"Surely you do not go to the theatre unescorted?" He gazed at her in dismay. "No, no; Madame, you must not."
"But why?" she asked reasonably. "I have attended the theatre alone in London." As soon as she said it, she realized she had slipped; it was rare for her to make such an error.
"Never tell me you went alone to the theatre as a child," he countered. "Not even French parents are so indulgent."
"Not as a child, no," she allowed, irritated that her tongue should have got her into such a pass with Sherman, of all people. He was too acute for her to forget herself around him.
He stopped walking, and looked down at her, cocking his head; the lamplight made his red hair glow like hot coals. "As a gentleman, I should never ask a lady this question, but I fear I must."
She returned his look. "What question is that? I have told you the truth, Mr. Sherman."
"Of that I have no doubt." He answered so directly that she was startled. "I can perceive the truth of you as if it grew on stalks. No, the question I ought not ask is: How old are you?" Before she could answer, he added, "Because I have received an accounting of your money in the Saint Louis office of Lucas and Turner, and with a portrait and a description to verify your identity. It would seem that you have not altered in any particular in the last decade. You appeared to be about twenty when you first went there, and you appear to be about twenty now."
Very carefully she said, "If I told you when I was born, you would not believe me."
He studied her eyes and was satisfied, "That, too, was the truth." He again looked at his pocket watch. "We are going to miss the curtain."
"Does this mean you are escorting me?" asked Madelaine, unable to resist smiling at him.
"Perforce," answered Sherman, his eyes creasing at the corners.
"But what of the gossip you have warned me about? And your wife is still with her parents." Madelaine noticed that the theatregoers had all but disappeared from the street. She glanced at Sherman. "Are you really set on seeing Racine?"
His face did not change, but his voice softened. "No."
"Nor am I," said Madelaine, who had seen Phaedre more than twenty times in the last sixty years. "Surely there is somewhere we can go that will not cause tongues to wag?"
Most of those going to the theatre were in their place. The few who remained on the street hurried to reach their seats before the curtain went up; they paid no attention to Madelaine and Sherman.
He coughed once. "There are rooms at the casinos, private rooms. Men dine there, in private. Sometimes these rooms are used for assignations."
"Would that bother you?" asked Madelaine. "Going to such a place?"
"It should bother you," said Sherman sternly. Then he made up his mind. He took her by the elbow and started to lead her in the direction away from the French Theatre. "My carriage is in a livery around the corner on Pine Street," he said.
"I wish you would not hold on to my arm in that manner," she said to him. "It's uncomfortable."
He released her at once, chagrined. "I meant nothing unsuitable, Madame." He put more than two feet between them. "You must understand that I only sought to guard—"
"Oh! for all the saints in the calendar!" Madelaine burst out, then lowered her voice. "I meant nothing but what I said: I dislike having my arm clutched. But I am glad of your company, Mr. Sherman, and your protection. I know these streets can be dangerous."
He paused at the corner of Pine Street. "I will take you home."
"My coachman will do that, thank you," said Madelaine amiably, "after we have our private discussion."
This time there was an eagerness in his eyes as he looked down at her. "What did you mean by discussion, since you are clarifying your meaning, Madame?"
"That, in large part, is up to you," said Madelaine, regarding him steadily. "I will not seduce you, or demand what you are unwilling to give; I want no man who is not enthusiastic to have me."
He laughed abruptly. "What man would that be? One who is dead, or prefers the bodies of men?"
Madelaine answered him seriously. "I do not mean only my body, Mr. Sherman. If that is all I sought, it is there for the taking, all around us, at acceptable prices. I mean a man who is willing to see into my soul. And to let me see into his."
Taken aback, Sherman straightened up and stared down the dark street. "Well, your candor is admirable." He paused thoughtfully. "Let me make myself plain to you, Madame, and if what I say is repugnant to you, then I will not impose upon you any longer, and I will forget that any of this was said. No matter what you may stir in me, I cannot, and I will not, compromise my obligations to my family. I am married, and that will not be changed by any desire I may feel for you."
"I don't recall asking you to change, or to hurt your family," said Madelaine as she put her hand through his arm. "I only remember suggesting that we spend the evening together."
"And that I may have you if that is what I wish," he said, as if to give her one more chance to change her mind.
Madelaine's smile was quick. "I am not challenging you, Mr. Sherman. I am seeking to spend time with you."
"Whatever that means," said Sherman.
"Whatever that means," Madelaine concurred.
San Francisco, 16 June, 1855
… Tonight will be better.
The sheets were fine linen, as soft as antique satin, and there were six pillows and a damask comforter flung in glorious disarray about the bed. In the wan spill of moonlight from the window, Sherman was standing, wearing only a loosely belted dressing robe, and smoking a thin cigar as he gazed out into the darkness. "The other evening and now this. What must you think of me?"
"Nothing to your discredit," said Madelaine quietly, hardly moving as she spoke. "I think you do not trust what you want." She pulled the sheet up to cover her breasts.
"That's kind," he said tightly. "Many another woman would be offended."
Madelaine turned on her side to look at him, regarding him with a serious expression. "If that's not it, what is bothering you?"
