“You have a great number of knives. You must have been collecting for some time.”
“Actually, my father began it, but I found it interesting enough to continue. You acquire a bit of history with each knife. The Spaniard with his beard and ruff and his poniard, the helmeted crusader knight bearing home the crescent-shaped Arabic dagger as a prize.” He shrugged. “It appeals to me.”
“And do you collect the tales of murder done with each blade?” The question rose to her lips before she was aware of it forming in her mind.
An arrested look came over his face, a look of withdrawal, then he laughed. “You can’t be serious.”
She shook her head, smiling to convince him she was merely being flippant, suddenly losing the courage to continue.
“What are you two talking about with your heads together?” Octavia asked, plumping herself down beside Edouard.
“My knife collection, for the most part.”
“Ah yes, the quillon dagger is missing, isn’t it? I noticed as much yesterday evening when I saw to the changing of the linens. You have found it?”
“Yes, Claire and Ben found it on the walk, and he handed it back to me.”
“Obliging of him.”
It had been obliging, Claire thought, but the man had been almost too anxious to see the knife back in Edouard’s hands. Why? What did he hope to gain?
As if in echo of her own thoughts, she heard Octavia say, “I would watch that Ben. He strikes me as one who never does anything without some idea of repayment.”
“A trusting thing, aren’t you?” Edouard teased her.
She pulled the skirts of her tent of a costume, this evening in blending shades of yellow, about her. “I’ve learned to trust few and love fewer. It is less painful that way.”
Claire lay thinking later of Octavia and of what she had said. Most emotion, it seemed—whether trust, love, hate, or fear—brought little but pain. But that was living, and there was little to do but accept it, to take what happiness was offered, and not look beyond.
But happiness seemed an ephemeral thing, existing on another plane, vaguely remembered, but without the possibility of attainment.
Justin had not come home. In the glow of the moonlight she could see the sheets of his day bed stretched fresh and smooth. Where was he? Was he with Belle-Marie in some primitive cabin in the swamp?
She shook her head, retreating from the image she had conjured up in her mind.
She could remember in such detail what had happened that afternoon, the feel of his lips on hers, the roughness of his coat beneath her fingers. To think of him holding another woman with the same strength, the same possessiveness, brought the tightness of mingled rage and pain to her chest.
But she could not be jealous. Jealousy stemmed from love. And she could not love the man who had forced this marriage upon her for some peculiar whim of pride and vanity. The man who neglected her for the company of his quadroon mistress, and who appeared not to care whether she lived or died so long as she did not succeed in defying him or resisting his physical persuasion. A man who had committed murder, the murder of his uncle.
How could she love a man like that, she demanded in self-disgust as tears trailed from the corners of her eyes and soaked into her pillow.
How could she?
9
CLAIRE sat on the bed staring at the wall. She was dressed, her hair done. It was morning, the sun shone brightly through the windows. But an aimless feeling possessed her. Without Justin and his valet to enliven the time of rising, the day seemed flat. She was aware of a vague desire to cry. What she needed was something to do, something to divert her thoughts, but there was nothing.
Rachel fussed about the room, gathering up a few articles to be washed, making the four-poster bed, twisting the hair from the brush and putting it into Claire’s combing box. It seemed somehow strange to think of the years stretching ahead when, during her old age, she would appreciate having those combings to supplement her own hair. Would she still be waiting then for Justin to come from his mistress?
“Is there anything else you wish to be laundered, madame?” The maid’s words broke her absorption.
“No, I don’t suppose, Rachel, not if Monsieur Justin’s man has taken his master’s clothes.”
“Then if you do not require me, I will attend to these.”
Claire nodded absently, and the maid slipped from the room after a hurried curtsey. She had been gone only a few minutes when a tap came on the door.
“Moping?” Octavia asked, as she entered the room without ceremony.
“No, of course not,” Claire answered, unreasonably annoyed. “Why should you think so?”
“The length of your face. And the fact—conveyed unerringly by the servant grapevine—that Justin was absent last night.”
“And—does the grapevine say where he was?” She shrugged. “There are several opinions, none of which should concern you. The only explanation that can, or should, be of interest is your husband’s, when he comes home. Don’t you agree?”
“I suppose.”
“Aren’t you sure? Is the esteem in which you hold him so low that you don’t wish to hear from his own lips where he has been?”
“Justin, you must know, is not given to explaining his actions. And in any case, I’m not sure I want to hear him admit where he has been. Surely you haven’t forgotten Belle-Marie, Octavia?”
“Hardly, but, Claire, theirs was not the kind of relationship that endures. I do not believe that Justin encouraged his chère-aime to follow him. Some men, it is true, maintain two households after marriage, they cleave to their quadroons and see to the welfare and education of the children born of the union, just as they do for their legitimate offspring. But Justin has no children of Belle-Marie. The woman has no hold on him, not even of the senses; at least, none that you need fear.”
Claire, staring down at her hands, did not answer. Octavia did not understand and she could not bring herself to explain.
“Oh, I know what you are thinking. You say to yourself, she knows nothing of love and misunderstanding. Don’t trouble to deny it, I can see it in your eyes. But you are wrong. I was in love once, years ago. He was an émigré, of good family, a comte. There were many such in exile from France during the revolution. So long ago, more than thirty years.” She sighed.
