Dark Shadows: Angelique's Descent

by Lara Parker

  “Sir. I warn you, take no further liberties.”

  “Dear lady, I only desire a stroll through the square on this new morning with a lovely woman on my arm. To me that would be bliss of the rarest kind. Will you at least take a turn with me?”

  His tone was teasing, almost mocking, yet beneath the humor she sensed an eagerness that disarmed her. The brash young boy who had climbed into her curtained chaise so long ago was still there, but when she finally allowed herself to look fully into his face, she saw hidden behind the eyes a tormented urgency that moved her deeply.

  She dipped her head to him and smiled. He took her arm, and they walked through the stalls and out into the quiet square. He led her to a great spreading fig tree beyond the arcade, and they stopped in its shade. The heavy branches formed a roof of silvery leaves that arched above their heads.

  Finally, to break the silence, he said, “You’re up with the sun. Are you shopping so early for your family?”

  Unwilling to reveal that she was a servant, but not wanting to lie to him, she answered, “Yes. I always come early, before the crowds; the better to have my choice.” She smiled at him again, then pulled her eyes away and nodded toward the sea. “Also, I am curious to see what ships have arrived during the week.”

  “Do you look for my schooner?” he asked. She was startled. Could he know that his was the ship she always longed to see?

  “Why would I do that?” she said lightly. “I do not know your schooner, Monsieur.”

  “So, you are from Martinique?”

  “I have lived here all my life.” She could see that the stiff collar cut into his neck and that the red gabardine of his jacket pulled tight over his muscular chest. He had become a powerful man, tall, broad-shouldered, vigorous with energy. His stare was so intense that she felt uncomfortable, and rather than meet his gaze, she placed a hand on the thick gray trunk of the tree and glanced above her head. He followed her eyes up to the masses of green leaves.

  “Oh, look, look where we are,” he said with surprise, leaning in to her, his breath against her cheek. “It is the inside of a cave, a secret hideaway where we could live together and be hidden from the world.”

  The intimation of intimacy was clear, and she should have been offended, but somehow the flirtation seemed harmless enough, completely of the moment, and too pleasurable to cease.

  A breeze lifted the branches, and a spattering of new green leaves floated down though the air. “Ah, yes,” she murmured, feeling giddy, and faintly delirious. “Safe, until the storm.”

  “No, don’t you see how thick the branches are?” he said, brushing a leaf from her shoulder. “This is an old tree, old and wise. I know this tree well. It is a personal friend of mine, and I have had serious words with this tree.” Grinning, he scanned her face for some reaction to his raillery. “It has agreed to shelter us, and protect us, and never reveal to anyone our whereabouts.”

  “And just who is it we are hiding from?” she asked.

  He shook his head slowly, and the smile that crept across his face suggested acknowledgment, as if he had met his match. As he leaned over her, she had a sudden memory of a painting she had once seen in the du Prés library, in a book of reproductions from some European museum: The Soldier and the Maid. She had studied this painting many times and savored all that it suggested. The naive peasant girl, holding her shopping sack against her skirt, looked up at the handsome man in uniform, who was obviously speaking to her in seductive words that stirred her passions and compromised her virtue. It was as if she were suddenly standing within the painting, but the soldier’s intentions were not so transparent, nor the girl so innocent.

  Angelique’s heart was racing from attentions so irresistibly potent, not from just any man, but from the man she had held in her dreams for so many years, the man who, as a boy, had entered her sanctuary, seen through her disguise to the girl she really was, and laughed at her charade.

  He had whispered, “You aren’t really a goddess, are you?” She could feel the ouanga around her neck where the moonstone lay sleeping. He had been charmed by her then, and she had somehow trusted him. And she did now, as he was at this moment drawn to her again. She felt a thousand years of loneliness fade in an instant.

  He crossed his arms and leaned back against the gray tree trunk. “You have not asked me why I am awake so early. Did you think I came for vegetables?”

