Dark Shadows: Angelique's Descent

by Lara Parker

  “Ah, you taste of this cold house,” she cried. “What is it?”

  “I am not cold, Angelique, but I want to be. I have to be,” he said softly. “I can’t do this. I mustn’t. Please … you must realize…” He lifted his hand in a limp gesture of embarrassment. “It was all a mistake.” Her head reeled, and she felt faint, as if all the blood had rushed to her feet.

  “What? What was a mistake?”

  “It was … my weakness to—” he stammered, turning from her.

  “To what?”

  “To—to love you … it was wrong … I’m sorry.…” She saw he was in anguish, struggling with what he was saying. “When we were together … I still wasn’t certain I was going to be married.… Josette loved me, but I never dreamed I would grow to love her in return.…”

  “You love Josette? Josette is a thin-blooded girl! When you came to the door tonight … weren’t you glad to see me?”

  He looked at her a moment. “I was surprised to see you. I never expected you to come. I was confounded by your appearance, your eyes, shadowed by your hood.…”

  She bit her lip, waiting for him to say what she longed to hear, but he did not.

  “Please try to understand, Angelique. You and I can never … there is no way … we could marry. I know I may have led you to believe that it could be possible, but my father…”

  “Your father! What do you care about your father? He … is not you!” And she ran to him again, grasping his arms and looking up into his face. “Where is the man I loved—so rebellious and passionate? I never expected … weakness! Surely you will have the courage to tell your family what you want from life. You know you love me!”

  Barnabas turned from her. “No, you are wrong,” he said after a pause. “I did love you. You are a beautiful … fascinating woman, but … perhaps I do not have your brand of courage. I have other things, more important things, to consider. I know it is difficult for you to understand, but my duty is … is to my family.”

  She watched him helplessly, not comprehending, as he struggled to say more and could not. Then he seemed to grow resolute, and his eyes narrowed as he looked at her. “The truth is, I have grown to love Josette. I love her now, with all my heart. And if you value the power of love as much as you say, you will respect my feelings. Now, please, I’m sorry, I don’t want to hurt you, but … I must ask you to leave.”

  “Leave?” she said grimly. “Before you regret all the foolish words you have just spoken?”

  There was a long pause before he whispered, “Yes.”

  “You don’t want me anymore.”

  There was another long moment of silence. “No.”

  Her eyes flooded with tears, and, too proud to let them be seen, she fled for the door.

  Once in her room, she wept as though weeping would dislodge the crushing weight on her heart, as if a dull dagger was sunk deep in her breast. She wept until she was choking on her tears, coughing, sobbing, her chest heaving, and all the while she kept imagining that she heard his step in the hall, that the door would open and he would come into her room and take her in his arms. She felt her body ripping, as though it were being rent by the sharp claws of some cruel, indifferent monster. Disbelief was mingled with despair, and she realized that Barnabas’s rejection, his coldness, his complete lack of feeling was the only reaction she had not expected.

  She had been prepared to flee, to run off with him, to endure misfortune, to show sympathy for the loss of his inheritance, to remain by his side through all tribulations, to work, to slave, for him. She had imagined adventures, hardships, a return, at length, to the embrace of his family.

  But she had never imagined this. She had never believed that Josette would be a significant rival. She had seen Josette as a means for her to come to New England—where she could be near Barnabas—simply as an instrument of their finally being together. She would have even endured their pointless marriage if she could have remained his mistress and beloved. How could she have been so blind? Nothing had prepared her for this emptiness, this unbelievable vacuum that was now her future. What would become of her? Where would she go? How could she remain here as a servant, seeing Barnabas every day, humiliated, invisible, watching him living beside Josette and making love to her.

  She rose, went to the window, and placed her hand against the glass. It was so very cold. The dark trees twisted their bare limbs in macabre shapes caught by the lightning. The flame of the candle at her table flickered and died, and in the shivering darkness, lit intermittently by bright flashes, her mind began to wind through channels of possibilities.

