by Andre Norton
"I shall be able to come out of mourning next month." She stared dreamily into the distance over her dinner plate as if able to envision the rolls of lace, the waiting bolts of material only a day's journey away downriver. And she spoke of her term as a grieving widow, Saranna thought, rather as if that period of time had been a cell to confine her. Perhaps that was so.
From what Saranna had deduced about Richard Whaley, the Captain's son, he must have been greatly overshadowed in life by his far more dominant father. That he had found two women to marry him might not have been due to any personal charm, but the wealth of which Tiensin was the symbol. Though, if she had married for position, consequence, and wealth, Honora had been sadly disappointed in the end.
For the first time Saranna realized that, though Damaris had spoken freely of her grandfather, and though her tie with the Captain had been very close indeed, she had never mentioned her father or mother. Perhaps the Captain so overshadowed all the household during his long life that they had not mattered to the child.
"Yes—" Honora was continuing, though she appeared now to be speaking her thoughts aloud, not addressing either of the others at the table. "Blue, I think—and one of those embroidered lawns— I look well in green, too. And those new bonnets with the blush roses under the brim." Her eyes sparkled, there was a delicate flush in her cheeks. Saranna had no doubt that Honora was mentally picturing herself in one gown after another.
She caught Damaris' eye and the child answered with a slight grimace. Since dressmaking seemed to be the subject for conversation, Saranna dared to break into Honora's delectable dreams with a blunt question.
"May we have the use of the sewing machine?"
"The—what—?"
For an instant, Honora was completely at a loss.
"The sewing machine. I understand Captain Whaley had one bought shortly before his death. Since I must make some alterations in the gowns you so generously gave me, use of it will make my task shorter."
"A sewing machine? But those are vastly complicated—"
Saranna continued firmly. "I have seen one, had it demonstrated to me in Boston. While they are not good for fine sewing—the matter of seaming and such is made very much easier."
"Where is it?” Honora had been drawn fully out of her own preoccupation with the delights of shopping to come.
"I believe Mrs. Parton has it in custody. She dislikes using it herself and rightly does not trust the uninstructed maids—"
"Oh, very well. Yes, tell her that you must have it." Honora nodded, her good humor very evident. "I know she will be most accommodating—to you, Saranna."
There was something in the emphasis of that speech which alerted Saranna.
"Why should she be any more accommodating to me, Honora? I am only a visitor here—" and, she added silently to herself, in all eyes, except maybe Damans', a very unimportant one.
"You are no child, Saranna, but a young lady," Honora's smile was almost demure, though that was a difficult adjective to use to describe anything about Mrs. Whaley. "Surely you know of Rufus Parton's interest. He is a very estimable young man who has worked hard to raise himself above his class. It is his intention to go West where there are many opportunities for one of his ability. And—"
"And he might as well look elsewhere!" Saranna flashed hotly. "I am not interested in the least in Rufus Parton,"
Honora's ice-tinkle of laugh rang out. "Oh, he is a little rough about the edges, to be sure. But a canny wife can smooth him down and show him more civilized ways. He is not penniless, you know. His uncle left him quite well ofif for one of that class; land, too—out in Tennessee—or some such place. He can well afford to marry a girl without any portion. Also, liking improves upon acquaintance, you know. You must give Rufus a chance for you to know him better. He will be an excellent parti —"
Saranna had fought hard to control her temper. After all—this was only the culmination of her fears put into words. Somehow, instinct told her, she must succeed in hiding from Honora the extreme revulsion the other's suggestion had raised in her.
"Gerrad agreed with me yesterday that this is an excellent chance for a secure settlement for you, Saranna. After all —what training have you had? No female who is respectable can hope for a better future than a prudent marriage. Surely your years of scraping and paring after your father died taught you that being a seamstress or such can barely keep one alive. Father said you had ambition to be a teacher— but is that any better a life? No, Rufus is a coming man, with enough in his purse to establish himself well on the land his uncle left him. His wife might even be the grand dame of such society as that backwoods offers. You must be reasonable and sensible, Saranna. Rufus Parton is a chance such as few penniless girls in your circumstances can hope for—"
"And if I dislike him?"
