Velvet Shadows

by Andre Norton

  “Now let us have the truth—what happened?”

  I began by describing the young man I had seen with Victorine on the balcony and Alain's impassivity became fixed.

  “I was wrong then,” he interrupted as if he thought aloud. “So he did dare to be here tonight! And perhaps—but tell me, how did you get into the garden?”

  I made my story as short as I could, but I mentioned meeting Henry Beall. Alain nodded.

  “Yes, I met him also. I had seen you from the terrace and followed. It was good that I did.”

  What had his thoughts been then? That I was so untrustworthy a guardian that I had sought a hidden rendezvous after all my “missish” words earlier? But it was not Alain's scorn or possible suspicion which counted now, it was Victorine.

  “You would know this young man again?”

  “Yes. He is quite unmistakable.”

  “Good. I want you to come with me. If you see him, point him out. I have had him described to me but we have not yet met face to face. Meanwhile we shall say that Victorine has been taken ill and is resting.”

  As we returned to the hall we came face to face with Mrs. Deaves.

  “Alain! Where have you been? Judge Stevens and his wife are about to take their leave—”

  Ignoring me entirely, she laid her hand possessively on his arm, drawing him with her. I could see his dilemma. Now it must be up to me to hunt alone for Victorine's mysterious escort.

  But that was difficult. The crowd, passing back and forth, was never still or confined to one room. How could one search effectively? I tried but speedily discovered that in order not to make myself conspicuous I had to pause now and then for some exchange of civility with a guest. Alain had made a mistake in putting me in the reception line earlier and so given me a quasi-hostess status.

  I had reached the glassed-in veranda when I came upon a group of ladies paying court to an older and very stately dame, whom I recognized as the redoubtable Mrs. William Gwin, for almost two decades the leader of local society. Her black velvet and pearls were well suited to her role, and it was plain from the attitude of those about her she was still very much on her throne.

  On the outskirts of the small court, which I was endeavoring to avoid, I saw one not as politely attentive as the others. Mrs. Beall, wearing mauve brocade and a rich display of diamonds, was looking about as if searching for someone. Then her eyes met mine.

  She edged her way gracefully out of the group and cut off my escape into the conservatory.

  “Miss Penfold!” She repeated my name so sharply I was forced to pay her heed. “I have not yet had a chance to speak to Miss Sauvage—”

  Why, since in the immediate past she had given every indication of not wishing to pursue any acquaintance, I could not understand. But so firm was her manner now I could not push by without open rudeness.

  “Victorine is not feeling well, Mrs. Beall. She has just retired with a sick headache.”

  For a moment I thought she was about to challenge my statement. Then some second thought apparently checked that impulse and she said, in quite another tone of voice, “What a pity. She is quite the belle. I have heard many compliments on her this evening. I trust her disorder is not serious?”

  “Not in the least.” I replied with all the reassurance I could muster. “She is subject to these attacks when she becomes fatigued or overexcited. This has been an occasion to produce both those conditions.”

  “Yes, an important night for any girl, her formal entrance into society.” Mrs. Beall spoke absently. “Tell me,” she continued, “you have been with Miss Sauvage for some time, have you not, Miss Penfold?”

  I sensed a method in her questioning and grew wary. But telling the strict truth is some protection.

  “Since she was in New York only.” I did not elaborate.

  “So you did not know her in France—when she was younger?”

  “No, Mrs. Beall.”

  “It is odd that she did not come sooner to live with her brother.”

  My reticence seemed to force her more and more into the open. There was a demanding note in her voice. Surely the story of Victorine's past must be common knowledge. Rumor and gossip must have played in turn with such an account. That Alain Sauvage had gone to claim a sister heretofore unknown should be known to all the “old families.”

  “I know nothing of that, Mrs. Beall,” I said firmly.

  Though the art which had maintained her semblance of youth was meticulous, yet tonight, kind as the lighting was, she had a slightly haggard look. Now her eyes hardened.

