by Lara Parker
For an instant she imagined herself running after the carriage, flinging herself against the door, and leaping inside to be whisked away to a new world. She took a deep breath, drinking in the fragrance of the sea, then she shuddered and wrapped her arms about her waist. How restless she was! Her bones felt weak, and vague discontent descended over her spirit as she turned to reenter the house.
Josette looked out from the parlor, and when she saw Angelique her face broke into an impish grin. “Angelique!” she whispered. “How could you leave me alone with that tyrant? Come on!” Her dark eyes glowed, and her chestnut hair tumbled about her shoulders.
“I can’t. I must speak to the countess. I believe she needs me to go into town.”
“Will you come! Honestly, I can’t learn the dance without you.”
A moment later Angelique was poised reluctantly opposite her mistress as the dance instructor, a foppish young man, sat at the harpsichord and eyed them both with disapproval while he counted out the steps. Josette rolled her eyes at his instructions, and Angelique hesitantly moved through the round with her.
“And one, and two, and turn, and bow,” he shouted in a thin, nasal voice as he banged tunelessly on the keys. The girls performed the movements gravely. Josette moved with grace, her slender body supple beneath her white-organdy gown and her carriage erect. Angelique, the coarse skirt of her maid’s dress swishing at her ankles, mirrored Josette’s movements precisely as they curtsied, smiled, crossed, and turned, and thought only what a waste of time and effort it was for her to learn the dance at all, since she would not be going to the ball.
“No! No! Not to the left!” the instructor cried impatiently, lifting his narrow chin. “What is the matter with you, Josette? Go the opposite direction, or you will find yourself without a partner! And then it will make no difference how pretty your face is, because it will be so red!” He rose to demonstrate, assuming a feminine air and raising a fidgeting hand to Angelique’s. “And, dum, ti dum,” he quavered, becoming his own piano and marching off the quadrille with style. “Titty dum, titty dum, titty dum dum dum!”
At the word titty, Josette burst into laughter, and collapsed on the chaise, her gown a froth of ruffles.
“Oh, Monsieur Beauregard, please let us rest a while. Too much dancing makes my head spin!”
“And if you do not know the steps by Saturday night, what then?” he snapped.
“This is Martinique, Monsieur. No one will know the steps. Besides, everyone will want to dance the calenda!”
“Oh, Mademoiselle, how scandalous!” he cried, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his skinny neck. “That would be far beneath this distinguished family, I hope.”
“Why? Didn’t you know the Catholic nuns were caught dancing the calenda! Isn’t that true, Angelique?”
“In the chapel on Christmas Eve,” Angelique agreed in a soft voice. “They were most embarrassed. But, Mademoiselle,” she cautioned, “many of the guests will be gens du colour, and they will shun the calenda for the reel.”
“Oh, they do put on such airs, the nouveaux riches.” Josette laughed. “Those women will wear more jewels than the countess!”
“And masks, to hide their copper skin,” Angelique added.
“And what about the militia, Mademoiselle?” intoned the dance instructor. “The young men who are here from France. I believe they will be well schooled in the quadrille.”
“They are coming?” Josette asked, suddenly more serious.
“Mademoiselle, yours is the richest and most powerful family in Martinique, and it is your eighteenth birthday. It is time you conducted yourself like a lady.” Monsieur Beauregard seated himself again at the piano. “No more of your procrastinating. Up, up, up!” He began to play. “And, one and two…” But when he turned around, the two girls had fled.
* * *
Late that night Angelique was working in the kitchen. All the silver candelabra needed polishing before the ball, and the task had fallen to her. When that was finished, she had the great linen tablecloth to press: the stove would have to be lit to heat the iron. And she must rise early to do the week’s marketing. With the celebration only two days hence, the household was in a turmoil. The clock had just struck midnight when she heard a tentative knock at the servant’s entrance. She was surprised to see a small black boy standing on the walk.
“Excuse me, miss,” he said in a shy voice.
“Yes.”
“Is this the du Prés household?”
