Dark Shadows: Angelique's Descent

by Lara Parker

  Josette, oblivious to Barnabas’s secret life, never ceased chattering happily about her courtship. How bitter it was to see happiness in another’s eyes. As a result of Josette’s innocent confidences, Angelique became aware that Barnabas had never even kissed her, and contempt soured Angelique’s heart. Custom and propriety dictated that even an engaged couple never be alone together.

  Barnabas rose and stood wide-legged on the precipice, his magnificent body silhouetted against the air, the waterfall flowing over him. Angelique was moved again to pity and rage. His beauty seduced her, but his insensibility to her agony wrenched her heart. As she watched him she had a flash of how easy it would be to send him to his death. How vulnerable he was, balanced there on the brink of life, unconscious of any danger, oblivious to any thoughts she might have. She could see from the arrogance of his stance that he felt he was a god looking down on the world.

  She stepped over and placed her body behind his, leaned against him, and reached around, threading her fingers through his thick body hair. Once again the feeling came. One quick shove and he would be gone, tumbling to his death in this lush, dark wilderness. No one would ever find him, and he would torture her no more. She trembled with the thought and caught her breath, loosening her hands and placing them against his back. Then he turned, pulled her to him, and kissed her, and the falling cascade tumbled over them both.

  As daylight waned, they lay in the grass while Angelique watched reflections flowering on the still surface of the lake. Somewhere in her deepest mind she remembered the Bokor saying, “Can you achieve indifference? I think not. You will cling to life and always ignore the death it springs from. You will seek love, and it will turn to jealousy, then revenge, because deep beneath all your rainbow colors is a dark pool of despair, and because your way is the way of desire.”

  She had never understood what he had meant. She only knew he was speaking of the magic she had rejected. All that was in the past. Now she was glad that she had chosen the ordinary life, free of sorcery, that she had renounced her powers and sent the Devil away forever. Indifference? She could never be indifferent to the joys of passion. The long, lonely years were over. All she knew was that she had found love, and that was all she would ever want.

  “Look,” she said, “there are two of everything. First—the clouds floating, then the rising peaks, repeating themselves in the water.”

  “Ah, yes,” he said. “You are right—the lake is a mirror.” All along the edge, the dark shapes drew from the dimpled sheen, their other selves.

  “What do you see?” she asked him.

  “Hm-m-m-m, birds flying sideways, pears cut in half, butterflies, skeletons—”

  “—two hands—thumb against thumb, trees nodding to their twins—

  “—scallop shells fanning open, orchids, a woman’s sex—

  “—and the moon has fallen into the water like a fish.”

  There was a pause. “I love you, Angelique,” he said quietly.

  She saw how each object along the lake’s edge found a rhythm of its own desiring. She smiled, he beckoned, and now the dipping moon, caught in a ripple, became a white bone. He had said he loved her, and a bit of a verse floated into her memory. Swear not by the moon, the inconstant moon …

  They lay together in the grass, and she thought, as he looked down on her, how nature loves her own likeness, like Narcissus adoring himself. And so she was shape to his shape as he moved to her, and they opened and closed like a new moth, fresh from the chrysalis, drying its wings for first flight.

  “I cannot live without you,” he whispered. “Say you will be mine forever.”

  Twenty-Six

  Boston was, without a doubt, the most amazing place imaginable. The streets were overrun with people and carriages. Many fine buildings lined the tree-shaded avenues. Merchants sold everything from silver to vegetables in the market, and Angelique could not help but notice that class distinctions were far less important there than in Martinique. There were few slaves, although poverty was more apparent. The beggar and the tradesman both seemed to mingle on the street with all the finer sort, and there was energy in the air, a sense of promise.

  André desiring one last holiday with his daughter, had sailed with her first to New York. There they would shop for her trousseau and he would show her the sights of the new nation’s capitol.

