Strands of Bronze and Gold, page 8
No wonder the many hearths in the abbey were guarded by unusually massive screens. I automatically pulled my skirt farther from the flames and clasped my hands carefully together in my lap. Now or never. “Du—Mrs. Duckworth, there are things I need to know if I am to live here.”
She bobbed her head and sighed again, long and wheezy. “Yes, of course, of course. You want to know about Master Bernard’s wives. I told him you ought to be told his history, but he wouldn’t hear of it. He can’t bear to have their names mentioned. But you have a right to know if—Yes, I’ll tell you, but please don’t let on to the master.”
“I won’t say a word.” I made a motion as though sealing my lips and watched her with bated breath.
She crossed her arms under her ample bosom, eager to talk now that she was allowing herself to do so.
“The first was Madame Victoire. She and the master met in Paris, and a more beautiful girl you could not imagine. All that abundant red hair—Master Bernard has a weakness for redheads, you know.”
She looked at me significantly, and I could only nod.
“The master was just twenty when they married, and they were happy for a long while. That was when he began his travels, and Madame Victoire would accompany him, for she was an adventurous lady. Two years later Master Anton was born, and the master could hardly contain himself for joy. You know he’s fond of little ones, don’t you?”
I nodded. I had often seen him teasing the servant children and giving them sweets from his pockets.
“Well, when he was home (for he wasn’t often, though Madame no longer went with him after the baby arrived), he would pop into the nursery every day to frolic with his dear little son.
“When Anton was born, Master Bernard bought the land here and brought Wyndriven Abbey over. All was well until the … the accident happened. Then everything changed.” Ducky became agitated, fiddling with her keys till they jangled. “Master Bernard blamed Madame, you see. Mammy was laid low with a fever, and Madame Victoire had charge of the child. It could have happened when anyone was watching him—that sort of tragedy does sometimes, no matter how much care is taken—but it happened when the mistress was there. After that, she and the master hardly spoke to one another.
“I know it’s no excuse for what she did, but she was terribly unhappy. The master hired a new secretary, and he was an attractive young man. A Yankee, younger than the mistress, but then, she was still a beautiful lady. They began to spend time together, and one thing led to another. The master has always been away so much.” She shook her head sadly. “I’ve told him and told him he ought to stay home more. That young wives get lonely, but … Anyway, I had an inkling of what was going on, and I worried myself sick, but I thought it all ended when the secretary—Mr. Gregg, his name was—found another position near New Orleans. He only went there, though, to prepare for Madame to join him. Somehow they arranged for her to run away to him—through the mistress’s maid, probably, as she too disappeared with the mistress.” Her voice lowered. “I’ve never told anyone else this, but I saw Madame Victoire once, a few years later. Somehow she’d gotten into the house, and I spied her from far down the corridor, entering her old bedroom. It gave me palpitations, it did, but then I realized perhaps she had come to fetch something precious to her that she’d forgotten, and I didn’t sound any alarms. She wouldn’t harm anything, and it would only hurt the master to be told. I hurried off so I wouldn’t have to confront her.”
“I think you did right.”
She paused for another long sip of cocoa.
“And so Tatiana came next?” I urged.
She shot me a sharp look. “How do you know that?”
“Because you told me on that first day that she decorated my room.”
“Oh, yes, so I did. Well, the master met her during his travels in Russia after his divorce was final. She had the prettiest accent and the prettiest little ways.” She smiled fondly at the recollection. “She was lonely, of course, so far from home and with the master gone so much, but she never complained. And then she became with child. It wasn’t a happy time for the master, though, because it all reminded him of little Anton. And then the baby died and the mother as well. I was gone when it happened—the master kindly had sent me for my one-and-only visit to family in England.” She snorted and blew her nose into a much-beruffled handkerchief. “Oh, it does bring it all back. This has not been a happy household. Not happy at all.”
