The woman could hardly refuse a request couched in such terms of wifely concern for the benefit of the master of the house. The impulse to do so passed as a brief spasm over her countenance and then was gone.
“It shall be attended to at once,” she said.
“Thank you. I knew I might depend upon your understanding, Madame Thibeaut. There is also the matter of the — animal life — I have seen in the house. I have it on the best authority, no doubt due to his recent years of living aboard ship, that Rafael cannot abide insects. Do you suppose we could find some means of making them — less noticeable?”
“You seem to have made a study of my brother’s likes and dislikes,” Solange said suggestively.
Catherine gave her a limpid smile. “It pays a wife to do so, does it not? But there. I will leave you to drink your coffee in peace. Ah, Madame Thibeaut, perhaps when you are done you will have the goodness to ring for a maid for me. No doubt your system of ringing is different from that used in my home, for I have rung several times to no avail. If you receive an answer, would you inform the household that I would like to see them in the sitting room directly after breakfast?”
“Certainly, Madame Navarro, I will conduct them there myself.”
Before Catherine left the room, she inclined her head, being careful not to smile. She had expected no less from the former housekeeper for Alhambra. She could be depended upon to see that everyone foregathered as requested, if only to be certain that she herself was present during Catherine’s address to them.
Ideally, Rafael should have made the introduction to his staff, presenting her to them as their mistress. Since he had not seen fit to do so, she would make her presence known in her own way.
Alhambra was not overly supplied with houseservants. Eight filed into the sitting room at the appointed time, five or six less than her mother had kept for the smooth running of her small house. It was not unusual for there to be a maid or manservant for every person, plus one or two extras for guests and a servant for every public room whose sole duty was to keep it constantly ready for visitors. Meat cook, pastry cook, sculleries, gardeners, all added to the total.
First before her was a woman most likely to be the cook, a large, round woman with the marks of a Congo on her broad forehead. Her expression was benevolent but her slovenly appearance reminded Catherine forcibly of her kitchen. For assistants, she had two sculleries, shy, plump girls who might have been her daughters though with hands too soft and nails too long for them to be efficient at their jobs. The washerwoman was a gangling, thin figure whose stiffly starched apron and kerchief was an indication of her position. Ali, Rafael’s valet, was nowhere in evidence and Catherine thought it likely that he had gone with his master, though she had not seen him leave. There were, however, two other menservants. Their duties were to serve at meals and clear up after them, to answer the door, lay fires, see to the needs of men guests, and make themselves generally useful. They were quiet appearing men, one elderly and gray-haired, the other little more than a teenager, but both had sensitive faces and intelligent eyes. The maidservants were not so satisfactory. One was the shuffling creature Catherine had seen earlier, an older woman, graying, with a vacant expression and a quid of tobacco in her cheek. The other was a young girl with a tendency to giggle and a ready knowledge of her own sensual appearance. The bodice of her dress of printed cotton, a possible cast-off of Solange’s, was open in a deep vee and the corners of her kerchief stood stiffly erect like the ears of a cat. Glancing at the list in her hand, Catherine wondered if those gathered before her would be enough for the task of renovation she had set herself. Were there others suitable for working in the house? If she asked for them, would they be given to her? She did not know, and at this point she thought it best not to make an issue of it.
She got to her feet, unconsciously straightening her shoulders as she stood with her hand resting lightly on the secretary-desk beside her. Her stance was a commanding one, but her smile was warm and friendly as she glanced about the room. Then as she drew in her breath to speak, Madame Thibeaut stepped forward from her post near the door.
A compelling look from her deep-set eyes drew the servants’ attention. “You have been called here to be presented to the new wife of Monsieur Rafe. Allow me, Madame Navarro, to make known to you, Cook, her two daughters and helpers, Marie Belle and Marie Ann, Hattie, our laundress, Oliver and Charles, the menservants, and the maids, Nonnie and Pauline.”
As their names were called the servants sketched a nervous bow or dropped a quick curtsy.
That Madame Thibeaut had deliberately omitted her given name and her new position, that of their Maîtress, did not pass Catherine’s notice. She did not trouble to correct it, however, depending on her bearing to make the matter clear.
“Thank you, Madame,” she said, allowing her level gaze to slide over the woman as less important than the others before her. “I wanted only to make myself known to you, and to inform you that the residence of your master and myself here at Alhambra will be permanent.” Smiling to herself at the guarded glances they cast each other, Catherine continued. “You must realize this will mean change, and I hope you will consider it for the better. I plan today to inspect the house — the kitchen I have seen already this morning. I will look in upon you again, Cook, just before luncheon. I will not consult with you upon the menu today. I hope you have something sustaining planned, since my husband did not have breakfast this morning. Beginning tomorrow I will discuss the meals with you in advance, and I would like you to hold yourself ready each Monday morning at this time to receive menus for the week ahead.
“For those of you who work inside the house, it cannot have escaped your notice that spring has arrived and summer is fast approaching. It is time to roll up the rugs, put down fresh matting, and clear away the smoke stains and cobwebs of winter. We will begin this chore tomorrow also.
