by Jane Peart
But having been awakened so abruptly, I knew there was no immediate chance of my falling back to sleep easily.
The house was absolutely silent. There seemed no sound at all except that of my own shallow breathing. Through the windows came the pearly light from a late-rising moon shedding a milky opaqueness in the room, cloaking the furniture in unfamiliar shapes. I shivered, then realized my nightgown was damp with perspiration. I got up to change into a fresh one, and as I did, I heard something.
I stood quite still, straining to listen. From somewhere deep in the house came the sound of music.
I froze. Music? Who would be playing an instrument at this time of the night? And where was it coming from?
The fingers with which I was buttoning on my clean nightie were shaking. And I could still hear the unearthly notes in the distance. The melody seemed familiar. A waltz?
Having been taught early in life that the only way to conquer fear is to face it, I grabbed up my challis robe, flung it around my shoulders, and before I could change my mind, opened my bedroom door and stepped out into the shadowy hall. I stood there listening for a minute, then still hearing the faint chords, I set out in the direction from which they seemed to be coming.
The hall floor beneath my feet was carpeted, so I made my way undetected to the children's rooms. Pausing at their door, I heard no one stirring and moved on cautiously.
At the end of a corridor in the adjoining wing I saw a crack of light shining under a closed door.
It was a part of the house I had never seen. Somehow I had assumed this area was Randall's domain, so I had steered clear of it. Now I was not so sure. I had seen Benjamin carrying out a breakfast tray the morning Randall had left. Later, I had noticed one of the maids carrying an armload of linens into that same room. Perhaps Randall slept downstairs.
As I crept quietly toward the closed door, the sound of the music became louder. Outside the door I halted. My heart was pounding so loudly I could hear it. Then I put out my hand, felt the carved metallic doorknob, hesitated a second, then slowly turned it.
There was only a glimmer of light showing along the edge of the curtains as I stepped into the darkness. Underneath my bare feet I felt the lush softness of a velvety rug. A heavy scent like that of crushed roses hung in the air.
I crept across the room and groped for a pull to draw open the draperies. As I did so, the moonlight flooded in and the room leaped into view—the most beautiful room I had ever seen.
The bed was on a rounded dais, curtained in filmy lace, draped in satin, and mounded in ruffled pillows. An ornate mirror hung suspended over a skirted dressing table. On top was an array of perfume bottles, a set of silver and crystal toilette articles, a hand mirror, brush, and comb etched with Alair's initials, ACB.
Moving quietly, I went over to the dressing table and lightly touched the glass top. It was then I saw the crepe-de-chine peignoir flung over the back of the chaise lounge as if Alair had just tossed it there before dressing to go out. Involuntarily I shuddered. That movement was reflected in the mirror, and I looked up and saw my image—wide-eyed, hair streaming about my shoulders, a haunted expression on my face.
I should get out of here, I thought, and turned to leave.
At the same time I realized the music had stopped.
My hands were clammy, my mouth dry. I can't remember ever being so terrified.
Then I heard the click of a door being closed. I pressed my hand to my mouth to stifle a scream. Even as an icy shiver rippled down my spine, I knew there must be some rational explanation. It was then I saw a piece of cloth caught in the door of the armoire.
Someone was hiding there! I reached for the silver hairbrush on top of the dressing table. Wielding it like a weapon, I crept cautiously toward the door, then yanked it open.
"Oh, Miss Dru!" a voice wailed and Vinny, huddling there, nearly tumbled out at my feet.
"Vinny! What on earth are you doing in here? Come out this minute!" Fear lent me a bravado I did not feel.
She crawled out and, burying her face in her hands, began to moan. Her voice was so muffled I could not understand a word she was saying. Soon I realized she was begging me not to punish her.
"No one is going to punish you, Vinny," I told her gently. "Just tell me what's going on."
