Chapter 4
After her rendezvous, Marie slipped into the estate in time for tea. The gathering was not the happiest one, for Adelie and Guillaume were darting furious glances at their young friends who were failing in their duties to Marie and dallying with the angelic Miss Chevot instead.
Marie took tea with perfectly calm fingers on her china cup. She was, however, a little shaken. Although not given to nerves, she admitted to herself that there was nothing like an eminent battle to shake even the unflappable.
Charles, all through tea, was nowhere to be seen. Soon, more guests began to trickle in, and as hostess, Marie was obliged to make them comfortable. Though not one to spend time in deep reflection, it did cross her mind once or twice that the protection of all the guests would in her hands tonight. These guests, those invited to the dinner before the ball, were delighted to see so much of the LaRoche family in one place, as they were known to be an eccentric family, and scattered all over the continent.
To set the stage for a later illness, Marie feigned faintness and headache. While it achieved one end, it did have its consequences. M. Nefis, presumably reminded of the remissions in his duty to her by an incensed Uncle Guillaume, was all attention. He sat close to her on the couch in order to administer tea and advice. Fortunately Marie had planned dinner’s seating arrangements and sat herself next to M. Belmont and flirted with his outrageously.
Upon retiring to “dress for the ball”, Marie ran into her brother, who was looking haggard and frustrated.
“Marie, you must come to the ball. You have to.” Despite his thirty-odd years, his face became like that of a pleading little boy. “Uncle has urged, on no uncertain terms, that you be there. He mightn’t have said anything but your M. Nefis made the polite suggestion that you were perhaps ill and Aunt Adelie should act as hostess.”
“And Uncle’s temper flared at such insipidity,” Marie guessed, looking grim. “Curse Nefis. He’s determined to make me miserable.” She darted a glance at Charles. “I haven’t seen you help much, either. Honestly, Charles, sometimes I wonder if you really think.”
“No, I don’t. And that is why I live my leisurely life on hundreds of acres with hundreds of garish neck cloths at my disposal, and you run amok on the high seas and lead pirates to my back pasture!” Charles’ face was by this point darker than his (garish indeed) pink neck cloth.
“Oh, go dandify yourself for this evening, Charles. I’ll work everything out. You’ll see.” With an indulgent smile that belied her frustration, Marie strolled off to don her emerald gown with matching green tulle.
The stalwart crew of the notorious Syrène, shortly assured that Ben’s orders came directly from Captain LaRoche, prepared themselves properly for their first real battle in months. Excitement mounted and the crew loaded their pistols and polished their swords with increasing glee, while keeping an eye on the Specchio, moored a mile or so south of their own position. Perhaps it was the absence of official flags on the two ships, but the sight of them gave the townsfolk cause for unease. The relative silence from both grew more and more worrisome as the evening passed. But worry and unease were left only to the common folk and the merchants. Among the gentility, merriment was rife instead. Pirates, though loathsome, were always left to the navy; a ball at the home of the Duke De La Flote was of much greater import.
Up in her rooms, being dressed by multiple ladies’ maids, Marie felt very much a woman. The deep green of her gown showed her alabaster skin to perfection, drawing the eyes to an emerald of startling proportions held at her throat. Her hair, given a luster only the finest oils could supply, was of boldest ebony. And the firmness of her mouth, which usually inspired obedience in her crew, was somehow softened by the ensemble until the woman descending the stairs at ten o’clock was no pirate, but a delicate and exemplary specimen of the fair sex.
Many a guest noted that the De La Flote family, though eccentric, were a handsome family. Charles, suited in dove gray with green lace, and a smaller version of his sister’s emerald pinned in his voluminous neck cloth, could not resist telling his sister she cleaned up nicely.
Even Miss Chevot, with her angelic blonde curls, could not compare with Marie’s strikingly dark tresses. And so M. Nefis decided that the duke’s sister was a worthier prize, so much more so because she was a challenge, whereas Miss Chevot was not.
Let us refrain from details regarding the ballroom and the gardens. It is perhaps not necessary to say that a captain of a pirate ship must naturally posses other organizational capacities as well: undoubtedly Marie surpassed herself.
