Sweet Piracy (21 page)

Amélie scrubbed at her cheeks with her handkerchief, then sat twisting the scrap of lace-edged lawn in her fingers. “Mam’zelle—” she began, then stopped, drew a deep breath, then began again. “Mam’zelle, is ever the right thing to — to entrap a man into marriage?”

Caroline leaned forward slightly, trying to see Amélie’s expression, but the girl kept her eyes downcast. “What do you mean?”

“If — if
Maman
were here, she would say I should have managed some way to come upon the Marquis in the woods alone. Then if someone should see us, or better, if I could manage for him to be seen making love to me, he would be obliged to marry me.”

“I wonder if your
Maman
can have thought what a miserable life you must lead tied to a man who knows he has been tricked?”

“She says first that I must not let him know it, but should he find out, he will be grateful and even flattered to have his hand forced.”

“I take leave to doubt it,” Caroline said.

“Yes,” Amélie agreed with a wan smile. “So do I.”

“In any event I would think a girl would have to get up early in the morning to trick a man who has reached the age Rochefort has without being caught in a parson’s mousetrap.”

Amélie nodded. “I fear I am neither intelligent enough nor brazen enough even to make the attempt.”

“I for one do not consider that a bad thing,” Caroline told her.

“But — what am I to tell
Maman
? She is so set on this marriage she would not cavil if I ran away with him to the Indian Mission. She will be very angry if I make no push to follow her advice.”

“Tell her circumstances did not permit it. I must have gone with you, you know, if you had accompanied Rochefort into the woods, or even if you had wandered off in that direction by yourself.”

Smiling, Amélie said, “Yes, of course. What else is a chaperone for, except to prevent such things?”

“Precisely.”

“The beauty of it is that she cannot even be angry with you. Oh, Mam’zelle, you have relieved my mind so.”

“I’m glad,” Caroline said, and prosaically began once more to clear away the remains of their meal.

Amélie picked up a platter and sat staring at it as if she had never seen such a thing before. “If a man and a woman love each other,” she said slowly, “their stations in life, who they are and what they are, should not matter. All the rules and manners should make no difference. Why can they not just declare themselves? Why can a woman not just say ‘I love you’ and have done with it? Why must everything depend on the convenience and the opinions of others?”

Caroline sat quite still. In her bitter and near incoherent outpouring, was the girl trying to say she was in love with Rochefort? Was she railing at her mother’s interference, bewailing a laggard lover, or all three? With an odd, hurtful tightness in her throat, she said carefully, “The rules of society are designed in this case to protect young people from making a mistake in their choices of mates which they will regret the rest of their lives.”

“Better to make your own mistakes than have someone else make them for you.”

What answer could there be to that? Without knowing what was in the girl’s mind, Caroline could not hope to help her, and Amélie, ashamed perhaps of her earlier outburst, seemed in no mood for confidences. Her face shuttered, the girl pushed plates and glasses into the baskets any way they would go. Her fingers trembled with some suppressed emotion, and though her tears had ceased, she looked as if the least word of kindness or sympathy might bring them back again. Reluctant to breach that tenuous self-control, Caroline remained silent.

If Amélie’s affections were in truth engaged, what then? Could she in all conscience allow the girl to marry a man she knew to be an imposter? No, she told herself, tucking a cloth over one of the baskets with unnecessary vigor. But how could she bring herself to tell Amélie that the man she loved had brought himself to her notice under cruelly false pretenses?

She must do something, and soon. It was no good, this lack of resolution, this Creole manner of putting off a decision from day to day. She must do what was right, no matter how painful. If she only knew what was right—

What could it hurt in this land of democracy if Rochefort had no right to the title he claimed? He was a strong man, a man of means, no pauper who would starve a wife. He had a good relationship with Amélie’s family. He was respected and well-liked by her father. He had a beautiful home where he intended to settle permanently; his wife would not have to travel long distances to see her relatives. He was not mean; his wife would want for nothing in the way of frills and furbelows. The only bar was his past, and not such a terrible one at that. To have been a privateer was no crime, not like being a freebooting pirate. It was no worse than being, say, a gambler. True, gamblers were not considered respectable members of society, but a reformed gambler with a fortune to command might become acceptable in time. The only thing that was needed for all to come out right was for Rochefort to confide his past to Amélie.

How neat and tidy a conclusion. If only she could be certain she was right! To do that she must hear it from the lips of the Black Eagle himself.

Why not? Would it not be the most honorable course, to confront Rochefort with her knowledge and hear what he might say in defense? The question was, when? It would have to be soon.

Beside her, Amélie raised her head. Following her gaze, Caroline saw Rochefort emerging from the woods once more. He carried his wide-crowned hat in one hand, while in the other he held what looked very much like a collection of leaves.

Mindful of the constraint of the girl beside her, Caroline forced something like gaiety into her voice, calling, “What have you got there?”

“Palmetto leaves,” he said, dropping down on the coverlet beside them. “It’s getting hotter, and of all the ladies, I have not seen either of you two with a fan. I know that palmetto, with a bit of attention in the way of weaving or plaiting, can be turned into just such an article, but for the life of me I can’t seem to get the hang of it.”

“I would be impressed with your thoughtfulness, if there weren’t leaves enough here for three fans,” Caroline told him.

He smiled and, lying back on the grass, closed his eyes. “But I was getting warm too.”

“What do you think, Amélie,” Caroline asked, tilting her head on one side. “Shall we plait him a fan?”

“If he had not returned to our presence, he could have taken his coat off and been cooler,” Amélie pointed out. Her voice was quiet, but she managed to hold it steady.

