Strands of Bronze and Gold, page 26
In his arrogance he hadn’t troubled to hide the bodies. Maybe he came here sometimes for little visits.
The Mississippi heat and insects had left no flesh on the bones except a few dried scraps. Some hair clung to skulls—on four of them a reddish shade. Hollow, sightless eyes stared, teeth grimaced. If I looked closer, one tooth would be missing from each. I did not look closer. The clothing fared better than the flesh. Stained and discolored gowns that were once shades of sea foam and emerald, sapphire and primrose, told me which skeleton was which.
Tatiana lay stretched out on the pew, her child in her arms. The babe had mummified, parchment-dry skin stretched over bones. Perhaps it had been born dead, setting off Bernard’s maniacal rage. Tara and Adele lay piled together near her, as if their bodies had simply been dumped on the littered stone floor. They had died elsewhere and been brought here.
Something dark and leggy skittered beneath the skeleton slumped against the wall. This was the man, clothed in a blotchy buff frock coat with a dark waistcoat. Mr. Gregg. Victoire and the maid in her gray dress lay behind the altar, as if they had sought protection there. A black and oily-looking liquid—blood?—had dried in a puddle around these three bodies. The trio had been left where they had fallen. Bernard had somehow lured them to the chapel and killed them there.
He would have used his sword stick. A gun would have been too loud and too crass for Bernard.
I wanted to claw out my eyes, and yet I could not stop staring.
I have seen it, I have seen it, now let me leave.
The light had changed. A shadow blocked the opening. In the crack was Garvey’s face wreathed in a grin.
I gave a shrill scream and lunged toward the door as it swung shut. Too late. Too late.
I had made a deadly mistake; I had left the key in the lock.
I beat at the door until my fists bled, then clawed at the corners until my fingernails tore off. I screamed until my throat closed. Then I listened. No sound entered from outside. Garvey was long gone, and he would allow no one within hearing distance.
Get out of here before Bernard returns.
As I struggled back to sanity, sick and shaking and driven by a quieter terror, I searched for a way out. The once-lovely stained-glass windows were shattered low down but intact higher up. Gouges and scratches marred the stout, firmly nailed boards behind the windows.
“Did you and Mr. Gregg do that, Victoire?”
Now I was talking to corpses.
The trio—Victoire, her maid, and Mr. Gregg—had spent a nightmarish time shut in here before finally being slain by Bernard. The bloodstained slashes in their clothing revealed they had been stabbed.
The three of them—one a strong man—hadn’t been able to escape; how should I?
I am going to die.
I snatched up a shard of window glass, wrapped my shawl around it, and jabbed at the hinges of the solid door, but without result.
The twenty-foot ceiling, soaring impossibly out of reach, was stained yellow and black from leaks. Light beams streamed now from the collapsed part of the roof, and a twiggy nest clung to gaping rafters. My boots crunched on the crumbled plaster and shattered glass that littered the floor along with bird and mouse droppings. A few small human bones had been scattered by creatures. I skirted around them.
At the edge of a mound of fallen plaster and slates and rotten wood was a different sort of object. I picked it up and shook the dust from it. A low-heeled lady’s shoe of green morocco. The leather had shriveled and cracked from exposure to the elements. Its mate still graced the foot of Victoire’s skeleton. An animal had dragged this one here, unless she had cast it off in some mad scramble for her life. I placed it beside its mate.
I would die a lingering death of thirst and starvation.
No. I shook my head slowly in a low arc. That wasn’t Bernard’s way. He would prefer to pierce my heart with his sword.
A sniveling, whimpering, pleading creature would not move Bernard in a final confrontation. What would? Reminders of my humanity? Of his? Of his former fondness for me?
Thinking like him was impossible. He was mad. His madness encompassed a terrible selfishness with neither compassion nor empathy, a terrible anger, a terrible possessiveness, and a terrible lust for blood.
