Strands of Bronze and Gold, page 4
As for “peaches and cream,” I placed my two jars of Dew of Venus lotion on the dressing table. I had bought them months ago in hopes they would erase my scattered freckles, but at home I never remembered to slather it on. Here I would remember. This was my chance to improve myself. To become elegant and gracious. And interesting.
“Who will I be here?” The words jarred the muggy air. My hand flew over my mouth as Talitha, the housemaid from last night, entered.
“Master say I am to help you dress and take you down to breakfast, Miss.”
She brought water for a sponge bath and then assisted me into fresh drawers and chemise. She laced up my corset and topped it with a camisole trimmed with broderie anglaise.
I tried to engage her in conversation once again. “Have you any family, Talitha?”
“A sister,” she said shortly. “But not here.”
Next came stockings and garters and a flounced petticoat topped by my hoop, and finally a morning frock. As she dressed me, I made a few more attempts to get her talking, but she answered either in monosyllables or not at all.
The dress was so roomy that Talitha had to find a sash to pull it in, while the pair of beaded slippers she held out pinched my feet. Whoever had purchased my wardrobe had bought in several sizes. The maid brushed back my hair in two smooth wings over my ears, although the humidity would soon make it frizz, then plaited and coiled it and tucked it into a snood. My grooming was completed with pearl earrings and a ribbon about my neck.
Mrs. Duckworth joined me for breakfast in a small (for this house) morning room. “Normally I eat in my own quarters, but I thought you might like a bit of company for your first breakfast here,” she said.
Gay sunshine poured in through floor-to-ceiling windows, sending lights twinkling through cut crystal and silver and sparkling in the jarred jams and jellies on the sideboard. The walls were covered in hand-painted Chinese silk, with blue and green landscapes composed of mist-shrouded mountains and waterfalls, willow trees and winding paths. I wondered what lay at the end of those alluring roads.
Through the glass doors beckoned a glorious day for exploration.
“It’s so pretty outside,” I told Mrs. Duckworth. “I’m going to stroll through the grounds after breakfast.” Imagine living in a house with “grounds.”
“I don’t expect you’ll have time today,” she said. “Master Bernard’s orders are that I am to give you a tour of the house this morning. The parts I can, of course, for I haven’t all the keys, but there’s still more than enough to boggle the mind. And then, this afternoon, Madame Duclos will arrive. She’s traveled all the way from New Orleans to measure you for your wardrobe.”
I lifted my hands in a helpless gesture. “Really and truly, Mrs. Duckworth, I’ve got more than enough. My head’s all in a twirl.”
“Oh, no, no, my dear.” She shook her head violently. “You cannot disappoint the master in his plans. Only think—morning dresses and walking dresses and evening dresses. A whole long list Master Bernard has made.”
“Well then, do you think the dressmaker will allow me to help a little with the designing and sewing? I’m quite good at it.”
Mrs. Duckworth was scandalized. “Certainly not. She’ll take your measurements and show you fabrics and trims and fashion plates, but then she’ll bundle the whole kit and kaboodle back to New Orleans and you won’t see it until it’s done.”
I seated myself and reached for a beaten biscuit and saucer of marmalade. “My sister, Anne, and I used to laugh at all the specific outfits a high-society lady is expected to own. We would pore over fashion plates and read them aloud. Receiving dresses for the morning and receiving dresses for the afternoon and promenading dresses for walking in the park and promenading dresses for walking at the seaside. Wouldn’t it be nice to have nothing to do but change clothes? Why, do you suppose I ought to be wearing a marmalade gown in which to eat marmalade?”
Mrs. Duckworth didn’t crack a smile. She remained serious, concerned lest I not appreciate the delights in store for me.
“Master Bernard says you are even to have a ball gown.”
“Oh? Truly? Will there be a ball? Does Monsieur de Cressac entertain much?”
