Elizabeth felt the warmth of a flush rise to her cheeks as she remembered what had led to her argument with Theresa. Hopefully the dimness of the room would hide it from Bernard. She wished she had never brought up the subject. Still, she could answer with a negative truthfully enough: it had not been anything she had said to Theresa that had set her off.
“Are you certain?”
“Yes, of course.” she answered steadily.
Bernard ran his fingers through his hair, ruffling; the smoothness. “I don’t know. I would have sworn she would never have turned violent. She isn’t mad, just backward. She is like a child, a temperamental ten year old.”
“She told me she was seventeen,” Elizabeth said, speaking quietly, afraid Bernard would stop, that he would think better of this impulse to explain to her.
“She is, physically, but her mind is the mind of a child much younger. She has never grown up. It is as if she stopped growing three years ago and reverted to childhood.”
That would explain the short dresses, the hair worn down when most young ladies put theirs up at the age of fifteen or sixteen. But it did not explain the rages, the attempts to harm her. Bernard must have seen the doubt in her face, for he went on.
“In most ways. Theresa is normal, childish certainly, but a normal child. But lately she has developed an uncontrollable temper. She cannot bear to be denied anything. It has been worse since you came. I would have sworn that in spite of her rages she would never hurt a fly, until you came. She was never sensitive to her condition or defensive of it. She was truly like a child, she played with toys, was happiest with some simple game. Now it is almost as though she were trying to grow up emotionally, or was being forced to do so.”
His eyes came to rest on Elizabeth’s face again, as if despite her protests, Elizabeth thought uncomfortably, he suspected she might have had something to do with it. Was it possible? Could Theresa, in her sensitive mental state, detect the falseness of her position? It did not seem reasonable that she could.
“Why is Theresa like she is? What happened?”
Now Bernard became evasive. “Who can tell? God’s will, perhaps.”
He turned toward the door. Elizabeth followed him to see him out and close the door behind him, more a courtesy than a necessity.
Just as she began to close the heavy door, Bernard swung back, one hand going out to stop it. “You seem to be recovering from your—accident.”
“Yes. I’m feeling much better,” she answered carefully. “There was no need to treat me like an invalid.”
“I was under the impression that women enjoy playing the invalid.” His smile was bleak.
“Some do, and some don’t.”
He reached out and took her hand, which had been resting on the door jamb. Turning it over he examined the deep scratch that slashed across the palm.
“The overseer that I dismissed has not been found,” he said frowning, running his thumb over the callouses at the base of her fingers, gently outlining the scratch. “He has left the parish, apparently, possibly the state. We could find no evidence that he was ever on the plantation, or, as far as that goes, that anyone else was. The thick grass and leaves cushioned what footprints there might have been. Regardless, you need not be frightened. Nothing of the kind will happen again.” His voice hardened. “This is a promise.”
Quickly he carried her hand to his mouth. His lips brushed near the raw scratch with a feather kiss, and then he was gone.
In spite of Bernard’s assurances it was a long time before she slept. She longed to feel reassured, to know again that nearly forgotten state of security, but too many things prevented it. Not the least of which was a haunting suspicion that she had been taken in by Bernard’s concerned manner, lulled into trusting him by some emotion that would not bear daylight.
9
“Bernard told me about Theresa,” Elizabeth told Grand’mere next morning. They were having coffee and croissants on the upper gallery. They sat in the shade, but the sunlight inched toward them across the floor as the morning advanced.
“Did he? I am glad. I have been encouraging him to do so. It was not fair to allow you to remain in ignorance.”
“It is sad. I would hate something like that to happen to a child of mine.”
“It has been a great shock and a disappointment, this latent streak of violence in her. She was such a sweet child, very seldom into trouble, and then usually because she was following someone else. She was always easily led. Oh, she was mischievous, all children are, but I never expected her to turn out this way.”
“You think then that she is responsible for the things that have happened?” She waited tensely for the answer.
Grand’mere pushed her steel spectacles up from where they had slid down her nose. When she spoke her voice had a flat sound.
“She must be.”
“Last night—and also that night in the library—she spoke of someone who had told her that I intended to put her away. Perhaps someone else put her up to all these things.”
“My dear, who? I know you have had a few distressing experiences, but you must not let such ideas run away with you.”
“You said yourself that she was easily led—”
“No, no. What sane person would do such things? I prefer to believe Theresa mad than to entertain such a possibility.”
But was the older woman’s agitation the result of this disturbing idea, or was it that she did not wish Elizabeth to pursue this line of thought? Well, she could not prevent her from doing that. She sat resting her elbows on the arms of her chair, clasping her cup in both hands, sipping it without noticing that it had grown cold. Rousing herself at last, she turned to Grand’mere.
“I have been meaning to ask, what has become of the key to my room?”
“Key? Odd that you should ask, Bernard was asking about the keys himself only yesterday. We never lock our rooms, you know, not when it is just the family. The outside doors are locked after the servants retire to their quarters in the back at night. I had to refer Bernard to Denise. And of course you must see her too, though I cannot blame you for wanting to lock yourself in. Denise has kept the keys for me for some years now. I gave up all pretense of being the chatelaine—that was synonymous with being the keeper of the keys in the old days. It was much too fatiguing. Which reminds me. I must ask her if she removed the chapel key from my reticule. It is gone, but I don’t remember giving it to her. But perhaps I did, I’m becoming forgetful these days.”
