The Grand Masquerade (The Bold Women Series Book 4) (11 page)

Using manners he learned the year before in class, Tristan introduced Sydnee to Madame Picard and all twelve of the students.

Sydnee was awestruck. Madame Picard was even more beautiful than she imagined. She was tall and willowy with smooth dark hair streaked with white. Her lips were full and sensuous, her eyebrows arched and her skin was the color of amber.

“Welcome, Mademoiselle Sauveterre,” she said. “My dear friend Maxime speaks highly of you.”

Sydnee felt her face flush, and she dropped her eyes. “Thank you, Madame Picard,” she mumbled.

The students all stared at Sydnee. They were her age and children of the finest families in New Orleans. They were curious about this cousin from Mississippi and followed Madame Picard's example being gracious and welcoming to her.

As Sydnee stepped back, trying to hide from inquisitive eyes, she wondered if Madame Picard knew the truth about her previous life. Maxime told Sydnee that Madame Picard judged people on the content of their character rather than their pedigree and this was just one of the many reasons she was considered a great lady. If she
did
know about Sydnee's background, she treated her no differently from the rest of the class. She included her in everything and addressed her as she would any other student.

“Come, let us begin,” Madame Picard announced to the group.

That first evening the students worked on introductions, conversational skills, and the etiquette of tea. Although shy and self-conscious, Sydnee sat on the edge of her seat listening to every word Madame Picard said, watching her every movement.

Just before they dismissed for the night, Madame said, “The next time we meet, we will work on the language of flowers and the fan. Gentlemen, this is necessary for you as well, so you receive messages properly from the ladies.”

On the way home, Tristan said to Sydnee, “When you weren't looking Madame Picard was studying you tonight.”

Sydnee started. “Oh no, I don't fit in!”

Tristan looked at her with surprise and then continued walking, deep in thought. “No,” he said at last. “I don't think that was it. I am not sure what it was.”

“She will not be inviting me back,” Sydnee said, crestfallen.

Contrary to her fears though, Sydnee was invited back, again and again. Madame Picard, just like Maxime, had taken an interest in her.

*                    *                    *

Weeks turned to months as Sydnee and Tristan worked during the day with Maxime and in the evening with Madame Picard. In their free time, they would practice their dancing or simulate fetes to polish their manners. Sydnee was even learning to play the piano forte.

A week before Christmas, school was dismissed, so the youngsters traveled to
Saint-Denis
for the holiday. Tristan's parents decided to go to Natchez early, so they left an aged cousin to chaperone Tristan and Sydnee at the plantation
over the holiday.

“Her sight is poor and so is her hearing,” Tristan said with a smirk about Cousin Agnes.

When Sydnee raised an eyebrow, he countered with mock indignation, “Of course we will do nothing wrong.”

“Of course not,” Sydnee replied.

Sydnee was excited when the landau turned up the long driveway lined with ancient oak trees.
Saint-Denis
was a
sprawling cotton plantation. Like other grand estates along the Mississippi, the manor house was a large, two storied structure with soaring columns built in the Greek revival style. What set it apart though was a white pillared veranda which arched out gracefully in a semicircle to welcome guests. It was a beautiful addition to an already grand structure. In anticipation of Christmas, boughs of evergreen were draped over the black iron railings on the upper and lower level of the gallery.

It was early evening and candles winked in the windows as they pulled up. The carriage stopped at the veranda, and the youngsters jumped out. Christmas wreaths made of myrtle and sprinkled with red cassina berries hung on the two doors of the entrance.

Tristan took Sydnee by the hand, and they raced inside. The entry was large and dominated by a broad sweeping staircase. Sydnee's lips parted, and she gasped.

“Look where you are standing,” Tristan said, and he pointed up at a kissing ball over her head. He darted over and kissed her cheek. “Come, I will show you around,” he said.

The slaves lit candles in all the rooms to welcome them. He opened two heavy double doors and took Sydnee into the parlor first. It was the grandest room she had ever seen. The walls were a pale yellow with elaborately scrolled white cornices. The chairs and sofas were upholstered in gold, and a huge gilded mirror hung over the fireplace with green boughs of myrtle and holly on the mantel below it. Gold candle holders with crystal tear drops ornamented either end of the arrangement. A large glossy piano forte stood at attention by two tall windows which were draped in a sheer white voile.

“We can practice our etiquette in here,” Tristan said.

All of the rooms on the main floor were grand and designed for entertaining. There was a drawing room for the ladies, a smoking room for the men and a grand dining room, but by far the most elaborate chamber was the ballroom. “Here is where we can practice our dance steps,” Tristan said, sweeping into a bow in front of Sydnee.