“No, no, not now, but back in France … such interesting festivities he hosted. Once he held a soiree in honor of some Grecian marbles he had acquired. All the guests wore gauzy togas and powdered their skin and hair pure white. Like statues themselves, you see? Some who did not understand might have thought their costumes too scanty, but oh, it was a sight! Master Bernard resembled one of those Grecian gods. With a wreath of leaves in his hair.” She nodded in reminiscence, then remembered our subject. “But he’s ordered a gown for you, which makes me wonder if he’s planning a ball at which to present you to local society.”
She offered this last with a smile that completely closed her eyes, as though she expected the prospect of a ball would be the pièce de résistance for all my girlish hopes and dreams. As it should be for a seventeen-year-old girl, and as indeed, once I recovered from the picture of my godfather decked out in leaves, it was for me. I rewarded her expectations by giving my shoulders a delighted shiver. “I’m so happy to be here. Monsieur de Cressac is kindness itself. I shall hardly know how to go on with so many new clothes—it will quite turn my head. And a ball! Do you really think he might hold a ball?”
“I should think it likely for your sake. You’re very young, and he knows you would enjoy such a thing, though in all the years he’s lived in Mississippi, it’s never before happened. I’ve never seen him like this, even—but that’s neither here nor there. The master isn’t fond of local society; he says the Southern aristocracy is without true culture, and according to him, all Mississippi gentlemen do is drink whiskey and hunt and play poker.”
“And chew tobacco,” I chimed in. “The hem of my traveling skirt is gummed up with brown tobacco juice from the floor of the stagecoach I rode on in Tennessee. Disgusting. It was as if the men didn’t care where they spat.”
The housekeeper nodded in sympathy. “Not truly civilized, these people, whether they’ve acquired new money or not. Our Molly is a wonder with the laundry, though, and she’ll get your skirt clean. Anyway, as I was saying, the master’s not a great one for close friendships, but then, he’s had his disappointments in life, poor man, so he keeps to himself. However, there are several suitable families within thirty miles who would jump at the chance to attend a ball here. Mr. Bass—the master’s agent—tells me they’re interested in everything to do with the master and the house.”
Given human nature, he was probably right. Twenty-five years ago it must have been the talk of the town when dray after dray arrived, lugging the stones of the abbey.
With a sigh, I glanced out the windows at the inviting morning, then turned resolutely back to my second biscuit, on which I had spread greenish preserves. Mrs. Duckworth told me they were made from scuppernong, a type of Southern grape. “All right, we’ll start on the house. I hope I shan’t have to be led about for many more days. This place is so enormous and all perfectly kept. I don’t know how you do it.”
The housekeeper’s bosom visibly swelled. “Ah, well, that’s as it must be. The master demands perfection, and I do my best to see that the staff delivers it.” She fiddled with her chatelaine, making the many keys clink. “But I’m not as young as I used to be, although I must manage well enough, for Master Bernard says he cannot imagine what he would do without me. And it’s not only the housekeeping he trusts me with.” She lowered her voice. “There’s so few he can confide in. He is so very happy to have you here now. Why, this morning he was whistling before breakfast. Can you believe that?”
I thought how M. Bernard had looked on the terrace and could well believe it. I idly tugged up the lace at my bosom. “I hope I can live up to his expectations.”
“Oh, you’ll do fine. Your youth is to your advantage. You’re moldable and not at all like … some people.”
We began the tour after I snatched up a fan to flutter as we walked. The humidity wrapped around me like a warm, damp cloth.
I was led through salons and hallways, a sculpture gallery full of chilly marble statues, and a library with thousands of volumes behind glass doors and an enormous Irish wolfhound snoozing on a tiger-skin rug before the hearth. We wandered up wide, stately staircases and narrow, winding ones.
We crossed acres of floors of marble or polished wood with elaborate inlaid veneers. I marveled at mahogany furnishings, heavily carved and gilded, at rich upholsteries in scarlet or sapphire, emerald or gold, at urns and vases of ormolu or porcelain, at walls with white and gold paneling or with gloriously painted scenes.
