by Andre Norton
I paced the chilly room, fighting sleep. When the hands on the clock pointed to one-thirty and I was wavering like one drunk, I knew I was lost. Instead I must watch tomorrow for the return of the dress. As I stumbled to bed I tried to plan coherently, but a fog of sleep, as thick as the mist against the windows, swallowed me.
A sharp rapping brought me awake. It took me a moment to realize where I was and there were the bright lines of daylight around the edges of the window shades. Stumbling, I reached the door.
“Tamaris? Are you ill?” Victorine faced me with what I believed was real concern. “It is so late. We feared there was something wrong—”
Late? I was fully roused. Of course, we were supposed to leave for the country this morning! But I had never overslept before. And, if Victorine was as ready to go as her dress implied, her packing must already be done. I had had no chance to look for the yellow gown.
“Mr. Cantrell will be here in less than an hour.” Mrs. Deaves, looking as heavy-eyed as I felt, appeared behind Victorine. “Surely, Miss Penfold, you realize the importance of being ready?”
“Poof—what does time matter?” Victorine broke in. “Take all the time you need, Tamaris. I shall order those rolls you like, and some coffee while you dress. Do not worry about packing; Amélie is very accomplished and she will see to that. We cannot take our trunks in the carriage anyway—they are to follow. But Mr. Cantrell promises they shall be there as soon as we are.”
She closed the door before I could refuse Amélie’s assistance. And I was forced to admit that if I handled my own packing I would delay our departure. Why had I not attended to some of this last night when I tried to keep that useless vigil? Was I losing the practical good sense I had always prided myself on possessing? Pride, as we know, is a sin.
Amélie brought in a breakfast tray and straightway set about working to fill my trunk and bag, working swiftly, expertly. She offered to dress my hair or otherwise assist in my toilet, but this I refused. When I had finished my rolls, hooked the last fastening on my bodice, she had made more headway than I could have thought possible, pausing once to suggest the taking of the heavier of my two jackets as the day was chill.
It was not the barouche waiting for us this time. Rather a five-glass landau providing more room for a lengthy drive. Victorine was handed to the seat of first choice in the right-hand rear, I took the left, and Mr. Cantrell sat facing us, his back to the horses. There was no sign of fog as the carriage moved through crowded streets, giving way to horse-car and dray when necessary. In turn we were trailed by a larger and less elegant vehicle transporting our luggage under Amélie’s guardianship.
The morning was pleasant, though cold. Thus we were glad of the white fur rug over our knees, the velvet foot cushions between our boots and the floor. Mr. Cantrell pointed out sites of interest as we passed. At first Victorine attended to him, then her eyelids began to droop as if her night had been no more restful than mine. But I remained alert enough to give him polite heed.
We stopped at posting stations at intervals for changes of horses. Each new team led out, Mr. Cantrell explained, was of Mr. Sauvage’s own stable, kept there with groom paid by him for just such service. So our pace was as swift and steady as the nature of the road allowed. If San Francisco had tried to smother us with fog, the country of the Rancho del Sol, I discovered, presented just the opposite, a blaze of sun.
Though the name of the humble ranch buildings which had once stood on the site had been retained, the edifice now occupying that site was far different. I had seen some of the ancient and beautiful chateaux in Europe, and in addition those manors erected along the Hudson River a hundred years earlier—also the impressive mansions now rising in New York. But this sprawling compound of many styles, all ostentatious and opulent, was such I could not find words to describe it.
On the first morning under its roof we trailed through many rooms, the housekeeper, Mrs. Landron, manifestly taking pride in what she had to display. I already knew that the “rancho” was not of Mr. Sauvage’s building. Rather it was the magniloquent expression of one Harvery Pickering, a gold-rich Forty-niner, who had apparently given a captive architect instructions to produce to the last fantastic detail some weird dream.
When fever carried Mr. Pickering away from its forty rooms, a sad discovery followed. To the wrath of his heirs all his estate was the house and the land into which he had poured his wealth. Since an enterprise in which Mr. Sauvage had a major part held the mortgage on the estate, it so passed into the hands of a new owner.
