Bride of a Stranger (Classic Gothics Collection) (17 page)

She went with Rachel down the front stairs and around the house to the left. There they took a beaten path through a hedge past the carriage house to a double row of small houses standing on each side of a street. Chickens scratched in the dust of the small front yards, and behind each house was a small garden plot. A whitewashed chapel sat at the end of the street, while nearby was a large building with a shaded front porch. On the porch, several older women sat rocking, the nursemaids for the children who peered from the doors, children whose mothers were at work about the plantation. A sultry quiet hung over the quarters, the quiet of a hot summer afternoon. There was no sign of Octavia.

“In here,” Rachel directed her softly, leading the way toward the house on the near end standing with its door open. She stepped aside at the entrance for Claire to precede her.

It was dark inside the room, in contrast to the bright sun outside, and she stood still for a moment. Then, suddenly, there was a scraping sound behind her, and the door slammed shut!

She whirled around, more in surprise than in fear, and then she heard the solid clunk of a wooden bar being dropped into place.

“Rachel!” she called to the girl, a rising note in her voice. She gave a little push on the door. It would not budge.

“Rachel!” she called again in sudden wrath. “Let me out at once!”

But there was no sound from the other side of the thick panel.

As her eyes adjusted to the gloom, Claire looked around. The building had only a single room, a bare room with nothing but a pallet of twisted quilts in one corner, and two small high windows set with bars.

Bars? With a feeling of horror she recognized the building in which she had been locked away. It was the plantation jail.

For a long, terrible moment she considered the possibility that she had been locked in on the orders of the master of Sans Songe, Justin. Then she thought of Belle-Marie, and was so glad that she had, that she felt weak.

But why would Rachel do the quadroon’s bidding? She remembered the tight, shut-in look that came at times to her maid’s face, the
gris-gris
that had found its way into her room. It occurred to her that perhaps Rachel was afraid, afraid of the power of the voodoo. As she stood there she thought too of the lassitude, the weakness she had had after that
gris-gris
had appeared, and the sickness that had overtaken the cat after it had shared her meal and brought another
gris-gris
to her around its neck. She had not been ill since she had started to take her meals with the family. Who was better to poison her food than Rachel? It must have been she.

In her agitation, she began to pace, striding up and down the tiny room. Then she stood still, staring at the dust motes turning in the light from the high window, stirred by her movements. But why this? Why shut her up in the jail? It was too public. A half dozen people on the street, the old ladies rocking at the nursery, must have seen her shut in here.

Then why weren’t they rushing to let her out? There could be no question in their minds about her belonging where she was. She was Madame Claire Leroux, the mistress of the big house! Who would dare to sit back and fail to help her?

A fearful anger lent strength to her arms as she beat against the door calling again and again. “Let me out! Let me out!”

No one came. What—or whom—did they fear that they would not come to her aid?

Time crept. The heat grew intense in the tiny, closed building with the sun beating against it. And as the heat grew, the fetid odor of despair seemed to come from the walls. Like an old man, the sun climbed slowly down from the sky. The evening shadows lengthened until the shade of the tree crept over the jail, bringing coolness with it. Flies buzzed around Claire’s face, a curiously drowsy sound, so that once or twice as she sat on the pallet with her back propped against the wall, she found herself dozing. After the first hour she had stopped pounding on the door, ceased calling. It might be best, she thought, not to draw attention to herself. Once or twice she had thought she heard voices muttering outside the window. Later she heard the sounds of shouting and laughter as the workers came in from the fields. Still, nothing happened. She was forgotten, she thought, and was not certain whether to be glad or sorry for it.

It was dark when the bar was lifted and the door pulled open. A man stood silhouetted against the night. Claire got to her feet and stood still against the wall.

“Madame Claire?” the man said, as if he did not immediately perceive her there in the dark.

“Anatole,” she whispered, starting forward.

“Come, madame. Forgive me for being so late. I would have come sooner if the fools had only told me. Please don’t think unkindly of my people. It was ignorance, stupid superstition, they meant you no harm.”

He gave her his arm and led her forward, and as reaction set in, she was glad of the support. She stood a moment, breathing in the fresh, untainted air of freedom while she recovered her composure. Then they walked quickly back toward the house. As they went she thought she could feel dozens of eyes watching.

The house sat quiet, undisturbed by her absence of nearly five hours. Did she matter so little, she asked herself staring up at the lamplight that shone from the dining room.

Anatole left her on the loggia. Wearily, Claire pushed through the french windows into the empty room with its table set for supper. Beyond it, the salon was untenanted also. Where could they all be?

Her heels made a hollow sound as she negotiated the gallery on the way to her bedroom. But there, too, in spite of a lamp left burning on the washstand, she found no one.

