Bal Masque

By Fleeta Cunningham

A sensible young lady in 1835 Louisiana does as her papa directs, especially in matters of matrimony, but Lucienne Toussaint is headstrong and impetuous. She has given her heart to a dashing ladies' man and cannot abide Papa's staid choice, a tedious man she vows in tumult and tears never to marry. Scheming to escape her Mardi Gras wedding, her plans awry at every turn, she finds it's dangerous to confront Destiny. For Armand Dupre, the one girl who interests him is the spoiled belle who fancies herself in love with someone else. Weary of meek misses, he sees flashes of spirit, independence, and sensibility in her. When she dashes into the darkness on her wedding night, he keeps gossip at bay as he searches for her and leaves behind dull propriety's mask. This new Armand, who arrives in the midst of a hurricane to rescue her from kidnappers and river pirates, is a man she could find most intriguing.

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Wild Rose Press
• Release date: Apr 25, 2014
• ISBN: 9781628301786

Fleeta Cunningham

A fifth generation Texan, Fleeta Cunningham has lived her entire life in Texas, both small towns and big cities. Drawing on all of them, she writes about the unique character--and characters--of the southern states. After a career as a law librarian for a major Texas law firm, writing a monthly column for a professional newsletter and other legal publications, she returned to her home in Central Texas to write full time. Fleeta has been writing in one form or another since the age of eight. When she isn't writing, she teaches creative writing classes, makes quilts, and designs miniature gowns for her huge collection of fashion dolls.

Book preview

Inc.

Bal Masque

by

Fleeta Cunningham

Confronting Destiny, Book One

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

Bal Masque

COPYRIGHT © 2014 by Fleeta Cunningham

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Contact Information: [e-mail]

Cover Art by Debbie Taylor

The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

PO Box 708

Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

Publishing History

First American Rose Edition, 2014

Print ISBN 978-1-62830-177-9

Digital ISBN 978-1-62830-178-6

Confronting Destiny, Book One

Published in the United States of America

Dedication

For Kayleigh and Logan,

the perfect grandchildren, who keep me young.

You are always in my heart.

Love, Tutu

Praise for Fleeta Cunningham

Author of five books in the vintage Santa Rita Series, with more publications in process with The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

ELOPEMENT FOR ONE

Well-crafted story… exciting plot… interesting characters… The love between the two main characters is precious, from beginning to the final, exciting conclusion…. I am now determined to read the rest of the series.

~The Romance Studio (5 Stars)

BLACK RAIN RISING

One of the most fantastic books I’ve read this year… grabbed my attention from the first sentence…. A memorable, entertaining, and well-written story…. An author of increasing distinction who will never disappoint her readers.

~Two Lips Reviews (5 Lips, Recommended)

DON’T CALL ME DARLIN’

A warm, thought-provoking book… an enticing hero and a wounded yet proud heroine. A realistic picture of 1957… an image of small town America that both warms and terrifies…. The best thing is she balances the build-up with a really good ending.

~WRDF (rated Fantastic)

HALF PAST MOURNING

Delightful to read. Fleeta Cunningham slips in mores, styles, and pastimes of the 1950s era…. Her subtle, understated writing style moves along smooth as silk…a sparkling, enjoyable vicarious experience.

~Camellia, Long and Short Reviews (4.5 Stars)

Chapter One:

Wedding Arrangements

So it’s all planned, as Papa intended, and I’m to marry Armand Dupre. Lucienne Toussaint stomped into the room and threw herself down on the vanity bench, eyes bright with unshed tears, voice quivering with misery. "The wretched wedding will take place before Lent, Papa says. He says the Dupres are eager to have the business concluded ahead of the spring planting. The Dupres are eager! What about me? I am not eager!" Her shoulders shook with the force of her frustration.

As chaperone and confidante to the plantation’s willful daughter, Marie was used to Lucienne’s outbursts. She felt some sympathy for her young charge; the girl might have had hopes and dreams, but she had no voice in the plans made for her future.

Lucienne, you will find the marriage to your liking in time. She consoled the girl but had little patience with Lucienne’s petulance. You have small reason to complain, ma fille. She brushed the girl’s dark hair with long, soothing strokes. So, you’ll marry a man who will provide the endless comforts and pleasures you’ve had all your life. Is it such a sacrifice? When far younger than Lucienne, Marie had fled the mob-filled, blood-soaked streets of Paris in revolt, fearing for her life.