“And—what happened?”
“We had an idyllic summer. The banns were being read for the second week, my wedding gown was almost ready. There had been yellow fever in New Orleans for a week, but we were too happy to take account of it, or of the fact that it is particularly dangerous for those who are new to our climate. Then my Étienne sickened. He lay ill for several days, fighting to stay alive, fighting for our happiness. Then he died, the day before our wedding day. Once, in his delirium, he begged me to go for the priest so that he might marry us before the end, but I was so certain Étienne would live. He was so strong, so vital, it was impossible that he could die. I have often regretted—ah, but it is vain. Regret helps nothing.”
There was an old sorrow in her voice, a dry pain brought back across the years and made to live. Why? Puzzlement as well as compassion must have shown in her face, for Octavia went on.
“I tell you this because I know how important it is for two people who are in love to share their fears and worries. I have this feeling that there is something terribly wrong between you and Justin. I’m not so certain what it is—and certainly it is none of my business. I know that, and I will not pry into the affair. But let me urge you, Claire, not to let pride stand in the way of your happiness. Women, you know, are not bound by the same kind of honor as men. It is no disgrace to show a little weakness, or need, as it is for a man. Anger and righteousness worn like banners flying in the wind, the high held head, are no substitute for love and the warmth of belonging.”
“Oh, Octavia, you don’t know.” It was a cry of hurt, coming on her discovery of the night before.
“I said I would
not interfere,” the older woman began, putting out her hand to pat Claire’s that lay clenched in her lap, “but, I don’t believe Justin goes to Belle-Marie. Why should he, when he has a beautiful wife like you?”
There was no answer to that. However well-meant Octavia’s comment had been, she did not understand. Claire looked away at the glow of the sun beyond the gauze curtains at the windows.
“Well. I must run along. Forgive me if I have pushed my way in where I had no business. I have grown fond of you, and I don’t like to see you unhappy. Or Justin, who has always been dear to me.”
Claire managed to smile and shake her head as Octavia got to her feet and started toward the door.
“Octavia?”
“Yes?” The older woman swung back.
“I am so tired of sitting with nothing to do. Couldn’t I help you? There must be something I could do.”
There was a slight pause as the door behind Octavia opened and Rachel stepped into the room. The girl murmured an apology as she nearly collided with Octavia. “Excuse me, please, I did not mean to bother you, but I just this moment thought of Madame Claire’s silk stockings. I left them in the armoire, and I felt sure she would wish them to be rinsed also.”
“Get on with it then, girl,” Octavia said, stepping out of the way.
“Yes, of course, Claire. If you really want to help I will find something light for you to do. Just now I think if you truly would like to help, it would be a relief to me if you would go out and sit with Marcel. You need not try to entertain him; he doesn’t wish anyone to feel that is necessary. Just bear him company.”
“I will be happy to do that,” she agreed, “but I would like to do something a bit more active. I was never used to being so quiet, you know, while I lived with my aunt and uncle.”
“I won’t forget,” Octavia promised. “There is plenty on the plantation for willing hands.” Then, with a smile, she went sweeping away about her business.
It was peaceful on the loggia. The sun inched slowly in toward them, pushing the shade back bit by bit. Sparrows flitted about the eaves where they had built a nest, and a blue-jay hopped about the steps. The cries of the other birds hidden in the trees beyond the limits of the garden came to them. Now and then a breeze stirred the air, fluttering the pages of the sketchbook in Claire’s lap.
For amusement, Claire sketched the jay with his head cocked inquisitively, eyeing them, then she did a quick view of the garden with its geometric rows of clipped hedge, the fountain bubbling, catching the glitter of the sun, and the sparrows bathing at the shallow edge.
“You are good, madame, very good. The drawing of the garden done in color would be good enough to grace the salon,” Anatole told her.
Claire thanked him, noticing the slight nod from Marcel that indicated that his servant had expressed his master’s views once again.
Smiling a little, Claire did a rapid sketch of Anatole and presented it to him, happy with the satisfaction she saw on the thin face.
The three of them were quiet after that. The sun was making itself felt as it lingered overhead. The scents drifting to them from the kitchen told them it could not be long until the dinner hour.
Claire doodled idly on her pad, wondering if Justin would be home for dinner, wondering if Marcel knew his whereabouts, if he knew what went on in the house, and what he thought of it. She thought of what she knew of Helene’s love for Marcel’s brother, and she considered the possibility that all those years before, Marcel had discovered it, and if the fact might not be responsible in some way for the stroke that had left him an invalid.
Suddenly, a sound came from the man beside her, an inarticulate croak of distress. Startled, Claire swung toward Marcel, instinctively reaching out toward him to touch his hands that hung so lifeless. They were trembling.
His chest heaved with the effort of his breathing, and an alarming flush stained the cheeks of his waxen, pale face, His mouth was open to emit the sound he was trying so desperately to form into words.
“Once more he is trying to tell us this thing he has in his mind,” Anatole said, his own face contorted as he dropped to one knee beside Marcel’s chair.
