Dark Masquerade (7 page)

“Callie—” she whispered, and the next moment she was kneeling beside her.

Callie lay on her back near the bed with one of Elizabeth’s nightgowns clutched in her hand. Her face was gray and drawn, a harsh contrast to the bright madras tignon, or kerchief, she wore tied about her head. With the baby in the crook of her arm, there was little Elizabeth could do to help the Negro nurse. She was glad when she found Bernard beside her slipping an arm under Callie’s shoulders to raise her head. As he moved her the tignon slid backward onto the floor and Elizabeth cried out as she saw that the back of it was wet with blood. There was a grim look on Bernard’s face as his eyes met hers, and then his eyelids masked his expression as he curtly told Celestine to send for brandy and a vinaigrette.

Celestine left the room but she returned shortly.

“There was no one to send,” she said, shrugging her slim shoulders.

“Where the devil are they?” Bernard rasped.

“Don’t growl at me. I’m sure I don’t know. I suppose the yardman has commandeered the errand boys again. He was complaining yesterday because the chickens were scratching around his precious roses again. And the maids must be finished upstairs.”

“Then will you at least get the brandy? The decanter is on the sideboard in the dining room. There is a silver tag on it.”

“I? Wait on a servant? Are you mad, Bernard?”

“Then find Denise, find Grand’mere, but do something.”

At the whiplash in his voice Celestine moved, but there was resentfulness in the look she cast at Elizabeth before she turned and went unhurriedly from the room.

By the time she returned with Grand’mere and Denise, bearing a small glass of spirit on a silver tray, Callie’s eyes had fluttered open. Elizabeth put down the washcloth that she had been using to bathe Callie’s face, and spoke to her softly.

Callie smiled, a vague look in her eyes, and took a small sip from the glass held to her lips. Then she tried to struggle to a sitting position.

“I shouldn’t ought to be laying here. I’m all right,” she said, but it was patently untrue.

Grand’mere, blaming herself for not being in her room, lamenting that she had been closeted in the sitting room, sent the French maid bustling to find bandages. Then she insisted on taking the baby while Elizabeth dressed the cut on the back of Callie’s head.

“Can you tell us what happened, Callie?” she asked as she worked.

The nurse seemed groggy, her eyes were still dazed, and it seemed that she would be unable to reply. Then she took a deep breath as if gathering her strength and began in a slow, halting mutter, rambling a little as if she was not quite herself.

“Little Joseph was asleep—and I had some time—time on my hands. Didn’t know what I should do—whether it was my place to straighten the bedroom what belonged to the Ol’ Mis’. None of the maids—upstairs maids—would come in here to clean up after breakfast. Guess nobody told them to ‘tend to us. Knew how to do for you, though. I thought I would just unpack—and hang all your things in that there big wardrobe in your bedroom. That’s what I was doing when you—sent after them papers. I thought we put all the papers and books and such in the bottom of your trunk—and we did too. I was just lifting that big Good Book out when I heard something funny-like behind me. ‘Fore I could turn around something hit me. It hurt. That’s all I knowed until I—woke up just now.”

“You heard something funny. What do you mean by funny?” Bernard asked.

“Well—kinda like a laugh, only quiet. At least, I think that’s what it was—”

“You didn’t hear anything, see anything, else?”

“No, sir. Not that I can think of.”

“The woman probably fell,” Celestine said. “We can only be thankful she didn’t kill the baby when she hit the floor. I wouldn’t be surprised to discover that she has fits or spells of some kind.”

Elizabeth was speechless with indignation, an indignation that grew as she saw Grand’mere’s frown and tiny nod of agreement.

“No!” she got out at last. “You can’t be serious!”

“Indeed? And why not?” Celestine demanded.

“Because—because it’s impossible, that’s why. You don’t know anything about Callie and Joseph or you would understand.”

“Oh? How interesting—” Celestine began, but Elizabeth paid her no heed.

“There now, don’t listen to her, and don’t tease yourself,” she said to Callie as tears of pain rose in the woman’s eyes.

“What she mean, about killing little Joseph? He was asleep in his bed, like I told you. That’s the truth.”

“I know. It happened just as you said. I believe you. We have to get you to bed now, I think. This thing can be straightened out later.”

