Strands of Bronze and Gold, page 9
“Oh, you think so, eh? Do you suppose he chews upon the ends to make the tips so scrawny and pointed?”
“Why—why that’s exactly what I wondered!”
“Indeed? We are en rapport, then, you and I.”
“I’ve been wondering: How did Ling and Achal come into your service? Where do you find such loyal servants who would leave everything to follow you across the world? Don’t they miss their families?”
M. Bernard lightly touched my cheek to turn my face toward the light. “You are so curious about everyone and everything. It can be an attractive feminine trait”—he dropped his hand and turned back to his plate, which now held cold beef tongue—“but more often a nuisance. You must curb this interest in things that do not concern you. Especially about the lower classes. Bah! What do they matter? They are simply servants. They exist to labor for their betters, that is all.”
I felt rebuked. It was also distressing for my M. Bernard to speak so arrogantly. Yet, who could blame him? Since he was a baby, everyone had scurried around simply to please him. It was not his fault.
There was something I needed to bring up, though, and it had to do with servants whether he liked it or not. “Sir, Mrs. Duckworth said you plan to hire a French maid for me.”
He nodded, waiting. When I didn’t continue for a moment, he said, “Well, out with it!”
“Is that still the plan? Perhaps since I’ve managed without her, you’ve changed your mind?”
“No,” he said. “I rarely change my mind.”
“But must my maid be French? Talitha usually helps me, but if she won’t do, couldn’t I have some other English-speaking servant? Pray don’t put yourself to the bother of importing someone.”
“No bother at all. Every lady wishes for a French maid. And if you think you can get out of this, you are very much mistaken.” He wagged his finger playfully.
“You see, I’ve no head for languages and speak very little French. I would be more comfortable with someone I could talk to easily.”
“In this you must be guided by me. You shall have Odette. She comes highly recommended. She is an impoverished gentlewoman and therefore much more suited than the locals to serve the needs of a fashionable lady. The delays have been preposterous, but she should arrive within the month.” He gestured dismissively. “Let us speak no more of the matter.”
Arguing would be useless.
M. Bernard launched his plans for our first trip together. “I am picturing you mounted jauntily on a camel. It is not much different from riding a horse once you get used to the swaying. The hump, you know. You will have to wear trousers—Sophia, am I boring you?”
He said this last because I was staring sightlessly over his head, thinking how my godfather’s adventures abroad had certainly been exciting for him, but that at home he had left behind solitary women cut off from everything they knew. “Oh!” I said, startled. “Did you say something about humps?”
He arched one black brow. All through the dessert course he was at his most charismatic and I was once more under his spell, which had frayed ever so slightly about the edges during dinner.
Later I stood by the balustrade of the veranda, waiting for M. Bernard to join me after his solitary gentleman’s cigar and port. There was a soul-stirring vibrancy in Mississippi summer nights. The air was perfumed with late roses and crushed flower petals. Fireflies glimmered in the dusk and bats swooped black across a purple-edged sky.
It wasn’t long before M. Bernard appeared, followed by his gigantic Irish wolfhound. He removed his richly colored dressing gown and draped it on the back of a woven-wicker chair. The collar of his loose shirt was open, and he wore a smoking cap embellished with a beaded design. He stood silently at my side, following my gaze into the twilight.
A mosquito buzzed between us. At first we ignored it, not wanting to disturb the magical moment, but it was persistent. M. Bernard swatted at it and nearly hit me.
“It’s just a simple country mosquito,” I said. “It doesn’t know that it’s bad manners to buzz in our ears.”
My godfather chuckled and squeezed my waist. “Simple country mosquito, indeed,” he murmured.
Normally Finnegan ignored me, but now he raised his head, bared his teeth, and growled, low in his throat. I drew away.
M. Bernard dropped his arm from my waist. Placing his knee on the dog’s back, he gave a vicious twist to Finnegan’s ear until the dog yelped. “Never, never snarl at Sophia, sir.”
“Please, Monsieur,” I whispered. “I wasn’t frightened. Please don’t hurt him.”
