Velvet Shadows (14 page)

In Mrs. Pleasant's grip Victorine still fought. But the older woman was even able to clap one hand over the girl's mouth, reducing her cries to muffled sounds.

“Over there.” Mrs. Pleasant gestured with her head.

“The bottle on the shelf. Sprinkle a few drops on a handkerchief and hold it to her nose—quickly!”

Victorine's struggles were now so violent she dragged Mrs. Pleasant back and forth. I hastened to obey. But when I turned back, bottle and cloth in my hands, she stopped fighting. Above Mrs. Pleasant's muffling hand her eyes lost that feral glare which so frightened me.

“She is better now. Victorine, I do not want to use this, I only wish to help you. If we let you go, will you be quiet, listen to us—please?”

She nodded. Mrs. Pleasant released her. But, though the girl did not scream, nor try to attack me again, there was still something in her expression which did nothing to relieve my fears. She now regarded us with the kind of arrogance one in full authority might affect toward menials with whom she planned to deal in her own fashion and in her own time.

Still saying nothing, she glanced from me to Mrs. Pleasant. One hand went to her throat, lay across the serpent necklace, either to shield it from sight, or as one touches a talisman to gain courage.

Then, speaking in a stern voice, Victorine repeated a phrase of what sounded utter gibberish to me. Mrs. Pleasant looked faintly amused. I knew that I was witnessing a battle of wills on a plane I did not understand. One to which Victorine had come with full confidence, and from which she expected only victory. Once more those strange sounds issued from her lips with the cadence of a ritual chant.

Mrs. Pleasant pointed to the hand Victorine had folded about her serpent necklace. Now she replied with a phrase which she did not speak loudly, yet her intoned words drowned out Victorine's chant.

I saw the girl silenced. She shivered, both hands raised protectingly over her serpent. Her expression became that of a trapped animal, her eyes no longer steadfast on her opponent, but darting from side to side. She might be in a cage, frantically seeking escape.

Mrs. Pleasant stepped back toward the door. Before she touched the knob she reached inside her seam pocket,
brought out what looked to be a common piece of chalk. To my surprise she stooped, to draw on the drab strip of carpet a series of figures as crude as a small child might make. Then, never glancing at me, she quietly left, shutting the door behind her.

Victorine stumbled to the bed, more fell on it than sat. She raised her hands to her face, covering her eyes. Believing she was weeping, I went to her. The purpose and meaning of that exchange, of Mrs. Pleasant's final action, were mysteries. But if Victorine would turn now to me perhaps some good could be gained from this terrible night.

Tentatively I put out my hand to touch her shoulder. She shivered, dropped her hands to look up at me. With her darkened skin she was so unlike the Victorine I knew it was like facing a stranger. Also there was a subtle, unpleasant alteration in her expression.

“Tamaris—Tamaris who is always right, always correct, always the lady!” Her voice was very low. “Tamaris!” She pointed a finger at me in an odd fashion, as if she so indicated me to something unseen now sharing this room with us.

But that was only a morbid fancy, though I found myself looking around.

“You have interfered grievously, Tamaris. So the black cock shall crow for you, and the white shall die. Though perhaps that you will not see. And He Himself”—her hand went once more to that sinister necklace, her fingers stroked the enameled scales—“shall come forth from the grave to—”

“Victorine!” I interrupted that eerie singsong. “What nonsense are you saying?”

She smiled. And for the first time I understood how a smile could be more terrible than a frown.

“You do not know, do you? But
she”
—now she pointed to the door—“does. She thinks she knows so much. But beside Christophe's knowledge hers is nothing!” Victorine made of the last word a passionate cry.

Fancies—my mind was too full of strange fancies, born of this dreadful night. Was this voodoo, this belief in the
dark spirits from the unknown continent of Africa, grafted within the new world by slaves who needed to call up all possible vengeance against those who held them in bondage? Was voodoo at the core of Victorine's danger? Had she willingly, or under the influence of others, become so enmeshed in the wicked belief that she turned from those of her own blood and race, appearing now in spirit, as she did with her darkened skin, to belong to another people?