  “Not at all,” she answered, taking a fruit from her sack and looking down at it. “I thought perhaps you had come for apples.” Her eyes danced, and she bit into the yellow flesh.

  He watched her mouth for a moment. “I did not go to bed at all last night. Life is too brilliant for sleep, don’t you think?”

  “I had a restless night as well,” she said, savoring the taste.

  “Really? Were you with your lover?”

  “No, Monsieur, I have no lover.”

  “Ah, but you will. I can see it in your walk, in your eyes. You are a flame for moths.”

  “And do you compose verses for all the girls?”

  “Poetry does not come easily to me, but then I have never before been truly inspired. What spell have you cast on me, my lady?”

  “Why, none that I am aware of, Monsieur.” She looked at him fully. His eyes lay in such deep hollows, lavender shadows encircled them. She took another bite as he continued.

  “What if I were to tell you that I saw you last night, in the street, beneath the lamp, and you saw me as well. You remember, don’t you? I am only here because, afterward, I could not sleep, but walked along the edge of the sea thinking, ‘My God, what would it be like to be loved by such a woman?’”

  She stopped at these words. “Monsieur! How can you say you have not been to bed when you spent your whole night dreaming?”

  He reached for the apple, took it from her, and brought it to his mouth. “What was it disturbed your sleep?” he asked, chewing his bite slowly.

  “I … don’t think it would interest you.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because … it was not a frivolous affair.”

  “I am even more curious.”

  Once again she felt a wave of trusting warmth. “Very well, I will tell you, sir. I … was called to visit a young girl who was gravely ill. I stayed with her the night, and cared for her, and I … think I was able to…”

  “To save her life.”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you a sorceress?”

  “You jest, Monsieur.”

  “Forgive me. What I mean is, are you skilled in medicine?”

  “My mother had a talent for healing.”

  “And you? Can you heal … with your touch?”

  “I don’t know. Perhaps you can tell me,” she said. She hesitated a moment, thinking it might be imprudent, then placed her hand on his cheek. “Do you feel anything strange?” she asked. Her hand trembled at the prickle of his beard.

  He closed his eyes, the same delicious smile playing over his lips. “Ah-h-h-h … passing strange. Your hand is cool, but where it lies, there is warmth.… I’m certain I feel a tingling—”

  She snatched her hand away, her face burning. He was vainer than she thought and dishonest as well.

  But he only smiled his tender smile, obviously entranced. “I have always heard that the women of Martinique were beautiful,” he whispered, brushing her arm, “but I never knew, until now, how true that was.” He leaned in to her. “Will you let me kiss you?”

  She could smell the sweet odor of apple and longed to lift her face to his. But she pulled away. “You trifle with me, sir, once again,” she said. “You have already kissed my palm.”

  To her surprise he held out his own upturned hand. “Then you must repay the transgression,” he said. She was startled to see how large his hand was, with long, slender fingers. “My hand is yours. Do with it what you will.”

  She placed her own hand beneath his and smoothed his fingers open. She felt she had been holding her breath f
or several minutes, and that her body would catch fire if she moved. Somehow she managed to say, “Perhaps … I should read your fortune.”

  “Please, do…”

  She stared down, thoughts whirling in her mind. Her vision blurred, and she could not look for the truth in the lines. Reading palms was child’s play; she wished to speak words from her heart. “I see a ship far out at sea,” she began, “and great turmoil on deck. You were threatened with death, and you risked your life many times to save your comrades. You suffered greatly, but never abandoned courage, and you were never less than valiant and bold.”

  He stared at her in amazement, then his face clouded. “You could say such things about any sailor, and they would be true.”

  She frowned at his palm, then shook her head. “What?” he asked. “What else?”

  “Seasick?” she asked. “A seasick sailor?”

  He threw back his head and laughed. “How could you know that? That has always been my secret.” He nudged her. “Tell me more.”