Uncle Guillaume was delighted by the ball held in his honor; he was toasted and celebrated but never did he make an announcement that Marie deemed worthy of her continued presence at the ball. Thus it was that, after being relieved of her duties as hostess, and being led out by her brother, she was forced to dance with several frustrating young men. M. Nefis was foremost among them, pouring ridiculous compliments in Marie’s ears. Desperately did she wish for Ben’s signal, so she could plead a headache and escape to the more important events of the evening.
But the signal never came.
Briefly Marie wondered if Genovese had allowed a rumor to be spread so he could attack somewhere else without her interference. Or perhaps he felt it poetic justice to almost attack her and then withdraw, just as she had done to him. But she discarded the last thought. It was too unlike him.
It was, most of all, too unlike him to disappoint. So it was that, halfway through a minuet, the longsuffering Marie happened to glance over M. Nefis’ shoulder to see a servant whisper something in Charles’ ear. Charles face instantly went ashen. Unintentionally, a panic swept through the room. Word had gotten out, and the minuet was stopped. A general cry of “Pirates?” and “Heaven help us!” went up, and Marie realized that something had gone wrong. Ben had had no chance to signal her.
Thinking quickly, Marie gasped and swooned in Nefis’ arms. Charles took the hint and rushed to her side, calling for two footmen to carry her downstairs where she would be more comfortable. As Marie was being carried away, she could hear her brother reassuring his guests and insisting the minuet be continued.
Despite her supposed comatose state, Marie’s heart was pounding wildly. After the footmen had laid her upon a couch, the faithful Trebout ordered them to leave her in his care. The tenacious Nefis he sent in search of smelling salts.
When the door was shut at last Marie sat bolt upright and snatched the sword the ever-passive Trebout was holding out to her.
“I fear for the party’s success, Trebout.” She commented as she ripped the skirt of her gown from its bodice.
“You’re right, I’m sure,” he said placidly, not blinking an eye at the sight of the breeches she wore under the tattered strips of cloth still hanging from the bodice.
“And how am I supposed to fight in this bloody corset?” she demanded of no one, stuffing her feet into boots.
Trebout poked his head out the door and judged that the way was now clear. Slipping down the hall at a frantic pace, Marie came to the kitchen door and had her hand upon it when she heard a familiar voice.
“I was sent to procure smelling salts and burnt feathers!” Nefis insisted. “And I mean to find some!”
Marie darted back into the dark corner and cursed Nefis for the last time. He came into her view followed by a flustered cook who informed him on no uncertain terms that he was invading her kitchen.
Next to grace the scene was Trebout, who informed Nefis that Marie had been carried to her room where she was under the care of the housekeeper and that smelling salts were no longer needed.
Thus abashed, Nefis returned to the party, and Marie slipped out the door.
The feel of the night air on her arms and face was to Marie like a splash of cold water. Her heartbeat increased more than was necessary for the pace at which she ran. Laughter floated down from the windows, indicating that somehow, the tension that had plagued the party had been eased. The sound of it floated into Marie’s ears and slowly laughter came tumbling from her own mouth.
She raced to the end of the courtyard and whistled for the horse Ben had readied. As she leapt the hedge, however, she realized with a start that the horse was hardly necessary; a mile or so off, Marie- no, not Marie: Uma- heard the sound of iron on iron, and suddenly, she was plunged into battle. Her horse shied and skittered to a stop before the onslaught. Clearly, Captain Genovese had employed nearly his entire crew for this endeavor.
Dropping gracefully from the saddle and drawing her sword, Uma advanced upon the fray. She marched into the center of the square and leapt upon the great stone fountain. Swinging her sword, she was overcome by her pirate instincts; the ones she’d been so afraid of losing.
“Genovese!” came her cry, “You’ve dared to challenge Uma LaRoche! Show yourself once in victory; ere long you’ll only be seen by me as you hang in the gallows!”
Much of the fighting paused as the pirates looked at her, and Uma’s own crew sent up a cheer.
A rather guttural laugh was then heard below the noise. Her eyes lighting in recognition, Uma whipped around in the direction of the sound. But before she could spot the notorious captain of the Specchio, an arm reached up from behind and below, and pulled her roughly down.
postscript
Chapter four. My writing skills had begun to wane a little bythis point. But one is not supposed to make apologies, no matter what one thinks of one's work. I hope you enjoy!