The Foxes of Harrow

by Frank Yerby

  “Such as this,” Etienne said, and swept her up into his arms. She rested very quietly, gazing up into his face, her hands still against his chest.

  “If you kiss me,” she said, “my father will kill you.”

  Etienne looked down at the young face, white beneath the inky masses of hair. The lips were full and carmine, and the thin nostrils flared. A spirited filly, aren’t you? he thought; but I’ll break you if it takes all winter.

  “ ‘Twill be a sweet death,” he said, and kissed her hard upon the mouth, tightening his arms about her waist.

  “Cry, damn you!” he muttered, his lips moving on hers. “Cry—beg me to release you! We’ll see who’s master here!”

  But she made no sound. Etienne loosed his grip and sat back looking at her, his pale blue eyes blazing.

  “My God!” Paul said. “What savagery!”

  “You hurt me,” Ceclie said very quietly. Then her full lips widened into a smile. “Were you ever in Texas?” she whispered.

  “No,” Etienne said harshly. “Why?”

  “You’re like a Texan—yes, very like!”

  “I take it you mean that as a compliment?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re not angry that I kissed you? You don’t want to slap my face?”

  “I’m not one of your soft Louisiana women. I don’t say what I don’t mean or act as I don’t feel. Besides, I liked it.”

  Again Etienne hauled at the reins.

  “No,” Ceclie said clearly. “Not here—again. Later when we have more time—and,” looking at Paul, “no audience. Goodbye Mister—”

  “Fox—Etienne Fox. Wait, I’ll—we’ll see you home.”

  “No, thank you. My father would not like it. And he is a man for all his Louisiana upbringing.”

  “Then when shall I see you again? How?”

  “I’ll arrange it. You live at Harrow, don’t you?”

  “Yes. How did you know?”

  “My father speaks of yours with great admiration—almost with envy. Goodbye, Etienne Fox—’til we meet again!” She brought her riding crop down sharply against the mustang’s flank. The tough little prairie horse stretched out his long, ugly head and broke into a headlong gallop. The girl leaned forward over his neck like a jockey.

  “Venerable saints!” Paul said. “The girl can ride!”

  Etienne sat very still on the palamino, looking after her.

  “I think,” he said, “that this will be more than I bargained for—yes, much more.”

  XXIII

  LATE in December, Stephen Fox stood with Aurore just inside the great doors of Harrow and looked out over the desolate landscape. It was raining—the usual cold winter rain of the bayou country that had a way of penetrating down to the very marrow of one’s bones. Despite the warmth of the hall, Stephen shivered.

  “Why do you tremble?” Aurore asked. “ ‘Tis not cold here.”

  “I know it. But just looking at that rain makes me think it is. ‘Tienne must have taken leave of his senses to ride abroad in such foul weather.”

  “He seems troubled lately. I wonder if there’s anything wrong . . .”

  “Some young filly, I’ll wager ye. After all, the lad is very young.”

  “Stephen, look!” Aurore said, taking his arm. “That’s not ‘Tienne is it?”

  “No. ‘Tis no horse of ours. None here has such a racking gait.”

  “The horseman seems small. Perhaps it’s the distance. . . .”

  Stephen leaned forward, peering through the glass.

  “The horsewoman ye mean,” he said.

  “Stephen, you’re wrong. That rider sits astride.”

  “Nevertheless, ‘tis a woman. See, she is closer now.”

  “Oh, Stephen, how shameless!”

  “Softly, Aurore. This is a new day, ye ken, and there’ll be many new things in it.”

  “But, Stephen, to expose oneself like that . . .”

  The horsewoman had reached the foot of the great stairs and, dismounting, threw the reins to the shivering Negro who had come out at the sound of the hooves.

  “Well,” Stephen said, smiling, “ ‘tis a good exposure, I must admit.”

  “Stephen!” Aurore said, “you’re a devil!”

  “If I hadn’t been, ye wouldn’t have married me. But come, we must greet our guest.”

  They stepped out upon the broad upper gallery, just as the girl reached the top stair.

  “Good day, Mademoiselle,” Stephen said, his white brows settling quizzically over his eyes.

