“Something indeed, but what, Madame? What?”
It was dim in the room. There was only the faint glow of what appeared to be morning sunlight coming through the closed shutters. The door into the small connecting bedchamber used by Dédé stood open. Catherine stared at it without curiosity, bemused. She understood the conversation in the next room, yet lacked the strength to care what it meant. When the voices ceased, her eyes gently closed, and she slept again.
It was dark when she awakened once more. She turned her head, seeking the window. The outside shutters had been opened, but there was no more than a dim glow of moonlight beyond the Swiss muslin curtains.
At the rustle of the bedclothes, a massive figure rose up beside her. The huskiness of a whisper came in the darkness. “What is it, Mam’zelle?”
“Dédé, is that you? What time is it?”
“It is near midnight, Mam’zelle Catherine. A little more, and you would have slept the clock around twice.”
Catherine considered that statement in silence. A board creaked in the floor beneath the woolen carpet and its grass mat padding as Dédé left the slipper chair of sea-green satin beside the bed and moved with a heavy but graceful stride across the room.
There was a clicking sound of a tinder box, and a light bloomed on the dressing table beside the fireplace. The nurse turned with the white china candlestick in her hand.
“How do you feel, enfant?”
Feel? How should she feel? “Well enough,” she said, struggling to sit up against her pillows. “A bit hungry.”
“Hungry? But of course. There will be soup in the kitchen—”
“That will do very well.”
“And perhaps a little bread and a small glass of wine, yes?”
“Yes,” Catherine said gratefully. But when the nurse had gone she frowned. Had there been disapproval in Dédé’s voice? Was it wrong for her to feel hunger when it had been something like twenty-four hours since she had eaten? Was it wrong for her to feel rested, healthy, even vital? If there was a disturbance at the back of her mind, she refused to acknowledge it, just as she refused to pretend to a languishing frailty that did not exist. She had not changed inside. With the morning she would take up her usual activities where she had left off. Perhaps a visit to the modiste for a new gown, something other than muslin. Something vivid, unusual; that was the way she felt.
Accordingly, when Dédé brought her tray, pushed pillows behind her back, and took up the spoon, preparing to feed her, Catherine exclaimed impatiently, “I am not an invalid. Please do not make so much of nothing.”
“Certainly, Mam’zelle,” Dédé replied, her lips stiff with offense.
Catherine glanced at her through her lashes. “It’s not the end of the world,” she said softly.
“No, Mam’zelle.”
“Do you think I would feel better if I allowed you to cry over me and comfort me?” She sighed. “I must not look back.”
“No, Mam’zelle. You are no longer a little girl.”
“Exactly,” Catherine agreed, and turned her attention to the soup.
Dédé did not move away as she expected, however. “Mam’zelle?”
“Yes?” Catherine looked up as Dédé took a parcel from the voluminous pocket of her stiffly starched apron.
“This came for you, this afternoon. I — Madame and I — thought to return it on your behalf, but perhaps you will wish to accept a gift from that man.”
The veiled implication was not lost on Catherine, though she could not quite believe that she had heard it. She took the parcel into her hands. “From Navarro?” she asked. “How do you know?”
“Your maman thought it best to open it.”
“I see,” Catherine said. It was a common occurrence for a girl’s parents to inspect and censor all gifts and communications to their daughters, and yet she was surprised at the irritation the knowledge aroused in her. Also, the almost imperceptible insolence of Dédé’s manner annoyed her so that when she spoke her tone was cool. “It is possible I will keep it. Thank you, Dédé. That will be all.”
The soup was a chicken broth delicately flavored with spices and onion, thickened with cream. Still it was an effort to continue spooning it into her mouth until the last drop was gone. Her appetite seemed to have slowly disappeared, along with her feeling of vitality. She ate the crusty, buttered roll, drank the strengthening red wine, and wiped her fingers on the napkin before she turned at last to the silver paper parcel sent by Navarro.
The wrapping was extraordinarily difficult under her nerveless fingers, but in time she exposed a cut glass box topped by a chased silver lid. The lid opened to reveal a set of hairpins fashioned with infinite care from purest gold. Gold hairpins to replace those of ivory, the ivory ones she had lost.
