Some effort had been made to gravel the small path from the drive to the chapel gleaming palely through the trees, but it had been wasted. The path was overgrown, and the gravel sunken into the soft, fertile earth. Weed rosettes supporting last year’s dead brown stalks encroached on the path, and vines waved their new green shoots in the middle of the gravel, searching blindly for something to which to cling.
The coachman waited with the carriage where the path left the drive, but Grand’mere and Callie, carrying Joseph, had gone on. They stood impatiently beneath the cedar tree that stood with its feathery black shadow falling across the face of the small white chapel.
“Well! It’s about time,” Grand’mere greeted them. “You certainly dawdled along.”
Digging one bony hand into her black string reticule, she took from it a large heavy key which she handed to Darcourt.
“I am certain I heard laughter, too. In my day one did not find an occasion such as this a time for levity. A widow was inconsolable, her grief unrestrained, her heart buried in the grave. She did not disport herself like an unmarried girl! A widow wore black until she remarried or died. My only son, Gaspard, has been dead a mere three years and already his wife speaks of going into purple, not that it matters since she is seldom out of her wrapper. Silly idiot, as if purple would be more becoming to her than black. And my grandson’s widow running about the house in her dressing gown and giggling on the very anniversary of her husband’s death like a debutante at her first night at the opera!” She continued to grumble in this vein as Darcourt fitted the key into the lock and pulled open the thick bronze doors.
Like the house and the small pavilion beside the bayou, the chapel was built along classic Greek lines, with a flat roof, a low entablature, and columns on three sides. It was, in fact, a miniature of the great house. It was built of brick, plastered over to protect it from the dampness, and painted white. A low iron fence, also painted white, enclosed a tiny, brick-floored terrace and the three shallow steps that led to the doors. On each of the two heavy bronze doors, a wreath flanked by two inverted torches stood out in relief. Beside the doors stood large Grecian urns embraced by winged cherubs whose sightless eyes were fixed in an expression of melancholy.
The air inside the chapel was heavy with the smell of mildewed cloth and musty, faded flowers. Cobwebs in gray swaths were gathered in the corners of the high slits of windows, obscuring the already dim light that fell through the purple stained glass. Dust and grit grated beneath their feet on the dull white marble floor.
The walls fronting the burial vaults, as well as the ceiling, the small altar at the back, and even the reredos behind it, were all of the same white marble. Against its purity the white of the altar cloth was almost invisible, but the gold of the crucifix, vases, and candlesticks shone with a disturbing brightness.
Only one of the marble vaults was etched with lettering. It read: Jean Marc Gaspard Delacroix, né le 23 Novembre 1794, décédé le 24 Juin 1834
Beside it a brightly new bronze plaque had been fixed to the wall. The holes drilled for its placement had caused much of the grit underfoot. A shock ran over Elizabeth as she saw that the inscription was in English. She wondered if all those months ago Bernard had looked toward the possibility that Felix’s wife might someday see it and appreciate the gesture. He could not have known that Ellen would be familiar with their language, her French-Creole mother’s tongue. She found herself hoping that it was so in spite of the fact that Ellen would never see it.
In memory of Felix Gustave Joseph Delacroix, born 10 January 1809, died 17 March 1837, Goliad, Texas A man of valour. The inscription was simple, and yet it brought back to Elizabeth the memory of Felix as he had looked, darkly handsome, leaning down from his horse to tell Ellen goodbye. There had been a smile on his lips, but his eyes had been touched with understanding for the pain of being left behind.
Despite everything that had happened, Felix had been good for Ellen. They had loved each other; that was worth a great deal, and he had made her happy for a while. In the normal course of events, they would have lived out full lives together, and fifty years from now they would both be lying behind that cold marble front—but no, you could not say that. In the normal course of events they would never have met. As it was, they both lay in the warm soil of Texas.
Without realizing it she felt tears welling up behind her eyes. Grand’mere glanced at her from the corner of her shrewd old eyes and cleared her throat.
Before she could speak one of the heavy bronze doors swung inward with a small squeak of the hinges as Darcourt brushed against it.
Gasping, Celestine jumped. “I never fail,” she exclaimed as they turned to look at her, “to imagine how terrible it would be to be shut up in here. I have a perfect horror of it!”
For once Grand’mere seemed to have exhausted her caustic observations. Celestine’s nervous comment brought no answering retort. Instead Grand’mere turned fretful. “No one has been here for ages,” she said. “It is Alma’s duty to care for the chapel, but she has no taste for it. It is her fault that the cemetery and chapel are so far from the house. So inconvenient. She would have had it on the other side of the bayou if it had been left up to her. She’s afraid of the dead, and of dying, or I miss my guess—you needn’t stare at me, Darcourt. You know what she is like. I expect she even fears the ghosts of our Negro servants buried under their white wooden markers behind this chapel!
“I’m getting too old for this, too stiff in my joints. Who will care for the dead when I am gone? Just look at this floor and the dead flowers. A disgrace! I am so glad none of my friends are here to see it. I would die of embarrassment.”
“This here is a graveyard house?” Callie asked, her voice high as she broke an awed silence.
“Most assuredly,” Grand’mere replied.
