The Grand Masquerade (The Bold Women Series Book 4) (9 page)

Sydnee could feel the sound of the drums resonate in her bones and began to tap her foot. They walked from one end of the field to the other watching performances. One group plucked stringed instruments and tapped
agogos
, chanting and singing songs in an African dialect. Another cluster of people chanted and clapped while participants took turns shimmying under a pole.

Scattered throughout
La Place Publique,
vendors had booths where they sold yarn dolls, brightly colored scarves and wooden jewelry. There was food for sale too including fruit, nuts, gumbo, and fried catfish.

Sydnee noticed Hoodoo charms, candles, and herbal remedies for sale. Practitioners and spiritualists spread their wares out on blankets and consulted with customers, shaking rattles, chanting or doing readings. Margarite told her that Hoodoo was practiced widely among the slaves and free people of color in New Orleans. It all seemed very innocent but a voice whispered to Sydnee that some of the practitioners here indulged in the dark arts.

Tristan tugged on Sydnee's sleeve. It was time to go back. His parents were returning to New Orleans that night on a riverboat.

When they arrived home, the dogs loped to the trough to drink water, and Tristan grabbed Sydnee's arm. He looked concerned.

“What is it?” she asked.

“I am worried about the dogs. My parents will not tolerate them. They may even have them shot.”

Sydnee's stomach lurched. “Then I must leave.”

“No, wait. I have been thinking all day, and I have an idea.” He took her wrist and led her to the stable. “Mortimer?” Tristan called.

There was no reply.

“Mortimer Gish?”

“Coming, Monsieur Saint-Yves,” someone said, from the courtyard.

Sydnee turned and looked. Walking quickly toward them on the flagstone path was a boy about Tristan's age. He was tall but thin to the point of emaciation with unkempt brown hair and a sallow complexion. The characteristic which was so unusual about the boy was his curious gait. Mortimer did not swing his arms when he walked, and he always kept his head down.

“Mortimer, I want to ask you something,” Tristan said as the boy drew nearer. He still did not look up. “Would you consider taking Mademoiselle Sydnee's dogs with you to the livery? I will pay Monsieur Schinden their boarding.”

Mortimer stole a look out of the corner of his eye at Sydnee and then looked back down at the ground. “Yes, I like Atlantis and Baloo,” he murmured.

Sydnee's eyebrows shot up. He knew their names.

“Mortimer is our groom, and he has an uncanny ability with animals,” Tristan explained. “He seems to understand what they need, and they always like him.” Turning back to Mortimer, he asked, “You are sure that Monsieur Schinden will not mind having the dogs at the livery stable?”

“No sir, not if you pay him, and I take care of the dogs myself.”

“Sydnee,” Tristan said, turning to her. “The stable is just down the street. Would you be comfortable with this?”

“Yes,” she said with relief. “I will get the dogs.”

*                   *                   *

Tristan's parents returned that night, and instantly a dark cloud fell over the Saint-Yves household. Sydnee sat in a wing back chair by a window in the schoolroom, trying to read. Her efforts were unsuccessful though. She was too preoccupied listening to Tristan pace back and forth overhead, getting ready for supper. Tense and stiff, he descended down the steps at last. He was dressed in a light blue frock coat and dark pantaloons. On any other day, his eyes would have shown bright blue, but today they were a pale gray. He swallowed hard and said, “I am going into supper now.” He looked at her empty plate on the end table. “I would have much rather eaten with you. I'm so sorry. Everything will change now.”

She nodded.

At sunset, Giselle called for her to come to the back entry. “Monsieur wants to look at you.”

In anticipation of this, Sydnee had washed her hands and face and put on a fresh apron. She stood up, straightened her skirt and took a deep breath. The moment she stepped inside, she saw Monsieur Cuthbert Saint-Yves. Although the light was dim, Sydnee could see that he was a tall thin man with a long face and sunken cheeks. He wore a black frock coat, and his hair was thin and gray. He frowned and looked down his sharp nose at her.

“Madame Saint-Yves!” he called loudly, keeping his eyes on Sydnee. “Here. Now!”

“I will find her, Master,” Giselle murmured and brushed past them. She returned with Madame Augusta Saint-Yves. Cuthbert jerked his wife around in front of him so she could see Sydnee, holding her by the arm. She was a woman of middle age with narrow eyes and ivory skin. The dark haired Frenchwoman exclaimed, “Oh!” and put her hanky over her nose and mouth.

Sydnee blinked. She was confused. She had been bathing regularly, and her clothes were clean.

Turning her face away, Madame Saint-Yves murmured, “Yes, now I have seen her.”