He met her eyes. "You are."
"Why do I bother you? Would you rather not be here?" she asked, more puzzled than apprehensive.
"No. There is no place I would rather be," he answered evenly.
"Then why—?" she began, only to be cut off.
"Because it is what I want," he said bluntly, and stubbed out his cigar in the saucer she had set out for that purpose. "A man in my position, with a wife and a good marriage, has other women for convenience and amusement. It isn't that way with you. You are not a convenience or an entertainment. You are not convenient at all. You are what I want. All of you. And I should not. I must not." He started toward the bed, tugging at his sash and flinging it aside as he reached her. He stared down at her as his robe fell open. "Do you know what it means to want you so much, to go beyond reason with wanting you? I want to possess you, and I fear you will possess me. I am afraid that once I touch you, I will be lost."
"Is that so terrifying a prospect?" she asked, moving to make a place beside her in the bed.
"Yes." In a shrug he dropped his dressing robe to the floor, letting it lie in a velvet puddle.
"Then come and stretch out beside me. We can talk as friends, all through the night." She piled up the pillows. "I don't require you to take me."
"How do you mean?" he asked sharply.
"If you do not want to touch me at all, you need not." She regarded him kindly. "If you would like to, then you may."
He scowled. "How can you say that you want me, that you have me here in your house, in your bed, and not care if I—"
She sighed. "I've told you before, William."
"Don't call me William," he interrupted, seeking a distraction from the confusion that warred within him.
"I won't call you Mr. Sherman, not here," she said, slapping one of the pillows with the back of her hand; though it was dark, she could see his face clearly and knew he was deeply troubled. She strove to lighten the burdens o
f desire that so plagued him, and decided to stay on safe ground. "What does the T in your name stand for?"
"My friends and… and family call me Cump," he said, swallowing hard.
"Cump?" She was baffled.
"My given name is Tecumseh," he said at last. "The Ewings added William when they took me in after my father's death. So that I could be baptized into Maria Ewing's Catholic religion." He sat on the edge of the bed and absently reached out to stroke her hair.
Madelaine knew he had just given her a very special gift. "You're named for the chief of the Shawnee."
"Yes," he said with urgency as he reached out and wrapped his long-fingered hands around her upper arms. "How do you know about Tecumseh?"
"I know he had a twin brother, Tenskwatawa, and they were both called The Prophet." It was not a direct answer, but it was all she was prepared to give now. "Come to me, Tecumseh. You don't have to do anything if you don't want to."
He glowered at her, then looked down at himself, sighed, and swung his legs up and under the covers. He stared up at the ceiling in the darkness. "What should we talk about?" he asked, his manner forbidding.
"Anything you wish or nothing at all. Either will please me if that is what you want." As much as she desired to lie next to him, to feel his flesh against hers for the length of her body, she, too, lay on her back and stared at the ceiling, noticing a faint crack in the ornamental plasterwork. She wanted to bridge the rift between them, and sought for something she could give him, as he had offered his name to her. "Let us share secrets, as friends do," she suggested impulsively. "If you like, I will tell you how old I am."
"That is a wonderful secret for a lady to share with a friend, and quite an admission for any woman to make." He laughed once, then looked grave. "Very well. On my honor I promise I will never repeat it," he told her somberly.
"You had best not," said Madelaine, and plunged ahead, telling herself that surprise was an advantage with this man. "For I was born on the twenty-second day of November, 1724, at Montalia, my family estate, in the south of France."
For several seconds Sherman was silent. Then he chuckled. "Seventeen-twenty-four, not 1824. That would make you more than a century old, Madame."
"I am," she said, beginning to worry.
He turned toward her, trying hard to keep the incredulity out of his voice. "All right. I deserved that. For the sake of argument, we will say you are ancient, a veritable crone. You are one hundred thirty-one years old, or will be in November." His chuckling continued, rich and easy, the hard lines in his face relaxing so that he, himself, now appeared younger than he was. "And how did you attain this great age without looking older than a girl just out?"
"Because I died on the fourth of August, 1744. I was just out," she replied, trying to keep her voice from trembling, though she could not disguise the chill that seized her, making her quiver.
"The fourth of August, 1744," he repeated, as if hearing the words again would change them. His chuckle turned to coughing, and he took a minute to bring his breathing under control. He lay back on the pillows, willing himself not to cough. "You don't expect me to believe this, do you?"
"Why not?" she answered, fighting the desolation that swept over her. She was afraid her teeth would chatter. "Tecumseh, you know when I am lying. I am not lying now, am I? This is the truth."
"The truth?" he scoffed. "Well, Madame, you sure look mighty pretty for a corpse." He rolled onto his side, propped himself on his elbow, and stared at her. "How can you claim to exchange confidences and then tell such bald-faced…" The words straggled; when he spoke again, he was awed. "You are telling the truth, aren't you?"
"Yes," she said as if from a great distance.
"But how… ?" He touched her face with one long finger; he did his best to comprehend the enormity of what she said. "Dear God, Madelaine, how?"
She gave him Saint-Germain's answer. "I drink the Elixir of Life. And I do not die. I cannot die."