  “Of course you would say that!” she flashed. She must have been hard driven for the polite surface of her manners to so crack. “Do you not guess? I have a mother's desire to know more of a young lady in whom my son shows so much interest—”

  Her explanation was so patently false she must have realized it even as she spoke. I did not believe that she harbored any maternal feelings for Henry. She did not even try to explain herself further, only stared rather wildly at me.

  I was amazed for I read in that look a desperation out of all keeping with what I knew. As if—almost as if in Victorine she had discovered some danger.

  She turned away, twisting her lace-covered fan in her hands. Though she might be able to control her expression, those writhing hands betrayed her. I heard the ivory sticks snap. She looked at the broken fan and then gave a little cry and hurried away.

  I went on into the veranda. There were people there, though the crowd was beginning to thin, for a dawn breakfast was offered. Others were calling for their carriages. And nowhere had I seen the young man.

  Later I met Alain in the great hall where he was bidding guests farewell. He glanced at me and I answered with a slight shake of the head. Mrs. Deaves had at last won her place by his side and was queenly self-confident. I slipped away without trying for speech with him.

  The sun was rising when I regained the quiet of my own room. I had paid a visit to Victorine, found her sleeping, Amélie on guard. In the sitting room waited another maid, sent there by Alain to run any errands—or rather to make sure of Victorine's continued privacy, I fancied.

  Fenton, who aided me off with my gown, showed consideration by not talking. Ever since I had followed Victorine into the garden this had been a draggingly long night of worry and I was glad it was over.

  I slept most of the day, but it was not restful slumber and I carried into my late waking memory of disturbing dreams, so my own head was aching. But by the time I drank the tea Fenton brought me, I was able to better order my thoughts.

  When I visited Victorine I found Mrs. Deaves seated in a chair close to the bed. The girl was propped on pillows and, while she looked languid, she had lost the feverish flush. She smiled at me in welcome.

  “Tamaris at last!” She drew a small watch out of the embroidered pocket made fast to the inner side of the tester curtain, consulted it, then frowned at me in mock reproof. “You have slept and slept. Twice Amélie went and Fenton hushed her away. Did you take some powders?”

  “No. It was the fatigue of a long and exciting evening. But how are you feeling, Victorine?”

  She clapped her hands over her ears. “Never do I want to hear those words again! I feel much better, but no one will believe that is so. Now Alain says on Monday we shall go to the city, that I must see some physician there to prove that I was only a little tired. The rooms were so hot I went into the garden, then I walked too fast, and I was chilled—which made my head bad. So all this fuss-fuss—it is for no good reason. This I say to Alain but he will not listen. He puts on a stern face and says that I must see the doctor—

  “Very well, I shall do so. Then when Alain learns how foolish are his fears we shall hear no more about it. Always this has been with me so, even from a small child. Amélie knows just what to do to make me feel right again. To speak of a doctor is foolishness.”

  That she had met someone in the garden I was sure. If Christophe D'Lys had followed her, if it
had been he I had seen talking to her on the balcony, it might well have been she promised to meet him in the garden. Those words I had caught—St. John's Eve—I must find a saints’ calendar, try to discover the right date.

  But now I accepted—outwardly—Victorine's excuse. And I greeted Mrs. Deaves pleasantly, hoping she had enjoyed the ball.

  “A most enchanting time. As you must know, Miss Penfold. The garden was beautiful in the moonlight, excellent for private talks and walks, was it not?” Her malice was hardly hidden.

  But I was startled, thinking for a moment that she might have witnessed Victorine's secret meeting. Still the malice was plainly directed toward me.

  “Mr. Beall is most attentive,” she continued in that lazy purr. “Only perhaps I should warn you, Miss Penfold, that while a married lady is allowed freedoms in society, an unmarried one, even of mature years, finds many censorious eyes ready to mark any deviation in her conduct.”

  “That is well known, Mrs. Deaves.” If she had expected some protest of injured innocence from me she was not going to get it. I saw the slightly malicious amusement in Victorine's expression and with it curiosity. Did she wonder what I had been doing in the garden?

