Catherine was quiet a moment, a frown between her brows. “You think then, that Madame Thibeaut would seek to cause trouble for her?”
Ali’s smile was touched with an odd sadness. “I am not certain, Madame. I am just — afraid.”
“Your India sounds the type of ally of which I have need,” Catherine said, “but I would not have you go against your foreboding. There is no great hurry for a maid; I have grown adept at doing up my own buttons.” She smiled. “My husband has given me full authority in this matter. I convey it to you as my seneschal.”
“You are kindness itself, Madame Catherine,” he said, bowing with his hand on his heart. “I am sorry if I have caused you any inconvenience. There is something I must learn, then you will have your final answer.”
He did not elaborate, and because of the austere expression in his dark, slanted eyes, Catherine hesitated to question him further. At that moment Madame Thibeaut, looking for a piece of misplaced petit point, entered the room. Ali, pleading other duties, made his escape, and the moment was lost.
His inquiries must have been time-consuming however. Days went by without India being mentioned again. In the end, the decision was taken from his hands.
It was the first clear spell after the long days of rain. Rafael had taken the opportunity to ride out to view the level of the river and set a crew of men to work shoring up the levee where it showed signs of weakening. Madame Thibeaut had enticed Solange from the house, like the simplest of schoolroom misses, with the prospect of a morning walk. Catherine had not been sorry to see them go. They had all had more than enough of each other’s company.
With Rafael near, demanding her attention, Catherine had not been able to get to the linen cupboard as she had planned. As soon as everyone was out of the way she vowed to tackle the task.
Holding the keys attached to the chatelaine at her waist so they would not rattle, she went along the back gallery and down the winding iron staircase. At the bottom to the left was a small, unobtrusive door into the lower floor of the house, the raised basement, where the storerooms were located. The linen cupboard, though adjacent to the servants’ sleeping quarters here below, was still inconveniently located, in her opinion, with definite possibilities for damp and mildew. Another reason for her delay in seeing to it was a plan at the back of her mind to remove the linens to the upstairs. The back bedroom of the wing in which she and Rafael slept was not in use, and had not been in some years. It served, apparently, as a catch-all for boxes, trunks, and odd pieces of furniture.
The hallway dividing the storerooms from the sleeping apartments was a dark tunnel-like affair. It was bad enough in the daytime; what must it be like at night, Catherine thought, and made a mental note to install candle brackets along its length.
“Madame! Madame Catherine!”
The alarm in the call sent Catherine running back along the hall toward the sound of Ali’s voice. He had raced up the stairs and was running along the gallery before she reached the courtyard.
“Ali,” she cried. “What is it?”
He halted like a puppet whose strings have been jerked. His face was ashen as he leaned over the railing. “It is India. They are beating her.”
“They? Who?”
“Madame Thibeaut and Mam’zelle Solange,” he said, waving toward the trees that crowded up behind the house. “You must stop them. They will kill her. Please, Madame!”
“Where is Monsieur Rafe?” she asked, following the tense figure of the valet as he started back to reach her, spinning down the spiral stairs.
“I do not know, Madame. There is no time to find him. You must come.”
Catherine stared at him then gave a nod of sudden decision. “Very well. Let us go.”
The trail to the quarters at the rear of the house was only a path of beaten earth. Dew lingered on the high grass that bordered it, dampening the hem of Catherine’s skirts as she brushed passed. Beneath the trees where the sun did not penetrate, it was cool, and spider webs strung from branch to branch glistened like wet silver threads.
From a distance, the quarters appeared to be a small but fairly clean and well organized village. A single straight street ran through it, going on to the barns and stables hidden in the trees just beyond, where they opened to cleared pasture and fields. On the nearer end of the street was the blacksmith shop, the carpenter’s shop, the cooperage, a large, tight smokehouse, a boarded-up building that might have been a hospital or nursery, and a shed with one tiny barred window which served, without doubt, as a jail.