“I am a hard taskmaster,” she finished with a lift of her chin, “but I believe you will find, when things are back in order, and your new duties explained, that we will all be more comfortable. That is all.”
None of what she had said could be construed as criticism of Madame Thibeaut’s housekeeping, and yet, before she finished speaking, the older woman had swept out of the sitting room. Catherine, watching the servants passing through the same door, thought she could sense an uneasiness about them, almost a fear, far in excess of anything her words to them could have caused.
Were they worried that they would have to serve two mistresses? The impression was strong. Surely there could be no comparison between the authority of the mistress of the house and that of a paid companion? With a shake of her head, she dismissed the idea.
The morning passed as Catherine moved slowly from room to room, beginning with the bedchambers. All were well appointed with heavy tester beds, armoires, and dressing tables, some with carving, others inlaid with tulip wood in patterns with a Moorish influence. The drapes and hangings were in the Spanish style of velvet and Egyptian cotton brocade in dark colors. Faded and threadbare, except in the rooms which had been redone for the Navarros, they were an indication of the decline in the fortunes of the Fitzgeralds before the change of ownership. Dirt had been ground into the designs in the jewel colors of the Persian rugs upon the floors, but they were still whole, still beautiful.
However, there gradually grew upon Catherine an impression of starkness in the rooms, traceable to a lack of the small, intimate things that made a room interesting and habitable. Where were the silver candlesticks and dressing table accessories, the china bibelots, the vases and other ornaments that should be sitting upon the mantels over the fireplaces in each room, or the crucifixes that had left their ghostly imprints above the beds? Some might have been taken as the personal belongings of the Fitzgeralds, but surely not all. She had never heard that, previous to the fatal card game with Rafael, Marcus was in such straits he had been forced to liquidate such small items of value.
The main room
s had the same stripped appearance. Large pieces of furniture remained, the chandeliers and girandoles with their filmed and dull crystal lustres, but there were only one or two inferior paintings among the fresh squares outlined in gray smoke upon the caramel-striped silk wall covering. The whitewashed walls of the dining room above the wainscoting, which seemed to cry aloud for the glowing color of tapestries, stretched as bare as bleached bone.
Amazingly, the silver still reposed behind the glass of a dining room cupboard, though the lock upon the door may have accounted for its presence. The drawers of the long sideboard which covered one wall, as well as the knife boxes on top of it, were also locked. No doubt the keys to these, and the other doors and cupboards in the house, were in the possession of Madame Thibeaut. Catherine made a mental note to ask her for them.
What to do about the missing items? Was Rafael aware they were gone? If he was, and if there was some simple explanation which she could not see, she would not like to appear jealous of their loss, or too conscious of their value. If he was not, it was without doubt her duty to report the matter to him.
Pondering the problem, she walked through the entrance hall and out onto the back gallery. The courtyard below beckoned, and she leaned on the railing, staring down into that small, enclosed space. The fountain with its four guarding lions was dry, the basin filled with leaves and trash. Weeds sprouted between the paving stones, and in a bed left for planting, purple violets were choked by the bright green of winter grass and the dead stems of last year’s flowers. A clump of palmetto rustled its leaves in a corner. Yellow jasmine gone wild swarmed up the spiral staircase of wrought iron to drape itself along the upper railing, its flowers releasing their sweetness upon the warm air. Cascading from a pair of giant terracotta ollas were fresh green fronds of native fern.
There should be roses to perfume the court in summer, she thought idly, and lilies to bloom when the roses were gone. She must see about them the next time she was in New Orleans.
“Don’t tell me your energy has deserted you already,” Solange said sweetly, strolling toward her along the gallery. “We are not all in order yet.”
Turning her head, Catherine asked, “Have you come to point out what I have missed?”
Solange’s smile faded. “Aren’t you clever? Have a care that you don’t outsmart yourself.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning you will not find Madame Ti an easy opponent to vanquish.”
“I had no idea we were at war,” Catherine said lightly.
“Oh, come. You needn’t pretend to be dense. Did you really expect to win our servants over with a smile and a pretty speech? They won’t work for you, you know. They don’t dare.”
Catherine stared at the malicious enjoyment on the girl’s face. “I have not the least idea what you mean. Are you saying the servants will defy me?”
“Oh, no! That might bring them to my brother’s notice. They will accept your orders, they will smile and bow, and as long as you watch them, they will try to do as you ask. But the moment your back is turned they will stop, and, questioned, will find a thousand excuses for not having accomplished the tasks they began. And, if your orders are not given face to face, they will be routed through Madame Ti for her approval.”
“Why?” Catherine asked abruptly.
“Because she, not you, is their true mistress. She holds their hearts and their souls in her hands. There is no need for your crusade of cleanliness. Now that Madame Ti has returned the food will improve, and so will the condition of the house. All you need to do is step down from your ridiculous pose as beloved and concerned wife and mistress of Alhambra, and allow things to continue as they have done for years.”
“And if I do not?”
“You will be forced to do so. You will find there is no other way. You have already made one serious mistake, you will make others.”
Had she underestimated Solange’s companion — or overestimated her own ability to assume control? She did not like to think so, but it would be best to know it, if it were so.
