husband savagely as he tried to choke her.

Sydnee stood on the threshold paralyzed at the macabre sight. They staggered from one end of the room to the other, locked in a deadly embrace. Madame was like a wildcat, clawing and screaming while Monsieur Saint-Yves looked down at her squeezing her neck. At last, they tumbled into the flaming curtains.

Sydnee sprang forward to stop them just as Madame Saint-Yves' gown started on fire. The flames crackled up her back jumping to the loose ends of her dark hair. She screamed in terror, wrenched herself free and lunged for the door, but her husband was too quick. He caught her by the wrist and threw her to the floor.

Sydnee dashed over and pulled a blanket from the linen press. Saint-Yves snapped back to reality and helped Sydnee roll the woman into the bedding.

The room was engulfed in flames. The drapes and the wardrobe were on fire as well as the carpet. Saint-Yves picked his wife up and carried her down the stairs in the blanket. Sydnee ran behind him. She ran for help, but it was too late. The house on St. Louis Street burned to the ground.

*                   *                 *

“My mother will recover with few scars,” Tristan told Sydnee late the next day as they stood before the smoking ruins of the house. He ran his eyes over the charred remains. Only the chimneys were left standing with blackened rubble around them. One of the adjoining houses had been affected, but the fire had been extinguished before there had been extensive damage. The air was thick with the smell of burnt timber.

Tristan turned back toward the
garçonnière
which was unaffected. The carriage house and slave quarters were intact as well.
“You and I will stay in the
garçonnière
,” he said. “I told my father that I do not want to go to
Saint-Denis.
I will have a bed brought in, so we can make up a room for you in the classroom.”

Sydnee looked at Tristan. The last few months he had changed, gaining confidence and maturity. Although he was getting ready to step into his role as a gentleman of means, it wasn’t just the acquisition of manners and social graces that had changed him. It was something more fundamental. He stood taller and was more in charge. It was as if he had become a soldier readying himself for battle. Sydnee had not told him about the incidents that occurred the night the house burned, yet somehow she believed that he knew.

They settled into the
garçonnière
for the next few months. They slept, ate, and attended class while crews outside shoveled and carted away rubble and debris.

One afternoon, a slave came to the schoolroom interrupting Maxime’s lesson. He informed Tristan that his father wanted him to attend supper at Victor’s Restaurant on Bourbon Street that evening.

“My father is in town?” Tristan asked with surprise.

“Yes, sir.”

“I thought he was in Natchez,” he said with a sigh. “Very well. Please tell him I will meet him at eight, no earlier.”

Sydnee’s eyebrows shot up, and she looked at Maxime who was staring in wonder at Tristan. The hint of a smile played around his lips, and he nodded his head. She could tell he was pleased that his student was finding his voice at last.

That evening Tristan called for a carriage and went to Victor’s Restaurant to dine with his father. It was an intimate eating establishment catering exclusively to the upper class of New Orleans. Its pristine interior had murals on the walls, crystal chandeliers and crisp white linen. Even though it was a busy night, Cuthbert Saint-Yves was seated at the best table in the house, drinking an aperitif. Through the window he could see Tristan step out of the family landaulet.

Cuthbert Saint-Yves narrowed his eyes as he puffed on his cigar and watched his son. The young man was fashionably dressed in a black evening coat and pantaloons and a white satin waistcoat and cravat. Heads turned as he walked into the restaurant. He checked his hat and gloves at the door and came over to the table. “Good evening, Father.”

“Why is it necessary we dine at eight?” Cuthbert said, without greeting him.

“I had some matters of business to attend to,” Tristan replied, flipping his coattails up and sitting down.

A hint of anger passed over his father’s face. “I hope this time is convenient for you,” he said sarcastically.

Ignoring the gibe Tristan replied, “Why yes, it suits me well, thank you. How is Mother?”

Monsieur Saint-Yves sat back and puffed on his cigar, studying his son. The young man seemed different to him. Tristan returned his gaze coolly.

“Your mother is almost completely recovered.”

“That is good news. Send her my regards, will you?”

Saint-Yves continued to watch his son as a waiter came up to take the young man’s order. “I will have sherry, and I believe that I would like the duck tonight.”

“I have already ordered the roast chicken with bordelaise for you,” his father announced.

Tristan handed the menu to the waiter and said, “Cancel that. I will have the duck.’

Monsieur Saint-Yves raised an eyebrow as the waiter bowed and left. He did not like his son’s new found independence, but he ignored it and continued, “I summoned you here to inform you of several changes,” he said, leaning forward and putting out his cigar. “First of all, you will not continue to live in the
garçonnière.
You will sail as soon as possible for Paris to complete your education and start your Grand Tour.”