Abruptly the coach tilted forward, and by leaning against the glass she could see that they were heading down to what appeared to be a crossing; a crude, railingless bridge over the bayou. The body of the coach jounced on its springs as the wheels struck the thick hewn planks, then there was a rumbling as they started across. Claire could feel the bridge sag with the weight of the diligence, and her breath caught in her throat, but then they were past the dangerous half-way point and she began to relax.
At that moment she heard a hoarse yell above her. The coach stopped, and began to rock violently as the sounds of scrabbling hooves and frantic neighing came to her. The coach backed, then slewed sideways. A whip cracked and the groom added his voice to the driver’s as they encouraged the horses, but the animals seemed to be going mad between the shafts. The coach surged forward, stopped, bucking on its springs, and began to back again. Then there was a sickening drop as the back wheel beneath Claire left the narrow span!
She had to get out. She lunged for the door handle on the opposite side. But as the coach skidded, scraping on its back axle, she missed it. She tried again, and caught it. Clinging to it, she wrenched at it. The other wheel, on the front, went off. For a long moment the heavy diligence balanced, swaying, then slowly it began to topple. Once again, Claire pushed at the handle, and the door swung wide.
She caught at the frame, bracing herself, then she jumped. Even as she left it, she felt the coach gathering speed for the crash into the bayou, saw from the corner of her eye the tangle of screaming horses, and the last desperate effort of the driver standing in the box wrenching at the lines. Then she was falling. There was a rending pain in her chest, and after that, darkness. But just on the verge of unconsciousness, a picture flashed across her mind of one other thing she had seen in that second of jumping. A man on horseback under the trees on the far bank, a man draped in the folds of a caped coat.
There was a wailing, moaning sound in her head, rising and falling, rising and falling. Breathing was difficult. There was a tightness around her chest. She was aware of pain hovering near her, and at the back of her mind terror lingered. She moved her head and the pain came closer.
There was a rustle near her side. “Drink,” a brisk voice said. A firm support was slipped under her shoulders and she was lifted. A woman’s face was close to hers, not young, not old; neither pretty nor ugly, but square-jawed and strong. Her black hair, sprinkled with gray, was cut like a man’s, waving back from her face and over her ears, and Claire stared at it wonderingly, but without too great a curiosity.
Claire drank, and was placed once more against soft pillows. The woman moved out of her line of vision.
She was lying in a great wide bed, she saw, with four soaring posts rising above her to a tester, a ciel-de-lit of blue silk shirred toward the center where it was held by a golden sunburst, and caught up at the four corners just above the bedposts by sightless bronze cupids carrying garlands of pink ribbon. From the tester hung bed curtains of blue silk and a white muslin mosquito baire secured by blue silk-tiebacks. Memory washed over her in a chilling wave as she stared up at the ciel-de-lit of the kind made especially for brides.
“Where am I?” she asked, turning toward the woman who was just setting an empty glass down on a marble-topped commode table against one wall.
“At Sans Songe.”
“The coach—it was falling off the bridge. I tried—to jump.” Her voice sounded weak, even to her own ears.
“Yes, and you very nearly succeeded. You struck something, the side of the bridge probably. You have one cracked rib and at least two more that have suffered damage.”
“I—see.”
“Our groom, Sylvest, who was with you, dragged you from the water. You might have drowned otherwise, for you were unconscious, or so he says.”
“I—don’t remember.” Her head had begun to ache and slowly, carefully, she raised her arm and put her hand to her temple. She could still hear that wailing sound, like a dirge. It had not been a part of some nightmare. She glanced toward the window where white muslin curtains, beneath tasselated, gold velvet over drapes, billowed gently in the breeze coming into the room.
“I—hear—”
“That sound is our people in the quarters behind the house mourning for the driver of your coach. He was killed as he was dragged with the horses from the bridge by the weight of the diligence. He had jumped down among the animals trying to slash the harness and set them free. It was a futile gesture, of course. He lost his life and the horses that did not drown had to be destroyed. It was a most unfortunate incident and I regret that it had to mar your homecoming to Sans Songe.”
