Dark Masquerade (16 page)

When Callie returned, Grand’mere took Joseph into the crook of her arm and directed the cleaning with her cane while the baby stared up into her old face with a look of interested wonder.

They placed flags, the white iris, in the altar vases. When all was as perfect as the old lady could wish, she sent after the candle in its hurricane cover so that she could light the candles on the altar.

“Why didn’t you bring a few of Bernard’s friction matches?” Celestine asked. “It would have been much easier.”

“New-fangled things like that are the devil’s work. I will have no part of them. My grandmother and my mother always carried a candle to the chapel and so shall I.”

“I couldn’t do without them,” Darcourt said, patting his waistcoat pocket, from which two cigars protruded. “I saw a peddler the other day who had matches in his pack. How about that? Bernard has been ordering them from Paris,” he explained in response to Elizabeth’s questioning look.

“Listen!”

They fell silent at Grand’mere’s command, straining to hear. From the main road beyond the trees, the sound of a wagon could be heard. It seemed to be turning into the drive.

“It’s Bernard. Darcourt, go and see. I did want all of us here. Tell Bernard to come at once.”

“Bernard? In a wagon?” Darcourt asked.

“Well, of course not. But he may be riding beside it. Why else would a wagon be coming into the drive? In the ordinary way they would go on by the road around to the quarters.” Her voice took on a strident note as if she felt she was dealing with fools.

Darcourt obeyed her, passing Callie as she came back with the candle flickering inside its glass globe. They questioned her but she had not seen the wagon, had not thought it worth looking back for since it meant she might drop the precious candle and earn Grand’mere’s wrath. They stood waiting as patiently as they could until Darcourt returned.

“It was Bernard right enough. He wouldn’t come back with me, however. He was taking the short cut to the hospital. There has been a little fracas. The overseer over in the next place had been lining his pockets at Bernard’s expense, just as he thought. Bernard’s valet, Ambrose, caught a ball in his shoulder. He must be in pretty bad shape, Bernard wanted him back here so he could keep an eye on him.”

Grand’mere listened in silence, and then pressed her lips together. “There are women at the hospital to attend to wounds of that nature. Go after him at once, and tell him I desire his presence here.”

Darcourt did not look hopeful, but he went away again. Again they stood waiting, for the most part, in silence. The sun sank lower in the sky and disappeared behind the trees. The shadows lengthened and the light in the chapel grew dim. The candle Callie had brought burned lower; soon it would go out. Joseph began to fret hungrily. Still Bernard did not come, nor did Darcourt return.

“Oh, very well,” Grand’mere said at last. “We will proceed without them.” Her voice boded ill for the two men when next she saw them.

She returned the baby to Callie’s care. Then she took the candle from its hurricane shade, and, moving with a slow and ceremonial majesty, she lit the candles on the altar. With the ease of long practice she then crossed herself and knelt. Celestine knelt beside her.

Elizabeth looked at the irises, their white petals shimmering in the candle glow; she looked at the gold candlesticks, vases, and crucifix, which reflected the tongues of flame in their polished surfaces. It seemed in that moment that if she stood back she would always be alien to Oak Shade and its inhabitants, whereas there would be a kind of belonging in kneeling with them here in this place. Certainly there was more than enough reason for her to pray.

Slowly she crossed herself and sank to her knees, her full black skirts billowing around her.

At last Grand’mere sighed and rose to her feet. Elizabeth stood, and seeing Celestine trying to rise, hampered by her skirts, she gave her a hand to cling to while she got to her feet. The dark-haired girl accepted the proffered hand but gave no more than a perfunctory thank you before turning to Grand’mere.

“Oh, Grand’mere, chère, may I ride back in the carriage with you?” she asked winningly. “I am exhausted.”

Grand’mere gave her assent, but not without a touch of scorn. “I suppose you want to squeeze in, too,” she said, turning on Elizabeth.

After that remark Elizabeth felt she would not have ridden in the carriage even if she wanted to, which she did not. She welcomed the idea of the walk home in the dusk alone. She had been too much in the company of people in the last weeks. It would be a pleasure to have no one’s company but her own.

She turned the key in the lock of the chapel door and handed it back to Grand’mere. Then she walked back out to the carriage on the drive with the other women.

She watched them drive away with something like gratitude. It was not until the sound of their going had faded and the silence of near night had fallen that she felt her first unease.

She tried to ignore it, to laugh at herself. After all, there was no danger. She knew who had tried to harm her and Joseph, didn’t she?

To prove that she was afraid neither of shadows nor of the dark turnings of her own mind, she did not hurry toward the house. Instead she leaned against a tree, letting her mind roam, willing the peace of the close of day to invade her soul.

It was a relief to drop her pretense and be herself, without the need to appear the subdued and grieving widow. It had been a strain, she admitted to herself, especially when cooped up in the house during the long days of rain and unseasonably cool weather. She had felt that everyone was watching her, weighing her performance, especially Bernard. It seemed that every time she looked up she found his dark inscrutable gaze upon her. But there had been no reference to the money, to his need of it, or to the lost papers that would secure it for her. She wished somehow that he would speak of it. His brooding silence on the subject was unnerving.

The noise of the crickets and other spring singing insects was loud in the woods around her. A night bird called mournfully. The wind touched the tops of the trees, swaying them gently. Regretfully she pushed away from the tree. Her footsteps as she started back toward the house in the thickening darkness were loud. She felt no better, there was no peace in her heart gained by her solitude. There seemed to be a barrier to peace within her mind. A barrier, she was afraid, of her own making, built of lies and deception.

