by Andre Norton
“That is easily remedied,” he countered. “I have not overlooked such a problem. There is already on her way here from the city the most skillful of Madame Rachell’s needlewomen, together with a fine selection of materials. You must both select what is necessary to make the House of Sauvage hold heads high in pride.”
“Alain”—Victorine’s smile faded, now she had a serious note in her voice—“why do we have so barbarous a name? You are truly a Duc with an old and famous title, so why do you choose to be Mr. Sauvage? Me, I would—”
His indulgent look disappeared. “I am not a duke with any name but my own!” he replied sharply. “Just as I am not French but American. We surrendered that other name and title long ago—it was both empty and useless.”
Victorine frowned but did not try to argue with him. Shortly after he arose, pausing by my chair to say, “Miss Penfold, by her talk of shopping Victorine has reminded me that I have been remiss in arranging your funds. If you will join me in the library at”—he consulted his watch—“half-past ten, we can discuss this. Now—I am late and am keeping Wilson waiting.”
When the door closed behind him Victorine spoke: “I wish that my brother did not hold these strange ideas. It is true, Tamaris, that in France he would be a Duc. Many times did Madame Varinne remind me of that when I lived with her. It was the same with our father, he was angry with Mama when she once used her proper title, though she had every right to do so.”
“But if your brother is an American, he can use no titles except those of common courtesy,” I pointed out.
“That he need not be either! Long ago that exile of his family was ended. He could well live in France. There I would be a Comtesse at least, instead of just Mademoiselle Sauvage. I hate that harsh name and all it means.” She was in one of her short-lived tempers and I was sorry my birthday breakfast must end so. But I knew better than to try to soothe her. She would follow her usual pattern of retreating to her room, then Amélie would pet and flatter her into a good humor again.
I gathered together my gifts. The sweet scent of the roses comforted me, and I resolutely made myself think of all I had to be grateful for.
When the time came to keep my appointment in the library there was no one there. Books have always drawn me and I walked slowly along the shelves, reading titles printed in gold on the rich leather bindings. There were many sets of authors’ works in full and I guessed that the larger part of this collection, like the rest of the appointments of the house, had been ordered for show by the builder. Here were the works of Thackeray, Dickens, volumes of travels, and the like. But I was delighted to discover Jane Austen’s novels, and those of the Brontës, which had earlier caused such a stir.
Comparing Jane Eyre’s situation as a governess with my own lot in life made me smile. After all there was no mad wife roaming Mr. Sauvage’s halls by night. Such melodrama, I thought complacently, existed only in books. No mad wife—only Mrs. Deaves—
I suddenly put my fingers to my cheeks. There was no mirror here but I felt quite hot, as if I were blushing. To compare my lot with Jane Eyre’s, even lightly, was to imply that I had a serious interest in Mr. Sauvage. From that thought I shrank, refusing to make any honest appraisal of my own emotions. I must compose myself before he did come.
In my slow progress along the shelves I had reached a position behind a big desk burdened with papers. But in the exact center of that lay so very strange an object I stepped closer to look at it.
A small bag of dark cloth rested there; tied to it, black feathers. It was rudely fashioned, as if by some small child. But instinctively I knew this was no plaything. I had thought I was not a fanciful person, having always tried to curb my imagination, but there was something very odd—very dark and frightening about this. It riveted my attention as if it were a living creature snarling up in open menace.
“What is it, Tamaris?”
Again Mr. Sauvage had surprised me with a noiseless approach. At my start, he added contritely; “Did I startle you? Forgive me. But what is it that so holds your attention?”
“That.” I pointed to the bag. “It—it looks so queer—and somehow I do not like it at all.”
He rounded the desk and leaned forward. Then, with a muffled exclamation, he backed away, toward the fireplace, his eyes still on the bag. Groping behind him he caught at the fire tongs. Only with those in hand did he again approach the desk.
“You have not touched it, have you?”
