How long she watched she did not know. Time seemed less than nothing. But then, from the shadows near the bayou, a woman appeared. At once the drums stopped, the people grew still and backed away to the edges of the clearing, leaving her alone in the center.
She was of middle age, a large woman with well-rounded arms and face, clad in a long dress of tent-like proportions in a pure white that seemed to glow. She held up her arms, and a single drum began a slow, measured cadence. She began to move from side to side with a grace surprising in one of her bulk, and with each step the bells on her ankle bracelets made a musical chatter.
A tall, gangling man in a loin cloth ran from one side. He lifted the lid of the box Claire had noticed earlier, and from its depths drew forth a great snake, larger and longer than any she had ever seen. It was as big around as the man’s arm and twice as long as he was tall.
“Le Grande Zombi!” the man cried out as the serpent coiled himself slowly about his uplifted arm and opened round, black eyes, gazing unwinking around him.
“Le Zombie—” the crowd breathed.
Claire’s scalp prickled and she swallowed, as the big woman, obviously the high priestess, the Voodooienne, accepted the snake and allowed it to coil along her arm and about her neck and upper body. Crooning as to a baby, she turned and swayed, moving around the circle, gently undulating her massive hips, a rapt look on her face. Gradually the tempo increased, her movements became more vigorous and her eyes grew large with a growing excitement.
Tension built in the crowd. They inched toward the Voodooienne, slowly closing in on her. The woman’s mouth fell open, her eyes became unfocused. Her lips moved, forming a single word, little more than a whisper.
“Power.”
“Power, power, power—she got the power, power, power—” It ran around the circle, a whisper rising to a chant.
Now the woman was jerking, her body shaken by spasms that ran like ripples over her. The great green-black body of the snake seemed larger, more prominent against the white of her dress, and he seemed to be awakening as the frenzy grew in the woman holding him.
Then suddenly, another woman broke through the crowd to the inner circle. A young woman. A woman whose cream-colored skin caught the fire glow, caught it on her arms, her legs, and her shoulders, for she wore nothing more than a single strip of red cloth twisted about her breasts and hips with the free end caught by a small dagger thrust through the material. A rag on the same cloth held her hair that was loose upon her shoulders, back from her face. And she threw back her head to let it swing as wild and free as the dusky goddess it crowned.
With a cruel smile twisting her lips, she placed both hands on the older priestess’ arms and pushed her backward. With a full-throated cry she leaped high, then she began to dance.
“Belle-Marie, she got the power. She stole the power—power—power—”
And it appeared that she had seized it from the big woman. But the frenzy that had possessed the priestess had grown far worse in Belle-Marie, for she was much more wanton, more mercilessly certain of herself, in her voluptuous posturing.
In her whirling dance, she passed close to the cage that held the roosters, and at the cackles and flutters of alarm Belle-Marie paused. With a feline grace, she swooped to flip back the lid and grasp one of the helpless birds by the feet. She flung it high, laughing as it squawked and flapped its wings, then she reached down and dragged the knife from its place. She slashed at the cockerel, nearly cutting off a wing. Again and again she flayed him, splitting his breast, gouging feathers and flesh from his legs. Slowly, his white feathers grew red with blood. Blood spattered Belle Marie’s face, her shoulders, and her breasts where her cloth, freed from the knife pinning it in place, was slipping from her body. Then while the cockerel still lived, she flung it spinning through the air to land in the boiling pot on the fire. Stooping, she seized another bird from the cage.
There was an atmosphere of unrestrained violence, of released hate, and of lust growing about the quadroon.
Claire tasted the sickness rising in her throat and turned her head, only to look back again as a great cry rose from the crowd before her.
She saw Belle-Marie, naked, her body dripping with the blood of the decapitated rooster in her left hand, while she drank from a bowl the blood she had drained. The drums pounded as hands began to reach for the new Voodooienne, hands reaching for power, hands reaching in lust, and through the crowd there swept a wave of madness as scratching, biting, and clawing they fell upon each other.
Claire stumbled back, one hand to her mouth. She could not watch. She had to get away. Where was Octavia? She did not dare call to her for fear that the madness in the clearing would reach out and sweep her into it. In which direction had the older woman gone? From which direction had they come? The horrible things she had seen had left her disoriented. But then, as she heard a soft footfall behind her, it ceased to matter. She ran.
Vines and saw briars turned vicious tore at her hair. Sharp twigs and dead limbs bruised her pounding feet through her thin slippers, while tree roots reached out to trip her. She slipped on the loose leaves that carpeted the ground. A tree branch stung her eye and rasped across her face as she ducked beneath it.
Then from out of the black night behind her there came a whisper of sound past her shoulder. A knife, thrown hard, buried itself with a thud in the great live oak tree ahead of her!
Claire was so startled that she stumbled and fell head-long, catching at the tree for support. Starlight glinted on the blade and gleamed from a hilt that looked like cloisonné enamel. She did not wait to be certain. Long before the thought of self-protection had formed in her mind, the hilt was in her hand and she had pulled the blade from the hard, resisting wood.
