by Lara Parker
“Yes, my lady.”
“Then … would you see that it is unpacked?” Josette was gentle as always, never condescending or unkind, but the intonation was clear. She wanted to be alone with him.
Of course Josette was lovely, and so very sweet, always insisting that Angelique was her friend, not her servant, and now she would again begin to confide in her, sharing her feelings about Barnabas. Angelique would be forced to listen attentively, giving solace, understanding, commiserating, although the poisoned fiend of jealousy was already curling in her stomach, spitting his sour taste into her mouth.
Once she was back in her small room, Angelique opened the drawer of her dresser and took out the toy. Her hand was shaking, and a numbness flowed down her arms. The little soldier was sturdy and ready for battle, as untroubled as the man he impersonated. The handkerchief, easily found among Barnabas’s things, was cumbersome, too large, but it carried his monogram and would suffice.
“Wake up, little soldier,” she said, her voice tense and uncommonly sweet. “The time has come for you to perform your duties. My mistress has arrived to prepare for her wedding. But there isn’t going to be any wedding, is there?”
Carefully, she looped the noose around the little neck. “Just a little pressure,” she said, “just a slight tightening of the collar.” How she wished she could be there to watch, but she did not need to be; she could picture it all in her mind. Then she sucked in her breath and called up the pulse of fire. It quivered at once through her body, like a snake of flame, and danced down her arms and into her hands. How simple it all was.
There! It was happening! Down in the foyer, Barnabas was kissing Josette when he stopped, confused by the discomfort, then panicked at the jerk at his throat.
“Barnabas, what is it?” Josette cried, frightened, then hysterical, as Barnabas collapsed in the chair, clawing at his throat.
“I can’t breathe.…”
Angelique pulled the noose tighter. She smiled as she felt the force surge through her, physical, pleasurable, almost as though she were with him, holding him, feeling him in her body.
“I—something is choking—the room is—growing darker—where are you—Josette?” He groaned, crashed to the floor, knocking over the chair. Josette screamed, helplessly bewildered. Servants were called. He was carried to his room. The doctor was sent for.
Several hours passed, and Angelique decided to look in on Barnabas. Josette sat by his bedside, weeping piteously. She looked up, her eyes rimmed with red.
“Oh, Angelique, what am I going to do?”
“How is he, Mademoiselle?”
“Much worse, I’m afraid. Even the doctor can’t help him.”
Angelique felt a quiver of pride. “The doctor came?”
“The doctor has said there is nothing medically wrong. It’s … it’s as if something attacked him … a look in his eyes, his hand to his throat—”
“Is there anything I can do?”
“Will you come and pray with me, Angelique?”
“Of course, my lady.”
Angelique knelt beside her mistress, then turned to her, hands folded, as if with a sudden impulse, and said: “Perhaps, if you intend to pray, it might be helpful for you to have your medal of Saint-Pierre. Did you bring it with you?”
“Oh, yes! It’s in my luggage.”
Angelique rose as if to go fetch it, but Josette stopped her.
“Let me find it,” she said breathlessly, obviously glad for an excuse to be away for a moment. “Stay and watch over him.” And she dashed out. Once alone, Angelique looked down at her victim.
“Barnabas,” she whispered, leaning in close to his face. “You are such a foolish man, and you look so pathetic.” He was sweating, his skin gray, his mouth moving with no sound. She touched his throat lightly, and he opened his eyes. “What are you thinking?” she said softly, without rancor. She waited while he looked up at her, tortured, bleary-eyed, and struggled to speak. Then she said with amazing calm, “Is there anything you wish to tell me?”
“I’m dying,” he rasped, his voice thin and strained. Angelique felt a pulse of fear. Surely he wasn’t close to death. It was far too soon, and the handkerchief was not tied that tightly. She was reminded of something, some anguished, long-buried memory, and suddenly her heart began to beat faster.
“I am dying…” he said so softly she could barely hear him. “Death is all around me.…”
“No! No, you cannot die!” She leaned in close to him, her breath mingling with his.