His reaction, so unlike that expected of the man he had shown himself to be, alarmed me. I answered quickly that I had not.
“Good! Because one never knows—”
But what one did not know he did not explain. Instead, extending the tongs, he grasped the bag, and so hurled the thing into the fireplace. A moment later he knelt on the hearthstone laying kindling to cover it. Only when he had lighted that and flames arose, did he arise again to his feet.
“What—what was it?” I finally ventured as he stood staring down into the fire.
“It—yes, it is necessary now, Tamaris, for me to take you more deeply into my confidence. Since this has happened here. As you know, the circumstances of my sister’s early life were unusual. As you have been told, she was deserted by her mother”—he uttered that last word as if he found it difficult to say at all—“left with a kinswoman. This woman had been born and nurtured in the West Indies where some of the grossest superstitions flourish. Unfortunately, there many children of the white race are left much to the care of native nurses and so imbibe almost from birth belief in such abominations as this voodoo—”
“Voodoo!”
“You have heard of it then?” Alain’s attention switched from the fire to me.
“Before the war I visited New Orleans with my father. We heard stories of it there.”
“Yes, you would.” He nodded. “The belief was introduced into Louisianna by refugees from the slave uprisings in the islands almost a century ago. Voodoo is not to be lightly dismissed, Tamaris. It is indeed a vicious and deadly thing. For while those who practice it appear to achieve their ends by ‘magic,’ in reality they have recourse to drugs and secret potions by which they can control others. What I have just burnt is a gris-gris, one of their methods of focusing a curse upon a victim. For all I know some deadly ill might have spread from merely touching it.
“And what its presence here means—” He prodded the burning wood with the poker. There was a puff of yellowish smoke and a strange odor. Now he cried out—
“Get back!” He moved so quickly I was unprepared as he caught my shoulder and dragged me with him to the nearest window, flinging that open, to let in a fresh, cool breeze.
“It means,” he began again, “that I am meant to be the target of this debased ‘magic.’ And I must discover how this came here.”
“But why—who would wish you any such harm?” I was very conscious of his touch, far too conscious for my own composure.
CHAPTER EIGHT
There was no light in his dark face, his features were set hard. He could have been one of his own ancestors, a Creek warrior. I pushed away. In this guise he frightened me a little. All that power I had sensed he kept leashed within him might be near a violent outburst.
“While my sister was under the so-called care of this female, she was criminally allowed to meet Christophe D’Lys. He is Madame’s nephew by left-hand inheritance, sent to France for education. As are many of the mixed bloods, he is very handsome, ingratiating, subtle enough to attract a young and impressionable girl. Madame fostered their acquaintance, and, when I found her, Victorine actually considered herself affianced to the fellow.
“Being of mixed blood myself, I know the heavy burden this lays upon a man. I did not hold that against him. But when I undertook inquiries I discovered that he was not only illegitimate and half-caste, but in addition he was steeped in the practice of voodoo. The fellow was supposedly a priest of the cult! And I further learned, after I had gotten Victorine out of that v
icious nest, he made threats that he would not only claim his ‘bride’ but summon vengeance on all who separated them.
“I had hoped that in bringing her here, keeping her surrounded by those I could trust, I would protect her. But to find this! Now I must discover the breach in our defense and have a reckoning.”
Before I thought I uttered a name—“Amélie!”
“What of Amélie?”
To that sharp demand what could I answer—only a few odd happenings? And Victorine was so devoted to her maid, if her brother interfered between them she might turn on him again. Still I could do no less than report what I had seen, hastening to add that there might be acceptable explanations for everything. As he listened, his stern dark face did not alter, instead he nodded.
“While Victorine is so dependent on Amélie you are right, one can do nothing without solid proof. Also, Amélie seems devoted to her mistress. But whether that would make her do as Victorine might ask, even to my sister’s eventual hurt, who knows? You were very right to tell me this. Now Amélie can also be watched. And in this house, away from the city—yes, for now we shall say or do nothing.”
