Strands of Bronze and Gold, page 12
I must find a way to meet other people.
I moved to the chair across from him. “It’s only that I wondered if I could attend church on Sundays.”
He turned his goblet of claret round and round so the firelight winked in the crystal facets, studying it. He did it for so long I wondered if he’d heard me.
I was about to repeat my question when he said, “I think not.”
“I understand you don’t care for religion, but I could go by myself.”
“I said no.” His voice and expression were lifeless with disinterest.
I gritted my teeth to keep from speaking so sharply that he would be shocked out of his boredom. It disturbed me how often I had to reign in my temper with M. Bernard. I had never even known I could be angry back home in Boston.
He shook himself. “Listen! Hear how the thunder rumbles in the distance. It will storm before morning.”
The tempest broke around midnight. A great boom awoke me. Panes rattled in my windows and branches crashed into the walls. Wind-ripped leaves plastered themselves against the glass and rain poured down like a million fists pounding. I snuggled deep beneath my covers. Wild storms were delightful as long as I was safe inside.
But then came other sounds: footsteps pausing outside my door and the knob being tried. My godfather’s voice calling—soft, insistent—“Sophia, Sophia.” And then louder: “Sophia!”
I clutched the bedclothes up to my chin, afraid he would hear my heart banging in my chest.
He tried the knob again, paused, then gave a grunt, and his footsteps receded.
Did he intend to make me his mistress? So no one else would ever want me? So I’d be forced to stay at Wyndriven Abbey forever? The writings of Balzac were full of mistresses, and I knew their qualifications involved sumptuous bedrooms and gifts of jewelry. If certain aspects of my life had come from the pages of a fairy tale, I had now entered between the covers of some lurid novel.
The next morning my godfather burst outside to find me on the veranda with Buttercup curled up like a round cat cushion in my lap, surrounded by a soggy world.
I dumped off Buttercup, nudging him away with a foot, cursing myself for letting M. Bernard see my pet once again. I shook out my skirts and looked up with quick-gathered self-possession.
“You have cat hair on your face,” he said as he wiped off the bench next to me with his handkerchief and seated himself.
“Oh. Sorry.” I brushed my cheeks quickly with both hands. He always knew how to rattle my composure.
“It was a violent storm we had during the night.”
“Yes, sir, it was.”
“Were you frightened?”
“No, sir. I enjoy storms.”
“I worried you might be huddled in your bed terrified. I tried to come reassure you.”
“Did you?”
“I did, but your door was locked. Do you lock it every night?”
“I do.”
“Do you think someone is plotting against your virtue?” A gleam of amusement twinkled in his honey brown eyes.
“No, sir. I simply feel more secure with the big, dark house shut out.”
“You know I have all the keys, don’t you? I could enter at any time I wanted.”
“Yes, sir, I know that. But I’m also aware you have respect for my honor.”
He shrugged and rose. A great pressure eased from my shoulders when he said, “I do, you know. I do indeed have respect for your honor, and I give you my promise I will always guard it. And next week, when I am away on business, you shall have my keys to keep. Good day, ma chérie.”
He strode away, whistling. I had made a narrow escape.
I passed Odette coming out of the stables with Garvey that afternoon. He sweated and swaggered; her expression was self-satisfied as she straightened her skirts. Whatever they had been doing evidently did not need a command of each other’s language.
She saw me, arched her thin black eyebrows, and swept up behind to follow wherever I went.
I said nothing but, filled with a trembling determination, headed off across the parkland. I skirted downed limbs and picked my way through puddles. I led her over the most uneven ground, scrambling through brambles and squelching over soggy hollows where I had to pull my feet out with sucking slurps. As she tagged along, she kept emitting exasperated sighs and phrases that sounded like French oaths under her breath.
“Why don’t you turn back?” I called over my shoulder, not expecting an answer. I often asked this during our rambles and, of course, never received an answer. We tromped through goldenrod that made her sneeze and up hills so briskly her breath came in labored pants.