“How awful for poor Monsieur Bernard.” I couldn’t let her stop now in spite of her distress. “And he’s been alone all this time?”
“No,” she said reluctantly. “Next came Madame Tara. She was Irish—and they never had a happy day after she arrived here. Always provoking Master Bernard about this or that. There were terrible rows. I’d hear them shouting in the library. Sometimes she’d even smash things, vases and things. Oh my. She wasn’t much of a lady. They hadn’t been married long—only a year—when she … died.”
“How did she die?”
Ducky shook her head and drew her fingers through her hair until it was pulled wildly from its bun. “I shouldn’t tell you. Really, I shouldn’t.”
I patted her shoulder and said nothing for a moment to allow her to gather her composure. Then, “Please, I need to know,” I said softly.
Ducky glanced toward the door. “She … she committed suicide. One of the servants found her. She stabbed herself.”
“Not in my room?” I cried in horror.
“Good heavens, no! No. ’Twas in the yellow salon. She liked it best of all the public rooms. She used one of the fancy jeweled knives from the armory, though how she got it I don’t know, as Master Bernard has always kept it locked. She was a sly thing, though; she would have found a way. He had her body interred at night, even though the law now says you may bury suicides during the day.”
“Is she buried in the churchyard, since they also allow that now?”
“Not in the Chicataw churchyard, if that’s what you mean. All of Master Bernard’s beloved dead lie in the walled churchyard on the property.”
“The one that’s so overgrown?”
“Yes. He can’t bear to—It’s so full of terrible memories, you see. He can’t stand to have anyone go in there to trim or clean or restore it.”
So that explained the mystery of the tumbledown chapel. “And there is another wife?”
“Yes,” she sighed, “one more. Madame Adele. He married her over in France just a few months after Madame Tara died. I advised him not to wed another foreigner, though for him, I don’t suppose a Frenchwoman is a foreigner. But they have such difficulty adjusting to life here, and a person simply can’t understand their thoughts and ways. So inconstant and unnatural. She lived here for a few years, but was always unhappy. Never would learn English, so she could speak only to the master and to a few of us servants. Nothing her husband gave her was what she wanted; nothing he did for her was enough. His only fault ever has been his choice of women. Such a fine, intelligent man, but he never could pick women. She used constantly to write letters to her friends across the water. Her constitution was delicate and she looked consumptive. Her health took a turn for the worse, and about eighteen months ago Master Bernard whisked her off to some healing springs in Arkansas. It happened so fast, they left before I even knew it. She died while they were gone. He brought her body back to be buried here.”
My godfather had indeed been unfortunate in his relationships. All those tragedies lying behind his handsome face. I wondered he could still smile, let alone laugh and tease. I would be a comfort to him. Of course he could never forget his beloved little boy and these women who had been dear to him, but I would help him know there could still be healing and happiness in this world.
Ducky busied herself sweeping up crumbs and stacking plates on the tray. “So you see,” she said, not looking at me, “why sometimes he might be moody and sometimes he might have troubled days.”
“I’ve never noticed any moodiness. Perhaps he puts on a good show for me.”
“Yes, well, he’s much more like himself now, since you’ve come. You’re helping so much, my dear.” She patted my shoulder. “Eventually, though, you’re bound to experience his melancholy. He can’t help it, my poor master. He has always had a passionate temper, but since Anton passed away, he often becomes despondent as well. When he does, remember what he has been through and what a fine man he really is.”
She picked up the tray and plodded toward the door before hesitating and turning. “You do … you do like Master Bernard, don’t you?” Her eyes were intense and anxious.
“Of course I do. He’s wonderful.”
She bobbed her head, satisfied, and left the room.
The man came to work on the paneling in the east wing the day after Ducky disclosed M. Bernard’s history. She told me he was called Peg Leg Joe due, obviously, to the fact that he wore a wooden leg. He was a free black man who once was a sailor and who now traveled from plantation to plantation offering his services as a master carpenter.