“Yes, it is. How can I help you?”
“I’s lookin’ for the young lady who lives here.”
“Josette? She’s gone to bed. Shall I give her a message?”
“No, miss, the lady I wants, her name be Angelique.”
“Oh, well, I am Angelique. What is it?”
“Please, miss, my father sent me here to find you. My little sister is close to dyin’, and she need your help.” Angelique looked back over her shoulder, then stepped out into the night and closed the door behind her.
“I cannot help her,” she said. “You must send for the doctor.”
“We got no money to pay doctor, miss.”
“Then one of your witch doctors—”
“My father say he once know your mother, when she work at Trinité. That you learn the magic from her. Please, miss, he sit weepin’ by the bedside, his old hat in him hand. I think he die, too, from cryin’.”
“What is the sickness?”
“Stomach all bloated and hard like a big coconut.”
“If you wait here, I will fetch you some herbs.” She turned to go back in the house.
“No please, miss, you come, too!” he cried plaintively.
“What is your name, child?” she said kindly.
“Nicaise, miss.”
“Listen to me, Nicaise. I have given up any magic. Long ago, after my mother died. It is not a good magic, but an evil one. It comes from the dark side, not the light. Do you understand?”
Nicaise clung to her arm and began to cry. “Oh, please, miss, don’t make me go back to my father, his eyes so full of tears.”
“But it is better that your father’s love cure your sister, or that her own light see her through. Children are strong. The magic always demands a price.”
“Oh, miss, you don’t mean that. What evil can there be in curing a little child? Don’t make magic. Just come and touch her. Please. Just come and touch her hard ol’ stomach!”
Angelique felt her heart go out to him. “All right. I will come. I must at least get my bag. Wait here.”
* * *
A quarter of an hour later she was following Nicaise through the streets of Saint-Pierre, with only one lantern to light the way. When they had walked a short distance, she saw a large building on the right with all its many windows lit, and as they drew nearer she could hear music and laughter. They were in the district of the soldiers’ barracks, and young men were up late drinking in the tavern by the corner. Three soldiers were sitting at a table very near the window, and they wore the scarlet jackets she always hoped to see again. As she passed, she could even overhear snatches of their conversation, raucous from the effects of rum.
“Ah, the belle affranchie, ‘La Martiniquaise,’” one intoned, “island girls, sweet, ripe, and ready for the picking!” Angelique was surprised to recognize an American accent and stopped a moment, looking through one of the panes.
“Martinique is famous for its women,” another said. “There must have been one good-looking tribe in Africa, and they are all its descendants!” Rude laughter all around and pounding on the table wearied Angelique, and Nicaise tugged at her sleeve. “Come, miss, we needs hurry.” She was about to turn away when she heard the American accent again. “The women here have great charm,” the voice said, “but no fortunes.”
“Well, you don’t marry them, Barnabas!” spoke the soldier opposite, raising his glass. “The day will come when you will pledge yourself to one woman for your entire life—that is if you do
n’t die on your voyage home. So live, for God’s sake! Live while you can!”
She gasped, her breath stopped in her throat. Could she have heard the name correctly? She turned back to the window, transfixed, as the young man rose. She was able to see him clearly in the lamplight.
It was he! The boy called Barnabas! Strong now, and ruggedly handsome, his eyes were still lustrous, and his black curls fell across his forehead in the same rakish manner. He wore the tight-fitting jacket of an officer of the navy, heavily braided with gold, and his white-plumed helmet lay on the table. She smiled, overjoyed to see him alive and happy. So he, at least, had escaped, she thought with a tremulous excitement.
She had never known whether he had saved himself after she had led him down the ladder to the skiff. And he was here once more! In Martinique. The clever, dashing boy she had kept alive in her dreams. But he was an officer and of distinguished birth. Considering her position, there was no way to make his acquaintance. Besides, dalliance with any young man was forbidden to her forever.