Between sobs, gulps, and sighs the story unfolded. It seemed that after Alair's death, Randall ordered her room closed up, but Vinny was to come in and dust and air it weekly. She was not, however, to touch anything. He wanted everything to stay just as it was, nothing moved or changed.
As Alair's personal maid, Vinny had faithfully discharged this duty.
"I loved Miss Alair, Miss Dru. Some didn't understan' her, but I loved her anyway. And sometimes I come here ... 'specially when Mr. Bondurant goes o f f . . . jest to be where she used to be, to look at her pretty things, her dresses and all. And sometimes I play her music box." She wilted beneath my stern gaze. "I knows it's wrong," she sobbed. "But somehow it make it seem lak she ain't daid. That she could come walkin' through the do' and tell me to lay out one of her party dresses!"
I patted her shaking shoulders. "All right, Vinny, don't cry anymore. I won't tell Mr. Bondurant, but you must promise not to come here in the middle of the night like this. To tell you the truth, you scared the wits out of me!"
Vinny got to her feet, wiping her eyes on her apron. "Yes'm, I is sorry. But sometimes Miss Alair, she seem so close. She loved the moonlight, she did. Sometimes she'd go out on the lawn and dance—"
"All right, Vinny," I said soothingly. "That's enough. You go on to bed now. We'll just leave and lock the door behind us. I don't think you should come in here any more except to do as Mr. Bondurant instructed you. Nothing more!"
"Yes, ma'am. The do' is kep' locked. I'se the only one who's got a key." She lifted her chin proudly. "Not eben Benjamin has one. Just me and Mr. Bondurant."
After I'd walked with Vinny to the door leading up to the servants quarters on the third floor, I went back to my own bedroom. But sleep was impossible.
I kept thinking of the locked room and the key in Randall's possession. Did he visit the room as Vinny had? Or did he keep it locked up tight, as effectively as his feelings? Apparently, he was still trying to escape the reality of Alair's death.
There were so many things I didn't understand: the unmarked grave, the shrine-like room, the concealed portrait. The more I learned about him, the more of an enigma Randall Bondurant presented.
Was he a man of no emotion or a man tortured by the past? Perhaps I would never know.
chapter
8
AS ABRUPTLY as he had left, Randall returned, turning the whole household upside down.
He strode in, shouting for Benjamin and sending the maids scurrying in all directions. He sent for me to bring the children.
"I'm expecting guests," he announced summarily. "The Elliotts. I'm sure you remember Mrs. Elliott and her daughter from Boston? They are vacationing at White Sulphur Springs, and I've invited them here with their party of friends."
To say that I was overjoyed at this news would certainly be an exaggeration. My opinion of the Elliotts formed at our first meeting had not changed, nor did I think further association with these two ladies would alter it.
I tried to tell myself that their presence at Bon Chance for a day should make no difference to me. All I would be required to do would be to see that the children were properly dressed and brought down to be shown off to the company at tea time. Otherwise, I would stay demurely in the background as befitted my position as governess.
I had not counted on Bondurant's unpredictable nature. What happened during the Elliotts' visit came as much of a surprise to me as to them.
From the vantage point of the upstairs balcony, the children and I watched the arrival of the Elliotts and their entourage. Accompanied by a middle-aged couple and their elderly relative, they alighted from their carriage in a flurry of boa feathers and ruffled parasols. We could
hear their voices rising shrilly. I winced when I heard Mrs. Elliott's nasal twang.
"I must say, Mr. Bondurant, I do believe this to be the most authentic antebellum mansion I have yet seen."
Mrs. Elliott epitomized to me a familiar type I had seen parade into Cameron Hall Academy on Parents' Day. The mothers of some of my classmates, swathed in furs and aglitter with diamonds, would sweep into the "refined Southern atmosphere" in which they had enrolled their daughters and, within minutes, shatter their painstakingly achieved image.
Their arrogant manner, far from instilling awe, only revealed a crass self-centeredness. For that reason, people like Mrs. Elliott failed to impress me.