I caught a glimpse or two of him as he came and went. He was an odd-looking fellow, extremely tall and thin, with hollow cheeks and one squinting eye. He added to his height by sporting a rusty black silk stovepipe hat along with his shabby workman’s clothing. There was something about the man that made me curious. He had a certain dignity and erectness in his bearing that invited attention.
After his arrival a new feeling sprang from the African servants. They seemed as stirred and shaken as if they were just now waking from a hundred-year sleep in an enchanted castle. Their movements quickened, and whispers and darting glances shot back and forth. An underlying excitement vibrated. No outsider but me would have noticed. I noticed because I had no other occupation to distract me. Even Talitha, usually so calm, became absentminded and inattentive.
A few evenings after Peg Leg Joe came, I attempted, as usual, to chat with Talitha as she dressed me for dinner. At first she acted as if she didn’t hear me. When I persisted, she gave a sigh and said, “Please, Miss Sophia, you ain’t used to the way it be down here. Don’t try to be friends. I can’t be no friend to you. I’d pay the price if I tried. So please don’t talk to me that way no more.”
I felt as if I’d been slapped. Why should I not treat her normally? But if it would get her in trouble, I would stop trying.
When she fumbled in clasping my necklace, I asked hesitantly, “Will you at least tell me if something unusual is going on with the servants? Everyone’s acting so odd. Does it have something to do with Peg Leg Joe?”
She didn’t answer, and I gave her a feeble smile. “Never mind. I understand. Here, I’ll do that.” I took the necklace and tried to clasp it myself, but I could hardly make my fingers work, I was so busy blinking back tears. No wonder M. Bernard’s wives had been miserable, with my godfather gone all the time and no one willing to talk to them.
Talitha looked at me for a moment. Then she took back the necklace and fastened it firmly. “No, Miss, really, it ain’t nothing you’d be interested in. It’s only—there be a hallelujah meeting tonight. Peg Leg Joe, he a preacher, and everyone say he deliver a rip-roaring sermon. We excited about that. That’s all.”
“What’s a hallelujah meeting?”
She licked her lips. “One without white people. Where we can sing loud and worship as we see fit without bothering no one.”
I had thought they already sang loudly at the meeting I attended. “I hope you enjoy yourselves,” I said.
During supper I pondered the hallelujah meeting. It was not a coincidence that it was to be held when the master and Garvey were both gone. The head groom was not well liked among the servants. No, something more than a church meeting was in the air.
After Talitha thought I was in bed, I dressed in a dark gown and slipped out into the ink black night. The air smelled of secrets. A rumble of singing flowed from the pecan grove. I went toward it slowly, feeling my way, as I had brought no lantern and the sky was overcast. The second time I stumbled and barked my shin, I nearly turned back—I could have been in my soft bed right then instead of maiming myself in the woods. But no, even if all they did was sing, listening to their lifted voices would be worth a few scrapes.
I hid behind a tree close enough to hear and view the gathering, just as the music ceased. As far as I could tell, all the African house servants and yard workers were present, seated on logs or planks stretched over barrels. The congregation was in the gloom, but I could make out Charles and Talitha, seated so close together they seemed one wide figure. Something prickled down the back of my neck as I watched them. It took a moment to recognize the emotion: envy. I wanted what they had.
Peg Leg Joe, standing in the front, shone in the light from a single lantern. The glow defined the deeply grooved lines in his face and cast looming shadows on the trees behind.
“And what do Moses say to Pharaoh?” Peg Leg Joe demanded.
“Let my people go!” the audience shouted.
“But Pharaoh’s hard ole heart wouldn’t have none of that. What he say?”
“He say no!”
“Again and again Moses ask, and always that fool Pharaoh say no. So, what do them children of Israel do? They flee from the house of bondage to the Promised Land, a land flowing with milk and honey.” Peg Leg Joe’s voice was deep and gravelly, his gaze as he peered out over the congregation intense. “There be a preacher yonder, who help you find your paradise. When you seek him, remember how Jesus call Peter his rock.