Monsieur Saint-Yves let go of her, and she swept back down the hall.

“Out,” he said to Sydnee, jerking his head.

Sydnee stumbled out into the courtyard. It had been worse than she thought. She stood for a long time, trying to calm her beating heart. Until now she had been happy, but in one evening that had all changed.

She wanted to run to her room and hide, but she dare not enter the house. The schoolroom was not private enough so she went to the back of the stable to hide under the stairs in the dark. She sat down on the floor, hugging her knees.

Sydnee had to ready herself for the worst. She relived the meeting with Tristan's parents, the curled lips, the look of repugnance, and Monsieur Saint-Yves' harsh dismissal. She knew now that there would be no more meals with Tristan. She would be banned from the schoolroom and maybe even turned out onto the street again.

She put her head down, wanting nothing more than to escape into a dreamless sleep. Suddenly she was awakened by a door opening overhead. The faint light of a candle shone through the wooden stairs. “Don't be foolish, Giselle,” she heard Maxime whisper in French. “If you run, they will find you.”

“Let go of me,” Giselle hissed.

There was the rustling of skirts on the stairs, and Sydnee held her breath.

“I should have run away months ago. My baby is the last link with her dead son, Guy. That woman will steal my child the moment I give birth. Then she will sell me.”

“You don't know that for certain,” Maxime countered.

“Of course she will,” Giselle said. “She still grieves for him. Every night I must light a lamp for him.”

“Tell them it is the master's baby.”

Sydnee recognized the voice of Manon, one of the cooks.

“That won't work, you fool,” Maxime hissed. “The master can sire no children. Have you forgotten that the Saint-Yves children are foundlings from the Ursulines?”

“Even if I wanted to say that it is the Master's baby, she wouldn't believe me. She caught Guy after me in the pantry.”

“Come back upstairs, and we will talk,” urged Maxime. “There must be another way.”

“No!” said Giselle. “Escape is the only answer.”

“Well not tonight, it isn't. Come back to my room for some tea. It will help you sleep, and we will consider everything tomorrow.”

Sydnee heard Giselle sigh. There was the sound of footsteps, the door shut, and all was dark in the stable once more.

Chapter 10

Tristan dined alone with his father that night. Madame Saint-Yves left supper after the first course, pleading a headache. Father and son sat rigidly at the table eating trout with butter sauce. The table was draped with a fine white linen tablecloth and fashionably set with floral patterned Limoges china and Baccarat crystal. 

After a long silence, Monsieur Saint-Yves announced, “I am dismissing that girl in the morning,”

Tristan looked up at him, thunderstruck. “Mademoiselle Sydnee? No, Father! Why?”

Cuthbert Saint-Yves sipped his wine. “Maxime has written to me that the girl has been visiting you privately for some time, and it has gone on long enough. We have returned home now, and quite frankly, we don’t want to look at her. Your mother finds her presence in this house repugnant, and so do I.”

“But you invited her here for me, and now she has become my friend,” Tristan pleaded.

“Friendships are not possible with the lower class. She was here for one reason and one reason only. Her term of employment is over.”

Tristan looked down at his dinner plate. His stomach was in knots, and his hands were shaking. He must think of something quickly to keep Sydnee. He pushed the remains of his dinner around with his fork.

His father continued, “We will be announcing your betrothal to Isabel Trudeau shortly. This must be done before you leave for Paris for your studies and the Grand Tour.”

Tristan could find no words.

One of the kitchen slaves came in with more carrots and potato soufflé. Tristan's father waved her off, and she left the dining room. Finished with his meal, Monsieur Saint-Yves put his napkin on the table and stood up.

“Father,” Tristan said.

With cold, gray eyes he looked down at the boy.

Swallowing hard, Tristan continued, “I am not—ready.”

Monsieur Saint-Yves' eyes narrowed.

“I have not,” the boy stammered. “Mademoiselle Sydnee, w
e
have not--”

His father pursed his lips.

Tristan looked down and mumbled, “I would not want to disappoint Isabel when we wed.”

“So,” his father said coldly. “Your tastes are still for the—unnatural?”

Tristan jumped to his feet and pleaded, “By the spring I will be ready, Father. I promise.”

“Spring!” his father barked. “You need the entire winter as well? Out of the question!”

“But you and Mother will be at
Saint-Denis
for the Christmas season and then in Natchez until April. You will not even see Mademoiselle Sydnee. In April, you can announce the engagement. I will be completely cured by that time. Isabel will notice nothing out of the ordinary when we wed, and of course, she will then have no complaints for her family.”

