The Grand Masquerade (The Bold Women Series Book 4) (24 page)

Sydnee knew that he was remembering his daughter. She started shaking again. The weather and the night had thoroughly chilled her. “I will get you to safety in the North, but I must ask if you know of anyone that participates in the Underground Railroad.”

“I know someone, and so do you,” he replied. “Do you remember Madame Picard’s Clotilde?”

“Yes.”

“She picked up where Madame left off.”

Sydnee raised her eyebrows. “I’m glad. Do you know where I can find her?”

“She lives above the carriage house at 41 Rue Saint Lazare.”

Sydnee thought a moment and then frowned. That was only one block from the convent. It would be crawling with constables after the shootings. Nevertheless, she knew she must go. “I will find her right away. We must get you out of the city before they can organize a search.”

As she was leaving, she thought of something and asked, “Frederick, how is it you were at the convent tonight?”

He smiled weakly. “You don’t think I’d let my girl go out alone? I followed you on foot every time you went out on a run.”

Sydnee gasped and then said, “I am most grateful.”

She told Liesl to bring her own clothing and get into the carriage. Locking Frederick and Atlantis in the livery, she drove the carriage back to the town house. After showing Liesl to her room, Sydnee changed into the girl’s faded print gown. It was too big for her, but it would be adequate for a night time journey. She stepped out into the courtyard. It had stopped raining, and the clouds were giving way to fragments of moonlight. Sydnee walked quickly toward the magnolia tree where she could see the figure of Vivian sitting on her branch, keeping vigil over Baloo. She ruffled her wings, side stepped a bit, and settled back down. Cold fear started to creep up Sydnee’s spine, and she was suddenly flooded with doubt. A young woman was dead tonight, quite possibly because of her.

“No,” she said, putting her face into her hands. “No, I won’t do this again. It is not my fault. Please give me strength. Please give me strength to save two more.”

The wind chimes tinkled by the kitchen door. Hearing their sweet sound, Sydnee squared her shoulders and walked out the courtyard door.

It was well after three in the morning as she rushed through the streets of the city. All was quiet until she came near the Ursuline Convent. Two constables were knocking on doors, waking the neighborhood. Sydnee knew they were looking for information about the shooting and the assault on Archambeau. Just as she was about to duck down an alley one called, “You there!”

Sydnee froze, her heart pounding. She wondered if she should run, but instead she quickly unbuttoned the top buttons of her bodice. Walking up to them, she cocked her head to the side coquettishly and said in her French patois. “Would you like some company?”

The constables were dressed in gray uniforms, wore wide belts and carried nightsticks.

“Did you hear a gunshot earlier?” one asked.

Sydnee’s heart was hammering so hard she was afraid they could see it as they ran their eyes over her breasts. “Monsieur, this is New Orleans. There are always gun shots.”

“No,” he barked and pointed. “Over there by the convent.”

She shrugged. “No. It has been a busy night.”

“Did you see a hearse?” the other asked.

Sydnee smiled and raised her eyebrows. “No, I am sure I was pleasing a customer at the time.”

“Worthless whore,” he mumbled and walked away. The other constable ran his eyes over her and then walked away too.

Dodging down an alley, Sydnee arrived moments later at 41 Rue Saint Lazare. Praying that there were no dogs in the courtyard, she quietly opened the gate and tip-toed across the garden. She picked up a stick and climbed the stairs to the quarters above the stable. Running it along the shutters, she whispered, “Clotilde, Clotilde, I must speak with you.”

After a few moments, Clotilde unlatched the shutter and looked out. “Who’s there?” she said. She was wearing a shift and a night cap, and she was in her bare feet. She did not recognize Sydnee. “Heaven’s above what is going on?” she said.

“Clotilde, it is Sydnee Sauveterre, Madame Picard’s student. Do you remember me? Frederick needs help.”

The woman was groggy and stared at Sydnee. She did not expect to see her in such shabby clothing.