  Certain that Josette would already have arrived at Collinwood, even though there had been no message, the Countess Natalie du Prés finally decided to leave Boston with Angelique and embark on the two-day journey to Collinsport. She did not wish to arrive too soon and be unwelcome, but without the two of them there, Josette would have no servant or companion should they be needed. Angelique was overjoyed; her long wait of three months was almost over.

  They began the journey early in the morning. Angelique, in dismay, peered out of the carriage window at the passing countryside. The rain fell on a bleak landscape of barren fields. They passed woods with low stone walls and tall leafless trees, their thin black branches etched against the white sky. She was unprepared for the grayness of the countryside, and for the cold. Her thin cape, donated at the last minute from the countess’s wardrobe, barely kept the chill from her bones, and if her heart had not been beating so fiercely, she would have been shivering. Her hands were like ice, and her breath came in clouds, but a heat was raging through her body. She was afire with anticipation, waiting for that first moment when she and Barnabas would stand in each other’s presence. She was certain she would collapse with happiness.

  She and the countess spent the night at a small country inn, where it seemed the entire male population of the area gathered that evening at the bar to drink some warmth into their veins. The boisterous carousing lasted far into the night, and the countess and Angelique were grateful to climb into the carriage the next morning, if only to sleep. Late in the day, the route began to skirt cliffs that fell to a roaring sea, and the horses labored on the grade. The roadbed now seemed to be entirely comprised of large rocks, jolting the passengers mercilessly.

  “I don’t think I can bear much more,” the countess complained. “This road is unforgivable; it’s like rolling through a pigsty!” Angelique looked out and could see what seemed to be pieces of the sky flying through the air.

  “Oh, look, Countess! What can that be?”

  “That, Angelique, is hail! You’ve never seen that, have you?” said the countess disdainfully. “Such dreadful weather! The rain is turning to ice, and the road to mud.”

  When she saw the falling hail, a strange feeling came over Angelique. She had never seen Maine, with its raw shores, but something seemed familiar, some dim recollection of a time when she was not a child of the sea and her world had not been blue and gold. Her mind tried to stitch together these delicate tree branches, which were like pen-and-ink drawings on white paper, with the thick glossy green of the Martinique foliage. But she gave up, and memory merged with reality. This was to be her home, this cold and forsaken wilderness that seemed to stretch on for such great distances. In Martinique, they would have crossed the island and back by now.

  Suddenly the carriage lurched, and Angelique was thrown forward into the countess’s arms.

  “I knew we were in for some trouble!” the countess gasped, for they had come to a dead stop. The driver was whipping the horses, and they could feel the straining of the carriage and the jerking on the harness; however, the conveyance did not budge. After a moment, the driver opened the carriage door.

  “So’s, m’lady, seems we’re stuck in the mud!”

  “Well can’t you dig us out, my good man?” the countess responded, thoroughly exasperated.

  “I aim to, ma’am. We’re not too far, only a half mile or so from the Collinwood estate, and once I have this wheel free, I’ll take us there in no time, no time at all.”

  “Well, make haste, can’t you. Before we freeze to death!”

  So there was to be another delay, when waiting had become un
bearable. Angelique could contain herself no longer.

  “If it’s only a little way, why don’t I go for help?” she cried.

  “What, girl? Don’t be foolish,” said the countess. “Why it’s near dark and freezing rain. I think we’d best rely on the strength of the driver and his spade.”

  “But what if he is not able? We can’t remain here the night. I could not let you suffer in such a way!”

  “Nonsense, child. Here, pull that blanket over me, if you will—” But Angelique was already out of the carriage, gathering up her skirts to keep them from the mud, as she ran to the driver’s side.

  “Is Collinwood just down this road, sir?”

  “Yes, miss, it’s a pity we didn’t make it before we ran into this deep rut here. The horses are weary, and—”

  “What sort of house is it?”

  “Why, it’s the second house on the road, miss—set back a bit, with tall white columns and a round portico. There is another grand place we’ll come to first, in the last stages of building, a great mansion, but—I say, miss, you’re not going on foot, are you?”