“Angelique … please … help me.…”
“I love you! If you die, I will have no one!” Then the memory struck like a dagger.
Chloe!
She dashed down the hall to her room, her heart pounding in her throat. Her hands were shaking when she reached for the doll.
Chloe!
She wrenched at the handkerchief, but it was so tight around the neck of the little soldier that she could not tear it loose. Cold panic in her veins, she relived the nightmare, floundering in self-reproach. She killed the things she loved. She destroyed her chances for happiness. What would she do if he died? What would she do if she lost him? She would be alone!
Desperately she fumbled through her bureau, searching for scissors, a knife, nothing! She jerked at the knot once again. It had to come loose. It must. There was a sickening moment of helplessness, as her fingertips dug at the handkerchief, nails ripping with pain, and finally, she felt a loop loosen, and slipping a finger beneath it, she pulled it free.
In her mind she saw Barnabas gasp for air and breathe again with great wrenching gulps as Josette embraced him with joy.
“It was so terrifying,” he said, clinging to her. “Death was … whispering to me.”
Angelique sat numb with relief, staring at the doll in her hand. How could I have been so careless? she thought. I must not ever harm him again. If he had died, I would have been left with nothing. It can’t be a spell on Barnabas. I must find another way, some other means of disturbing the world around him, destroying his hopes, so that he will turn to me for solace, and then I shall be his.
Twenty-Seven
One morning, there was a carriage on the path and a great bustle at the door. Packages had arrived from Paris for Josette’s wedding and the honeymoon, which was to take place in Martinique. The boxes were carried upstairs, and since Josette had gone into town with the countess, it was Angelique’s duty to unpack them. As she pulled the strings loose, she thought of how she had changed since her arrival, as though her entire nature had been poisoned by jealousy. Never had her hatred of Josette been more bitter.
Under the soft embrace of tissue, she found silken underthings, petticoats of lace and satin, dresses of taffeta with exquisite embroidery, tucks, and flounces. There were gloves and shoes of fine doeskin and bonnets that were creamy confections of straw and ribbon and flowers.
One particular chapeau was so lovely that Angelique could not resist trying it on, and the moment she placed it on her head and looked at herself in the glass, she felt her heart sink. Her beauty was painful to her, so unrevealed, and she thought of the coral beneath the sea, gardens of shimmering color which, when ripped up and exposed to the sun, faded and grew dull, like the shade of her drab maid’s dress. She gazed at her face beneath the hat, so becoming, so enhancing to the shape of her face and her eyes, and the hopelessness of her situation seemed more than she could bear.
It was at that moment the door flew open, and Josette appeared, flushed with excitement.
“They came! The packages came! From Paris! Oh, Angelique, let me see!” Josette rushed to the bed and took up a dress with silver-and-blue candy stripes, which rustled as it fell against her. Only when she came to the mirror did she see Angelique.
“Oh, how lovely!” she cried. “You look so sweet in that bonnet!”
Then she smiled impishly. “Angelique,” she blurted, reaching for her arm, “let’s try on all the dresses—together!”
�
�I couldn’t do that,” said Angelique. “They aren’t mine.”
“But then I shall give one to you,” said Josette, impetuous as always, although a flicker shadowed her gaze when she realized she was being very generous.
“Where would I wear it, Mademoiselle?”
“Oh, I don’t know. What difference does it make? Here. Try this one!” And she tossed a gray taffeta frock across the bed.
A few minutes later the two girls were admiring one another as they posed in front of the glass, their slender waists nipped by corsets and their delicate arms draped in soft flounces. Josette pulled Angelique to her side and placed an affectionate hand on her shoulder as they stood before the mirror.
“Look at us,” she whispered. “Are we not a pair? You are even more beautiful than I.”
“That’s not true, Mademoiselle. You are the beautiful one.”