And my godfather thought I was delicate. Her discomfiture lent a certain pleasure to my walks.
My half boots were clotted with black mud. More mud splashed on my dress. The hem of Odette’s skimpy gray twill maid’s uniform was filthy and soaking wet. She must clean and repair her own garb as well as mine. Hah!
Suddenly a little cry sounded from behind. I whirled around. Odette had tripped over a clump of tall weeds. Once I ascertained she wasn’t truly hurt, I picked up my skirts and was off, dashing for all I was worth into the woods.
I crashed through a thicket of brambles and found myself surrounded by corrugated trunks of trees so dense that only the merest speckling of pale light filtered through from above.
I was alone. I was alone outside!
Odette called my name and I waded in deeper. I wasn’t a fool; I did watch for the traps Garvey had said were planted here, as well as for poison ivy. I simply didn’t let them worry me unduly.
What was this unaccustomed feeling? Serenity. It was serenity and well-being. As if I had come home after a long absence. I plucked a lacy fern frond to tuck into my pocket. Later I would press it between the pages of a book.
By stepping carefully from stone to stone, I crossed a wide brook. There seemed a clean, pure goodness in the gurgling, laughing sound it made. No wonder in the old tales crossing running water left one safe from evil. The smell of the forest was earthy and mossy and rotting, but in a clean, natural way. Birds warbled and squirrels scrambled.
Here I could think. Here I could consider the happenings of the past months.
I had been losing myself. I had to strive to remain Sophie-like. Thank goodness I was no longer besotted with my godfather. Thank heavens my self-esteem had been fostered by a loving family or his powerful personality might have eroded mine away completely. As it was, I was ashamed to realize that during this time I had spent with him, I had relaxed some of my principles.
“Oh, Anne,” I whispered, “what should I do?”
There was no question I shouldn’t be living unchaperoned with M. Bernard. My family would never have allowed me to come here had they known he was a widower. Panic skittered in my stomach when I remembered the rattling of my bedchamber door.
And yet, I had glimpsed his vulnerability, his pain. He had survived many blows in life. Everyone he had cared for had left him, one way or another. I couldn’t abandon him now. He had said he had regard for my honor. He had given me his word. I still enjoyed most of our time together. He was intelligent and interesting and generous and could be sensitive and kind. He had the power to be a great man if his noble side were nurtured. I could help him become the gentleman he should be.
And there was such a thing as a chair thrust under the doorknob if I needed that security.
The shadows lengthened. I must go back.
I had no trouble finding my way out of the forest. Some sort of sixth sense guided me through the trees.
Odette slumped miserably beside a low brick wall not far from the edge of the woods. I almost felt sorry for her.
She raised her head when I approached.
“Listen,” I said. “You can understand what I’m saying, so drop the pretense. You may tattle to my godfather, but if you do, I’ll only make your life harder. Every once in a while I must get away to the woods by myself. If you’ll stay here by this wall with your sewing or whatever, I’ll promise to be back within two hours and to keep my clothes clean. A break for me, less work for you. What do you say? A truce?”
She studied me, taking in my disheveled aspect, then savagely kicked against the wall to knock loose a clump of mud from her heavy boot. “Très bien, Mademoiselle.”
“I am leaving today,” M. Bernard announced a few mornings later. “I must be gone a few weeks. As promised, you shall safeguard my keys.”
He held out the iron ring and I took it, trying to hide my excitement. It was weightier than I had expected.
“Are you ready for such a ‘heavy’ responsibility?” he asked with laughter, but also with a certain consideration.
“I hope so.”
“You may use all except three. This one”—he showed a plain black key with scratches on the shaft—“goes to the churchyard gate. And this one”—he held up an enormous key with a cross shape piercing the head—“opens the chapel. This last unlocks the folly. Those places are unsafe and I must forbid them. All the rest I make you free with, including this brass one, which goes to the tantalizing bookshelves. See how I trust you?”
“Thank you, Monsieur.”
He kissed the top of my head and left.
