Strands of Bronze and Gold, page 7
July 10, 1855
Dear Family,
I was so happy to receive your letters a few days ago, but I’m a little sad to hear how things are changing at home. Somehow I want everything to remain exactly the same forever. It breaks a bit of my heart that you must let Bridget go and sell the house. Anne, I’m proud of you that you’ve found a position. I wish it were something better, though. How annoying that women are so limited in their occupations. You write bravely, but from reading between the lines, the children you’re teaching must be little beasts. I won’t consider you a whiner if you complain about them in your letters. Go ahead—tell Sophie all the ghastly details. And, Junius, you know I have always been proud of you for going into the office every day doing a job you hate because you are Responsible. Responsible people are valuable. Not, of course, Harry, that you are NOT valuable. Do remember, though, that Papa let you sit out of school these months because you’re supposed to be preparing yourself for exams next year.
You mustn’t fear that my time here will turn my head. Yes, I have a horse and a maid and jewels and heaps of lovely dresses and so on and so forth, but I’m still myself.
I do worry over the debt I’m incurring. There’s no way I can ever repay my godfather. The tapestry I intend to stitch and the slippers I’ve beaded for him are of as much worth as the pictures I used to scribble for Papa when I was little. But how can I refuse Monsieur’s presents? Can I turn away a coquettish cap of bronze-green velvet topped by a pheasant feather? (You would love it, Anne.) How can I say, when M. Bernard clasps a velvet ribbon with an agate cameo centered on it around my neck, that I would really rather not have it? I cannot. It would be rude, and Monsieur delights in my looking nice, and besides, I really love the gifts. Do you understand my predicament? I know. You’re wishing you had such a problem.
At least I do some useful things other than frolic about. I am becoming Well Educated. M. Bernard is widely read and sophisticated about so many different subjects, and he is teaching me all the time. Not in a pompous, annoying way, but in an interesting, enlightening way. I have had to practice subtlety since I don’t want him to know exactly how naïve and ignorant I am. I left normal school so early, and I’ll admit now to whoever-it-was that used to lecture me—yes, Junius, it was you—that I read too many romances and too little else. Therefore, I keep still when M. Bernard speaks of unfamiliar subjects, and then I look them up later. Most of the books in the library are behind locked doors because of their value and rarity (although some of them must be quite naughty—those Monsieur says he locks up so the servants won’t be shocked or “titillated”), but the volumes of the Encyclopedia are out on a table. M. Bernard occasionally assigns me reading. Currently it’s La Comédie Humaine by Honoré de Balzac. Fascinating and disturbing. M. Bernard says, “Balzac writes of real life,” but I argue, “Real life isn’t always squalid, which M. Balzac seems to think it is.” I enjoy arguing with my godfather. Don’t worry, I’m still polite. I know you thought Balzac inappropriate for young ladies, Anne, but my godfather says it will widen my understanding of the world, and I trust his judgment.
Oh dear. I’m sorry about that splotch. I’m training myself not to drip perspiration on the paper as I write (I am most careful to keep my arm from resting on it), but sometimes the drops fall before I can catch them. Sorry for being disgusting.
Now, would you like to hear about the good works I’m doing? I bravely told my godfather our family’s problems with the institution of slavery. He was patient with me. He explained how generally slavery would not be a worthy thing, but how at various times in world history it’s been necessary and it’s necessary now, because of the economy and in order to care for the people who have already been brought over. He also pointed out that the slaves are not often cruelly treated. He says, “If a man has an expensive horse, would he beat it and injure it so it would be of no use to him?” He made sense at the time, but then, when Monsieur is speaking, he could say two plus two equals ten and I would believe him, although later I have questions. For instance, how can he possibly consider a person in the same category as an animal? (Although we do love horses.) I’m getting used to it, but still, each thing an African does for me makes me uncomfortable. As if I should constantly apologize.