“But together we are all the comeliness of womanhood. You with your bright golden hair and me with my dark eyes. It’s too bad one man can’t have us both!” And she laughed with delight at this idea.
As Angelique gazed at their reflections in the gilt frame, she thought bitterly, yes, it was true. Josette was her reverse, not only in coloring but in nature. It was as if all the hatred in her own heart had sucked any possible enmity out of her mistress, so that the dark-haired girl was all purity, trusting and open, while her own character was corrupted by a force of evil that left her suspicious and closed to the world. She knew that these things would never change, and bitter tears sprang to her eyes.
“Oh, no, don’t cry,” cried Josette, and she ran to the bed and reached for the bonnet. “Here,” she said. “I want you to have this. It doesn’t matter if you never wear it. Take it.”
“I can’t. Really, I can’t,” said Angelique, shaking her head.
“You must, or I will become very angry,” said Josette with a sly smile. And she clasped Angelique’s hand and led her to the bed. “Listen,” she said, sitting beside her. “We are going to find a nice young man for you. I can’t bear to be the only one who is happy. Once I am married, I intend to make it my first order of business to marry you off as well. I shall become a matchmaker! And you will wear this bonnet, I promise you.”
* * *
The time had come for fresh herbs, powders, and, most important of all, a helper, someone to fetch the things she needed. Angelique realized how reckless she had been, how easily she might arouse suspicion. Even the act of searching for deadly nightshade in the woods had turned up the feeble-minded caretaker, Ben, who crept up behind her.
“What are you doin’ with them leaves?” he asked gruffly. She jerked back, startled and flustered.
“Looking for herbs. My mistress … likes them in her salad.” She winced. It is fortunate, she thought, that he is an imbecile; otherwise, he would never have believed such a silly story.
“And what do you think that is?”
“Bay leaves,” she answered smugly.
“No, it ain’t. That’s deadly nightshade, and it’s poisonous.”
“Poisonous?” She feigned astonishment.
“I seen cattle die from eating it, and they suffered a mighty lot of pain.”
“Oh, I’m so grateful to you for telling me,” she said, dumping the basket of leaves on the ground. She looked at him kindly. “You’re Ben, aren’t you?” He nodded. “I’ve seen you before. I remember when you lifted the countess’s carriage out of the rut. Why, you have the strength of two men, and … and knowledge of herbs as well.”
Just as she expected, he softened under her flattery.
“I know you, too. You’re the countess’s maid.”
“My name is Angelique, and I hope we can become friends.”
“I-I shouldn’t even be talkin’ to you. Mister Joshua Collins would have me whipped.”
“I won’t tell anyone,” she said, touching his arm.
“Most women don’t want to talk to me.”
“Well, I like it. I like talking to you very much,” she said, smiling warmly, seeing the idea that she was flirting with him forming in his mind.
Back in her room Angelique crushed two powders with a mortar and pestle, and poured in a potion of the nightshade she had retrieved after Ben had left, and a bit of her own blood from a pricked finger. Then she looked into the fire. She called Ben’s name softly a few times, and it was only moments before he was knocking at her door.
He seemed bewildered when she let him enter, and he said, “I dunno what I’m doin’ here.”
“I wanted you here,” she answered. He was dumbfounded when he heard these words, but he wasted no time. He grinned lasciviously and grabbed for her clumsily, but she danced out of the way, offering him the potion.
“First, drink this.”
“And after?”
“We shall see,” she said slyly.
Ben swallowed the elixir without hesitation, blinked, and stared at her in foolish stupidity.
“How do you feel?” she asked.
“Strange…”
“That is because you no longer have a will of your own,” she said sternly. “My will is your will. You shall do whatever I tell you to do; you shall be my slave.”
He tried to shrug this off as a silly female whim, but she could see by the blurred look in his eyes that the potion was taking effect. He staggered a little and caught himself on the arm of the chair, stared a moment at the floor as though trying to remember where he was, then lifted his eyes to her, stunned and worried.