“Oh
,
Mis’—Ellen, those things you wanted. They in the trunk on the bed, I expect. I must have dropped them back inside when I fell. I’m awful sorry I couldn’t get them to you.”

“Yes, all right, Callie. Don’t worry about it. I’ll find everything.”

As she spoke she was urging Callie to her feet with Bernard’s help. She glanced at the bed, but there was no sign of the documents she sought. She would have gone on by, leading Callie toward the trundle bed set up in the large bedroom, but Callie stopped.

“They were right there. I know they was,” she said. “I had the big Good Book in my hands and that fancy paper was on top all rolled up in its leather case.” She reached out and tipped the small hidebound trunk with its rounded lid toward her.

“Why, Mis’—Ellen, did you get them there things out already? They was right here, but they gone now. They gone!”

“They were here,” Elizabeth said in confusion, “in this trunk.” She could not imagine who would have stolen them. They were of no possible use to anyone but her. Who would have taken the risk of creeping into the room, striking Callie and as a last vicious gesture, leaving Joseph, a defenseless baby who could not possibly harm them, at the head of that long flight of stairs? Who would do all those things for something so worthless? She could not make even a guess, but the papers were gone and it was obvious that someone had taken them. Obvious to her but not to the others, she discovered when she voiced the thought aloud.

“I don’t understand what you are talking about,” Celestine said with slow insolence. “It seems extremely unlikely that anyone in this house would steal from you.”

“They were there,” Elizabeth repeated, her voice rising, “and now they are gone. Someone must have taken them!”

“Are you quite certain? I mean, you may have left whatever it is you have lost behind,” Grand’mere suggested.

“I did not leave them behind,” Elizabeth said with a measured distinctness as she regained her temper. “They have been stolen, I promise you.” Though she spoke to Grand’mere she looked at Bernard.

“You believe me, don’t you?”

“Well, really!” Celestine exclaimed.

“Oh yes, I believe you,” Bernard said. But did he? Or was he simply smoothing over what had become an awkward moment? There was nothing in his hard black eyes to tell her.

“What is going on here? How can a person sleep with such a disturbance?”

The woman who had been introduced as Bernard’s step-mother followed her harsh voice into the room. Her face was puffy with sleep and around her she clutched a yellow silk wrapper. She balanced her plump figure on the ridiculously slender heels of her yellow embroidered red satin slippers. In the bright morning light there was a blowzy over-ripeness about her face, and the faint suggestion of a dark mustache on her upper lip. Her blackish brown hair was slipping from the confines of a pink net snood.

When they turned to look at her she pulled the wrapper closer around her. “I could hear your voices as plain as day through the walls of my room next door. I was startled wide awake, my repose quite shattered, and I hardly slept at all last night. I’m sure every joint in my body ached, and my poor head! I am certain I have a migraine coming on. It seems little enough to ask for a bit of quiet in the mornings. It is the only time I really sleep. You all know it is, I have told you often enough.”

“So you have, Alma
,
” Grand’mere said, a dry note in her voice. “You must not let us keep you, however. We have had the merest accident here. Perhaps if Denise came to you and massaged your temples with cologne you could be easy.”

“Oh yes, you are good to loan her to me. Her ministrations are helpful beyond anything I have tried. Perhaps she might be persuaded to put my hair up for me, too. Such a tedious chore and quite beyond my girl, or so it seems. She is so very clumsy, I am always surprised to find that she has not buttoned me up wrong.”

“Yes, to be sure. Denise is a treasure and I am certain she will do all that is necessary for your comfort,” Grand’mere said impatiently.

“Indeed yes, Madame Delacroix,” Denise said, moving with an affected stateliness to the door and holding it wide for the other woman. Alma tripped through the door and down the hall, her wooden heels clacking loudly on the polished wood of the floor.

The old lady gave a crack of laughter as she stared after her daughter-in-law, but she did not explain what had amused her, nor did her amusement last.

“Your father should never have married again,” she said to Bernard in a toneless voice.

Bernard glanced toward Elizabeth, as if to remind his grandmother of her presence, but made no comment. When Elizabeth and the old lady began to make Callie comfortable on the trundle bed, he went away.

