Strands of Bronze and Gold, page 22
We sang “As I Sat on a Sunny Bank” and “God Rest You Merry, Gentlemen” and “The Holly and the Ivy.” Then Bernard taught us French carols while the glowing tree made the room mysterious and magical. When we sang in French, from the corner of my eye, I spotted a flicker of sapphire flitting in the shadows. I realized then that even if I talked to Adele, she wouldn’t understand, since she spoke no English. I wondered: In her life with Bernard, did she also find brief happiness in little things?
I tried to imagine I was in love with Bernard. If I could make believe well enough to convince myself, everything would be easier. He continued to go out of his way to help my siblings enjoy their stay. I was aware, and grateful, that he neglected his work for them. Once the Christmas decorating was done, he and my brothers spent the daylight hours hunting and fishing while Anne and I painted china or trimmed bonnets or stitched our needlework or simply chatted companionably. At other times we would all ride out on horseback or picnic or take in local sights. In the evenings we played cards or charades or music.
When we were with my family, Bernard was affability itself. Still, there was a humming tenseness in the atmosphere.
At suppertime one evening I paused before entering the banquet hall. Only Bernard was seated at the table. Could I scuttle back up to my room until someone else came down?
He saw me.
“Ah, there you are,” he said, rising and coming toward me. Then he noticed my gown. “Why are you always wearing these things nowadays?”
“What things?” I asked, trying to move around him to my chair.
“These dresses that make you resemble one of your Puritan ancestors. High collars. Sleeves down to your wrists. Past your wrists actually,” he added dryly, since the ruffles of my cuffs trailed gracefully down. “Is it your family’s presence that makes you so prudish?”
“It’s cold,” I said, fidgeting with the lace fichu that rose high on my neck. “It’s wintertime, even if it is Mississippi.”
He chuckled low in his throat. “Well, your modesty makes you an enticing little Puritan. The more you cover up …”
He reached down and slowly, deliberately pulled off my fichu, with a look from narrow, laughing eyes that said, What are you going to do about it? Then he proceeded to unbutton my top button.
My hand flew up to his. “Bernard, the servants—and my family—”
George and Ling stood impassive against the wall, but they were stiffly aware of our interaction.
“Oui. All the more exciting.” He dipped his fingers in his wineglass, spread dripping purple liquid across my chest, and bent his head to lick and suck it off.
I trembled all over and endured for a moment. What to do?
Swiftly I ducked low and drew away, frantically buttoning and retying. I babbled, “For me, the anticipation of our marriage is what makes it so exciting.”
He growled, but he didn’t grab me back, as I had expected. “You’ll push me too far, Sophia. You are fortunate I have been a patient man.”
Always I was called fortunate. I tried to look up at him adoringly. “And I’m so grateful and it makes me care for you all the more that you respect my honor.”
He turned on his heels and strode to the doorway, not waiting for George, who was striding over to open it. He flung the door wide and slammed it behind him, so that the china and crystal on the table shuddered.
When my family finally came, I did more babbling, trying to ignore my sticky bosom and wondering how long I could hold off Bernard. Most of the time my imagination wasn’t strong enough to prevent the distaste I felt for his caresses. Distaste edged with uneasiness and—yes—fear.
That night I attempted to lodge a chair under my doorknob. It was too short. The others in my room were too tall. It didn’t matter. A chair wouldn’t stop my fiancé any more than a lock would, if he wanted to enter my bedchamber.
Less than a week before the ball, Bernard suggested we perform tableaux vivants, and we took up the idea with enthusiasm. Scenes from literature or history or paintings were re-created in drawing rooms with great detail. We had heard of such pleasures but had never before participated in them.
All that day we dashed about, preparing our tableaux. Chests and wardrobes throughout the house were robbed for costumes and props. Bernard and I were to perform a scene copied from a painting in which I portrayed Salome and he portrayed John the Baptist’s head on a platter.
For the performance I wore a garland on my streaming hair, with a crimson robe covering my gown. We placed two tables close together and draped them with a cloth in which Bernard cut a hole so his head could loll to one side, seemingly without a body attached. He looked terribly gruesome, and I told him so. This pleased him.