Though he had asked for no promise I gave one freely.
“And I shall say nothing of this—” I pointed to the fireplace.
The cloying, noxious odor was gone. Alain closed the window, returned to the hearth where he ground the ashes with the poker. Then he fetched a sheet of paper from the desk, used the hearth brush to sweep the ash onto that. When it was gathered to his satisfaction, he folded the paper into a packet, sealing with wax.
“Nothing of this must be left in the house.”
I was more than a little surprised. His action, I thought, was not that of a man dealing with a superstition, but rather one taken by a believer dealing with something malignant and powerful.
Perhaps he may have read my thoughts for he asked, “Do you now judge me a superstitious fool, Tamaris? But I have seen—yes, I have seen more than one odd happening which cannot be rationally explained. A gris-gris is the focus of an evil cursing—is it too difficult, then, to believe it can draw harm to it?”
The sea on which I had spent my childhood had legends. I had heard many strange stories. Nor can anyone living deny that sometime in his or her life there has been an occurrence for which there is no logical cause.
“No,” I answered slowly, “I think you are right. To be the target of hate or ill-wishing is to live under a shadow. There are many things in this world which we can not understand. I do not think you are wrong to want the ashes of that evil thing safely away from here.”
He laid the packet on the desk. “They shall be—soon. But”—now he dropped his brooding intensity of manner to speak briskly—“you came here for another reason.” And he explained swiftly that my pay would be given me partly in coin and partly in a banking arrangement He treated me as an equal in understanding business and I found his attitude a compliment.
The generosity of his offering was in keeping with the life I was expected to lead. Already I had realized that my wardrobe did need many additions. And he repeated firmly that I must order what I desired from the materials being sent to us, adding that there were two full-time sewing maids on the staff of the rancho waiting employment.
“Those girls will be glad.” He laughed, his warrior countenance completely gone. “Since my sister married they must find the marking of household linen and the like dreary. Mind you, select all you need. If there are any lacks send a messenger into town. I want Victorine to remain here.” He glanced at the packet. “If D’Lys has the effrontery and tenacity to follow us he can be more easily detected here on my own land.”
I thanked him sincerely for his kindness and generosity, although that had reinforced the barrier I knew we must retain. Mr. Sauvage appeared to find my words embarrassing and went to shuffling the papers on his desk, which I knew was a hint of dismissal. The few moments of closer communication we had shared over the gris-gris were clearly now relegated to the past.
Victorine, Mrs. Deaves, Amélie, and two maids were in the sewing room. Fenton, perhaps excluded from that charmed circle until my arrival, followed me in. They were all intent upon a collection of fashion prints displayed by a very smartly dressed woman.
“Come—look at these, Tamaris!” Victorine was like a child confronting a collection of new toys. “All these”—she pointed to the pictures—“are from the Maison Rodrigues, no less. Except those from Kerteux Soeurs, from Meneaar and”—her voice took on a reverent note—“from Worth. Madame Rachell has sent them to us by Mademoiselle Armtage—”
“You see, ladies”—Miss Armtage bowed to me—“you can be sure these styles have not yet been seen in San Francisco, for all the prints have just arrived. I can assure you they are exclusive.”
“Tamaris, what think you of this one?” Victorine held one of the pictures at eye level before me. “See—made of the gauze over satin—trimmed with the roses—will it not be just right?”
Certainly the materials she had purchased would combine well. The pictured gown was plainly designed for a young girl and was ethereal in its use of a floating overskirt, which in the drawing was tulle. The apron-front drapery and the puffing in the back could well be caught up with the white silk roses of Victorine’s selection, each of which bore sparkling crystal dewdrops affixed to petal or leaf.
“Now—you choose, Tamaris!”
I caught the hostile glint in Mrs. Deaves’ sidewise glance. But she could not protest as I shuffled through the drawings, which ranged from the fairylike choice Victorine had made to regal gowns designed for dowagers.
