by Andre Norton
She stood before the mirror surveying the results of her handicraft carefully and felt a throb of excitement. Not for a long time had she worn so well cut a dress, or one of such fine material. During their poverty-lean years in Sussex, her mother had never been able to produce for herself and her daughter more than the plainest and most utilitarian of clothing, never in style.
The black of the mourning made her skin fairer, her lengths of ruddy hair even brighter. Too bright, Saranna decided quickly. Some of that must be extinguished with the new cap.
Memory of a new style of hairdressing which she had seen in one of the fashion pages Damaris had brought to the sewing room decided her to try something different. She had always worn her hair, not in any profusion of ringlets after the most popular fashion, but parted in the middle and drawn severely back, to be coiled up and securely pinned. Now she went to the dressing table and sat down before the smaller mirror.
"Millie, if you would be a lady's maid, you have to learn to dress hair—"
"Know that. Miss Saranna. Polly, she do Miss Honora— an' what a lot she got to do—curl papers an' curler iron in a candle flame an' all the rest. Polly—Miss Honora sent her to be learnt just how to make all them curls an' things—"
"Well, I don't want any curls, Millie. But you can make braids, can't you?"
Millie had come to stand behind her, looking down at Saranna's heavy, straight hair.
"That I sure enough do, Miss Saranna."
"Then this is what I want you to try for me, Millie. Part all the way, front to back, in the middle. Then make braids on each side coiled around over my ears—"
"But that ain't no fashion—" Millie began.
"It is in France, Millie. It was in one of those pictures we looked at while we were sewing."
"This ain't no France—" However, in spite of the last protest, Millie reached for the brush.
"No, but I wouldn't look right with a lot of curls, so let's try it," Saranna kept to her plan.
Millie was deft and she indeed could braid, tightly and evenly. The two braids were pinned up with Saranna's pins just as she had ordered, though she had to draw on a further supply of those dark shell holders before they were through.
She surveyed the results in the mirror, not with any touch of vanity, but to hope that she had achieved her goal. The severe style was certainly in complete contrast to Honora's curls and floating ribbons, but Saranna decided it suited her well, and it certainly made her look older, more responsible.
"The cap now, Millie—"
That she took from the maid's hands and adjusted herself. It was a small puff of mull and lace with streamers cut from the black satin. And, once in place between the braids, she was herself astounded at the effect. She did not look like Saranna Stowell, penniless orphan. No, she had dignity, a kind of presence which she had never dreamed she could ever achieve. She was not pretty as prettiness was judged by the world, but she believed that she would not be overlooked in company either.
It was not for any need of compliments she had tried for this effect, but rather that in her person she could produce some sense of credibility for any counter-measure she might have to take against Honora. That clothes which suited a woman were her armor of defense was something men liked to deny, but women knew was the tmth.
Then, on impulse, she picked up the jade pendant which lay upon the dressing table, even as it had when she had first discovered it. She slipped its silken cord over her head. But this time she made no attempt to hide it from sight under her bodice.
Against the dead black of her mourning, the white gem appeared to glow. She wore it for no reason of ornament, but because she had an odd feeling that it, too, would add strength to her determination to face the world in her own defense, and in Damaris' behalf.
Saranna gathered up her small silken reticule, her black bordered handkerchief, made a last careful survey of her person as a soldier might check his arms and equipment just before going into battle. The door key she slid into the purse.
"Miss Saranna," Millie stood round-eyed by the door, "you—you look like you be a Queen! That there little old cap, it could be like a crown, it do look one, it sure do!" She seemed astounded by the change.
Saranna held her shoulders straight. That Millie's tribute was unrehearsed, she knew. And along with the verdict of the mirror, the maid's words added a further steeling of her purpose. Millie fumbled with the door knob, and opened that portal for her mistress to sail through.