Again Honora laughed. "Dislike him? You hardly know him. You must allow him to make his manners properly. You can not afford to be missish, my girl!" The last sentence was delivered in an entirely different tone of voice, one which held the snap of a whip.
Honora might urge this on her, Saranna thought, but she could not force her kinswoman to accept Rufus Parton. Never! Before that happened Saranna would leave Tiensin— she would find some way of supporting herself. Suppose she wrote to the Academy. There must be something she could do!
"My, what a fierce frown!" Honora was smiling. "You will have wrinkles far before your age, Saranna, if you continue to screw up your face in that petulant manner. Think about what I have said; you are rumored to have some intelligence. It should be easy for you to see now which is the better choice—to live on chartiy, or to be the mistress of your own establishment. Think it over. I believe you will see that we are not enemies but friends to wish this for you.”
She sipped the last drop of her coffee and arose from the table.
"Gerrad will be coming this evening to discuss some purchases he wishes me to make for him."
Saranna needed no further hint. "I have a book I wish to read." Her pride came to her rescue swiftly.
"Damaris—?" Honora for the first time spoke directly to her stepdaughter.
"Oh, I have a book, too," the younger girl mimicked Saranna's tone. "You need not worry that we do not understand that Mr. Fowke comes only to see you." There was no disguising the hostility in her voice.
Honora's color deepened a little. "Certainly not to listen to the rude trivialities of little girls!" When her voice was that sharp it also gained a shrill note which hardly was a tone for polite conversation, Saranna decided.
" 'Better to be kind at home than burn incense far away'—"
Again Honora's flush grew stronger. "Don't you quote your heathen words at me!" she flared. "I had enough of that when—" She bit her lip. Damaris faced her squarely.
"You were going to say when Grandfather was alive, weren't you? Because he isn't here any more you think what he believed doesn't matter now. Don't waste your hours— the sun sets soon."
Without waiting for any answer, Damaris turned her back on Honora and marched out of the room. Her stepmother regarded the closing door thoughtfully. Then her look shifted to Saranna.
"She is getting far worse in this obsession of hers! You must see it. I cannot believe but that the Captain's mind must have been affected by senility when he fostered her learning of such heathenish ways. I really do not know what we can do with her if she grows worse. My father is her guardian, and he will be away so long. We may have to take some steps in her behalf before his return. I so fear that little can be done now to counteract this truly pernicious knowledge in which she was drilled. Does she talk to you of her dreams—of how much she knows of this devilish belief or that?" Honora's study of Saranna's expression grew even sharper as if she expected to draw from her some agreement.
"Damaris has told me nothing except about the Captain's treasures. There she indeed amazed me by the completeness and depth of her learning. I think even few men on this side of the ocean could equal her spec
ial knowledge of Chinese art—"
Honora shrugged. "Do not deceive yourself with such nonsense. My father-in-law prattled of things he said he had learned; she picked it up parrot fashion and uses it to impress. She is only a child, and a willful, hysterical one, with a poor heritage and a worse temper. I shall look to you to keep her out of the way when the company arrives. Last time anyone came to this house, she darted into the parlor and snatched a vase right out of the hands of Dr. Montgomery—having the audacity to declare he was about to harm it with carelessness. That I will not have happen again. Do you understand, Saranna? If Damaris cannot learn control and proper behavior, then she needs the discipline of some establishment intended to control those of uncertain intellect. It needs only another such outburst or two before company, and even my father, hearing such a report, will agree to such a step!"
There it was in the open—the thing Saranna had feared for Damaris. She had enough belief in the inflexibility of Honora's will to realize that this was more a dire promise than a warning threat.