Wide-eyed, I took in all the themed chambers decorated to display treasures from my godfather’s travels. I learned that it wasn’t just depictions of plump, puffy bare flesh that embarrassed me. I was also disturbed by spare, skinny, carved wooden African statues with exaggerated bits of their anatomy poking out. Or perhaps they weren’t exaggerated? How should I know?
Mrs. Duckworth was able to impart a good deal of information about many objects—their source, value, and history. “I ask Master Bernard about them. I like to know. It makes me care for them better somehow. He’s always patient, always ready to share his knowledge.”
Sometimes a housemaid would be laboring away in a room, scrubbing or dusting. When we walked in, she would glance up furtively without ever pausing in her task.
To one poor servant, Mrs. Duckworth barked out, “What are you about, girl? Are you stupid? You can’t use beeswax on a gilded armoire.” How different the housekeeper’s voice sounded then—harsh and screeching.
The girl jumped and muttered, “I so sorry, Miz Duckworth.”
The only other time the housekeeper paid attention to a servant was when she introduced me to a woman named Daphne, who was putting the last touches on a vast, billowing flower arrangement on a hall table. Daphne was squat and toadlike and bright of eye, and she walked with the use of a knobby cane. She made me think of a homely fairy working her magic with blooms. She beamed at us and we beamed back. Later I learned she was the single slave the housekeeper entertained in her private apartments for tea. “Isn’t it peculiar to have people always about but to act as if they don’t exist?” I asked.
“It’s the true order of the world,” Mrs. Duckworth said complacently. “Don’t worry,” she added, patting my arm, “you’ll soon become used to the ways of the very genteel.”
In my family home we always spoke with friendly civility to Bridget and felt a mutual fondness between us. She took care of us and we took care of her. The world at Wyndriven Abbey was exalted far above my old life. Would I ever learn to practice the snobbery that would be expected of me here? I wouldn’t. I simply couldn’t. I was too interested in everyone and their stories to discount them as people.
“Don’t you wonder, though,” I asked Mrs. Duckworth, “what the servants are thinking?”
“Oh, they’re not thinking. They’re simple creatures. Not like us. But one can’t help knowing a few things. Charles is wooing Talitha, for instance. I’m forever finding them together and having to chase him off. If it keeps up much longer, I shall have to speak to Master Bernard about it.”
“Can’t they marry? They’re old enough, surely.”
“Oh, they could jump the broom at Christmastime, if the master approves. That’s a slave custom they pretend means they’re husband and wife. Foolishness.”
From what I had seen of Charles and Talitha, they seemed a perfect match, both of them with natural grace and beauty. They would have such darling children. But who knew what heartaches and rebellious thoughts brooded inside them when confronted with such attitudes as Mrs. Duckworth’s? If I could, I would help Charles and Talitha.
“Is there a Mr. Duckworth?” I asked suddenly.
The housekeeper turned flustered, rattling her keys. “Why—why I never thought of marriage for myself. Too busy with more important things. The ‘Mrs.’ is an honorary title customarily given to housekeepers.”
As she spoke, we entered the section of the house that comprised the former abbey. An ancient, unclean smell met us as soon as we crossed the threshold, which was seven feet wide—the width of the medieval retaining walls. It reeked of dark, secret crevices—a mixture of mildew and fungus, rot and decay.
“I do my best,” Mrs. Duckworth complained when she saw my expression, “but try as I might, I can’t get rid of that stink. I’ve tried carbolic soap and turpentine and pomanders everywhere.”
“The cloves and cinnamon smell lovely,” I said, although they couldn’t hide the stench underneath.
The stone walls might be covered with rich paneling, but drops of moisture collected on surfaces, and in places a faint, fuzzy gray film grew. I shrugged. All part of the fascinating Gothic charm.
“My greatest fear is mushrooms sprouting in hidden corners,” Mrs. Duckworth confided.
I nodded sympathetically. Indoor fungus was truly fearsome.
Once there had been dormitories and cloisters, but long ago those areas had been converted to the usage of a secular household. Once this had been a sacred place, but it had long since been desecrated.