What had she expected? A piece of jewelry valuable enough to spread balm on a guilty conscience? A fan? A book? A bottle of scent? A meaningless nothing? Possibly. But nothing so thoughtful, so carefully chosen, so evocative of their hours together. Did the gift have meaning? Or was it a gesture made as easily as a gentleman’s bow in return for a lady’s company for the evening?
The questions plagued her, but Catherine had no answers.
The night and the candle Dédé had lit ended together. Though she had gone over every painful detail of what had passed between Navarro and herself she was no nearer to understanding him. Had he ever considered marrying her as Marcus had suggested? Had he decided against it thinking she would refuse him? Would she, if he had given her the privilege? There could be only one answer. Still she would have liked to have heard him ask. Why? The pleasure of denying him? The sense of power, so she could humiliate him, as she had been humiliated? She did not know, and as she watched the candle dying, its light drowning in its own hot wax, she wondered if she ever would.
It was still early when she rang for Dédé, but she could not bear to lie there, alone with her own thoughts a moment longer. A bath would be refreshing, and a toilette en grande tenue would do wonders for her morale. She might even use the gold hairpins. After all, she had no others. She called for her maidservant and lay back in anticipation. Dédé, her eyes sullen with disapproval, was just putting the finishing touches to Catherine’s hair when her mother entered. The older woman stood transfixed on the threshold at the sight of the glittering pin the nurse held in her hand.
“So,” she said as she moved into the room with a measured tread that set her skirts to swinging. “He did make you an offer.”
“No, he did not,” Catherine answered evenly.
“But his gift. You are accepting it?”
“He owes me at least this much.”
A hard expression settled over Yvonne Mayfield’s face. “No doubt. But do you wish to put such a value on yourself? That is scarcely the way of a lady.”
“And you, of course, always follow the dictates for the conduct of a lady?” Catherine asked gently.
Her mother drew herself up as if she intended to make some blistering retort, then as she met her daughter’s eyes, her own gaze wavered. She swung on her heel, moving away aimlessly, to settle in the slipper chair beside the bed.
“You are up and about early. Do you plan to go out?”
Catherine nodded. “I thought I might step around to Madame Estelle’s for a new gown. Would you care to come?”
“I may,” her mother answered, spreading her skirts of apricot silk about her feet. With her gown she wore a sleeveless spencer of jade-green velvet. The combination, though modish, was not a success. The fullness of her breasts strained against the velvet whose heavy cut pile emphasized her charms to the point that she seemed top-heavy, a bit too opulent. Catherine, in contrast, looked ethereal in a gown of palest primrose muslin trimmed with knots of amber ribbon.
“I should have known,” Madame Mayfield said after a moment of silence. “Navarro has always been le plus dangereux des hommes. It was ridiculous of me to suppose he would allow himself to be caught by an air of innocence. It is
a great blow to me.” She glanced at Catherine. “And to your chances also, of course.”
“Yes. A great blow,” Catherine agreed dryly.
Was this to be all then, she wondered? No word of concern, or sympathy; only this detached regard for her future. She looked at her mother in the small oval mirror of the dressing table.
“Caught, Maman? Do you mean you think I was provocative?”
“Weren’t you, chérie? After all, there must have been some reason for his violent attraction to you. I assure you, the black panther has no need to rape his women. There are many who would be only too willing to share his bed. He must have had some reason for believing you were not indifferent.”
“Strive to remember, Maman, that he thought I was a quadroon, and, as such, had no right to be indifferent,” Catherine said, her voice steady despite the embarrassment that heated her cheeks.
Her mother waved an impatient hand. “Even so — But you must explain to me exactly what happened. Marcus, when he came for me in the night, was nearly incoherent. And you needn’t stare at me so. If you are so immodest as to accept the gift of a man who is supposed to have mistreated you in such a fashion, then surely we can speak plainly together.”
Catherine was not outraged, merely abstracted. “Poor Marcus. How did he know where to find us?”
