Norton, Andre - Novel 23 (28 page)

 
          
 
"It was," Honora broke in. "Oh,
at least Damaris can be trusted on that point. Parton went into the storage
room in the cellar. Those boxes my father-in-law had made to his order in
China
to transport his pieces—they're all
missing!"

 
          
 
"Those huge
hampers!"
Mr. Fowke raised his eyebrows. "That strains your
story even more. The girls could not have moved them. And if they did not, what
help had they?
Field hands?
You know well they would
have buzzed such a story over the Manor long ago."

 
          
 
"I know who took them," Honora
answered flatly. "In time, I shall get them back." The glance at
Saranna was cold and deadly indeed. "But we have a way to settle you. Miss
Stowell. Let me find reference to that pendant in the catalogue and I shall
swear out a warrant for you as a common thief. You cannot brazen this out, my
girl!"

 
          
 
John slid through the doorway as if he hated
to enter a whirlwind of some storm. Honora held out her hand, but it was Mr.
Fowke who stepped swiftly before her and grasped the book the houseman carried.

 
          
 
"I imagine this must be indexed—" he
observed.

 
          
 
Honora's fingers crooked as if she would
snatch the golden volume from him. Then she said with a sullen note in her
voice:

 
          
 
"The jewelry is entered first. There is
not too much of that. The pieces were kept in that single case over
there." She indicated the empty one between the tall windows.

 
          
 
"Well enough." With deliberation,
Mr. Fowke began to turn the pages. Saranna caught a glimpse of small paintings
on them, and heavy block printing. Mr. Fowke turned that page, the second, and
then he looked up.

 
          
 
"There is no mention here, Honora, of a
white jade pendant in the form of a fox—"

 
          
 
Again she paled a little. Her hand caught the
edge of the desk and Saranna thought she swayed, as if Gerrad Fowke's words
were like a blow in the face.

 
          
 
"Then where?" she said in a
half-whisper. Honora's eyes narrowed, she stared straight at Saranna.
"Then—it is true! Every bit of it is true!"

 
          
 
For the second or two during which they locked
stares, Saranna read Honora's fury. And, behind that, something else, fear.
Honora certainly knew something which Saranna did not; perhaps a portion anyway
of Damaris' carefully guarded "secret." And she herself must learn
more in order to protect herself.

 
          
 
"I told you," for the first time
Saranna spoke, "it was a gift." She put up her hand to finger the
smooth jade. Now that she was entirely sure that it was not of Damaris'
reckless giving, her own need for the truth grew even stronger. "Since I
am not a thief, and," she gazed around the room, using Gerrad Fowke's disbelief
as a weapon, "it is so apparent neither Damaris nor I could have cleared
away your treasure, I am going to Damaris—now."

 
          
 
If Honora did make any move to stop her,
Saranna was unaware of it as she swept past John and into the hall, climbing
the stairs with a hope that the key in her reticule could indeed free the
second prisoner.

 
          
 
Saranna half-expected that
Honofa might have sent one of the servants to mount guard at Damaris' door.
But there was no one within the upper hall. Firm of purpose she went to the
door which Mrs. Parton had locked behind the younger prisoner. And, as firmly,
she slipped the key from the wardrobe into the lock.

 
          
 
It went easily enough, but the turning was
more difficult. At first she thought it would not do so at all. But,
reluctantly, the lock gave, and Saranna threw open the door. She did not know
what to expect—Damaris defiant, Damaris afraid, Damaris in tears— But what she
discovered was an empty room and an open window, the lace curtain covering it
billowing into the chamber as a rising wind drove against the house.

 
          
 
She ran to look out.
A
porch—a—?

 
          
 
There was a tree whose outermost limbs needed
pruning, for the tips scraped against the house wall at this point. Had Damaris
somehow made her way down it? Even to consider such a climb made Saranna
slightly giddy.

 
          
 
However, the empty room was evidence enough
that Damaris had made her escape. Where had the child gone? Was she hiding m
the garden, elsewhere in the house? Or had she sought refuge in that hidden
section behind the hedge? Was it Saranna's real duty to raise the alarm?