“You—you bake your dead people in them ovens, like bread?”
Celestine tittered and Grand’mere stared at her so that the girl put her slim, well-manicured hand over her mouth.
“No, no, of course not!” answered Grand’mere. “They are not ovens at all, you silly creature, though I can see, now that you bring it to my attention, that the squares marked in the wall have somewhat the look of ovens. In this part of Louisiana we must bury our dear departed loved ones above the ground. You cannot dig a grave. We are below the sea level, is that not it, Darcourt? And the water is so near the top of the ground that at the depth of two or three feet the grave begins to fill with water.”
“That’s right,” Darcourt agreed, with a wicked grin. “In the old days, the coffins floated out of the ground and fell apart, exposing the decaying bones of the corpse so that the dogs and wild animals could get at them.”
“There is no need to be ghoulish,” Grand’mere rapped, and taking pity on the wide-eyed nurse, sent her back to the carriage for the pail of water, cloths, brush broom and flowers for the altar.
“What Darcourt says is true, however,” she went on to Elizabeth. “Everyone remarks on our peculiar burial customs, but they are dictated by necessity. Not everyone has their own private chapel, of course. In New Orleans they are building a wall of vaults six foot wide around the cemeteries. They look even more like ovens than this, I’m afraid. A most unfortunate, but not inaccurate, comparison. In the rural areas the vaults are made of bricks, or among the very poor and the slaves, the graves are piled with rocks, if they can find them. Ballast from the Northern ships is much in demand for that purpose.”
When Callie returned, Grand’mere took Joseph into the crook of her arm and directed the cleaning with her cane while the baby stared up into her old face with a look of interested wonder.
They placed flags, the white iris, in the altar vases. When all was as perfect as the old lady could wish, she sent after the candle in its hurricane cover so that she could light the candles on the altar.
“Why didn’t you bring a few of Bernard’s friction matches?” Celestine asked. “It would have been much easier.”
“New-fangled things like that are the devil’s work. I will have no part of them. My grandmother and my mother always carried a candle to the chapel and so shall I.”
“I couldn’t do without them,” Darcourt said, patting his waistcoat pocket, from which two cigars protruded. “I saw a peddler the other day who had matches in his pack. How about that? Bernard has been ordering them from Paris,” he explained in response to Elizabeth’s questioning look.
“Listen!”
They fell silent at Grand’mere’s command, straining to hear. From the main road beyond the trees, the sound of a wagon could be heard. It seemed to be turning into the drive.
“It’s Bernard. Darcourt, go and see. I did want all of us here. Tell Bernard to come at once.”
“Bernard? In a wagon?” Darcourt asked.
“Well, of course not. But he may be riding beside it. Why else would a wagon be coming into the drive? In the ordinary way they would go on by the road around to the quarters.” Her voice took on a strident note as if she felt she was dealing with fools.
Darcourt obeyed her, passing Callie as she came back with the candle flickering inside its glass globe. They questioned her but she had not seen the wagon, had not thought it worth looking back for since it meant she might drop the precious candle and earn Grand’mere’s wrath. They stood waiting as patiently as they could until Darcourt returned.
“It was Bernard right enough. He wouldn’t come back with me, however. He was taking the short cut to the hospital. There has been a little fracas. The overseer over in the next place had been lining his pockets at Bernard’s expense, just as he thought. Bernard’s valet, Ambrose, caught a ball in his shoulder. He must be in pretty bad shape, Bernard wanted him back here so he could keep an eye on him.”
Grand’mere listened in silence, and then pressed her lips together. “There are women at the hospital to attend to wounds of that nature. Go after him at once, and tell him I desire his presence here.”
Darcourt did not look hopeful, but he went away again. Again they stood waiting, for the most part, in silence. The sun sank lower in the sky and disappeared behind the trees. The shadows lengthened and the light in the chapel grew dim. The candle Callie had brought burned lower; soon it would go out. Joseph began to fret hungrily. Still Bernard did not come, nor did Darcourt return.
“Oh, very well,” Grand’mere said at last. “We will proceed without them.” Her voice boded ill for the two men when next she saw them.
She returned the baby to Callie’s care. Then she took the candle from its hurricane shade, and, moving with a slow and ceremonial majesty, she lit the candles on the altar. With the ease of long practice she then crossed herself and knelt. Celestine knelt beside her.
Elizabeth looked at the irises, their white petals shimmering in the candle glow; she looked at the gold candlesticks, vases, and crucifix, which reflected the tongues of flame in their polished surfaces. It seemed in that moment that if she stood back she would always be alien to Oak Shade and its inhabitants, whereas there would be a kind of belonging in kneeling with them here in this place. Certainly there was more than enough reason for her to pray.
Slowly she crossed herself and sank to her knees, her full black skirts billowing around her.
At last Grand’mere sighed and rose to her feet. Elizabeth stood, and seeing Celestine trying to rise, hampered by her skirts, she gave her a hand to cling to while she got to her feet. The dark-haired girl accepted the proffered hand but gave no more than a perfunctory thank you before turning to Grand’mere.
“Oh, Grand’mere, chère, may I ride back in the carriage with you?” she asked winningly. “I am exhausted.”