“And the Lord and His helpers went before them children of Israel in the wilderness to see they come to no scatterment, to dash their enemies in pieces, to give them places to rest their heads and food to eat and sweet water to drink. So, y’all’s eyes, watch to see your chance. Y’all’s hands, prepare with this and that tucked away. Y’all’s feets, get ready for some powerful walking.”
He began singing, rich and rumbling:
When the sun come back,
When the first quail call,
Then the time is come.
Foller the drinking gourd.
Foller the drinking gourd,
Foller the drinking gourd;
For the ole man say,
“Foller the drinking gourd.”
The river’s bank am a very good road,
The dead trees show the way,
Left foot, peg foot going on,
Foller the drinking gourd.
When the little river
Meet the great big one,
The ole man waits—
Foller the drinking gourd.
Soon they were all singing, swaying and clapping. I turned into the night and crept back to the house.
My godfather must not learn of this.
He was at supper two nights later. I paused in the doorway, feeling almost tremulous at the sight of him. So, I told myself, I could go on living. He had been gone only a week, but it had seemed ages.
“I’m so glad you’re back,” I said.
M. Bernard reached out his hand, and I flew across the expanse between us to take it. The warmth of his smile washed over me. “You must excuse my absence,” he said. “It was unavoidable, but the silver lining is that being parted ensures you will be particularly happy to see me when I return.” He squeezed my hand, dropped it, and turned with gusto to his heaping plate of “specially fattened” greenish oysters.
I sat in my chair and pulled my ring on and off, gazing upon my godfather’s splendid profile.
He held out a drooping shellfish speared on his fork. “Oysters, oui?”
“Oysters, non!” I said, turning my head away.
He rolled his eyes and laughed good-naturedly.
“Did your business turn out well?” I asked.
“It did,” he said. “I made a great deal of money this week. Enough to buy you many pretties.”
We ate in silence for a few minutes. I wanted to keep him talking, but the only subjects I could think of were his dead wives and Peg Leg Joe. I kept still.
“So,” M. Bernard said abruptly, “you have moved my photograph to your bedside table.”
Warmth rushed to my cheeks. “Yes. You don’t mind, do you? I—” What reason could I come up with other than the truth: that I wanted his face to be the last thing I saw before falling asleep?
He paused to allow me to finish my sentence, but when I did not, he said, “It was taken by an acquaintance of mine in France, André Disdéri. Perhaps you have heard of him? I am happy you like it. Happy you care enough to want me to watch over you in your bed.”
My cheeks grew hotter still. He knew. He knew how I felt.
“There must be something wrong with the frame,” I blurted out to cover the awkwardness. “Every morning I wake to find it lying facedown. Something must be off balance.”
M. Bernard shrugged. “Mais oui. It is a frame of not much quality. Sometime I will acquire a better one if you like the picture so.”
I took a sip of water and lowered my eyes because he was watching me intently.
“You are even more beautiful than when I left, Sophia.”
“Thank you. So are you.” Had I actually said that out loud?
I shifted in my seat and glanced up at him through my lashes. A look of amusement and smug self-satisfaction flashed across his face so quickly that I would have missed it had I been a second later. Yes, he knew. And he thought it funny. Something squeezed my chest, and it was not the half-pleasurable emotion that had confined my breathing in the past weeks.
As Ling left the room after serving the sherry, M. Bernard said, “Now that you have been here awhile, what do you think of our Ling? Do you find him a treasure as do I?”
“He certainly appears wise. He’s fascinating.”
“Do you think perhaps I should grow my whiskers like his?” He cast me a sidelong look, his eyes brimming with laughter. “Would you find that style enticing on me as well?”
I lifted my chin. “I said ‘fascinating,’ not ‘enticing.’ But why not? Ancient-Chinese-man facial hair might suit you, sir.”