We began our tour eagerly, praising here, uttering the proper exclamations of astonishment and gratification there. But the smothering luxury piled upon luxury soon raised in one only the desire to escape—get away from these miles of marble or polished floors, the league upon league of velvet drapery, of walls covered with silk or painted murals.
There was a Pompeian room and a Chinese room which (except for some treasures of oriental art displayed far too close together to enhance their clean beauty) was very much the idea of the “Chinese” entertained by someone who had never visited that venerable country.
A white and gold parlor possessed not one but two rock crystal chandeliers, display cabinets of rosewood lined with rose velvet to hold such a medley of precious trinkets it would take weeks to make any pretense of seeing them all.
Walls in another room were painted with a mural of terraces and ruins. That was the breakfast parlor, opening in turn into a glass-enclosed veranda fitted, Mrs. Landron told us, with proper reverence, with hot-water pipes to maintain a constant semitropical heat and offering a sheltered walk with a conservatory of strange plants and flowers and an aviary of birds as beautiful as if flowers had broken from some stems and winged about.
There were too many marvels, far too many. I was overwhelmed into silence. Even Victorine gave few glances about her. Finally, when we were shown a very masculine library, she said, “This is indeed of great magnificence, madame. We are left speechless. And my brother must be pleased, it is all so well kept.”
Mrs. Landron radiated pride. “Mr. Sauvage has always been satisfied.”
“How can he be otherwise?” Victorine smiled. “But it is just so very much!”
“Rancho del Sol is a very well-appointed gentleman’s residence,” Mrs. Landron replied complacently. I thought she looked upon this splendor possessively, as, being its first guardian, she had become in a measure also its owner.
Yet to me it was a jumbled mansion, a series of tasteless showrooms rather than a home. There were so many rarities that their numbers destroyed the beauty they would have provided for the eyes had they been fewer and better placed.
As we stood in the center hall above which, two stories high, curved a dome of golden glass to provide a counterfeit sun glow, Victorine fingered the robe of a marble figure, nymph or goddess, who held high a torch to illuminate the first steps of the grand staircase.
“I am so vey tired,” she said in that tone that usually foretold one of those languid periods of hers—which I was not yet sure were the result of real physical fatigue or her expression of boredom. “I think that—”
She was interrupted by one of the footmen appearing with a salver on which rested two cards. Visitors—
Victorine lifted the top card. “Mrs. Arthur Beall,” she read, then she glanced to the second. “Mr. Henry Beall. Who may these people be?”
She sounded petulant and I gave her a warning glance. If she had listened at all to Mrs. Deaves’ gossip she would remember that the Bealls were the nearest neighbors (if they might be termed so when miles of the two estates lay between us). We must be civil, no matter how inopportune their visit.
“They are our neighbors, remember what Mrs. Deaves said?” Before Mrs. Landron I could not be frank about my charge assuming the role of her brother’s hostess. I had yet to see Victorine in the society of her peers and I hoped no whim or carelessness would complicate her local acceptance.
“But, of
course. You will show them to the White Drawing Room, if you please. So very kind and thoughtful of them to bid us welcome. Come, Tamaris, let us not keep our first guests waiting.”
I sighed with relief. Morning calls never lasted long. And perhaps she was also aware of the need for making a good first impression.
We reached the White Drawing Room only a few seconds before our guests were ushered in. Mrs. Beall was in advance, accompanied by Mrs. Landron herself, with whom she exchanged some pleasantry about the weather. She was a woman of early middle age, but one who used every artifice known to preserve the remains of what must have been truly startling beauty.
Her elaborately dressed hair was of that bright auburn shade decreed to be most handsome for this season, though her skin showed a matte complexion which is more often combined with dark locks. By the left corner of her mouth was a single beauty spot, drawing attention to the ripe, promising curves of her lips.
For she was one of those rare women who, without in the least losing any dignity of manner, exude a physical charm which we as a sex are not supposed to note or admit exists. I have seen only a few women who have it, but with Mrs. Beall it was noticeable and—to me—slightly repellent.