  What would induce Barnabas to falter in this resolution and succumb to his deeper desires? This fidelity to father and family was only a posture, an attitude he had adopted. Of that she was certain. Was there some way she could weaken him—distract him?

  She had a facetious notion: perhaps some silly bit of magic would awaken him to his true feelings. She instantly regretted her idea; magic was no longer an option for her.

  She returned to her bed, lay down, and stared up at the ceiling. Her mind began to search for solutions, and she grew calmer. One clear thought emerged. He loved her, and he had forgotten that he loved her; what was probably more true, he had decided not to love her. The surest way to clarity of mind was an encounter with death. Face-to-face with one’s mortality, the human creature always realizes, in a flash or insight, what is truly important. A brush with death—that was it! That was what she needed to bring Barnabas to his senses.

  The only problem was how to create such an incident, and she had abandoned spells and potions so long ago. Was it worth a bit of subtle dabbling? She had to be very careful; the last thing she wanted was to awaken the attention of the Dark Spirit. She had abandoned her powers, and he had left her alone; that had been their truce. But something small, unnoticeable would be so simple. It was tempting; she had to break Barnabas down in some way. She decided to be patient. And with these thoughts fresh in her mind, she finally fell asleep.

  * * *

  Opportunity presented itself much more easily than she could have predicted. Once again she embarked on her servant’s duties with modesty and resolve. The countess depended on her for so many trivial tasks that she often wondered whether the woman would have been capable of dressing herself or arranging her own coiffure. There was no end to the mending, trimming, and removing of spots, not to mention selecting the perfect piece of lace for the bodice or jewel for the neck. Sometimes she felt as though she possessed all the expertise behind the stylish woman she served. Each day she released her to the world, transformed, elegantly arrayed, and only she knew what pains the transformation required.

  The child Sarah, Barnabas’s little sister, often came to Angelique’s room to play. She was only six, but her presence carried Angelique back to her own childhood, and she remembered her time with her mother. She often thought of the man she had believed was her father and how defiant she had been. How obsessed she had been with learning the book of spells. Her determination and her courage had saved her then. It was difficult to believe that she had once been worshiped as a goddess and that Erzulie had embraced her spirit.

  Sarah was an imaginative girl, capable of falling into the grip of the stories Angelique told so well. Her eyes grew wide at the descriptions of ceremonies, Negroes dancing on coals without burning their feet, of worshipers in deep trances singing and drumming. She particularly enjoyed tales of slavery in Martinique and of the soldiers who came to quell the uprisings. Once she brought a small wooden soldier from the nursery to show Angelique, and left it behind when she was called to dinner.

  Angelique held the toy in her hand and looked at it carefully. It was painted wood, with a blue coat, a three-cornered hat, and a movable arm holding a tiny musket. She remembered, with a smile, the first time she had seen Barnabas in his uniform, how smart he had looked, and she knew in a flash that the toy had belonged to him when he was a child. She placed it in the pocket of her dress. />
  As plans began to form, and she became more hopeful, her mood grew cheerful. A line of verse sang in her mind: Look like the innocent flower, but be the serpent under it.

  She even smiled as she retrieved the countess’s shawl from the drawing room, stopping to admire the furniture, the gleam of mahogany and the texture of brocade, imagining that these riches would someday be hers.

  She pulled the toy soldier from her dress and was staring at it, musing over possibilities it might have, when Jeremiah, Barnabas’s uncle, appeared in the room. Angelique remembered seeing him in Martinique at the festival when she had first met Barnabas. She was immediately struck by his handsome face and his respectful demeanor. How different he was from his brother, Joshua Collins, who was so arrogant and abrupt, and from Barnabas, who was passionate and rebelliously volatile. When Jeremiah saw the doll, he seemed to recognize it.

  “Do you know what this is?” she asked.