She turned, at bay, and stood listening, holding her breath that she might hear better. The noise of the voodoo gathering seemed far away, and around her the night stood unnaturally still. Then there came a crackling noise, and Octavia, the wide wings of her peculiar gown rippling around her, broke from the darkness. Claire could not see her face, but her voice held only gentle chiding.
“Claire, my dear girl, whatever came over you?”
Without knowing quite why she did it, Claire let her arm fall so that the knife was hidden among the folds of her skirt.
“That ceremony—it was horrible!” she cried with loathing.
“Yes, I agree. At least, it seems so to our eyes. But one must not judge by our standards.”
“Torturing live animals can be nothing but cruel, regardless of the standard you use.”
“Don’t distress yourself about it, Claire. It has been done so for hundreds of years, and will continue to be done in spite of us.”
Claire let it go. “But—what of your cat?”
“Perfectly well. For a price, the priestess forced a concoction down his throat, and the black imp got up and walked off by himself. I have little doubt that we will find him waiting for us on the doorstep when we return.”
She proved an able prophet. As they neared the house, the cat came from the darkness to wind himself about their legs. The purring noise in his throat had a rough note, as if he had strained his vocal chords, but otherwise he seemed entirely normal.
Glancing up toward the room she shared with Justin, Claire thought she saw a shadow cross the window. It would be Justin now, surely. What was she to say? Your mistress tried to kill me? She caught the inside of her lip between her teeth, trying to think.
Her action in hiding the knife from Octavia. troubled her. And having kept silent before his aunt, could she begin to explain to her husband, the moment she saw him, what had happened? It would seem odd to say the least.
The dagger, it seemed, was an embarrassment she could do without. She had no wish to sow discord between Justin and herself, there was enough between them already. And she was afraid, deathly afraid, that his sympathies would lead him to doubt her word if Belle-Marie chose to deny her story. She did not want a test of stren
gth between herself and Belle-Marie. She knew too well who would win.
And so, as they neared the front steps, Claire stopped. She bent down, as though to tie her slipper, and thrust the dagger beneath a clump of fern. She would retrieve it in the morning at a time when it would be easier to hide it in her room or some other place about the house. Why she wanted to keep it secreted she did not know, but just then it seemed important.
Justin was standing beside the fireplace, a glass of sherry in his hand, when she stepped through the french door. He raised an eyebrow, his eyes traveling from her disordered hair to her stained slippers. With a leisurely grace, he reached out and pulled the bell rope, summoning Rachel.
“Octavia and I were walking,” Claire answered his unspoken query, but avoided his eyes. She unbuttoned her spencer and tossed it onto the bed, then ran a hand over her hair, trying to smooth it back into her slipping chignon.
“It seems to have put color into your cheeks,” Justin observed.
Claire felt her face grow warmer, and she glanced at him out of the corner of her eyes. He was dressed for dinner in a coat of claret superfine, a color that went well with his brand of dark, feline looks. The scar, she thought, gave a savage cast to his features and now that the surprise and instinctive horror of its presence had passed, actually added to his appearance.
She had not realized that she was staring at the scar until he turned abruptly away. Then, since Rachel chose that moment to tap on the door, he opened it, and strode from the room.
Could he have thought that her feelings were of repugnance? The thought filled her with such dismay that it was a moment before she could attend to her maid’s inquiry and point out the dress she intended to wear for supper.
It was after breakfast the next day before she had the opportunity to retrieve the knife. Every moment until that time someone, it seemed, had been at her side; Justin, Octavia, Helene, or Berthe. At last, in the middle of morning, she contrived to slip away by herself. But even as she knelt and slipped her hand beneath the fern, a voice spoke behind her.
“Found something?”
Shock made her jerk her hand back, her hand with the fingers curled around the blade of the knife.
“Y-yes,” she stammered, getting to her feet and turning to face the overseer. What was his name? Ben. That was it.
“It looks to be a knife of some kind,” the man said. “Fancy frog-sticker.” He stared from her to the knife, his head cocked on one side and both hands on his hips.
The knife was about six inches long with a thin, four-sided blade, a rounded guard, and a hilt of turquoise enamel set in gold tracery.
“It must be valuable,” she ventured, turning it in her hand as if she had never seen it before.
“Reminds me of that bunch Edouard’s got hanging on his wall. Betcha a Spanish real it’ll be one of his.”
Memory stirred. She did vaguely recall someone, perhaps Berthe, mentioning that Edouard collected knives. She did not think, however, that this one could be a part of his collection, but she could hardly say so. It was such an obvious possibility, especially to someone who did not know how it came to be lying beneath the fern.
“I will have to ask Edouard about it,” she said thoughtfully.
“No need. He’s down at the copperage, saw him there myself not more than ten minutes ago. Be glad to take it to him.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t dream—”
“No trouble,” he insisted, holding out his hand, his eyes too bright, too appraising as he stared at her, slowly shifting his wad of chewing tobacco to the far side of his mouth, where it bulged in his cheek as he smiled with yellowed teeth. His shirt showed sweat stains under his arms, and the leather suspenders that held his breeches were twisted and curling at the edges with age. His boots were caked with mud. None of these things would have mattered if there had not been the arrogance in his stance that expected her to overlook them.
