by Andre Norton
Such matters were understood but not discussed. And as long as such a polite covering was maintained, society accepted the status quo. Perhaps in the future there might come a time of greater openness, so frankness and truth could combat evil. But that time was not ours.
I could understand that Victorine, heir to part of such a great fortune as the Sauvages controlled, would be marked as fair game by someone intent on gain through crooked, ugly means. Yet in the natural order of the circle in which she moved those agents of the dark would not dare to prey openly.
Only my mind kept returning to Amélie, also to that dark figure in the mist-haunted ferry, to last night when Victorine had appeared to lie in a drugged sleep. To accept responsibility alone, I was not fitted for that. Let Mr. Sauvage return and he must decide what should be done. Mrs. Deaves’ warning might carry more weight with him than the list of unexplained happenings I could offer.
They were old friends, perhaps more than friends. So, with his sister’s safety at stake, she would be more open with him. And she was also right—the sooner we left this fog-bound city for his country estate, the better.
When I entered the parlor later the room was empty. Victorine and the fruits of her shopping had vanished into her own chamber. The door of that was open a crack, through which sounded a steady ripple of that patois I did not understand. I went to the nearest window.
The fog had thickened. Shivering, I drew my shawl closer about me. Perhaps I should ring for the waiter to light a hearth fire. The sight of the flames would be as cheering as the heat. As I moved toward the bell pull I saw the slip of white on the carpet near the door as if it had been pushed under from the hall.
My name was inscribed on the envelope in bold black script. Slipping out the single sheet it contained, I held that close to the nearest lamp.
To the daughter of Captain Jesse Penfold. Since I owe much to your father, I now take pen in hand to warn his daughter. That which you see may not be what it seems. Watch carefully and be cautious. Should you need a friend in the future, as I needed one in the past and found him, send word to Mrs. Pleasant at 92 Washington Street.
Mrs. Pleasant—Mammy Pleasant! I crumpled the note into a ball, very glad no one was here to see. Memory to balance Mrs. Deaves’ warning. If it were true, as I firmly believed, that Mrs. Smith and Mrs. Pleasant were one and the same, I was inclined in her favor. I needed guidance badly. If I only had someone to consult with now. Not Mrs. Deaves—I shrank from discussing this with her.
To allow her to know that in the past I had met with a woman she termed a “fiend” would only provide her with ammunition against me. I must know more—but to whom could I apply? My sex, age, position here were such that the slightest ripple of talk could raise a shadow of scandal. And eager tongues would give the shadow substance. I would serve neither Mr. Sauvage nor myself by raising gossip.
A tapping at the outer door set my heart to beating faster. Almost I could believe that it was the enigmatic Mammy Pleasant herself. But I opened upon one of the waiters, proffering a tray on which another note lay with a gentleman’s card. And with distinct relief I read the name “Cantrell.”
Though I knew nothing of this young man personally, Mr. Sauvage held him in high enough regard to select him as our escort during his own absence. And I had good reason to see him now to ask him to change my small roll of eastern bank notes into the coins accepted here.
“Ask Mr. Cantrell to come here.” Since the note was addressed in both Victorine’s name and mine, I felt I could take the liberty of issuing such an invitation.
I should summon Victorine, but I wanted a few moments alone with our caller. Dared I ask him some of the questions to the fore of my mind after I begged his aid in the matter of my funds? I would wait—see if I thought him discreet enough.
Retrieving my purse, I called in to Victorine. Amélie answered that her mistress was dressing, but she would give her the note.
My wait was not long. Mr. Cantrell’s interest in Victorine had been marked from their first meeting; perhaps he thought my summons was from her. If he had, he was gentleman enough to display no surprise at my receiving him alone. I came to the point at once, citing Mrs. Deaves’ warning about no merchant being ready to take bank notes.
He agreed that this was the case, and offered to turn out his own purse, exchange for me with what money he had on his person, and get the rest from a bank. But my hardly saved sum was so small he was able to cover most of it, laying out gold pieces and the heavier and larger silver coins on a table. When I thanked him, I decided recklessly to seek part answers at least to the questions now plaguing me.