“Miss Sauvage?” She looked from one of us to the other, seeking the daughter of the house.
Victorine did not answer. A glance in her direction instantly disturbed me. She was very pale—had her plea of being tired really been true? She stood by a chair, her hand resting on its back as if she needed some support to steady her. I watched her fingers tighten on the carved wood until the knuckles stood out in knobs. And I had already taken a step, fearing she was about to faint, when she spoke.
“But, of course, you would not know.” She laughed and to me that sound was forced. “I am Victorine Sauvage, and this is my friend, Miss Tamaris Penfold.” She flashed a smile in my direction so fleeting it was as if she did not see me at all.
“Miss Sauvage, Miss Penfold,” Mrs. Beall acknowledged the introduction. “May I present my stepson Henry—”
She had stressed that “step,” maybe for the best of reasons. For anyone who wished to cling to the semblance of youth could not have acknowledged this hearty young man as her own.
Hearty he was, thick through shoulders and neck, with a red, full face, and hair so fair that his eyebrows and lashes appeared almost white. He did not seem the type to be paying morning calls, attending ladies in a drawing room. I could better picture him out in some hay field, his shirt sleeves well rolled up those heavy muscular arms. This scion of the Beall name, for all his superfine clothes, was lumpish and awkward. How unlike Mr. Sauvage. Broadcloth and linen did not become my employer too well either, but in the western dress he still possessed authority and dignity. Henry Beall had neither.
He made all the proper responses, conducted himself correctly if stiffly. His eyes, after one sweep over me, never left Victorine. And there was something not too likable in the way he watched her. However, judging by the response of Mr. Cantrell and this young Beall, Victorine might well be the belle of the coming season.
The Bealls did not linger, remaining exactly the correct time, wishing us a pleasant stay in the country with all the conventional polite phrases, suggesting further meetings when we were settled in. But, I noted, Mrs. Beall did not push such vague invitations; it was her stepson who repeated suggestions of future pleasurable outings.
After they had left, Victorine put her hand to her head. “I fear, Tamaris, that I am going to have one of my bad heads.” She pushed aside her fringe of bangs, her fingertips pressing against her temples and she did look ill. “The pain is getting worse. I must go and lie down, and Amélie will make me a tisane. No”—she waved me away—“there is nothing you can do, Tamaris. Always I have had these, they come and they go. I know what must be done to help.”
Nevertheless I saw her to her bedchamber and rang for Amélie. The maid came so quickly she might have been expecting such a summons, hovered over her mistress with soothing words in the patois. Upon Victorine’s insistence that she would now do well enough, I departed to my own suite.
Victorine’s room had been all rose satin, a crystal chandelier, a boudoir fit for a fairy-tale princess. But my own rooms, bedchamber, small sitting room, bath, made me uncomfortable. I longed for the neat simplicity, the uncluttered ease of my chamber at Ashley Manor. Here the walls were covered with white silk, topped with a painted fringe of mauve wisteria. There was a white fur hearth rug, all the furniture gilt and upholstered in padded mauve velvet. To me it was all show and no homey comfort.
I had found only one thing to welcome me, perhaps because it was not new, and rich only in time-dimmed beauty. One wondered by what chance it had found its way here.
It was a worktable of papier-mâché such as was in fashion when my mother was a girl, decorated with an oriental pattern picked out with gold and mother-of-pearl in a design of long-tailed birds and exotic flowers. Since I had arrived I had lifted its lid several times, examining with pleasure the many compartments where some of the original fittings, small carved reels for silks, a matching needlebox, another probably meant to contain beads or pins, were tucked neatly away.
Now surfeited with all the gilt and velvet, I went to that and lifted the lid once more. But—there was something new within, lying almost under my hand.
That one did occasionally use wax to keep very fine thread from tangling, I was well aware, but I had never seen such a sewing aid as this one.
