by Andre Norton
“Is dey up at de big house now?” he asked cheerily as he came up.
“If you mean the Ralestones, why, we got here last night,” Val answered.
“Yo’all is Mistuh Ralestone, suh?” He took off his wide-brimmed straw hat and twisted it in his oversized hands.
“I’m Valerius Ralestone. My brother Rupert is the owner.”
“Well, Mistuh Ralestone, suh, I’se yo’all’s fahmah from ’cross wata. Mistuh LeFleah, he says dat yo’all is come to live heah agin. So mah woman, she says dat Ah should see if yo’all is heah yet and does yo’all want anythin’. Lucy, she’s bin a-livin’ heah, dat is, her mammy and pappy and her pappy’s mammy and pappy has bin heah since befo’ old Massa Ralestone done gone ’way. So Lucy, she jest nachely am oneasy ’bout yo’all not gettin’ things comfo’ble.”
“That is kind of her,” Val answered heartily. “My brother said something last night about wanting to see you today, so if you’ll come up to the house—”
“I’se Sam, Mistuh Ralestone, suh. Ah done work heah quite a spell now.”
“By the way,” Val asked as they went up toward the house, “did you see that boy in the canoe going downstream as you crossed? I found him in the garden and the only answer he would give to my questions was that he had as much right there as I had. Who is he?”
The wide smile faded from Sam’s face. “Mistuh Ralestone, suh, effen dat no-’count trash comes ’round heah agin, yo’all bettah jest call de policemans. Dey’s nothin’ but poah white trash livin’ down in de swamp places an’ dey steals whatevah dey kin lay han’ on. Was dis boy big like yo’all, wi’ black hair an’ a thin face?”
“Yes.”
“Dat’s de Jeems boy. He ain’t got no mammy nor pappy. He lives jest like de wil’ man wi’ a li’l huntin’ an’ a big lot stealin’. He talk big. Say he belongs in de big house, not wi’ swamp folks. But jest yo’all pay no ’tenshun to him nohow.”
“Val! Val Ralestone! Where are you?” Ricky’s voice sounded clear through the morning air.
“Coming!” he shouted back.
“Well, make it snappy!” she shrilled. “The toast has been burnt twice and—” But what further catastrophe had occurred her brother could not hear.
“Yo’all wants to git to de back do’, Mistuh Ralestone, suh? Dere’s a sho’t-cut ’cross dis-a-way.” Sam turned into a side path and Val followed.
Ricky was at the stove gingerly shifting a coffee-pot as her brother stepped into the kitchen. “Well,” she snapped as he entered, “it’s about time you were showing up. I’ve simply cracked my voice trying to call you, and Rupert’s been talking about having the bayou dragged or something of the kind. Where have you been, anyway?”
“Getting acquainted with our neighbors. Ricky,” he called her attention to the smiling face just outside the door, “this is Sam. He runs the home farm for us. And his wife is a descendant of the Ralestone house folks.”
“Yassuh, dat’s right. We’s Ralestone folks, Miss ’Chanda. Mah Lucy done sen’ me ovah to fin’ out what yo’all is a-needin’ done ’bout de place. She was in yisteday afo’ yo’all come an’ seed to de dustin’ an’ sich—”
“So that’s why everything was so clean! That was nice of her—”
“Yo’all is Ralestones, Miss ’Chanda. An’ Lucy say dat de Ralestones am a-goin’ to fin’ dis place jest ready for dem when dey come.” He beamed upon them proudly. “Lucy, she am a-goin’ be heah jest as soon as she gits de chillens set for de day. I’se come fust so’s Ah kin see wat Mistuh Ralestone done wan’ done wi dem rivah fiel’s—”
“Where is Rupert?” Val broke in.
“Went out to see about the car. The storm last night wrecked the door of the carriage house—”
“Zat so?” Sam’s eyes went round. “Den Ah bettah be a-gittin’ out an’ see ’bout it. ’Scuse me, suh. ’Scuse me, Miss ’Chanda.” With a jerk of his head he left them. Val turned to Ricky.
“We seem to have fallen into good hands.”
“It’s my guess that his Lucy is a manager. He just does what she tells him to. I wonder how he knew my name?”
“LeFleur probably told them all about us.”
“Isn’t it odd—” she turned off the gas, “‘Ralestone folks.’”