She ignored him and ran her eyes over the room with a gasp. The room was dressed all in bright white. There were white pillars, white walls and a white marble floor and fireplace. There was a shiny black piano forte in the musician's alcove, floral chairs in the corners and a portrait of Monsieur and Madame Saint-Yves over the mantel.

“I'm hungry. Let's see what cook has for us,” said Tristan, tugging on Sydnee's sleeve. “Come on.  This is just a room.”

Reluctantly, she followed him out into the hall and asked, “When is Mortimer coming out with the dogs?”

“In a few days. Schinden is making him scrub the entire stable before he leaves. He is angry that my father stole him away permanently.”

Several days ago, Monsieur Saint-Yves sent word that he was purchasing racehorses. He told Maxime to hire Mortimer Gish immediately to be
Saint-Denis’
head groom.

“There is no question my father knows talent when he sees it,” said Tristan. “Maxime is the best educator in the South, and Mortimer will be the best groom in Louisiana.”

“I'm glad Mortimer will be free from Schinden,” said Sydnee. “He will never be able to beat him again.”

“Indeed,” said Tristan.

After supper, Sydnee raced upstairs to see her bedroom. It was similar to her bed chamber in New Orleans except for the view. When she opened the French doors and walked out onto the gallery she could see a small lake glistening in the moonlight, surrounded by lawns as soft as velvet and the Great River in the distance. She swept her eyes over the landscape and spotted Vivian sitting in a tree outside Tristan's room. The crow would not let the boy out of her sight. Sydnee marveled at how much her life had changed in the past year. She had come a long way since her life on the Natchez Trace. She wondered how long this dream could last.

Chapter 12

The next morning a carriage pulled up to
Saint-Denis,
and the footman helped an elderly woman step out followed by her granddaughter.

Cousin Agnes Saint-Yves came down the stairs of the plantation house to welcome her long-time friend, Sophia Trudeau. Kissing cheeks, the two elderly women started up the steps slowly. They were in black satin gowns with black lace caps on their gray heads.

“It has been too long, Sophia,” Agnes said, taking her friend's elbow. “We have so much to talk about. We will have tea and catch up on all the news.”

Sydnee gave Madame Trudeau her best curtsy while Tristan steadied the women up the stairs. He wondered why they always wore black. He assumed that they were forever attending some funeral or other. He looked over his shoulder at Isabel, Sophia Trudeau's granddaughter, who gave him a dazzling smile.

When Sydnee saw the girl, her eyes grew wide. She looked like Tristan's twin. She was about his age, her eyes were a bright blue, and her hair was golden. She had it parted in the middle with a knot on top of her head and long golden ringlets on either side of her face. Her gown was mauve with large
gigot
sleeves, and she wore a matching ribbon around her head. “Good day, Mademoiselle Sauveterre,” Isabel said, turning to Sydnee. “Tristan has been writing to me about you. I feel as if I know you already.”

Sydnee dropped into a curtsy. “It is my pleasure,” she murmured. “Please, Mademoiselle Trudeau, call me Sydnee.”

Isabel took both of her hands and said warmly, “If you call me by my Christian name, Isabel.”

Isabel picked up her skirts and dashed over to pinch Tristan on the arm as he escorted the ladies inside. He made a face at her over his shoulder. Sydnee followed them into the house feeling as plain as a sparrow in her gray and black plaid skirt and charcoal jacket.

“You children run along now,” Cousin Agnes said, as she ushered Madame Trudeau into the drawing room.

“What shall we do?” Tristan said to the girls as they walked down the hall.

“Is Mortimer here yet?” Isabel asked.

“No later today.”

Isabel looked back to include Sydnee in the conversation. “Tristan said that you know Mortimer too. We will all be great friends.”

“You know him?” Sydnee asked.

“Oh, I have known Mortimer for as long as I can remember. We always board our horses at Schinden's when we are in New Orleans, and my father has even had him out to the plantation to attend to our sick animals.”

“Now he will be here all the time,” said Tristan.

“I am so glad. We can talk books endlessly,” Isabel said wistfully.

Tristan stopped and looked down the hall furtively. Lowering his voice, he whispered, “Let’s take the rowboat out.”

Isabel's jaw dropped. “Cousin Agnes wouldn't object?”

“She would. Why do you think I'm whispering?”

“You have only done it once, Tristan. Will you remember what to do?” Isabel asked.

Tristan put his chin up indignantly and said, “Of course I remember.”

