The Countess Misbehaves

Armand nodded and climbed the gangway, whistling merrily.

The days were the drowsy ones of late summer. The weather in New Orleans stayed hot and muggy throughout the month of September. The hot mist off the bayous seemed to scald the skin.

Along with the humid heat was the constant irritant of the buzzing, biting mosquitoes. The residents of the low-lying river city didn’t dare try sleeping without a mosquito baire protecting them.

The mosquitoes had been worse than usual this summer, but Colfax Sumner told his niece it was a good thing, really. There had been very few cases of yellow fever this year, thanks to the mosquitoes. He was convinced that the swarms of mosquitoes purified the miasmic swamp airs that caused the deadly disease.

“You actually believe that?” Madeleine asked, skeptical, as the two of them sat together in the shaded courtyard on a sweltering September afternoon.

“Indeed. If the fever had been rampant this year as it was in ’53, I would never have allowed you to come near New Orleans. Or, if you had come, you’d have had to stay upriver at the plantation or else have shut yourself up inside this house and never have gone outdoors. You wouldn’t have liked that.”

“Heavens, no. I do so enjoy going out.”

As if she hadn’t spoken, Colfax mused, “I recall that the mosquito population was so sparse in ’53 one could sleep without the baire enclosing the bed. But bronze john swept through this city all summer and took countless lives. Barrels of burning tar constantly blackened the skies and burned our eyes and choked us. The cathedral bell tolled each time another poor soul died and it seemed that the terrible tolling never stopped. Night and day it pealed.”

“You were in no danger since you had the fever all those years ago?”

“That’s true. I’ve been immune ever since…since the summer of…” He shook his head sadly, fell silent, and his eyes clouded.

Madeleine knew he was looking back into the past, to that dreadful summer of 1816 and the sad events that had changed his life forever. He had been a young man who was to be married to a beautiful Creole belle. The two had been madly in love, but a yellow fever epidemic had ended their dreams. Both contracted the fever, but Colfax survived. His beloved had not. Twenty-four hours before they were to be married, she died in his arms and was buried in her white wedding gown.

As if there had been no lapse in the conversation, Colfax said, “Yes, thankfully, I am immune. That’s why I didn’t flee upriver to the safety of the plantation with Avalina in ’53. Many of the sick were good friends and they needed me. I did what I could for them, but in many cases it wasn’t enough.”

“I know you did,” Madeleine said and affectionately patted his arm. Quickly changing the subject, she said, “Desmond is coming for dinner and afterward we are going to the theater. Why don’t you come with us?”

“Some other time,” he begged off. “I’ve some reading and paperwork to catch up on.”

“Well, don’t say I didn’t ask,” she said, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek before she hurried upstairs to dress.

On those evenings when Lord Enfield wasn’t taking Lady Madeleine out to dinner or to the theater, he dined with her and her uncle at the Royal Street town house. Or else he invited them to join him for the evening meal at his own Dumaine Street home.

Whether at the Sumner town house or his own home, the earl, ever the caring consort, was careful not to keep either of them up too late. He insisted that the countess should continue to get plenty of rest. Colfax readily concurred, pleased that Lord Enfield was such a thoughtful man.

Madeleine, too, was grateful that Desmond was concerned for her welfare. A true blue-blooded gentleman, he expected nothing more from her than brief good-night kisses in the flower-filled courtyard. Which made her feel terribly guilty. What would he think if he knew how wantonly she had behaved with a total stranger?

One such evening, Madeleine returned to the parlor after kissing Desmond good-night beneath the porte cochere. When she came into the room, Avalina looked at her, then looked at the French clock on the white marble mantel. Nine-thirty. Avalina pursed her lips.

“What? What is it?” Madeleine asked, puzzled.

The black woman shrugged. “Nothing.”

“I know better,” said Madeleine. “Something’s on your mind. What is it?”

Avalina made a face. “Seems to me it’s mighty early for a lovestruck gentleman to be leaving his fiancée.”

“For heaven’s sake, Desmond’s only being considerate,” Madeleine promptly defended him. “And I appreciate it.”

Avalina rolled her eyes heavenward and said, “Will you need me anymore this evening?”

“No. No, I can undress without you.”

“Then, good night, my lady.” Avalina turned and left the room.