He took his part seriously, so the evening began badly when Harry burst into laughter at first sight of our scene. I hushed my brother and pacified Bernard, but this boded ill for what might come next.
However, Bernard appeared to be restored to humor as he freely helped himself to brandy. While Anne and I prepared behind a curtain for our tableau, he called out, “May I propose the scene ‘Nymphs Bathing.’ I should enjoy that immensely.”
I covered my face with my hands as I thought of Junius’s and Harry’s embarrassment at the suggestion of their sisters posing nude. I was somewhat used to Bernard’s indelicate ways, but my siblings were not. Anne blushed and patted my hand. She understood.
Anne’s and my depiction was to be Marie Antoinette and her lady-in-waiting riding a tumbrel to their execution. Anne had procured two gowns from somewhere that she supposed were similar to clothing of that period. Mine was striped in leaf green and gold with a lace scarf, while Anne’s was azure. We placed ourselves in our tumbrel made from a table turned on its side with paper wheels and called for Harry to draw the draperies. The curtain opened with a whisper.
For a moment no one said a word. Then Harry asked loudly, “Now, who are you supposed to be?”
“Can’t you tell, foolish boy?” Anne said, stung out of character. “We’re Marie Antoinette and her lady-in-waiting, of course.”
I said nothing because I saw Bernard’s face. First it went red, then blanched, and his eyes bulged. I broke out in a cold sweat. What was happening? What had I done now?
“Where—where did you get those gowns?” he gasped at last.
“Why, from the attic,” Anne said. “From trunks in the attic.”
And then I knew. She had filched them from one of the brides’ trunks. The dresses hadn’t seemed familiar—I had rummaged through so many that long-ago day—but I, at least, with my vivid hair, must look remarkably like one of those women.
Bernard gave a terrible, wordless cry, dropped the goblet he held so it shattered and splattered, then staggered from the room.
I cursed myself that I hadn’t realized what we were wearing. Now that I looked at the gowns closer, they likely had been Victoire’s.
“What just happened?” Junius asked.
I shook my head. How could I begin to explain what a mistake poor Anne and I had made? “He—these dresses belonged to one of Bernard’s wives. I didn’t know, but I should have known. I’m so sorry.”
“Well,” said Harry, “does this mean I don’t have to portray Paul Revere announcing the arrival of the British?”
We all laughed nervously, but I racked my brain to think how I could soothe my fiancé. Now he knew that all his wives’ possessions hadn’t been burned. What would the repercussions be? Was poor Ducky in trouble?
I searched in vain for Bernard. He must have left the house.
It was late, as I sat at my dressing table, when Anne came in to me.
“Sophie, I’m worried about you.” She seated herself in a chair next to mine.
“Why in particular?” I asked. There were myriads of things that were worrisome about me.
“You seem so—oh, I would call it edgy, these days. You start at every sound, you flinch, you give sideways glances as if you expect something to spring out at you. I know now that Monsieur de Cressac can be difficult to deal with; it’s him that makes you so apprehensive, isn’t it?”
I hesitated. I could make excuses—I had not been feeling well, some such flimflam—but instead decided to speak the truth. “Yes. Bernard’s temperament does make me tense. I never, never know what will trigger an explosion. Even when he’s happy, I worry about when he’ll be angry next. Always treading carefully wears on me. It goes against my nature.”
Anne’s eyes brimmed with compassion. She didn’t speak for a moment, looking down at her hands. “He seemed the answer to all our problems. I thought you’d soon learn to love him. Many wives suffer from volatile husbands, but the men never actually strike them.… You don’t think he would, do you? I mean, if you are truly afraid, we’ll take you away with us. We’ll figure another way out of our troubles.”
“No,” I said. It was more now than Harry’s debt. There was no doubt at this point that if I cried off from our engagement, Bernard would seek revenge. He had all the resources of great wealth and ruthlessness at his disposal. “No, it’s the right thing to do. Once it’s done, everything will be better. Just you wait—I’ll pick you out some dashing Southern gentleman for your sweetheart.”