The three raced to the shed by the lake and pulled the rowboat down to shore, resting it on the grassy bank under a weeping willow. Tristan took his boots off and rolled up the legs on his pantaloons.  He stepped into the water, pulling the boat out onto the lake.

Isabel tossed her parasol into the boat and said, “You get in first, Sydnee.”

Unsteadily, Sydnee stepped in, and the craft rocked. It was her first time in a small boat.

“Stay low,” Tristan instructed.

She sat down and looked back at Isabel who hopped in, followed by Tristan. Sydnee's face lit up as they glided out smoothly onto the lake. Isabel put her lace parasol up and asked, “Are we going around the island first?”

“Yes, we will show Sydnee everything,” Tristan said, starting to row.

The lake was bigger than it looked. It curved around and joined up at one end with a lazy little stream and at the other end it melted into thick marshland. Ducks and geese paddled on the open water and herons strutted among the lily pads and reeds. Most of the shore surrounding the lake was for cotton and even though there were no crops in December,
Saint-Denis’
slaves were still busy tending cattle, repairing fences and keeping the lawns and gardens manicured.

The marshy side of the lake was wild and heavily forested. It was dark and thick with bald cypress, tupelo and iris. It reminded Sydnee of the back country of Mississippi.

The three spent the entire afternoon rowing lazily around the lake. They took turns with the oars, and when they weren't visiting, they were dozing in the sunshine. The water was as blue as a robin's egg and the sky as well. Sydnee had never felt such peace. The spirits were everywhere; in the water, overhead in the sky, and especially in her young friends.

“This is heaven,” Isabel said, lounging in the front of the boat. “It is not often we can break away from our chaperones to have fun,” she said to Sydnee. “But it sounds as if lately you have managed to steal away. Tristan wrote to me about why his father brought you here and how instead you sneak off to see New Orleans in the afternoons. I'm jealous,” she said with a pout. “But now I have you too. I am so tired of boys. It is always Tristan, Mortimer or my older brothers.”

“I've never had a girlfriend,” said Sydnee.

“Nor I,” said Isabel, dragging her hand through the water.

Sydnee marveled at how smooth and white Isabel’s skin was and how perfect the features were on her face. Her nose was tiny and turned up ever so slightly like a sprite, and her eyebrows arched gracefully over her blue eyes.

Suddenly Isabel sat up straight, rocking the boat.

“Whoa!” exclaimed Tristan, grabbing the sides.

“Look,” Isabel said. “There he is!” There was no mistaking Mortimer as he walked to the stable with his arms dangling at his sides and the dogs loping behind him. “Let's go back, right now,” she exclaimed.

Tristan picked up the oars and rowed back. The moment they pulled up to shore, Isabel lifted her skirts and hopped out, running for the stable. Sydnee watched in amazement as she dashed up the hill, and then she looked at Tristan. He shrugged and shook his head. “For as long as I can remember, she has been in love with him. I don't expect it will ever change.”

*                   *                    *

Sydnee explored every inch of the plantation. Every day was a new adventure with Tristan. They would exercise the horses with Mortimer, read books under the elms, play with the dogs, or examine bugs with the magnifying glass. Even when Cousin Agnes had them help with household duties, they would invent stories or turn their chores into an amusing competition.

Sydnee liked Cousin Agnes. Her face was as wrinkled as a prune, and she smelled heavily of lavender, but she never had a harsh word for them. Frequently she would invite them into the drawing room for Christmas ribbon candy which she kept in a glass jar on the mantel. She loved the dogs too and would sneak treats to them throughout the day.

One afternoon Sophia Trudeau and Isabel returned for a visit. The first thing Isabel asked when she jumped out of the carriage was, “Are the cooks out of the kitchen? I want to bake a cake.”

Tristan's eyebrows shot up. He said with surprise, “You want to bake?”

“Yes I do,” she said firmly.

They walked back to the kitchen house. The cooks were just finishing preparing tea for the ladies and allowed them one hour to bake.

Isabel tied on an apron and handed one to Sydnee. “We are going to make a birthday cake for Mortimer.”

“What?” Tristan exclaimed. “He told me he didn't know when his birthday was.”

“That's right,” said Isabel. “We are declaring today his birthday.”

Sydnee laughed. “That's a fine idea!”

Isabel and Sydnee pulled out crocks of all sizes filled with ingredients and set them on the long wooden work table while Tristan shoveled coals into the hearth oven. Isabel measured and cracked eggs into a large blue pottery mixing bowl while Sydnee stirred.