Sighing, she moved to wash her hands and face in the water she poured from the ewer beside the lamp. She wanted nothing more than to lie down on her bed and sleep. It was not, she knew, a physical tiredness, it was her emotions that had exhausted her. Perhaps she did not need to appear for dinner, and yet, she was afraid to eat in her own room. Did they all know what had happened to her, or did no one but Anatole realize?

But perhaps she did not need to eat. She was not hungry. She could not face having to explain, she did not want their sympathy. She wanted only to wash away the feel of confinement, to change her clothes, and then to lie quietly until she had decided what she would do. This harassment, these threats to her safety from Belle-Marie could not go on.

Without ringing for assistance, she removed the dress she was wearing, washed, took down her hair and brushed and dressed it, then slipped into her dressing gown.

She had gone to the armoire to find a small bottle of perfume that had been her uncle’s wedding gift to her, when she saw a small, folded piece of paper lying on the floor. She picked it up and started to toss it into the washbowl for the servants to dispose of with the dirty water when she saw her name. Smoothing out the note she saw a wild, unformed scrawl. “
My darling Justin
,” it read. “
If you care to
see Claire Leroux
,
née Hauterive
,
alive again you
will come to me at the meeting ground in the swamp.”
It was signed
Yours devotedly, Belle-Marie.

The meeting ground in the swamp. It could be none other than the place beside the bayou where the voodoo ceremony had been held. Justin was not here now. He must have gone. He had gone thinking she was there and in danger, while all the while she had been almost within calling distance.

She did not understand. Why should the quadroon do such a thing—unless Octavia was right, unless it was the only way she could bring Justin to her side. A savage joy gripped Claire, then her smile of triumph faded. Once Justin was there, what then? Belle-Marie had not scrupled to try to kill her or to heap humiliation upon her. What did she intend to do to Justin if he had put her from him, if he had proven so impervious to her attraction that she had to resort to blackmail? It was a trap, a dangerous trap that he had walked into for her sake.

With the note still in her hand, she moved quickly to Octavia’s door, and after a brief knock, pushed into her room. She was certain the other woman would be dressing for supper. But the room was empty. An eerie shiver of fear ran over her.

Edouard was not in his room either, nor were Berthe or Helene. Anatole, she knew, was with Marcel, but she could not disturb him. He was solely responsible for the sick man, and he had already varied his routine once this evening by coming for her. She could not ask him to leave his helpless master alone again, nor could she upset Marcel by telling him why she had need of his servant. And there were none of the other servants she could trust. There was no one, no one but herself.

With her mouth set in a straight line, she hurried back through the house to her room where she dragged on the dress she had so recently discarded.

She had no real idea what she intended to do, but it seemed that if she could show Justin that she was alive and unhurt, he would not be forced to accede to the demands of Belle-Marie. That, at least, she could accomplish by herself. She had slipped her feet into her shoes and had her hand on the doorknob before she thought of the knife. Turning back, she took up her lamp and moved swiftly into Edouard’s room. She ran her eyes over the wall of knives, then went still, frowning. The
quillon
dagger was not there. Its space was bare. Had it been stolen again? No matter, any knife would do. Reaching up she took a long, thin blade, similar in design to the dagger she had been seeking. There, in the uncertain light coming from her own room some distance away, there was not enough difference between them to matter. And then a disquieting thought struck her. That night at the voodoo ceremony she had seen the knife Belle-Marie was using only briefly in the firelight. There was nothing to prove that that knife she was using and the knife that had been thrown at her a few minutes later were the same.

In her hand, the knife she held felt cool and hard, a vicious thing, made expressly to penetrate living flesh. She had never hurt anything or anyone in her life. Would she be able to use it if she needed it? Then her grip tightened on the carved metal and she turned away. She would have to, if there were no other choice.

There was no one to see or question her as she made her way through the rooms to the front gallery. In the shadow of the overhanging roof, she hesitated for a few seconds, but it was not because she was irresolute. When she saw no one in the dark of the front lawn, or near the woods, heard nothing, she began to descend the steps.

THE GRASS WAS damp with dew under her slippers as she struck out across the lawn. The moon sailing in brightness just above the treetops caught her in its beam, but she had no time to waste in keeping to the shadows. She had no idea what time the note had been sent. Already she might be too late.

A flutter of wings sent her heart into her throat as she flushed a covey of sleepy quail from the high grass where the lawn merged into the woods. Her ankles stung as the rough grass and briars lashed against them, then the darkness of the forest closed around her. Straining her eyes, she could see the dark slash of the bayou, then as she neared the bank, the glitter of the moonlight on the water. This was her guide to the meeting ground, and she turned, following its loops and twists, her feet seeking naturally the path beaten down by animals and the secret nighttime wanderings of those who sought the meeting place lying deep in the swamp.