  “I see you are impulsive, moody, and there is a temper.” She frowned. “Such irreverence for custom and authority. You like to break the rules.” She looked up and he nodded, urging her to continue. “You are also a born leader, resourceful, generous, and keenly sympathetic to those in difficulty. Tell me? Why are you always so harsh with yourself?”

  His eyes darkened as though she had struck a chord, but he shrugged, feigning indifference.

  “I see another man beneath all these idle jests,” she continued, now looking into his eyes, “one who yearns to explore life’s deepest mysteries … a passion for tenderness which has long gone unfulfilled … and … a hunger for love. You have a tempestuous nature which must not, at all costs, be thwarted. If it flowers in your heart, you will find great happiness.”

  He stared at her, amazed. “Who are you…?”

  “Is it all true?”

  “Not a word of it,” he said softly. But his eyes were glittering, and he seemed to be forcing a smile. “As a fortuneteller, my dear, you are an amateur.”

  “Very well, then, if I do not engage you, Monsieur, I shall be on my way.”

  Barnabas turned pale. “Dear lady, you must believe that I meant no ingratitude. It’s only that … please, please, forgive me. I am a … blundering fool.” He paused, then said, “It is my deepest wish to call on you, and meet your family.”

  Her heart shrank when she heard his offer. “That is impossible,” she said in a tone she hoped was disdainful. “I am afraid you have exhausted any opportunity you might have had to call on me.”

  She turned, but he moved in front of her. “Mademoiselle, you must believe me when I say I meant no unkindness. I was only pretending to think my fortune was ill read. It … it was more accurate than I was willing to admit. I-I know it is all a trick, but—to be truthful—I don’t know how you were able to look so clearly into my soul. Please tell me that I may wait on you, in order that I might demonstrate, from this moment forward, the utmost civility.”

  She looked at his face, the expression so fervently sincere, as the absurd jumble of words tumbled from his mouth, and knew she must tear herself away before she kissed that mouth and humiliated herself beyond all saving. She turned and ran, the sack of apples bouncing against her thighs.

  He watched her go, but this time he did not follow her.

  Twenty-Two

  The carriage finally pulled away, and Angelique turned and went back into the house. It was quiet now, after the family’s hysterical departure for the ball. She climbed the steps to Josette’s room, where stockings, camisoles, petticoats and shoes, ribbons and capes were scattered on the furniture and floor, carelessly strewn about in the excitement of dressing. Automatically, she rearranged the crumpled rugs, smoothed the bed, and collected the discarded articles of clothing, folding them carefully, and storing them in the wardrobe. Going to the vanity, she replaced each piece of jewelry that had been tossed aside. Every item was lovely and whispered of Josette’s enchanted existence: an ivory cameo—a birthday present from her father; the diamond cross—a family heirloom; a necklace of garnets and pearls—ordered from Paris by the countess.

  She realized at this moment how much she envied Josette, who never seemed to notice if something was precious or fine. It was not remarkable that Josette was so loving, for she moved in a world without want, and her actions had no consequences. Even though she was invariably generous and kind, she was still protected by her station, and she carried the unconscious arrogance of the upper classes, the presumption of privilege.

  At first Angelique’s tears only burned behind her eyes and formed a lump in her throat, but as she smoothed the cover of the jewelry case, she saw the dark spots blooming one by one on the pink-satin wrapper.

  She was irritated with herself for succumbing to self-pity. She told herself these were only lifeless objects, but she knew it was not the possessions themselves as much as what they represented, things she so desired: comfort, promise, and most of all, affection.

  Five years she had worked now for the du Prés family as the countess’s maid, and it seemed this would always be her life. She lived each day from dawn to dusk struggling for contentment and seeking to forget the past. The encounter with Barnabas at the market had inflamed her appetite for change. His looks, his words, promised ecstasy, and she was left with only dissatisfaction. Would the joys of love always be denied to her?

