Norton, Andre - Novel 23 (9 page)

 
          
 
"Damaris!"
Saranna wondered if the child was gripped by some kind of a hysterical seizure.
So thinking, she was frightened in turn. She had never seen such rage, if it
were that emotion which now filled Damaris, and she had no idea how to control
the younger girl. Perhaps, the idea flitted across her mind, Honora had not
been so wrong in her estimate of her stepdaughter's nature after all.

 
          
 
"Damaris!"

 
          
 
The child was sobbing and still struggling,
her eyes wild, her expression near that of a trapped animal, Saranna gave her a
hard shake.

 
          
 
"Damaris, listen to me!" She tried
to reach some point of reason which was not dominated by that wild response to
the mere fact that she had entered the hidden garden. "I mean you no harm.
I was curious when I saw you come in here—understand? I was just curious. Just
as you might have been had you suddenly saw me disappear. If you wish it, I
will tell no one about your being here—“

 
          
 
Damaris stared up into Saranna's face. Some of
the distraught look faded from her own.

 
          
 
"I mean no harm—I am not spying—"
Saranna repeated. "This is a very beautiful and wonderful place, Damaris.
If it is your secret, then I envy you. And I shall say nothing at all about
it—to anyone. This I promise—"

 
          
 
Damaris now stood quiet in Saranna's hold, all
the fierceness of her attack gone.

 
          
 
"You can't, you know," she said
suddenly, in quite an ordinary tone of voice. "The Princess would know if
you did, and then you would be sorry. And don't go ahead and ask me who the
Princess is, because I won't ever, ever tell you!"

 
          
 
"All right," agreed Saranna swiftly.
"I won't ask you any questions."

 
          
 
"And you'll come away right now and
promise never to come back?" Damaris demanded. "I don't see why they
let you in. They never have before. Nobody but me—and Grandfather—
They
watch—"

 
          
 
Her eyes darted right and left. Saranna found
herself looking in the same direction, not knowing just what she expected to
see. She was startled by a movement among the willows, but she did not catch
full sight of what was in hiding there.

 
          
 
"They're waiting—" Damaris sounded
triumphant. "You had better go. I tell you—go right now."

 
          
 
"But what about you,
Damaris?"

 
          
 
"Oh, I'll come—this time. Maybe I had
better. If they see me, they'll let you go. Only just never try to come
back."

 
          
 
She tugged at Saranna's hand, drawing her back
along the stone path to that hidden entrance. Saranna had no excuse to linger.
Pushing her way among the stiff branches, she found and rescued her net and
paused for a moment to tuck her hair back into it.

 
          
 
"Hey, there, Missie, now what are you
doing?"

 
          
 
Completely surprised by such a hail, Saranna
looked to her right. But the man who spoke appeared to be talking to Damaris,
who stood scowling again, as he came farther into view from a walk formally
walled by clipped and tended box.

 
          
 
"Oh, it's you, Rufe!"

 
          
 
"Yes, it's me, Missie. And where’ve you
been? Don't you remember about going off by yourself—what Miss Honora said
would happen if you did?"

 
          
 
Saranna moved out, to put her arm about
Damaris' thin shoulders.

 
          
 
"Damaris was not alone," she eyed
the newcomer narrowly. "She was showing me the garden."

 
          
 
He was, Saranna decided upon survey, not much
older than herself—perhaps only by two or three years. Though he wore clothing
with some pretense to fashion, it did not fit his stocky body well. And above a
creased stock his round face, with its blubbery Hps and small eyes had, in her
estimation, no claim to be even a mildly pleasant countenance. He was grinning
now, his stare at her bold enough to make her uncomfortable, though she trusted
she did not reveal any sign of her uneasiness.

 
          
 
"Well, now,
ain't
you the spitfire!" The young man spoke with what Saranna found to be
odious familiarity, such open rudeness as she had never met before in her life.
As if—as if she
were
a serving maid in some tavern.

 
          
 
If Mrs. Parton possessed an iron poker for a
backbone, in that moment Saranna developed a steel rod along her own spine. She
gazed back at this stranger with all the quelling hauteur she could summon.

