Strands of Bronze and Gold, page 2
My godfather ceased whatever he was saying in midsentence. “I see you are admiring this room, Sophia. It is called the Heaven chamber. An apt name, is it not?”
“It’s glorious. Quite breathtaking, although …”
“Although what? In what way does my Heaven room displease you? I will have it changed immediately to be more to your taste.”
I blushed. “It’s only—oh, I’m so silly—it’s only that I wish more of the bodies were clothed.”
Both my godfather and his housekeeper burst into peals of laughter.
“And I had so hoped to impress you with my lovely room. Foolish me. So you do not like all the rolls of rosy, naked flesh?” M. de Cressac pinched my chin. “Ah, mon ange, you are a delightful innocent. Would you have me paint a top hat and frock coat on Zeus? A dowager’s shawl and bonnet on Hera?”
I made myself join in with a weak giggle. “Perhaps a riding habit on Diana?”
“Yes! Yes!” M. de Cressac slapped his thigh. Soon I was really laughing. Everything was more comfortable once we had laughed together.
My godfather flung open the doors to my bedroom. I could feel his eyes on my face, gauging my reaction. I entered the room, prepared to appear delighted. There was no need for pretense. Obviously I was not to be treated as a pitiful, unwanted relation. I turned to M. de Cressac and tried to say the words “Thank you,” but no sound came out.
He nodded, smiling. He understood.
A world of underwater fantasy stretched before us. The bed, shaped like a gigantic opalescent seashell, was raised on a dais and swathed in a velvet coverlet the color of sea foam. Curtains of filmy green-blue, shot through with silver, hung about it, as well as mosquito netting that could be held down by posts in the footboard. The floor was of mottled blue marble, polished and slick as glass, while white-paneled walls held niches showcasing statues of dolphins and sea gods. Above the mantel, which was held up by alabaster mermaids, soared an undersea mosaic featuring starfish and seaweed done all in luminous blue, gray, and lavender mother-of-pearl, and in front of the fireplace squatted a massive round ottoman upholstered in crushed white velvet, tufted with pearls.
I had always craved luxury, so this room was a delight, although my Puritan ancestors might well be turning over in their graves. I dashed from one beautiful item to another. I could scarcely believe I was now the proud owner of a dressing table stocked with a marble-backed hand mirror, combs, and brushes, as well as a glittering array of faceted crystal bottles and jars and pots of ointments and powders and perfumes. What would my brother Harry think if he saw me using these artifices? He used to tease that I was vain because he caught me gazing at myself in the mirror once. Perhaps he was right—certainly it was lovely to be young and fortunate and have my godfather say I resembled my mother, who had been a “beauty.”
M. de Cressac might have been reading my mind because he said suddenly, “You favor your mother in more ways than hair and features. Your voice, the way you move, even your expression—as if you are thinking delightful, secret thoughts. I once called her mon rayon de soleil—a ray of sunshine.”
“How well did you know her?”
“Not as well as I wished.”
“Won’t you tell me more about her? No one would ever answer my questions satisfactorily.”
“Someday. When I am in the mood.”
I lifted a pearl-handled pen shaped like a feather from the dainty lady’s desk. Every consideration had been prepared. “You’re too good, sir!” I cried. He was, indeed, too good, and I intended to enjoy every bit of it.
He beamed down from his imposing height. “Allow me to be generous. I have lived too long without my … goddaughter.” He hesitated over the last word, lightly brushing a stray wisp of hair from my cheek. “Mrs. Duckworth will show you your powder closet and the wardrobes, which are stocked with a few ready-made frocks to make do until Madame Duclos can supply you with new ones.”
“Surely I have enough for right now.” I felt I should protest at least a little. “After all, I’m in mourning still for my father.”
“Ah, that is where I hope you will humor me.” He clasped his hands together beneath his chin. “Your father was a good friend to me. You know he was my attorney when I was in great trouble, and I mourn his death. However, I cannot bear to see you always drooping in black like a sad little starling. Will you not oblige me by coming out of mourning now? No one here will judge us for our breach of etiquette. You can honor your father in other ways. You must remember the happy times and tell me of them.”
