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Can you wear something suitable for that?”
    “Ah, little one, I am sure that in all of New Orleans somewhere I can find a tailor who would love to turn me into a wiggly green caterpillar. Though I think it will be most difficult to waltz in such a garb.”
    Lucienne clapped her hands and smiled up at him. He’s as easy to manage as any other man. He might make a very good husband for someone—someone like Pierrette! Yes, Pierrette! But Lucienne quailed at the thought of letting anyone, even her cousin, wear the gorgeous Dupre pearls.
    “You are most amiable, m’sieu. And far too handsome to be a wiggly green caterpillar.” Lucienne flitted her fan and rewarded the man for his cooperation with her most dazzling smile.
    An hour later, Armand joined the family for their midday meal, then rode beside the landau as the Toussaints made a leisurely drive to Belle Mer along the River Road for an afternoon of entertainment. In preparation for more formal races later in the spring, several plantation owners along the road had made up a private encounter to test the mettle of horses they planned to enter. It gave the horses experience with competition and enabled the owners to judge their prospects. Any occasion for merrymaking was welcomed in this lighthearted Creole society, so families gathered from riverside holdings to make a grand party of the event.
    “Mama, it’s sprinkling; if it rains we’ll be drenched.”
    “No, no, Chou-Chou,” her father insisted. “It’s going to clear. And we’re almost to the house now.”
    As if the weather demons were listening, the light mist cleared when they turned up the long, winding drive to the Pardues’ gracious home. The ladies stepping down from carriages, landaus, and pony traps flocked like a swarm of pastel butterflies through the great doors and into the long salon. Lucienne joined the other women, accepted a glass of lemonade, and pondered how she could manage a few minutes alone with Philippe. Tormented by the possibility that he believed she’d willingly agreed to the engagement with Armand, Lucienne feared he might think she was only flirting with him when she pledged him her love. Apprehension had plagued her sleep. She must find a moment this afternoon to see him, to air her suffering, and to assure him of her eternal devotion. Or at least enlighten him about her attempts to derail her papa’s plans. Even as she withdrew to the gallery, her effort to catch Philippe’s attention failed. The men, bantering and laughing, began their pilgrimage to the sugar house, where they would “sample” the year’s production of taffia, a potent rum by-product from the plantation’s sugar crop, then make their wagers on the early evening race.
    “I’ve secured comfortable chairs for you and your mama.” Armand interrupted her whirling thoughts. With reluctance Lucienne brought her mind back to the moment.
    “How very kind of you. And will we be able to see the race? Papa has an interest in one of the horses.”
    “The view is perfect. M’sieu Pardue plans for the race to be run on the wagon road this side of the fields. The surface is firmly packed and should give the horses sound footing.” He held out a hand to guide her down the wide steps. “Your mama is waiting at the other side of the house for us. I’ll take you to her.”
    Seeing no alternative, and no sign of Philippe, Lucienne accepted his hand and allowed herself to be escorted to the wide green pavilion where the other women clustered to enjoy the cold supper waiting for them. Some of the men joined their ladies, but most, like Armand, bunched along the designated raceway and compared the various entrants. Since it was a small event among neighbors, the owners themselves would be riding. In a more formal affair, carefully chosen riders from the plantations would mount. The men prided themselves on training their jockeys as enthusiastically as their thoroughbred steeds.
    “Who is that very tall man