This was not nearly sufficient to convince Sherman. "Then tell me something of your youth." His steel-colored eyes grew sharp. "Who was ruling France then?"
"When I came to Paris, Louis XV was king," she answered calmly, though she continued to shiver as much from the strength of her memories as from apprehension about Sherman. "That was in the fall of 1743. I went to my aunt so that she could introduce me into society."
"What sort of fellow was he, Louis XV?" demanded Sherman, making her answer a test. "I warn you, I know something about the man, and will not be fobbed off with vague answers."
"Venal, luxury-loving, indolent, handsome, overindulged, manipulative. In a word, spoiled." She stared at him, surprised when he took her hands in his. "I escaped the Terror, which is just as well."
Sherman managed a kind of laugh. "A lovely corpse without a head—that would be difficult," agreed Sherman in ill-concealed excitement. "Limiting, I should think."
"A corpse is all I would have been. Those who taste the Elixir of Life are not proof against all death. Madame la Guillotine is as deadly to me as to you. So is fire." She looked directly into his eyes. "In the time I have lived, can you imagine the number of times I have said good-bye?" And how many more times I will, she added silently to herself. She thought of Trowbridge then, of his devotion which had cost him his life to save hers; and Falke, going willingly into the furnace of the Egyptian desert in order to be free of her and the life she gave.
"No, Madelaine. Don't despair," he said, with the urgency of one who knew despair well. His arms went around her, and he drew her close to him as if to protect her from the weight of grief. "It is unbearable," he murmured, pressing his lips to her hair.
She rested her head on his chest, listening to his heart beat, hearing the pulse quicken. "I am told one learns, in time." Her breath was deep and uneven.
He reached out to turn her face up to his, searching out secrets. "What are you, then? I'd better warn you, I don't hold any truck with the supernatural. And don't preach religion at me, whatever you do. I get enough of that from Maria Ewing." He made an impatient gesture at the mention of his mother-in-law.
"No religion," she promised. "Other than that most religion is against those of us who come to this life." She stretched out to kiss him, feeling yearning and resistance in his mouth. "We die, but slip the hold death has on us, and we live—"
"On the Elixir of Life," he said, one hand sliding down her flank. "And how is this mysterious Elixir obtained?"
"It is taken from those who are willing to give it," she answered quietly. "Where there is understanding, and passion, there is also great… joy."
"Joy," he echoed, as if the word were terrible even as he pulled her inexorably nearer, kissing her with what he had intended as roughness but what became a tenderness of such intensity that he felt all his senses fill with her. He tried to push her away, but his body would not answer the stern command of his will; and as she guided his hands over the treasure of her flesh, he surrendered to her with all the strength of his desire.
"Slowly," she whispered as she flicked her tongue over his nipples, seeing his shock and delight. "It is better if you savor it."
"God and the devils! I am ready to explode!" He kicked back the sheet to show her, proud and embarrassed at once. "Hurry, Madelaine. I am at the brink."
"Not yet," said Madelaine, bending to kiss him again as she straddled him. "Do not deny yourself the full measure of your passion, for you also deny me. This is not a race where glory goes to the swiftest." Then, with exquisite languor, she guided him deep within her.
His breath hissed through his clenched teeth. "I can't—"
"You can," she promised, remaining very still until he opened his eyes. Then she began to move with him, feeling his guard fall away as his ardor became adoration; at this instant her lips brushed his throat.
They lay together until the first predawn call of birds warned them of coming day.
"I don't want to leave," Sherman said, kissing the corner of her mouth. "Y
ou have enthralled me, Madelaine."
"And I am bound to you, Tecumseh," she said.
With sudden emotion, he pulled her close against him, his long fingers tangled in her hair. "What have you done to me?"
"Touched you," she answered, "And you me."
As he rose, gooseflesh on his pale skin, he brushed the arch of her lip with his fingers. "We will have to be very careful, very discreet. They know, me women here, that a man has appetites, but they will not look upon you with the same understanding."
"Yes," she agreed. "I know," and turned her head to kiss the palm of his hand.
He gathered up his clothes with care and dressed quickly, listening for sounds in the street. "I don't want anyone to know I've come here," he told her, his manner stern. "For both our sakes."
She got out of bed and pulled on a heavy silken peignoir. "I am not about to cry it to the world."
He paused in the door, regarding her steadily. "No, you are not," he conceded with a curious mixture of relief and exasperation. "It isn't in you to do that." Then he smiled, and the harshness left his face. He held his arms open, and she ran into them.
San Francisco, 1 July, 1855
Yesterday I met Tecumseh's two children, though he tells me he has a third child, Minnie, living with her grandparents, an arrangement that does not entirely please him. The children currently living with him were at a puppet show presented near the old Mission San Francisco de Assisi. I came with the Kents…
He is clearly fond of both children, but takes the keenest delight in his son, Willy, who is still a baby; the boy has hair almost as red as his father's, and is quick and amiable. It is no wonder his father dotes on him…
Most of my notes are prepared and ready and I am about to set to work in earnest…
Sherman read the first three pages in growing disbelief. "Indians," he said to her at last. "Indians.' What in infernal damnation do you mean with this?"
The Vampire Sextette Page 30