“Deduction, chérie. It was some time before Marcus was free of the surgeon’s hands and had collected his wits about him. He came to me at once — whether for my protection or for the sake of the countenance I might lend any situation in which we could expect to find you, I leave to your imagination. We went first to the Navarro town house, but found it empty except for a few sleepy servants and an insolent and superior valet who had to be dissuaded from coming with us. We visited a number of the places of assignation — if you will pardon the term — but to no avail. Then Marcus remembered the house by the ramparts. I was never more shocked in my life than when I walked into that room. You must, you really must, tell me how you came to be there.”
There was an appeal in her mother’s voice that had been missing before. Haltingly, staring at her hands pressed together in her lap, Catherine told her what she wished to know.
When she was done her mother said in a brittle voice, “It seems I must shoulder a portion of the blame. I have made a dismal job of being a mother to you, have I not? How very disagreeable it is, to be sure, to have the people who prophesied that it would go badly, our living here alone, turn out to be right. But then, it is much more disagreeable for you, isn’t it? I’m sorry, Catherine.”
“You think there will be unpleasantness?” She looked up suddenly to find her mother staring at the tips of her emerald satin slippers peeping from beneath her gown.
“Unpleasantness? One can only pray not — and make plans to travel to Paris as soon as the saison de visites is over and one may leave the city without being accused of running away.”
“As bad as that?”
The older woman’s smile was a little too brilliant. “Forgive me, petite. My humor was ill-timed, was it not? No, it may not be as bad as that. It may not be unpleasant at all. We will have to wait and see.”
Her mother looked down again with suspicious quickness. Her gaze fell on a piece of fingerwork lying almost hidden beneath the slipper chair. “What is this?” she asked as she picked it up.
Catherine felt the start of the nursemaid beside her.
“Only some mending—” Dédé began, but even as she spoke an object fell from the folds of material in Madame Mayfield’s lap.
Shrieking, she jumped up, letting it tumble with a sodden thud to the floor. It lay there, a smoke-blackened lump of melted wax in the shape of a man, pierced through with a golden hairpin. None of the three needed to be told what the figure represented. It was a conjure image, a juju of deadly intent, designed to exact revenge, possibly even death. And the man it represented was Navarro.
Catherine was the first to move. She scooped up the figure, pushed the pin from it, and squeezed it quickly into a shapeless mass.
“Mam’zelle! Don’t!” Dédé cried. “I did it for you!”
But Catherine silenced her with a swift gesture of her hand. “Here,” she said, thrusting the ball of wax at the woman. “Take this and destroy it. I don’t want you practicing this evil in my name.”
Dédé stared at her a long moment. “Yes, Mademoiselle Catherine.” She pronounced each syllable of her name clearly, a certain sign that she was deeply offended, even hurt. She curtsied low, and then with majestic dignity moved to the door and let herself out of the room.
When she had gone Catherine’s mother rose to her feet. “Bravo, chérie,” she said softly. “I applaud the courage of the gesture — but you will forgive me if I find your protective attitude just a little bizarre?”
~ ~ ~
The interior of the establishment of Madame Estelle was dim, not the best circumstance for preserving the eyesight of the women in her employ, but necessary for the creation of the correct atmosphere of mystery and awe. Scorning the more modern Directorie furnishings, Madame offered her clientele the dubious comfort of gilded Louis-Quinze covered with slippery moire taffeta. There were also certain exotic touches; an Arabic rug, a brass lamp, a Chinese screen, intended to depress the pretensions of what Madame, born and reared in Paris before the terror, considered these provincials. The perfume shelf tucked into a corner flavored the air, as did the smells of dye from the rolls of materials stacked in the workroom at the rear and the hint of camphor used to preserve the precious lengths from the deprecations of moths and mice.
Madame Estelle had favorites among those who patronized her. Yvonne Mayfield found favor because of her independence, so like Madame’s own, and for her unerring eye for line, and Catherine for the perfection of her form and her unusual coloring — a challenge and a pleasure after designing clothing for the brunettes who made up the majority of her patrons.