My sister put her arm around my waist and smiled weakly.
My skirt shifted as something—someone—invisible edged by. For just a moment I considered telling Anne of the other reason I was jittery: my phantom Sisters, who haunted Wyndriven Abbey. The manifestations were occurring more and more frequently. At times an arctic touch, so soft, brushed past. The warbling murmur of voices often sounded, too muffled to grasp. I glimpsed the Sisters again and again. At other times I simply felt their presence—some great emotion hanging quavering in the atmosphere. They were disturbing but not threatening. It was not the dead I feared.
Anne would think me mad.
She rose to leave, and her expression was infinitely sad. “I would willingly take this burden from you if I could. I’ve never felt true love, so in marrying Monsieur de Cressac, I would feel no lack.”
I gave a choking little laugh. “Unfortunately your lovely tresses are the wrong shade.”
The next morning Bernard slumped on a bench in the frosty garden, head in hands. The lawns were now dun-colored, and no flowers bloomed, but the cedars and magnolias and boxwood topiaries shone green.
I touched his shoulder and he raised his head. He had not changed clothes since our ill-fated tableaux vivants. He was pale, with sunken and bloodshot eyes.
“It was the dresses,” he said. “They were supposed to be destroyed.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I said wearily. “You don’t need to explain.”
Then, as if I hadn’t spoken, he continued, “She’s gone—she betrayed me with another man and deserted me, but there she was. It was you, of course, but it was her face I saw above the dress.” He put his hand to his forehead and stood, swaying on his feet, disoriented. He leaned against a balustrade.
“I understand,” I said. “It must have been a terrible shock.”
He stared at me now without speaking. His expression was one I had never before seen him wear—wounded and bewildered. I had expected anger. I had expected recriminations. Not this.
I lowered myself to the cold marble bench and pulled him down beside me. He lay his head in my lap, and I carefully touched his hair. “There now,” I said softly. “I’m so sorry it happened, but it’s only me here.”
He stiffened and his hand clamped down on mine.
The bon vivant. The beast. The hurt child. Who was the true Bernard? I supposed he was all of them.
We were all relieved that the weather was perfect the days before the ball and that the morning of the great event dawned cold and clear, with the slightest of bracing breezes. A winter deluge could have spoiled everything, making the roads impassable.
Profusions of flowers were brought in from the orangery for lastminute embellishing. Anne and I tucked creamy camellias and roses and lilies like stars among the dark green garlands, and we helped Daphne fashion bouquets of the more exotic blooms in a hundred vases. We cut tendrils of ivy to loop and trail gracefully in our arrangements. Each polished surface glistened. Torches were placed, still unlit, along the drive all the way from the edge of the woods. Wyndriven Abbey was in its glory.
As early dusk approached, a wealth of candelabras and lamps were lit in the public rooms to banish the wintry gloom that lurked in every nook and cranny. I understood the pagans who celebrated the winter solstice with light. There never could be enough light in the abbey.
All was done, but no one could relax, not with the anticipation in the air. We perched ourselves on the edges of chairs while we waited for the time to go upstairs to dress. The rest of us made small talk, but Bernard’s conversation was expansive. When at last the musicians arrived and began setting up, we scattered to begin our toilette.
Odette filled the bath, and I used a new cake of Parisian perfumed soap. Mme. Duclos knocked at the door. She came to assist me into her newest creation—the ball dress of my own design. Odette helped me slip into my most delicate cotton batiste undergarments, fastened my hoop, laced me tightly, and then she and Madame lifted the gown over my head.
I gazed at myself in the tall mirror. My skirt had tiers of fine white lawn with long streamers down the back. The bodice had a deep V-front waist and short capped sleeves. It was trimmed with purple silk taffeta ribbons and embroidered white-on-white lace. I wore a necklace of pearls at my throat, and Bernard had sent violets for my hair.
I looked well enough, but this no longer pleased me as it once would have. There was no longer room in me for my old vanity. If I had been homely, whatever the shade of my hair, I doubted I would be engaged to Bernard right now. I also looked young. This was a girl’s dress. I could never wear such a frock again after marriage.