Lucienne thrust Marie’s hand away and shoved the vanity bench aside. It teetered for a second, then toppled to the floor as the girl flounced across the room. Tears, the tears that had threatened since she entered the room, spilled. No, I won’t! She hurled herself across the bed. Never, never! She sobbed and buried her face in her hands. How could I find this—this arrangement—to my liking? You know I love Philippe Pardue! She curled into a ball, wailing, her arms covering her head. He’s had my heart for two years. And I have his. How can I marry Armand when my very soul belongs to Philippe? Marie reached out, but the girl jerked away from her touch, pounding a silk pillow in vexation. "I can’t marry Armand—I won’t marry him! Her flailing fist split the thin pillow cover. It’s unbearable, Marie! My life is ruined! I’d be happier inside the walls of the convent!"

Marie smothered an impulse to laugh at the idea of this pampered child facing the rigors of convent life. The coarse habit alone would deter her, never mind the labor performed by those within the walls.

Lucienne’s thrashing feet snapped the ribbons holding one slipper, leaving a small embellishment to the floor’s polished wood. Frustration robbing her of words, Lucienne howled in inarticulate dismay. She clutched the torn pillow, its lacy cover a bunched, shapeless mass. Feathers spilled over the coverlet. Blindly she heaved the bundle off the bed, down filling the air. A few bits clung to Lucienne’s tumbled hair as she sat up. Brushing them aside, she knocked over two Venetian glass flasks on the bedside table but paid no attention to the scent of jasmine flooding the room. How can Papa expect me to live with one man when another is my whole world?

Marie sniffed again, not so silently this time, contemplating the mess around her. "Here, chèrie. Let me help you out of this dress. You’re fretting yourself into an illness. Think rationally about this for a bit. Your papa wouldn’t make plans that would lead only to your despair."

Nimbly she loosened the squirming girl’s muslin gown, helped her out of twisted petticoats, removed the other slipper. Marie had no desire to give Lucienne the chance to vent her anguish on a dress that would take hours to repair. The feathers and perfume made quite enough extra work. She fetched a linen cloth and moistened it with cologne from the only remaining vial. As she wiped the tearstained cheeks and chivvied the girl back to the froth of pillows, she shook her head at Lucienne’s perversity. Truly the girl exhausted herself—and Marie, too. Surreptitiously she wiped her own brow. The choice isn’t the one Lucienne would have made, but how often does the bride have a say in the selection of her groom? The decision is made for the wellbeing of the family. And it’s better so. Left to her own devices, look at the man our girl would choose. The young Pardue! Indeed!

Marie knew this Pardue, second son of Belle Mer, the plantation to the east. Lucienne might think she held his heart, but Marie knew his eyes never rested long on any one pretty face. Common gossip said he took far too many liberties with the servant girls wherever he visited. His talents for consuming wine and gambling on slow horses were widely known. And foolish Lucienne would trade this coxcomb for the gracious and elegant Dupre? Spoiled child, a baby begging to grasp a burning brand.

"You will follow your papa’s wishes. He is a good man with only your happiness at heart. He would not arrange a marriage that would make you miserable." She tucked a handkerchief into the girl’s hand to guard against another outburst.

Tossing the bit of linen aside, Lucienne glared, her dark eyes glistening. She shoved herself up by her elbows. Miserable? Marie, I am already miserable! Another flood of tears threatened. I carry such misery, I would pull down these very walls if it would free me from this abominable marriage! Marie saw anger overcoming the girl’s dejection. As she expected, Lucienne reached for something weighty to throw—a bedside book—and sailed it toward the windows. Marie dived and caught the book in flight, saving the long glass pane, but her shoulder took the brunt as she lunged against the window frame.

Enough of that! Behave, Lucienne. M’sieu Armand doesn’t know the consequences of the bargain he’s made. She turned away, rubbing her shoulder. Why did he offer for this flighty girl who has never shown him an ounce of encouragement? Should he ever see his intended bride like this, Marie believed M’sieu Dupre would hastily take his suit elsewhere. A ribbon torn from the discarded slipper edged under the netting of the bed. The movement caught her attention. A black paw batted at the bit of silk. Marie picked up the kitten peering with enormous blue eyes from beneath the bed. Look, all this turmoil has frightened Ninette. She smoothed the glossy coat.