Out in the hall, Saranna did not hesitate, going directly to the top of the stairs. She might well have tested the key on the lock of Damaris' prison. But for the moment, she did not wish to try fate too high. Now it must depend largely on the results of her confrontation with Honora what further steps she would take to aid the younger girl.
Below she heard a murmur of voices in the breakfast room. And one was deeper—Mr. Fowke! Then he had come to Honora's summons. She must not allow that to make any difference in her attitude. Saranna must present the picture of serene outward normality.
With her head high, she entered the room. Honora's back was toward her, and her flow of rippling speech was in full force. But Mr. Fowke glanced up at Saranna's quiet but determined entrance.
She saw his eyes widen. An odd expression she could not identify flitted across his weathered features. Then he arose from his chair and, napkin in hand, awaited beside the seat on his right. Honora swung halfway around, her astonishment was plain only for a moment. Then she recovered with that rapidity which was part of her own armament.
"Saranna, dear! But I thought that you said your headache was far too bad for you to join us."
"I have suffiiciently recovered, thank you, Honora," Saranna replied, holding fast to her courage. For what Honora's narrowed, angry eyes told her was far different from the tinkle of her words.
Composedly the girl seated herself in the chair Mr. Fowke had drawn out for her, thanking him with a murmur. John appeared in the doorway, took in the situation, and a moment or so later Rose hurried in with an extra setting for the table.
"Do not let me interrupt you." Saranna somehow was able to preserve her outward calm, so that her words sounded reasonably prosaic in her own ears. "I know you have affairs of moment to discuss—“
She did not glance directly at Honora as she said that. But she felt the atmosphere about Jethro's daughter, as if the other's very rage gave off a fire's heat. Yet Honora's reception of Saranna suggested that Mr. Fowke was not to know of the situation at Tiensin. Which told the girl that she was a measure right in her trust. If Honora did not wish hun to learn of the outburst which had greeted Damaris and Saranna on their return to the house, the reason must be that she herself feared some opposition to her handling of her stepdaughter.
It was the first time Saranna had ever eaten in a room so full of hostility aimed at her. But she did so with deliberation, as if nothing mattered but the food on her plate, chewing and swallowing bites of what might be dry and stale bread for all the real flavor the dishes held for her.
"It is a beautiful day," Mr. Fowke remarked into the silence which ensued upon Saranna's being served. "Perhaps I can persuade you ladies, and Miss Damaris, to ride to Queen's Pleasure."
Now Saranna dared raise her eyes and stare directly at Honora. How was Honora going to answer that? Two headaches might be a little difficult for Mr. Fowke to believe.
She saw that Honora's face was grave, her eyes avoided meeting Saranna's.
"Gerrad, I am so worried about Damaris. Her grandfather's preoccupation with those Eastern things has filled her mind to the point it has become an obsession. In fact, I have asked Dr. Meade to come for a consultation. It might be far better for the child to be out of these surroundings until she puts less store in this 'treasure' of hers. Dr. Meade has spoken of an excellent school for such children—very well managed and with the latest methods of handling hysterical cases. My father does not really understand what a problem Damaris has become. She has not
been well supervised, instead given freedoms which have done her great harm. Dr. Meade will see her and then we can decide what is best for her—"
"Are you sure all has been going well here, Honora?" Mr. Fowke asked. "I know you have had trouble with governesses in the past. But from my observation, Miss Stowell has an excellent effect on Miss Damaris, and the child seems to be much happier and more cheerful."
"Damaris," Saranna spoke for the first time, "is very intelligent for her age. Her knowledge has quite amazed me—"
"What do you know?" Honora flashed out as if she could no longer restrain the temper boiling in her. "My late father-in-law filled her young mind with all kinds of heathen notions. And because she parrots what he taught her, everyone gets the false impression that Damaris is very learned. There is no truth in that, as you can judge when you have known her longer. She is highly excitable and can be easily influenced into rash acts. But this time she has gone too far—"
"Too far?" repeated Mr. Fowke.
"Yes!" Honora tossed her napkin onto the table. "If you do not believe me—come and see!"