There remained Gerrad Fowke. If she could only talk freely to him perhaps he could provide the understanding and safety for Damaris. Only—she herself might have been reading far more into Mr. Fowke's sympathy. As she went upstairs a few moments later, Saranna recalled only too well that other statement which Honora had uttered with her usual complete assurance—that Gerrad Fowke had discussed the matter of Rufus Parton and had agreed with Honora that the housekeeper's son meant an excellent match and a secure future for Saranna herself.
How could he! Suddenly that old pricking constriction was back in her throat and she fought tears. Mr. Fowke— how could he believe that she would be happy—or even safe with the man she had seen beating a helpless animal? One who, when he looked at her, made her feel as dirty as if she had slipped and fallen into a bog? How much did he know about Rufus Parton? Or was he only accepting Honora's own report on Rufus' character?
"Saranna—" She looked up, startled. There was no lamp lighted in the room. But the gray of twilight displayed Damaris standing between her and the window. ''She told Gerrad you want to marry Rufe—"
"Yes!" Saranna echoed a little forlornly. "I heard her talking about it when they came back this afternoon. He wanted to know why she let Rufe hang around; he spoke sharp about it. She let him think you asked to have him, that you knew Rufe before you came here, when he was away. I don't think Gerrad liked that. His face went stiff and his eyes stared at her. She was all laughing and fluttering," Damaris' voice was scornful, "like she always is when he is around. But I am afraid he believed her."
"Since it is not the truth, in time Mr. Fowke must learn that," Saranna answered without any confidence herself in that reply.
"Not with her around," Damaris stated. " 'Water and words are easy to pour, impossible to recover.' " There was almost a note of smug satisfaction in what must be another quote from her grandfather's store of Chinese wisdom. ''She 'most always gets her way. She couldn't with Grandfather, though—and she isn't going to with me!" Damaris' assertion had the fervor of a vow.
"Damaris, you must be very careful," Saranna warned. "She told me you made a scene when a visitor picked up a vase once before. If you do that again, before witnesses, she will have backing in—"
"In trying to prove I'm a crazy person? I know, I told you I know! A lot more than you do. For example, I know why she wants me gone from Tiensin—why she talked at first about sending me to a school up North, and now"— for the first time Damaris' voice wavered a little—"and now to someplace else—worse. She wants Tiensin. When she married my father, she thought she would get it. He had been sick for a long time. But she married him. And then she tried to play mistress here. But Grandfather soon put her to rights. She didn't like that, but she was afraid of Grandfather. You see—he knew what she was. She couldn't get around him with smiles and sweet talk, not at all.
"But she knew he was old and when he died, my father would be master. Then she could have everything her own way. Only my father died when the boat upset, he was going down to Baltimore to see a new doctor. And Grandfather was still alive. Then she thought she would still be able to give orders when he was gone.
"Only he called in Judge Ralestone and Squire Barkley and he talked to them a long time. After that, he made the will and she did not get anything at all—'cept a little money my father had left her."
Saranna seized upon the two names Damaris mentioned. "Judge Ralestone and Squire Barkley—where are they now, Damaris?"
The younger girl shook her head. "They're no help. The Judge—he had a stroke and has to stay in bed over at Bremeade. And Squire Barkley has gone west to see about some land claims out there."
Saranna sighed, for a moment it had sounded so easy —that there might be two responsible members of the community to whom she could appeal if Damaris were placed in any danger, two who knew her grandfather's desires for her.
"Saranna," Damaris put out her hand to touch that of the older girl, "don't worry so. Maybe I can tell you more. But I have to wait and see—for a while. And I promise that I won't do anything she won't like. At least not until I know more about what may happen."
"I Ching again?" Saranna asked anxiously. She did not want the child to depend on some superstition out of another world.
