Strands of Bronze and Gold, page 15
It was Monday, and I stood dressed for my forest walk. To have Charles act so friendly moved me. Without thinking, I laid a hand on his arm. I meant to thank him for everything—not just the basket, but for his steadfast kindness to both me and poor Buttercup.
At that moment M. Bernard rounded the corner. His eyes went straight to where I touched Charles. His brows lifted slightly. I snatched my hand back, looking ridiculously guilty as I did so. Charles bowed and slipped away.
M. Bernard paused for a moment before saying lightly, “Oho! Going for a picnic, ma loutre? The clouds threaten, but of course that will not stop you. You are avid about your woodland rambles.”
“Yes, sir. I enjoy the outdoors above all things.” I searched his face, but it was impossible to read.
“Oui. Above all things,” he said with an odd smile.
He was displeased. “Perhaps—perhaps you would join me?”
“Not today. Urgent business calls. Instead, I wish you au revoir so you may wend your way. Be sure to take a wrap.”
He continued down the corridor. I watched after his powerful figure sheathed in perfectly fitting ochre brown until he turned the corner. He didn’t like me to enjoy anything without him. However, I certainly wouldn’t cease my forest walks; they were my only escape. And it would be nice if I were to meet Mr. Stone again—although it was unlikely to happen, I reminded myself quickly.
In spite of the brooding sky and M. Bernard’s instructions, I left the house without snatching up a cloak.
Odette accepted an orange blossom cake with a frown, but by now I knew her expressions well enough to guess she was pleased with it. She was already eating when I moved on into the forest, swinging my basket. I glanced around to ensure that no one lurked. I stepped quickly and circled back on myself several times to confuse anyone who might follow.
Whereas last week the autumn leaves had been mostly flaming scarlet and orange, I now trod on a natural carpet of pure fallen gold, as if I stepped through the streets of heaven. A sudden gust sent a golden shower like a blessing down upon my head.
He was there ahead of me. Mr. Stone. He hunched on a rock in a ferny glade studded with boulders, absorbed in sketching. I hesitated. Although we had introduced ourselves, it wasn’t proper to speak to a young man alone. And what if he wanted to remain alone? I couldn’t help it—I must approach him. I strode into the clearing and said, “Why, Mr. Stone, how nice to see you again.”
He looked up and warmth flooded his face. He stood awkwardly and bowed. “Miss Petheram! I confess I wondered if I might find you here since we’re both fond of this wild place. Would you care to take a seat on a rock? I’d pull one out for you, but they’re firmly rooted in the soil.”
I chose a boulder that suited my contours and held up the picnic basket. “You see, I’ve brought a luncheon. Will you join me? There’s plenty.”
“Yes, indeed. I had no breakfast and it must be”—he glanced at his pocket watch—“yes, it is, close to two o’clock.”
I spread a snowy cloth on a flat stone table and distributed the sandwiches, the pears, the sliced carrots, and the orange blossom cakes upon it. “I must thank you again for taking care of the—that task you did for me last week.”
“No need for thanks, Miss Petheram. I was glad to be of service.”
Alphonse had even included a flask of lemonade. “I’m afraid there’s only one cup,” I said.
“It’s no matter. I can fashion one from the leaf of a sarsaparilla. It adds a pleasant flavor to whatever one drinks from it.”
“In that case, would you make me one as well?”
As I reached for the cup he made, my hand shook a little. I wondered if Mr. Stone had any idea how shocking this would be considered by polite society—a gentleman and a lady who were not related dining together alone in an isolated spot. I doubted he thought of it. I hoped he wouldn’t. He was an unworldly man, and surely he, as I, sensed that we were a pair of innocents and that the world’s rules changed in the forest.
I told him about my family and my old home. “You would have liked my father. He was a quiet man, but he kept us laughing with his understated sense of the ridiculous. He was interested in every subject. He wasn’t successful in a worldly sense, but he was widely read. I’m sure he would have loved discussing religion and botany with you.”