 
          
 
"Yes, now, a regular red-headed
spitfire," the impossible young man continued. "Me, I like 'em with a
bit of fire—
makes
it more fun like—"

 
          
 
Was he out of his mind? Saranna could not
believe that she really had heard his freedom of speech. No one in her whole
life had ever so dared step across the boundaries of good manners. She thought
of Mr. Fowke. Friendly, he had been, but always a gentleman. This—this creature
was manifestly not!

 
          
 
She would not answer him. To speak was to
admit he was on a level which could even be noticed. Instead, she caught
Damans' hand.

 
          
 
"Come—"

 
          
 
For an awful moment, she thought this
fair-haired lout was actually going to step into their path, physically
restrain them from escape, and her heart beat faster. However, instead he
laughed slyly, and made an ill-formed bow.

 
          
 
"See you again, spitfire. Miss Honora,
she's a-waitin' up to the house. Best get
along,
she's
a lady as doesn't like to be kept a-waitin'—"

 
          
 
Honora—here?
Saranna
felt Damaris jerk back against her hold, as if the child would have willingly
run back into the hidden garden. But Saranna looked down at her.

 
          
 
"We must go," she said.

 
          
 
Damaris nodded. "He better not
go
poking around where he isn't wanted," she glanced
back over her shoulder at Rufe. "Or he'll find more than he knows."

 
          
 
She had spoken in a voice hardly above a
whisper, plainly meaning her threat to be heard by Saranna alone. While Saranna
made up her mind firmly that she intended to demand Honora not allow her—or
Damaris—to be again exposed to the insulting behavior of the housekeeper's son.

 
          
 
As they hurried back to the house, she once
more contrasted him in her mind with Mr. Fowke, even with the common seamen who
had, in the not-too-distant past, sailed with her father. There had been rough,
untutored men in that company, but never had one ever addressed her with such
familiarity, as if he were fully her equal and intended making her aware of
that and of himself.

 
          
 
This Rufe was supposed to be away at school
(though he looked well overgrown and certainly not a schoolboy), but what kind
of a school? And how dared he use that tone of voice, such words, to her?

 
          
 
It was as if Damaris could read the thoughts
passing through the older girl's mind, for the child said suddenly:

 
          
 
"No use you ever complaining about Rufe,
you know. She likes him. He never talks that way around her. Just is always
ready to do what she says. She doesn't ever believe people who try to tell her
things she doesn't like to hear—"

 
          
 
Saranna's anger was still well aroused, too
much so to accept that warning.

 
          
 
"She will hear what I have to say!"

 
          
 
"Better not. If she gets mad at
you—" Damaris looked very sober, "she can make you a lot of trouble.
I always just listen. Then I plan how to do what I want in spite of what she
says. The Captain always told me—'Let the storm rage, but just ride it
out-—then go about your own business.' "

 
          
 
Saranna had dropped Damaris' hand since they
were now in the hall away from the bold gaze of that—that creature! She was
trying to order her hair, draw on the net which confined it. But the wise
comment Damaris had just uttered made her pause. That the child had been
encouraged so to circumvent her stepmother was another inkling of how Honora
had been regarded in this house while its master was still alive.

 
          
 
Only that rancor he had encouraged now lived
on, past his own demise, and might be a worse trouble for his beloved
granddaughter than any help. Why had he not seen that? Saranna could well
believe that Honora was one who would have her own way, either ignoring any
obstacle, or disposing of it ruthlessly. And if Damaris were considered an
obstacle to anything her stepmother truly wanted— Saranna tucked in a last
wandering lock, more intent now on what might be the situation here than her
own disheveled appearance.

 
          
 
Honora's tales of an unhealthy inheritance,
her hint of mental instability where Damaris was concerned— Was there some dreadful
purpose about that, not just reaction to perhaps some such outburst as Saranna
had faced in her chamber? If so—then how could she herself warn the child—?

 
          
 
"Good morning, Saranna, Damaris. What
have the two of you been doing—grubbing about in the garden?"

 
          
 
There was amusement and distaste blended in
that voice. Once more Saranna met the lady of the house (and her complete ease
here established her in a role which poor Damaris was as yet too young to play)
descending the staircase. This time Honora did not wear her mauve silks and
laces, but was dressed for riding, the long skirt of her habit held up in one
hand as she descended. Her fair curls were displayed to the best advantage
under the brim of a leghorn hat with the rim looped up on both sides, and from
that a feather drooped nearly to her shoulder. The habit was of lavender
cashmere (it seemed even in such matters Honora kept to her half-mourning), but
it was enriched by needlework in black of vines, flowers, and arabesques, its
bordered sleeves slashed to reveal under ones of black net, the same material
forming her chemisette.