Joseph, comforted by the closeness of his nurse, went to sleep in the curve of Callie’s arm. When Callie’s eyes began to droop also, Elizabeth got up from the chair where she had been watching them to see that they were both going to be none the worse for their ordeal. Grand’mere had sent for her correspondence from the downstairs sitting room. As Elizabeth opened the bedroom door, Grand’mere looked up from the small portable desk she held in her lap.

“Tired?” she asked in a carrying whisper, then answered herself. “You must be. Nothing is so tiring as a fright. Come, sit here beside me and tell all about these missing items. I am not at all sure I understand.”

Elizabeth complied willingly enough. When she had finished, Grand’mere sat staring at the long slender wooden pen in her hand with its sharp nib.

“You are certain, quite certain, that you brought these things with you?”

“Oh, yes, Madame. I have seen them at least twice a day since I left Texas, every time I opened the trunk. There was not that much in the trunk, after all.”

“I see. And you could not have left them at some stop? Your servant could not have carelessly laid them out and forgotten to put them back?”

“I’m sure she didn’t.”

“It isn’t impossible, you know, that she is somehow at fault and is trying to cover her guilt?”

“Not Callie,” Elizabeth said firmly.

“Very well, let us look at it from our angle. Who do you think would take your papers and for what reason? You do not answer. You see?” She spread her hands.

Did the old lady really intend to dismiss what had happened so easily? Was there to be no inquiry? No alarm?

“It is like the spiders,” Elizabeth suggested softly. “I do not know who did that either.”

Grand’mere’s face froze. “You need not concern yourself unduly, I think. There will be a complete investigation made into these matters. Bernard will see to that.”

And with that Elizabeth had to be satisfied. “Excuse me,” she said, and rising, left the room.

As she closed the door behind her she looked up to see Darcourt standing in the opening of the doors out onto the upper gallery. A thin ribbon of blue smoke curled up from the cigar he held between his fingers. He turned warily at her footstep, and then as he saw her he smiled and, flipping the cigar out and over the gallery railing, came toward her.

“I have been hearing about the disturbance. I feel I ought to apologize for our hospitality,” he said, holding out his hand. He brushed his lips across the back of her fingers as she put her hand into his. Then, keeping her hand, he tucked it into the crook of his arm with an easy, natural gesture, and led her outside onto the gallery.

The sun had moved nearly directly overhead and the gallery was shadowed and cool. A breeze wafted across the open space, lifting the fine hair that had escaped from her tidy chignon and blowing her skirts against Darcourt’s boots. Sword ferns, cascading over the sides of their wrought iron containers, made a fresh green bower around several chairs at one end of the gallery, and they strolled toward it.

As they seated themselves, Darcourt lounged back in the delicate wrought iron chair and Elizabeth found herself smiling at him with sudden friendliness. With his undemanding acceptance of her, and his admiring glances and air of relaxation, he seemed more approachable than anyone else in the house. She realized that he was exerting himself to be charming and she appreciated it. No one else had bothered.

They spoke casually about the mild spring weather, the conflict in Texas, and the likelihood of the territory becoming a state. Darcourt had no firm opinion about the latter, and little concern. In that, he reminded Elizabeth of Felix, who had marched off to war for the ideal that anyone who wanted their own government badly enough to fight for it deserved a helping hand, especially if they were Americans. Felix had gone to war for the glory and romance of battle, and for the excitement of it. She had thought for months that he had gone without a thought for his bride and the possibility of a child from his marriage with Ellen. It took some adjustment in her thinking for her to credit him with the forethought to provide for his wife. What of the child, though? Joseph was heir to his father’s estate. She had been hasty in closing the discussion of money without asking Bernard about that when she had the chance. It was not enough for him to say simply that he was the baby’s guardian.

“You look sad,” Darcourt told her. He let the front legs of the chair he was leaning back in fall forward with a thump. “You don’t have to be sad for Felix. He wouldn’t want that, you know. Felix was a grand person. He never lectured or came on his high horse. He was always willing to share what he had, whether it was a drink, his mount, or his last two-bit piece. He didn’t like black dresses or crepe and all that rigmarole that goes with funerals any more than I do. He hated that mausoleum down there in the family cemetery. I’m glad he isn’t in it; I’m glad they buried him where he fell.”