In spite of myself I shrank back a step. Once more she smiled in that hateful way.

“You begin to feel it, do you, Tamaris? Already you sense the power of the Great One. Shall I make you a `horse’ for the riding—so that a Loa can enter your body and wear it as you do a dress, use it as you would a piece of clothing? When that Great One leaves you, you must face what
you
have done, and with whom! Do you think my brother would then allow you to so much as touch the sole of his dirty boot? You watch him with those great eyes of yours, you think nobody knows your silly little secret—that you have a liking for him. But after a Loa is through—you shall be as the mud of the gutter. The Great One likes such sport with those who deem themselves ‘good.’” The word “good” she uttered as if it were an obscenity.

Now she leaned closer and began to speak with some of her old vivacity. But such talk. She used foul words I did not understand, then would smile evilly, or laugh, and define them. I covered my ears, but that did not stop her talking, smiling, laughing—

This—this was not Victorine! The old tales of possession by evil spirits might thus be proven true. No young girl could have learned the filth she spouted as she swayed back and forth, her hands clasped about the serpent.

How long that continued I could never afterward remember. Finally the door opened and Mrs. Pleasant returned. Seeing her, Victorine was silenced. I was crying from overwrought nerves, the fear of the
thing
which seemed to me to be now wearing Victorine's body.

Mrs. Pleasant carried a tray on which sat a decanter
of ruby Bohemian glass and two small glasses. She put this down on the chest of drawers.

“I have received a message. Unfortunately Mr. Sauvage has not yet been located.” As she spoke she poured from the decanter into the glasses. “He is being diligently sought by those who have reason to be grateful to me. There has been much trouble on one of his properties, stirred up by someone who wanted him away from this city. As soon as he is found he will be brought here.”

Picking up the nearest glass, she brought it to me. “Drink this. You will find it will revive your nerves.”

I was so haunted, so sickened in mind, that I obeyed her without question. I was sipping again that drink she had said was distilled from clover.

“Now to sleep with you. No”—she caught the anxious glance I turned upon Victorine—“you need have no worries here. She will be very safe.”

It was as if I had not known a bed for days. I staggered toward the one she showed me and fell across it without even removing my clothing. Before my eyes closed entirely I saw Victorine standing, Mrs. Pleasant gripping her arm firmly. That utterly hateful smile was back. The girl raised her free hand, fingers spread widely apart. Between those she spat at me, as if she threw some curse and such hate as I could not believe that I had aroused in anyone.

Perhaps some of that ill-will did follow me into sleep. For my dreams were such as to bring me, panting in terror, to half-wakefulness. Though I could not remember what had frightened me.

And each time I so awoke I was only vaguely aware of the room in which I lay, as if the dream had been more real. Then I would slip back, in spite of my feeble struggles, to face some ordeal again. When I roused the third time it was day. Someone shook my shoulder and I looked up into a face I knew, but which I was too sleep-drugged to put name to.

“Miss! Miss!” There was urgency in the voice so I finally fully roused.

“Submit?”

“Miss—listen—” She fell to her knees by the bed so that her whisper sounded closer to my ear. “There is trouble, big trouble.
She
says you must help—”

Abruptly I sat up. Someone had thrown a cover over me but I still wore my underclothing, though my dress had been removed.

“What is the matter?”

“You got to help, miss. Wake up—listen!”

“I am awake and listening.” I looked around. Victorine was nowhere in the room.

“Where is—?”

“Please—no time to talk now. Listen—
she
says—put on this!” Submit brought a bundle up from the floor, shaking it out to display a flannel nightgown made for someone who wore a garment several sizes larger than mine.

“But first—”

She dropped that fantastic robe on the bed and turned to a small table where a sponge, towel, and basin waited. “Let me wash you. Hurry, miss—there ain't much time.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

She was quick and deft. I saw the sponge show brown where she bathed away my skin stain. When that was done she produced a nightcap, tied it firmly on, and then pulled the gown over my head.