Grand’mere gave her assent, but not without a touch of scorn. “I suppose you want to squeeze in, too,” she said, turning on Elizabeth.
After that remark Elizabeth felt she would not have ridden in the carriage even if she wanted to, which she did not. She welcomed the idea of the walk home in the dusk alone. She had been too much in the company of people in the last weeks. It would be a pleasure to have no one’s company but her own.
She turned the key in the lock of the chapel door and handed it back to Grand’mere. Then she walked back out to the carriage on the drive with the other women.
She watched them drive away with something like gratitude. It was not until the sound of their going had faded and the silence of near night had fallen that she felt her first unease.
She tried to ignore it, to laugh at herself. After all, there was no danger. She knew who had tried to harm her and Joseph, didn’t she?
To prove that she was afraid neither of shadows nor of the dark turnings of her own mind, she did not hurry toward the house. Instead she leaned against a tree, letting her mind roam, willing the peace of the close of day to invade her soul.
It was a relief to drop her pretense and be herself, without the need to appear the subdued and grieving widow. It had been a strain, she admitted to herself, especially when cooped up in the house during the long days of rain and unseasonably cool weather. She had felt that everyone was watching her, weighing her performance, especially Bernard. It seemed that every time she looked up she found his dark inscrutable gaze upon her. But there had been no reference to the money, to his need of it, or to the lost papers that would secure it for her. She wished somehow that he would speak of it. His brooding silence on the subject was unnerving.
The noise of the crickets and other spring singing insects was loud in the woods around her. A night bird called mournfully. The wind touched the tops of the trees, swaying them gently. Regretfully she pushed away from the tree. Her footsteps as she started back toward the house in the thickening darkness were loud. She felt no better, there was no peace in her heart gained by her solitude. There seemed to be a barrier to peace within her mind. A barrier, she was afraid, of her own making, built of lies and deception.
7
As she held her skirts above the clutch of the briars, she told herself firmly that though her role was a strain on her nerves, in some ways it was becoming easier. She often thought of herself as Ellen now. She answered to the name without effort. She took her place on Bernard’s right at the table, and took her chair before the fireplace; she accepted as her due, accepted attention, the stool for her feet, the shawl for her shoulders, with a naturalness that was unfeigned. The idea of Felix’s letters still disturbed her at times, but she had quietly searched Grand’mere’s room and the small sitting room the old lady used for writing letters. Finding nothing, she had concluded that what few letters there had been must have been destroyed. The one other possibility was Bernard’s bedroom, but if she were caught there it would be a more scandalous situation than she cared to contemplate. A young widow simply did not enter a bachelor’s bedroom except under the most dire circumstances. There would be nothing she could offer in the way of an excuse, and after the ordeal in the library she could not bear to think of taking such a risk without some excuse with which to protect herself in case she was discovered.
As she neared one of the wide curves of the drive, she heard footsteps coming toward her. Bernard or Darcourt coming to escort her back to the house, she thought. Doubtless Grand’mere had not realized how close to full darkness it was when she left her behind, and her conscience had pricked her into asking someone to come and see about her.
Smiling a little, pleased at the sign of thoughtfulness, Elizabeth stopped. While she was waiting for whoever it was to come to her, she bent over to remove a brittle, dead briar that had caught on her skirt and broken off. But as she came to a halt the footsteps halted also.
She listened for a moment. “Bernard?” she called. “Darcourt?”
There was no answer.
“Darcourt?” she called again, a threatening note in her voice as it occurred to her that it would not be beyond him to have a bit of fun at her expense. She tried to peer through the low hanging limbs but she could see nothing except darkness beyond a few feet.
/> When there was still no answer she began to wonder if perhaps Theresa had given Denise the slip and had gotten out of the house. She shivered a little, and, taking a hold on her fancies, opened her mouth to call out again. But then she abruptly closed it when she remembered the overseer who had been dismissed, and the fracas which Darcourt had mentioned in such an offhand way but which had ended in bloodshed.
Suppose the overseer had resented his dismissal enough to come prowling about the big house looking for some way to get back at the people in it? He might think she would make as good a target for his revenge as any other. Or perhaps he was looking for Alma. He might object violently to anyone else becoming aware of his presence.
Before the thought had completely formed in her mind, she had stepped as quietly as possible off the road. The deep grass and dead leaves under the trees deadened the sound of her footsteps. She would wait to see who it was.
Minutes passed. Dew had fallen upon her so that her clothes were damp to the touch. A sense of coldness crept over her and she clutched her upper arms, feeling the chill bumps of fear through the thin bombazine of her sleeves. Her eyes burned from straining to see through the darkness.
Suddenly there was a small sound behind her of cloth rustling, and before she could move something soft and clinging descended over her head and tightened around her throat. She caught at it, twisting and turning, digging her fingers under the rope of twisted cloth. Her breath rasped painfully in her throat, sending waves of panic to her brain. Her eyes throbbed with the beat of her heart.
She staggered back. Feeling her assailant behind her, she stepped down hard with her wooden-heeled walking shoes and threw her weight backward.
Dark Masquerade Page 12