“Loyalty to the Big House,” her brother answered slowly. “I never thought that it really existed out of books.”
“It makes me feel positively feudal. Val, I was born about a hundred years too late. I’d like to have been the mistress here when I could have ridden out in a victoria behind two matched bays, with a coachman and a footman up in front and my maid on the little seat facing me.”
“And with a Dalmatian coach-hound running behind and at least three-fourths of the young bloods of the neighborhood as a mounted escort. I know. But those days are gone forever. Which leads me to another subject. What are we going to do today?”
“The dishes, for one thing,” Ricky began ticking the items off on her fingers, “and then the beds. This afternoon Rupert wants us—that is, you and me—to drive to town and do some errands.”
“Oh, yes, the list you two made out last night. Well, now that that’s all settled, suppose we have some breakfast. Has Rupert been fed or is he thinking of going on a diet?”
“He’ll be in—”
“Said she with perfect faith. All of which does not satisfy the pangs of hunger.”
“Where’s Lovey?”
“If you are using that sickening name to refer to Satan—he’s out—hunting, probably. The last I saw of him he was shooting head first for a sort of bird apartment house over to the left of the front door. Here’s Rupert. Now maybe we may eat.”
“I’ve got something to tell you,” hissed Ricky as the missing member of the clan banged the screen door behind him. Having so aroused Val’s curiosity, she demurely went around the table to pour the coffee.
“How’s the carriage house?” Val asked.
“Sam thinks he can fix it with some of that lumber piled out back of the old smoke-house.” Rupert reached for a piece of toast. “What do you think of our family retainer?”
“Seems a good chap.”
“LeFleur says one of the best. Possesses a spark of ambition and is really trying to make a go of the farm, which is more than most of them do around here. His wife, by all accounts, is a wonder. Used to be the cook-housekeeper here when the Rafaels had the place. LeFleur still talks about the two meals he ate here then. Sam tells me that she is planning to take us in hand.”
“But we can’t afford—” began Ricky.
“I gathered that money does not come into the question. The lady is rather strong-willed. So, Ricky,” he laughed, “we’ll leave you two to fight it out. But Lucy may be able to find us a laundress.”
“Which reminds me,” Ricky took a crumpled piece of white cloth from her pocket, “if this is yours, Rupert, you deserve to do your own washing. I don’t know what you’ve got on it; looks like oil.”
He took it from her and straightened out a handkerchief.
“Not guilty this time. Ask little brother here.” He passed over the dirty linen square. It was plain white—or it had been white before three large black splotches had colored it—without an initial or colored edge.
“I think he’s prevaricating, Ricky,” Val protested. “This isn’t mine. I’m down to one thin dozen and those are the ones you gave me last Christmas. They have my initials on.”
Ricky took back the disputed square. “That’s funny. It certainly isn’t mine. I’m sure one of you must be mistaken.”
“Why?” asked Rupert.
“Because I found it on the hearth-stone in the hall this morning. It wasn’t there last night or one of us would have seen it and picked it up, ’cause it was right there in plain sight.”
“Sure it isn’t yours, Val?”
He shook his head. “Positive.”
“Queer,” murmured Rupert and reached for it again. “It’s a good quality of linen and it’
s almost new.” He held it to his nose. “That’s oil on it. But how—?”
“I wonder—” Val mused.
“What do you know?” asked Ricky.
“Well—Oh, it isn’t possible. He wouldn’t carry a handkerchief,” her brother said half to himself.
“Who wouldn’t?” asked Rupert. Then Val told them of his meeting with the boy Jeems and what Sam had had to say of him.
“Don’t know whether I exactly like this.” Rupert folded the mysterious square of stained linen. “As you say, Val, a boy like that would hardly carry a handkerchief. Also, you met him in the garden, while—”
“The person who left that was in this house last night!” finished Ricky. “And I don’t like that!”
“The door was locked and bolted when I came down this morning,” Val observed.
Rupert nodded. “Yes, I distinctly remember doing that before I went up to bed last night. But when I was going around the house this morning I discovered that there are French doors opening from the old ball-room to the terrace, and I didn’t inspect their fastening last night.”
“But who would want to come in here? There are no valuables left except furniture. And it would take three or four men and a truck to collect that. I don’t see what he was after,” puzzled Ricky.
