“What are you doing in here?”
Claire froze, her breath catching in her throat. Then she swung slowly around to face the woman who stood in the door leading from the gallery. Her mind felt numb, but as she saw who it was she swallowed and managed a smile.
“Why, Berthe, you startled me. I—I was going to the dining room when your son’s collection of knives caught my eye. You don’t think he will mind if I admire them?”
Berthe did not answer that directly. She moved slowly into the room. “You are thinking, I don’t doubt, that Edouard gets his hoarding instinct from me. Oh, you needn’t deny it. It has often been remarked upon. We are not a family who easily gives up anything we have ever owned. We enjoy the mere fact of possession, a trait not to be wondered at, I think, when we have always been dependent for the necessities of life on someone else, first my husband’s brother, and now, his son.” Her voice was quiet, her pallid face without expression, and yet there was an intensity about her. Was it always there, Claire wondered? Perhaps it was the contrast with the vivid Helene that had made Berthe appear such a mousy creature.
“But are you interested in knives? My husband began this collection many years ago, and my son has added to it. Let me see if I can remember for you, and tell you a little about them. Some of them are extremely old; one or two are more than three hundred years in age. This one, for instance, is called a cinquedea. See the broad, tapering blade? It is almost a sword, isn’t it? And here is the kidney dagger, an illustrative name, don’t you think? There are one or two left handed knives, for use when a sword was held in the right hand during a fight or duel, and you see several with unusual guards to protect the hands and fingers. Some are very pretty things, I think, with the gold and jewels and the chasing on the blades. But you must ask Edouard about them. He can tell you so much more than I.”
“Oh, I felt only the most idle curiosity,” Claire declared, trying for a light laugh. “A knife is not a woman’s weapon.”
“I expect you are right. The thought offends, does it not? So physical. But come; let us go into the dining room. Octavia will be annoyed if we are late for dinner.” Berthe turned toward the gallery door through which she had entered.
“Could we go this way?” Claire asked, indicating the direction of Octavia’s room. “The sun is so hot on the gallery floor that it burns through my slippers.”
“Yes, of course, I quite understand, my dear. I remember when I was carrying Edouard, the heat affected me in much the same way.”
“Oh, but—”
“You must not be embarrassed. You will have to get used to comments. Octavia, I am sure, will not spare your blushes, nor will Helene, when you begin to lose your shape. Helene can be quite vicious. She considers all other women as rivals in some vast competition, I think. She is not a happy woman. I have always been glad she was not here to torment me while I was enceinte. My son, you know, is older than Justin.”
“Yes, so I understand,” Claire said, as they moved through the door into the dining room. She was happy to have the subject of her supposed pregnancy passed over.
“Her vanity would not allow her to be seen while she herself was in a family condition. She actually persuaded Marcel to carry her abroad.”
“Pride is a strange thing,” Claire commented as Berthe paused expectantly.
“Indeed so. I am glad that beauty has never been a consideration with me. My son is my pride.”
“I’m sure such a sentiment will give you more joy,” Claire managed to comment after casting about in her mind for a response.
Berthe nodded. “My son has never caused me the least concern—well, I cannot truly say that. There was once, but I’m sure it was nothing to signify.”
“You mean the scar, I think.”
“Yes, you are so very understanding. I hope you will not hold it against Edouard. I’m sure he never meant to do it. It was only a thoughtless child’s prank.”
Perhaps it was natural for her to defend her son, Claire told herself, but a feeling of anger shook her at the woman’s dismissing tone, as though it was unimportant that Justin had been left with a scarred face as a constant reminder of the incident.
Dinner was a strained occasion. Flies buzzed over the bowls and platters, only barely discouraged by the chasses mouches, or ceiling fan, that creaked overhead. The boy, seated in the doorway, whose job it was to pull the rope that set the contraption to swaying, was half asleep with the warmth and the monotony of the task. Now and then Octavia would clear her throat and fix him with her dark gaze as a hint that he should bestir himself.
