Dark Masquerade (2 page)

As she neared the front door, it swung wide and a white-coated Negro butler bowed low and then stepped back for her to enter. She glanced at him inquiringly but he had the impassive countenance of all good servants. In the great central hall she stopped.

The hall stretching through the center of the house was floored with polished squares of black and white marble. Against the right wall stood a massive table with a white marble top and the curved cabriole legs of a Chippendale piece. Upon it sat a silver tray for visiting cards and a heavy glass lamp. The lamp had an elaborate base of small stylized glass dragons, a dark green globe that nearly concealed the flickering flame within, and crystal lusters that tinkled faintly in the draft from the open door. Behind the table the wall was covered with an oriental wall-paper in celadon green with a pattern of drooping weeping willows and pensive, small-faced, slant-eyed maidens.

To the left rose a wide staircase with a mahogany stair rail ending at the foot of the stairs in a serpentine coil that served as a newel post. In the center of the coil was fixed a smooth ivory button, a symbol that the house was paid for, that it carried no mortgage.

Seeing her hesitation, the butler bowed again and begged her to step into the library. Though she had the curious feeling that she was being maneuvered, Elizabeth had no choice but to comply. It was only after she was in the library that it occurred to her that as member of the family she should have been shown into the front parlor, or salon as the Creoles called it, instead of this lesser room.

After holding a spill to the lamp in the hall, the butler lit several lamps for them in the library, saw that they were seated and then went away.

Minutes passed. Elizabeth and Callie were too tired to speak, and the ticking of the ormolu clock on the white Carrera marble mantle over the fireplace was loud in the silence. Callie sighed, shifted in her chair, and patted Joseph, who was hungrily trying to suck his fist. Elizabeth, got to her feet and paced, looking at the somber elegance of the room. Burgundy velvet drapes, heavily fringed with gold tassels, hung over the Swiss lace panels at the windows. A gold rug with a border of swirling green leaves covered the floor, and the walnut settee and chairs were covered with red brocatelle picked out with gold thread. The faint odor of tobacco hung on the air, coming she discovered from a humidor on one of the small tables sitting about the room. There was also a smell of leather which came from the books that lined the walls and from the large leather chair that stood behind a heavy desk that took up the far end of the long room. The two smells combined to give an impression of masculinity to the room.

Abruptly the door swung open and the butler stood back to allow a man to enter. Elizabeth turned to face him and made a move to step forward then checked herself. No, let him come to her, she thought. It would not do to appear too eager. But as the man came toward her she found herself wondering if it would not have been easier to go to him than to sustain that dark and searching regard.

A black armband was fastened over the sleeve of his deep gray frock coat. Beneath the coat he wore a black embroidered waistcoat with fawn pantaloons. Onyx shirt studs gleamed against the white of his pleated and tucked shirt front and at his collar a pure white cravat contrasted with the deep sun bronze of his face. His dark hair was brushed back severely over his ears, and the fine curl threatening to fall from the brush pattern lent no note of softness to the black gaze of his eyes.

“You will be my brother’s wife. I bid you welcome to Oak Shade,” he said with a slight bow.

As she gave him her hand he carried it to his lips. The action was so unexpected that Elizabeth flinched, and then tried to recover the slip by smiling quickly and thanking him. But he had not overlooked her reaction, and an added stiffness came into his manner.

“And you must be Bernard,” she said brightly, trying to overcome her nervousness. “Felix spoke of you often. I must thank you for sending the carriage to meet us.”

“Not at all. I am told my driver could not bring you the entire distance from town. I am sorry. It was most remiss of him, especially since he has met every coach from the north for the past three days. I would not want you to find our hospitality lacking.”

“It was my fault. I had the driver bypass the town to come straight here. It seemed best. I didn’t realize that you would send the carriage for us since I didn’t, in my letter, give you any real idea of when we would be arriving. I had no very real idea myself.”

“In the future you will find it best perhaps to leave such arrangements in my hands.”