Foolish Finnegan growled again, and M. Bernard twisted harder. “It is how he learns what is expected of him. Sometimes it hurts to learn.”
“Well, it won’t be necessary after this,” I said, reaching out a tentative hand to stroke the dog. “I shall make Finnegan my friend.”
My godfather let go of the dog’s ear, gave him a brisk pat, and seated himself. “Now, let me tell you how entertaining Finnegan was a few months ago when one of the local preachers made a visit.”
The hound laid his great head on his paws, ignoring me now for his own good.
M. Bernard related how Finnegan bounded up to the man (“friendly as you please”), and the parson skedaddled up on his horse with his long legs flailing. “And there was our Finnegan, entirely blameless. I called after the fellow, ‘He merely wanted to gnaw at your face, sir, and perhaps eat one hand. What do you care, when you have two?’ ” His laughter at the memory was as deep and rich as the plum cake we’d had for dessert. “Oh, if you could have seen the man, fleeing down the drive, hardly seated upon his horse.”
I managed a faint smile. Poor minister. Who wouldn’t be frightened of a dog that size charging toward him?
“You are too far away,” my godfather said. He patted the wicker footstool next to his chair. “I nearly must shout to speak to you. Come, sit here.”
It was awkward to seat myself on so low a stool in my crinoline. M. Bernard smiled at my difficulty and reached out a hand to help. I laughed a little as well, although I was still shaken by the dog incident.
He set about putting me at my ease once more. “Now, I need a story, Scheherazade. I have missed your tales these nights.”
“What sort do you want?”
“Tell me about your family. Of all things, I should like to hear more of them.”
“I’m worried about them right now. I haven’t gotten a letter in ages.”
“Oh, you know they are busy. You have related how the good Junius must work long hours and Anne must teach children. You have said that Harry cavorts with his friends. You have written to them. They know you are safe. You are off their hands. Now they need concern themselves about you no longer.”
Was it true? Were they simply glad to be rid of me? No, I would not believe it. There was nothing in our past to suggest such a thing. They wanted my success and happiness and eventually hoped to share at least a little in it.
If M. Bernard felt he knew my siblings, he might aid them. I now related funny stories of how we would tease Junius for his pompous ways and Harry for being such a dandy. “When Harry came home wearing cherry-red striped trousers, Papa told him, ‘If you must walk around on peppermint sticks, kindly do so in the privacy of your own room.’ ” I described how sweet and lovely Anne was, with her cloud of soft blond hair, and how she worried she would be left an old maid. “She’s now four-and-twenty, but if she only has the chance to go out in society, not a man could help but fall in love with her.”
M. Bernard snorted. “Well, perhaps there might be one or two.” He leaned down and said, close to my ear, “Some prefer a ruddier glow to a lady’s head.” He pulled one pin from my hair and then another and another, until my curls tumbled about my face. “There! That’s better. I have wanted to do that since you first came. From now on, always wear your hair down in the evenings. It is a particular desire of mine to see it long and rippling, like silken embers.”
The weight of hair clung clammily to my neck. I had put it up for over two years; my hair fell past my hips, and it was inappropriate to let it hang wildly. I wondered: Did he want it loose because he still thought of me as a little girl or because he considered me a woman to admire? From the way he was looking at me now, it was the latter.
I pretended to be engrossed in petting Finnegan.
Once I had collected myself, I tried again to interest him in my siblings. He had said that “of all things,” he wanted to hear about them most. “You would like my family, sir. Maybe soon they might come for a visit? I can’t wait for you to get to know each other.”
“Why?” His voice was hard-edged. “Do they wish to meet the Midas in his palace?”
I stared. How did he know that my brothers thought of him only in terms of his wealth? “No,” I said quietly. “They wish to meet the man who gives me such happiness.”