“I suppose I can do that,” I said doubtfully. If only my sister, Anne, were here to help me know if it were right. Or my eldest brother, Junius, who felt it his duty to instruct everyone in proper manners. I didn’t wish to be disrespectful to our father’s memory, but then again, M. de Cressac now stood in my father’s place, and surely what he’d asked, while not customary, was not actually inappropriate.
“Of course you can.” He nodded encouragement. “You will join me for supper in the banquet hall in forty-five minutes.” He strode from the room.
Mrs. Duckworth puffed and wheezed over to the paneling beside the fireplace and pressed a cunningly hidden spring. The panel whispered open, revealing an alcove lined with tall wardrobes. In the center stood a hip bath, shaped like a great shell. I should be Venus emerging from the sea on her half shell when I stood in it.
Suddenly exhaustion washed over me like a tidal wave. I yearned to take a bath right now and then go straight to bed. But I mustn’t be unsociable on my first evening.
The housekeeper was sympathetic. “It’s all a great deal to take in, isn’t it? I tried to tell the master you might like a light supper in your room and then bed, but he would have none of it. You never can tell him anything when he’s excited about something. Many’s the time when he was small, I reminded him, ‘Now, Master Bernard, waited-for pleasures are all the more precious for the waiting,’ but he never would listen.”
“You were here with M. de Cressac when he was a child?”
“Not here. But yes. I was his nurse over in France. My father had been in the wars with Napoleon, and Mother and I followed him about, first to Portugal and then to Southern France, where the de Cressacs hired me. They wanted an English nurse, you see, so Master Bernard would grow up speaking both French and English.”
How odd to think of this comfortable, simple woman, who seemed as if she should like nothing better than a cozy English cottage fireside, traipsing about in foreign places.
“His English is perfect,” I commented.
“Yes, indeed. I took such pains with him. And we were that fond of each other that he kept me on as housekeeper in his French estate, and when he brought Wyndriven Abbey over—oh, the crazy ways of the very rich!—he insisted I come along. Ling and Achal, the master’s valet, and Alphonse, the cook, are the only other staff who have been with the master since France. Mr. Bass, the agent, came to him soon after. He’s a Southerner. All the rest of the servants were purchased here.”
I winced at the word “purchased,” but she didn’t notice. An ornate little sofa stood at an angle near the bath. I lowered myself to it now and touched the seat beside me. “Won’t you sit for a minute and tell me more about everything? I’ve waited so long to come here, and you must know all about my godfather and this place.”
Mrs. Duckworth needed no further urging. She settled herself down comfortably and continued. “Of course, I’m not familiar with the workers on the master’s plantation. Wyndriven Plantation, it’s called. ’Tis on the other side of Chicataw, and we haven’t much to do with them.”
“Master Bernard must have been a wonderful little boy for you to be so attached to him.”
There followed a long description of Mrs. Duckworth’s affection for, and the wonders of, dear young Master Bernard, of his French home, his seat on a pony, and his skills at fencing.
I mused that she must have loved the little boy as my family loved me. I had been spoiled too, perhaps—not materially, except for my godfather’s gifts, but with an abundance of affection and attention partly because everyone wanted to make up for the fact that I never knew my mother.
Mrs. Duckworth was about to launch into a description of Master Bernard’s father’s seat on his horse and his accomplishments when she stopped in midsentence. “Goodness me, we’d better hurry, hadn’t we? The master said forty-five minutes, and it must be nearly that now. We don’t want him waiting.”
I wished she hadn’t stopped. I loved knowing things.
Mrs. Duckworth threw back the doors of one of the wardrobes. I had only a moment to gain an impression of a rainbow of dresses hanging inside before she pulled out one of muted rose plaid taffeta, trimmed with strips of black velvet.
“Either I or one of the housemaids will help you dress,” she said, “until your French maid arrives.”