Elizabeth smiled in commiseration. She wondered whether the antagonistic Frenchwoman would release her bedroom key even if she could find a convenient time to ask for it.
Grand’mere crumbled a croissant and threw the pieces at a green chameleon streaking across the floor.
“There is something else,” she said broodingly. “I have been sitting here debating whether I should tell you. Theresa was here at the house the day Gaspard died. It was being built then, you remember. Gaspard had brought her with him in the carriage. For a step-father and step-daughter they were close, and Gaspard was indulgent with her. The carpenters had gone; it was getting late. My son had climbed up to inspect the framework, the ceiling joists or some such thing; a foolhardy thing to do. A storm was coming up with thunder and lightning. He fell and broke his neck. Theresa was a perfectly normal child until that day. She has not been the same since. Rainstorms, thunder and lightning, have always affected her badly.”
“Because she saw him die?”
“We hope that is all.”
“You mean you, and Bernard, believe she might have been in some way responsible?”
“I’m not sure what Bernard thinks. Like Gaspard, he has always been indulgent with her. He has a quieting effect upon her when she has one of her tantrums. I confess it is hard to see how a young girl could have caused my son’s death, and yet I, at least, cannot overlook the possibility.”
As she finished speaking she glanced back over her shoulder. Loud voices raised i
n argument could be heard from inside the house. Exasperation crossed the old lady’s face but her depression seemed to lift as if she welcomed the change in the trend of her thoughts.
“That woman! She has not a particle of sense when it comes to handling Darcourt. To think my son rescued her from the eternal mourning of widowhood so that his two sons could have the warmth of a mother’s love. Bah! Ridiculous ninny! And stupid to boot. Anyone who would use a deadly poison like arsenic to give herself a fashionably wan complexion is an imbecile. Not that she doesn’t need something to overcome a tendency toward floridness caused by overeating, a fondness for wine, and tight lacing. It was a mistake to leave Darcourt’s allowance in her hands, almost as bad as leaving him without a part of the estate. It would have been much better to leave the allowance to Bernard. He could have been a steadying influence. As it is Alma always makes a terrible scene, but then invariably she gives Darcourt what he wants.”
A door slammed inside and footsteps came their way.
“Would you care for a cup of coffee, my boy?” Grand’mere asked as Darcourt strode out onto the gallery.
He shook his head and went to sit on the balustrade with a frown knitting his brows as he stared out over the lawn.
“Positive?” She held the pot poised over an extra cup.
Darcourt looked at them sitting at the table as if seeing them for the first time. “Oh. Yes.”
“You’re very glum,” Grand’mere commented as she poured. He smiled as he took his cup from her and blew on the coffee to cool it. “Just thinking.”
“Marvelous.” Irritation made her voice dry.
A faint color appeared under his skin, but Darcourt unbent. “I was thinking of Theresa. Someone or something has convinced Mother that she is a dangerous lunatic. She is actually afraid of her own daughter. Even Bernard seems to think that she managed to elude Denise long enough to attack Ellen night before last. I can’t believe it.”
“I’m sure that is understandable. You are her brother.”
“Even if I was not I would not believe it. We were children together. Brothers and sisters usually know one another better than anyone else, even their parents. Theresa was never vicious. She would never hurt anything, never. It bothers me to have everyone thinking that she could.”
“It is a fact that Theresa attacked Ellen in the library not so long ago.”
“Yes, we found them fighting. But was that all there was to it?”
Elizabeth would have liked to know what Darcourt had in mind, but she was too much aware of her own part in the struggle in the library to ask. He did not seem to be directly accusing her of anything, however. She kept her eyes on her sèvres china cup, running a finger along the gold band of its rim and over the smooth, apricot-colored sides.
“Darcourt! I want to talk to you.”
Alma Delacroix sailed out onto the gallery. Then she checked herself when she saw the table in the corner with Grand’mere and Elizabeth seated at it. Her eyes were black in the dead white, of her liberally maquillaged face. Above them her black brows lifted and her nostrils were flared as she tried to recover her poise and disguise her temper.
“Maman?” Darcourt said, his eyes gleaming with amusement at her predicament.
Finally Alma smiled. “I would like a word with you, mon fils,” she said in a coaxing voice.
“By all means.” He did not move.
“Alone.”
A brooding look closed over his face and his gold flecked brown eyes narrowed. Still he did not move.
“Must I remind you—”
“Ah no, Maman,” he interrupted. “I know who holds the purse strings.”
“You are being insolent!”
“Doubtless.”
“I cannot and will not abide it.” When Darcourt sat on unmoving her voice dropped to a chiding, sorrowful note and she moved to his side. “Come, my son. Let us not quarrel.”
