The Grand Masquerade (The Bold Women Series Book 4) (17 page)

For a moment Sydnee thought she was looking into Margarite’s eyes.

Madame Picard brushed the hair from Sydnee’s eyes and said gently. “Listen to your spirits. They will help you find your way.”

Opening the door, she looked both ways and then rushed down the walk. Sydnee followed her. The farmer was waiting by the wagon. There was no moonlight, and the street was dark. He had cleared a spot in the middle of the wagon for Ninon to hide among the produce.

She stopped, turned around and put her hand on Sydnee’s cheek. “How I have loved you, my little one.”

Tears filled Sydnee’s eyes. She shook her head and gasped, “But—but this is too fast. This cannot be happening.”

The farmer stepped forward and held out his hand to help Madame Picard onto the back of the wagon. She stepped up onto the flatbed, laid down, and he pulled the canvas over her. Jumping into the driver’s seat, he snapped the reins, and they were off.

Sydnee walked out into the middle of the street watching the wagon disappear into the darkness. In a matter of moments, in a whirlwind of panic and despair, her world had changed forever.

Chapter 17

New Orleans 1839

It was difficult coping with the loss of Madame Picard, but Sydnee continued with the salon and her role as a consummate hostess.  She carefully concealed the emptiness she felt inside, confiding with only Mortimer about Madame’s secret life, since Tristan and Isabel came from slave-holding families. Initially Sydnee was questioned by the authorities about Madame Picard’s organization, but she had nothing to hide. She had been completely ignorant of the clandestine activities. For several weeks they pressured her until she asked D’anton to put a stop to it.

Time passed, and as Sydnee’s fame grew with the salon, so too did Mortimer’s reputation as a healer of animals. Planters all over Louisiana and Mississippi badgered Monsieur Saint-Yves for time with the young man, and eventually he tired of these petitions and encouraged Mortimer to strike out on his own.

Isabel and Tristan provided Mortimer with the capital to buy out Carl Schinden, whose livery was bankrupt, and in less than a year, Mortimer had a successful business housing and treating animals. He was able to return the principal to the Saint-Yveses in no time and with generous interest.

Mortimer had never been happier. With diligence and love, his dream was at last fulfilled. Gish Livery was more like a hospital than a stable. It was immaculate, efficiently run, and a clearinghouse for all the latest information and techniques on animal welfare. He employed three assistants, and they treated animals, particularly equines, from as far upriver as Memphis. Race horses seemed to be evolving as his specialty, but Mortimer loved all creatures and worked around the clock on everything from horses to cats to parrots. Sydnee would visit him frequently at his new livery, and now that she could no longer rendezvous at Madame Picard’s home with Isabel, the women would meet there too.

One rainy afternoon in November, Tristan paid Sydnee a visit at her townhome. “Well, you are early for the supper tonight,” she said smiling, as she escorted him into the parlor. She had recently redecorated the room with freshly painted jalousies, silver-colored draperies and upholstery. On the floor was a gray and burgundy Turkish carpet.

The moment Tristan sat down, Sydnee knew something was wrong.

“We must cancel the supper this evening,” he said with an anxious look on his face.

Sydnee stared at him. The rain beat on the window panes.

“Monsieur Trudeau caught Isabel with Mortimer in his quarters at the livery.”

Her jaw dropped. “Were they--?”

Tristan nodded and dropped his eyes. “There was a terrible scene.”

Sydnee gasped. “What happened?”

“He attacked Mortimer, but Mortimer refused to defend himself against a man of his years. In the end, Isabel pulled Monsieur Trudeau into his carriage, and they left.”

“Where is Isabel now?”

“At home and extremely distraught.”

Sydnee stood up and began to pace in front of the fireplace. Thunder rumbled.

“Who told you?” she asked.

“Isabel. Her father threatened to tell me, but she assured him that she would confess everything to me immediately.” Tristan grimaced. “Oh, Sydnee, the hideous names he called her, and the words he used for Mortimer were--I cannot repeat them. The worst of it is that he wants Mortimer expelled from the community.”

“Oh, Tristan,” Sydnee moaned.

He bit his lip and nodded.

She sat down on the edge of a chair and asked, “So what happens now?”