Damaris laughed. "Perhaps. Only this time, I won't be using the wands. Only—I do promise, Saranna. And—" she moved forward, putting out her hand to touch the older girl's sleeve, with some of that same outpouring of emotion she had shown when she had said she was glad Saranna had come to Tiensin, "please don't worry." She repeated earnestly, "There's—there's something here which Honora doesn't know anything about, something Grandfather said would protect me if I ever need help. We'll be safe—'cause I'm going to see that you are, also. That I promise, too."
There was complete confidence in Damaris' tone. However, when she had gone, the thoughts ran round and round in Saranna's head. She could not concentrate on her book, she had no wish to look at the clothes she had put to one side to deal with. Restlessness drove her from her rocker, set her to looking out of the window down on the high-grown hedge. There were no points of light there which might be eyes, no sign of any life beyond it. Dream—?
At last she dragged herself to bed. But this night the Emperor's cat had no influence on sending her any deeper into slumber. She had only broken snatches of sleep, and awoke in the morning with a slightly aching head and heavy eyes. At least Honora was leaving and tomorrow was Sunday. They were to drive to the small church for the service. Perhaps in the peace and quiet it offered, she could find some ease of mind.
Honora was in a bustle of leave-taking during their early breakfast which she interrupted several times to give further orders to Mrs. Parton concerning the preparations for the coming company, to ask about the whereabouts of various articles of luggage which she was sure had been, or promised to be, forgotten. Her attention was completely on herself and her own concerns—which was a relief Saranna had not quite expected.
Damaris, on the other side of the table, ate quietly what was offered her, said nothing. She did not even watch her stepmother with those sudden sidewise glances which always seemed to Saranna to be too measuring, too knowing for her years. She walked sedately down the box-walled avenue to the wharf and stood there beside Saranna, as if there had never been a rebellious thought in her head, while the sloop Gerrad Fowke had put at Honora's disposal pulled out into the current of the river.
But when her stepmother was well out of earshot and nearly out of sight, Damaris came to life.
"You have the use of the sewing machine," she caught at Saranna's hand eagerly. "You must show me how to use it, too. Then I can have it just as Grandfather always intended I should. Come on—I want to show you something first!"
Tugged by that demanding grip, Saranna returned to the house, was urged by Damaris into the upper hallway. But they did not go to the younger girl's own chamber. Instead, Damaris stood by the last door of a
ll, and from under her apron, she brought a large key which she had tied about her middle with a length of somewhat grimy string.
"In here! And you mustn't tell now—promise!"
"I must know what I am promising," Saranna objected.
"This—in here are some more things Grandfather brought home. He told me they were to be mine when I was a grown-up lady—some of them—others— Well, those are part of the secret. But I can show you all—'cause they are mine to have, or give away!"
She had turned the key even as she spoke, now she pushed open the door. Saranna hesitated for a moment, wondering just what new mystery lay beyond, but Damaris' hand on her arm again fairly jerked her inside.
"Come on! The Poker is never going to get in here. And even she doesn't know anything about it. If she did, she'd be pushing in in a minute. But it's not hers and she's not going to take it.”
There was an uncurtained window, and, from it, the morning sun made a golden path across a dusty floor. Set around the walls of the room were chests made of red leather, decorated with golden cut-out ornaments.
"One for each season." Damaris relocked the door firmly behind them. With a pointing finger she indicated the chests in turn. "Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter. The Chinese people keep their clothes this way—folded up ready for each time of year. Only it isn't clothes that is inside them now. Look!"
She flung up the lid of Spring so Saranna could gaze down upon a richness of fine brocade such as she had never known existed. The material was a green-blue and interwoven with gold thread in a pattern of a long-legged bird in flight. Damaris quickly lifted the edge of its folds to show another such length below, this of a delicate apple-green shade, also with an intricate woven pattern. Below that was one which was neither coral nor true red, but between them in shade.
Around the room Damaris sped showing what lay in each box. There were not only brocades, but silks, some so fine to the touch that they seemed hardly heavier than a gossamer veiling—all colors except yellow—all like a garden of flowers released to the sunlight.