 
          
 
Even as she considered that, she closed the
window, pulled straight the wind-ruffled curtains. Quickly she crossed the
room, and, again in the hall, she locked the door. Let Honora and Mrs. Parton
believe as long as they might that they had the real mistress of Tiensin in
their custody.
For somehow Saranna believed that Damaris was
now safer than she had been behind that lock.

 
          
 
As she was restoring the key to safekeeping,
Saranna lifted her head and sniflfed. There was a scent growing heavier every
moment, more clearly defined—a strange not unpleasant odor. The odor must come
from around or beneath the opposite door, that of Damaris' Chinese room.

 
          
 
Saranna tried the knob. It was locked, as she
had expected. And, though she lifted her hand to tap softly on the panel before
her, she hesitated. If Damaris had somehow returned to her own private place,
should she disturb her? Such a knocking might well come to the attention of a
servant, be reported to Mrs. Parton.

 
          
 
Once more she groped in her reticule, brought
out the wardrobe key,
inserted
it. This time in vain.
She feared she might break the shaft off in the keyhole if she persisted in
forcing it. Though she pulled the pins out of one carefully rolled braid so she
could set her ear tight against the wood, she could not hear any sound for
several breaths. Then came a distant murmur which rose and fell—not quite a
song, and she could not distinguish any words. What was Damaris doing?

 
          
 
There was something about that cadence which
suggested the younger girl was not indulging in any conversation, rather that
she might be repeating some formal wordage— a prayer? Saranna had a sudden
feeling that she had no right to pry into this secret. She backed from the
door, and returned to her own room.

 
          
 
The tray was gone, and so was Millie. Saranna
took the precaution of locking her door again. Though they knew she had gotten
out, any tampering now with that lock would give her some warning—

 
          
 
Warning of what?
She
paced back and forth trying to think coherently and logically.
Mr. Fowke's attitude—in that she had found support.
His
denial that the collection had disappeared through Damaris' efforts and her
own, while false, was so reasonable perhaps he could impress it on Honora.
At least enough to make her reconsider her immediate plans.

 
          
 
Saranna was almost convinced that she could go
to him with the truth. But from whence had those Chinese come, the ones who had
carried away the hampers? Did they live in the hidden section of the garden,
with the Fox Lady? Her head began to ache. She rubbed her fingers back and
forth just above her eyes where the worst pain centered. If she went downstairs
now, she would have little chance of speaking to Gerrad Fowke alone. Honora
would make sure of that.

 
          
 
And what was Damaris doing? Throwing those
painted wands again, trying to read the future by some superstitious trick? The
heritage Captain Whaley had left his granddaughter might lead now more to her
ruin than her happiness.

 
          
 
Slowly Saranna loosed the hooks of the dress
which had given her so much confidence. As she folded bodice and skirt across
the chair, pulled her faded and much-washed wrapper about her, plucked the pins
from her braids so they swung free across her shoulders, she feverishly
attempted to make some logical plan.

 
          
 
Suppose she were to write another letter to
Mr. Sanders, and this time entrust the missive to Mr. Fowke? She could give the
reason that she— No, tell him the truth! She still had that half-burnt scrap of
paper. With that to show him, she did not think that she
need
worry about him accepting her story. Quickly she went to the table where the
lap desk stood. But when she lifted the lid—no paper, no pens—it had been
emptied! She was still staring down at that emptiness when there
came
a tap at her door.

 
          
 
"Who is there?"

 
          
 
"Me, Miss Saranna—"

 
          
 
Millie.
How far she dared
trust the maid now she had no knowledge.
Would Millie dare to take a
message to Mr. Fowke for her? Or was the girl too cowed by Mrs. Parton to be
relied upon?

 
          
 
When Saranna did open the door, Millie sidled
in. Her arms were piled high with recently ironed underclothing which gave off
the very faint scent of lavender water used in the last rinsing.

 
          
 
Saranna settled in the rocking chair watching
Millie sort, fold, and deftly lay her burden in drawers. The maid did not seem
to want to even look in her direction, but kept her attention fixed on what she
was doing.