“Oh, please. I can dress myself.” In spite of my long-held belief that I was destined for luxury, it was still hard to change the habits of my lifetime.
“Dress yourself? What would Master Bernard say to that? And who would tighten your laces and button you in the back? And style your hair and look after your frocks and hose and jewelry and bags and fans? No, indeed. You’ll have your maid, and someone else will help till then. She was to have been here by now, but there were complications bringing her over from France.”
“Well, if I must have a lady’s maid, can’t I use one of the housemaids? You see, I speak little French, and an English speaker would be more comfortable for me.”
“As to that, you may talk to the master, but he has strong opinions about things, and I doubt it would do you any good.”
I held on to the bedpost while she pulled my laces tight. I didn’t protest as I would have with Anne. Mrs. Duckworth secured my hoops and slipped the dress over my head. It was nearly sleeveless, with the merest wisp of ruffle over my shoulders, and a far lower décolletage than I had ever before worn. Of course, in high society, evening frocks were more formal than at home, and I’d grow accustomed to the top of my bosom showing and not feel so exposed, but thank goodness Harry and Junius weren’t here to see. I had to admit, though, that I looked stylish and pretty.
Mrs. Duckworth opened a drawer filled with confections such as silk stockings and handkerchiefs, lacy gloves and mitts, and drew out a pair of hose. As she lowered herself painfully to her knees to help me draw them on, I touched her shoulder. “It’s kind of you to help like this. And to prepare this lovely room. Was it all done over just for me?”
She looked quickly down to the stocking in her hand, but not before a shadow passed over her face. For a moment she didn’t answer. Then, “The rooms were actually decorated eleven years ago by Master’s wife—Madame Tatiana. She had lovely taste, but she died soon after the rooms were complete.”
“I’m so sorry. Monsieur de Cressac never mentioned her death in any of his letters.”
“No, well, he wouldn’t have, would he, plunged in grief as he was? The master hasn’t had luck with marriage. Madame Tatiana was a sweet girl, and my favorite. Russian, you know, and spoke little English, but genteel in her own foreign way. She died in childbirth and the baby went too.”
My father must have been mistaken about Madame de Cressac being French. “I’m so sorry,” I said again.
I stepped into satin slippers, pulled on black lace mitts, and Mrs. Duckworth led me down the winding corridors and great staircase to the echoing banquet hall.
M. de Cressac sat in a thronelike chair at the end of the refectory table, and as I entered the banquet hall, I was struck again by how good-looking he was. He waved his hand toward a seat just around the corner from him. We huddled alone together at the end of what seemed a highly polished, mile-long surface.
He gestured upward to the ceiling, two stories high. “Perhaps these walls and ceiling will be more to your liking than the so lewd ones in the Heaven chamber.”
Heat rushed to my cheeks at the reminder of my faux pas. “Sir, forgive me for being silly. It’s a beautiful room. Pray, don’t—”
“No, no. Do not apologize. I am wicked to tease you. But look. Look up.”
I leaned my head back and squinted. The walls were covered with tapestries—hunters and knights and court scenes. Above them, the stone of the ceiling appeared blackened and sooty and the massive beams charred. I wasn’t sure what he wanted me to observe. “Was there … a fire here?”
“Three hundred years ago. And you can still see the effects. This is part of the original abbey. It suffered from the great monastic plunder of the sixteenth century—the abbot was so incautious as to make an unflattering remark about Anne Boleyn, and the abbey was torched. Luckily most of it was stone, so it survived. Do you see why I wanted it brought here? This country has no history. I wanted a house with history in a land where people are allowed to be who they are, without having to bow down to centuries of tradition. A delightful paradox. This new world is the perfect place.”
I did not mention that I would have scrubbed the soot from the ceiling stones while they were handily down and dismantled, nor that for his slaves the new world was not at all a perfect place. “The tapestries are lovely. I admire fine needlework. Embroidery is a favorite pastime of mine.” I twisted my ring around my finger. It was of chased silver and had once adorned my mother’s hand. “Perhaps I could stitch you a tapestry someday? A small one, of course,” I said shyly.