“Now that you have drunk the potion, you are in my power,” she said in a low voice. “And I will protect you from all evil spirits, even from death itself.” She reached for his huge paw. “Yours is the hand I will use when mine is too small, your arm when mine is too weak.” She laced her delicate fingers in between his thicker ones. “We are united by invisible bonds which can never be broken.”
Then she pulled her hand away and walked to her dresser, thought a moment, and turned. Ben was still standing there, watching her in a total stupor.
“I must have a spider’s web from a living oak tree. Not a single strand of the web can be broken. Go and fetch it. Go now. I have important things to do.”
Ben turned and walked out of the room without a word. When he returned he had found his voice; his manner was wary but a bit curious.
“I had to pull three down before I found one that was perfect,” he said. “What do you want it for?”
Angelique took the web, which was spun around a slim forked twig. “It’s for a dress,” she said. Ben’s eyes lit up.
“A dress—I’d like to see that!” His lips were slack, and his words slurred, as though saliva had formed in his mouth.
“It’s not for me. It’s for this woman.” She walked to a crude clay doll standing on her desk.
“She ain’t got no head.”
“It doesn’t matter, because the woman is Josette. And the dress will be held to her body by a lock of her lover’s hair.”
“Where you gonna get a lock of Mr. Barnabas’s hair?”
“Not Barnabas,” she said, feeling a pulse of excitement as she smiled at Ben. “Jeremiah. Josette’s lover will soon be Jeremiah.”
Ben laughed, a full-throated chortle, which irritated her even further. Even though he was forced to do her bidding, he still continued to treat her with familiarity, as though they were equals.
“Jeremiah? You sure got that one wrong,” he said.
“Tell me something, Ben. What does a man hate most in a woman?”
“I don’t know much about women.”
“But if you were married to a woman, what would you want her to be?”
“Why … faithful to me, I guess.”
“And what would you do if she were not faithful?”
Ben became aroused with rage as he imagined this situation. “I’d … I’d kill her!”
Angelique smiled. “Barnabas won’t kill her,” she said. “But I can see his face … I can hear his voice … sending her
home! And I will be the one who comforts him.”
Ben was incensed. “You can’t make her do that! I’ll tell him!”
“You’ll do nothing of the kind,” she said scathingly. “If you open your mouth to say one word against me, you will never speak again.”
She saw the full realization finally lodge in Ben’s dim brain. His mouth fell open. “You’re a witch!” he said in dumb astonishment.
Angelique smiled again at this simplicity of mind. “Yes. I am a witch. And you are my helper.”
* * *
Late that night she sat before the fire and stared at the clay figure sitting on the desk. “Yes, Miss Josette, no, Miss Josette,” she said bitterly. Her heart was cold as a stone, and she was filled with resentment. “She thinks she orders me about,” Angelique whispered to herself. “But in this room I am the one who orders her.”
She recalled the joy she had felt when she arrived at Collinwood. How foolish she had been, how absurdly naive. When had he ceased to love her, and why? Her own feelings of love had changed as well. What had been a warm and joyous devotion that had pervaded her whole being was now a tortured fixation. Her love had become twisted into another shape, sharper and more oblique. It was as though a seed had turned in the earth, and showed a darker side to the sun, before sprouting a foul weed full of nettles.
Perhaps she had always been this way and had only repressed her true nature. She thought of her beautiful reefs in Martinique and the amazing life in the coral. She remembered now that the natives, when trolling for larger game, never ate any of the brightly colored reef fish if they caught them in their nets. The brilliant creatures with their dapples and ruffles carried a deadly poison in their flesh.
When would she learn that nothing would come to her without effort, that nothing was predictable. It was apparent that Barnabas had tired of her. She might be able to entice him into another hour’s dalliance, but now he truly desired Josette for all her innocence and vulnerability. The familiar gaze, the deep affection in the eyes, the charming smile, he now bestowed on Josette, as though he were performing a role in a play and reciting the same lines with a new ingenue.