Dark Shadows: Angelique's Descent

by Lara Parker

  “Thank you,” she said, and placed it over her face, slipping the tiny wires behind her ears.

  The dancing began again, and the orchestra was ragged but enthusiastic as it launched into a waltz. Suddenly the entire room was filled with recklessly swirling couples. A slave boy moved through with a tray, and she reached for a cup of rum. Without thinking, she lifted it to her lips and drank it down just as the rollicking melody ceased and the cry went out for the quadrille.

  Suddenly she felt a strong arm about her waist, and an awkward young man pulled her into the long double line which was forming across the hall. It was then she caught sight of Josette surrounded by suitors at the far end of the ballroom. Angelique was loath to be on the floor where she could be seen so easily, but before she could duck away, the music of the slow promenade began, and she was forced to keep her place, to curtsy, cross, and turn again, and again, each time meeting a new partner.

  Somehow in all the riotous brilliance she had missed the scarlet jackets. The tenth time she spun, she saw the brass buttons and the buttonholes stitched with gold before she looked up into the face of the man who was next. She was stunned to see it was Barnabas.

  “Aha! A mystery woman!” he cried when he saw her mask, and he took her hand firmly and marched her down the row. He stepped back and bowed extravagantly to her curtsy, but the moment he looked into her eyes, he recognized her.

  “It’s you!” he said, incredulous. Angelique crossed behind him, swept on by the motion of the dance, and Barnabas continued to follow her with his eyes as she passed farther and farther down the line until the quadrille was finished. Then, in the space of a breath, he was at her side, taking both her hands in his.

  “By God, you won’t run away this time,” he said, “because I will not let you go. Ah, this is a dream! I prayed you would be here.” Violins began to play. “Listen,” he said, “a waltz. And I have you. Dance with me!”

  “No, I do not wish to dance, Monsieur—”

  Her words of resistance were swallowed by the burst of the strings as he whirled her into the crowd. At first she was too nervous to keep up with him, but every time she missed a step, strong as he was, he picked her up and set her down again. The music surged, and the dancers swirled around them. Finally, she abandoned herself to the rhythm and seemed barely to touch the ground. She could feel his body as he held her and the strength of his thighs as he moved. The odor of his body was musky and heady. When it was over she fell against him, drunk with the tempo of the music. Then she looked up at him; he was grinning.

  He led her out onto the balcony, and they stood together, caressed by the balmy night air. “Take off your mask,” he whispered. “I want to see your face.” He reached for the wires and gently pulled them away, revealing her features. As he looked down at her, he began to chuckle to himself.

  “What is it?” she said.

  “I was thinking of the poor girls I’ve abandoned. I signed so many dance cards.”

  “Then go to them.”

  “I want to be here with you.”

  “There are not many balls in Martinique, and—”

  “I have a secret to tell you. When I saw you for the first time, late the other night, beneath the tavern lamp, I followed you home.”

  “Did you? I am shocked, sir. What did you see?”

  “I watched you go in the side door of your house. I waited to catch a glimpse of you, and I was rewarded with the sight of you at your window, braiding your yellow hair in the candlelight.”

  “You should not have spied on me. Why did you do that?”

  “Let me ask you something. Do you believe it is possible to fall in love at first sight?”

  “I believe it is possible for some, Monsieur. However, I’m afraid that love and I are not happily acquainted. In fact, we are bitter enemies.”

  “Enemies? Really? Aha!” He drew back and stood at mock attention. “At last, I have my calling. I will become your champion, and it will be my duty to vanquish all your foes.”

  “And if love be the only adversary I own?”

  “Then I shall force love to submit, bend to my will, or I shall run love through.” His eyes were dancing as he made a thrust with an imaginary sword, his arm brushing her skirt before he placed his weapon in an invisible sheath.

  “So you would murder love to possess it?” she asked.

  “Yes. If that’s what is necessary.”