Slowly and reluctantly I worked the small object out of the compartment. In size it was hardly more than the length of my little finger and it had certainly never been made from the clear beeswax usually used for such a purpose. It could have been a miniature candle, for there was a tuft of wick at one end. In shape it had been very rudely molded into a human figure. A ball of head was at one end and indentations outlined arms and legs. In color it was a dull and dirty yellow. And I was sure I had not seen it before.
To the touch it had an oily, greasy feel and I closed the lid on it hurriedly. My innocent pleasure in the table was spoiled. Every time I looked at it now I could not forget that nasty little image and I went to wash my hands vigorously because I had touched it.
Two days later the house which had been a cold museum of all money could buy came alive. I felt a kind of warmth as I gazed into the mirror above my dressing table which had seemed too perfect for mundane use. All because the master had returned. And with his person Alain Sauvage negated the stiff formality, subdued the lavish display, imposed his positive self-confidence everywhere.
My early years since my birth on ship in a harbor of the Sandwich Islands had been spent in a masculine world. For my mother died two days after I was born and my father, producing Mama Lalla, had kept me with him, much to the consternation of the American women in the Islands. I was beginning to remember, after a half-lifetime of flitting myself as best I could into the ultra-feminine world of young ladies’ schools, how men were free. My swift uprooting from Brussels when the coming of war threatened the sea-lanes had been so ruthless and complete a change that perhaps it shocked something inside me, and in that state of shock I had been docile enough to accept other standards, the very confining ones of feminine society, the rules of which I now lived by. Young ladies must be kept away from the world of action lest the precious bloom (which was really ignorance instead of innocence) be destroyed.
I had buried very deep within me my own real self, learning to conform because that was necessary for one in my position. And I was realistic enough to understand that my father’s death, the loss of his ship, made that position precarious. Had not Madam Ashley taken me on as instructoress I would have been lost indeed.
Now Mr. Sauvage opened once again a small window into the world of action. He was the only man with outstanding force of character to come into my own narrow world since my father had died. I told myself that this shaken feeling I experienced when he entered a room where I was, or spoke to me, was not f
ounded on any real preference. Yet he changed the world as far as I was concerned. I schooled my emotions fiercely, even as I had in the past hidden grief and loss. I must summon common sense to give me the serenity one in my position must possess.
And that struggle made me believe that perhaps my best solution was to get away, leave even this country where everything was too lavish, too overpowering, as overpowering as the masses of flowers brought in each morning, the heavy velvet and gilt, the marble and mirrors.
The latest cause of uneasiness was the maid Fenton, now busied in the room behind me. I no longer had privacy even in my own quarters. Suddenly this morning I needed freedom, if only for a little while. Victorine made a practice of sleeping late. I arose unfashionably early, so I had at least an hour of my own.
I thrust the last pin into my coil of hair. Fenton had offered the services of a curling iron, but a crimped forehead fringe and the smell of singed hair was not for me.
The drapery of my poloniase puffed out over my thicker underskirt, but the dress was not as burdensome as more fashionable wear. I caught up my shawl and decided on an early stroll in the garden.
By now I had learned the geography of this massive pile well enough to reach a side door and come into the freshness of the day, where the lovely lace of new-hung spiderwebs was still strung between rose bushes. Rancho del Sol? That name made me smile.
Such a name for this mansion was preposterous. Surely its builder had had no sense of humor when he retained the name of the humbler building he had torn down to erect his own dream of a palace. I wished that I could have seen the original rancho. California must have had some history before the coming of the gold seekers—did any vestige of that remain?
“You find this prospect amusing, Tamaris?”
Startled, I gasped and turned. Mr. Sauvage stood a little to my right. How he had appeared so silently puzzled me. He was bareheaded, and in the early morning his thick black hair showed a glint near blue. Again he wore a handkerchief tied carelessly about his throat, and on his feet were not the riding boots I expected, but softer footgear similar to that I had seen worn by the Indian beggars during our cross-country trip. Save that these did not cover the feet only, but extended well up the calf, laced with thongs, and they had pointed, slightly upturned toes.