The double-room cabins further along were of the same bousillage construction as the main house, with mud-daub chimneys on each end, and long porches across the front. An even dozen of these cabins, each holding two families, faced each other across the street. At the far end was a pair of larger cabins, dormitories for the unattached males and females, set well back from a small square. In the center of the square was a curbed well with a deep wooden trough on each side. The kind of stocks found in any small town stood to one side, while on the other was a snubbed whipping post with rings attached to its sides.
The long street was awash with mud in which pigs wallowed, and chickens made dainty, pronged tracks. Emaciated dogs slunk around the cypress log pilings of the buildings. There were no facilities for sanitation. Slops and night soil had been thrown from the back doors, out into the rank, dark green grass.
An unnatural silence, as thick as the miasma of odors brought out by the strengthening sun, hung over the quarters. Most of the men were out with Rafael, but where were the women who should be coming and going, washing clothes in the troughs, cooking, sweeping, gossiping, calling to their children? Indeed, where were the children? Were they cowering, afraid, behind the tightly closed doors? The quiet emptiness was ominous. Catherine felt a prickle of unease move over her.
And then as they neared the dormitory on the left at the end of the street, Catherine heard Solange’s voice rising shrill with excitement.
“Hit her again, Madame Ti. Hit her again.”
There was the sharp crack of flesh against flesh, followed by words too low to be understood. Ali began to run. With Catherine behind him, he pounded up the uneven steps and threw open the door.
Inside was a large common room. A table surrounded by several homemade chairs stood in the center. The remains of a sketchy breakfast lay upon it, and the fire on the smoke-blackened hearth at the end of the room had sunk to a bed of gray coals. Crude bunks, the upright posts, formed from the knobby trunks of small trees, were built against the walls.
Tied to one of the posts with her arms crossed above her head was a sullen-faced young woman. She reminded Catherine at first glance of the quadroons she had seen; there was the same refinement in her copper-tinted features, and, even in her dishevelment, the same faintly insolent pride. Blood from a split lip trickled down her chin. A livid bruise rode one high cheekbone. Her coarse, straight hair, worn in braided coils over her ears, had come down on one side. The rough sacking of her blouse was torn away at the neck revealing the lacerations made by razor-sharp fingernails. Her body, strained back against the post, showed the rounded fullness of advancing pregnancy.
Solange swung around at their entrance. A guilty fear flickered in her eyes, a fear that sat oddly with the excited color burning in her face. It was the expression on the features of Madame Thibeaut that stopped Catherine where she stood. Never had she seen such feral hate and animosity.
Madame Thibeaut glanced at Solange. The girl stepped forward. “What do you want?” she demanded.
“We have come for India,” Catherine said, speaking directly to the older woman, her clear brown eyes unwavering. “I have decided that I have an urgent need for a maid. None other will do.”
“I am afraid you are doomed to disappointment,” Solange sneered, recovering her composure. “This girl is a savage, unfit to be a houseservant. She is impertinent and wholly immune to taking orders.”
“Indeed? I assume that is why
she is being punished?”
“Yes — yes, of course.”
“May I ask the circumstances?”
Solange flung a questioning appeal to Madame Thibeaut. Receiving no encouragement, she turned back to Catherine. “No, you may not,” she said tightly. “The affair is no concern of yours.”
“I think you are mistaken,” Catherine said, a trace of iron running through her quiet tone. “As mistress of Alhambra, the welfare of all the servants is my concern. This girl is particularly valuable. She carries the child of my husband’s valet. Naturally, Monsieur Rafe would be most displeased if anything should happen to her. Ali, you may cut her down.”
Catherine felt the eyes of the Indian girl upon her. There was no concern, no gratitude in their obsidian depths; neither was there fear and cringing, only an acceptance of pain. There was a hardness about her, as of a soul tempered in too strong a heat, a heart with the emotions seared in.
“No!” Solange cried, as Ali took up a knife from the table and began to slash the thongs. “By what right do you interfere? You may be mistress here, but you are not a judge of these matters.”