  “A member of the regiment,” he answered, and smiled. “An old soldier.”

  “Was it yours?”

  “No. It belonged to Barnabas. They were his favorite toys when he was a boy. It should be in the playroom.”

  Her intuition had been correct. “Then I’ll return it,” she said.

  “Very well.” She thought she saw a flicker of interest in his eyes, but it faded almost as soon as it appeared.

  “Shall I take it for you?” he asked, almost as if he wanted to make conversation. She could sense a strained melancholy in his nature, as if his life had no purpose, no source of vitality, other than his work at the shipyard. Perhaps, as the younger brother, he had been under Joshua Collins’s iron fist of control even longer than Barnabas, even to the point that he, Jeremiah, had lost his taste for adventure. How vulnerable he is, she thought. Those who are resigned to a life without romance are most susceptible to love’s beckoning.

  “I’d like to keep it for a while,” she answered, “just to look at.”

  “Of course.”

  “It’s such a fascinating little toy.”

  “Very well,” he said, almost awkwardly. “Keep it as long as you like.”

  She held his gaze. Yes. He was the perfect foil. But his role would come later. For now the doll was almost all she needed, if she chose to do it, to cause Barnabas more pain and suffering than he had ever known.

  * * *

  That evening, Angelique sat by her window, gazing out at the night sky. The moon was wrapped in fog, and the moonstream flowed faintly upon the water. Here the sea was cold, she thought, and threatening, no call to warm embrace, only dark and forbidding. Nevertheless, she felt a longing for its force crashing against the shore. It had been such a long time since she had attempted sorcery, she wondered whether her powers lay dormant, or even whether they had shriveled and died. It was years since the Dark One had spoken, and she had repulsed him. But she did not need him now, not at all.

  She took out the box she had brought with her from Martinique, undisturbed for so long, and yet she had not been able to leave it behind. She unwrapped the cloth and opened the lid. The tins were there, the vials, the small sacks. She shivered and slowly closed the lid again. There was a knock at her door, and she placed the box beneath her bed.

  Angelique was surprised to see Barnabas standing in the gloom of the hallway. Never had he looked more handsome, with his silk vest and his fine white shirt with its poet’s sleeves, falling to soft gathers over his strong hands. His black hair tumbled over his eyes, which burned like coals, and she could see from his stance, his head lowered, his legs spread, that he was attempting to present an air of cool composure.

  “May I come in?” he said softly. She stood aside to let him enter with a rush of hope. She had known he would come. She needed no spells when she herself possessed such power over him.

  “I want to tell you how sorry I am,” he began, “and that I deeply regret what has occurred.” Angelique waited, saying nothing, feeling her pulse throb in her throat. “I admit that I may have taken advantage of you and treated you with less than the respect you were due. But … surely, I was not your only lover, and Martinique was … an enchanted place. A place of dreams. I—what I have come to say is … I see no reason why we can’t be friends.”

  “Merely friends?” she whispered.

  “Yes, why not? You are devoted to Josette and she to you. All I want is … for us all to be content. Don’t you see, our … love affair in Martinique will always be a cherished memory. I will never think of you without affection. But now, we both have different roles in life.”

  A new role in life, her father had said. One you can fulfill with pride. She would never forget those words—words that had plunged her into a life of desolation at the whim of a heartless man.

  “And what is my role?” she asked bitterly. “The countess’s maid?”

  Barnabas looked at her, a helpless pain in his eyes.

  “Angelique—”

  “I am your servant,” she said simply.

  “No…”

  “And you are my master.”

  “Angelique … please…”

  “What do you truly want, deep in your heart?” she whispered. “At this moment?” She took a step toward him. “Why are you here?” She saw him tremble, and he lifted his hand to his mouth.

  She thought of the many times that hand had touched her, those fingers had stroked her, as he now stroked his parted lips, the full lips that she had kissed with such abandon. He had told her once that he could live on her mouth. She could see how he struggled with his feelings, and her heart ached for him.