“Mr. Cantrell, there is one question I have good reason to ask. In fact, I wish that I might ask this of Mr. Sauvage as it may be of major importance to him.” I gathered my courage as he looked at me with a measure of surprise, as well he might.
Then I plunged. “Can you give me any information about a woman named Mrs. or Mammy Pleasant?”
Surprise in his expression turned to shock, followed by a blankness of countenance which might cover either distaste or wariness.
“Might I ask where you heard of this person, Miss Penfold?”
“I have reason to believe that we saw her today, that she was interested in us.”
By the oblique hint that Victorine might be involved I had turned the right key. He nodded.
“Yes, that might be so. Very well, Miss Penfold, but remember what I have to say is largely rumor. This city is a storehouse of many strange stories, and people with very unusual pasts walk its streets. Mrs. Pleasant—outwardly—is a respected housekeeper for Mr. Milton Lanthen. In addition she owns and operates a boardinghouse for some of the highest-placed gentlemen. She has taken a great interest in and shown much sympathy for members of the Negro race.
“Before slavery was abolished she is known to have used certain provisions of California law to free slaves being returned against their will to the South. She contributed substantial funds to the Union cause during the war, and since then has set up freed slaves in various businesses—a laundry, a livery stable, a saloon, and the like. She runs an informal servant agency supplying all types of well-trained servants, not only to hotels, but also to private families.”
“This all sounds as if she is an estimable person in every way. Yet your manner suggests that it is not entirely true,” I observed.
“The rest is only rumor. She is reputed to have learned discreditable secrets of those people over whom she desires a measure of control. Thus she may bring pressure to bear to further her own ends. But, I repeat, that is the report of rumor. Truth is only what may be proved. However, I would not want any lady of my acquaintance to know Mrs. Pleasant.”
“Thank you. Your frankness has been most helpful.”
“There is one other thing.” Now he seemed embarrassed, as if he were about to repeat something I would find absurd. “She is also spoken of as being a ‘voodoo queen.’ That is, I believe, a high priestess of some form of mumbo-jumbo—”
“Voodoo!” Such was indeed allied to fortune telling. Had not the Voodoo Queen of New Orleans, Marie Laveau, been supposed to foretell as well as curse? She I had heard of, and a woman of intelligence, retaining in her employ the uneducated and the superstitious, could profitably pretend to occult powers.
“But that is all nonsense, naturally,” he added quickly. “And—”
Whatever more he would have said was lost as Victorine entered, a sheet of notepaper in her hand.
“Tamaris,” she began eagerly, then, sighting Mr. Cantrell, she greeted him with a smile and addressed herself to him in one of those bursts of childish elation which sometimes made her seem younger than her years.
“Monsieur, for you to venture out on such an evening, even as the bearer of very good news—this is an act of true kindness. Why, outside it is already like night.” She gave a delicate but slightly exaggerated shiver. Mr. Cantrell was already completely bemused.
“Amélie s
hall make us chocolate, such as I am sure you cannot find elsewhere in this foggy country, and you must drink a cup with us. A small reward for such good news! Only think, Tamaris, tomorrow we may flee this wet and dark! We are to go to my brother’s home in the country. Mr. Cantrell is to escort us, which is very obliging of him. Now, is this not something to rejoice over?”
She was gay, as utterly charming as she could be when she wished, ushering our guest to a chair, calling to Amélie to make haste. Yet (I grew more and more certain that I knew her very little indeed) I had the impression that her signs of pleasure were all surface only and that she was not as happy as she would have us believe.
I do not imagine Mr. Cantrell found the chocolate as satisfying as Victorine promised. But, since it was she who had poured his cup, he manfully sipped at the sweet contents until Mrs. Deaves joined us.