Her skirts rustled as she arose so hurriedly from her chair that it rocked and nearly overbalanced. Saranna stood up in turn as Mr. Fowke pushed past her to where Honora was already going out the door.
Honora led the way to the library which was the nearest of the two rooms Saranna and Damaris had plundered in the night. She flung open that door with an extravagant gesture. "Look! Everything has gone!"
Mr. Fowke did indeed look, and his face expressed his amazement.
"But, Honora—where are—?" he did not try to finish that question. Instead, he stared intently at first one and then another bare shelf, table edge—all the places which had been so filled the day before.
"Where has she put them?" Honora cried out.
Mr. Fowke turned to her, his face grave. "Honora, what you have just implied is impossible! No child could have looted this place. This is the work of men. Have you sent for the constable?"
"She did not do it alone." Honora pointed at Saranna who had followed her into the room. "This—this young—" Then she actually choked upon her anger. A phenomenon of which Saranna had heard but which she had never seen before.
"Nonsense!" Mr. Fowke was now a little aroused in turn. "You know very well such an act by two young girls is utterly physically impossible! Unless they had help."
"Perhaps they did!" Honora had lost more than a little of her fine coloring, her face looked near to haggard. "Perhaps they had help from—" She stopped short then.
"From the servants?" Mr. Fowke prompted when she did not continue.
"There is not one of the slaves who would dare," Honora replied impatiently. "But they did it—the two of them. Damaris as good as admitted it—"
"In jest perhaps, or because she was angry," Mr. Fowke said quietly. "Remember, I have seen the collection many times and—"
"It is all gone!" Honora interrupted him. "All but the screen, a carved table or such, and, of course, those pieces in Damaris' old room. Search if you will. We have, the Partons and I, and there is not so much as the smallest carving left. Except—" she turned quickly once more to Saranna "—that bribe she wears like the brazen little hussy that she is. Damaris gave her that for her help. There was no place else she could have gotten it—"
"I—" Saranna began indignantly, when Mr. Fowke raised his hand m a signal for silence.
"Honora, Saranna has already assured me that is no part of the Captain's treasure—"
For a moment Saranna did not catch her name, but Honora was quicker.
"So you call her 'Saranna,’ not 'Miss Stowell' any longer? She has been busier even than I have believed. And, of course, it is part of the collection no matter how much she has tried to convince you otherwise."
There was very little expression on Mr. Fowke's face now and what there was Saranna could not read. But when he answered Honora he again used the "Captain" voice which had reduced Rufus in the garden.
"I believe there is in existence a catalogue of the collection. Maybe Damaris can give it to us. Then we shall know the truth about this pendant."
Perhaps Honora might have refused, her mouth was set enough to utter some mutinous word. Then she beckoned imperiously toward the door of the library where John now hovered.
"In my room," she spoke tersely. "I want the book bound in gold brocade—at once!"
John disappeared. So Damaris had been right. Honora had taken the book. Honora walked over to the desk, leaned one hand on its polished surface.
"Mr. Walsworth, and his friend, John Sheers—they will be here next week. They could not believe, even when they saw the pieces described. We have to find them—"
"You would have done better, Honora," Gerrad Fowke remarked in a level tone, "to have sent for me, and for the sheriff, the minute you discovered the robbery. Two young females have not the strength to carry any of the collection had it been carefully packed—"
"It was," Honora broke in. "Oh, at least Damaris can be trusted on that point. Parton went into the storage room in the cellar. Those boxes my father-in-law had made to his order in China to transport his pieces—they're all missing!"
"Those huge hampers!" Mr. Fowke raised his eyebrows. "That strains your story even more. The girls could not have moved them. And if they did not, what help had they? Field hands? You know well they would have buzzed such a story over the Manor long ago."