Sydnee looked over her shoulder. She was afraid someone would see her. “Frederick told me to find you. We must speak privately.”

Clotilde let her in and lit a candle. The room was small and sparsely furnished with only a bed, a small rocker and a rickety wash stand.

“Frederick told me you are a conductor. He needs to escape to the north tonight.”

Clotilde was mute.

“Please trust me, Clotilde. Remember, I said nothing to the authorities about Madame Picard’s escape. Please, for the sake of Frederick.”

Clotilde sat down heavily on the bed. “What has happened?”

“He knocked a white man unconscious with a cudgel. He saved my life. For months now we have been smuggling women and children out of New Orleans, women and children who are being beaten. Tonight a prominent citizen tried to escape, and her husband killed her. Then he turned his gun on me, and Frederick knocked him unconscious.”  

Clotilde rubbed her forehead and gasped. “Z
ut alors!
We must act quickly. Where is he?”

“The old Gish Livery. Do you remember it?”

“I do.”

“I will go there and wait,” Sydnee said. “But be forewarned. I will not open the livery to anyone unless a note is passed to me first.”

“A Quaker will be there with a produce cart before sunrise,” Clotilde said.

“Have him come to the stable doors, and he can pull inside the building to get Frederick. How can I ever repay you, Clotilde?”

“I assure you, someday you will return the favor,” the woman said.

*                  *                  *

Frederick jumped to his feet when Sydnee walked in.

“Someone is coming for you before sunrise,” she said.

“Who?”

“I believe it may be the same man who came for Madame Picard, a Quaker farmer. He will bring a cart filled with produce and hide you under a tarp. Then the Railroad will get you to the North.”

Sydnee brought the fire up, pulled out a spider trivet and began to make johnnycakes. “You will need some breakfast. Hard telling how long until your next hot meal.”

Frederick poured a cup of tea for Sydnee. “Drink this. You are still shivering,” he said and then sat down rigidly in the rocking chair.

Sydnee finished making the johnnycakes, handed him his breakfast and then took a sip of tea. It seemed to warm her right to her toes. “If you see Ninon Picard, please tell her--please tell her that I miss her terribly.”

Frederick nodded and ate his breakfast. There was a knock on the door, and they both jumped up. “Stay here, just in case,” she said. Sydnee dashed out into the stable and picked up the note that had been pushed under the door. It stated simply,

Here for pick up.

As she started to unbolt the door, she heard the Quaker call to someone, “I stopped here because I thought the horse was lame but, praise God, it was just a stone!”

Sydnee leaned against the door, listening. She heard men’s voices mumbling in reply. Then the Quaker said, “No, I’ve seen no hearse.”

Her stomach lurched. She looked down and saw tracks from the hearse leading into the stable. The wheels on it were still wet and muddy, evidence that it had been out recently. Picking up her skirt, she raced into the front room. “The constables!” she said to Frederick.

“Is there a back door?”

“No,” Sydnee said. “Help me pull the wood off this window.” They dashed over to the window that had been broken several months back.

The constables were banging on the stable door. “Open up!”

Sydnee and Frederick struggled madly to loosen the wood, but the fit was too tight.

The banging grew louder. “Open up!” Some of the men came to the service door and were trying to kick it in.

Frederick dashed to the hearth, grabbed a poker and pried the wood as Sydnee pulled. At last it came off with a crack, and Sydnee tumbled onto the floor. Frederick pulled her to her feet, just as the constables broke through the service door. With Frederick’s help, she scrambled through the window and then helped him through as well. They ran down the alley where the Quaker was waiting anxiously with his cart. Flipping back the tarp, he helped Frederick onto the wagon bed quickly.

“God’s speed,” Sydnee said, as they bolted off.

Straightening her gown, she took a deep breath and tried to walk down the street slowly. In spite of the blood pounding in her ears, she did not run. She could hear men shouting, whistles blowing, and banging on doors, but by the grace of God, no one bothered her.