Octavia seemed to have her mind on other things, however, for when not seeing to the table service, she lapsed into a grim abstraction. It was left to Berthe to try to make conversation, supported by her son, until Helene, with a twisted smile and a glance around the table, informed her that she was wasting her time.
“Oh? But I have nothing but time,” Berthe said softly. “Widows only mark time until death takes them to dwell with their loved ones.”
“Spare us. We have all heard of your bereavement until we are weary of it, and today my nerves will not bear any more,” Helene said, staring at the opposite wall over the heads of the others.
“Helene, Berthe, please—” Octavia said, as if suddenly aware of the tension around her.
“But don’t you agree, Octavia?” Berthe insisted. “We three, you, Helene, and I, are all waiting for the release of death?”
“I don’t like this conversation. Please let us speak of something else.”
“Even those who are dearest to us in the next generation cannot make up for the ones we have lost, don’t you find? One’s own son is little consolation. You understand, I know, Octavia,” she smiled, her eyes bright with watchfulness.
Claire was startled to see the color drain from Octavia’s face. And as she turned to Berthe, she thought she saw a faint smile just disappearing from her mouth. What could the woman mean? Octavia had no son. Why should she understand more readily than Helene? Claire recognized that a part of Berthe’s insinuations might concern Helene’s mourning for Gerard, but it seemed unlikely that she would mention it publicly, even by intimation. Perhaps, then, she had meant to compare Helene’s state, as the wife of a man totally paralyzed, to widowhood? She sighed. She did not understand the innuendoes she could sense below the surface of the exchange between the two women. She was relieved when Edouard cleared his throat and engaged her in reminiscence of New Orleans.
She ate conscientiously, knowing she needed to regain her strength, but in that atmosphere of strain she rapidly lost her appetite. It did not help that every time she looked up she found her husband watching her, an inscrutable expression on his face. She felt a certain guilty gladness when, after the meal, Justin elected to return to the fields and she could escape to the privacy of her room to rest, alone with her thoughts.
She slept heavily, awakening with a feeling of depression. A tired staleness hung over her, and she stared at the walls, trying to gather the vitality it would take to get up. It was only the thought of a cooling sponge bath that made the effort possible.
It was still some time before the supper bell would ring, but dressing would take up time, and so she allowed Rachel to slip a dress of plum gauze trimmed with gold ribbons over her head. Then she sat fanning, trying to keep her hair from sticking to her perspiration-damp face, while the maid arranged her hair.
She had not realized that the fan she was using was the one Justin had presented to her in her wedding basket until he stepped into the room and stood for a moment with his eyes fixed upon it.
Claire gave him a hesitant smile in the mirror, but he did not return it. He looked away, then crossed to a chair and sat down with his legs stretched out before him. Staring at nothing, he pulled his shirt from his pants and stripped it off, dropping it in a heap on the floor.
Claire colored a little as she looked quickly away from his broad shoulders and the gold medal on a chain that glittered
against the bronze skin of his chest.
“It is very hot,” she said, irritated that her voice came out with such a breathless quality.
“It is, which leads me to wonder for whom you are expending all this energy prinking yourself?”
“Why, for myself, I suppose.”
“Are you certain? Edouard was most attentive at dinner.”
“Was he? I’m sure I did not notice.”
“I’m sure you did.”
Claire compressed her lips, but she did not answer, for while it might have been true that Edouard had held her chair and made an effort to interest her in several of the dishes, she knew his motive had been merely to ease the tension and make her feel welcome.
“I don’t believe I have seen that dress.”
“Perhaps not, but it is a part of my trousseau.”
“Why haven’t I?”
“It—seemed more suitable for this kind of weather. It is rather—” she touched the low bodice self-consciously.
“I noticed as much,” he observed with a dry note in his voice.
Claire glanced at Rachel’s impassive face. The maid, intent on winding a curl around her finger, seemed to be deaf to their conversation, but Claire could not disregard her presence. She sent Justin a warning look.