I was living the nightmare I had dreamed in the orangery, when I knew a ghastly fate approached. In it I had cried out to Anne, begging to know if my brothers were yet coming. In the reality no one was coming to help.
I need a weapon.
There was the broken glass. I carefully picked up a long and pointed shard and placed it near the door. I could use it. I could stab Bernard. If not for my own sake, then for that of the other people he had slaughtered.
I dug at the plaster walls with another glass shard wrapped in my shawl, managing to make only dust. I rammed the boarded windows with wood fallen from the roof, until the rotten slats crumbled to shreds. I prodded and shoved and occasionally screamed.
Hours passed.
Somehow I had spent an entire day here. Now darkness seeped in. A little silver moonlight fell through the ceiling hole to give a soft outline to the altar and pews. To the mounded bodies.
My still companions were merely husks of people, like the shed cicada skins that clung to Southern trees in summertime, or so I told myself. I was not afraid of them.
I took up my weapon and sank down against the wall between the windows, pulling my knees to my chest. From here, I could see if the door opened, although I doubted it would open soon. Bernard was not due back until tomorrow. I hadn’t slept all the night before, but I must stay awake, in case.
The series of events that had led me to this fate played out through my head, culminating with Bernard’s bestowal of the keys. He knew my curiosity. In some skewed way he probably enjoyed taunting and testing me with them. Twice he had done it, but the first time I hadn’t fallen into the trap. Now I had failed the test; now I would share the same doom as his other disobedient brides.
Garvey, of course, had been instructed to watch me. He would be well rewarded when his master returned. He knew what lay here. Had he even joined in the sport? No, Bernard wouldn’t have shared that pleasure with his henchman, but Garvey would have helped dispose of the bodies.
An explanation for my absence would be given to the servants. There would be an emergency return to Boston, with my reported illness and death following. That part would be easy. Especially with Talitha and Odette gone, most wouldn’t care enough to think twice. If any of them suspected villainy, they would be too afraid of Bernard to raise concerns. Ling had helped me a few times, but he was too weary and too old and too alone to blatantly thwart his master. Ducky—she was not stupid so much as blind to anything she didn’t want to see. Poor little Miss Sophia, she would cluck, to die so young, and the master so devoted to her. My relatives might be told I succumbed to the typhus, which was common here. They would grieve and might raise questions, but they would have no means to pursue answers. He was going to get away with it.
Death itself didn’t frighten me. I was secure in my faith of a better place hereafter. There were the beautiful lines in Corinthians, beginning with the hope of the resurrection: “For we know that if our earthly house of this tabernacle be dissolved, we have a building of God, a house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens.”
I hadn’t realized I had begun weeping. Tears streamed down. Because of the loss of my earthly future. The loss of marriage and babies and becoming finally old and wise and gray-haired. Because I was frightened of how I would end here. Of the thirst and the fear and the pain. Of the slicing and stabbing.
No! I wanted to live.
I began to pray then. A litany of pleading for help, for strength, for intelligence and a clear mind. I pled for the souls of the dead. Even in that terrible place, the peace of God enveloped me.
Heavy silence settled down like ancient dust. I slept.
The noise of thunder and pouring rain awoke me, building up to a crescendo of jarring rumbles and booms.
I was still here, with lips cracked from thirst. In the chapel. Waiting for Bernard and for death. I would have begun screaming again if my swollen throat had cooperated, even though screaming was pointless.
Another sound began to rise. This resonating from inside the chapel. A low murmuring swelled and surrounded me. My Sisters. They were not leaving me to face Bernard alone. I listened so hard, trying to catch intelligible words, that my ears hurt.
Finally, both hands clutched over my head to stop the pain, I stumbled to the place where water streamed from the hole in the roof. I opened my mouth for the raindrops that poured down. I stood there a long time, and gradually the moaning died away.