“So do I,” Claire said, “and I am sorry—about the driver. He—behaved well.” She moved her hand down over her chest, discovering layers of material wrapped securely about her beneath her gown.
“Bandages,” the woman informed her, and as if understanding her puzzlement, went on. “You must stay tightly trussed up, almost corseted for some time, until your ribs heal, I am afraid.”
“You—did you do this for me?”
“I am a fairly competent doctor; I have had to be. We are so far from town here. And when an emergency arises one cannot wait a day, the time it takes to send someone for the nearest doctor, one must act.”
“I must thank you, Madame—”
“I am only Justin’s aunt, his father’s sister. You may call me Octavia.”
“I am in your debt, Octavia,” Claire said simply.
“Think nothing of it. I would have done the same for anyone.” She smiled, showing even white teeth.
Claire’s gaze was caught by a flash of gold on the side of Octavia’s face, and she saw that the woman had gold coins strung on gold wires in her ears. For the first time she noticed also that Octavia wore not the simple pastel empire gown that was the mode, but a strange garment almost like a dressing gown but not constructed like any dressing gown Claire had ever seen. It appeared to be a single piece of wide silk with an opening cut from the head, and holes left on the sides for her arms. Crisp gold braid outlined the armholes, neck, and hem and it was slashed with broad stripes of vivid color; orange, black, green, and gold. On her feet she wore turkish slippers in a violently clashing red velvet, and from her upturned toes dangled small gold tassels.
“Do you like my costume?” Octavia raised her arms to her shoulders causing the sides to flare in great wings. “It is immensely comfortable, to me a greater recommendation than modishness. And, Bon Dieu!, who cares to be modish out here in the country? For days on end one never sees company. It is eccentric, yes, but I like that. What else is left for a spinster? I am a mere pensioner living on the favor of my relatives. I make myself useful, but, one must amuse oneself, n’est-ce pas? What better than to look into the mirror and see a drollery rather than a hag? Those so delicate, so feminine muslins I am sure you wear with such grace, they are not appropriate for middle-aged ladies of my style. In them I appear grotesque! It is not to be borne. But you must rest instead of listening to my chatter. I will leave you now.”
“But wait!” Claire said. “What—what of—”
“What of your husband?” Octavia would not allow her to finish a sentence. “Justin will come later, never fear.”
“I thought I—”
“Do not distress yourself unnecessarily. I assure you your husband is as devastated by the accident as you could wish. He has sent for the doctor and eventually one will come, but in the meantime I will cosset you with tisanes and by the time he arrives I will have made you nearly well except for the cracked bones. You will see.” And with a brief but wide smile Octavia left the room, closing the door behind her.
Claire had intended to tell Octavia that she thought she had seen Justin before she jumped, but perhaps it was just as well that she had been prevented. The woman was his aunt and must be prejudiced in his favor. There was without doubt some form of medication in the drink that Octavia had given her, for in a short while Claire found th
e room receding in a nebulous mist. The sound of mourning grew farther and farther away, and without knowing precisely when it happened, she fell asleep.
The room was in darkness when she awoke. She was fully alert this time; some strange awareness had cut through the last wisps of drugged sleep like a knife. The weather had cleared, for beyond the curtains at the window a full moon shone, drowning the earth in its clear white light. It shed a faint glow into the room, and in it Claire could see the door into her bedroom beyond the foot of her bed slowly open. There was a whisper of sound, then a waiting quiet. Claire felt the hair on her scalp prickle, then the bed was jarred and a small black form appeared at her feet! She stiffened, caught by pain as she tried to wrench away, then she went limp, laughing weakly at herself.