He seemed to consider his long hands. “Perhaps someday they might come,” he said slowly, “if their absence makes you less than content here. It would be good for them to see how well you are cared for. But first you and I must become closer. I am a lonely man, Sophia. Unlike King Midas, people I touch do not turn to gold.” He paused and looked out into the darkness. “Instead, they shrivel away—poof!—to dross. My tender feelings have been betrayed more than once. I have been unhappy in my connections.”
That a person so confident should show this gap in his armor touched me. I would not disclose Ducky’s confidences, but I had to say something. “I know you’ve had your trials, sir. I hope I can bring you some comfort.”
He smiled. “You, chérie, will be the saving of me. Of this I am certain now.”
We were leaning in close. He shook himself and stood. “It is late. I have kept you talking too long.”
He walked me to my bedroom door and bid me good night.
When I entered my room, I nearly stepped on the shattered glass from M. Bernard’s photograph where it lay, as if flung, facedown near the door.
Who had dared do this?
Gingerly I cleaned up the pieces, wrapped them in a scarf, and hid them beneath some linens in a chest in the hall until I could think what else to do with them.
Someone in this household hated my godfather.
Peg Leg Joe’s sermon and song had given me a great deal to think about. From my reading of articles and advertisements for runaway slaves in Boston newspapers, it had been clear that a steady trickle made their way northward. They would sneak off in the dead of night, stumbling along as I had when I went out in the pitch dark to hear Peg Leg Joe preach. There were no mass exoduses. Most never dared to leave, but there were safe houses—stations, they were called—for those who did make their way through the Underground Railroad. Peg Leg Joe had mentioned a minister nearby who might guide them on the first stage of their journey.
They would puzzle out the clues in the “Drinking Gourd” song and follow them. I had written the song out so far as I could remember it and kept the paper beneath the desk blotter with my other secrets. It mentioned rivers—the nearest were the Tennessee and the Tombigbee, so perhaps those were the ones alluded to—as well as signposts, such as dead trees marked by Peg Leg Joe. My mouth grew dry as I pictured the route’s hardship, terror, and weariness, at best, and the bullets, whips, chains, and sharp-toothed dogs, at worst. In icy winter the difficulty would be greater.
I suddenly comprehended the opening lines of the song: When the sun come back, when the first quail call, then the time is come. The slaves would not venture out until springtime. I admired and feared for anyone who dared try it, and wondered if I would take the risk were I in their place. My godfather would show no compassion to runaways returned by patrollers.
The nights grew cooler although the days still sizzled. The excitement among the servants flickered out as their lives and unrelenting chores dragged on in the familiar pattern. Peg Leg Joe remained at Wyndriven Abbey. I saw him behind the east wing occasionally, sawing or sanding boards or carrying materials to and fro. Our paths crossed once, and he tipped his hat and eyed me shrewdly.
“Mr.—” I wanted to be respectful, but I didn’t know what to call him. “Peg Leg—”
He smiled and his face suddenly wasn’t so scary. “Plain ole Joe will do, Missy. What I be doing for you?”
I lowered my voice. “I want to help. Is there some way I can help?”
His expression did not change. “You got a hankering to do a little carpentry, Missy?”
“No, of course not. I mean—” There must be code words for my desire to work with the Underground Railroad, but I knew none. How did anyone ever begin to help? How did anyone ever trust anyone?
He raised his eyebrows, waiting. “I keeps you in mind, Missy,” he said softly when I said nothing more, and strode on.
I watched after him, feeling foolish.
Even if Joe chose to trust me, what could I possibly do? I had no more freedom to leave the place than the slaves themselves. More than ever, I realized how isolated I was to be kept.
During the daytime I was surrounded by others, yet I might as well have been alone. It was like the line from the poem “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner”: Water, water every where, nor any drop to drink. People were everywhere, but my only daylight friend was my horse, Lily, until one morning when I sat reading on the veranda.
A yellow-striped cat sauntered up, rubbed himself against my skirt, and immediately took his place in my heart. He truly was a ragbag of an animal, with a torn ear, one eye swollen shut, and splotchy, mangy-looking fur, but he purred loudly and arched his back in the sweetest way and jumped onto my lap to be stroked. I ignored the fleas he was certain to carry and the hairs he left all over my skirt.