  But Angelique was already a hundred yards down the road, running, mindless of the mud on her boots or the rain falling on her shoulders. Her only thought was of the face of her beloved Barnabas. Her heart was beating wildly, and she felt that she would burst with eagerness to see him. Her mind was so full of the promise of exultation that she fairly flew over the distance, and it seemed only moments before she was standing beneath the wide columns in front of the large wooden door. She could hear voices within, arguing with some heat, and a man shouting.

  “Love! Love is only a word in ladies’ novels!” There was a male response, low, murmured, and the angry voice cried out again. “A woman is not a future!” What was this argument? Could it be between Barnabas and his father? Was it possible that he was talking about her?

  She lifted the brass knocker and let it fall. The door opened, and he was standing there, in a wine-colored jacket, his dark hair falling about his beautiful eyes, which widened with astonishment.

  “Barnabas!” Her heart leapt, and she felt she would faint from joy. She wanted him to pull her into his arms, but he failed to make any move at all, and simply stared at her, awkward, not speaking.

  “Are you surprised?” she asked, her eyes dancing. She told herself that the presence of the other man, whom she had overheard but could not see, prohibited any immediate show of recognition.

  “Astonished,” he answered. “We didn’t expect the countess for at least a week.” There was a quick jerk to his eyes, a look behind her, a moment of hesitation. “Where is she? And why are you walking?”

  “Oh, your roads, Monsieur,” she smiled again, embarrassed. She must look a strange sight, she thought, her cape dripping, her hair in disarray. “The carriage is buried in the mud—completely stuck!”

  “How far back?”

  “Too far for my mistress to walk,” she said. But she wanted to lean in, and whisper, “But not too far for me to fly to your side.” She felt girlish, giddy with euphoria. She fixed her eyes on his, looking for the silent message that he was as delighted as she.

  But instead, to her disappointment, he asked her in with some diffidence. As she lifted her hood, she saw the room she had imagined a thousand times, warm and charming, with fine appointments. He was wealthier than she had supposed, and she realized the ties of his family must be strong, but not as strong—she told herself—as their secret pledge.

  She turned to see an elegant older man with graying blond hair and prominent sideburns, standing by the fireplace.

  “Father,” said Barnabas, “this is Angelique. The Countess du Prés’s … maid.”

  She curtsied. So, it had been his father with whom he had been arguing. Monsieur Collins wore a velvet waistcoat and a gold watch fob, and he had an air of weary despondency underneath his irritable manner. Angelique could not help but wonder whether he had known some deep disappointment at some time in his life. Barnabas asked that rooms be prepared. Then he said, referring to the countess, “I must go and fetch her.”

  “I will accompany you!” Angelique answered at once.

  “That’s not necessary.” Was it her imagination, or was he afraid to look at her?

  “Oh, but it is most necessary to my mistress,” she said with a determined air, flashing him a look. She turned to Joshua Collins and curtsied deeply.

  “It is a great privilege to be in your home at last,” she said with a smile. But Monsieur Collins merely grunted and turned away, and she felt the stab of resentment she had known so often in Martinique. He treated her as a servant: invisible, ordinary, easily replaced. Anger welled up in her, and blood rose to her face.

  She was none of those things, she thought. Now was her time, and soon she would throw off her maid’s disguise. She was a beautiful woman, and once she had the dresses and the jewels, no one would ever fail to see that. She was certain that Barnabas would never find anyone to replace her in his arms.

  The stable was warm. With the rain falling, steam rose from the bodies of the animals. The sweet smell of the horses, hay, and droppings, made her delirious. She remembered the joy of being at Barnabas’s side, when all the world seemed enchanted, and the words that flew through her thoughts were like poetry. She stood while the groom and the caretaker harnessed the buggy, longing to look into Barnabas’s eyes, but afraid to betray her eagerness. Then the buggy was ready, and she climbed in beside him.