It was a cat. Sinuously it began to pick its way toward her, its feet silent on the coverlet. In its effortless feline grace there seemed to be an odd familiarity, and then she shifted in irritation as she realized that the cat reminded her to Justin—
As it felt her move the cat stopped, on its guard, aware, perhaps, of her strong antagonism. The moonlight glistened in its eyes giving it a baleful menace. It was dark as the night with no relieving touch of white, a witch’s cat, personifying evil. It had one paw resting on her thigh beneath the cover, and abruptly it flexed its claws, digging into her flesh. She bit her lip, brushed by a primeval fright, and it seemed to her over-imaginative brain that here was another creature, kin in spirit to Justin, determined to impose its will on her.
She did not move, she did not even flinch from the hurt. Slowly there burgeoned inside her a resolve not to be intimidated. Anger seeped into her mind, not against the cat but against Justin and the situation in which she found herself, and her own acquiescence that had brought her to lie beneath a bridal blue ciel-de-lit against her will.
She stared at the cat with a cold superiority in her eyes. Strength, mental strength, was the solution. She could not be frightened into subjection so long as her will was strong.
For long seconds the cat’s eyes met hers, and then he looked away. He glanced back uncertainly, but at last he turned and leaped from the bed, and with his tail low, streaked from the room.
Claire leaned back against the pillows, exhausted by the effort of will, then a wry smile twisted her mouth. What a fool she was to waste so much energy terrorizing a house cat, taking her enmity out on a harmless creature that reminded her of her husband because she did not quite dare release it upon Justin himself.
The room she was lying in was a large one she discovered, looking around her, trying to forget what had just taken place. To her left was a fireplace flanked on each side by large mahogany armoires. To her right was the window, actually a pair of french doors, opening out, she was sure, onto a gallery if Sans Songe was like most houses in Louisiana. Directly before her was another door, the one through which the cat had entered. A pair of slipper chairs in gold velvet and mahogany sat in one corner with a small table holding a whale oil lamp between them. On the wall near the bed was the commode table with a bowl and pitcher in a floral patterned white china upon it. Near the bowl and pitcher sat a small vanity-shaving mirror suspended in a rosewood frame so that it could be tilted, and next to it was a candle in a pewter holder. At the foot of the four-poster on which she lay, she could just discern a day bed of the kind used during the afternoons to avoid marring the smoothness of the feather mattresses. The beds were also known as accouchement beds, for it was upon them that children were born rather than on the awkwardly wide, high, tester bed.
Claire dragged her eyes away from that disturbing piece of furniture, surveying the double armoires, the paired slipper chairs and the vanity-shaving mirror, recognizing with a faint sinking feeling that this was a room furnished for two, a man and his wife.
A light wind caused the curtains at the french doors to waver and Claire realized that they were open. She looked at them with interest, happy to have something else to occupy her mind. In New Orleans her aunt had never allowed the windows to stand open at night. The noxious vapors in the evening air were known to be poisonous, and her aunt had had a great horror of breathing them in her sleep. Should the doors be shut? She could not decide. That faint breeze against her face was very pleasant, scented with the sweet smell of warm grass, magnolias and sweet olive, and bringing to her the night chorus of peeper frogs and crickets and the pleading cry of a night bird.
It brought also the sound of voices out on the gallery, and as she heard them Claire realized that it could not be as late as she had supposed, perhaps not even time for supper. Dinner, at two o’clock, was so late in the day that often supper was postponed until eight or nine. Added to the evidence of the voices was the fact that the mosquito baire had not been pulled about her bed. Surely they would not let her sleep for the night without offering her some kind of nourishment and providing protection against the marauding mosquitoes?
Then, as she heard her name spoken outside her room, such considerations left her.
“Your Claire is resting comfortably,” she heard a cool, languid voice say. “You haven’t asked, but I am sure you must want to know.”
“Thank you, maman.” It was Justin who answered in a neutral voice.
“She is a pretty child. I peeped in on her a few hours ago while she slept. One wonders what attracted her to you.” There was a destructive under current of old venom in the voice of the woman Justin had called maman—mother. Claire frowned in the darkness wondering why a woman would want to hurt her own child by referring in that oblique way to his appearance.