It was quiet. She could hear the whisper of her skirts brushing the dried and crumbling leaves aside and the beating of her own heart as the blood shuddered along her veins. Mosquitoes sang around her face and she brushed at them with her free hand. She stumbled once over a root, and at her sudden movement, there was a scuttling rush in the darkness. A rabbit, she thought, catching her breath, or an opossum. The urge to turn back caught her unaware and she stopped, glancing back the way she had come and then ahead into the darkness before her. How much farther did she have to go? Not so far. She must be near the halfway point. But what was she thinking of? She could not, she would not, give in to the fear that clamored in her mind. She was not a child, to be frightened by a few odd noises. She forced her stiff limbs to move and then to keep on moving. She must not think. Imagination is the main ingredient of fear, she told herself as she shifted the knife from one hand to the other to wipe the perspiration from her palms.

She should be coming to it soon. Yes, there was the open space among the trees, brighter with the free entry of the moonlight and the thinner undergrowth around the clearing. Her footsteps slowed as she searched the dimness for movement, straining her ears for the sound of voices.

She stopped, letting the night settle around her. Was she too late? Had Justin come and gone? Then a chill touched her. Could it be—was it possible—that it was another hoax?

As the thought entered her mind and settled coldly there, she heard a low growl in the undergrowth off to her left. And then a scream shattered the night!

Claire whirled around. It seemed so near, not more than twenty feet away. The sound had startled the night creatures into silence. The crickets had begun to shrill again before she recognized the sound she had heard. It was a panther!

She peered into the dark until her eyes ached. Where was the animal now, what was he doing. Swallowing, she eased back toward the bank of the bayou. It would not do to lose sight of it. She would be hopelessly lost in a matter of minutes.

Suddenly, she trod on something soft, and stumbled, going to one knee. The hand she stretched out to save herself fell on something cool and smooth, but yielding, like human flesh.

She jerked her hand away, staring with disbelief at the crumpled form beside her. It was a moment before she could see that it was Belle-Marie, her limbs sprawled in the uncaring awkwardness of death, with blood staining the lovely, mocking face.

Reluctantly, Claire touched the still chest. There was not the faintest movement, but with the wide, glazed eyes reflecting the spring moon, she had not expected there to be any. It was a gesture only, a sop for the mind that could not leave even Belle Marie to the mercy of the night without being certain she no longer lived. The smell of blood, raw and primitive, filled her nostrils, the blood that shone in streaks on that face and wet the side of her dress, mingling with the darkness of the swamp, the odors of mud and decay. Nausea rose in her throat and she held her breath for a moment, fighting it.

The impulse for flight, headlong, heels flying, beat against her nerves and she sat still, trying to quash it before getting slowly to her feet. She did not think the quadroon had been dead long. Though her arms were cool, her chest had been still warm. Who, or what, had done this thing? The dark stranger who had been her husband for more than a month, Justin, who would never allow anyone to blackmail him, or the black panther nearby, now screaming his displeasure to the night sky at being deprived of his prey by her presence?

She could hear the big cat snarling deep in his throat, a vicious sound that rose into another scream. Where was he exactly? It was hard to pinpoint the sound in the dark woods. It seemed to echo and reecho around her.

Involuntarily, her fingers on the knife in her hand tightened. Her eyes searching the undergrowth, she began to back away from the body of Belle-Marie. Half her mind felt numb with a disbelieving horror, but the other half cautioned her to move slowly, to ignore the sound of the great cat, to pretend he was nothing more than a large version of Bast, the house cat that purred on her lap, and took fright at the least sign of opposition.

Then she saw him.

The moon slanted across the top of his high-held head with a blue-black sheen and gleamed red in his eyes. He was a huge animal, frozen into immobility, devouring her with his eyes, a tautness in his muscles as he scented the wind.

Don’t panic. The words seemed to whisper in her mind, and as she stared at that black head and wild eyes through the moon-drenched darkness she remembered the night Bast had crept into her room, and the way she had held him off with nothing more than strength of will. Surely this was no different, if she could only hold that burning gaze without flinching, without losing supremacy.

One moment the great cat was there, and the next he was gone, melting into the shadows of the night.

Claire took a step, another, and then she began to run back along the way she had come. Where had the panther gone? Perhaps he was behind her, or keeping pace in the underbrush beside the track. Every shaking leaf and fluttering twig seemed to harbor his slinking form, every rustle to indicate his sinuous, gliding stride.

Somehow the very act of flight increased her panic. The faster she ran, the more distance she put between herself and the dead girl lying on the ground, the more the horror grew. By the time she reached the house and pounded along the gallery, her breath was sobbing in her throat and her lungs burned with a rasping fire.