Grand’mere, from the look on her face unable to abide the scene any longer, rose abruptly. The action shook the small table and the silver coffeepot teetered on its slender legs. Alma swooped with startling agility for such a large woman, and put a stilling hand on the ornate lid just as Elizabeth, sitting beside it, touched it.
“Thank you, you were both very quick,” Grand’mere said before she walked away with slow dignity. In a moment they could hear her giving orders in the hall to have the breakfast dishes cleared away.
“Now what ailed her?” Darcourt asked.
“Old age,” Alma answered viciously.
“Don’t depend on it.” A look Elizabeth could not understand passed between Darcourt and his mother.
“I will leave you also, if you will excuse me,” she said, rising to her feet. Neither Darcourt nor his mother answered her, probably because they were too intent on themselves. But as she walked away she could feel them staring after her. As soon as she was out of their sight, she heard Alma’s haranguing voice begin.
Despite the bright sunlight outside, the hall was dim. The wide windows at the far end beckoned, and having nothing else to do she walked toward them and stood looking out.
There was no gallery at the back of the house. The windows looked down on the garden with larkspur and daisies and early roses in full bloom. Beyond the garden the ground sloped to the bayou, its banks overgrown with wild azalea and willows genuflecting to their reflections in the water. Elizabeth did not see the beauty. She was thinking of Theresa.
Apparently the girl had never said why she had attacked Elizabeth, had never mentioned that she had seen Elizabeth going through Bernard’s desk. Did she remember? Or did she think no one would believe her? Whatever the reason, in some strange manner the fact made Elizabeth feel guilty, as if she had taken advantage of Theresa’s weakness. And hadn’t she? Since Theresa’s visit to her room the night before she had stayed in Elizabeth’s mind, with her shadowed eyes, her pathetic dignity. She could not shake the idea that she was in part responsible for Theresa’s disturbance and her confinement. She could not help thinking that Theresa would have been better if she had never come.
Deep inside her chest ironic laughter bubbled. If she had never come … she wished she had never come, not in deceit, not as Ellen, Joseph’s mother. The weight of her deception grew daily heavier. At times she felt an almost unbearable compulsion to confess, to tell them who she really was. Added to her old fear that they would guess she was a fraud was a new one: that one day she would blurt out the truth. It was funny.
Fleetingly she thought back to the day in the woods when Bernard had come upon her under the dogwood tree and told her that he was Joseph’s legal guardian. That feeling of being in a trap she had experienced had increased a dozen times over, and so had that impression that there was a certain justice in what was happening to her. She could not escape the knowledge that she had no one to blame but herself.
After a while she heard Darcourt and his mother come into the hall from the front gallery. Alma went to her room and Darcourt continued on to descend the stairs. Elizabeth half turned toward them, but they did not seem to notice her there at the end of the hall. When Darcourt’s footsteps had ceased and the front door slammed behind him, Elizabeth walked down the hall toward her own room, wondering what she could do with herself. Grand’mere had given her a piece of embroidery to do to pass the long, idle hours, but the prospect of returning to it did not have much appeal.
The two doors nearest her on the left were open. One was to the schoolroom, which had beyond it the small bedroom that had been allocated to Denise. Connected to the schoolroom by a common door was the old nursery where Theresa slept. As she passed the second of the doors Elizabeth heard a small sound. She stopped, listening, but she did not have to hear it clearly to know what it was.
It was Theresa. She was crying.
Elizabeth stood immobile, listening. Two maids in blue dresses, white aprons and white tignons, mounted the stairs and looked back at her curiously before going on out to clear the table on the gallery. B
ehind them came a small Negro errand boy of about ten who eyed her out of the corners of enormous eyes before he took his seat on the long hall bench and tucked his bare feet under it. He had taken a piece of grubby string from his pocket and begun to play cat’s cradle before Elizabeth moved on down the hall past him.
Callie, as watchful as a setting hen, looked up at Elizabeth as she opened the door. She had pulled her chair to the window for light while she hemmed a new supply of diapers for Joseph. The baby lay on the floor picking at one of the pieced squares of the quilt that served him as a pallet.
He had squirmed and turned so that his long white dress was twisted under him. Elizabeth knelt beside him and straightened it out, pulling it down over his feet and spreading it out like a fan, tickling him a little, rolling him back and forth in play. He laughed and reached for her with his closed hands, wanting to be picked up. Her hem contracted with the pain of love arid fear, the fear that harm might come to him. She picked him up, hugging him to her.
Still, she could not get the sound of Theresa’s crying out of her head. She remembered that first day at Oak Shade when she had surprised Theresa outside her room. The girl had asked about the baby then. What was it she had said? “It might die, babies do, sometimes.” Yet, she had been happy when Elizabeth had asked her if she would like to see Joseph. Bernard had appeared then and she had not come in. Theresa had never seen him.
Unless it was when she carried him to the head of the stairs and left him.
A chill ran along her nerves at the thought, and her half-formed impulse to take Joseph to see Theresa suffered a check. It seemed mad, a crazy thing to do, a terrible risk, also. But in some intuitive manner she knew it was right. Before she could change her mind she stood up with the baby in her arms and started toward the door.
“I’ll be back in a little while,” she said in answer to Callie’s questioning expression.
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