“It was my beaux yeux, I don’t doubt,” Justin answered, “Or my polished address.” The irony of that was lost on his mother but not on Claire.
“I am familiar with your address, my son, and I can’t agree.”
Justin did not appear to be inclined to parry that thrust. He did not speak. And after a moment the woman went on. “But come, I have been waiting all day to discover the cause of this accident. You needn’t pretend you don’t know, for I am aware that you have been holding a conclave in the quarters the best part of the afternoon. What does Sylvest have to say?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all. He claims that he jumped before he could see what made the horses go wild, and that the thing happened so fast he doesn’t really know what took place.”
“And you believe that?” It was obvious that his mother did not.
“I wasn’t completely satisfied, no. I spoke to one or two of the others who know him well, one of the men he works with and his sister who helps out in the kitchen. It seems that they believe that he is afraid to speak.”
“I wonder why?” It was said with a scathing intonation.
“You think it is for fear of me? You are mistaken,” he said grimly.
“I, mistaken? I believe that you underestimate the reputation of your temper. But to return to your Claire, you have not been near her room today. I must caution you against neglecting her. Women will stand for much, but never that.”
“And you, maman,” he said softly, “should know well what, and how much, a woman will bear before she turns elsewhere.”
“You cannot argue that I always came second with your father, after his plantation, and after you, my son.”
“What,” he mocked, “aren’t you going to throw his mistress into my face this time?”
“Well, can you deny that he had one?” she answered stridently.
“You know I never bother to defend my father to you.”
“That poor helpless hulk? I cannot say I like you for that.”
“Ah, no, maman. But then you cannot say that you like me, can you?”
There was a rustle of skirts as though his mother swung violently away from him, then the sound of footsteps receding. Stillness. The curtains at the french windows swayed and a dark figure stepped into the room; Justin by the shape of his head and the width of his shoulders. He moved noiselessly over the reed matting on the floor. At the foot of the bed he halted, and
lifting one clenched fist, he slammed it against the tall post that held the tester in place. But whether the emotion that caused the action was rage or despair, Claire could not have said.
At last he raised his head, and, resting it on his wrist against the bed post, stared in her direction through the darkness. By the time he seemed to be aware of where he was, Claire had shut her eyes and was trying to regulate her breathing, pretending to be asleep. The hush weighed upon her. She heard a faint sound above her and stiffened before she recognized the sliding noise of the mosquito baire being drawn about her bed. And seconds later she heard the click of the latch as Justin, leaving the room, closed the door behind him.
4
CLAIRE SAT IN bed, carefully propped up with pillows, with a negligee about her shoulders. It was one of her own, of white batiste, beautifully embroidered in pink, blue, and green by the nuns at the convent which she had attended. A Negro maid, a silent, unsmiling creature called Rachel who had been brought from the parlor to be her serving woman, was brushing her hair carefully and slowly to bring out the sheen.
Sipping a cup of café noir, black coffee, Claire watched broodingly as Justin, in front of the mirror, used a pair of silver-backed military brushes on his hair. Over his shoulder he was telling his valet, who was standing before the open doors of one of the great armoires, which coat to lay out for him to wear. In the other matching armoire, Claire’s own clothes reposed, rescued from the bayou and meticulously washed and pressed. Many of her things, her wedding gown, her straw bonnets, her velvet hat with its dancing plumes, had been ruined beyond repair, but she did not regret their loss and there had been enough left for her use.
At the foot of her bed was the day bed, its covers dragging onto the floor, where Justin had slept so that he would not injure her accidentally as he turned in his sleep at night. Her gaze traveled to the tray resting on the foot of her bed and littered with the crumbs from breakfast, then to Justin’s shaving water, beginning to cool in the china bowl and the linen towels crumpled beside it. For nearly a week, Claire had been a spectator to this morning ritual of breakfast—which she shared—then shaving and dressing. If she lived to be an old woman she would never become used to it.
Bride of a Stranger (Classic Gothics Collection) Page 5