"I know who took them," Honora answered flatly. "In time, I shall get them back." The glance at Saranna was cold and deadly indeed. "But we have a way to settle you. Miss Stowell. Let me find reference to that pendant in the catalogue and I shall swear out a warrant for you as a common thief. You cannot brazen this out, my girl!"
John slid through the doorway as if he hated to enter a whirlwind of some storm. Honora held out her hand, but it was Mr. Fowke who stepped swiftly before her and grasped the book the houseman carried.
"I imagine this must be indexed—" he observed.
Honora's fingers crooked as if she would snatch the golden volume from him. Then she said with a sullen note in her voice:
"The jewelry is entered first. There is not too much of that. The pieces were kept in that single case over there." She indicated the empty one between the tall windows.
"Well enough." With deliberation, Mr. Fowke began to turn the pages. Saranna caught a glimpse of small paintings on them, and heavy block printing. Mr. Fowke turned that page, the second, and then he looked up.
"There is no mention here, Honora, of a white jade pendant in the form of a fox—"
Again she paled a little. Her hand caught the edge of the desk and Saranna thought she swayed, as if Gerrad Fowke's words were like a blow in the face.
"Then where?" she said in a half-whisper. Honora's eyes narrowed, she stared straight at Saranna. "Then—it is true! Every bit of it is true!"
For the second or two during which they locked stares, Saranna read Honora's fury. And, behind that, something else, fear. Honora certainly knew something which Saranna did not; perhaps a portion anyway of Damaris' carefully guarded "secret." And she herself must learn more in order to protect herself.
"I told you," for the first time Saranna spoke, "it was a gift." She put up her hand to finger the smooth jade. Now that she was entirely sure that it was not of Damaris' reckless giving, her own need for the truth grew even stronger. "Since I am not a thief, and," she gazed around the room, using Gerrad Fowke's disbelief as a weapon, "it is so apparent neither Damaris nor I could have cleared away your treasure, I am going to Damaris—now."
If Honora did make any move to stop her, Saranna was unaware of it as she swept past John and into the hall, climbing the stairs with a hope that the key in her reticule could indeed free the second prisoner.
15
YI-MOVE WITH FORTUNE
Saranna half-expected that Honofa might have sent one of the servants to mount guard at Damaris' door. But there was no one within the upper hall. Firm of
purpose she went to the door which Mrs. Parton had locked behind the younger prisoner. And, as firmly, she slipped the key from the wardrobe into the lock.
It went easily enough, but the turning was more difficult. At first she thought it would not do so at all. But, reluctantly, the lock gave, and Saranna threw open the door. She did not know what to expect—Damaris defiant, Damaris afraid, Damaris in tears— But what she discovered was an empty room and an open window, the lace curtain covering it billowing into the chamber as a rising wind drove against the house.
She ran to look out. A porch—a—?
There was a tree whose outermost limbs needed pruning, for the tips scraped against the house wall at this point. Had Damaris somehow made her way down it? Even to consider such a climb made Saranna slightly giddy.
However, the empty room was evidence enough that Damaris had made her escape. Where had the child gone? Was she hiding m the garden, elsewhere in the house? Or had she sought refuge in that hidden section behind the hedge? Was it Saranna's real duty to raise the alarm?
Even as she considered that, she closed the window, pulled straight the wind-ruffled curtains. Quickly she crossed the room, and, again in the hall, she locked the door. Let Honora and Mrs. Parton believe as long as they might that they had the real mistress of Tiensin in their custody. For somehow Saranna believed that Damaris was now safer than she had been behind that lock.
As she was restoring the key to safekeeping, Saranna lifted her head and sniflfed. There was a scent growing heavier every moment, more clearly defined—a strange not unpleasant odor. The odor must come from around or beneath the opposite door, that of Damaris' Chinese room.
Saranna tried the knob. It was locked, as she had expected. And, though she lifted her hand to tap softly on the panel before her, she hesitated. If Damaris had somehow returned to her own private place, should she disturb her? Such a knocking might well come to the attention of a servant, be reported to Mrs. Parton.