Controlling a feeling of distaste, Claire handed him the knife with the hilt toward him, taking care that their fingers did not touch. With a murmured thank you she turned and left him, but as she looked back he was still standing, following her with his eyes. He was no longer smiling.
She had almost reached her room before it occurred to her that now, with the knife gone from her possession, there was no way for her to prove what had happened in the swamp if she tried to tell of it. Ben had wanted the quadroon girl. Suppose they were lovers? Belle-Marie might have sent him to bring back the knife. Had he stared at her in such a manner because he knew the quadroon had tried to kill her, and that she was too unsure of herself to admit it? Or was it some more personal inclination that filled his mind? Shuddering a little, she could not help glancing once more over her shoulder. Ben was walking away toward the trail that led to the swamp. The person hastening to meet him was not the quadroon, however. It was Edouard.
A terrible doubt gripped her as she watched them meet, saw the knife change hands, and then the two men walking off together. They were probably doing nothing more than holding a discussion about some phase of plantation work, she tried to tell her self. She was becoming suspicious of everyone and it was too easy to see conspiracy everywhere. But it was odd to see Edouard around the house at that time of the day.
She turned toward her room, then stopped with a gasp of surprise. Justin stood in the door, a look of such blackness on his face that she almost took a step backward.
“Is—is something wrong?” she asked.
“With a woman one never knows.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” she said, but because of what she had kept from him, a guilty flush crept to her hairline.
His eyes narrowed as he gazed down at her and the scar on his face seemed to stand out in a ridge. “You are my wife. I would advise you not to forget it.”
“I am not likely to do so,” she said, seeing at last that he was referring to her obvious interest in the two men. Perhaps he had even seen her talking to Ben a few moments ago.
Justin stepped back, and with her head high Claire made to brush past him. But he grasped her arm, his fingers bruising her flesh so that she bit back a cry of pain.
“Don’t try my patience, Claire. When it snaps I might enjoy the consequences. You, I’m persuaded, would not!”
8
She was hungry for the first time in weeks. Since the evening before, when she had seen the cat become so ill after eating her meal, she had not eaten alone. Breakfast she had eaten in the dining room with the others. She had not dared to comment, even to Octavia again, about the possibility that she had slowly been poisoned, but she was growing hourly more certain that such had been the case. Her increasing appetite, her general sense of renewed well-being, seemed to prove it. She refused to think of how it might have been done, and yet now she drank nothing, ate nothing, that either Rachel or Justin’s man brought to the room, unless it was also to be shared by her husband. She felt certain Belle-Marie would not chance harming him.
She had not seen Justin since their confrontation earlier. Which meant that though it was late, nearly time for the noon meal, nothing had passed her lips. She had missed the eleven o’clock coffee and cakes she usually enjoyed. If she waited until Justin had also changed clothes for dinner, he might suggest ordering a carafe of fresh water at least, but she could not wait. She did not wish to see him alone. His threat, veiled though it had been, was too fresh in her mind. Even the memory of it made her clench her hands to still their trembling.
Jumping up from her chair, she stood in the center of the floor as she heard footsteps approaching along the gallery. Then as her nerve deserted her, she fled to Octavia’s room.
Octavia was not there. More than likely she was in the kitchen with the cook or supervising the laying of the table for dinner. Claire stood listening, but she could hear no sound from the dining room. The house was quiet with the somnolence of a warm summer’s day. The blinds were closed, shutting out the hot brilliance of the sun, leaving the rooms in semidarkn
ess. For a moment it seemed to Claire that she was alone in the house, free of constraint, free to be herself; then a door slammed somewhere toward the back. She moved toward the door connecting Octavia’s room with the dining room, expecting to see the older woman appear on her way back from the outside kitchen. Still she did not come.
But as Claire swung from the open door, she noticed that another of the four doors from Octavia’s room stood open a thin crack. The room beyond was the bedroom in the front of the house, Edouard’s room, she was almost positive.
From where she stood she could see the head of the bed with its posts holding a high tester, and a portion of a table holding a whale-lamp of pewter. He thought of the knife collection Ben had mentioned stirred, and almost without realizing what she was doing she moved to touch the door, making it swing noiselessly inward. She stood still a moment, listening, her gaze fastened on the wall of knives around the head of the bed. When she was sure the room was unoccupied, she stepped inside.
There were small, thin daggers, to fit the hand of a woman, slender stilettos, and also wider, more dangerous looking blades, blades as short as three inches, and those that came close to being swords. Some were bare, while others were sheathed in scabbards of intricate workmanship, chased, carved, or inlaid with gold, ivory, or wood set with semiprecious stones.
Claire let her gaze roam the wall until she found what she sought, a bare hook with a light shadow on the wallpaper in the thin shape of a knife. She had reached up to trace the outline with the tip of her finger when there was a slight sound behind her.
Bride of a Stranger (Classic Gothics Collection) Page 11