“He sounds like a man after my own heart,” Mr. Stone said. “You were lucky to have such a father.”
I nodded and looked away.
“And what about your mother? Are you like her?”
“She died a few months after my birth, but supposedly I favor her in both appearance and personality. I wish I could have known her.” I looked down at my lap for a moment. At least I would see my brothers and sister soon. “It’s a shame you probably can’t meet my family when they’re here. We spent such agreeable times together; we didn’t socialize with many people outside the family, so we depended on each other.”
“I’ll hope that somehow I may yet make their acquaintance.”
Mr. Stone had a subtle charm of his own, not at all like my godfather’s. M. Bernard was overly conscious of his own charisma—he knew exactly what he was doing when he set out to enthrall. Mr. Stone didn’t scintillate like M. Bernard, but he listened to each word I uttered with interest. He stated his own opinions with firmness, but he still respected mine. He clearly stood for everything good, clean, and honest, which made him comforting to be around; I could speak freely and didn’t have to be on my guard. He would never, never be unscrupulous.
He told me about his own family. He was the youngest of five sons, the offspring of a planter in Virginia. “My childhood home is named Lauri Mundi. It’s a beautiful place. Not nearly on the scale of Wyndriven Abbey, of course—cozier,” he said with a smile, “but impressive still. My eldest brother and his family live there now with my parents. He’ll inherit it, but he assures us that we’ll always be welcome, that it will always be home. My other brothers have taken up professions in trade. Only I chose the Church.” He looked down at his large hands, which he had clasped together. “My father and brothers sometimes act as though they pity me, but I feel mine was a true calling. My mother understands. You’d like her. She is everything a mother should be. I’m entirely happy with my choice of profession.” He laughed then and added, “Except when Mrs. Wright and Mrs. Everly are feuding.”
“Mrs. Wright and Mrs. Everly?”
“Two ladies in the parish. They compete in every way. If I stay fifteen minutes longer at a luncheon with Mrs. Wright, Mrs. Everly is in a huff and will promptly invite me to dinner at her home and keep me there for hours and so forth.” He looked wistfully off into the trees. “Sometimes I don’t at all understand people.”
“Ah …” I could feel myself smiling mischievously. “I suspect it’s women you don’t understand. Do Mrs. Wright and Mrs. Everly have unmarried daughters?”
“Why, yes, they do.”
“Then that explains it.”
“Oh? Ohhhh …” He laughed a little and reddened.
We talked as if we’d known each other for years and spoke on every subject—flowers and birds, the people of his parish, rich and poor. I questioned him further on his opinion of the institution of slavery. Already I valued his judgments.
Mr. Stone nodded. “You might well wonder, since I’m a child of the South and my father is a planter. He knows my beliefs—that no man should have such power over others. In the Bible we’re urged to let the oppressed go free and to break every yoke. Our Constitution grants rights that all people, regardless of their race, should have. The day will come when all black people will be freed, I’m certain. I can only hope it will be without the shedding of much blood. I fear a terrible retribution may come upon the South because of the practice.” He had begun by speaking quietly, but as he continued, his voice gained an intensity that made it obvious he was passionate about the subject.
It had to be him. He had to be the preacher Peg Leg Joe mentioned. And then I remembered what Joe had said about recognizing the man—how the apostle Peter was a “rock.” Mr. Stone! Yes!
I hesitated only a second before asking a question to help me be certain. “I’ve sometimes heard the servants singing a song about a drinking gourd—do you know what they mean by the ‘gourd’?”
“A gourd to drink from, of course,” he said, not meeting my eye.
“No! Really. Like in the song. It’s something more.”
He rubbed his chin and looked so uncomfortable I almost wished I hadn’t asked. Me and my cat-killing curiosity. Oh dear, how could I have thought of that awful idiom? I shuddered.
Finally he said reluctantly, “They call the Big Dipper the drinking gourd.”
“Yes, it does look like one, doesn’t it? And how would you go about following it?”
“The North Star is in the constellation.” His voice was very low.
I wanted to subtly offer my aid, if only I had something to give. “I would help them follow their star if I could. Please know that.”