She thrust the door of her room open and then with a clawing hand slammed it to behind her. She leaned against it; as her strength left her, she slid to her knees, the knife she had clutched so desperately throughout her flight falling from her nerve-less fingers. She was weak. But more than that, she knew in a vague, far-off manner that there had been a change inside her. It was as though something had snapped and she was no longer quite the same person as the girl who had gone so willingly with Rachel to the quarters earlier. All her life she had been sheltered from the harshness of the world or the suspicion of evil. Now she had no protection against it. Its presence had touched her both physically and mentally, and she seemed to have no defense.

She crouched against the door, unable to wipe from her memory the smell of fresh blood or the terrible mutilation of Belle-Marie.

Her hands were trembling and she stared at them dazedly before clenching them together in an attempt to keep them still. Lifting her head, she gazed around the room. She had thought to feel safe here. Somehow she did not. Was there, she wondered, any real safety anywhere?

Across from her was the door into Octavia’s room with its silver-plated lock and protruding key. If she could get to it, turn the key, she might regain an illusion of security.

But even as the thought came, the door was pulled open and Justin stepped into the room.

“Claire, what is it?” he exclaimed.

She froze, staring at him, her eyes dark with fright. He wore dark gray, almost black, and his movements seemed to her strained mind to have about them the grace of the panther in the woods. His eyes were narrowed to slits, a frown rippled across his face, and by some strange quirk of the light, the lamp appeared to reflect in his eyes with a red gleam.

As he started toward her, her brain refused to acknowledge why he frightened her, and yet she could not suppress a cry of alarm nor prevent herself from throwing one hand up before her face as if to ward him off. He stopped as if he had run into a brick wall.

They stared at each other, but before Justin could speak again, Octavia swept into the room.

“What’s the matter? I thought I heard—why, Claire—” She moved at once to the girl’s side, slanting a glance of interrogation at Justin as she passed him. Then, as she knelt to put her arm around Claire, she gasped.

“Blood—there is blood all over the hem of your dress. Are you hurt?”

As she glanced down, Claire saw there was blood on her hands also and she shuddered, staring at them. Then she looked up at Octavia.

“No—no, not me. It’s Belle-Marie. She’s—dead. There was blood. So much blood. Her eyes—I forgot to close her eyes. The panther will—he will—We have got to do something!” She looked from Octavia to Justin, but as she saw the harsh frown on her husband’s face, she looked away again.

“Claire—” Octavia said in the helpless voice of one who cannot understand. Then as Justin moved to help her to her feet, Claire’s hands closed spasmodically on Octavia’s wrists.

It was useless. Her shrinking did not deter him.

“No—no,” she whispered as she felt his hands close beneath her elbows, but she was pulled to her feet.

As she straightened, the knife slipped from where it had dropped among the folds of her skirt. They stared at it, then before she could catch her breath, Justin shook her.

“Where were you?”

“I—first the jail—then—then the swamp—” she said through trembling lips. “I saw the note—she said—Belle-Marie—” Her face drained of color as the memory of what she had seen and endured swept in upon her again. Her eyes, pleading for understanding, searched his face. She could not seem to control the words she needed to explain. She knew she was making no real sense, and yet she was powerless to do anything about it. But seeing the incomprehension on Justin’s face she tried again.

 “The jail—I was in the jail—ask Rachel. She knows.”

There was a faint rustle at the door and Rachel coughed, a small, polite sound. “I am sorry, Monsieur Justin. I know nothing of what she is saying. Madame was here in this room all the afternoon, until the time for me to leave after madame was dressed for supper. She told me not to return later to put her in bed, but I saw her run from the woods and I thought she might need me.”

For a moment, shock struck through Claire’s confusion. “She is lying! She was the one who shut me up in the jail in the quarters. She told me Octavia was inside, and when I went in she closed the door!”

Rachel shook her head slowly as she bit her lip, her eyes never leaving Claire’s face.

“But you did! The women saw you. The women on the porch—of the nursery.”

She turned to Justin. “Ask them, they will tell you—or Anatole. Ask Anatole. He was the one who let me out.”

Justin stared at Rachel. The girl’s eyes seemed to hold nothing but sadness.

“No, Monsieur. No. Madame was here. I promise you.”

Justin shook his head, his face grave. “I cannot believe that Anatole would leave my father. And no one on this plantation would watch you, my wife, locked away without lifting a hand. You don’t know what you are saying. Come, let Rachel put you to bed.”

“No! I don’t want her.”

“Claire—”

“I won’t have her, do you hear me? And you can’t just leave. You have to do something about Belle-Marie. You have to! She is in the swamp with the panther. He will—”