So far I had not asked questions because there was such an urgency in her actions. But now I said, “You must tell me why—”

“There is a man, he come lookin’ for a girl. We show him girl who is sick in bed. He sees she's not girl he's lookin’ for—he goes away.”

Christophe D'Lys? But how had he tracked us here and why was Mrs. Pleasant allowing him inside her door? Had Célie talked once we were gone? And for me to play a role—I was sure I could not. Though I had no time to
protest and, even if I did, Submit was not the one to whom to do so.

She emptied the stain-tainted water into a slop jar. A moment later thrust the towel and sponge into the wash-table cabinet and slammed shut the door.

“
She
says to tell you that the young lady is safe hid. But if he sees a sick girl, then he think those who tell him things are wrong. He won't hang ‘round watchin’. You is sick, miss—remember now—real sick.”

As I slid down in the bed, the voluminous folds of the gown wrapped around me, I wished I could pull that garment up over my head also. However, the best I could do was to turn my face away from the door and hope to present the passive appearance of a bedridden sufferer. The room was none too light, as the single window was some distance away.

“Remember”—Submit paused beside me to deliver a last hissing whisper—“you is real, real sick!”

I needed no such reminder. I
was
sick, from nervous fear, my chilled body shivering. For the moment I could only lie and wait, praying my ordeal would be quickly over.

My hearing, perhaps because I strained to catch the slightest sound, was acute. I picked up now the thud of footsteps in the hall, knew those approached my door. That was flung open, and I lay so tense my muscles ached with strain. I must remain passive, outwardly unmindful of what was happening.

“You see, massa”—Submit's voice, humble as I had not heard it before, slipping back into the speech of the slave days when she had been property, not a person—“this here's the girl. She's one of them who entertains the gentlemen, but she's mighty sick. You can see that for yourself, massa—”

I held my eyes closed. The tread neared the bed. Then my chin was cupped by a hand, my head turned. I was startled enough to open my eyes and so found myself looking straight up into a face I shall never forget. Though I had better reason later to have it etched into my memory for all time.

This was the young man I had seen with Victorine on the balcony. He was handsome with a delicacy of feature which was almost feminine. But the narrow line of mustache, the small, pointed imperial on his chin, proclaimed his sex. His brows slanted oddly above his most arresting feature, his eyes. They were unlike any other human eyes I had ever seen for their color approached amber yellow, with the pupils abnormally large and dark.

My rising fear led me to better acting than I might have produced otherwise. I gave a little moan, closed my eyes against that piercing regard which raked over me as if he searched not only for my identity but for my very thoughts.

He withdrew his hand and I allowed my head to roll away on the pillow.

“You see, massa—this here's like no girl you was askin’ for. Mrs. Pleasant, she ain't gonna take kindly noways to your comin’ in to see if we're tellin’ lies.” Submit was fast sloughing off her humbleness. I deduced from that she believed our ordeal near its end.

“I shall speak with your mistress in due time.” He had a trace of accent.

At least he
was
going. I heard the door close, the sound of footsteps retreating down the hall. Then I sat up in bed. The sooner Victorine and I were out of this house the better. Surely Alain must be found by now, on his way to us. With his arrival the whole nightmare would be over. I had no doubt Alain Sauvage would be well able to handle Christophe D'Lys.

Submit had not returned as I completed dressing, fastened my hair into order. But when I tried the door I found that locked. Had Submit done so that no one might intrude? But even if it were done for my own protection I resented it. We must get away. Christophe D'Lys was not one to give up easily, I suspected. And how far Mrs. Pleasant was willing to go to hide us was another question.

I began to speculate as to what did lie behind her efforts for us. She had stated she owed a debt to my father; that I could believe. But she owed Victorine nothing. And—If only Alain were here!

Wishing was not going to bring him. Until he did arrive
the responsibility for Victorine was mainly mine. I could not shift the burden to Mrs. Pleasant. So my first duty now was to find Victorine and hope she would be more reasonable.