Oh, you poor little thing! I’m sorry I scared you. Lucienne reached for the kitten and cuddled it to her cheek, stroking the tiny ears. Lucienne’s voice softened as she tucked the bit of black fur to her shoulder. Caressing the kitten seemed to calm her. Lucienne drew a long breath as her fury subsided a little. You know why Papa made this bargain with the devil, Marie? She rolled from the bed, crossed the room to jerk back sheer window curtains, and pointed at the distant fields. For that. For the prosperity of Mille Fleur. Papa sees he’ll gain a shipping advantage for the sugar crop if I marry Armand. He says the union of a plantation family with a shipping family will make fortunes for both, because my dowry will expand the business. She turned, scorn narrowing her eyes. It’s just a partnership to them, Marie. It’s nothing about Armand and me, not our happiness, not our feelings. It’s nothing to do with us at all. She turned away, leaning her head against the window.

The girl was right, of course. The arrangement didn’t have anything to do with the couple. It profited the two financial endeavors involved. But it could hardly disillusion either party, not when it assured the continuation of the sugar plantations.

"Still, chèrie, planning a wedding—only two months away—this hardly seems feasible. Your maman will be beside herself. Your papa will see we must have more time. Time could change matters for you, make the idea less distressing. And is Armand Dupre such a bad choice? He brought you Ninette, and I know you love the little thing." Silently Marie appealed to the Holy Virgin. The household, just recovering from Christmas and New Year’s, would soon deal with the expected Mardi Gras guests. A small party would fill one weekend, and the household would provide daily entertainment, as well as the grand masquerade ball ending the festival season. Prepare the ballroom, add a family wedding—hosts of visitors, quantities of food and drink, all requiring days of planning—the family and servants would be strained beyond endurance. Lucienne’s papa routinely disregarded the domestic problems he created by inviting a dozen friends to stay for a month at a time. Gracious and calm, his wife welcomed everyone, but even Madame Toussaint might find the addition of a sudden wedding daunting. Of course, Marie reminded herself, Madame Toussaint was not consulted.

Ninette is the only benefit I see in this wretched marriage contract with the Dupres. And the only spark of originality I’ve observed in Armand. The Dupres and Papa made all the decisions about the wedding. I sat across the room as if I were invisible. No one even asked what I thought! And the time they chose is terrible, but Papa won’t hear of a change. Lucienne made a pale shadow in the dim light, her lace-trimmed chemise a white blur. She sat at the window, holding her kitten and staring down at the garden. Marie started to protest, then stopped. Lucienne was in no danger of being seen. The long gallery outside provided a shady barrier. All household members would be sleeping off the midday meal, while the servants should still be occupied with their own food. The girl was virtually invisible.

Lucienne continued to look down, the manicured lawns empty of human traffic. "We’ll only have the small party, just for family and our closest friends. Papa says we won’t have a ball for Mardi Gras this year. Lucienne made her father’s decision sound as if it meant the end of civilized society. Papa says we’ll have the wedding instead. Papa says we’ll do the small masquerade and put the grand ball aside. Papa has decided everything!"

She turned from the window, her shoulders hunched forward, her dark hair shadowing her face. A portrait of burdened, wronged, despondent womanhood, she sighed wearily. A single tear dropped into Ninette’s fluffy fur. I’m not even going to have my wedding in the Cathedral in New Orleans! It will be right here at the house. And Père Jean-Baptiste will do the ceremony. She sighed, a deep, dramatic note of tragedy. Not a proper wedding, just a little family thing, because it will be too close to Lent and too much is going on for us to stay in town for the weeks it would take to do it appropriately. A colorless little family wedding with no guests, no ball, and no wonderful dress. She hunched over her kitten, bravely holding back her tears, the personification of a victim sorely put upon by life.

Marie, though touched by the girl’s genuine despair, thought Lucienne overplayed her part. I’ve seen victims of Madame Guillotine show less despondency on the scaffold steps. So it will be a smaller wedding, then, she murmured, gratified that the household would not have the complete upheaval she’d feared.

I won’t even get to wear my wonderful new masquerade ball gown! Her dark hair tumbling loose, Lucienne threw her hands out in disgust. Isn’t that just unspeakable of Papa? I’ve waited almost a whole year to wear that gown, ever since Grandmère had the two of them sent from Paris, one for me and one for Cousin Pierrette. It’s the most beautiful, perfect gown in all Louisiana! Now I won’t get to wear it; instead, I’ll just have some ordinary wedding dress run up in a hurry here at home. No style, no charm. Just a tacky, commonplace dress. Beside my ball gown, my wedding dress will be nothing. Everyone will laugh at such a poor show. She held the kitten up to eye level. Ninette, how can Papa expect me to give up Philippe and my ball gown, too?

Marie turned, collecting loose feathers to hide her face. Apparently the girl was as upset at not getting to wear her fabulous ball gown as she was over giving up her attachment to the wastrel Pardue!