  “But … then you are left with nothing,” she observed. And she was sobered by her own words.

  “Or, everything…” he whispered, leaning in to her. At that moment she had a vision of another face burnished by the sun, a face she had tried to forget.

  Barnabas cupped her chin in his hand. “Oh, you are puzzling. What is it about you … secretive … fascinating. Something mysterious sleeps in you. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you.”

  Images of Thierry, struggling to hold the gunwale of the boat, the slimy sea empty of life, the Evil One in his dark chariot, flashed though her mind. What had she done? She had been so immersed in the delights of flirtation, she had forgotten her dire constraints. Selfishly, she had allowed Barnabas to pursue her, and now he was in grave danger. With a sinking heart, she realized she could continue this insanity no longer.

  “What you see in me is something you should fear,” she said quickly.

  “As one always fears, and longs for, a new adventure.”

  “What if I were to tell you that I am … that I am not what you believe me to be.”

  “What I believe? I don’t know what I believe. I know if I were to dream of a woman, in all her beauty and mystery, that woman would be you.”

  “I am not like the other girls in Martinique. I was not raised in the common way.” She struggled for clarity, but her thoughts were blurred by his closeness. She felt him place his arm around her waist.

  “I already know there is no one like you.”

  “You speak of love,” she blurted out, “but could you love a sorceress?”

  “A what…?” He leaned back to look at her more clearly.

  “It is true,” she said breathlessly. “You even asked in jest if I were … that strange creature. Your instincts were right. You must believe me when I tell you that because of … certain restraints on my actions … I-I have been forbidden…” She stopped, floundering in the awareness that her words were meaningless to him. How could she explain the Dark Spirit who guarded her, especially when he, Barnabas, who was flesh and blood, was staring down at her, obviously smitten.

  “You aren’t really a sorceress, are you?” he said, and his arm tightened.

  “But I am. I have traveled to the farthest vistas of the mind. I have performed spells that would terrify you.”

  His black eyes shone; he was intrigued. “Tell me one thing you have done and see if I am frightened,” he challenged.

  She hesitated a moment, thinking of the horrors she could never reveal, but knowing she must warn him away. Finally she said, simply:

  “I possess the power to make fire.”

  He sucked in his breath and drew her to him. “You have already done that, my lady,” he whispered. Her words had only aroused him. He lifted her against him, molding her body to his, and kissed her neck, breathing in the perfume of her skin, then, clumsily at first, and then more insistently, he found her lips and kissed her softly, deeply, with such longing that she thought her heart would break.

  She was not aware of the murmuring crowds gathering outside on the terrace until she finally opened her eyes, breathless, her head reeling. There were excited voices, and several hands pointing toward Pelée, the volcano. She turned, afraid of what she would see. Orange gases tumbled from the top of the mountain, and explosions of sparks traced the heavens.

  “Look,” Barnabas whispered. “Pelée is breathing fire!”

  “The god is turning over!” a woman cried.

  A man shouted, “He is angry that he has been awakened.”

  Angelique
felt a shiver race though her body.

  “The god? Of the volcano?” Barnabas asked the man.

  “The god who guards the entrance to the underworld,” he answered. “Baron Cimetière. The god of death.”

  There was a sudden clap of thunder, and the sky was rent with brilliant arcs. Angelique’s stomach clutched as she saw lava pouring down from the lip, radiant rocks tumbling in sparks and flashes of fire.

  Barnabas was enchanted. “Look at it! Amazing! How does it happen?”

  “Don’t you know?” she said, trembling against him.

  “I have no idea.”

  “These islands are all tips of volcanoes,” she said. Somehow she had to find a way to tell him, but other words fell from her lips. “… mountains of a land beneath the sea, with meadows of sea grass and forests of coral…” He was watching her, spellbound. Why was she suddenly talking to him about the places she loved? “And … living in that world are the most beautiful creatures on earth.” Her voice broke. “But beneath, there is a dark sanctuary, where Pelée lingers.”