  “Mr. Beall?” Victorine repeated. “Tamaris—can it be that the so-gallant Henry was that attentive to you last night? But what a disappointment! I had thought him coming here to play my cavalier.” She gave a mock sigh. “So you took Mr. Beall into the garden, or he took you? Fie, Tamaris, you who always talk so much about being ladylike. Did the moon influence you that much?” Her tone was still light even though it carried a slight sting, but not the malice Mrs. Deaves had used.

  “I was in the garden because I saw you leave the house, and I feared, as it turned out rightly, that you were ill. While I was searching for you I encountered Mr. Beall. That is the extent of my excursion into the moonlight.”

  Victorine laughed. “If he was smoking one of those très horreurs he affects, then I am pleased he did not find me. For I have such a dislike for that odor. It makes me sick, even sicker than one of my heads. Pauvre Tamaris—”

  She made such a face I echoed her laughter.

  “Oh, it was not quite as bad as that. We were in the open and he had already disposed of the cigar before he joined me. We were only in talk a moment or two. He was in search of you for a promised dance.”

  “So he said,” Mrs. Deaves remarked. I wondered what had passed between her and Henry Beall. If he had hinted that I was engaged in an assignation, she must have welcomed that. But Henry Beall would have suggested that another man was involved, not himself.

  At any rate such gossip did not matter now for Alain Sauvage knew the truth. And if Mrs. Deaves wished to make mischief in that quarter she would not succeed.

  I spent the remainder of the short afternoon with Victorine. Mrs. Deaves quit our company soon after my arrival with the news that she must be joining Alain, who had promised to take the reins of a coach-and-four (the latest novelty of the neighborhood) and drive a party of guests around the estate. When the door closed behind her Victorine sat up straighter and spoke with some vigor.

  “That specimen d'chat! Do you not hear it in her voice, see it in her air of triumph? Already she fancies herself mistress here—ruling all—including me! Unless she cannot manage to make a marriage for me with some thick-necked, big-handed son of a miner! I tell you, she shall not have Alain, she shall not!” Her delicate hands folded into fists and she pounded them into the spread of coverlet over her knees.

  “I think your brother must be left to manage his own affairs, and I do not doubt he will do that wisely.” I answered as best I could.

  Though the triumph Mrs. Deaves had shown last night, when she managed to circumvent Alain's search for the intruder, was to the fore of my mind. As well as the fact that she had stepped into the role of hostess to speed the parting guests. But Victorine's present agitation was such that I made haste to reassure her, to remind her that he had not asked Mrs. Deaves to receive, but had put Victorine into that role. Just as he had seated her at the head of the table last night, and led her out to open the ball.

  “Yes, what you say is true,” she admitted. “But in the matter of a woman a man may be quite blind, never seeing an open trap she has set. I do not like Augusta, and she is determined to be Alain's wife.” She reached a hand under her pillows and withdrew it again, her fingers tightly closed about some object. I caught a glint of gold but did not see what she held, as she brought her hand to her bosom, cupping what she had hidden between palm and body.

  Her eyelids dropped, in fatigue I first thought, then I believed because she was lost in thought. At that moment she had withdrawn from me. Amélie came forward and gestured. I found myself obediently rising quietly from my chair to leave Victorine and her self-appointed guardian alone. Now I wanted to find Alain, to be reassured by his presence that the shadows which seemed to be gathering were but figments of my imagination. But Alain was with his guests and I must wait alone.

  Victorine appeared downstairs for dinner, a vivacious and charming hostess once more. Perhaps she made the effort fearing that Mrs. Deaves would insinuate herself further into the role of mistress here if she did not. But if she came by effort of will there was no sign of strain about her.

  As this was Sunday evening, our amusement was decorous. We spent a few short hours in the White Drawing Room where the two Brighton girls played and sang, the gentlemen edging out now and then to, I was sure, smoke and discuss those matters of politics or business considered too complex for the female mind.