She made a magnificent entrance (for all my dislike I could not deny that she was both handsome and imposing) in a velvet gown of a deep garnet shade, with a profusion of fringe and beaded trimming. Carrying her velvet cloak banded in fur, there came behind her a tall, thin woman of rather severe countencance.
Victorine’s eyes widened in what I was sure was a mock awe.
“Très chic, chère Augusta. But before you leave you must hear our good news. My brother has at last sent a message. He wishes us to go to this Rancho del Sol tomorrow. Mr. Cantrell will escort us.”
Plainly Mrs. Deaves did not find this news pleasing.
“But it is imperative that I remain in the city at least one day more—there is a matter of business,” she protested.
“We understand, Augusta, as will Alain. He has said many times that he knew you could not devote all your days to me and my affairs once we came here. He does not expect such a sacrifice from you.”
Victorine’s eyelids dropped demurely but that she was watching Mrs. Deaves was also plain. That she enjoyed such concealed sparring I had already learned.
“We shall be very safe with Mr. Cantrell.”
Mrs. Deaves hardly glanced at the young man who had arisen at her coming and now stood with chocolate cup in hand.
“I do not understand why Alain did not inform us directly—” the older woman began when Victorine interrupted.
“Oh, but he did, Augusta. He sent a telegram, which Mr. Cantrell delivered. It was addressed to me and to Tamaris, since, of course, we were the two most concerned. He did not mention you, doubtless because he knew you had your own affairs to attend to.”
For all my dislike of Mrs. Deaves I was forced to admire her quick acceptance of the situation. Perhaps she did not yet realize the enmity which lay beneath Victorine’s courtesy. But she made so instant a recovery that I thought only one well versed to twists of fortune in the past could do so.
Though she made a point of her own by claiming Mr. Cantrell’s escort as far as the ladies’ parlor below, and he had no excuse but to comply. Teresa draped her cloak about her shoulders, handed her her fan and evening handkerchief. Then without noticing us the maid stalked back into her mistress’s chamber and closed the door firmly, just as the outer one shut behind Mrs. Deaves and Mr. Cantrell.
Victorine gave a gurgle of laughter. “How angry she is, our Augusta. Though she tries hard not to show it. She wanted to go with us, to move in as if she already has Alain’s ring firmly around one of those fat fingers of hers. But that she will never have—never!”
She laughed again, in a different way. Not the carefree laughter of a young girl who had routed authority, rather a sound which carried anger. Then she changed the subject abruptly.
“What do you think, Tamaris, of this so stiff Monsieur Cantrell? That he ever tasted chocolate before I cannot believe. But he was too polite to make an ugly face. He is rather like a bear, I think, a big, clumsy bear walking on hind feet. When my brother says ‘Up—do this—do that!’ he obeys.”
Her voice trailed into silence. Then she added in a return of her childish voice, “Tamaris, do not pull your face so—” She achieved an expression of prim outrage which made me smile against my will. “You think I say improper things, such as a jeune fille, one of your ‘finished’ young ladies, would not. But I am me, Victorine! I cannot be cut and trimmed, pushed in, pushed out, to be the proper young lady. I can only be myself.” There was a serious note in that such as I had not heard from her before. “I must be myself!”
She put down her cup with force enough to produce a sharp click as the china met the silver tray. Then she went to the window.
“A full moon, there should be a full moon tonight. Yet I can see nothing but this fog, this stifling fog! I think I do not like this city.”
The intensity of her tone made me uneasy.
“You will be leaving tomorrow,” I reminded her.
Victorine presented a puzzle which grew more complex with every hour I knew her. At times she was like the girls I had taught, though she always lacked much of their silliness. On other occasions she became another person, and it was with that one I was uneasy.
However, she might be happy in the thought that here society was more fluid, did not erect barriers too quickly. The criteria they themselves imposed was that those who had arrived in the 1840s and 50s were “founding fathers” if they prospered.
A dearth of women during that period had led to some strange mésalliances which would never have been accepted in the East. There were women now wearing too many diamonds, driving in too opulent carriages, who had held menial—and even less mentionable—stations in life.