Madeleine stared after her. She had the distinct impression that Avalina did not like Lord Enfield. But why? Desmond was unfailingly cordial to Avalina and even brought her little presents on occasion. Which she accepted almost grudgingly.

Madeleine sighed and climbed the stairs to her room. It was too early for bed. She wasn’t sleepy. She was hot and she was restless. The latitude and climate of New Orleans had a disturbingly potent effect on her. The tropical heat of the sultry summer days made her feel lazy and content.

But the long languorous nights had the opposite effect. The New Orleans nights were powerfully provocative. The humid, heavy air. The moonlight on the Mississippi. The sweet scent of jasmine and gardenias. The faint sound of music from a street musician’s banjo.

Madeleine wandered out onto the streetside iron lace balcony and inhaled deeply of the warm moist air. Almost wistfully, she looked out over the sprawling city.

Under a beguiling tropic sky, carriages noisily rolled down the streets and laughing people crowded the banquettes. At 10:00 p.m., the Crescent City was alive with merrymakers hurrying to the restaurants and theaters and gaming palaces.

Many were just now leaving their homes to go out for the evening. Avalina was right. It was early for Desmond to have gone. He could have stayed a while longer.

She frowned and went back inside.

Madeleine began to undress in the darkness, knowing that she would not sleep. It would be another of those nights when, tormented by the heat and the buzzing of mosquitoes and a shameful yearning for a dead, dark lover, she would toss and turn and sigh.

Feeling edgy and irritated, Madeleine finished undressing. She picked up the fresh nightgown Avalina had laid out for her, then shook her head and tossed the gown across the back of a chair. Naked, her russet hair pinned atop her head for coolness, she climbed into the big four-poster bed. She lowered the mosquito baire, punched the feather pillows and lay down on her back.

Her eyes on the cream satin bed hangings above, she exhaled heavily and stretched her long, slender legs, wiggling her toes, ordering herself to think only of Desmond and their wonderful future together.

She assumed that her fiancé was home by now. He lived only a few short blocks away. He was probably having a nightcap before bed.

The weather finally turned.

The damp, sticky heat of summer gave way to clear, brisk autumn air. The mosquitoes subsided and a cool breeze blew in off the river.

On a chilly evening in early October, Lady Madeleine was extraordinarily excited. She was to attend, with her tall blond earl, the first masked ball of the season. She was in high spirits. Memories and regrets had begun to fade. The dark, handsome face that had haunted her dreams was less clear. It blurred. She couldn’t recall exactly what Armand de Chevalier looked like.

And she vowed to herself that she would be a faithful, loving wife to Lord Enfield and never look at another man for as long as she lived.

Now as she finished dressing for the momentous occasion, Madeleine smiled as she gazed at herself in the mirror. She had kept her choice of costumes a secret, except from Avalina, who was helping her dress. She was going to the ball as Shakespeare’s tragic heroine, Juliet. Biting her lips to give them color, Madeleine idly wondered, would the earl guess and show up dressed as her Romeo?

At shortly after 8:00 p.m., a cortege of carriages rolled up before the French Quarter’s grand St. Louis Hotel. The hotel’s façade boasted no outthrust portico, but instead a line of six graceful columns. In the New Orleans tradition, intricate iron-work galleries opened before the outer rooms. The structure was impressive in every way, but a large domed rotunda was the hotel’s real marvel.

The imposing Creole hotel was the center of the city’s French business, entertainment and cultural district. It was here that throngs attended the bals de société, subscription affairs given by the aristocratic Creoles.

On this evening, gorgeously costumed ladies and gentlemen alighted from gleaming coaches and hurried inside and through the rotunda. Beautiful milky-skinned, dark-eyed Creole belles clung to the arms of the city’s gay handsome blades.

This glittering gala in the hotel’s opulent ballroom was one of the season’s major affairs, attended by the city’s elite. Bowers of fresh-cut flowers sweetened the air. French champagne flowed freely. An orchestra, in full evening dress, played waltzes.

And Lady Madeleine, in a flowing gown of virginal white chiffon, her russet hair hidden beneath the long conical hennan headdress with shimmering white silk streamers trailing from its tip, wore an elaborate mask adorned with semiprecious jewels. She fairly glowed as she turned about on the dance floor in Lord Enfield’s arms. Her fiancé was dressed as Robin Hood.