  Alain did not make such a surreptitious sally into the night, but remained seated beside Victorine with Mrs. Deaves to his left. I withdrew to the edge of the company, content to sit quietly and relax.

  When we drove to San Francisco the next day (or the next two days, as Alain wished to spare Victorine the threat of overfatigue and broke our journey halfway) Mrs. Deaves was still in our company. Victorine muttered about that in a way I hoped that neither Amélie nor Fenton, who shared the coach with us, could hear. She hoped that dear Augusta in Alain's smart turnout would be sick all the way, that ought to make her brother think a little. But if their swifter pace did produce such qualms Mrs. Deaves showed no ill effects.

  During these hours I had time to think a few deep and serious thoughts of my own. My sense of duty would not allow me to leave if Victorine was really ill. But some instinct within me warned of a loss of peace of mind if I stayed. I made myself face the truth squarely. Alain Sauvage (I never thought of him any more as “Mr. Sau-vage”) had become, without my willing it at all, a center of attraction for me, occupying far too many of my thoughts. He need only enter a room for me to be instantly aware of his disturbing presence.

  Romantic love as the sentimental novelists were wont to describe it—I had long seriously doubted that such intense emotion ever existed, save in the imagination of those writers. But neither had I believed I could become so aware of the slightest movement of any one man, want desperately to hear his voice, have to restrain myself from making excuses to be with him.

  I was, in a way, ashamed of this discovery of my feeling. For it seemed to me that I was afraid of what lay behind some inner barrier. Safety for me lay in detachment, in refusing to allow anyone to pierce below the surface I so carefully maintained. If I were so foolish as to yield to this new feeling I would never again be a real mistress of myself.

  For the first time I longed for the advice of a woman older and wiser than I, to whom I could speak without reserve, ask questions concerning this stir of emotion. Should I quit this household before I was too deeply entranced to ever hope for a quiet mind and heart again?

  Yet there was no one to whom I could turn. Of all those in the past who had crossed my life, only my father had been close. And, had he been here, this was something I could not have shared with him. I must accept that I had only myself to depend upon. Any wrong choice I would have to take the consequences for.

  That re
alization was frightening. I felt as if I were being borne faster and faster toward some dark danger with no will or strength to ward off the end.

  Alain established us once more in the same hotel which we had stayed in earlier. And, since our return to the city, Victorine seemed in perfect health. She was energetic, roaming restlessly about the suite, going from window to window to watch the scene below. Oddly enough she did not suggest shopping, though we took drives each day. Usually we visited the Woodwards Gardens where one could see the famous black swans on the lake and the flowering slopes around the conservatories.

  Victorine was content to view such vistas from the carriage alone. And when I suggested a visit to an art gallery, and Mrs. Deaves the theatre, Victorine's answer was always “later.” Since she was not ill, I believed she was waiting for something—or could it be someone? She might be apprehensive of missing what she awaited by being engaged elsewhere.

  The physician Alain favored had gone down coast and we must await his return, while Alain was caught up in a press of many affairs. During those days I learned of the feverish speculation in mining shares which was constant, not only among men, but women, too. There were astounding tales of washerwomen who were one day at their tubs and the next able to buy diamonds to cover their swollen red fingers.

  I wondered if the Sauvage companies were entangled in this gambling. But when Mrs. Deaves once spoke of some investment, Alain answered quite forcibly about the folly of such buying and selling. His interests did not lie in mining alone, and it was during these days that I learned of his power over what might be termed an “empire”—including cattle ranches, lumbering, mines, steam packets, ships on voyages across the Pacific.

  On the third day of our aimless city stay he returned at midmorning, bringing with him, as always, a fresh wind to enliven our enervating hothouse of a parlor.

  “Your bonnets, ladies, and your mantles, jackets, whatever you need. We have a visit to make!”

  So brisk and authoritative was he that I started for those designated articles at once. But Victorine, as yet unstirring from the divan, asked languidly, “Where do we go?” Her voice sounded resentful as if she would like to say “no” at once but did not quite dare.