Your papa might arrange a grand ball later in the summer, to greet the newlyweds and make up for some of the informality of the wedding.

"It won’t be the grand bal masque. Lucienne disentangled the kitten’s tiny claws from her curls. It wouldn’t be nearly as pleasant. At the bal masque, I would be receiving suitors, and wearing my butterfly dress with the fancy mask, and dancing with all the acceptable young men. If Papa waits till summer, I’ll just be another married lady with no one paying court or making pretty speeches. Lucienne hobbled to the damask chair, mimicking a shrunken, aged crone. I might as well be as old as Grandmère. I’ll only get to dance with the grandfathers and widowers and half-deaf old soldiers, who will stomp on my feet and smell of tobacco and horses."

Marie laughed aloud at Lucienne’s theatrics. The girl had a gift for mimicry that often amused and sometimes horrified her family. At sixteen Lucienne had made her debut and cut quite a path through all the suitable young men of the parish. For two years she had enjoyed the attentions of a good many swains, but she often came back from an entertainment with a mocking imitation of the foolish admirers who persisted in their attentions. Marie had scolded her more than once for such performances, then hurried to her own rooms to laugh over Lucienne’s antics in private. She would find it difficult, Marie supposed, to put aside the young people’s balls and diversions to assume wife and hostess responsibilities at the Dupre house in New Orleans. Still, when Lucienne was introduced to society, Marie had heard only of picnics, theater evenings, house parties, and balls from the younger married set. She did not recall the young matrons suffered any great restrictions.

You will find compensations as the Dupre bride. The opera, the theater—those will be part of your life. You’ll have guests to entertain. And in time, children will fill your home, I think.

Children! Lucienne looked aghast at the word. I…don’t… I won’t even discuss that. It isn’t decent.

Marie shrugged. People married, produced children to carry on the family name, to make the future secure. What else was the point of these alliances? Could Lucienne not think in such terms? She had been reared to it.

I suppose life in New Orleans could have some interest. Lucienne shook back her hair and drew a resigned breath. The theater was very gay when we were there in the fall. And I met some amusing people. Armand knows everybody worth knowing. It appears he’s quite popular, though heaven knows why. Her voice dismissed her future husband. It could be a pleasant life, if I were married to someone less—less—tedious.

Marie suspected she knew the girl’s thoughts. The Dupres, father and son, lived in a quiet quarter of the city, comfortable but somewhat sedate. The Pardues, however, not only had a stylish house, the home of Philippe’s older brother Etienne, in a fashionable area of the city. Their father also had a fine plantation along the river, permitting his son Philippe to amuse himself by circling between the two centers. Etienne cared for the financial affairs of the whole family, entertaining often and holding open house to a host of sophisticated business associates. If Etienne’s diversions in the city palled, Philippe could always escape to country life and its leisurely pace of house visits, courtship, horses, and cards. Marie could see life in the Pardue family held far more appeal for Lucienne than becoming mistress of the staid house of Dupre.

You’ll find matters to interest you, wherever you live. You and your husband will find common grounds as your life together develops.

Papa is the one enamored with Armand and the Dupres’ plans. Lucienne shrugged. I wish it were his life someone else was arranging. How long would he put up with anyone else making choices for him?

It’s the way of things. The gentlemen make the rules. Ladies make themselves agreeable. Marie busied herself tidying the chamber. Lucienne roamed the room, finally settling Ninette in her lap and again staring, a bit sullenly, out into the landscape. The silence between the two women lengthened. Jasmine from the broken bottles still permeated the air, though Marie had wiped the dampness from the pine floor and swept shards of glass and feathers out of the crevices.

As Marie removed the last trace of Lucienne’s outburst, she considered the girl’s intense expression. She knew such silent concentration suggested a plot in the making. Was Lucienne still thinking she could convince her papa to consider another suitor? Or was she still angry that she couldn’t wear the lavish ball gown or attend the grand bal masque? Lucienne was very still, thoughtfully stroking the cat, a shaft of slanting light outlining her against the window. She twitched the curtains together but continued to cast a lingering look through them.

Perhaps Papa will do something for me, a little thing to make all this less obnoxious. She spoke softly as if voicing random thoughts.

"What is that, chèrie?" Marie glanced back, unsettled by the disingenuous look on Lucienne’s face.

Perhaps Papa might be willing to arrange something so I can wear my wonderful masquerade gown. Haven’t I been very good about agreeing to his arrangements? He should be willing to humor my one little whim.