Until it dried, my clothing would hold moisture I could suck on or wring out to drink. But after that, in case the rain ceased soon and in case Bernard didn’t return today, I must have stored water. What could I use to catch it? There was my reticule, which was still just inside the door. Unfortunately it was made of cloth, which wouldn’t hold liquid. It contained only the underclothing, the tied-up handkerchief, the hairbrush, the toothbrush, and the jewelry. There was not a vessel or any hollowed cylinder in the place except—
Oh, I could not do it.
Lord Byron had drunk from a skull. Bernard must not find me faint from thirst.
Then, thankfully, I thought of the shoes. Distasteful, but not so horrifying as a chalice of bone. I wouldn’t drink from them unless in dire need. I was hungry and weakened now, as I’d eaten nothing since the day before yesterday, but not desperately so. It was water I needed.
I collected shoes from the skeletons and set them to catch rainwater.
As I unlaced Tara’s kid boots, I brushed against an odd bulge below her belt. She had been carrying something when she died. I lightly touched the tarlatan of her dress, brittle from dried body fluids, then ripped it open. Tara carried a pocket beneath her gown, a pouch with drawstring looped about her waist. It was of leather, brightly painted.
The contents spilled onto the floor.
A flask of smelling salts, a few coins, and a penknife.
A knife. I could almost hear Tara say, Take it and use it well, for I could not. Feisty Tara would not have gone down without a fight. Unfortunately Bernard must have taken her by surprise before she could reach for her weapon. Much better than pointed glass.
Once more I seated myself against the wall and, twisting the hair bracelet about my wrist, made my plan.
With my reticule and the opened knife in my lap, I waited.
It must have been late afternoon, but dusky from the cloud cover, when a key rasped in the lock. My heart shot up to my mouth. The weapons had slipped from my hands, but now I grasped them. When he first entered, he wouldn’t be able to see well in the dimness. There would be a moment.
But it was not Bernard’s voice that spoke. “Sophia,” the voice hissed. “I stole the keys from Garvey. Hurry, you must go quickly! Now. He is back.”
Odette. She stood in the doorway.
I rose slowly, my cramped limbs rebelling. “You?” I said. My brain was too sluggish from hunger and shock to fathom this turn of events.
“I am the cousin of Adele Lalonde. Always when we were children, I took care of her. She married that man and I could no longer take care of her, but I could come here after she died to learn the truth and then to seek retribution. She is in here, no? I must see her. You—”
Her body gave an odd twitch and her face crumpled, the bright eyes suddenly flat. She fell to the ground, and the man I was betrothed to marry wrenched his sword stick from her back. He kicked her body out of the way.
“She was clever,” he said, entering. “I never would have guessed. I had thought Adele had no close relatives. Families are inconvenient.” He bent over to wipe the bright blood from his long, thin blade on Odette’s dress. Fastidious.
Now! Now was my chance. While he looked down.
Hit him! Hit him! Run! Run!
Instead, a faint whimper escaped my lips.
He faced me, the light from the doorway making his hair and beard gleam so he appeared to have a bluish halo about his head. His eyes held me frozen.
He shut the door behind him with a click.
“Mon ange, I was anxious for you.” His tone was light, conversational. “I had expected a warm welcome after my absence. But no, you were not in the house awaiting me. You were here awaiting me. And with what strange company.”
His tone drew me back to pleasant evenings with a congenial companion. As I listened to his deep, melted-chocolate voice, if I didn’t remember where we stood, I could almost forget who he really was.
But I did not forget. My coldness was replaced by a dull rage as life returned to my limbs. I stood wary, ready to leap out of the way if he lunged toward me.
It was hard to see his expression, although I thought he smiled. He didn’t move my way; instead, he walked up toward the altar, his boots crunching the debris on the floor. He surveyed what lay there.
“I watched the faces of these whores as I thrust my knife in, and it was beautiful to see the light leave their eyes as the life oozed from their bodies.”
“Please, Bernard,” I whispered. “Please.”