In spite of the fact I'd told myself I cared not a fig what the Elliotts thought of me, I dressed very carefully that afternoon. I chose one of the new dresses Mama had made for me. Of fine muslin, it was trimmed with eyelet threaded with cornflower blue velvet ribbons.
My hair, ever a problem because of its lack of natural curl, was drawn back from my face and swirled into a simple figure-eight. To add a touch of elegance, I slipped in the small sapphire-and-pearl earrings Auntie Kate had given me when I left Cameron Hall. Satisfied with the effect, I went to get the children.
They looked adorable. Matty had brushed and curled their long golden hair and tied it with ribbons that matched their lilac satin sashes on the French-embroidered lawn dresses.
Before long, Vinny appeared with the message that Mr. Bondurant was ready to present his daughters to his guests. Each of us took a small hand and proceeded down the circular staircase.
We could hear the voices of the company floating in from the veranda, where they were seated to catch the breeze from the river on this warm summer afternoon.
Randall saw us at once, rose, and came forward to escort his two lovely little daughters out onto the shaded porch. I stepped aside with dignity, I hoped, and looked at a point above both of their heads as I felt the two Elliotts making a slow inventory of me.
I was holding myself so straight I felt my backbone stiffen. Indignation stirred within, but I maintained a serene smile. In a few minutes I could take the girls and leave, I told myself.
I was wrong. To my astonishment, Randall drew up another chair for me. "I'm sure you remember my children's cousin, Miss Dru Montrose," he said in a bland tone.
Then he motioned me to sit down. Not wanting to create a scene by refusing, I hesitated a second then took a seat, fully aware of Mrs. Elliott's shocked expression.
I saw her exchange a glance with Peggy. The unspoken question passing between them was obvious to me if to no one else. Giving me a perfunctory nod, both of them turned their entire attention to Randall and the little girls.
Randall had taken his seat, and Lally was crawling up into his lap while Nora, leaning against his knee, was helping herself to the bonbons on the low table beside him.
Suppressing my own discomfort, I began conversing with the elderly woman to my right who seemed grateful for the attention. I wondered if she had been ignored until now. Since she was slightly deaf, I assumed she had been left out of the others' conversation, intentionally or unintentionally. With me as her captive audience, she began a long recital of her rheumatic ills for which she was taking the waters at White Sulphur Springs.
As I listened with one ear to Miss Plimpton, I watched Peggy, who was in my direct line of vision. She was the complete coquette, I decided. It reminded me of some of the girls at school I had seen practicing in front of their mirrors. Flirting was a skill I had never acquired, but Peggy had perfected the art. She tilted her head, her eyes sparkled, and the dimples flashed on either side of her rosy mouth as she chatted with animation, fluttering her graceful white hands.
I did not venture a look at Randall to see how he was reacting to this display of charm. I gathered, however that he was enjoying it immensely.
At last something was said about the lateness of the hour, and the ladies rose to leave. There was a general bustling about to collect handbags, shawls, and parasols. As the company started through the hall back to the front where the carriage was waiting, I heard Mrs. Elliott chide Randall playfully.
"Now, dear boy, you must not be such a recluse here in this lovely retreat! You must come to see us at the Springs. There are dances every evening, pantomimes, and magic lantern shows and tableaux! Such pleasant company, such delightful events. Now, promise we can look forward to your joining us there again soon."
I did not hear Randall's reply, for just then Lally tugged on my hand, begging for another of the fancy iced cakes.
While Randall escorted his guests to their carriage, I took the children back upstairs. The afternoon had been a strain. I resented the awkward position I had been placed in, and was determined to avoid a recurrence of such a situation in the future.
The rest of the summer passed smoothly enough. Randall came and went. His trips lasted from a few days to two weeks, but I never knew if he took Mrs. Elliott up on her invitation.