“Mistake?” Catherine asked.
“You took it for granted that your appeal to the baser side of my brother’s nature would last. You moved your person and your baggage into my brother’s bedchamber without consulting his wishes in the matter. If you had consulted him, you would have learned that, for the most part, he prefers his own company. The exception is those occasions common to all men when a woman becomes a necessity. I have often heard him say he would hold to the tradition of the Navarro men of sleeping alone. You may imagine the benefits to the men of an arrangement of separate bedchambers? No doubt my brother will make his wishes known eventually, but if I were you, I believe I would spare him the trouble. He can be quite brutal when he finds it necessary.”
“Your concern for my welfare overwhelms me,” Catherine said with irony. “I find it almost as unbelievable as your pretense to a knowledge of men.”
“Everyone knows what men are like.” Solange looked away from Catherine’s candid gaze.
At least the girl still had the grace to blush, Catherine thought. “Do they indeed?”
“Madame Ti explained to me the carnal appetites of males and their vulgar behavior in the marriage bed.”
“Did she?”
“Yes,” the girl flashed. “And she has also told me of their lack of appreciation of the sacrifices women make for them, and their lack of concern or caring for a woman when they have had what they want from her.”
Catherine tilted her head to one side. “And you expect to be treated in this boorish fashion, by your husband when you are wed, even if the man is Marcus Fitzgerald?”
The startled look which entered Solange’s eyes was Catherine’s answer. Turning to saunter toward her bedchamber, she spoke over her shoulder. “Think of this then. If you should marry, you will have no need for a companion — such as Madame Thibeaut.”
11
Solange proved an able prophet in the matter of the servants. When Catherine visited the kitchen shortly before midday, there was no sign of the frantic activity she had expected. The cooking pots had been washed, it was true, and a side of beef turning on a spit over the fire sent a savory scent into the close air mingling with the fragrance of yeast bread baking. Either Marie Ann or Marie Belle — she could not tell them apart — was stirring a custard over the fire. Dishes of soup and vegetables lined the trestle tables. But a dog gnawed a bone in a litter of straw and vegetable refuse beneath a table, the cake of ashes spilling out onto the hearth was thicker and more dangerous to the wooden building than before. To enter, she had to pick her way over a puddle of greasy dishwater, shooing aside the scraggly chickens picking at the bits of softened food that had been thrown out with it.
Catherine was nonplussed, especially when she considered the consternation in the kitchen caused by the impending arrival of her mother on a tour of inspection. Was this signal dearth of excitement here a lack of respect, or, as Solange had indicated, a show of fidelity to Madame Thibeaut? That it could be the last was difficult for her to accept. In every household she had ever entered, the position of companion was one without honor, and with precious little authority. For the wishes of a companion to be placed above those of the mistress of the house was unthinkable. They were more likely to be considered last, behind the nursemaid, perhaps, because such a person had no way of enforcing her wishes. Was that the key? The servants did not expect their new mistress to be able to enforce her commands?
It was always possible that the state of the kitchen was due to a difference in standards of cleanliness. So there could be no misunderstanding, Catherine gave careful instructions for the cleaning of it. Clutching at a dingy red flannel bag hanging on a thong around her neck, the cook agreed, but something in that round, tattooed face told Catherine her orders would not be carried out.
If Solange was right on one count, could it be she was right on the other? For all her brave words of the morning, Catherine mused, what, after all, d
id she know of the likes and dislikes of the man she had married? During their five days together Rafael had never seemed resentful of her presence. However, they had been occupying her room in her home. He had gone to a great deal of trouble to arrange a private bathing room. Had that been for his own sake, rather than for hers?
Last night he had given no sign of being pleased to find her in his bed; indeed, he had given no sign that he knew she was there. Perhaps, lying awake in the middle of the night, he had wished her gone, but had not wanted to awaken her to send her away.
In the bedchamber Catherine had shared the night before with Rafael, she stared about her, trying to decide what to do. Her boxes and trunks still stood about the room. She had no maid to unpack for her, and had had no time to attend to it herself. Her trousseau linens must be shaken out and put away, she thought distractedly. There must be a linen cupboard somewhere.
This bedchamber was slightly larger than the one connecting to it, the middle one of the three in this wing. Both were furnished with similar pieces and colors, almost as if they had been designed as a suite. It would be an easy matter to transfer her belongings to the smaller of the two rooms.
Her own parents had slept in separate rooms, but that was because her father snored; she had often heard her mother speak of it with a laugh and a catch in her voice.
What did she herself want? There could be no question. She must be in favor of anything that would leave her less at the mercy of Rafael Navarro. Still, she would not like for him to think that the reason for her removal was because she wanted to avoid him.
Such agonizing over what was, in truth, a simple thing. If he wished her to stay with him he had only to say so, did he not? So far, he had not been backward in making his wishes known.
Catherine took one last look around the room, at the tester bed with its blue velvet hangings looped back with the blue muslin mosquito baire, at the tall armoire and matching washstand with china accouterments painted with violets, and the chaise lounge covered in pale lavender silk. With sudden decision she nodded her head and bent to catch the handle of a trunk, dragging it into the connecting room.
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