Last week my godfather let me visit, along with Ling, the field workers at the plantation who are ill, so I could see how well his people are cared for. Ling administered Oriental herbs, and I administered soup and sympathy, but they wouldn’t say anything except, “Thank you, Miss,” without ever really looking at me. The Negroes’ cabins are small and suffocatingly hot and dark and, when they’re stewing chitlins (spelling?), foul-smelling. However, they’re in good repair and clean. (Chitlins, if you don’t know, are pig intestines.)
Monsieur also took me to the gospel meeting out there last Sunday night. He allows the slaves to hold meetings, but he himself is not a churchgoer. He went because he was the guest preacher. The regular minister is Willie the gardener. I heard Willie preach once during a Wednesday-night meeting out in the abbey’s pecan grove. In everyday life he is a gentle, quiet little man, but when he’s behind the pulpit, he becomes a Roaring Lion! (Not to be confused with a Ravening Wolf, such as mentioned in the Bible.) He bangs the pulpit, which is a log, and shouts and keeps everyone on the edge of their plank seats and has this mantle of authority I would never have imagined he could have. When I heard Monsieur’s text on the Sunday I went, I stopped wondering why he wished to preach. He spoke about obedience to masters and contentment with your place in life. Most fervent and convincing.
The music moved me more than any I’ve ever before heard in church. Lots of swaying and clapping, with the sun setting brilliantly in the background. I swayed and clapped too, much to M. Bernard’s amusement. One song is still in my head. It went: “Oh, scoff, you scoffers, scoff! Them sinners who are scoffing can’t hear sweet Jordan roll.” When I first heard it, I looked at my godfather pointedly. He’s definitely a scoffer.
Please write again soon. I adore my M. Bernard, but I adored all of you for the first seventeen years of my life. I am very happy here, but would be happier if you were with me. That is the one thing that makes me less than content.
Yr. loving sister,
Sophie
August 3, 1855
Dearest Sister,
I hope this letter finds you—
I take pen in hand to—
Please don’t show this to my brothers, Anne. If you were here, we would escape to some secret place—far out in the gardens or into one of dozens of rooms where we wouldn’t be overheard—and I would tell you Things.
I dropped my pen and crumpled up the paper. How could I admit even to Anne the ridiculous feelings that stirred in my heart these days? I wandered over to the window. There was M. Bernard, striding vigorously across the lawn. My chest constricted in a way that was both pleasant and painful. I so loved his walk.
He looked up and saw me. He waved and I fluttered my fingers back. I watched until he disappeared into the stables.
It was nearly time to dress for supper. What should I wear? Last night he told me he liked me in white (“so pure and innocent”). Something white, then …
I couldn’t possibly be in love with him. Or could I? I pressed around my feelings as one might press around a tender spot to see how sore it was. When I used to make lists of the qualifications necessary for my True Love, I would never have put “Godfather,” “Oldish,” or “Married three (I think) times” on the notepaper I decorated with cherubs and hearts.
Talitha entered with a large parcel.
It contained a rectangle of canvas and a basket brimming with embroidery silks.
How thoughtful of M. Bernard to have remembered and to have acquired them. That was part of his allure—he was so interested in everything I said or did. He made me feel captivating.
Resolutely I sat down at my desk to sketch out a plan for M. Bernard’s small tapestry. Maybe a forest scene, since that would encompass so many pleasing colors. I would have brightly garbed figures making merry about a fire, surrounded by brilliant wildflowers and bending trees in all shades of green.
I sketched quickly, excited to begin a beautiful piece of work for him. I ceased for a moment, tapping my pencil against my chin. How many figures?
As I paused, I spied the tiniest tip of a sheet of paper peeking out from a crack at the base of the desk’s pigeonholes. It would be visible only in this light and only from my exact angle. Something had slipped back there, unnoticed. I snagged the edge with the letter opener.
It was a sheet of thin notepaper, evidently the final page of a letter, since there was a signature following the paragraph.