Regardless of his whereabouts, I made sure that the children's routine was disturbed as little as possible. They needed at least one firm anchor in their little lives, I felt, and vowed to provide that security for them . . . even if their father wouldn't.
Nora was nearly eight, and I knew that by September I must outline a program of study for her. Lally, though only six, could read simple sentences already, and copied her older sister in every way. She, too, must begin lessons in the fall, I thought.
In the last lovely days of summer we made the most of our long afternoons. I used some of the time to tell Bible stories and teach the girls the beloved hymns and spirituals of my own childhood. Since that first evening when I had learned to my dismay they had had little if any religious training, I had been careful to use every opportunity to introduce them to their heavenly Father and His loving care.
In our morning prayers I encouraged them to thank the Lord for their blessings. Lally was quick to mention the tangible things—their toys, their books, their food—but Nora surprised me with an insight far beyond her years: "You must love us a lot, kind Father, to send us Dru!"
Recognizing the child's spiritual sensitivity, I pointed out the marvels of creation on our walks—birds, wildflowers, small woodland creatures, the very air we breathed—these and so many other delights that come from the hand of a caring Creator. They absorbed the truth as dry sponges absorb water.
One thing puzzled me, however. Neither of the little girls ever spoke of their mother. I hesitated questioning them about her for fear of causing them pain. It occurred to me that they had not seen very much of Alair in their short lives. Apparently, she and Bondurant had traveled a great deal, and, while the girls were still very young, they had been left at home in Matty's devoted care.
What harm could it do, then, to teach them about their mother, I thought, so she was often in the stories I told them about our carefree days as children growing up at Montclair.
One day in early September we were out in the garden, where I had been instructing the children in the proper mixing of potpourri. Tom, the gardener, had allowed us to gather the fallen petals from the rose bushes he had pruned. After drying them in the sun, I helped the girls identify and gather herbs to be crushed and combined with the powdered rose leaves.
The herb garden had been planted by Noramary Montrose, the very first bride to make her home at Montclair. Born in England, she dearly loved gardening and took a special interest in herbs. In those early days, herbs were useful in many ways on the isolated plantation—in cooking, for medicinal purposes, as well as for their pungent fragrance.
We were seated in the gazebo at the end of the garden path, pounding the ingredients with wooden spoons—rose leaves, lavender flowers, coriander seeds, orris root, cloves and cinnamon bark—then scraping them into the small linen bags we had made earlier and tying them with narrow ribbon.
Lally worked steadily, her chubby hands gathering the small piles of dried flowers and seeds and stuffing th
em into her bags. I watched her, the tip of her little tongue to one side of her mouth as she carefully filled the sachet bag, then pulled the ribbon tight. Her task completed, she held the bag up to her nose and breathed deeply. Inhaling the spicy-sweet fragrance, she closed her eyes, then opened them wide.
"This smells like Mama!" she exclaimed.
Encouraged that this simple pastime had brought about spontaneous memories of Alair, I began gently to lead them to talk about their mother.
"She always smelled sweet," Nora added shyly.
"She was pretty too!" exclaimed Lally, warming to her subject. "And she danced! Sometimes she'd swing me around and around!"
Little by little, the children's remembered images brought Alair back. I wondered what they had been told about her death, but decided not to delve into what remained a mystery to all of us. Instead I told them about heaven and how one day, we would all be together there.
That bright prospect pleased them, and thereafter, when Alair's name came up, it was with no embarrassment or discomfort.
Late one afternoon as we were coming back from one of our impromptu picnics swinging our empty wicker baskets, we began chasing each other in a spontaneous game of tag. Running around the side of the house, we stopped short, laughing and breathless, at the sight of Randall standing at the top of the veranda steps. I had no idea how long he had been watching us.
I halted, attempting to tidy my hair that had fallen around my shoulders. What must Randall Bondurant think of his governess? The little girls, of course, had no such qualms. At the sight of their father, they dropped their baskets and greeted him happily.