  “Good day, sir—and Madame,” the girl said politely. “Is Mister Fox in?”

  “I am Mister Fox,” Stephen told her. “Won’t you come in?”

  “I mean Mister Etienne Fox,” the girl said; “I’d like to speak to him for a moment.”

  Aurore’s eyes went to the riding dress that was split from waist to hem, and the close-fitting riding breeches that followed every line of the slim young body beneath.

  “No,” she said sharply. “He isn’t in. Whom shall we tell him called?”

  “My name is Ceclie Cloutier.”

  “Phillippe’s daughter!” Aurore said. “But, my dear, you talk like an American!”

  “I am an American,” Ceclie said tartly. “Please tell Etienne I’m sorry I missed him.”

  “Oh, come in and wait a bit,” Stephen said. “ ‘Tienne should be along any minute now.”

  Ceclie looked at Aurore, and a little mocking half smile played about her mouth.

  “I don’t think I’d better,” she said. “I’ve been gone overlong now, and father will be furious.”

  Stephen opened his mouth to protest, but Aurore shot him a fierce warning glance. He subsided muttering. Ceclie turned and bounded down the stairs with a laughing goodbye.

  “Such effrontery,” Aurore began, “of all the brazen, shameless . . .”

  Stephen looked at his wife with a frown.

  “Best of all in ye,” he said slowly, “I liked your unwillingness to censor. Please don’t change now, Aurore.”

  “I’m sorry, Stephen. The girl upset me. It’s just that I want so much for ‘Tienne . . .”

  “The lad can take care of himself,” Stephen said.

  Not five minutes later, Etienne came up the stairs, his face as black as a thundercloud.

  “Why so glum, lad?” Stephen laughed. “So fine a lad as ye—one who has the girls pursuing him to his very door!”

  “Girls?” Etienne growled, “what girls, father? What do you mean?”

  “Well, one at least. A little black-haired creature with a bewitching Western drawl . . .”

  “Ceclie!”

  “Then you know this girl, ‘Tienne?” Aurore asked.

  “Of course! Where is she? How long ago was it?”

  “Not yet five minutes. You should have seen her as you came in. But, ‘Tienne . . .”

  “I didn’t come by the road. See you later, Mother and Father, I’m off!”

  “ ‘Tienne wait!” Aurore cried.

  Etienne turned frowning.

  “Yes,” he said. “Yes, Mother?”

  “I’m not sure I like this. The sort of girl who would come— alone and uninvited to a young man’s house . . .”

  Etienne’s eyes were blue ice.

  “And you, my good aunt-mother,” he said, “on the many visits you made to Harrow before you married my father, was it always my poor dead mother you came to see?”

  “ ‘Tienne!” Stephen roared, “ye’ll apologize for that!”

  “No,” Aurore said, “you need not apologize, ‘Tienne. It was your father that I came to see. But not in such a manner as this. You see, your father did not know, and I had no hope. Now ride quickly after this girl of yours, or you will never overtake her.”

  Etienne turned, and went bounding down the stairs, but, before he went, he glanced quickly at his stepmother. The look was puzzled, but there was no longer any surliness in it. A moment later, Stephen and Aurore saw the palamino
swinging around the curved drive in a full gallop, with Etienne almost standing in the stirrups, making full use of his crop.

  “Still he has it,” Stephen murmured, “that streak of cruelty in him. Come, my dearest, don’t let a wild lad trouble ye too much.”

  Ahead of him on the bayou road, Etienne could see the miniature figure of Ceclie moving away from him, far in the distance. He slashed down savagely with the whip, until the palamino was heaving and throwing flecks of foam backward into the driving wind. He gained steadily. At last, when he was only a quarter of a mile behind her, Ceclie reined in, and sat very quietly in the icy rain until he came up to her.

  “Ceclie!” he called, sawing at the bit until the great gobs of foam about the horse’s mouth were streaked with crimson. The palamino rolled his eyes and threshed about with all four feet. Gradually he quieted.

  “Poor fellow,” Ceclie said gently. “You ride like a greaser, Etienne!”

  Etienne made a gesture of impatience.