This was no time to wring one's hands and call upon Heaven after the witless fashion of those heroines of a novel. Rather this was a moment to summon my own courage and fortitude, to think clearly.

The mere act of dressing was wearying, and I realized I was very hungry. It was then that I saw a tray bearing covered plates on top of the chest of drawers.

What I found when I lifted those covers was an odd mixture, as if someone had rummaged among the remains of a banquet. There was a crab shell stuffed with meat mixed with sauce, garnished with a sliver of hard-boiled egg. Some beans appeared cold in another savory dressing, a slice of ham beside them. And there was also a pecan tart. An odd collection for breakfast, but, as all which I had been served in this house, expertly prepared so I ate to the last crumb. The glass of wine I did not touch. Perhaps the clover cordial had produced my earlier drowsiness. I wanted nothing now to dull my wits.

So heartened I faced the problem of getting out of the room. Submit had not returned, and there was no visible bell pull nor button. Short of hammering on the locked door, or calling out the window, I saw no remedy.

Curiosity drove me to a closer inspection of the room itself. I was cautious about approaching the window. There was a curtain across the panes but the material was thin. It would not do for any watcher below to see a “sick” girl moving about. I was taking pains to avoid passing close to that when chance led me to a new discovery.

Though I had put on my stoutest shoes before I began this expedition those had never been intended for such hard usage as the past hours demanded. As I turned, a loose heel caught in the carpet, throwing me against the wall. And under my right hand a panel moved!

Startled, I pushed away in haste. But the pressure I exerted to do that made the opening even larger. When I faced about I saw a low narrow doorway.

A few cautious experiments proved that this hidden door opened so easily I could not believe it concealed a forgotten way. And the age of the house was not such to suggest those ancient passages intended to make a reader's flesh creep. Since there was no latch or fastening on either side I thought I dared explore, at least for a short way. But the bulk of my skirt was too much to enter such a narrow passage.

Greatly daring, I discarded my bustle, the draped skirt of my dress, pulling my cloak about me for decency's sake. Arming myself with a candle, I ventured in. The passage
was
narrow. I had been well advised to shed my clothing first.

The way ran, as far as I could determine, for a short distance paralleling the hallway. Then I came to a steep stair where the flickering candle was of little assistance. Here I moved with the utmost caution, feeling for each step slowly.

I descended so to the second floor, hoping there to find an exit. A murmur of voices halted me abruptly. Shielding my candle, I eyed the dark before me carefully. Now I saw a glimmer of light and crept to a peephole. Though my view was very restricted, I found myself looking into the very parlor where I had stayed on my first visit to this house.

The chairs before the fireplace were well within my range of vision and those I saw so clearly I was sure my vantage point had been planned to focus on them.

Not only could I see, but I could hear. And sheer astonishment held me rigid.

Mrs. Pleasant sat in the chair in which I had seen her, gracious and hospitable, a gentlewoman entertaining a morning caller. She radiated sympathy.

Facing her, in the other chair, was a woman who was far from any ease of body or mind.

Mrs. Beall!

Though she wore a dress plain enough to be the street garb of a working woman, and a bonnet of the same old-fashioned shape Mrs. Pleasant favored, its heavy veil now flung back to reveal her haunted face, I knew her past any
mistaking. That face which had owed so much to skillful art was ravaged, aged. She might just have tottered forth from her bedchamber after a serious illness.

“I tell you, this cannot continue!” Her voice was hoarse as if she had spent long hours crying. Just so her eyes were red, their lids puffed and swollen. “She is—she—is—”

“What she is,” Mrs. Pleasant said quietly.

“What I have made her, is that what you would tell me now?” Mrs. Beall twisted her hands convulsively together. “I swear to you I had no choice! It was all the fault of that vicious lottery. I was so desperate. Jaime had died so suddenly, there was no one I could turn to. Mr. Sauvage had made it plain he would do nothing further for me—not after he learned about Jaime. Then everyone began talking about this wonderful chance for gold in America—a lottery of shares, only those who wanted them had to come here to claim them. The Emperor himself was taking a chance, they said.