I read:
You know that your temper ever has been as fiery as your tresses. As your only kin, and one who has your best interests in heart, I remind you of your duty to your husband. He loves you dearly and would give you anything you wanted. Tara, you must remember that gentlemen may have tastes that you, as a lady, find difficult to share. However, school your tongue and your high spirits, and be a more accommodating and pleasant companion to him, and I am certain to hear a more favorable report in your next correspondence.
Sincerely,
Aunt Lavinia
I read it through a second time. Another bride for M. Bernard. Tara. With fiery tresses. I carefully folded the paper and placed it in the envelope with the strand of hair I had found that might well have been hers, and slipped it back under the desk blotter.
That evening I wore white organdy. When I sat waiting at the banquet table, Charles brought a note saying, Forgive my absence, chérie. I am called away for a few days—B. I pushed aside my plate and retired to my room, too disappointed to eat.
“Do you think we might ever expect callers?” I asked Ducky the next morning when I spied her passing in the hall. She paused and a closed look shadowed her features. She was going to be careful with her answer.
“Master Bernard doesn’t bother with such goings-on. I told you he considers Southerners terribly common. He discouraged them long ago.”
I sighed and looked down at the marble tiles. My wonderful new clothes had arrived from Mme. Duclos. They had given me much pleasure at first, but what was the use in trying to dress prettily if no one ever saw them? “Might I call on the neighbors, then? I really … I really would like—”
Ducky shook her head violently. “Oh no, Miss Sophia. That wouldn’t do at all. It would appear as if you didn’t trust the master’s judgment. Besides, a newcomer should never be the first to pay calls. Even the locals know that.” She beamed brightly, comfortingly now. “But don’t forget there might be a ball someday.”
Oh yes. The alleged ball.
“When do you expect Monsieur Bernard back?” I blurted out behind her as she started on her way again.
“He never lets us know his plans,” she said over her shoulder. “Keeps us on our toes.” She continued on down the hall, too busy today to exchange chitchat.
Charles and Talitha, talking together earnestly, rounded a corner just then and nearly ran into the housekeeper. Guilt swept over their faces. Mrs. Duckworth tutted with annoyance and shooed them apart. Charles immediately sped ahead, and Talitha changed direction. I watched after them.
I did love a good romance, and those two offered material for study. They were careful to never purposefully draw attention to the fact that they were courting, but I prided myself that I could detect the signs of their attachment. When Talitha was in Charles’s presence, a softness and warmth came over her features that were never there normally. She smiled often and even laughed, while Charles was more animated around her, more intense, with bright color in his cheeks. When they were in the same room, even when they made no move to draw closer or speak, I would note how often they would look toward the other, with silent communication flashing between them.
Perhaps when I had been here longer, I could arrange meetings between them, supposedly to help me with something or other, but really to give them time together.
I gave a little sigh and continued down the corridor without being entirely sure where I was going. If M. Bernard was to be gone often, I would die from loneliness. It was as if I were only truly alive when I was with him.
Sometimes the housemaids talked and laughed as they worked in nearby rooms. If I entered, they would immediately hush and meet my attempts at conversation with mumbled answers and averted eyes. They probably deemed me an inane, silly, smiling creature. Sometimes they broke into song. When they did that, I hid outside the door to listen. I loved their rich, throaty voices and mournful tunes. In my first days here they had been only a sea of dark faces. Now I recognized them. I knew names. But that didn’t matter, because to them I was the faceless one. The Spoiled White Girl. Maybe I was wrong, but that was how it seemed. They had each other and I had no one. Not even my family anymore. No letters had arrived since the first flurry.
The hours stretched before me, and I struggled to fill each day. Like a phantom girl, I began to glide about behind the scenes, exploring. Sometimes as I slipped down unused passages, I would feel suddenly lost and disoriented, wondering, Where am I? Then I would have to remind myself, This is Wyndriven Abbey. Your home. You belong here.