 
          
 
"You had better wash—thoroughly—
“ Now
the distaste had the upper hand in her tone.
"Breakfast is on the table. Have the goodness to remember that Mrs. Parton
has many duties and do not delay over long—"

 
          
 
She waited for no reply, having set them on an
equal basis, as naughty children. Saranna, to her own inner anger, found
herself obediently climbing the stairs to make a hurried correction of the many
faults of her morning toilet. When she issued forth from her chamber again,
Damaris was waiting at the head of the stairs. "You won't tell?"

 
          
 
Saranna shook her head. "I promised,” she
returned.

 
          
 
Honora was seated behind the coffee service
with the same accustomed ease of manner as she had displayed in the
Baltimore
house. And Mrs. Parton stood before her
replying to searching questions concerning provisions.

 
          
 
"I, of course, shall have supplies sent
from the city,” Honora was saying. "After all, country fare is hardly what
we would wish to place before such guests. When Mr. Fowke settles in at Queen's
Pleasure, we may expect more select society here. I have promised him to ride
over today and give my opinion of what is necessary to enhance the great parlor.
Ah, there you are, Saranna, Damaris."

 
          
 
She nodded to them as they slipped into their
chairs, managing to convey that they were both lacking in manners, burdens
which she must bear.

 
          
 
"Who is coming here?" Damaris
demanded bluntly.

 
          
 
Honora smiled.
"Friends,
my dear.
There will be a party of ladies and gentlemen out from
Baltimore
. You must strive to make a good impression.
Though of course, you will not be seen very much. Little girls do not enter
into company—"

 
          
 
"I did not invite theml” Damaris’ thin
face was flushed.

 
          
 
Honora paused in filling a cup from the silver
coffeepot. Her smile was not in the least diminished by the interruption.

 
          
 
"Of course not,
Damaris.
You are hardly of an age to invite company to Tiensin—“

 
          
 
"And this is not your house!"
Damaris concluded as if her words were meant to drown out any answer from
Honora.

 
          
 
"Little girls," Honora accented the
little, "who are rude are also punished. I fear that your nervous health
is not very good, my dear. We shall have to have Dr. Meade come down and see
you—“

 
          
 
Saranna could hear the gulp Damaris gave. The
child's eyes, fiercely bright, were centered on Honora who made no attempt to
meet that steady gaze, but continued to center her attention on her cup, the
waiting pot, as if the graceful transference of hot liquid from one container
to the other was all that mattered in the world.

 
          
 
Danger! Saranna was as aware of that troubling
the atmosphere of this sunny morning room, which should be so tranquil and
restful, as if someone shouted a word of warning. Damaris must remember to
follow her own advice—not give Honora the least chance to prove that she was
excitable, perhaps unstable.

 
          
 
"Now, Saranna."
Having silenced her stepdaughter, Honora turned to the older girl.
"Naturally, being in deep mourning, social festivities will not appeal to
you. We shall aU understand that, and Millie will serve your meals in your room
while we have company. But there is a pleasant surprise. Rufus Parton is here.
He will be very glad to take you boating on the river if you wish, or escort
you riding—"

 
          
 
Saranna only just managed to suppress an
outburst of indignant anger. Rufus Parton—to take her boating
—riding
—that—that lout—that insulting lout! But with Mrs. Parton standing still at
Honora's side, she discovered she could not protest.

 
          
 
There was an odd look on Mrs. Parton's face, a
kind of gloating smugness. Saranna could not be sure of that entirely, but she
was sure that the housekeeper was pleased.

 
          
 
She was able to contain her protests. The
advice which Captain Whaley had given his granddaughter could also be applied
to her own present situation.

 
          
 
"We shall plan it then, Mrs.
Parton," now Honora had dismissed Saranna from notice as well, "for
the twentieth. The wisteria will surely be in bloom by then. And Parton must
have the garden room well cleaned out for dancing. The food will be down from
Baltimore
by the fifteenth. See that it is kept on
ice. We will need all the strawberries which are in the orangery— and any other
fruit which can be forced there—"