“Jaime's brother came to me with money to buy a share. I believed he meant it for my good. It was only later that I understood—they were afraid, Jaime's family, that I would make a claim for Victorine—cause a scandal.

“Jaime had asked them on his death bed to make provision for me, but that I was never told then. They thought if I remained in France I could—I did not know.
Bon Dieu,
how could I know that those in power planned another use for those cursed shares—to rid themselves of anyone who might prove to be a problem. In the old days French kings had their
lettres de cachet
—you could obtain one of those by favor, use it to remove an enemy, imprison him without trial for life.

“And Jaime's family used the share in the same way to do away with me—send me overseas to starve, or rot. What did they care?

“For a little while I dared to believe that I was fortunate.” She laughed wildly. “I took Victorine to my cousin—to expose so young a child to the dangers of such a voyage would be wrong. I would make my fortune here and then return for her. All would be well for us again. I dreamed like the fool I was—how I dreamed!

“Then when I reached here came the awakening. The lottery was a hoax, there was nothing at all. Me—to keep breath in my body I became—no, I will not say it! I, who was a lady of quality, of name—what was I here? Something my kin would draw their skirts aside lest they touch mine. I knew I must forget Victorine, who was at least safe, forget who I had been—

“You found me in that cursed house, gave me hope and a new life. I was no longer ‘Fifi,’ no, again I was safe—almost. But I could not go home—it was too late. I sent money secretly, and I heard from time to time—Victorine was well, she was happy. Then the Sauvages heard of her. What could I do, save wait for the day when life would again crash about me, push me back into the shine. I saw her—and she knew me, knew me with hate. I could read that in her face, her eyes. She wrote to me, those little notes, each aimed like a knife point at my heart. She—she had become something which is—I cannot find the words to say what she now is. Only when I look into her face, under that angel seeming, I see evil, that hateful devil which lurks in her. And I wait—for what I do not know—save that for me it will be disaster!”

Mrs. Beall's fingers twitched. As she had earlier broken her fan, now she tore a handkerchief into strips, unaware of what she did. I was too astounded by what I heard to think, I could only listen.

“James—he has been very good to me. He is proud of me—
me,
who was what I was when you found me, took me out of that den and gave me fresh hope. One dreams of romance when one is young. One says one ‘will die for love’ or some such nonsense. But me, I would rather die right now than let James ever know the truth of my past, all that I did and was! And if
she
continues to watch, to prick me with her demands—that I shall do, I vow it! I have given her all that I can. To give her my jewels, or sell those to raise money, would make James suspicious. He notices such things more than most men. He takes pleasure in seeing me wear the gifts he has given me.

“Henry is not my friend. I have known that from the first. He watches me, strives to find some story to my disrepute
to report to his father. I have been so cautious, so circumspect. You cannot believe how I have had to weigh every word, every act, while James is away so that no tales can be carried. For years it has been so—and now this! I cannot stand much more. If
she
wants my death, she shall have that. For I am wrung out of strength—I who have endured so much—”

The note of hysteria which had been in her voice earlier was gone. But now one could hear the determination of a woman who had made a decision, see that in her face. I believed Mrs. Beall meant exactly what she said, that she proposed to choose death over a life which had become unendurable.

Mrs. Pleasant leaned forward, caught those frantically plucking hands in her own, held them still as she looked directly into the other's eyes.

“You shall do nothing, do you understand—nothing! No more will be asked of you. Action on the part of others will remove the danger you fear. I mean this. You are to go home; there you will say you are ill. Lizzie will bring you a potion from me to soothe your nerves, give you a restful sleep. I have stood your friend before, I shall again now. What is past is gone and forgotten. No one shall stir ashes to raise a ghost. Go home, sleep, do not fear. You have my promise of protection.”