When she arrived at home her legs felt like butter. She collapsed onto a stone bench in the courtyard and sighed. Her heart gradually slowed as she looked at the sky brightening in the east. She still had to get Liesl to safety, but that would not be a problem.

“I’m afraid our mission helping women and children is over, old girl,” she said to Vivian, who was sitting overhead. Sydnee knew that it was over. There would be no more escapes for women and children. It was far too dangerous now, and the Ursulines would lock down the convent tightly after this incident.

Pushing herself up, Sydnee started into the house. She was weary and filled with despair. In one night everything she had worked for was over.

Chapter 24

Dr. Locke heard about the shooting the next day. He knew exactly what had happened, and he knew Sydnee had been a witness to it all. He listened to the rumors and gossip and pored over every article he could find in the newspapers.

The authorities approached D’anton about the incident, since he was the legal representative for the livery, but of course, he knew nothing. They attempted to pin the blame on a free man of color named Artemis Perry, but too many whites testified seeing him at Pascal’s Tavern by the landing that night. The outrage and lust for blood continued for weeks and did not subside until the Archambeau family moved to Natchez and Charisse’s mother left for Raleigh. Monsieur Archambeau bought a speedy acquittal from a murder charge and left town as well.

During this time, Locke listened for news of Sydnee, but she was never implicated in any way. Liesl was never heard from again either, and by Christmas Day, it was all over.

*                    *                     *

It was a grueling fall at the hospital for Fletcher Locke. It had been a particularly virulent year for yellow fever, and it had left him exhausted. His days were full from beginning to end and most nights he arrived home late, ate a cold supper left by his housekeeper, and fell into bed.

Initially he had seen many children orphaned as a result of the fever, brought in off the street for malnutrition, injuries, and disease, but as autumn progressed their numbers were fewer. It was not until he took a few days off near Christmas that he began to wonder where they had gone. He was not naïve. He knew that they were not miraculously adopted into happy homes, so one afternoon after his rounds at the convent, he approached Mother Baptista.

“Indeed their numbers are fewer, Dr. Locke. Of course you know many children are orphaned each year after the epidemics, but this year gangs have been combing the streets for them. We believe they are kidnapping the children and selling them in the north for labor or for--” and she hesitated, pursing her lips. “For other reasons.”

He had a vague recollection of the stowaway on the paddle wheeler mentioning she had been kidnapped in St. Louis and taken north to work on a farm, and he nodded. He realized that they were starting the abductions down here as well.

Locke was bothered by this information, and every day that passed he grew increasingly disturbed. He couldn’t sleep, and his stomach was tied up in knots day in and day out. He knew he had to stop these abductions, but where to start was beyond him. One thing he knew for sure, he was going to approach that Sauveterre woman for help.

*                   *                   *

For months after the shooting, Sydnee was beside herself with remorse. She was eating little and nothing seemed to interest her. She tried not to blame herself, but there was always the nagging doubt regarding her responsibility in orchestrating the dangerous affair. Her role in saving scores of women and children in the past two years never occurred to her. All of the beatings and possible deaths she prevented never entered her head. Instead she chastised herself continually, scanning her conscience for mistakes that night.    

“It isn’t like you to be brooding, Sydnee,” Tristan said one afternoon at the town house. D’anton had just left and they were having an early supper. “You are the only person I have in my life on a balanced course. Between D’anton and his spells and Isabel pining over Mortimer, you are the only steady person I know.”

She sighed, picking at her chicken. “I never thought of it that way, Tristan. I’m sorry.”

“So what is it? Are you ill? Bored? Do you need to take a lover?”

Sydnee chuckled, “Certainly not a lover. That would be one more problem. Perhaps I need a diversion until the ennui passes,” she said with a weak smile.

Tristan leaned across the highly polished mahogany table and poured her more wine. “What about a ball?”

“A Christmas ball?”

“I think Twelfth Night would be more fun,” he said. “You and I will plan it together, and we will spare no expense.”

“It sounds like a lot of work.”

“Sydnee, stop it! I need my friend back,” he said slapping the table.