This was Tristan's trump card. He knew that maintaining appearances was of the utmost importance to his parents. He held his breath. The dining room was silent as Monsieur Saint-Yves stared at him.

At last his father said, “That
creature,”
and he paused.
“Is to stay out of sight until your mother retires at night and be out of the house before she rises in the morning. Is that clear?”

Tristan nodded and murmured, “Of course. Thank you, thank you.”

His father looked at him with distaste, shook his head and left the room. Tristan gasped and collapsed into a chair. He had just bought more time with his best friend, Sydnee at least until springtime.

*                    *                 *

Every day at the livery Sydnee would visit Atlantis and Baloo. They were well fed, content and secure in the care of Mortimer Gish, and for this she was grateful. She was relieved that they had escaped the shroud of hatred and despair that had recently fallen over the household on Saint Louis Street.

Everything changed with the return of Monsieur and Madame Saint-Yves. Although Sydnee was allowed to stay, and she was allowed once more in the schoolroom, Maxime was tense and had increased the amount of homework. There was no more free time for adventures to the French Market or fishing expeditions on the Mississippi. Vivian could no longer land in the courtyard to visit her, and Tristan never smiled anymore. The surliness caused by the heat wave a month ago seemed like Carnival compared to the funereal atmosphere pervading the household now.

Even though Madame and Monsieur Saint-Yves were seldom seen, their presence was felt everywhere. Each morning after Mass, Tristan's father would leave on business, and Madame Saint-Yves would breakfast in her bed chamber alone. Most days she would remain cloistered there until supper. Even though it was common knowledge she had been drinking excessively after the death of her son, everyone knew that she was still watching and listening to everything. On one occasion, Sydnee actually saw her in the bedroom window watching Giselle cross the courtyard. It gave her a chill to see her black eyes tracing the steps of the young woman. When Madame Saint-Yves noticed Sydnee looking up at her, the lace curtain dropped back into place.

In the evening, when Monsieur Saint-Yves was home, everything revolved around his needs. He sat at his desk in the library, making demands of Maxime. Maxime was constantly answering the bell and working late into the night poring over books and accounts. The tension was visibly wearing on him.

Giselle was starting to show signs of strain as well. Her face was drawn, and she had dark rings under her eyes. Her skin developed a sickly, gray pallor, and except for her belly, she appeared thin and brittle. Sydnee believed that she was making preparations to run. She understood too well the panic she was feeling because she too had lost newborns to a monster.

The morning of All Souls Day, it rained. It added to the general malaise of everyone as they dispersed from Mass at St. Louis Cathedral. Tristan’s father was out of town on business, so he attended Mass with his mother.

Sydnee never attended the Celebration of the Eucharist with them. Monsieur and Madame Saint-Yves did not want her around them, and if anyone inquired about her, they said she was ill. Sydnee was happy with this arrangement. Sitting with the Saint-Yveses in church would make her anxious, and she would be unable to feel the spirits and recite her prayers.

Thunder rumbled off and on throughout the entire day. It was dark and candles were lit early because of the foul weather. Sydnee was busy with homework and household chores and could not visit the dogs until late that night. She ate supper and dashed over to the livery stable, returning home well after dark.

The wind rustled the trees as Sydnee stepped inside the courtyard and locked the gate. She shuddered as shadows fluttered across the stepping stones. She picked up her skirts and ran toward the house. Just as she reached the entry, someone stepped up beside her. She jumped back, startled. It was Maxime.

“I must speak with you,” he whispered.

“Yes, Maxime,” she replied.

He led her to the stable and up the stairs to a sparsely furnished bed chamber where Giselle was on a bed. Her knees were drawn up under a threadbare quilt, and she was holding a rag between her teeth. She looked at Sydnee wildly with bloodshot eyes. Clarice bent over her, dabbing her forehead with a damp cloth. Looking up quickly, Clarice nodded at Sydnee and then wrung the rag out in a bowl. The room was dimly lit with one candle.

“Giselle is frantic,” Maxime said. “She has been in labor since early this morning. She does not want Madame Saint Yves to be bothered, so she stifles her cries with a rag.”

Sydnee looked from Maxime to Giselle and back again.

Maxime continued, “Although Clarice knows how to midwife, Giselle wants her mother to attend her. The woman is well versed in Hoodoo remedies if needed.”

Giselle spit out the rag. “You know,” she said panting, “the power of Hoodoo. I know because I found the gris-gris in your room.”

There was a rumble of thunder.

“Slaves cannot go out at night in New Orleans, not without a pass,” Maxime said. “Can you find Giselle's mother and bring her here?”