“Oh, you plead for him, do you? I suppose it is the least we can do, since, as you say, he did not have to return. However, I warn you, sir, neither of us has any intention of plying this fan for you.”

“My wretched luck,” he said without opening his eyes, “to find myself pitting my wits against two women as intelligent as they are beautiful.”

“We are not to be cozened by flattery either,” she told him severely.

“It is impossible to flatter perfect beauty.”

“Or barefaced untruths!”

Such nonsense served the twin purpose of banishing thought and passing the time until the rest of the party rejoined them. If it also concealed the trepidation which assailed her at the prospect of tackling Rochefort on his sins of omission, that was all to the good.

The others straggled in two by two. First came Fletcher and Béatrice. Hippolyte’s sister no longer clung to his arm because the uncouth
Américain
had told her, actually dared say to her face, that she was making too much noise and was frightening the ducks. Next was Hippolyte, nursing a bruised finger and a considerable sense of ill-usage. It seemed Estelle had decided she must hold one of the newborn ducklings, and in trying to gratify her whim, Hippolyte had incurred the wrath of their parent and been nipped for his pains. Estelle, rather than sympathizing with his battle wounds, had found it comical that he had been so easily bested. Not far behind this pair came Victor with Bonita hanging like a sack of woe upon his arm. Despite the benefits of his escort, she had stepped into a mud puddle which came over her slipper, had snagged her parasol on a vicious thorn tree, and then had lost one of the tortoiseshell combs from her hair so that the Gordian knot on top her head was coming undone, trailing down her back.

All that kept the company from starting immediately for the ship was the absence of the final pair, Anatole and Mademoiselle Roussel. All were certain they had been following no more than a few steps back. Caroline, who knew that Madame Gravier considered her as chaperone for her daughters and their cousin as well as Amélie and Estelle, was just about to suggest they walk to meet them when they came into sight. They ambled along, oblivious both to the world and to the disgruntled group impatiently waiting.

Estelle, standing with her arms akimbo and one foot tapping the ground, gave an unladylike snort. “Someone should tell my ridiculous brother that he has just compromised his precious Louise.”

“Do so by all means,” Rochefort said pleasantly, “if you don’t mind the thought of taking up residence on this sandbar. Who knows, you might even make it back to Beau Repos in a week or two, if you are lucky enough to attract the attention of a passing flatboat.”

Estelle’s eyes grew large. Finding Hippolyte beside her, she moved closer. Her hands crept out to take his arm and, with a sigh, he covered them with his own.

The warning was plain enough. Anatole’s apologies for his tardiness were accepted with perfect affability. The trip home was accomplished in somber but complete harmony.

The Sunday following the visit to the sandbar was passed in the usual fashion of Mass and visits. Fletcher arrived punctually in the middle of the afternoon, stayed his prescribed time, and got up to leave.

“Mam’zelle — that is, Miss Caroline,” he said, turning his hat in his hand, “would you do me the honor of taking a short drive with me in my curricle?”

If she had considered longer, Caroline might have refused, but she was taken by surprise, the company was thin, the afternoon was warm, and the prospect of air was welcome. She sent for her bonnet and gloves, put them on, and allowed herself to be handed into the open carriage.

They proceeded at a sober pace down the drive and swung right along the river road. “Are you comfortable?” Fletcher asked.

“Very,” she assured him.

“Not troubled by the dust?”

They were going so slowly there was scarce any to speak of, much less trouble about. “Not at all.”

“I hope I don’t go too fast for you?”

Caroline glanced at him to be certain he was not making a joke. He was not. Smiling a little, she shook her head.

“You think I am overly concerned. Believe me, your well-being is of great importance to me.”

Not knowing how to answer, she remained silent.

They jogged along a short distance, then abruptly Fletcher pulled up. When Caroline turned inquiringly, he dropped the reins and reached for her hand which lay in her lap.

“My dear Caroline, you must know how it is with me. I am not a man of pretty words and phrases. I think I have made my intentions plain in these, past few months. I want you for my wife.”

Caroline raised clear gray eyes to his. “Do you love me?” she asked.

“Why — I respect you, I honor you. I want you to be the mistress of my home, the mother of my children, the companion of my old age—”

“But do you love me?”

“If I did not, could I say all those things?” he asked in a harassed tone.

“You might, if you wanted a wife badly enough. In any case, it doesn’t matter. You see, although I respect you, and though I’m sure you would make a commendable husband, I don’t love you.”

He released her hand. “We are two adults,” he said with the stiffness of embarrassment. “We could make a life together without any such sentimental notions.”

“I think not,” she said quietly.

“Is this your last word?” he asked, staring straight out over the horse’s head.

“I am afraid it is,” she murmured. “I have no wish to wound you, but it is plain we should not suit. You see, I set a great deal of store by what you are pleased to call ‘sentimental notions.’”

Without a word more, he picked up the reins and slapped the horse into a trot. At the first opportunity, he turned the curricle about and headed back to Beau Repos.

Estelle lay in wait for Caroline in the hall. “Well, that must have been the shortest drive on record. Does it mean you have refused your
Américain?”

“He is not now, and never was, my American,” Caroline answered, untying her bonnet and taking it off.

“You have thrown away the chance to be mistress of Cypress Grove?”

“I have.”

“Good for you!” Estelle cried. “You hear that, everyone? Mam’zelle is not to leave us!”

A ragged cheer greeted this announcement, though from the immediate resumption of the buzz of conversation it was obvious that the demonstration was more for Estelle’s benefit than her own.

“You don’t mind that you have not lost your duenna?” she asked the girl.

“How can you think so? I would have been desolate if you had married that stuffy stick of a man. Such an old bore. You would have been dead of
ennui
in a week!”