  “What makes him so angry?” he asked, indulging her.

  “Because … I am here, with you,” she said, and her eyes filled with tears.

  “I can see his fire glowing in your eyes. Ah, now I understand. He is envious, longs for you as I do, burns with the same desire…”

  “Your ridicule mocks sincerity, Barnabas. What I say is true!”

  He pulled her against him. “I believe you. Don’t they say the gods envy mortals when they fall in love? This is the happiest night of my life!” Once again, his youthful fervor, his bold self-assurance, swept him past her vague words of caution.

  “You must not tempt me, Barnabas,” Angelique said finally. “I must never fall in love.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  She struggled to speak, but her words were only enigmas. “Everything … in the world has its shadow. Grief … is love’s reflection. Love is not for me, Barnabas. I learned that a long time ago.”

  “But you are so beautiful. You were made for love.”

  At that instant, she heard a familiar voice and turned to see Josette moving toward the balcony, two young men bending over her, whispering.

  “It’s too late,” Angelique cried desperately. “You must leave me alone. It’s too late!” And she turned and ran down the stairs and away from him, into the night.

  Twenty-Three

  The next afternoon, Angelique was upstairs in Josette’s room repairing the petticoat to Josette’s gown. Someone had stepped on the ruffle during the waltz and torn the hem. Angelique smiled to think that she and Josette had danced to the same music, and Josette had never known she was there. Angelique had returned early, before the family, and replaced the blue dress safely in its box. Her stolen evening was now a dream—a dream that would have no repercussions, and would never come to fruition. Still, she allowed her mind to linger on the pleasant memory, and she trembled when she recalled Barnabas’s insistent kisses.

  She heard voices downstairs, men’s voices, and noted absently that André was receiving visitors. André maintained the du Prés plantation, but his real fortune was derived from his carefully timed loans to other planters. He was a shrewd investor and creditor to new landowners with reckless schemes that often failed, resulting in foreclosure on their property. Or, if their hogsheads finally shipped, he was repaid with high interest. However, Angelique had lived with the du Prés family long enough to know that André had a grave fault. He dearly loved to gamble, just as the man she had once believed to be her father, Theodore Bouchard, had done. Sometimes male visitors to the house came to collect on André’s flagrant debts, livres lost forever at the table.

  The ruffle was voluminous, and Angelique was sewing swiftly when she pricked her finger. Fearful that she would stain the white cotton, she rose and, sucking on her finger, wandered into the hall and casually leaned over the railing. André was talking with his visitor in the foyer, and when she saw the scarlet jacket, her heart jumped. Barnabas was here!

  Of course, he knew where she lived. He had followed her the first night he had seen her, and now he was making good his request. He had come to call on her. At once she knew whatever vague hopes she may have harbored were dashed forever. She was startled to see that she was gripping the railing with both her hands. Her knuckles were a bloodless white.

  As the two men entered the drawing room she could hear André sputtering effusively, “By my word, the Collinses! Absolutely I know of you, sir, and of your family, renowned in these islands, not to mention yourself, Mr. Collins. Why I should say you are something of a hero, are you not? Escaped from filibusters! I should love to hear that story! Bécè!” He was calling his houseboy. “Brandy! In the drawing room.”

  Angelique crept down the stairs silently and listened outside the drawing-room door. André and Barnabas were discussing the war in France.

  “They’ve done it, haven’t they? Poor Louis is gone! The best of kings and that most humane man, led to the scaffold by the ferocity of his people.”

  “And France has not known tranquillity since.”

  “The guillotine! My God, what a horrific scene that must have been. Did you know they want to bring one of the damned contraptions to Guadeloupe? An invention of the Devil!”

  “And yet, in Martinique, sir, trade flourishes, now that the British are threatening to take over. Our ships have even been offered safe passage only until then.”