My mother had possessed a few pieces of jewelry, none of any great value, chosen for their delicate beauty. And among them I fancied most, and always had, a parure my father had bought her in Genoa on their honeymoon. It was of the marble mosaic much in fashion in Italy, and consisted of a breast pin, earrings, necklace, and matching bracelets of red gold, each set with the mosaics—black marble background, on that in white and green of the same stone almost life-sized white violets among their leaves. Since this would furnish my party jewelry, I would keep it in mind as I made my choice.
I must, of course, have a pattern and material richer than I had ever worn, since display counted for so much here. But I had no longing to be conspicuous. Thus most of the French styles did not attract me. As I laid aside print after print I began to believe that I would in the end have to have one of my eastern gowns copied. Then I came upon one which I studied carefully.
Since I was already more than halfway to spinsterhood (it was my twenty-fifth birthday I had just celebrated) this pattern was more fitting. I could envision it made up in silver gray silk with black lace and perhaps violets. But at my mention of the proper material, Victorine made a face.
“But such is for old ladies, Tamaris. You are young!”
I smiled. “Not young enough for gauze, Victorine.”
“Most correct.” Mrs. Deaves gave majestic approval. Which immediately made me wonder if I were indeed too conservative and would appear a dowd. But I would not change choices now, only said I would consider the materials.
“Augusta is much older than you. And she plans to wear gold satin trimmed with hummingbirds!” Victorine announced.
I did not miss Mrs. Deaves’ faint frown. To have the difference in our ages so promptly pointed out could not be pleasant. Nor, perhaps, would I myself have relished such a speech had our positions been reversed. But I had no wish to outshine her.
Watching Amélie answering her mistress's excited questions as to whether a cluster of roses should be placed so or so, it was hard to believe that the slim young maid could be responsible for the evil thing Alain had found. And Victorine—since she had thrown off her sullen reluctance to travel during our first days together—when had she shown any regrets or rebellion? She must have forgotten D'Lys in her excitement at new surroundings and people. Perhaps she was actually relieved to be free of the half-caste, content in
her role as pampered sister of one of the wealthiest men on the Coast. No, I found it hard to believe that anything might threaten her, still I must not forget the possibility.
Miss Armtage supervised the unpacking of the materials. Though her own figure was short and poorly proportioned, she was an example of how such shortcomings might be overcome by excellent taste in dress, as she moved deftly about, draping lengths of shimmering fabric over chairs and tables, pointing out the beauties of each. While Victorine chose material for a riding habit, afternoon and walking dresses, more elaborate dinner gowns, Miss Armtage made quick efficient notes on an ivory-leaved tablet. I found my own selection. Not the silver gray I had planned, but rather a satin with the color name of “pearl,” which was not the pure white kept for the very young, but one possessing a silver overcast. Against it the black lace of my desire displayed tastefully. While from a vast box of silk and velvet flowers, Fenton, aroused to competition with Teresa (whom I was sure she disliked), sorted out clusters of white velvet violets.
Therefore I made other choices too, a dinner dress material of biscuit taffeta, some green and white chintz for a “Dolly Varden.” While Fenton, warming to the hunt, picked out laces and some other odds and ends which she urged on me for the furbishing of my existing wardrobe.
The sewing room, equipped with two machines of the latest model (though the maids did the finer sewing by hand), became a hive of activity. Invitations to the ball had gone out and acceptances were flooding in. The famous French caterers of San Francisco had sent their expert to survey the appointments of the kitchen and the dining room where the supper buffet would be laid. Poor Mrs. Landron spun around as if small wheels instead of feet were tucked beneath her spreading skirts, checking this, ordering that, making preparations for those guests who would stay the weekend.
Victorine, having decided on her dress and seen that begun, grew fretful during the lengthy fittings. Several times she retired with headaches and Amélie was called to nurse her. They both made it plain when this occurred my assistance was not welcomed.