Sydnee looked at him, wide eyed. It was the first time Tristan had ever scolded her. “Well, I have not danced in a long time,” she conceded. Then she added, “Remember the old days when we would practice after Madame Picard’s classes?”

“I remember. You were a terrible dancer,” he said, lighting a cigar with a twinkle in his eye.

“You were not much better, taking Baloo’s paws and forcing him to waltz with you,” Sydnee countered.

“Perhaps,” and then he said suddenly, “Say, this would be the perfect occasion for you to meet Charles.”

“I
don’t
want a beau, Tristan,” Sydnee said firmly.

“No, my little nephew, Charles. Although, he is not so little any more. I believe he is eleven or twelve.”

Sydnee’s eye’s widened. “You mean Giselle’s--”

“The very one,” Tristan said, puffing on his cigar. “My mother keeps such a tight rein on him that he is very backward. He needs to work on his social graces.”

“Oh, Tristan, he is too young for a ball and besides every child is gauche at that age.”

“I wasn’t,” Tristan said, straightening up.

“Oh, of course not,” Sydnee said, sarcastically. “Your mother will never allow it, you realize.”

“She will never know. I’ll invite him for the entire week, and he can attend the ball for an hour or so. It will be good for him.”

Sydnee wondered about the boy. She hoped he had not witnessed the kind of violence she had seen in the Saint-Yves household.

“What about Isabel?” she asked. “She will be left out again.”

Tristan sighed. “Yes indeed,” he said, drumming his fingers on the table. “I know! We will make it a masquerade. No one will know it is her.”

“That might work.”

“And if she is unmasked for any reason, we can say she was spying on her husband and his mistress, the most natural thing in the world, and it will all be forgotten in a day.”

“Very well,” said Sydnee. “A masked ball will cost a great deal of money, but you are the one with the pocketbook. I will have all the fun planning.”

“That’s what I want to hear.” Holding up his wine glass Tristan said, “Let’s drink to the social event of the season.”

*                     *                  *

“I suppose you are going to Mademoiselle Sauveterre’s ball?” D’anton asked Fletcher one morning in late December at his office. They were discussing Locke’s properties and holdings in England.

“What ball?”

“Oh, can it be true? You fill me with delight,” said D’anton. “I thought I was the only one not going. She is hosting a Twelfth Night Masque, and Madame Delacroix will have none of it. She thinks Sydnee and Tristan are nothing more than decadent Creoles. I may be able to arrange an invitation for you though.”

Locke chuckled, “No, thank you.”

“Ah yes, you don’t dance,” D’anton laughed. “You are saving yourself for marriage.”

*                   *                   *

A diversion is just what Sydnee needed to sweep away her cobwebs of melancholy.  She rented out the luxurious Orleans Ballroom, mailed invitations, and after planning the menu, she began the design of her costume.

Tristan and Isabel were positively ecstatic and chattered endlessly about the masquerade. Even D’anton, determined not to be left out, was formulating a plan so he could attend the event without Paula’s knowledge.

The night of the ball, to make it appear Isabel knew nothing of the affair, Tristan came to the town house with Charles to dress. Charles was a gangly, tawny-skinned boy with blue eyes and brown curly hair. Sydnee noticed Giselle immediately in his face. He had her high cheekbones and full lips.

“Welcome Charles,” Sydnee said. “You have your own room in which to change. Marie will take your costume and show you upstairs.”

The boy stared at Sydnee until Tristan gave him a nudge. When he disappeared upstairs, Tristan said, “I think you have a new admirer.”

“Nonsense, I am probably the first woman he has ever met socially.”

“Oh, I’m sure that’s it,” Tristan said, smirking.

“Well, do stay by his side tonight, Tristan. He will be uncomfortable at the ball.”

“I will. It will only be for an hour. This should be interesting. He told me that he is learning to dance.”

“Mademoiselle,” Marie interrupted, from the top of the stairs. “It is time.”

“Yes, thank you, Marie.”