I did belong more as I became familiar with the unused floors and interesting crannies of the place. Since the abbey had been brought over lock, stock, and barrel, there were many ancient treasures to poke my nose into. Chests held brittle, yellowed linens featuring embroidery with unusual antique patterns that I sketched in order to stitch later. Cabinets contained three hundred years’ worth of odds and ends. I spirited away a small bronze statue of an angel to place in my bedchamber. I didn’t ask anyone. M. Bernard didn’t even know he owned it. Less guilt about my nosiness troubled me here than when I used to riffle through Anne’s things when she was out.
One afternoon, more phantom-like than ever, since I flitted about in an overskirt of pale, silvery, shimmering gauze, looking insubstantial as mist, I entered a room on the top floor I had only glanced in before.
This chamber held no furniture, but the ceiling was painted cerulean, with gilt moon and stars, and all around the fireplace were depicted Mother Goose characters—Humpty Dumpty and Little Miss Muffet and Jack Be Nimble. Iron bars spanned the windows. Obviously it had been a nursery once, now emptied of its furnishings. On a window seat, nearly behind the curtain and looking dusty and forlorn, lay a small pile of books.
What a novelty in this house—books lying free. I picked up one. The title on the marbled cover was Histoires ou Contes du Temps Passé, by Charles Perrault. The writing was in French, but from the illustrations I could tell it was a book of fairy tales. I turned to the fly-leaf. The name “Victoire” and the year “1814” were written in a childish hand, with the cross on the letter t carried over the other letters in a long line. Beneath this appeared the name “Anton” and the year “1830.” Although the writing in the second name was more mature, still the letter t was crossed in the same way, making me believe the same hand wrote both. Perhaps Anton was Victoire’s child.
It was silly to think every female name I saw here must be a wife. Too much solitude made me dwell overly on these things. But if Victoire were indeed another former spouse, their number was four now. Then what of Anton? M. Bernard’s son? If so, he was most likely long dead, as I had never heard of him.
This must have been his nursery.
Tatiana’s baby would probably also have slept here had it lived. Tatiana, who died in childbirth eleven years ago.
A chill oozed into my bones. What a sad room. Decorated for one child who evidently didn’t live to grow up and for a baby who would never sleep here because it slept forever with its mother. I didn’t blame my godfather for emptying the chamber. The volumes must have escaped notice. I took them down to my room and placed them on my desk.
Late that afternoon Mrs. Duckworth popped in to bring a tray.
“Let’s eat cozily here together,” she said, “it being such a damp, nasty day. Unseasonably cool for August.”
She laid the tray on the ottoman, and we pulled two chairs up to it. Twilight had come early. Candles blazed in the crystal chandelier shaped like waving seaweed, and a fire snapped in the hearth—the first we had needed since my arrival. The flames, however, couldn’t compete with the underwater gloom of my chamber. It was certainly beautiful—fantastical, even—but right now it made me feel cold, cold, cold inside. Ducky’s company was welcome.
The tray held a pot of warm, creamy cocoa, thinly sliced pears, and shortbread cookies. All rich and sweet, just as I liked them.
As always, Ducky was amiable and full of prattle about the coal black, two-headed calf born on the plantation and the funny mistakes made by one of the kitchen maids.
I listened and nodded as I ate, but I could think of little to say in response.
“Why, when Alphonse told her to—” Ducky ceased speaking. The spots of color drained from her face. “Where did you find those?”
I followed her gaze. She was staring at the books I had brought downstairs.
“They were in a room on the top floor,” I said. “Was I wrong to bring them here? Whose were they?”
“I must have overlooked those when—” Ducky took a long sip of chocolate, then sighed. “ ’Twas Master Anton’s nursery. Master Bernard’s son, who has been dead and buried these twenty years.” She dabbed her eyes with her apron. “A fine boy—full of life, only five, but … the spitting image of his father. You know, when they die as children, they remain dear little ones in your memory forever.”
“What happened to him?”
“He—” She closed her eyes and swallowed. “He wandered too close to the grate, and his nightgown took ablaze. His mother rolled him in the rug quick as she could, but he was burned too badly. He lingered two weeks before passing away. ’Twas something so horrible … so horrible none of us who saw it have ever been the same again.”