“Oh, what is it?” Claire cried. Marcel seemed in such a strained agony of effort.
Then together she and Anatole followed Marcel’s gaze to the sketchbook that lay forgotten on her lap. He was staring at something she had drawn there, a face frozen in stillness. In her concentration she had sketched the death mask of Gerard.
Her eyes met those of Anatole, then she stared in guilty dismay at Marcel. What a fool she was. She would not have upset him for the world if she could have kept from it. Her eyes filled with tears of distress as she gazed at his straining face, the desperate appeal in his eyes for understanding.
Then came a faint shake of his head.
“He says no,” Anatole whispered.
But what was he denying? The question must have shown on her face, for Marcel strained only a moment longer, then he relaxed in his chair. Resignation closed over his face and he let his eyelids fall.
Anatole sighed and slowly got to his feet. “I am sorry, Madame Claire. You—must not blame yourself.”
She looked away, blinking back tears, brushing at those that spilled down her cheeks. It was ridiculous that she should cry, but she could not help it. Tears were so close to the surface these days.
“My master will be tired—” Anatole suggested tentatively.
“Yes, I had better wash for dinner, too,” Claire said, hastily getting to her feet, hugging the offending pad to her chest. Anatole, she knew, did not like to have anyone watch him at the difficult business of maneuvering Marcel back to his room that opened out onto the loggia.
“Monsieur Leroux—Father Leroux,” she said softly. “I am so sorry. I will see you this afternoon.”
She was rewarded by the faint twitch of the lips that signified a smile. Turning, she went quickly into the house.
Justin was not in the house when the dinner bell rang, but halfway through the meal they were startled by the sudden jangle of his bell from the loggia as he rang for his valet. Though she had not been aware of an anxiety for his safety, Claire felt relief wash over her. She glanced at Octavia with a half-smile, then looked away from the understanding and gladness she saw in the other woman’s hazel eyes.
Claire did not go at once to her bedroom. She wandered out onto the shady front gallery to give Justin time to change his clothes. It was there that Rachel found her.
“Pardon, Madame Claire. Mam’zelle Octavia wishes you to come to her in the quarters. She needs your help with a child who has cut himself on a cane knife.”
“Thank you. I’ll be glad to come, but I am not sure of my direction.”
“I am to take you to her,” the girl said, bowing her head as she let her eyelids fall, and turned away.
Happy to be taken at her word and even happier to put off the meeting with Justin, Claire moved forward. She could not think just yet how she should behave toward her husband.
She went with Rachel down the front stairs and around the house to the left. There they took a beaten path through a hedge past the carriage house to a double row of small houses standing on each side of a street. Chickens scratched in the dust of the small front yards, and behind each house was a small garden plot. A whitewashed chapel sat at the end of the street, while nearby was a large building with a shaded front porch. On the porch, several older women sat rocking, the nursemaids for the children who peered from the doors, children whose mothers were at work about the plantation. A sultry quiet hung over the quarters, the quiet of a hot summer afternoon. There was no sign of Octavia.
“In here,” Rachel directed her softly, leading the way toward the house on the near end standing with its door open. She stepped aside at the entrance for Claire to precede her.
It was dark inside the room, in contrast to the bright sun outside, and she stood still for a moment. Then, suddenly, there was a scraping sound behind
her, and the door slammed shut!
She whirled around, more in surprise than in fear, and then she heard the solid clunk of a wooden bar being dropped into place.
“Rachel!” she called to the girl, a rising note in her voice. She gave a little push on the door. It would not budge.
“Rachel!” she called again in sudden wrath. “Let me out at once!”
But there was no sound from the other side of the thick panel.
As her eyes adjusted to the gloom, Claire looked around. The building had only a single room, a bare room with nothing but a pallet of twisted quilts in one corner, and two small high windows set with bars.
Bars? With a feeling of horror she recognized the building in which she had been locked away. It was the plantation jail.
For a long, terrible moment she considered the possibility that she had been locked in on the orders of the master of Sans Songe, Justin. Then she thought of Belle-Marie, and was so glad that she had, that she felt weak.
But why would Rachel do the quadroon’s bidding? She remembered the tight, shut-in look that came at times to her maid’s face, the gris-gris that had found its way into her room. It occurred to her that perhaps Rachel was afraid, afraid of the power of the voodoo. As she stood there she thought too of the lassitude, the weakness she had had after that gris-gris had appeared, and the sickness that had overtaken the cat after it had shared her meal and brought another gris-gris to her around its neck. She had not been ill since she had started to take her meals with the family. Who was better to poison her food than Rachel? It must have been she.
In her agitation, she began to pace, striding up and down the tiny room. Then she stood still, staring at the dust motes turning in the light from the high window, stirred by her movements. But why this? Why shut her up in the jail? It was too public. A half dozen people on the street, the old ladies rocking at the nursery, must have seen her shut in here.
Then why weren’t they rushing to let her out? There could be no question in their minds about her belonging where she was. She was Madame Claire Leroux, the mistress of the big house! Who would dare to sit back and fail to help her?
Bride of a Stranger (Classic Gothics Collection) Page 13