 
          
 
She had patted the last petticoat into place
and then arose from where she had been kneeling by the bottom drawer of the
chest. For a moment she simply
stood,
her back
half-turned to Saranna. Then she glanced warily over her shoulder.

 
          
 
"Miss Saranna—" she began, and then
gulped as if she were choking on some word she feared to utter but did not know
how to suppress—

 
          
 
"Yes—?" Saranna tried to show no
agitation in return, keeping her voice calm and even.

 
          
 
"Miss Honora—she
be
very mad at you, with Miss Damaris. She say she goin' to fix that place, get
rid of it—
“ Millie
pointed to the window and Saranna
guessed her meaning.

 
          
 
"The hidden
garden?"

 
          
 
Millie nodded emphatically. "She sent
Joseph downriver. He
have
a letter for a man in
Baltimore
. They come here with guns—kill the foxes,
all of them—and kill people maybe —too—"

 
          
 
"What people?" Saranna demanded.

 
          
 
Millie shivered. Her hands twisted the edge of
her apron, wringing the cloth as if she had it before her straight from the
washboard.

 
          
 
"They say—say there
is
strange peoples
back in that place. Sometimes the
foxes
they be people, sometimes foxes. If they
catches
'em
as foxes they shoot them all for sure; if they catches them as people—they does
that, too. Miss Honora, she says they is all gonna be done away with.”

 
          
 
"When?"

 
          
 
"When the mens comes
from the city—maybe two-three days.”

 
          
 
"Millie, does Mr. Fowke know about this?”

 
          
 
"Maybe not.
I
ain't sure. Miss Honora, she waits ‘til he leaves before she gives Joe the
letter and sends him.”

 
          
 
"Could you get a message to Mr. Fowke?”

 
          
 
Millie appeared to think for a second or two.
"I dunno. That there Nemos—he's Mr. Fowke's groom—he's sweet on Rose an'
comes over a-courtin' after dark. He ain't afraid of the Partons none. Maybe so
he would take such—were you to give him somethin' for his trouble."

 
          
 
"How much?"
Saranna thought of her pitifully thin purse. If she only had the funds which
Mr. Sanders might even now be holding for her!

 
          
 
"Rose, she ain't sure she wants to settle
down none. She's got an eye for pretties. Were Nemos to get him somethin’
pretty, he could make bigger talk with her."

 
          
 
"Pretties—what kind?"
Saranna followed that hint quickly.

 
          
 
"Somethin' to wear
like.
Rose, she does like to go to church dressed so all the men from
the quarters roll eyes wide at her."

 
          
 
But Saranna was almost as destitute of such
"pretties" as she was of money. Her small
store of
treasures were
in the bottom drawer of the lacquered sewing cabinet. She
pulled that open now.

 
          
 
Her mother's miniature painted before her
marriage, a small locket of gold set with a pearl which contained her father's
hair in a tiny braided coil; two rings much too large for Saranna's own fingers
and unsuitable for her state of mourning. And, she drew out the last: the
sandlewood fan, its scented sticks carved into lacy open work. As she spread it
wide, the heavy perfume of the wood was easily detected.

 
          
 
"Would this be a pretty?" Softly she
waved it back and forth. Her mother had cherished it because of its oddity, the
wood from the
Sandwich
Islands
wrought by
some workmen in
Macao
into this trifle. Meant to be used in summer when its strong odor was
reputed to be able to keep mosquitoes at a distance, her mother had never
carried it after they had gone to
Sussex
.

 
          
 
Millie drew nearer and touched a fingertip to
the fan's smooth outer surface.

 
          
 
"Miss
Saranna, that
sure do be such a pretty as Rose never saw before in her live-long days! I
think
Nemos,
he would swim hisself all the way to
Baltimore
were he able to lay that in her hand come
next Sunday!"

 
          
 
"Good enough." Saranna tried not to
regret her proposed bargain. She had such a strong sense of impending danger
that surely a fan, even one so long cherished, was nothing in the way of a
price to pay for help.

 
          
 
"I have to have some paper, and a
pen—" She had already handed Millie the fan and the girl was holding the
wood close to her nose, inhaling its scent in delighted sniffs. "Someone
has emptied my desk while I was gone."