I had M. Bernard’s keys. At last.
I inspected the east wing, which was still allegedly under renovation. It was indeed still under renovation.
Next I tried the muniment room. Dust motes danced in the light streaming through windows and the walls were lined with cabinets. Halfheartedly I opened drawers and doors, revealing stacks of brittle yellowed papers. There were lists of all the purchases of this great household for several hundred years. At another time it might have been interesting, but it wasn’t what I was looking for today.
What was I looking for? Something intriguing—something to do with my godfather’s brides. They had walked these same floors I walked. Three of them had slept in my bed. I wanted to know their thoughts. I wanted to know if M. Bernard was as demanding of them as he was of me, and if they had loved him.
The fluid, serpentine wriggle of a centipede as it squirmed along the edge of the sheaf of papers I held made me drop it with a strangled squeal.
The door flew open and I jumped. Charles jumped as well. We both grinned sheepishly.
“Sorry, Miss,” he said. “Thought I heard a mouse.”
“That was me. Squeaking mousily because of a centipede.”
He stooped to help me gather up the scattered papers.
“I have permission to be in here,” I said. “Monsieur Bernard gave me his keys.”
“Congratulations, Miss,” he said.
I laughed. He didn’t go so far as to laugh, but his eyes danced as he bowed himself out.
Thank goodness it had been Charles and not someone else. It had looked as if I were poking my inquisitive nose into everything. How shameful that that actually was what I was doing.
If there were any traces of the wives in here, it would be like trying to find a needle in a haystack. I stuck my head out the door to make sure no one lurked nearby before slipping out and tiptoeing down the corridor.
I scurried up two flights of stairs to the attics. My heart lurched when one of the doors along the third-floor corridor slowly opened. I froze. No one but me ever came up here. Out glided Odette. I was gratified that she started at the sight of me. We stood looking at each other for a moment. I couldn’t imagine what call there could be for my lady’s maid to be in this rabbit warren of cramped bedrooms. Naturally no babbled excuses came from Odette. She flicked her bright black glance my way, then twitched away her stiff skirt so it wouldn’t touch my flounces as she swished off down the hall.
I watched her back, wondering if she were a thief, scouring the house for objects to steal. In the chamber she had exited was a delicate, mother-of-pearl inlaid writing desk with one narrow drawer jutting open. Other than that, nothing seemed out of place. I checked inside the drawer—empty. Except … scratched into the wooden side was “Adele” again. My godfather’s fourth wife must have had a habit of labeling things. And yes, the desk might well have come from my bedchamber. There was nothing else of note in the room. If Odette had taken something, it had been small.
I shrugged. Maybe later I would care if my maid were a thief. Maybe later I would tell Monsieur what I suspected and be rid of her. But at this moment I couldn’t do it. I was feeling a grudging complicity with Odette because she had not betrayed my woodland rambles.
As I climbed the narrow attic stairs, the stench of mice met me, along with some other smell I didn’t recognize.
The attics were dim and dingy, with pale light filtered through grimy dormer windows. What looked like shredded black rags hung from the lowest beams, where the roof nearly met the floor. Bats. That was the other smell. They hung quietly, minding their own bat business.
I wove my way between tarnished birdcages, sofas with stuffing billowing out, antiquated tallboys and washstands. What fun Anne and I would have had up here when we were younger, setting up houses and playing dress-up.
I moved around a dust sheet–covered mound and nearly stepped on a portrait lying face-up on the floor. A red-haired woman laughed up at me. Evidently it had been leaning against the wall but had fallen. The frame was cracked. After a second to slow the rapid beating of my heart, I set the painting up against a crate and studied it.
Which one was she? Which bride? She wore the style of the past decade. She had to be one of them. She stood beside a horse, and her expression was one of mischief, as though all the world were a joke. I could guess. I would guess it was Tara, of the fiery temper and the vase-smashing fights with her husband. Yes, somehow I was certain of it. The suicide.