Charles and George were across the lawn, bending over something. I carried Buttercup—for that was clearly to be his name—over to them and laughed when I saw they were racing box turtles. They looked sheepish to have been discovered so, but when they saw my pet, their eyes widened.
“This is Buttercup,” I said. “When the exciting race ends, would one of you please bring a saucer of milk and a sardine or something of that sort out to the veranda?”
Charles’s eyes twinkled as he nodded. He joined me by my bench a short time later, with a smelly, fishy snack.
“I would like to bring Buttercup inside and give him a bath,” I told him, “and let him sleep in my bedchamber, but something tells me my godfather wouldn’t like this dear little fellow.”
“No, Miss Sophia, I don’t guess he would. That cat belongs in the stables, you know.”
“I’m sure Monsieur would buy me a monkey or a—a puma or some such thing if I told him I wanted a pet, but I prefer Buttercup.”
Charles paused a moment, wondering, I suppose, if he should allow himself to ask the question. Finally he gave in and asked, “What exactly is a puma?”
“One of those big wildcats. Like a lion, only skinnier, I think.”
He grinned. “Yes, Miss Sophia. I can see the master giving you a puma with a diamond collar. No diamond collars for this poor beast, but I can bring him something to eat every morning right after breakfast—if he sticks around, that is.”
“Oh, thank you,” I said, from the heart. “How good you are.”
And so every morning Buttercup would meet me to receive his milk and meat, and he was a joy and a comfort. My cat and my horse reminded me that I existed during the daytime. From the moment I awoke, I anticipated sunset. As the sultry days cooled into hints of autumn, M. Bernard and I usually spent our evenings by the library hearth, with the dancing flames reflected in his sherry. The glow of the fire lent an intimacy that seemed to give every word we spoke importance, although we never talked deeply upon any significant subject. Monsieur’s easy elegance in his russet velvet jacket and the mellow leather of the book bindings added to the warmth of the atmosphere.
Sometimes I would use a long fork to toast bread and we would discuss our day as we nibbled. Other times I would read to my godfather while he smoked his pipe, or he would read to me as I embroidered, or we would play chess or backgammon or piquet (with me never winning, but I didn’t care a pin for that since I so enjoyed watching Monsieur enjoy winning).
Often I told stories that I spun from tales I had read, interwoven with my own fancies. I reeled them out in serial form, usually leaving the hero or heroine in dire peril to be resolved the next night. During the day I would jot down ideas for later use so my mind would not be blank when Monsieur requested a story. As part of my goal to cheer my godfather, it seemed vitally important to continually pique his interest. This could be tiring as well as stimulating. I understood Scheherazade’s frame of mind as I wondered how long I could last before my powers of invention drained dry.
I allowed my godfather to stroke my hand or bring it up to his lips or his cheek, labeling his caresses his “Frenchities.” Besides being smitten by him, I genuinely liked him, although sometimes there was a look in his eye that made me uneasy. He could be … dangerous. Now, why did that adjective leap to mind? Perhaps because it fit. M. Bernard resembled a tiger—sleek, velvety, smiling, dangerous. And very attractive.
“Tonight,” he said one evening, “we will have some music. You ride well and play chess tolerably, and now I shall hear how you handle the piano.”
I seated myself at the instrument in the music room.
“Have I told you, sir,” I said to him, “that the piano was one of my favorites of all your generous gifts?”
“And what,” he said, from across the room in his chair of straw-colored satin, “were your other favorites?”
“Don’t laugh,” I said, “but I still love the rocking horse and the big doll. I named them Araby and Elodie. I haven’t played with them since I was a child, of course, but I still feel a lingering fondness for them. One does, you know.”
M. Bernard’s lip twitched. “Oh, oui, one does.”
I performed some Beethoven, followed by Schubert.
He applauded. “Brava. My money was well spent on your lessons.” He rose and picked up the cello that rested on its stand in the corner. “Let us attempt a duet. You play well enough to follow me.”