Catherine smiled, choosing to take the objection literally. “You are quite right. My husband is judge, is he not? Shall we allow him to decide the issue?”
India, rubbing the feeling back into her wrists, went as still as a doe scenting danger in the forest.
“There is no need—” Madame Thibeaut said with an abrupt gesture.
“And why not?” said Solange. “My brother has meted out enough whip justice himself since he returned. You may just find him in agreement with us, my dear Catherine. That would take the bloom from the rose, would it not, to see how merciless our Rafe can be?”
Catherine hesitated only a moment, then she lifted her chin. “He will have the chance,” she said, indicating with movement of her hand that Ali should help India from the cabin.
“I forbid you to take that girl out of here!” Solange cried, her face twisting as she glanced about as if for help.
Swinging around, Catherine said, “Forbid? Forbid, Solange? Who do you think you forbid? Certainly not me. Come, Ali.” Picking up her skirts, she marched out like a general with her troops behind her. She did not stop until she had reached the courtyard of the big house.
At the wrought iron staircase she turned.
“Madame,” Ali said, one arm about the girl called India. “My heart is full. Gratitude chokes my mouth.”
“Then leave it unsaid,” Catherine answered gravely. “And let us see to India’s hurts.”
“Yes, Madame. But — that one is a powerful conjure woman. The forces of evil in her body are strong. She makes the knees of the strongest men on the plantation turn weak. To see you face her as brave as La Lionne fills my soul with joy to be your servant. When your tawny eyes, like the desert cat, flash with pride and anger, I see more than ever why Monsieur Rafe chose you for his own. It is most fitting that the black panther mates with the golden lioness.”
For one disconcerted moment, color rose to Catherine’s cheeks, then as she saw the earnestness in Ali’s eyes, she knew he meant only to express his admiration; he had no idea of disrespect.
“Thank you,” she said softly. “I have grave doubts that I deserve such extravagant praise, but I will remember your words.”
In truth, it might have been the bolstering effect of Ali’s compliment which led her to intrude upon Rafael in his study that night after dinner. She could have waited until he came to their bedchamber. She thought, however, there had been enough discord between them on that battleground. Moreover, he was seldom in the mood for discussion at that hour.
“Entre,” he called at her knock. When he saw who it was, he threw down his quill and stretched achingly, clasping his hands behind his neck. A smile curved the firm lines of his mouth as he watched her advance to stand before the wide table that served him for a desk.
“Such formality,” he drawled. “I suppose I need not hope that you have come to drag me away from my labors?”
“I’m afraid not,” she said, summoning a smile. “I would like to speak to you, if I may?”
The tiredness around his eyes seemed to deepen. He answered shortly, “Of course you may. What can I do for you?”
“It is about India—” she began, and proceeded to tell him what had taken place. A frown appeared between his eyes as he listened, though she had no means of telling whether he was displeased with her conduct or that of his sister. Whatever the reason, she refused to be daunted. “Solange feels, because you have ordered whippings yourself, you will condone what she was doing. For some reason she is totally against having the girl in the house.”
“Do you know why?” Rafael asked, staring at a point past her shoulder.
“I’m not certain. It may be because India knew Madame Thibeaut in Santo Domingo and dislikes her — and because she isn’t afraid of her.”
“Afraid?”
“I understand your sister’s companion has a reputation as a — conjure woman. I — I cannot help but wonder about the influence she has over Solange.”
“Like that of your Dédé over you?” he asked dryly.
Did he suspect her of making something of nothing because his dismissal of her old nurse still rankled? She let the idea pass, refusing to be drawn.
“No, there is no hint of drugs,” she replied slowly. “But something is amiss, and I can only suspect the woman’s influence. Solange hardly moves without her, and then — there was the affair of the mice this afternoon—”
“Mice? I don’t see—”
“Pauline and I finally found time to turn out the linen closet after luncheon. It had come to a dreadful pass. Quite half the sheets are in need of mending. A goodly portion were rotten with mildew, fit only for the rag bag. There were silverfish everywhere, because of the damp, and among a stack of coverlets we found a nest of newborn mice, tiny, blind, pink creatures smaller than my little finger. I sent Pauline to dispose of them. She came back to tell me that Solange had taken them from her. They had to be killed, of course, but Pauline said Solange threw them on the stones of the court and crushed them with the heel of her slipper.”