  “What a pathetic showing we will make. Don’t you think? Martinique will fall without a whimper. I myself couldn’t care less. I have been furious with the Republic. They have always thought the colonies existed for the benefit of the home country. You’ve settled your disputes over the divine right of kings. Ours are only just beginning.”

  “It seems calm enough here.”

  “It is the calm that precedes a hurricane.”

  “But last night’s ball was the height of carefree gentility.”

  Angelique felt nausea in the pit of her stomach. She leaned against the wall to steady herself.

  “Were you there?” André exclaimed. “Brilliant gathering, if I do say so myself. The theater was a splendid venue, all lit up like that.”

  “Even Pelée provided spectacular fireworks.”

  “Glorious! And it didn’t cost me a cent! It was the volcano paying tribute to my daughter on her birthday.”

  “Oh, yes, your daughter, Monsieur du Prés. I believe I danced with her. Does your daughter take after you, sir?”

  “In what way?”

  “Has she blue eyes?”

  “No, no, Josette’s dark eyes come from her mother, God rest her soul. My daughter is chestnut-haired and uncommonly pretty—a delightful creature, the joy of my heart, and developing splendidly. She’s had all the best tutors, that sort of thing—every decent influence a young lady would have had in Paris. Would you stay, Mr. Collins, and dine with us?”

  “It would be a pleasure.”

  “Marvelous to have a gentleman from America to discuss the political scene. You and I must go hunting. I have some fine new pistols. And I’d like you to meet Josette. I must warn you. You might very well fall in love with her.”

  “Do you have another girl in this house, who was also at the ball? With yellow hair?”

  Angelique felt her throat tighten as André responded.

  “No, only one, only Josette, I’m afraid. But I am certain you will be charmed with her. There is a servant girl with light hair, Angelique, but she did not accompany us to the ball.”

  When she heard this damning sentence, Angelique felt her knees go weak.

  “A servant girl.” So now he knew, and that was the end of her little ruse. She told herself she didn’t care. She herself had rejected him, pushed him away out of fear. Even if she had not, he would most likely have used her to his own advantage, as wealthy young men are bound to do, and cast her aside. It was fortunate that he had learned of her station before she weakened and succumbed
to any further advances. She could hear André’s voice droning on the subject of sugar cane.

  “We need an inexhaustible stock of human machinery to harvest these crops.”

  Servants, she thought. Necessary to spin out their masters’ fine lives. Indispensable, invisible. And between those servants and their masters lay an ocean that could never be crossed. Enmity for her station stung her heart, and the old anger flared in her breast. Had she the wealth and the name, she would have marched into the drawing room and rejoiced at Barnabas’s face when he saw her.

  “How much longer before you will be forced to free your slaves?” Barnabas asked.

  “Who knows?” answered André. “The river of brown blood runs deep, and grows broader every day. At times, my boy, I despair. Life is a transitory commodity to be ended in violence or prolonged in pain.”

  This last remark Angelique overheard seemed a woeful prophecy, spoken from her own soul.

  * * *

  She remained in her room during dinner, as she had not the strength to risk seeing Barnabas. Only once did she pass by the door to the dining room, on her way out to the kitchen. André was telling the story of his life, and his voice was warm with rum.

  “My grandfather was a refugee, landed in Dominique with fifteen francs in his pocket. Today, my plantation alone is worth a hundred and sixty-seven thousand.”

  “To what do you owe your success?” Barnabas inquired politely. It was Josette who answered the question.

  “Prudence, caution, and temperance,” she said in a bright voice. “My father has always said that judgment and character are the deciding factors in acquiring a fortune, not the ups and downs of the sugar market.”

  “Shall I tell you my secret?” André added. “I never lend money to planters with colored heirs!”

  Everyone laughed heartily.

  Later that evening, as she was lighting the lamps, Angelique noticed that the oil in the hall lantern was low, and went to fetch the needed fuel. Opening the gate to the outdoor shed, she glimpsed a young man standing on the street in front of the house.