  “You wanted to see me,” he said. “What was it, Ceclie?”

  “I don’t know. I’m not sure I want to anymore. Any man who would abuse a horse . . .”

  “Sacred name of a camel!” Etienne exploded.

  “Now I wish I’d learned that effeminate language. What was that you said, Etienne?”

  “Nothing,” Etienne said shortly. “You ride from Rosemont to Harrow in a pouring rain, and when I do catch up with you. you talk about horses!”

  “You want to know why I came?”

  “Yes!”

  “Father won’t permit me to have callers at Rosemont, and I had to see you—that’s all.”

  “And now that you have seen me . . . ?”

  Ceclie gazed steadily up at him.

  “You’re strange, you know: black as a nigger—and with eyes that you stole from somebody else. They don’t fit you, ‘Tienne. They can be almost kind when you aren’t thinking. But you try to be as mean as the devil. Why?”

  “Is this why you rode all that way . . . ?”

  “No. I wanted to find out whether I still liked kissing you.”

  Etienne bent down to her. Her hands moved caressingly over the back of his neck, the fingers working through the rainwet curls for a long, long time.

  “And do you?”

  “Yes. Very much. I never kissed anyone before. I didn’t think I’d like it. I didn’t think I’d like a man like you. You’re deceiving. You look all soft and refined and polished, and you aren’t. You’re like steel. It’s nice being in love with you, ‘Tienne.”

  “Oh, my God!”

  “You’re sorry I love you, ‘Tienne?”

  “No—only what on earth are we going to do about it?”

  “What do people in love usually do about it?”

  “They marry. Only you’re not old enough. Your father won’t permit you to have callers, and certainly . . .”

  “Certainly what, ‘Tienne?”

  “Certainly you cannot continue to visit me at Harrow. ‘Twould make a hideous scandal.”

  “I see. You care about that very much, don’t you? The formalities and outward show. I’d ride across hell to be with you, ‘Tienne. But perhaps I’m making a mistake. Perhaps you don’t care very much about me after all.”

  Etienne’s face darkened. He reined in beside her and swung down from the horse. Then he lifted her down, holding her high in the air, then letting her slide down slowly against him. He drew her closer, tilting her chin with his free hand. Then he kissed her, so hard that her lips bruised against her teeth, and his slim fingers, hardened by years of riding and fencing, bit into her flesh. At last he released her and stepped back, but her arms were locked about his neck and her whole weight swung against him loosely.

  “See what you do to me?” she whispered. “I—I cannot stand . . .”

  Etienne stood there very stiffly, but suddenly a great trembling swept through him and he quivered all over like a man half frozen.

  “Convinced?” he growled.

  “Yes. But don’t kiss me again, ‘Tienne. I’m afraid I couldn’t bear it.”

  Etienne looked down into her face across which the rain had plastered wisps of hair.

  “This doesn’t alter the problem,” he said. “It only makes it worse.”

  “I know. In two years when I’m eighteen, you can ask father for my hand. If he refuses, I’ll marry you anyway.”

  “Two years! Name of the name of God!”

  Ceclie looked up at him, frowning a little.

  “We don’t have to wait,” she whispered. “Words said before a priest and a record in the Cathedral won’t make me any more yours than I am right now.”

  “Ceclie!”

  “I shocked you? I’m sorry. I don’t know how to say things nicely or how to hide my feelings. I haven’t had much of an education except the things my father taught me. And the things we prize in Texas—the ability to ride like the devil and shoot the ears off a coyote at a full gallop—don’t mean much here. Perhaps you wouldn’t want me as a wife anyway. I’d only disgrace you before your friends.”

  “Then to hell with my friends,” Etienne said. “Two weeks ago I didn’t even know you. Now I can’t contemplate life without you. But I’m sure of one thing—I shan’t make a mistress of you.”

  “Why not? I should like being your mistress very much?’

  “Ceclie, you’re impossible! I can’t explain it. Only—only I want to be able to look at you like father looks at my stepmother. I don’t want to have shamed you. I want to worship you, and the world to honor you . . .”

  “Well—if that’s the way you want it, ‘Tienne . . .”

  “That’s the way I want it.”