As she held her skirts above the clutch of the briars, she told herself firmly that though her role was a strain on her nerves, in some ways it was becoming easier. She often thought of herself as Ellen now. She answered to the name without effort. She took her place on Bernard’s right at the table, and took her chair before the fireplace; she accepted as her due, accepted attention, the stool for her feet, the shawl for her shoulders, with a naturalness that was unfeigned. The idea of Felix’s letters still disturbed her at times, but she had quietly searched Grand’mere’s room and the small sitting room the old lady used for writing letters. Finding nothing, she had concluded that what few letters there had been must have been destroyed. The one other possibility was Bernard’s bedroom, but if she were caught there it would be a more scandalous situation than she cared to contemplate. A young widow simply did not enter a bachelor’s bedroom except under the most dire circumstances. There would be nothing she could offer in the way of an excuse, and after the ordeal in the library she could not bear to think of taking such a risk without some excuse with which to protect herself in case she was discovered.

As she neared one of the wide curves of the drive, she heard footsteps coming toward her. Bernard or Darcourt coming to escort her back to the house, she thought. Doubtless Grand’mere had not realized how close to full darkness it was when she left her behind, and her conscience had pricked her into asking someone to come and see about her.

Smiling a little, pleased at the sign of thoughtfulness, Elizabeth stopped. While she was waiting for whoever it was to come to her, she bent over to remove a brittle, dead briar that had caught on her skirt and broken off. But as she came to a halt the footsteps halted also.

She listened for a moment. “Bernard?” she called. “Darcourt?”

There was no answer.

“Darcourt?” she called again, a threatening note in her voice as it occurred to her that it would not be beyond him to have a bit of fun at her expense. She tried to peer through the low hanging limbs but she could see nothing except darkness beyond a few feet.

When there was still no answer she began to wonder if perhaps Theresa had given Denise the slip and had gotten out of the house. She shivered a little, and, taking a hold on her fancies, opened her mouth to call out again. But then she abruptly closed it when she remembered the overseer who had been dismissed, and the fracas which Darcourt had mentioned in such an offhand way but which had ended in bloodshed.

Suppose the overseer had resented his dismissal enough to come prowling about the big house looking for some way to get back at the people in it? He might think she would make as good a target for his revenge as any other. Or perhaps he was looking for Alma. He might object violently to anyone else becoming aware of his presence.

Before the thought had completely formed in her mind, she had stepped as quietly as possible off the road. The deep grass and dead leaves under the trees deadened the sound of her footsteps. She would wait to see who it was.

Minutes passed. Dew had fallen upon her so that her clothes were damp to the touch. A sense of coldness crept over her and she clutched her upper arms, feeling the chill bumps of fear through the thin bombazine of her sleeves. Her eyes burned from straining to see through the darkness.

Suddenly there was a small sound behind her of cloth rustling, and before she could move something soft and clinging descended over her head and tightened around her throat. She caught at it, twisting and turning, digging her fingers under the rope of twisted cloth. Her breath rasped painfully in her throat, sending waves of panic to her brain. Her eyes throbbed with the beat of her heart.

She staggered back. Feeling her assailant behind her, she stepped down hard with her wooden-heeled walking shoes and threw her weight backward.

They went down together. Elizabeth felt the back of her head come in contact with a ridge of facial bone, and at the same time the constriction around her neck loosened. She rolled away, dragging air into her lungs in a sharp, audible gasp. Scrambling to her feet she started to run, her skirt was caught and she plunged back to the ground. Desperately she rolled away from the grasping hands. She felt her sleeve rip and the cool air touch the bare skin of her arm. Then as her elbow came down on a fallen tree branch a shaft of pure rage struck through her terror.

She grasped the branch with both hands, rose to her knees and struck out, swinging it wildly. As she felt it thud against yielding flesh a cry of satisfaction sprang to her lips, and then she was up and running, her skirts clutched in both hands.

She dodged among the trees, ducking under the limbs, avoiding collision with them more by instinct than by sight. When she felt gravel under her feet she checked, but she knew that with her confining petticoats and skirt she would be a much easier quarry on the open drive than among the trees where she could hide. She was still too far from the house for a scream to be heard. Behind her she could hear the floundering sound of pursuit. Clenching her teeth together she crossed the road and ran into the trees. It was very hard to do this, with the drive beckoning toward the safety of the house, but she promised herself that she would double back toward it as soon as she safely could.

She ran, trying to put as much distance as she could between herself and her pursuer. She felt the pins leaving her hair and the heavy coil sliding down, spreading out over her shoulders. Her heart pounded in her chest with a harsh ache. Her breathing became labored, a stitch developed in her side and more than once she stumbled as the long dead grass threatened to trip her heavy feet.

At last she slowed and then stopped, reaching out to an oak for support, and then turned to lean with her back against it. Her ribs strained against her tight lacing for air, and she tried to quiet her harsh breathing to listen.

She could hear nothing. Had he given up, or was he standing quietly, listening for her, waiting to creep up on her again?

She shivered a little at the thought, pressing closer against the rough bark of the tree. Silence descended, an unnatural silence without the sound of insects or night birds. Her breathing slowed, her heartbeat steadied, but panic still hovered at the back of her mind. Her hands trembled and she had to clamp her jaws together to keep her teeth from chattering.

Drifting on the night air came a sweet, haunting fragrance. She turned her head to locate the direction from which it came, a mundane action to take her mind from her terror. At that moment something cracked with a sharp report behind her. She pushed away from the tree, running before she was three steps from it. A half dozen steps more and she had plunged into the thorny depths of that tantalizing fragrance, which had been coming from a thicket of mock orange.