He shrugged. “There is little we can do. Our grand charade is beginning to unravel.”

*                   *                  *

Sydnee did not sleep that night. She did not need to consult the spirits to know that things were changing for the worse. When she walked the dogs past Gish Livery in the morning, Mortimer would not speak with her. Every day for a week she asked to meet with him but was met with refusal.

D’anton stopped by that evening and told her that Monsieur Trudeau had taken ill, and that it seemed to be quite serious. He was having trouble speaking, and his walking had become palsied. “The doctors believe that he has suffered an apoplectic fit,” he said.

Frantic with worry, Sydnee tried to see Isabel, but she too was refusing visitors. Tristan told Sydnee that she would not rise from her bed and would not eat. He assured her that he was staying by Isabel’s side and that she would recover soon, but Sydnee could see the doubt in his eyes.

Sydnee felt so helpless. All she could do is appeal to the saints and light candles for them all. Then early one morning, a boy brought a message from Mortimer. The note said that he had closed the livery permanently, and left for Memphis. Mortimer enclosed a letter for Tristan and one for Isabel which he asked Sydnee to deliver.

She sat down on the front step and hugged Baloo’s neck, her eyes filling with tears. “Our dear old friend is gone, Baloo. Our world seems to be getting smaller and smaller.”

*                   *                    *

Gradually over a period of months, Isabel recovered but her father did not. He died the following March, and Isabel blamed herself for his demise. Madame Trudeau having a kind and forgiving nature, reached out to her daughter, but Isabel withdrew from the world never leaving her bed chamber. She grew pale and fragile, yet when Sydnee saw her, she seemed more beautiful than ever. Tragedy had etched character into her face and added depth to her azure eyes. But there was little solace in her beauty; she was desperately unhappy.

One day Sydnee had an idea which she decided to present to Isabel. She had Tristan sneak her into the house late one night to speak with her. He ushered her to a small sitting room off Isabel’s bed chamber and left the two women alone. The room was draped in heavy fabrics of burgundy and gold and had been shut up for so long, it smelled of stale rosewater and dead flowers.

Isabel sat down on the edge of a chair. She was dressed in a light green dressing gown with her hair tied back, several wisps framing her face.

“Isabel,” Sydnee said, pulling her gloves off and sitting down on a divan. “I want you to take a moment to consider what I am about to say before casting my idea aside.” Sydnee swallowed hard. “I think--I think you should adopt a child.”

Isabel stared at her a moment and then looked down at the carpet. “I am in no condition to care for a child. You know that.”

“You can hire a nanny,” Sydnee countered eagerly. “It would give you someone to love and turn your attention away from your troubles and loneliness. You have the means to provide a home and food for a little one.”

“No, Sydnee. Too many of these children come from questionable--”

“Remember,” Sydnee interrupted. “Tristan was adopted.”

Isabel pushed herself up from the chair and said, “Thank you for coming and for thinking of me, Sydnee, but I don’t feel well. I must return to bed.”

Holding her drawstring bag tightly, Sydnee stood up, ready for the final assault. Her voice was gentle and soft, but her words were like cold steel. “Isabel wait,” she demanded. “Have you ever considered what Tristan may want? He has been ever patient and kind, taking care of you for months now. Perhaps
he
would like a family. I believe you are being selfish, and you forget that he too is a victim here.”

Isabel was thunderstruck. She stared at Sydnee with her mouth open, blinking at her audacity. “How dare you!” she gasped.

Sydnee looked her in the eye. She was not about to back down. “If you care for him at all, ask him what
he
wants for a change.”

*                    *                    *

Sydnee knew she would win. Tristan, of course, embraced the idea of a child and several weeks later, Sydnee and Isabel were headed for the Ursuline Convent to inquire about adoption. Tristan had to leave town on business for a month, but he encouraged Isabel to speak with the nuns, and when he returned, he would be a part of the final decision.

The day of the appointment, the women dressed in modest attire and wore hats with dark veils to cover their faces. They must not be seen together in public, and they definitely did not want anyone to suspect their errand.

The Ursuline Convent was a sprawling complex of buildings by the river housing an orphanage, a hospital, school and chapel. Two stories high and lined with large shuttered windows and gardens, the structure was imposing.