“Yes,” he said, stepping back toward the door. “That is what they all said. Poor Sophia with the lovely hair. I used to look at you as you sat there, so small, so easily broken. I could take your arm or your neck and—snap!—break you with one hand. But I never would, I thought. Not my Sophia. Alas, though, first the letters from that boy and then the preacher and always so curious. Why couldn’t you leave things alone?” The last word was accentuated by the sword stick crashing down on a pew.
“Bernard,” I said quietly, calmly, “you don’t need to hurt me. I’ll never tell anyone what’s here. We’ll leave this place tonight. We’ll be married. We’ll never stop traveling and we’ll never come here again. You can forget all about it.”
He stared at the floor as if he were actually considering. He looked up. “No, it’s gone too far for that.” He motioned with his hand. “Come here. I don’t want to chase you down. I will do it quickly. You shall not suffer much.”
I stirred myself. I moved toward where he stood waiting, step by step, as if pulled by an invisible thread. As he expected me to do.
Closer, closer.
My reticule, weighty with the ruby jewelry, slammed into his face. While he reeled, I thrust the knife at him. I meant to stab, but flesh was tougher than I thought and the blade didn’t plunge in; instead, I slashed down his shoulder and arm, and dropped the knife.
For one moment he stared at me in shock. Then, as blood spurted out, he clapped his hand over his wound and laughed. He leaped toward me, but he lost his footing on a bone and slipped. I dashed past him to the door and jiggled at the latch for what seemed ages.
Please make it open. Please make it open.
It opened. I was outside. The cold pouring rain shocked me into speed, and I raced toward the woods. I heard Bernard shouting and expected any moment to be surrounded by groundsmen. No one came.
My boots pounded, pounded, pounded as they hit the ground. Once, just before reaching the forest, I glanced back. He followed, his hand clutching his arm, dark with blood.
I launched into the trees. Their branches wept down.
Which way? Which way?
I leaped from stone to stone across the brook. Evil couldn’t cross running water.
Dripping, hanging vines clung wetly, and I slipped on slimy leaves. My sleeve caught on a branch, and my heart seemed to stop because I thought it was Bernard snatching. When I saw what it was, I ripped it away. Twigs plucked at my hair. On and on I ran. He crashed behind me. After making my way deep within the woods, I zigged and zagged. I must not lead him to Anarchy. Once I tripped over a bulging root and fell with a thud. As I lay still in the mud before pulling myself up, my breath loud in my ears, Bernard called from not far.
“Sophia, come here now,” he coaxed. “I will not hurt you. It is as you said—we will be married. We will travel wherever you want to go.”
Choking back a sob, I picked myself up and ran. I paused for a moment as I broke into a clearing, thickly matted with weeds and briers, the rain striking my face. Where was I? My sixth sense about direction had deserted me when I needed it most. Had I come this way before? Was I dashing in circles?
Hide and wait for morning. Quietly, quietly I could secrete myself in the undergrowth like a small hunted animal. The rain had brought an early twilight. He would not find me.
I lay down and started to wriggle beneath a dense clump of witch hazel.
There I was, flat on my stomach, when Bernard entered the clearing.
He gave a pleased little laugh while I writhed to right myself and tensed to fight for my life. He stepped calmly toward me through the briers. The chase was over. He took one step … then another.
A loud clang and a crunch sounded. Bernard screamed.
I scuttled backward on my rear end, gaping.
The glitter in his eye was quenched, replaced by pain and bewilderment. He gasped and shuddered, twitched and trembled.
He had stepped into one of his own man traps.
Shock riveted me to the spot.
He groaned and cursed, wrenching his leg upward while the blood spurted.
At last he stopped struggling and sank to the ground, his leg bent at a strange angle where it was clamped by the long teeth of the trap.
Gradually he focused on me. “Is that you, Sophia?” he said so softly it was almost a breath.
“Yes,” I whispered. He could not hurt me now. He was stricken down like the oak tree. Blood oozed from his mangled limb and from his arm and mingled with the rain to pool beneath him. Randomly I wondered if I had hit an artery with the knife. It was a great deal of blood.
I stood.