Anne entered. Her gown was cut velvet ivory silk, with a pointed waist and pagoda sleeves. For her hair Bernard had sent roses. So thoughtful.
We admired each other. My sister tweaked my tresses, and I gave her a cameo locket to rest on her throat. We then watched out the window, awaiting the first guests’ arrival. Twilight fell. A great white marble moon hung low. The torches had been lit. Twinkling pinpoints of light that were carriage lamps began to stream in from the woods. Buggies and saddle horses and coaches filled the drive. We opened the casement so the sounds could reach us—horses’ hooves, the crunch of wheels on gravel, the rise and fall of voices, laughter. Toby and Tater Bug and Reuben led horses toward the stable, where they would be hitched to posts and cared for by grooms.
Anne took my hand and squeezed it. “Will your friend Mr. Stone be here tonight?” Her tone was grave. “How will you manage if you see him? Have you considered that?”
“Of course,” I said quietly, “it’s all I’ve thought about.” At sight of my sister’s face, however, I gave a quick laugh. “No, that’s not true.” I twirled my spreading skirts. “I’ve also given a few thoughts to my dress. Probably he’s not invited—Bernard doesn’t think much of preachers—but if he does come, he’s a gentleman and I’m a lady. We’ll greet each other politely.”
The first guests alighted, and it was finally time to go downstairs. Odette wreathed a cloud of silvery tulle about my shoulders, and Anne and I descended in a ripple of silk and lawn and the perfume of violets and roses.
Bernard stood beside the massive entry doors, very tall and very elegant in his evening clothes. “I am so pleased to meet you,” he was saying as he shook a gentleman’s hand. “My travels have not permitted me to be neighborly in the past, but I am happy to make your acquaintance now. And so it is you who owns the plantation house with the fine cupola that is visible from the road?” And again and again he found just the right thing to say as he greeted guests. It came easily to him when he chose.
I did not join him. I didn’t know how Bernard would have introduced me. The grand announcement of our engagement would be made later in the evening. Although these people were the neighbors I had been longing to meet, shyness suddenly gripped me. What could I possibly say to them, these strangers? I clung to Anne and Harry and Junius.
White-turbaned maids took wraps, and the guests began to spread like water throughout the first floor.
I heard comments. “He brought it all the way over from England”—from a dark girl in flame-colored chiffon. “What a staircase! I must have one like it in my house”—from a gentleman with bushy side-whiskers. “I’ve heard tell his wife killed herself in one of these rooms”—very low from a woman with a high-bridged nose and badly applied rouge. “He makes his money by …” “His morals are questionable …” “No children, no heirs …” “Dang good wine, though.” The gossip flowed like the drink. Ducky had been correct in thinking the curious would pour into Wyndriven Abbey this night.
Shifting masses of people surged from room to room, the ladies graceful in their wide hoopskirts. Their dresses lit by candlelight seemed to glow from within. Inconvenient though the style was, they did make for beautiful silhouettes. I took quiet pleasure in realizing there was no dress I liked so well as my own.
The furniture had been removed from the banquet hall to make room. When the first strains of music sounded, people poured into the hall. Bernard claimed me. He kissed my hand and said, “How beautiful you are. Je t’adore.” After that he said nothing as we galloped down the floor in a reel.
I had expected him to monopolize me for most of the evening, but he instead escorted me back to the edge of the dance floor after the first dance. He bowed and led lady after lady out for waltzes and polkas, schottisches and reels. He leaned into them, smiling, in the flattering way that assured them they were beautiful and charming. And some of them looked to be beautiful and charming indeed, with their spangles and jewels, their sleek chignons or springing ringlets, their spreading gowns of silk and lace and taffeta.
I danced a good many dances myself, as did my siblings. Our swirls around the drawing room back home in Boston had prepared us for this. My pearl earbobs bounced and my beaded dancing slippers tripped lightly. I overcame my shyness and talked to the gentlemen who partnered me. In musical Southern accents they teased me about being a Yankee and asked questions about how I found life here, to which I responded with animation. I told the truth that I thought Mississippi beautiful.