“I’m—sure I shall,” Elizabeth murmured, noting his obvious disapproval of what she had done, but resolving to maintain her independence. Something about his manner set her teeth on edge, and she found her smile fading until they were staring at each other in near hostility. There was an exactness about him that she did not like, from the precise folds of his cravat and the perfect set of his coat across the shoulders, to the trim of his fashionably long sideburns. There was a chiseled appearance to the planes of his face, in the high cheek bones, firm chin, and the contours of his mouth. Thick black brows divided by two parallel grooves, as of constant anger or irritation, gave him a forbidding look. There had been a faint French accent in his speech that might have been attractive if his voice had not been so cold. The only thing about him that she could approve was that he was clean shaven, though this was a mark of a strong, near arrogant, self-confidence in a hirsute decade.

Callie sighed heavily again, and for the first time, Bernard Delacroix seemed to notice the Negro woman and the fretting baby she held. He stared at Joseph for a long moment, so long that Elizabeth said, “The child is tired and hungry, that is all.”

He brought his gaze back to her face. “Yes, of course. You must all be tired. If you will be seated I will have someone show you to your room.”

He had hardly finished speaking before the door opened once again and the butler bowed a plump middle-aged woman into the room.

“What is this, Bernard?” she said, a glint of avid curiosity in her small black eyes. “Why have you left the supper table? Who are these people?”

“This lady,” he answered her with a stress on the second word as a reproof, “is my brother’s wife, the mother of his child.”

An alarming wave of color rose in the florid face of the older woman. “That’s impossible,” she snapped, “Felix has been dead very nearly a year.”

“I assure you it is so.” There was a stern note in his voice that did not fail to reach her. She looked long and measuringly at the baby, who was fast becoming furious as his hunger rose.

“How old?” she asked abruptly of Elizabeth. The woman spoke in the Creole French of the area, as had Bernard when he answered her. Bernard made a move to translate but Elizabeth forestalled him. “I understand.”

Her mother had been born and reared in New Orleans. Her mother had met her father, a Mississippi planter, while visiting relatives in Natchez.

To the woman she said in a cool voice, “Joseph is four months old.”

Bernard Delacroix did not lack a sense of humor. “Let me present you,” he said dryly, “to my step-mother, Madame Alma Delacroix.”

The older woman barely acknowledged the introduction. With her small plump hands folded across the silk of her black dress she demanded, “Why wasn’t I told?”

Bernard began to answer her, but as it was nearly impossible to be heard above the now crying baby, he did not continue. He turned toward the door, looking, Elizabeth supposed, for the butler to summon assistance. When he saw who stood in the doorway a faint smile touched his lips.

“Grand’mere,” he said, “what kept you?”

A white-haired woman with steel spectacles on her nose and a cane in her hand advanced into the room. Dressed in black from the pointed leather shoes on her feet to the batiste cap trimmed with black ribbon on her high-held head, she was actually smiling as she came toward Elizabeth.

“You there,” she said to Callie, ignoring Bernard’s comment. “Take my great-grandson and follow that girl.” She jerked her head toward a Negro maid in a white cap and apron who was hovering in the doorway. “Mind you be careful of him going up the stairs. Ask the girl for whatever you need to make him comfortable, but hurry. I dislike intensely to hear a baby crying!”

Elizabeth helped Callie to her feet with a hand under her elbow. Then she watched in some trepidation as they left the room.

“You may be easy,” Grand’mere said calmly. “They will be cared for, I assure you.”

“Yes, of course,” Elizabeth replied, summoning a smile.

“I believe it will be best if you also seek your bed. Quite frankly, you appear exhausted.”

She glanced at her grandson. “You agree, Bernard? I think all discussion can be postponed until tomorrow. We have waited this long, a few hours more will make no difference. In any event, if we delay here very much longer we will have Darcourt and Celestine with us.”

Bernard inclined his head but made no move to go, his eyes narrow as he gazed at Elizabeth’s pale face.

“Sherry and biscuits usually make our supper since we have a large mid-day meal, but I will have something a little more substantial sent to you shortly.”

“I would be grateful.”

Alma Delacroix had been listening impatiently.

“You will oblige me, Bernard—unless of course, you wish to hold a family conclave?”

Bernard stared at her a moment, and then lowered his eyelids. With a slight shake of his head, he offered his to the plump woman, his step-mother, and led her from the room, her neck craning back over her shoulder.

For a long time after they had gone the old lady they called Grand’mere stared at Elizabeth. “You have a good chin,” she said at last. “And you seem like a sensible girl, not quite what I expected, but sensible. That is an exceedingly rare quality here at Oak Shade. You would do well to cultivate it.” Her old voice held a dry humor. Then a stiffness came into her manner.