  To her chagrin, the caretaker heaved his obese body into the buggy as well. He carried an ax, and he saw her staring at it.

  “To fell branches, to place under the wheel,” he said in a thick voice, and Angelique observed at once that he was somewhat simpleminded.

  “Good idea, Ben,” said Barnabas. This Ben was strong as a bull; the muscles of his neck protruded from his shirt. He sat directly across from her and watched them both with a murky gaze, his presence forbidding any intimate conversation.

  Barnabas reached for the heavy leather wrap and draped it over her and himself, giving her a quick smile that melted her fears. She could feel the warmth of his body beneath the blanket as the buggy trotted down the road, and she was drenched in happiness. She felt she could remain there for eternity, embraced by his dear presence, and be content. She closed her eyes and wished that time would stop, that the journey would last forever.

  * * *

  A few hours later, when the Countess du Prés arrived at Collinwood, wearing her enormous ostrich-feather chapeau and carrying a feather muff to match, Joshua Collins was disdainful, and she, in turn, was rude. They stood in the hallway verbally parrying with one another.

  “The area in which you live is a wasteland of emotion and courtesy!” said the countess.

  “Then I think you might have stayed in Boston if you dislike it so much here!” he retorted. Angelique rejoiced that the meeting was so strained, for this would only reflect on Josette. She had to smile to herself when the countess asked—

  “Is it ever warm here? Does it ever stop raining?” She herself was wondering the same thing.

  * * *

  Once she was in her small room off the servant’s hallway, Angelique looked around in contempt at the plain furniture and common brick fireplace. How quaint, she thought, to find an old spinning wheel long out of use, its skeins unraveled. Was it there to suggest that her place in this house was one of service? But this was no time to fret like a spoiled child; she must prepare for the visit she knew was coming. Opening her luggage, she chose a simple flowered frock, then arranged her hair at the mirror so that it tumbled in soft ringlets. She studied herself dispassionately. She would never forget the countess’s words. “You think you are beautiful? Is that why I catch you looking at yourself in the mirror? You are not beautiful, Angelique. Josette … is beautiful.”

  She had not Josette’s pale features, those of a patrician gentlewoman, but her face was well formed, perhaps the nose and mouth a bit small, but her eyes were
deep and languorous. At this moment she thought she had never looked more desirable, for her skin was flushed and her eyes were soft with longing. She felt her senses quiver, aching for him, for his touch, for the melting warmth of his body.

  She sat on the end of her bed and wrapped her arms around the turned post, easing her cheek against the smooth mahogany. Then she let her mind play with the images of their last night together in Martinique: the cascading waterfall, the spray and the surrounding mist, the darkness of the cave, the sweet-tasting water on his lips, the soft rain as it wet their faces and their mouths, the merging of their bodies under the flowing stream, and she felt a helpless throb in the deepest part of her.

  When, at last, the hour grew late, and thunder rumbled in the darkness while rain fell between flashes of lightning at her window, Angelique could endure the wait no longer, and stole down the corridor. She climbed the great stairway and some instinct led her to Barnabas’s room as there was a light beneath his door. She tapped lightly on his door.

  “Who is it?” She heard his voice. It was a long moment before he opened for her, and she burst into the room.

  “A ghost from your past!” she cried, and flew to his arms. “Oh, my darling, I waited for you.… I couldn’t bear it! Not any longer!” She kissed him, her eyes laughing. “Why didn’t you come? Were you too proud? Don’t you know how I love you?”

  She leaned in to him, pressing against him, limp with relief, sighing, whispering. “After you left the island, I dreamed of you every night, I heard you saying my name.… I so longed for this … hold me!”

  She clung to him, her fingers digging into his velvet coat, and she kissed his face, his lips, sliding with a rush into her rapture. It was a moment before she felt him resisting, pushing her away. She kissed his mouth again, but felt no response.