So … were the other wives’ portraits up here as well? I began peeking behind paintings propped against walls. Most were landscapes and still lifes consigned to the attic for one reason or another—discoloration, a tear in the canvas, a broken frame. Ducky, who couldn’t abide “waste,” had everything brought upstairs. But three more of these paintings had been banished here because M. Bernard couldn’t bear the sight of them, had ordered all traces of his departed wives destroyed. The heartsick people I had known had done just the opposite—they had carefully preserved their memories.
I found what I was looking for.
Ravishingly beautiful Victoire held a slender, dark-haired child, who must be Anton, on her lap. Here stood Tatiana in the orchard. A Russian family who attended our church in Boston had had the same high cheekbones and slightly slanting eyes. And here must be Adele, pale and hollow-cheeked, with eyes that were pools of melancholy.
Each of them had hair that could be described as “red.” All were different shades, however, from the pastel blushing gold of apricots to rich, deep auburn to pale strawberry to the intense glow that edged smoldering coals.
Seeing their faces only whet my desire to know more of these women who, at this moment, I thought of as my “Sisters.” Victoire, Tatiana, Tara, and Adele.
I riffled through trunks, slamming down lids if the contents were too antique. Twenty-five or so years ago—that would be Victoire’s time period. I found three trunks I guessed were hers. The gowns inside had the wide shoulders and collars of the 1830s. As I held them up, they released a musky, exotic scent. Here was a small portrait in a silver frame of a woman from the early years of the century—Victoire’s mother? I cherished my own mother’s miniature. Never would I have left without it. Victoire had stolen away the first chance she got and couldn’t take many things with her. Perhaps this was what she had returned for when Ducky saw her, but all her possessions had been up here by then.
One chest contained a boy’s clothing and playthings—a small boy barely out of leading strings. Anton. There was something particularly tragic about the plush dog tucked carefully among the garments, with its fur nearly rubbed away from loving. How lonely for it to remain when Anton did not.
It was wrong of Victoire to leave her husband for another man—there was no doubt of that—but who knew what hole had opened in her soul at the ghastly death of her son? And who knew what had gaped in M. Bernard’s at the same time?
Tara’s trunks had her name engraved on brass plates. I fingered her possessions gingerly. She had stabbed herself. Some agony had possessed her so powerfully that she ended her own life. Maybe something of the emotions clung to her things.
Tatiana’s chests contained a baby’s layette among the larger items, the seams and trimmings beautifully stitched, probably by the expectant mother.
Adele’s baggage, naturally, had her name scratched into the wooden bands.
I handled gowns in rich fabrics and underclothing edged with exquisite lace from the past three decades, books and memorabilia, scrapbooks and toilette sets in silver and marble, ivory and tortoiseshell. There were dancing slippers that had danced their last, beaded reticules and plumy fans, ribbons and bonnets, dried flowers that fell to pieces when I touched them. I found no jewelry. My godfather didn’t order that destroyed. Was it possible I had been the recipient of some of these ladies’ jewels? There were no journals or correspondence either. He might have carried out the burning of those himself. He might have discovered Victoire’s illicit love letter that way.
All the brides were fairly young, all spoiled with stylish (for their time) clothing, all red-haired, but all showed signs of individuality in their possessions. Tatiana fancied cats. She had some little flowered china figurines of tabbies and a picture of kittens playing with yarn. I hoped she’d rebelled against her husband and adopted some predecessor of Buttercup’s. Adele, who was only eighteen months gone, was fond of poetry; there were several books of French verse among her things. From one of the volumes drifted the dried frond of a fern. A good many foreign souvenirs nestled in Victoire’s belongings—she had traveled with M. Bernard. Tara, meanwhile, had been quite the equestrian; no less than four riding habits lay among her effects.
As I smelled their perfumes, touched the objects they had touched, I felt no morbidity because they were deceased, or at least all deceased but Victoire; what I felt was a growing fondness. I would have liked these women. Maybe I was so lonely I needed dead people to be my friends.