He smiled without humor. “Rachel, be so good as to pull the bell for me,” he directed. “I feel the need of a bath.”
As the girl obeyed, Claire cast about in her mind for an excuse to leave him alone without appearing routed.
Justin’s valet appeared and was given his instructions. Then as Rachel patted the last pin and the last curl into place, Claire rose to her feet.
“The sun is down now. I think I will see if it is cooler on the gallery.”
“It will be, I’m sure,” Justin said smoothly, the gleam in his eyes informing her that he was not fooled by her maneuver. She considered staying just to see what he would do, but as he removed his boots with the help of his valet, and then began to slide his suspenders from his shoulders, Claire dismissed the idea as foolish in the extreme. But that did not keep her from chiding herself for cowardice as she dismissed her maid and left him.
The evening was still; the light limpid, drenched with dew. Mosquito hawks made buzzing silhouettes against the orchid-blue sky. The scent of flowers hung in the air. The sound of her own footsteps were loud in Claire’s ears, a disturbance in the peaceful quiet, so that as she reached the front steps she descended to walk on the grass. Her slippers, the hem of her gown, were soon wet with dew, but she did not mind. At least she was away from the house, away from being watched, weighed, and found wanting.
Now why had that thought struck her? It was Justin who most often watched her, and why should it matter that he found her disappointing?
Before she could pursue the thought, a flicker of movement caught her eye and she looked back toward the house. Around the corner, from the back garden, there came a woman dressed in white, her skirts fluttering about her and her head covered with a white kerchief. In her hands she carried a large crystal vase filled with a mass of full-blown white roses. The woman stared straight ahead, walking with an unseeing stare.
“Helene.”
In that startled moment of recognition, Claire said the name aloud, but if Justin’s mother heard, she made no sign. She went on walking toward the path that led a short distance away on this side of the house, the opposite side from the swamp, toward a slight rise surrounded by a stand of cedar trees, those somber, black-green trees of mourning casting their shade over the marble tombs of the family cemetery.
The woman in white mounted the rise and stood beside a grave, its tomb sitting above the ground as was the custom in this swampy country, where a grave filled with seeping water before the coffin could be lowered. The vase she sat on top of the marble, then she dropped to her knees and rested her head against it with her hands clutching the sides. Even at that distance the low moaning sound could be heard, the sound of pain, or grief.
Claire followed Helene for a few steps, wondering if there were not something she could say or do to alleviate that terrible grief. Then as that sound went on and on and Helene’s head rolled back and forth on her shoulders, she stopped. She could not interfere. There was nothing that could be done to ease such a personal torment.
But she could not leave. The evening sky turned to purple and the nightbirds began to cry and still she stayed. She could not say quite what held her there; a vulgar curiosity, a desire to be of service if she was needed, or simply the half formed intention to protect Helene from interruption and the embarrassment of prying eyes. When at last Justin’s mother dragged herself to her feet, Claire stepped back out of sight, looking away from the tear-ravaged face as the woman walked by.
When she was gone, Claire climbed slowly up the incline and under the cedars until she had reached the tomb over which Helene had wept. She was not surprised when she read the name chiseled into the marble. It was the tomb of Gerard. Gerard, her husband’s brother.
And so Helene had loved him. They had lived together at Sans Songe, loving each other, perhaps, beneath the eyes of his wife, her husband, their children. Had they met clandestinely in the swamp? Had it come to that? And had her son discovered them, demanded satisfaction, and killed Gerard before his mother’s eyes? Could that be why the duel was said to be an odd affair? And was that why Helene hated her son, because he had killed the man she loved?
Who was at fault? Justin, for resorting to a brand of civilized murder, or Helene for her infidelity? Gerard for sinning against his brother, or Marcel for being unable to hold his wife? Or was the true villain the custom of the mariage de convenance, that loveless bond between two people?