“Of course you would.”
“I’ve tried to make friends with some of the African servants, but it’s as if I can go only so far and then there’s a wall between us. They don’t trust me.”
“And why should they?”
“Because I’m me.”
“Well, they may actually like you, but their history in this country won’t allow them to place much faith in any white person.”
I sighed. “If I were queen of the world, I would change everything.”
“Everything? Surely you’d leave the orange blossom cakes as they are.” He took the last cake, broke it, and held out half to me.
“Well, yes,” I said, taking it. “Maybe the cakes … but only if there were enough for everyone everywhere.”
I didn’t eat my piece, however. Instead, I told Mr. Stone more about my life at the abbey, touching upon my godfather’s difficult moods. Mr. Stone was a man of God and people must often confide in him, so I didn’t feel I was being disloyal. “He is unused to ever having his will crossed. No one dare oppose him. Mrs. Duckworth, the housekeeper, told me once that her master would never desire that which was improper; they both consider that they can arbitrate what’s right simply because it’s what he wants.”
“A dangerous way to think,” Mr. Stone said. His tone and expression were grave. “Tread carefully, Miss Petheram.”
“Oh, I keep my wits about me,” I said blithely. “I’m all the time learning better how to deal with him.” I felt lighter simply from sharing my concerns. I stood and stretched, then wandered over to pick up the sketchbook Mr. Stone had left lying open. “May I?”
He nodded. “I’m putting together a book about plants in this area. Only for myself, of course. Other volumes on the subject have already been published with fine illustrations, but I enjoy creating my own.”
I glanced through the pages at beautifully drawn flowers, trees, details of leaves and grasses. “These are wonderful. You were sketching when I interrupted you. Would it bother you if I were to watch you take up your pencil again? So I could see how you go about drawing.”
Enthusiasm lit his face. “I’ve counted six different types of ferns in this glade alone. I’m working on these right now,” he said, pointing. “They’re Eastern Bracken. See how the small stems branch out from the center stem and how each stem has many leaves? That’s a decompound frond.”
“Decompound. It’s so delicate—like lace. I wonder if I could crochet ferns to adorn a skirt.”
I perched myself nearby and tried to sit absolutely still with my chin propped on my hands so I wouldn’t be a nuisance. However, after only a few minutes his eyes weren’t on his sketching pad; they were on me.
When he noticed that I noticed, he smiled. “I was just thinking that in this setting, in that gown, you look like a wildflower yourself. ‘Consider the lilies of the field.’ ”
I glanced down at my dress of lavender poplin with apple green ribbons appliquéd about the hem, and I beamed up at him. I was glad he compared me to a wildflower rather than a rose. Roses were so common. “That’s from the Bible, isn’t it? Not Shakespeare? ‘They toil not, neither do they spin.’ I’m not much of a scriptural scholar, but I remember that verse because it read like poetry.”
“A great many of the verses in the Bible read like poetry. I’ve tried to write psalms myself. King David is much better at it. The rest of that verse—it’s from Matthew six, by the way—says that ‘even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.’ Of course,” he added, with a significant grin, “the beginning of the verse instructs us to take no thought for our raiment.”
“There’s nothing wrong with pretty clothes,” I said as I smoothed out my skirt demurely, “as long as one doesn’t dwell upon one’s appearance constantly. But the rest of the scripture fits me well. I certainly toil not, although I asked Mrs. Duckworth for some tasks about the house, and the only one she set me was helping Daphne with the flower arranging, which Daphne resented. And neither do I spin—except for my bracelet, of course. I did more or less spin this.” I held out my hair bracelet, mostly so Mr. Stone would notice what a slender, dainty wrist I had.
He walked over to examine it more closely. “It’s an unusual piece of jewelry. Is it human hair?”