  She went to him, embraced him. “I love you,” she said tremulously. “I will do anything to make you happy.” She kissed him softly, deeply. Her body lifted against his, and she whispered, “Think of those nights in Martinique. No one has ever loved as we do. You do remember, don’t you?”

  He gave a little moan, his hands reaching for her, clutching her, bending her to him. She murmured, her mouth near his ear, “If all those promises we made were sweet lies of the moment, nothing more, then lie to me again. What does it matter?” She let flow from her lips the silent utterances of her heart. “Lie to me again,” she whispered, and pressed against him, feeling him weaken.

  He lifted her into his arms and carried her to the bed, and she was amazed at his sudden ardor. His hands moved over her body, his fingers pressing the flesh beneath the fabric of her dress. She was in the sea, the surge rising, and the surf thundered in her ears. His kisses were savage and insistent, and his breath was harsh next to her ear, like the rush of the wind in a cave. His fingers groped for her skirt, and beneath it, and when he found her, she felt her body throb in response. His weight was upon her, crushing her and, even as she sensed, with a twinge of regret, that his desire for her had overtaken his reason, that she had tricked him, she still slipped into the rush of bitter release, drifted from her safe shore and rose to meet that sweet heaviness, folding herself under a huge arching wave that carried her, tumbled her, lifted her, and flung her into the deepest of all waters.

  Afterward, she drifted in a quiet eddy before she turned to him and saw that his face was shadowed with remorse. She traced the shape of his cheek with her finger, thinking how he was changed after lovemaking and wondering why this was so.

  She smiled, and whispered, “You see, nothing can keep us apart.”

  He rose and pulled on his clothes, embarrassed, uneasy.

  She watched him, then said lightly, “I told you you cannot resist me.”

  “I admit you are difficult to resist—I lost … control—”

  “When two people are in love, nothing can stop them from wanting to be together.”

  “I think … it would be better if we did not see each other again—alone.”

  “How will you stay away?”

  “I will. I must. Josette is coming. Angelique … I love her.”

  “No, Barnabas, you only think you love her. You are trying to convince yourself that you love her.�
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  “I am going to marry her.”

  “A marriage that will only be a charade. One week, and you will regret it. She will never make you happy.”

  He turned to her and looked down at her. His eyes were red, and there was a weariness to his tone that made her want to weep. “This was the last time for us, Angelique. Please believe me, and don’t make it more difficult than it already is.”

  Her heart filled with a sudden hatred for him. He was weak and dishonest, and he had used her again. She had allowed him to do so, humiliating herself in a desperate effort to rekindle his love with his desire. She was a fool. “Go. Leave me. Leave me now,” she said cruelly. He walked to the door, then turned.

  “Is there any way we can be friends?” he said helplessly.

  “Oh, Barnabas,” she said in a low voice, “I will always be much closer to you than you think.”

  * * *

  Word was received that the ship carrying Josette and André to New York had been blown off course in a storm, delaying her arrival for more than one week. Josette was anxious to join her fiancé, and, as André had further business in the city, he had sent her ahead with an escort to Collinsport.

  The time for father and daughter together in New York was cut short, but Josette had managed to peruse the shops for the latest fashions. When she arrived at Collinwood, she was dressed in a wine-colored coat that fell to the floor, loose in back and flowing with a train. She carried a fox muff, and her hat, a bouquet of lavender and roses, perched on her chestnut hair, which lay in charming ringlets on her breast. Her face was radiant when she embraced Angelique with unabashed affection. Barnabas appeared, breathless, and while Angelique watched, her heart filled with envy, Josette went into his arms, and he kissed her with great tenderness.

  “Josette, my love, welcome to your new home,” he said warmly. It was impossible not to see that his devotion was genuine. He fairly glowed when he looked at her. Slightly self-conscious, Josette turned to Angelique.

  “Has my luggage been sent up?”