The wealth they paraded before each other’s eyes was often ephemeral. A mine’s rich yield could fail, other chances reduce the wealth of a millionaire within months or weeks. So here was a society where the having—and holding—of money was the measuring stick.
Victorine came from another background, but of a society (even though it might not have been entirely respectable by American standards) which was so old as to be decadent. She was different but here her difference might not matter so much and she could march confidently ahead, or maybe in the raw newness she might unwittingly invite disaster. It was my responsibility to see that the latter did not happen, though I felt as if I myself needed compass bearings.
“Let us order dinner, Tamaris.” She came away from the window. “That fog—it crowds against the pane. Amélie—” At her call the maid appeared. “Light the lamps, please, all of them. I do not like the fog.”
I saw to it no champagne was served with our meal. And that the wine Victorine considered a necessary part of any meal was only a light one. She smiled as we sat down.
“No champagne? But, Tamaris, in San Francisco everyone drinks that. However”—she leaned over to pat the back of my hand with her fingertips—“this night I shall be good. Were you, Tamaris, in that school of yours always so strict and stern? Tell me again about the school, and how you first lived on the ship.”
Victorine made such amusing comments, was so much her amiable self, that I began to believe, with Mrs. Deaves removed, I could establish a firm base for a friendship. And I pushed my worries to the back of my mind with hopes that there they would fade into nothingness.
My companion went early to bed and I sought my own chambers, taking with me some magazines, for I was not sleepy. Victorine had been right, I saw, looking out of the window. The fog pressed against the panes, in truth, like some soft beast striving to get in. That morbid thought brought a shiver with it as I let the draperies fall again.
CHAPTER SIX
That thick mist appeared to muffle sound. In my chamber only the ticking of the clock broke the silence. And that quiet had a heavy, oppressive quality, smothering—pushing my thoughts into dark corners.
I sought sleep which did not come, reading words without comprehending. Slowly I became aware that I was listening—though for what I did not know. Finally I pushed aside the magazines and arose, a little bewildered. I had heard of second sight, but that night I had the feeling I stood on the edge of a vast dark pool into
which some unseen, un-understood menace sought to push me.
As I fought my nerves, strove to control my imagination, there came a sound louder than the clock’s steady ticking—the soft closing of a door in the parlor beyond.
My own door stood slightly ajar or I would not have heard that. Now I opened it yet farther so I could view a shortened vista of the parlor. By the hall door, hand on knob, stood a figure wearing one of the long waterproof cloaks. This could not be Teresa, she was much taller; and Mrs. Deaves, I was sure, had not yet returned.
The cloak fell back a fraction and I caught a flash of vivid yellow. That was the color of one of Victorine’s dresses which Mrs. Deaves had ruled far too strident to be worn. Victorine so dressed, and stealthily making an exit!
Even as I moved to intercept her she slid around the hall door in a manner which could only be described as furtive. I could not pursue her into a public corridor wearing only a wrapper over a nightgown, and could I really be sure it was Victorine?
I looked into her chamber. The night lamp burned and I knew instant relief when I saw the bed occupied. Though the sleeping girl had her head turned away. But there was no mistaking the dark hair straying from under the lace-bordered nightcap. Then who—?
Amélie! Amélie wearing one of her mistress’s dresses, probably bound for some disreputable rendezvous. At last I would have the proof I needed to remove such an influence from Victorine’s life.
And I determined to wait for the maid’s return so I could confront her. I heard Mrs. Deaves come in, but I did not try to talk to her. Unless I could make my influence felt by Victorine unaided, I was a failure in my present position of trust, and Mr. Sauvage would have to find someone better qualified.
As the night wore on wearily, so did my thoughts become darker. At the soft chime of one from the clock I perceived the flaw in my plan. Amélie might not return here at all. Her quarters were not with us, but among those provided for maids of the visitors. She might only have come for the dress, thinking to smuggle it back unseen in the morning during the flurry of our packing—and again I would have no proof.