Reluctantly, she pulled away and followed Nicaise. There were no longer any cobblestones, and the street had become a dusty alley twisting through stubby trees and one-room hovels crowded together. When they reached the shack, Angelique stepped through the low doorway and smelled a pungent odor. Raising her lantern, she saw the child lying on the cot.
The child’s father lifted his watery eyes as Angelique leaned over the sick girl, who was wrapped in rags and dripping with sweat.
“Fetch me some water,” she said to Nicaise, “and some clean shreds of cloth.”
When he brought the water she did not wait, but tore off a piece of her petticoat and dipped it in the pail. She began to wash the child, cooling her, wiping the face and letting the water drip into her hair. The girl’s eyes were vacant, but tiny golden earrings flashed on her ears. She was slender and perfectly formed, except for the bloated stomach, and Angelique could not help but think of Chloe’s delicate brown limbs. She could see immediately that it was hopeless.
“It is a bad fever,” she said to the father. “It will either break, or she will die. Continue to bathe her and blow on her wet skin. We must keep her cool.” The humble man took the rag and began to do as she had ordered, his veined hands trembling and his mouth muttering with hope. She turned to Nicaise. “Go to the well for more water. I want it to be clean and cold.”
Turning to the light of the lantern, she opened her bag. There, on top, she saw the amulet, her mother’s charm, which she had left off wearing years before. She held it a moment between her fingers. She could still feel the tiny skull and the moonstone, small and hard. Impulsively, she tied it again at her throat.
“I need to boil water,” she said to the father. Then she extracted the pouches, sniffed them, and emptied several powders into her hand. Her movements were quick and efficient, but they belied an inner trepidation. While the father built a small fire on the ground, she waited, trying to quell her misgivings. She was afraid that she might provoke the Dark Spirit.
Surely one good deed will not attract his attention, she thought, if I call on no loas and recite no incantations. I will use only a simple remedy. That does not come from him. That will not draw him to me.
Once the tea was brewed, she took the cup and went to the child. She lifted the limp head. “Drink this,” she instructed. “It will make you feel better.”
The girl took a few sips, and the father watched her every move from his crouched position on the mat. They waited in the lamplight, but after an hour, there was still no change. The child stared at Angelique with supplicating eyes, her mouth slack, her breathing a tortured wheeze. Nicaise stood by the door, his arms hanging at his sides. The old man began to weep.
Nicaise took a tentative step in her direction, searching Angelique’s face with his eyes.
“I’m afraid there is nothing more I can do,” she said to him.
“Touch her belly,” Nicaise whispered. She looked at him helplessly. “Please, miss. Please.”
“I can’t.”
“Please … just once.”
Angelique took a breath, slowly reached out, and stroked the girl’s swollen stomach, gently, calmly, fighting to keep her mind clear, but conscious of the spark igniting, just as she had known it would. She quivered as the once familiar flame fluttered in her gut; she flinched but did not smother it. She felt the fire streak through her body and down her arm like a sliver of lightning. The child convulsed, and a foul odor filled the air. When they lifted the rags, they saw she had passed a vile, liquid mass. In a quarter of an hour her stomach had softened and her skin was cool.
The father sat beside her, holding her hand, tears running down his cheeks. “I bless you, girl,” he said in a quivering voice. “You have performed a miracle! How can I repay you?”
“In one way only,” she answered. “This must always remain our secret. Tell no one I was here.” She met the old man’s gaze as he nodded to her silently.
Angelique emerged into the night. She was trembling, exhausted, but she felt more alive than she had in years. She raced through the narrow alley, hearing the music of running water. In Saint-Pierre, the sounds of water—fountains in hidden gardens, overflow trapped in the gutters, little streams that trickled down from the mountains—were always present. She skipped down a cobbled walk that broke into a waterfall of steps she could barely make out in the moonlight and descended into the dark boulevard.
Newly elated, her mind was consumed with a single thought. Was Barnabas still in the tavern? Would she have another glimpse of him? But her spirits sank when she saw that the barracks were dark. Then she heard some of the soldiers coming from the tavern, their laughter echoing in the empty street.