Picking up her skirts, Sydnee started upstairs to her bed chamber which was flooded with candlelight. The first thing Marie did was fasten Sydnee into her corset and petticoats. Then she stepped into her gown. It was a voluminous garment of black satin, with a close fitting bodice, dropped shoulders, and three quarter length sleeves.

Marie fastened large black plumed wings to her shoulders. Next she covered Sydnee’s head with a hat of shiny black feathers which were slightly ruffled and combed back.

Sydnee sat down at the vanity and lined her eyes with charcoal, shadowing them so they appeared to be slanting upward. She finished off her make up with ruby red lips.

“Try your mask,” Marie suggested.

After pulling on her long black gloves, Sydnee picked up the black feathered mask with a beak of faux ebony.  Holding it by the stick, Sydnee held it up to her face and looked in the mirror. “
Voila
,” she said.

There was a knock on the front door and Marie went downstairs to open it. It was Fletcher Locke. “Good evening. Is Mademoiselle Sauveterre in?” he asked, handing Marie his calling card. He was wearing a blue coat, vest and loosely tied cravat, but the front of his white shirt was soaked with perspiration. When Marie escorted him into the parlor, he stopped her. His face was flushed, and he self-consciously ran his hand through his long hair. “Please, I have been at the hospital all day, and my clothes are dirty. May I meet Mademoiselle outside in the garden?”

“Of course, Dr. Locke,” she said, taking him out to the courtyard.

Marie went back upstairs and handed Sydnee his calling card.

“What does
he
want? And tonight of all nights,” she said, clearly annoyed. “All right, tell him I will be right down.”

As she started down the stairs, Tristan and Charles came out of their rooms. They were both dressed in men’s formal attire from the previous century. They had on lacy shirts, colorful waistcoats, top coats and breeches. Charles wore the hat of a buccaneer. His mask was black, covering the upper half of his face and had two long braids of hair dangling from it. Tristan wore a smaller, elegant, black satin tri-cornered hat edged in gold lace with a half mask of black satin covered in gold jewels.

“Very nice, gentlemen,” Sydnee said, circling them and smiling. “Very handsome, both of you. Will you wait for me in the carriage? I will be there in a moment. Dr. Locke is in the courtyard.”

“Locke? What is he doing here? Certainly you didn’t forget to invite him?” Tristan said, walking down the stairs behind her.

“No, I didn’t
forget
to invite him,” she said, sweeping down the hall. “I just didn’t,” she mumbled to herself.

The sun had set, and Marie lit the Japanese lanterns over the fountain in the garden.

“Welcome Dr. Locke,” Sydnee said, in a business-like tone, stepping out into the courtyard.

He was standing with his back to her and when he turned around, he was stunned at her appearance. Collecting himself he said, “I-I had no idea the ball was tonight.”

“How may I help you?”

He looked at her red lips and then ran his eyes over her long graceful neck and arms. He was embarrassed and angry with himself for being dazzled by her. Setting his jaw, he shook his head. “Think no more of it, Mademoiselle Sauveterre. I see that doing charitable works was last year’s fancy. You have found other diversions. I won’t keep you. Good night.”

Taking long strides with his hat in his hand, he started for the gate.

Sydnee’s face flushed with anger. “Dr. Locke, you have interrupted my evening. You owe me an explanation. If it is an invitation to the ball you want--”

“Certainly not,” he said. “I came here tonight looking for your help. After the fever this season, I have found out that gangs are stealing children, mostly those orphaned from yellow jack, to sell in the north for labor and other unspeakable practices. I have every reason to believe they will be back again this summer.”

Sydnee stared at him, absorbing the news. “I see. What do you propose?”

He shrugged. “That is why I am here--to consult with you.”

“I would like to be involved--”

“But you cannot because,” he interrupted, assuming she would reject him.

“I
said
I would like to be involved, Dr. Locke.”

“Indeed,” he answered, with raised eyebrows. “Very well, I will call for you tomorrow morning at eight.”

“Eight!”