I remembered the heroine Catherine, in Northanger Abbey, questioning George about supernatural phenomena. I had always thought Catherine and I would have been good friends, and now we even had abbeys in common. I decided to try similar questions with the housekeeper.
“Does the house have a ghost, Mrs. Duckworth?” I asked.
“Certainly not!” she said.
“A vampire?” I couldn’t resist.
“Neither I nor the master would stand for such a thing.” She briskly swished her alpaca skirt as she entered the next room. I had offended her. I wondered, though; the stage here was clearly set for phantoms. How could there possibly not be one?
She began to puff and wheeze as she walked.
“Would you like to stop and rest?” I asked.
“No, Miss,” she said. “We’d never get through if I gave out when I felt a bit winded.”
Eventually she was too breathless to speak much.
On and on we explored. At first I had tried to mentally map out the rooms in relation to one another, but I was soon hopelessly confused and gave up. The housekeeper pointed out various locked doors that she did not open. How was it that among all the glories of this place, those forbidden spaces interested me most? I was a goose.
She indicated the double doors closing off the east wing. “You’ll hear workmen hammering and sawing in there, but the connecting doors are kept locked.”
As we passed a door in an upstairs hall she said, “That leads to the attics.” She leaned in toward me. “They’re full of items that the master desired me to burn, but I can’t bear the waste. I have them taken up there and he’s no more the wiser.”
So, the faithful housekeeper had her secrets, and there were corners of Wyndriven Abbey of which its master was unaware.
The portrait gallery was lined with three hundred years’ worth of paintings of the abbey’s former owners. My godfather had “borrowed” all these ancestors. Next to M. Bernard’s portrait, however, a rectangular, faded patch gaped on the wall.
“Was that where Monsieur Bernard’s wife’s portrait hung?” I asked.
“Various ladies’ pictures have hung there,” Mrs. Duckworth said stiffly. “The master has been married more than once. He does not care to have painful memories thrust upon him, however, so the paintings have been removed.”
I would have asked more, but I saw from Mrs. Duckworth’s compressed lips that there would come no more information at this time. More than once, she had said. How many marriages? And if there were no ghosts, perhaps there was a mad wife shut up in one of the locked places? Maybe in the east wing, allegedly under renovation? It would be amusing (albeit tragic) to imagine a suitably mad wife for M. Bernard. Hah! Secrets waiting to be uncovered. This house lent itself to mysteries. Eventually I hoped to poke about without Mrs. Duckworth.
It took us two hours to tour the house, moving constantly. By the end I was numb, except for my feet, which hurt from treading in tight slippers. I could no longer think up admiring comments.
There was such a thing as too many paintings composed of graphic scenes from the Old Testament and mythology. There was such a thing as too much grandeur, too much opulence and curlicues and gold leaf. Too many rooms to be the dwelling of one man and, now, one girl.
A swarthy, capable-looking woman with a surprisingly dark mustache burst through the doorway of my bedchamber in the late afternoon. Behind her staggered the footmen, bearing bolts of fabric, beading, ribbons, and laces, which they deposited on the wide ottoman.
The dressmaker nodded with satisfaction as she looked me up and down. “It will be a pleasure,” she said, “to create for a demoiselle such as Mademoiselle Petheram.”
Mme. Duclos spread out fashion plates from Le Petit Courrier des Dames and proceeded to make my head swim with all her plans for my wardrobe. I ran my fingers over the bolts of muslin, cambric, tarlatan, brocade, and silk.
There were to be day dresses and evening dresses in tulle and grenadine, trimmed with ribbons, an outdoor frock in gooseberry green and black taffeta with wide stripes, a riding habit in russet surah. Madame rattled off descriptions of pagoda sleeves and engageantes. There were to be Norwich shawls and paisley shawls and lace shawls and jackets and mantelets and cloaks. If Mademoiselle would permit, Mme. Duclos would arrange with a milliner she knew, of wonderful taste and artistry, to create for Mademoiselle such bonnets and hats that would set off her coloring extraordinaire.