Her path lay in that direction, and the lamp still glowed at the corner when she passed by the drunken officers, her heart fluttering inexplicably, and, as she ducked beneath the flame, she turned toward them. The light fell on her face.
Catching sight of her, Barnabas stopped, caught his breath, and stared into her eyes, entranced, and puzzled, as though she were an unexpected vision conjured by the midnight hour. They looked at each other for a long moment before, unable to breathe, she pulled back into the darkness. But even as she retreated into the night, she sensed that his friends could not draw him away. She felt his eyes following her, as the moonstream on the water follows the lonely wanderer walking on the strand.
* * *
It was a beautiful morning, warmed by the sun rising over Pelée, as Angelique moved through the marketplace. Odors of flowers, sweets, fruits, and fresh-baked bread perfumed the air as the shopkeepers set up their stalls. Carts of vegetables, hogs and chickens, donkeys laden with firewood, came pouring into the square.
Angelique, relishing the commotion, went from stall to stall, making selections. She had a courteous demeanor and grace unusual in a servant. She felt an unfamiliar exuberance and was aware of the cut of her plain lavender dress enhancing her slender body as she moved.
When she reached for mangoes high on a cart, she turned lightly on her foot, as though she were dancing. She felt her whole person imbued with a sprung euphoria. Glimpsing her reflection in the bottom of a polished pie tin, she could see her pale gold hair and her eyes, dark and luminous. Smiling to herself, she exchanged greetings with others, but maintained a reserve, a distance from the shopkeepers, as though she chose to remain in a separate world of her own.
Catching sight of a stall with golden apples, she was irresistibly drawn to the vibrant color. She reached for one and was turning it over in her hand, trying to decide whether to buy and eat it at once, or to take a sackful back to the house, when a man’s voice spoke low in her ear.
“Surely the hand of Eve was not so lovely, nor her wrist so fine.”
She spun around and looked up, straight into the face of Barnabas. Instantly the throngs of people surrounding them faded to a murky blur, and he alone was all that she could see. The boy with the freckles and merry grin was
still hidden there, but now the features were finely formed and devilishly handsome. The eyes were dark and set deep, shadowed by heavy brows. They shone with a startling luster, so fixed on hers that her heart gave a leap because the gaze was so familiar and so penetrating. She felt the blood rush to her face, but managed a slow, secretive smile.
“Take care,” she said softly. “The Tree of Knowledge bears bitter fruit.”
Lightly, he grazed the apple with his fingertips. “Will you offer it to me?” She stared down at his hand, quivering as though the skin of the apple were her own.
“Why do you think this apple came from the Garden?” she asked.
“Because … wherever you are standing, my lady … must be Paradise.”
She flushed again at the compliment, but turned away and began to place the apples one by one into her sack. When she had finished, she gave the coins to the farmer’s wife. Barnabas never took his eyes from her.
“I have been watching you,” he said, “move through the fair.”
“And if this is truly Paradise, who are you?” she said, afraid to look at him. “God’s first creation—made in His perfect image? Or are you that other fellow, the one that I should fear?”
“God’s first? I would prefer to be your first.”
“My first. And not my last?” she said, cutting her eyes at him. “Then it is a fool’s paradise.”
“I say, do I know you?” he asked abruptly.
“I … don’t think so.” Was it possible that he recognized her?
His forehead narrowed in a frown. “Those eyes of yours, like blue forget-me-nots … something about you is familiar. What is your name?”
“You will be disappointed, Monsieur. I am not called Eve. And since we have not been properly introduced, I think it would not be wise to tell you my name.” She was amazed at her own impudence. But he was so forward, and he did not seem at all discouraged.
“I understand. Well, mine is Barnabas Collins. And it is an honor to make your acquaintance, Mademoiselle Mystery.” He took her hand, bent to kiss it, then after a moment in which he looked into her eyes, turned her hand over and kissed the hollow of her palm. She pulled away, conscious of having felt the warmth of his breath.