  She folded a silken nightdress and placed it on the pillow. Josette attacked her life with eagerness. Each day brought new and unexpected delights, whereas the life of a servant was always one of arranging and preparing the lives of others. The work was invisible, never noticed or appreciated; only the unperformed task received remark. And all the objects one touched, the basin, the quilt, the fork, the shoe, all belonged to another, existed for another’s pleasure.

  Wealth was like a smooth river one floated down, Angelique thought. Josette was always receiving gifts, and she had been given so many presents that day, her birthday, tokens from admirers, friends of André’s, total strangers seeking his goodwill. Some had not even been opened, and others had been exclaimed over and set aside. Josette was not to blame for her casual attitude. She could have any trinket in the shop window, a trinket that was then often discarded without a second thought. The hardest thing for Angelique to bear was this waste—like a piece of sweet cake with only one bite taken, the rest left on the plate.

  About to leave the room, Angelique noticed on the floor the box containing the rejected turquoise gown made by the seamstress in Saint-Pierre. Impulsively, she took the dress from the box and held it to her before the mirror. The color swam to her eyes, setting them aglow. Moments later, she had it on.

  The fit was not perfect, for the bodice was cut small; her breasts swelled at the low neckline, and the waist was so tight she could hardly fasten the hooks. The dress had been made for Josette, who was slimmer, but the gathered sleeves floated off her shoulders, and the skirt, which the countess had not even bothered to uncover, was yards and yards of shimmering fabric, the azure floating in her eyes. She dabbed a bit of Josette’s rosewater on her neck and lifted her hair high on her head.

  * * *

  She did not remember leaving the house. She knew only that moments later she was in the street. The theater was blocks away but she started out, walking in the direction of the ball, trying not to think of what she would say if the family saw her. Gathering determination made her reckless. She didn’t care. She would think of something. She had a right to be there. And she had taken nothing, really, not a ribbon or a jewel, only a dab of cologne and a dress no one wanted. The crickets and little frogs sang in the warm night. Soon she could hear the music, and before many moments had passed, she was in the square.

  The flagged courtyard in front of the theater was crowded with buggies and traps, and horses were tethered to every lamppost. A great gathering of excited and noisy Negroes pressed in at the entrance; they had come to gawk at the blan
cs; békés, who were the only white Creoles descended from old colonials; and mulattoes invited to the ball. The mob parted to let her pass, sighing and murmuring, and seeming not to notice that she had come alone and on foot. She was simply another fine lady to them, she assured herself, and her heart beat faster.

  She trembled at the thought of the countess, or André, catching sight of her, but bright orchestral music and the buzz of voices drifted down to her, drawing her farther. Climbing one of the great curving stairs, her skirt floating over the marble steps, she held her head high. Moving inside one of the arched doorways, she paused a moment in the darkness of the overhang.

  The theater was overflowing with noisy celebrants. All the well-dressed planters and their families were there, but they were overshadowed by groups of dazzling mulatto ladies dressed in lavish gowns that seemed more designed for the Opéra in Paris. Lustrous dark hair was piled high with flowers, and jewels hung at necks and ears. Many of the women, and their equally resplendent escorts, wore masks of feathers or lace, covering their faces, but revealing flashing eyes and painted lips.

  Angelique realized every property owner and merchant in Martinique had received an invitation. André du Prés was notoriously open-minded in such things, mostly because he was shrewd enough to realize it was to his advantage to accept all newcomers in the world of business, whatever their color. But her heart skipped a beat as she caught sight of several people she recognized. They were Monsieur Santurin, his wife, and their two horse-faced daughters, who sometimes came to visit at the du Prés household. Terrified that she would be noticed, she slid into a group of glittering ladies of color; one particularly glamorous matron seemed to notice her uneasiness and gave her a sly wink.

  “Would you like a mask, my dear?” she inquired. “I’m leaving with my escort and have no further use for it. And … it matches your dress.” Angelique looked at the mask. It was made of the iridescent feathers from a peacock’s breast. A mask—such a delicious means of disguise!