“I believe in plain speaking and I want you to believe that what I am about to say is to help you make some sort of life here with us. You cannot help but be aware that your marriage to my grandson Felix was a surprise to his family, an unpleasant surprise. He had been betrothed to his cousin, Celestine, since they were children. The betrothal is a serious matter to us Creoles. We are the foreign born descendants of pure French and Spanish forebears and follow their strict marital traditions. The betrothal is an alliance, a contract signed by all parties. To a Creole, breaking off the betrothal is almost as unheard of as breaking the marriage! You must understand our feelings. Felix’s death in the war in Texas was not only a great sorrow to us all, but it was also unfortunate for you since you will not have his love and support to help you become a part of this family.”

She looked up at Elizabeth to see how she was affected by that statement, and seeing no sign of tears, went on: “You must know that you have been asked to come here for the sake of Felix’s son. Perhaps I should not speak of it, but I dislike pretense. I do not know why you have accepted my invitation, I only know that I am glad you have. It required courage, I’m sure. I win do what I can to help you make a place for yourself among us, but you must expect a certain amount of resentment. It is not unnatural under the circumstances.”

“I understand,” Elizabeth said quietly when she saw that the old lady had finished. A quiet anger seethed in her mind, and she found herself once again feeling nearly glad that it was herself and not Ellen who was here. She understood perfectly. She understood that she was on trial, that if there were adjustments to be made in order for her to live at Oak Shade, she would be expected to make them. She would have to learn to accommodate her life to theirs. She must not be offended because they did not want her but only Joseph. She was to be accepted for his sake. Unconsciously she raised her head. Very well. Their attitude made no difference. She had come, after all, for Joseph’s sake also. Joseph had a rightful place here at Oak Shade plantation. So long as he was accepted, loved and cared for, she did not care whether she belonged or not, if she could be with him. Their affection was not necessary for her welfare.

“There is one other thing you should realize. Celestine, the girl Felix was to marry, is living here in the house. Her parents are touring in France, a protracted visit to relatives. For the time being Bernard and I are acting as her guardians. Perhaps you will remember that she is our cousin and try to understand her position. She regards herself in the light of a widow. She loved Felix, you know, and has been in deepest mourning for him.”

Elizabeth felt a flush of indignation mounting to her cheeks, but there seemed little to say. How would she have felt, she wondered, if she had in truth been Felix’s widow? How could she have brought herself to stay in this house in circumstances like these? It was a useless question. She knew very well that if she had had any legal claim to her sister’s child, she would never have come at all.

“Come,” the old lady said imperiously. “Give me your arm up the stairs. If I keep you here much longer Bernard will wonder why he should not have his discussion with you also.”

“Perhaps he should,” Elizabeth said in a tight voice.

“I forbid it. You are much too fatigued. It would not be at all the thing.”

Elizabeth’s antagonism began to fade as they slowly climbed the stairs. As she held the old lady’s elbow she could feel the fragile bones and sense a faint but constant trembling. But though her anger was gone, a depression remained. It settled deeper over her when she glanced over the banister rail and caught sight of the family at the supper table. The room below was bright with a dozen candles. There were candles in the twin candelabra on the sideboard and in the chandelier above the table. An epergne filled to overflowing with white azaleas sat in the center of the white lace cloth which was studded with silver and crystal. Bernard and his step-mother had returned to their places at the table, and there was also a young woman at the board who she thought must be Celestine. She was dressed in black, though her mourning was relieved by a pink camellia at the neckline of the lace bertha that fell over the great, drooping puff sleeves of her dress. Another flower nestled atop the curls of soft black hair at the back of her head, which were drawn back from a demure center part. Her finely molded face was tinted with delicate color as she toyed with a small wine glass and laughed across the table at Bernard. A second man sat at the table, but though he was somberly dressed also, as befitted a house of mourning, his face held a look of such reckless gaiety that Elizabeth came to a halt, startled. His hair gleamed in golden waves under the candlelight and his laughing eyes appeared blue, though it was hard to be certain at such a distance. As she watched he lounged back in his chair, said something to Celestine, and touched a fingertip to his neat mustache, which was a shade darker in color than his hair.