The thought struck home and she flinched, seeing in her mind’s eye the barren future that stretched before her. Would she some day carry roses to a grave because she had reached out for a love denied her within the bonds of matrimony? Desolation settled over her shoulders, then it was replaced by an invading fear. If her husband had taken such a reprisal for the sake of his father’s honor, what would he not do for his own? What form might his revenge take if he thought his wife had played him false? Remembering his anger, his threatening tone earlier that morning, Claire shivered.
Suddenly there was a touch on her arm. As warm fingers closed over it, she flinched, and there was a lurking fright in her eyes as she swung around to face her husband.
“What are you doing here?” he grated, with a glance at the tomb beside them.
“N-nothing. Just walking,” she answered, too unsure, too ashamed, to admit that she had followed Helene.
“I cannot bear a liar. You were exercising your curiosity, weren’t you? Berthe told me you were fascinated by the portrait of Gerard. Even in death he is irresistible.” There was a vicious sarcasm in his voice.
“No, it wasn’t like that,” she protested, confusion and a haunting distrust lending desperation to her voice.
He stared at her, the scar standing out on his set face. Unconsciously, his fingers tightened, and Claire’s lips parted in a silent protest at the pain, though she did not dare move.
“What is it, Claire? Why do you look at me so?”
“Please,” she whispered.
“You would like to get away, wouldn’t you? You can’t bear my house, my family—or me.”
“I—”
“Don’t bother to deny it. Your actions betray you. You shrink when I come near, you flinch at my touch. I warn you. You will never get away from me. The sooner you resign yourself, the better for you.”
For a moment longer his eyes held hers, then his lips descended, hard, demanding a response, if nothing more than surrender. She was crushed against him, held in an inescapable bondage. He kissed the corners of her trembling mouth, her eyelids, the curve of her cheeks, and the tender softness of her neck. She was acutely aware of his touch, his caresses, and yet her mind felt adrift. Liquid fire ran through her veins, and it seemed that to match his passio
n with equal ardor was the only way to avoid total capitulation.
At last he raised his head. As Claire saw the glitter of triumph in his eyes, she knew that he was exulting in his mastery. Suffocation gripped her throat and tears rose to her eyes. She clenched her teeth, fighting to control her voice. “I hope that was—satisfactory.”
His smile faded and a gray look crept over his face. He let her go abruptly, and she stumbled back.
“Damn you,” he said with a low intensity, then turning on his boot heel, he strode away.
Claire watched him until he was hidden by the trees and the walls of the house. On her lips the impression of his kiss still burned. She felt no sense of victory, only a strange ache of regret. She took a long, deep breath and let it out on a shuddering sigh, then began slowly to follow him back to the house.
** *
Justin did not appear at the supper table, though Claire was certain that that had been his intention. When the meal was over and they all sat over their coffee in the salon, Edouard took the place beside her and thanked her for the return of his knife.
“Ben said you found it. I can’t imagine how it came to be outside. I hesitate to blame the servants, though I expect my collection is a serious temptation. In fact Octavia often tells me that I’ll wind up one day with my throat cut. She thinks all knives should be locked away in a household like this.”
“Yes, my aunt used to lock the cutlery away in a special mahogany knife box each evening,” Claire said, all the while wondering cynically if what she was hearing was a fabrication. Was his voice too casual, his manner too offhand? If his daggers were so precious why, indeed, hadn’t he taken more care of them?
“The dagger that was missing was a quillon dagger, not as valuable as some, but I suppose the bright hilt made it irresistible.”
But if Edouard’s supposition was not correct, what was the explanation? How had the dagger come into Belle-Marie’s possession? Could the quadroon woman have entered the house without anyone being aware of it? She was not a ghost or a spirit, to flit about unseen, and yet somehow she had managed to leave the voodoo gris-gris for Claire to find, both in New Orleans and here at Sans Songe.
Bride of a Stranger (Classic Gothics Collection) Page 12