Marie could almost hear the whir of plans. Lucienne continued to look through the sheer curtains. Lucienne, what are you thinking? You said yourself the time of the wedding is for the convenience of the Dupres. Since he’s willing to concede to their time requirements by reducing the usual Mardi Gras celebrations, I am certain he will not change the date. He does not back away easily from something once he has decided. Very much like his daughter, I think, she added to herself.

Lucienne walked from the windows to put the kitten on the white counterpane. She cast Marie a sideways look, her elfin eyes bright as black diamonds. "Oh, no, he most certainly won’t do that. But he does like to get his money’s worth out of any purchase—a horse, a piece of land, whatever. And he paid for the butterfly dress even though Grandmère ordered it. He won’t like for his money to be spent for nothing. And I will need yet another expensive gown for the wedding—one that will probably cost even more since it will have to be made in a rush—so he might see value in letting me wear the butterfly dress."

"But, p’tite, the butterfly dress, a beautiful dress to be sure, is not suitable for a bride. It is a—a costume, not bridal wear, at all."

Lucienne laughed, a brittle edge in her tone. Oh, it certainly is not. Not the usual bride’s dress, at least. But if I remind Papa that the whole parish will be disappointed if Mille Fleur doesn’t have the annual masquerade ball—and if I point out the wasteful extravagance of having paid for a gown I can’t wear—I might get his attention. Then I’ll suggest we combine the wedding and the ball. A smothered chuckle colored her words. Marie glanced at her charge with doubled suspicion. I can wear my wonderful gown, his money will be spent with a purpose, and he will be saved the cost of a second dress. With eyes as wide as Ninette’s, she continued, "All our friends and family will be so pleased if the ball goes on as usual. It will be less work for Mama and the servants this way. She added in a measured, reasonable voice, The wedding will be unique, and that will appeal to Papa. He loves to be the first with a new fashion. This may be unconventional, but it’s far less trouble than what he plans." Lucienne bent down and buried her face in Ninette’s dark fur with a soft chuckle.

"And you, chèrie? Will you be delighted to have such a wedding?" Marie knew Lucienne’s change of heart signified more than the desire to wear the butterfly gown, but she couldn’t imagine what Lucienne was planning. Sparing a look out the window, the older woman sought something on the grounds that offered a clue to Lucienne’s thoughts. All she saw was the overseer Price and his daughter Dorcas walking along the path to their cottage.

Delighted? Lucienne echoed Marie’s word choice with wonder. She shook her head. Well, perhaps not delighted, but I will certainly be more agreeable.

Chapter Two:

Masquerade

What do you think, Ninette? Papa has guests, so he’ll invite the gentlemen into his office to sample this year’s taffia. He should be in a good mood, good enough to grant his little Chou-Chou a small request, shouldn’t he? Giddy with plans for a way out of Papa’s unacceptable arrangements, Lucienne swirled her embroidered skirts and curtseyed to the wide-eyed kitten on the bed. If I give him a few hints, maybe Papa will come around to my idea all by himself. He loves to surprise his friends with something a bit unconventional, doesn’t he? The kitten polished one black paw and tidied her ears. She seemed to agree with her young mistress that winning any campaign started with perfect grooming.

René Toussaint expected his wife and daughter to be charming and ornamental at all times, but especially so when he had guests for dinner. Though Lucienne dressed with her usual care, tonight her demurely flirtatious dinner dress was also the first step in a delicate ambush, and she had designed her appearance accordingly. The white gown framed her pretty shoulders with a lace pelerine. A fresh camellia tucked into her shining curls helped create a portrait of transparent sweetness. Delicate embroidered scallops edged her hem and brushed the toes of her slippers as she skipped down the gallery steps and into the long dim hallway below.

From the end of the passage she heard the faint rumble of voices. Her father was speaking to someone else in the small plantation office, a room half hidden by an elaborate étagère. One of the guests talking horses with Papa. Assured that her earlier expectations appeared correct, she slipped silently into the front parlor, where a window put the outside office door in view. She wouldn’t have to eavesdrop, and risk getting caught, to know when the business day was concluded. She could see her father’s guest depart.

In less time than she expected the door opened, with a force that made it spring outward. Price the overseer marched out, popping his Panama hat against his palm and clearing the veranda with long steps. His sunburned face turned neither left nor right as he charged away from the house and into the gardens beyond. That didn’t bode well for Lucienne’s plans. Price appeared to be in a rage. Perhaps he and Papa quarreled. But Price is always in a hurry, and his red face always looks angry. Lucienne shrugged as he disappeared into the late evening shadow. Maybe that’s the way it is up north where he lived before. Everybody always fussing and fuming. Hope he hasn’t upset Papa.