Rupert arose from the table. “We have, it seems, a mystery on our hands. If you want to amuse yourselves, my children, here’s the first clue. I’ve got to get back to the carriage house and my labors there.”
He dropped the handkerchief on the table and left. Ricky reached for the “clue.” “Awfully casual about it, isn’t he?” she said. “Just the same, I believe that this is a clue and I know what our visitor was after, too,” she finished triumphantly.
“What?”
“The treasure Richard Ralestone hid when the Yankee raiders came.”
“Well, if our unknown visitor has as little in the way of clues as we have, he’ll be a long time finding it.”
“And we’re going to beat him to it! It’s somewhere in the Hall, and the secret—”
“See here,” Val interrupted her, “what were you about to tell me when Rupert came in?”
She put the handkerchief in the breast pocket of her sport dress, buttoning the flap over it.
“Rupert’s got a secret.”
“What kind?”
“It has to do with those two brief-cases of his. You know, the ones he was so particular about all the way down here?”
Val nodded. Those bulging brief-cases had apparently contained the dearest of his roving brother’s possessions, judging from the way Rupert had fussed if they were a second out of his sight.
“This morning when I came downstairs,” Ricky continued, “he was sneaking them into that little side room off the dining-room corridor, the one which used to be the old plantation office. And when he came out and saw me standing there, he deliberately turned around and locked the door!”
“Whew!” Val commented.
“Yes, I felt that way too. So I simply asked him what he was doing and he made some silly remark about Bluebeard’s chamber. He means to keep his old secret, too, ’cause he put the key on his key-ring when he didn’t know I was watching him.”
“This is not the place for a rest cure,” her brother observed as he started to scrape and stack the dishes. “First someone unknown leaves his handkerchief for a calling card and then Rupert goes Fu Manchu on us. To say nothing of the rugged and unfriendly son of the soil whom I found bumping around the garden where he had no business to be.”
“What was he like anyway?” asked his sister as she dipped soap flakes into the dish-water with a liberal hand.
“Oh, thin, and awfully brown. But not bad looking if it weren’t for his mouth and that scowl of his. And he very distinctly doesn’t like us. About my build, but quicker on his feet, tough looking. I wouldn’t care to try to stop him doing anything he wanted to do.”
“My dear, are you describing Clark Gable or someone you met in our garden this morning?” she demanded sweetly.
“Very well,” Val retorted huffily into the depths of the oatmeal pan he was wiping, “you catch him next time.”
“I will,” was her serene answer as she wrung out the dish-cloth.
They went on to the upstairs work and Val received his first lesson in the art of bed-making under his sister’s extremely critical tuition. It seemed that corners must be square and that dreadful things were likely to happen when wrinkles were not smoothed out. This exercise led them naturally to unpacking the remainder of the hand baggage and putting things away. It was after ten before Val came downstairs crab-fashion, wiping off each step behind him as he came with one of Ricky’s three dust-cloths.
He paused on the landing to pull back the tapestry curtain and open the windows above the alcove seat, letting in the freshness of the morning to rout some of the dank chill of the hall. Kneeling there, he watched Rupert come around the house. Rupert had shed his coat and his sleeves were rolled up almost to his shoulders. There was a streak of black across his cheek and a large rip almost separated the collar from his shirt. Although he looked hot, cross, and tired, more like a day-laborer than a gentleman plantation owner whose ancestors had always “planted from the saddle,” his stride had a certain buoyancy which it had lacked the day before.
With an idea of escaping Ricky by joining his brother, Val hurried downstairs and headed kitchenward. But his sister was there before him looking over a collection of knives of various lengths.
“Preparing for a little murder or two?” Val asked casually.
She jumped and dropped a paring knife.
“Val, don’t do that! I wish you’d whistle or something while you’re walking around in those tennis shoes. I can’t hear you move. I’m looking for something to cut flowers with. There don’t seem to be any scissors except mine and I’m not going to use those.”
“Take dat, Miss ’Chanda.” A fat black hand motioned toward the paring knife.
Just within the kitchen door stood a wide, a very wide, Negro woman. Her neat print dress was stiff with starch from a recent washing, and round gold hoops swung proudly from her ears. Her black hair, straightened by main force of arm, had been set again in stiff, corrugated waves of extreme fashion, but her broad placid face was both kind and serene.