“Bonjour Madame, Mademoiselle. Entre, entre,” she called, the black silk encasing her plump form rustling delectably as she moved to greet them. “Mademoiselle Catherine, I was thinking of you only yesterday. A Levantine seaman brought to me twenty ells of the most delightful tissue silk straight from Cathay. I tell you how I came by it in the strictest confidence, entendu? But ravissante, ravissante — the color, exact to a shade, of Catherine’s lovely hair. My heart bleeds that you are not a matron, Mademoiselle. I could make for you a gown glorious beyond dreams.”
“Tiens, Estelle,” Madame Mayfield said on a laugh. “Have you been trading with smugglers and dishonest seamen again? You will be caught, and then where will you be?”
“Here, chérie — so long as I create gowns of great beauty for the wives of every official from the governor downward.”
Madame Mayfield agreed with a laugh.
Catherine was just as happy to have her mother carry the conversation. She thought she had seen a gleam of something like sympathy in the eyes of the modiste. Imagination, of course, but it was disconcerting all the same.
“You are in a hurry? No? Perhaps you will take a petit noir with me, and I will display to you this golden cascade of silk. Sit, sit. My assistant will bring our café and anything else we require. Now. You might cast a glance at a few sketches I have made, little drawings of ways the silk could best be made up. I see it with the cream pearls such as those you inherited from your Grandmother Villère, Madame Yvonne, to make it acceptable to the conservative. How I tire of these insipid colors, this everlasting white, white, white. I find the manner of dress of these Santo Dominican ladies exciting. Do you not? The Spanish influence, but not to be despised for all that. They are indolent beyond belief, these refugees from that blood-soaked island, and pleasure mad, with no idea of how to keep household like true French women, but one must admire the vigor and color of their dress. I see a new trend in this direction. Don’t you agree?”
Catherine allowed herself to be carried along on the enthusiasm and spate of words of Madame; to be set
tled into a chair with a demitasse of black coffee in her hand. She brought her attention to bear long enough to listen to her mother explain the purpose of their errand, and to agree to a maiden’s blush pink muslin for her new gown. But she let the rest of the conversation, the discussion of draping and puffing, tucks and inserts and pleats, and braid versus ruching versus ribbon flow around her.
When, later, in the closeness of the fitting cubicle dominated by Madame Estelle’s pride, and a major part of her investment, a large mirror in an ornate gold frame, the blush muslin was draped around her, she approved that pale, almost nonexistent pink. Still, she did not object when the gold tissue silk was also shaken out and drawn across her breast and over her shoulder.
“Yes, ravissante,” Madame sighed, “but yes, it is a trifle too flamboyant for a jeune fille.”
“I expect you are right,” Catherine agreed with regret. The feel of the silk under her fingers was a pleasure, and she was not blind to its complementary blending with her hair.
“Pardon, Mademoiselle,” Madame Estelle murmured as a bell rang in the shop. “I won’t be a moment.”
Catherine nodded, and with a smile began to free herself of the lengths of material. She could not resist one last look at the silk, however.
“Catherine, you must have it,” a girlish voice cried from the doorway. “The color is you.”
The compliment was an obvious attempt at flattery, but Catherine turned to smile at the young woman, an acquaintance from convent school.
“My thanks, Gigi, but I think not.”
“Nonsense, Catherine. Surely someone like you would dare to break tradition and set a new fashion!”
Was that suggestion as innocent as the smile that went with it? Or was there a too bright light in Gigi’s small eyes? The girl had never been a friend. A year younger, she had always been too aware of her muddy complexion and lank, thin hair that could not be disguised by frizzing or the liberal use of a hot curling iron. The bitter knowledge that she was destined to be a wallflower, left, in the parlance, to “make tapestry” while prettier girls danced at the balls had soured her. She was given to effusive, insincere compliments to girls like Catherine and to attaching herself to them at the balls and soirees in the forlorn hope that some of the gentlemen who must inevitably be disappointed when the music began would feel compelled to ask her to take the floor.
Love and Adventure Collection - Part 1 (Love and Adventure Boxed Sets) Page 53