“It is. You’ll think me gruesome, but it’s strands from myself and from my godfather’s four wives.” I then told him about my investigations into my godfather’s past relationships. “And that day when I found their portraits and all their possessions—things they’d loved—consigned to the attic, it made me so sad that I wanted to bring a piece of them downstairs.” I laughed a little self-consciously. “When I speak like that, it sounds as if I meant to prop one of their limbs in the corner of the drawing room, doesn’t it? But I promise it was with positive thoughts toward the ladies that I spun the bracelet. I didn’t want all traces of them to disappear.”
Mr. Stone had been listening in attentive silence, a furrow between his brows, but now he said slowly, “De Cressac has been married four times?”
“Yes, he was divorced from the first; the other three are dead.”
“And you tell me they all had red hair?”
“Well, reddish. According to Mrs. Duckworth, he’s always been attracted to ladies with that coloring.”
“Miss Petheram, forgive me for asking, but am I right in assuming your siblings’ hair is of a different shade? He took no interest in them?”
“No. No, I’m the only redhead among us. But then, he’s my godfather and not theirs, so naturally he’d notice me rather than them. And he was fond of my mother and I resemble her.” By now I was feeling distinctly uncomfortable. He was voicing my earlier concerns, which I didn’t like to think about.
“My dear girl, thank heavens your family is coming soon. And by the way, you have very tiny wrists.”
He called me his dear girl. And he noticed my wrists.
Thunder had been rumbling for the last few minutes. Now a great crack boomed, making us start, and it was as if the bottom had been let out of the sky.
We both leaped to our feet.
“I must go!” I cried over the pounding rain. “Don’t worry—I’ll be fine.”
He reached out to me, but I didn’t realize it until I was already darting through the trees.
Odette had been wiser than I. She had worn a hooded cloak. I lowered my head and sloshed through the driving downpour. The moment we entered a side door, she muttered something and raced on ahead, presumably to prepare a bath and dry clothing. I followed behind, wringing out my hair and shivering.
That night at supper only George served us. It didn’t seem right, with only half the bookends. I missed Charles and longed to ask where he was, but I didn’t dare.
However, something happened at that meal that made me think perhaps I had another friend in the household.
“You are tense, chérie,” M. Bernard said. “Have you had a stressful day? It rained, as I told you it would. Don’t tell me it caught you unprepared.”
“No, sir,” I said, happy that I’d shaken out and dried my hair. “I lost track of the time, though, and had to hurry to dress. Perhaps that’s why I seem stiff.”
He put down his fork on his plateful of eels, rose, and stood behind me. He lifted my hair, bundling it in one hand, and with the other began to massage my back above my dropped-shoulder collar of Chantilly lace. This, of course, made me even more tense. “Ling tells me you did not go on your picnic today,” he said.
Before I could act surprised, I saw Ling, from across the room, almost imperceptibly shake his head.
I had learned something of Ling during my four months at Wyndriven Abbey. Once I wouldn’t have caught his gesture, let alone deciphered it quickly enough to act upon it. Now I said without pause, “As you pointed out, the weather appeared threatening.” For some reason Ling thought it best my godfather not know I had been in the forest that day.
“Then perhaps, since you are fond of picnics, you will not object to dining with me alfresco at luncheon tomorrow. In the orchard, I think.”
“I’d like that.” I managed a smile and an upward glance, then added: “I can’t wait! I don’t see enough of you.”
He drew one finger across my upper back, raising goose bumps, and once again sat down to his eels.
Thank heavens for Ling. I only hoped no other of my godfather’s henchmen had seen me outside, revealing the lie.
I caught Talitha in the hall on my way up to bed.
“I missed Charles at supper,” I said. “Is he ill?”
She looked furtively around. “No, Miss Sophia. He ain’t sick. He been sent away. He—he made the master mad, so he sent Charles out to the cotton fields.”
My stomach turned over. Charles’s only fault had been kindness to me.
Talitha continued to stand before me, some great emotion working in her beautiful features. Finally she spoke, low and fierce. “I told him and told him he acted too friendly with you. But he say, ‘Oh, the poor girl don’t got nobody. Oh, the poor girl need someone be nice to her.’ Well, you see what being nice to you done to him?”