His attractive smile lit his face. “I am touched. I should like that of all things. It pleases me that you are a young lady of such accomplishments.”
Above us was suspended a great fan attached to a rope. A small black boy pulled on the rope, causing the air to waft downward. Another boy shooed insects away from the table by means of a stick tied with flapping strips of rags. I smiled at them, but they took their jobs seriously and ignored me.
The two footmen now stood on either side of a vast fireplace. I was told their names were Charles and George. My lips twitched, although I managed not to laugh, because, as they flanked the mantel, they appeared to be bookends. Both were the same height, which was easily over six feet, had the same livery, the same coffee-colored skin, and both stared forward, expressionless, in between serving the different courses.
They offered onion soup, followed by fish; tripe with white sauce; roast suckling pig; white asparagus; game hens with sweet sauce; mutton chops; cold baked ham; a calf’s head, boiled and grilled, with the brains mashed inside; and spiced pears in brandy.
Each course was accompanied by its particular spirits, served by Ling—sherry with the soup, Chablis with the fish, claret with the chops. I did not care to drink, as it was not my family’s custom. Also, this place was too dreamlike and M. de Cressac confused me too much to risk addling my wits with alcohol. He and his surroundings were far outside my experience, but then, so was most everything in the world if one didn’t count the places I had gone and the people I had known through books and daydreams.
I nibbled a bit of this and that and pushed food around on my plate to make it appear as if I had eaten more. Not only had I always been a picky eater, but also I feared that in this great, echoing hall my chewing would be too loud.
Evidently M. de Cressac noticed my food-shuffling. “You must be exhausted, but do try one thing,” he said. “For my sake. The tripe. It is a great favorite of mine.”
He laughed when I wrinkled my nose.
“The problem, you see,” he said, drawing conspiratorially closer, “is that my chef, Alphonse, who, I assure you, is an artiste, will be offended if you do not sample his way with the sauce. He might end up prostrate on his bed, unable to cook tomorrow, and that would be a tragedy of mammoth proportions.”
When he leaned so close, I feared he could see down my gown. I put my hand over my chest. He didn’t appear to notice. Or—was his not looking a bit deliberate?
Hurriedly I said, “All right, I’ll try it. A tiny bit.”
He nodded to Charles, the younger footman who had grinned at me upon my arrival this afternoon, and Charles served up a sympathetic dab.
Somehow I managed to swallow some of the rubbery gray stuff without chewing. It made me cough, so my godfather offered a sip of wine, which made me choke all the more.
Once recovered from my coughing fit, to distract him from the fact that I still was hardly eating, I commented on the novelty of the foods. “We have just one servant who does most of the cooking. Bridget would be amazed how even the ham is served so beautifully, with fancy little parsley wings, as if it will fly off any moment. And so much I’ve never seen before. Where does it all come from?”
“Shipped from all across the world. I am so happy to be the one to introduce you to these delights. Now,” he said, holding up his fork, “has Mrs. Duckworth already regaled you with tales of my youthful escapades?”
“Not escapades, precisely. More how perfect you were in every way.”
“Dear old Ducky. When I was small, she saved me from a great deal of well-deserved punishment. I was too spirited for my own good, but, perhaps wrongly, she could not bear that I should ever be disciplined.”
“She does believe you hung the moon.” I toyed with a bit of mutton, cutting it into tiny pieces, eating a little, and scattering the rest.
In a flash my godfather made a quick move and tossed me a lustrous green, heart-shaped fruit from an immense silver compote. Somehow I caught it.
“That is soursop,” he said. “I developed a taste for it in Africa, and my chief gardener has grown a productive tree here in the orangery. I built the orangery because I desire my flowers and fruits year-round. Perhaps you will like the soursop, even if you do not care for the rest of my food.” His smile took away any sting there might have been in his remark.
I clutched at the napkin in my lap. “It’s all wonderful, sir. Really it is, and a feast fit for royalty. But the fact is, I don’t eat a great deal of heavy food. I’m sorry.”