“What kind of cake is it?” Tristan asked sticking his finger in the batter for a taste.

“A pound cake,” Isabel said. “Hand me another egg.”

Tristan reached in a basket and gave her a brown egg.

“Tristan, are you coming to the fox hunt on Christmas Day again this year?”

He nodded. “Of course.”

“Fox hunt?” Sydnee asked.

“Yes,” Isabel said. She pushed a strand of hair away from her forehead with her wrist since her hands were sticky. “Every Christmas, my father hosts a fox hunt for other planters in the county. Mother and I stay back to supervise Christmas dinner. Will you come and help us, Sydnee?”

She nodded and smiled. It all sounded very exciting.

Isabel walked over to the oven, swung the door open, thrust her arm inside and started to count. When she reached three, she withdrew her arm and said, “It's ready.”

Tristan leaned on the table and said to Isabel as she worked, “Mortimer told me that your father hired him to help in the stables the day of the hunt.”

“He did. So we will all be together on Christmas.”

Isabel poured the batter into a pan and handed it to Tristan. “Put that in the oven, and we'll fetch it later.”

*                   *                    *

That evening when the sun began to set, Tristan went to the stable. “Mortimer?” he called. “I have something to show you.”

Mortimer came shuffling out, wiping his hands on a rag. “Yes, Monsieur Saint-Yves?”

“You can dispense with the formalities,” Tristan said. “No one is around.”

With his head still lowered, he rolled his eyes up and looked at Tristan through his stringy hair.

“Follow me,” Tristan said. 

Mortimer stuffed the rag into his pocket and followed him down a path into the woods. Baloo and Atlantis fell into step behind them. They walked deeper and deeper into the woods as the sun was setting. When they reached the banks of
Saint-Denis’
little stream, it was dark. It was difficult to see the lazy little creek, thick with brush and overhanging trees.

Tristan whistled loudly, and Mortimer looked at him with surprise. He ran his eyes over the woods and then looked up at the sky with curiosity. Suddenly, there was a blaze of light floating down the stream.

Mortimer blinked, and his jaw dropped. “What is it?”

Tristan was grinning broadly. “It is a birthday cake for you with candles.”

Mortimer stammered, “A--a cake? It is not—I don't know when--”

“I know, but we are declaring today your birthday. This is Isabel's idea, but we helped too. We baked the cake earlier today, and the girls launched it upstream.”

Mortimer continued to shake his head slowly in amazement as he stared at the blaze floating down the creek. Isabel and Sydnee put the cake on a large piece of barn siding, and it wound downstream toward them.

They could hear the girls giggling as they ran through the brush toward them. They burst from the woods, laughing and cried, “Happy birthday!”

“So you did this?” he mumbled to Isabel.

“Yes,” she said. “But I had plenty of help. Are you going to just let it float on by?”

Mortimer ran toward the creek. Wading out into the water, he brought the cake onto shore. Sydnee spread out an old blanket on the bank, and Mortimer set the cake down.

“Don't put all the candles out or we'll have no light,” Isabel said to Tristan as he started to take off candles. She cut a piece of cake and handed it to Mortimer.

He sat down heavily on the blanket and said, “I've never had a birthday cake.”

“You've never had a birthday before--that you know of,” Sydnee said. “Until now.”

The dogs sniffed the blanket for crumbs as Mortimer stared at the candles. They glowed brilliantly against the dark background of the forest, casting a soft light on Isabel's face. Mortimer gazed at her for a moment and then he looked away quickly as if ashamed of himself. “Thank you,” he murmured.

*                   *                  *

“'If we stayed in New Orleans there would have been a
Reveillon
tonight,” Tristan told Sydnee as they walked down the stairs to the dining room on Christmas Eve.

“What’s that?” she asked.

“Everyone goes to Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve and then returns home for a feast called the
Reveillon
. We usually stay up all night. But here at
Saint-Denis
we go to bed early, so we can attend the fox hunt in the morning.”

“I am eager to see this fox hunt,” Sydnee said, stopping to tuck a loose strand of hair back into place. She donned her best gown that night, a floral and stripe print with
gigot
sleeves and tiny green bows at the shoulders.

They met Cousin Agnes in the hall outside the dining room. “Merry Christmas children,” she said as Tristan bowed, and Sydnee curtsied. They walked into the room, and Tristan held his cousin's chair. Sydnee waited until Cousin Agnes was seated and then sat down herself. Tristan noticed immediately that the matron was not wearing black. She wore a silver gown with lace at the neck and an amethyst necklace. He was glad to see more festive attire on Christmas.