“I’se Lucy,” she stated, thoroughly at her ease. “An’ dis,” she reached an arm behind her, pulling forth a girl at least ten shades lighter and thirty-five shades thinner, “is mah sistah’s onliest gal-chil’, Letty-Lou. Mak’ yo’ mannahs, Letty. Does yo’ wan’ Miss ’Chanda to think yo’ is a know-nothin’ outa de swamp?”
Thus sternly admonished, Letty-Lou ducked her head shyly and murmured something in a die-away voice.
“Letty-Lou,” announced her aunt, “is com’ to do fo’ yo’all, Miss ’Chanda. I’se larn’d her good how to do fo’ ladies. She is good at scrubbin’ an’ cleanin’ an sich. Ah done train’d her mahse’f.”
Letty-Lou looked at the floor and twisted her thin hands behind her back.
“But,” protested Ricky, “we’re not planning to have anyone do for us, Lucy.”
“Dat’s all right, Miss ’Chanda. Yo’all’s not gittin’ a know-nothin’. Letty-Lou, she knows her work. She kin cook right good.”
“We can’t take her,” Val backed up Ricky. “You must understand, Lucy, that we don’t have much money and we can’t pay for—”
“Pay fo’!” Lucy’s indignant sniff reduced him to his extremely unimportant place. “We’s not talkin’ ’bout pay workin’, Mistuh Ralestone. Letty-Lou don’ git no pay but her eatments. ’Co’se, effen Miss ’Chanda wanna give her some ole clo’s now an’ den, she kin tak’ dem. Letty-Lou, she don’ hav’ to git her a pay-work job, her pappy mak’s him a good livin’. But Miss ’Chanda ain’ a-goin’ to tak’ keer dis big hous’ all by herself wit’ her lil’ han’s dere. We’s Ralestone folks. Letty-Lou, yo’ gits on youah ap’on an’ gits to work.”
“B
ut we can’t let her,” Ricky raised her last protest.
“Miss ’Chanda, we’s Ralestone folks. Mah gran’ pappy Bob was own man to Massa Miles Ralestone. He fit in de wah longside o’ Massa Miles. An’ wen de wah was done finish’d, dem two com’ home to-gethah. Den Massa Miles, he call mah gran’pappy in an’ say, ‘Bob, yo’all is free an’ I’se a ruinated man. Heah is fiv’ dollahs gol’ money an’ yo’ kin hav’ youah hoss.’ An’ Bob, he say, ‘Cap’n Miles, dese heah Yankees done said I’se free but dey ain’t done said dat I ain’t a Ralestone man. W’at time does yo’all wan’ breakfas’ in de mornin’?’ An’ wen Massa Miles wen’ no’th to mak’ his fo’tune, he told Bob, ‘Bob, I’se leavin’ dis heah hous’ in youah keer.’ An’, Miss ’Chanda, we done look aftah Pirate’s Haven evah since, mah gran’pappy, mah pappy, Sam an’ me.”
Ricky held out her hand. “I’m sorry, Lucy. You see, we don’t understand very well, we’ve been away so long.”
Lucy touched Ricky’s hand and then, for all her weight, bobbed a curtsy. “Dat’s all right, Miss ’Chanda, yo’ is ouah folks.”
Letty-Lou stayed.
CHAPTER IV
Pistols for Two—Coffee for One
Val braced himself against the back of the roadster’s seat and struggled to hold the car to a road which was hardly more than a cart track. Twice since Ricky and he had left Pirate’s Haven they had narrowly escaped being bogged in the mud which had worked up through the thin crust of gravel on the surface.
To the south lay the old cypress swamps, dark glens of rotting wood and sprawling vines. A spur of this unsavory no-man’s land ran close along the road, and looking into it one could almost believe, fancied Val, in the legends told by the early French explorers concerning the giant monsters who were supposed to haunt the swamps and wild lands at the mouth of the Mississippi. He would not have been surprised to see a brontosaurus peeking coyly down at him from twenty feet or so of neck. It was just the sort of place any self-respecting brontosaurus would have wallowed in.
But at last they won free from that place of cold and dank odors. Passing through Chalmette, they struck the main highway. From then on it was simple enough. St. Bernard Highway led into St. Claude Avenue and that melted into North Rampart street, one of the boundaries of the old French city.