  “And in the meantime?”

  “In the meantime, I suffer.”

  “We suffer,” Ceclie corrected. “But I’m glad, ‘Tienne. I do so want to be a lady. Father’s tried so hard to make me one.”

  “You are a lady,” Etienne said, “a great lady. The mistress of Harrow can be no less. It’s like being a queen, Ceclie.”

  Ceclie looked back down the bayou road toward the alley of oaks. The rain drove down through the air and made a sea of mud. It was impossible to see a hundred yards, and Harrow was miles behind them.

  “I know,” she said. “It frightens me—that house. It seems to dwarf the people in it—all except your father—and somehow, it has a life of its own. I’m not sure it wants me, ‘Tienne.”

  “That is a mad idea, my darling. Have you it shall, and that’s all there is to it. Now you must go back before you catch your death of cold. I’ll ride with you to the gates.”

  “Will you, ‘Tienne? You shouldn’t—and I shouldn’t let you. You’re soaked to the skin already. But every minute from now that I shan’t see you will be a minute out of my life. So ride with me, my ‘Tienne, and please don’t make me ride fast—I have so little time left with you.”

  Etienne helped her up and swung into the saddle. They moved off together, slowly, through the driving rain.

  Through the rest of the Winter they met almost daily. The weather continued to be almost unbelievably foul. Etienne grew thin and drawn. He spoke little and his words had always an edge. Riding out from Harrow in the eternal rains day after day, never daring to be with Ceclie where it was warm and dry, knowing he could not be alone with her not even for an instant, having to fight the battle for them both was enough to break a much stronger man than Etienne. And Stephen watched his struggle and pitied him, but fifty-four years had at last taught him when to hold his counsel. So he offered Etienne no advice.

  Aurore had suggested that they call on Phillippe, but Stephen knew too well the quality of Phillippe’s pride and the depth of his bitterness. So all of Harrow sat brooding, waiting upon time.

  “When you go,” Ceclie told Etienne, “I shall run up three flights of stairs to my room and throw myself across the bed and cry all night. I often do that now—like one of your soft Louisiana belles. I never cried before. Oh, ‘Tienne
, ‘Tienne . . .”

  “No,” Etienne growled. “No.”

  “I hate you!” she stormed. “You’re meaner than a sidewinder! No, I don’t. I love you. I love you so much that all inside I hurt. And only you can make me well. Kiss me, ‘Tienne, please, please kiss me until I go entirely out of my mind. Even that would be better than being half mad!”

  She threw her arms about his neck and clung to him, her eyes closed, and her breath sobbing up from her lungs. Etienne’s hand swept up and broke her grip, then he was flinging himself into the saddle and thundering away down the muddy road.

  When he reached Harrow, he strode through the hall and up the stairs to Paul’s studio, leaving an inch-thick trail of mud behind him. Paul looked up from the picture he was painting, and his lips curled into a slow smile.

  “So,” he said kindly, “it grows worse, my old one?”

  “Much worse,” Etienne groaned. “There is the necessity of doing something about Ceclie and that with the utmost quickness or else I die!”

  “So? The answer is simple—sleep with her.”

  “I’m not a Parisian, Paul!”

  “Then what you need is a safety valve—you know, like a steamboat. And I think I have one for you. Come around here.”

  Wearily Etienne crossed the room until he could see the painting. He stopped short before it, as though arrested by an invisible wall.

  “Name of the name of sacred God!” he whispered softly like a prayer.

  “You like her?”

  “But of a certainty! Only she does not exist. A woman so beautiful is but a figment of your disordered intelligence.”

  Paul shrugged.

  “She exists all right. And the only thing wrong with this painting is that it does not even approach her loveliness.”

  “Then who is she? What is she? She looks oddly foreign—I don’t place the type.”

  “She’s a quadroon, ‘Tienne. She says she has thirty-one years, yet she looks like a girl. She allows me to paint her in the nude—as you see—yet she will not permit me to lay a finger upon her.”

  “That’s not an especially good recommendation for a safety valve, Paul!”

  “You’re your father’s son, ‘Tienne. You have a way with women. You’ll ride in with me tomorrow?”