Sydnee and Isabel stepped out of the carriage and swept through the front door, lifting their veils as they stepped into the dark entryway. They were greeted immediately by a novice who escorted them to the office of Mother Baptista. It was an austere room with an oak desk, two chairs and a crucifix. The plaster walls were painted a dreary beige.

Mother Baptista stood up to greet them. She was a humorless woman of middle years who looked stern and imposing in her long black habit. She mustered a smile and invited them to sit down. Taking a chair behind her desk, Mother Baptista picked up Isabel’s letter and ran her eyes over the page. “You and your husband are unable to have children?”

“That is correct, Mother,” Isabel replied, her cheeks flushing slightly.

“And where is your husband today?” the woman asked.

“Away on business, but he will join me next time. He was a foundling here himself long ago.”

Mother Baptista raised her eyebrows. “Indeed?”

“Yes, with his older brother.” Isabel shifted nervously in her chair. “Do you have children right now, Mother Baptista?”

“We always have children, Madame Saint-Yves.”

“Would you,” Isabel hesitated, not wanting to sound too bossy. “Would you mind telling me a little about them, Mother?”

“Well,” the nun said, putting Isabel’s letter down and resting back in her chair. “They are all ages. Some of our foundlings are products of unfortunate liaisons, some of them come from houses of ill repute and many, particularly in the summer months, come to us as orphans of disease. Some children are surrendered to us by mothers incapable of feeding and clothing them or who are afraid for their lives.”

The nun sighed. “Unfortunately most of the foundlings we have now are sick. We wish we could house them all but we can minister only to those in dire need. We would love to take in all the orphans we see on the streets but it is beyond us at this point. We know some of these children are being used for unthinkable purposes.”

Sydnee swallowed hard and looked down at the floor. She knew what Mother Baptista was alluding to and dark memories began to stir. She heard her father calling her to come up to the cabin. She could hear men laughing, and she could feel their rough hands upon her body. She could smell their sweat and the stink of alcohol on their breath.

Noticing that Sydnee had turned pale, Mother Baptista asked, “Would you care for a glass of water?”

Startled back to reality, Sydnee murmured, “Yes, thank you.”

Scrutinizing her, the nun handed her a mug of water.

At last Mother Baptista turned to Isabel and said, “Shall we meet the children?”

“Yes, I would like that,” Isabel replied, standing up.

Sydnee stayed seated.

“Are you coming?”

“No, thank you. If you don’t mind I will stay here,” Sydnee said. She was feeling a bit unsteady.

“Very well,” said Isabel reluctantly. She looked over her shoulder at Sydnee as she left the room.

Sydnee stayed in her chair for a long time, staring straight ahead, trying to make sense of the visions and voices swirling around her. Something was moving inside her world. Something was changing, and it scared her. She could hear Margarite’s voice repeating, “The name Sauveterre, did I never tell you, child?
En français
, it means safe haven.”

Sydnee rubbed her temples, stood up and started to pace.

“Did I never tell you child?
En français
, it means safe haven,” Margarite’s voice said again.

Next it was Madame Picard she heard. “There can be more, but it will be revealed to you by the good Lord in his own time.”

Sydnee squeezed her eyes shut.

“It will be revealed to you, revealed to you, revealed to you,” Madame Picard’s voice echoed in her ears.

“You must help them, help them,” she heard Maxime murmur.

Feeling light-headed, Sydnee stepped out into the hallway. She took a deep breath and put her hand against the wall to steady herself. A girl of about seventeen was down on her knees, scrubbing the floor. When she looked up, Sydnee was startled. The girl’s face was purple with bruises, and her eyes were black. Blinking and staring for a moment, Sydnee murmured a greeting and turned away.

Still breathing hard, she walked down the hall to the entry. She had to get outside for fresh air. Just as she was about to take the handle, a small door cut in the wall caught her attention. Attached to the base of the door was a large revolving tray, half of it inside the building, half outside. The tray was on a hinge so it could rotate.

“Infants are frequently left to us on that device,” someone said behind her.

Sydnee jumped. It was Mother Baptista with Isabel. “The child is placed on the tray on the outside and swung around to the interior for us to find. Sometimes they ring the bell to alert us.”