He was quiet a long moment. “You are placing this at Madame Thibeaut’s door?”
“I can think of no other explanation.”
“No. Do you recommend, then, that we dispense with her services?”
“That is for you to say, but would it not be better?”
“I don’t know,” he said, leaning forward on his elbows to press his fingers against his eyes. “You see, Solange has had no one but this woman since she was little more than a child. She is the only person for whom she has developed an affection. When our mother died, she had a succession of nurses, none of whom could suit my father’s unreasonable demands for keeping her secluded. I, much to my regret, had little time for her. Then, for these last two years, she has been deserted except for her faithful Madame Ti. Is it surprising that she harbors resentment which comes out in violence, or that she is dependent upon the one stable person in her life?”
“An unhealthy dependence, surely?”
“Granted, and yet, all she has. How can I take it from her?”
“But this woman may be using a worse form of juju than that you condemned Dédé for using,” Catherine said, using the argument she most wanted to avoid in a desperate appeal.
He sighed, and getting to his feet, moved around the desk to sit on its edge, swinging one booted foot. “Yes. You do not need to tell me of the dangers. But let’s not quarrel over it. I am grateful for your concern for Solange — for I am more aware of what occurs in my absence than you imagine. I will take what you have said under consideration, and keep watch. For the present, I am reluctant to do more. As for India—” he continued, reaching out and taking Catherine’s hand, caressing the palm with his thumb. “You are determined to have her and no other?”
“I — would like to have her, yes,” Catherine answered as she was dra
wn nearer to him.
“Then I will attend to it.”
“And if Solange applies to you — to continue the punishment?”
“You may rest easy. I will know how to answer her.”
“I am grateful,” she said in a low voice, though she refused to look up for fear of the laughing demand for a demonstration of it that she might see in his eyes.
But when he replied, his voice was grave. “Don’t be. I do it for Ali also. He, too, would like India, or so I understood while I changed for dinner.”
“You are very fond of him, for a slave.”
“Ali is like my brother,” he answered shortly. “And he is not a slave. I freed him in Paris.”
“And he returned here with you?”
“Yes. Does such loyalty surprise you? I’m sure it does, knowing your opinion of me. I cannot take the whole credit however. I was with Ali when he journeyed back to Arabia. I thought for a time I would lose him to the desert, but his place in the line of succession, as chieftain of his people, had been taken from him. He found too that he no longer had anything in common with the people of the blue tents. As he put it so gallantly, I am his tribe. I am certain he now includes you, chérie.”
“I am happy to think so,” she answered with a slight smile.
A small quiet fell. Catherine could feel the magnetism he exuded, willing her to respond to him, to come freely into his arms in response to the slight pressure on her wrist. Before she capitulated, before her courage could fail her, Catherine asked, “Is it true, what Solange said? Have you ordered whippings here at Alhambra? You, of all people?”
“Yes,” he answered.
She looked up, searching his face unconsciously for a sign of the same blood madness she had seen in Solange’s eyes. “But why?”
“I think I told you that the hands here have been brutalized for years — and yet they are all I have and there is so much that must be done at once if everything is not to be lost. The levee must be repaired and strengthened to prevent a crevasse which could wipe everything away. The livestock must be rounded up, counted, evaluated, and cared for. Fields need plowing, the fences need work, plus a thousand other minor jobs. There is no time for disobedience or insubordination, no time for mutiny against the change of authority. At present, the only authority these people recognize or respect is one based on fear. The only thing they fear is the whip. Kindness, trust, are looked upon as weaknesses to be exploited. There are times when the situation reminds me of our marriage, my sweet Catherine.”
Love and Adventure Collection - Part 1 (Love and Adventure Boxed Sets) Page 65