Sydnee rubbed her forehead. “But how can
she
can go out at night?”

“She is a free woman of color,” he replied.

“Where will I find her?”

“It’s All Souls Day, so she will be at Saint Louis,” Giselle said weakly.

“The Cathedral?” Sydnee asked.

“No, the cemetery--Basin Street.”

Sydnee drew in a breath and looked at them reluctantly. She had observed the cemetery only from a distance, and it was just as she had seen it in her nightmare. It scared her, and she did not want to go near it. She also remembered the dark aura from some of the Voodoo practitioners in Congo Square. She did not want to see them either.

Sydnee rubbed her forehead. She suspected Giselle wanted potions from her mother to hasten the birth so she could flee with the child.

“Ask for Anouk. Anyone there will know her,” said Giselle, breathlessly.

Sydnee bit her lip, nodded and left the room. Everything about this endeavor felt dangerous. When she stepped out into the courtyard, she looked up at the house and then at the
garçonnière
to make
sure she was not being observed. Tristan was in bed. The lamp was out in his room. There were no candles burning in the main house, except in Madame Saint-Yves’ room. Suddenly she realized no one put a lamp in the window for Guy. This was Giselle’s responsibility and would be a sure sign that something was amiss.

She dashed across the yard and ran up the steps into the entry. Pulling open the cupboard, she hastily lit a taper. Taking the carpeted stairs two at a time, she held her breath as she passed Madame Saint-Yves’ room. She could hear the woman mumbling inside, as if in prayer, and the sound raised the hair on her arms.

At last she stepped into Guy's room. It was dark and smelled of camphor. Her palms began to perspire as she fumbled with the glass lampshade. After lighting the wick, she glanced at the tiny clock on the nightstand which read four thirty, and it confused her. Then she remembered what Tristan told her. It was the custom to stop clocks at the time of death while in mourning. This must have been the time when the Saint-Yveses had received word of Guy's drowning. Sydnee shuddered.

She looked over her shoulder furtively. She had the funny feeling that she was not alone. Nevertheless, the room was empty.

Slipping noiselessly back down the stairs, Sydnee stopped at the cupboard, replaced the candle holder and lit a lantern. It was raining and she put her shawl over her head. It was late and the streets were deserted as she walked. She wished fervently the dogs were with her. There was laughter from the taverns and inns on the wharf, and although it was comforting to hear, it grew faint as she approached Basin Street. She could identify the cemetery blocks away. Lanterns flickered warmly on buildings everywhere but there. The St. Louis side of the street was black as ebony.

Sydnee finally reached the cemetery and stopped at the entrance. She did not want to go inside. The black wrought-iron gates stood ajar. Squaring her shoulders, she tentatively pushed them open and held up her lantern. In the dim light she could see rows of crypts. They looked like little white houses lined up, one next to the other.

So this is the City of the Dead, Sydnee thought, just as Margarite had described it. Taking a deep breath, she stepped inside and started down an avenue. Suddenly she became dizzy, and her palms began to perspire. She stumbled to the wall for support, a change sweeping over her. Her head was buzzing with a droning sound that was growing steadily louder. She realized with horror that a vision from malevolent spirits was about to begin.

Her eyes closing, Sydnee saw darkness and heard moaning.  A vortex of wind like a hurricane commenced, and it grew stronger and stronger, sucking her hair upward. She saw phantoms rising and swirling into the air with faces of fiery white, and their arms stretched upward. They were clothed in hooded shrouds and winding sheets. They were pleading for mercy, and their cries were growing steadily louder and more insistent. Soon they were screeching.

Sydnee put her hands to her ears to block the unholy sound. It continued on and on, the vacuum trying to suck her upward.

“St. Expedite help me!” she screamed.

Then as abruptly as it had started, the vacuum of resurrection stopped, and all was quiet. The phantoms had vanished.

Panting, Sydnee swallowed hard, trying to catch her breath. She stood for a long time collecting herself. As she recovered her senses, she started to smell moisture and earthworms. The air around her felt cool and damp, and she realized with a jolt that the evil spirits were not yet finished with her. This time she was inside a stone crypt with a decaying corpse. Before she could scream, she was vaulted from one crypt to another. She saw old people stretched out in shrouds, clutching crucifixes. There were children in tiny coffins, and young soldiers decomposing in mass graves. Although Sydnee could hear their cries of anguish and despair, the corpses and skeletons remained motionless. She flew from one crypt to another, faster and faster as if the dead were summoning her to suck the life force from her body. She was growing weak, her knees barely holding her, and tears streamed down her face.