Strands of Bronze and Gold (12 page)

I sat in my chair and pulled my ring on and off, gazing upon my godfather’s splendid profile.

He held out a drooping shellfish speared on his fork. “Oysters,
oui
?”

“Oysters,
non
!” I said, turning my head away.

He rolled his eyes and laughed good-naturedly.

“Did your business turn out well?” I asked.

“It did,” he said. “I made a great deal of money this week. Enough to buy you many pretties.”

We ate in silence for a few minutes. I wanted to keep him talking, but the only subjects I could think of were his dead wives and Peg Leg Joe. I kept still.

“So,” M. Bernard said abruptly, “you have moved my photograph to your bedside table.”

Warmth rushed to my cheeks. “Yes. You don’t mind, do you? I—” What reason could I come up with other than the truth: that I wanted his face to be the last thing I saw before falling asleep?

He paused to allow me to finish my sentence, but when I did not, he said, “It was taken by an acquaintance of mine in France, André Disdéri. Perhaps you have heard of him? I am happy you like it. Happy you care enough to want me to watch over you in your bed.”

My cheeks grew hotter still. He knew. He knew how I felt.

“There must be something wrong with the frame,” I blurted out to cover the awkwardness. “Every morning I wake to find it lying facedown. Something must be off balance.”

M. Bernard shrugged. “
Mais oui
. It is a frame of not much quality. Sometime I will acquire a better one if you like the picture so.”

I took a sip of water and lowered my eyes because he was watching me intently.

“You are even more beautiful than when I left, Sophia.”

“Thank you. So are you.” Had I actually said that out loud?

I shifted in my seat and glanced up at him through my lashes. A look of amusement and smug self-satisfaction flashed across his face so quickly that I would have missed it had I been a second later. Yes,
he knew. And he thought it funny. Something squeezed my chest, and it was not the half-pleasurable emotion that had confined my breathing in the past weeks.

As Ling left the room after serving the sherry, M. Bernard said, “Now that you have been here awhile, what do you think of our Ling? Do you find him a treasure as do I?”

“He certainly appears wise. He’s fascinating.”

“Do you think perhaps I should grow my whiskers like his?” He cast me a sidelong look, his eyes brimming with laughter. “Would you find that style enticing on me as well?”

I lifted my chin. “I said ‘fascinating,’ not ‘enticing.’ But why not? Ancient-Chinese-man facial hair might suit you, sir.”

“Oh, you think so, eh? Do you suppose he chews upon the ends to make the tips so scrawny and pointed?”

“Why—why that’s exactly what I wondered!”

“Indeed? We are
en rapport
, then, you and I.”

“I’ve been wondering: How did Ling and Achal come into your service? Where do you find such loyal servants who would leave everything to follow you across the world? Don’t they miss their families?”

M. Bernard lightly touched my cheek to turn my face toward the light. “You are so curious about everyone and everything. It can be an attractive feminine trait”—he dropped his hand and turned back to his plate, which now held cold beef tongue—“but more often a nuisance. You must curb this interest in things that do not concern you. Especially about the lower classes. Bah! What do they matter? They are simply servants. They exist to labor for their betters, that is all.”

I felt rebuked. It was also distressing for my M. Bernard to speak so arrogantly. Yet, who could blame him? Since he was a baby, everyone had scurried around simply to please him. It was not his fault.

There was something I needed to bring up, though, and it had to do with servants whether he liked it or not. “Sir, Mrs. Duckworth said you plan to hire a French maid for me.”

He nodded, waiting. When I didn’t continue for a moment, he said, “Well, out with it!”

“Is that still the plan? Perhaps since I’ve managed without her, you’ve changed your mind?”

“No,” he said. “I rarely change my mind.”

“But must my maid be French? Talitha usually helps me, but if she won’t do, couldn’t I have some other English-speaking servant? Pray don’t put yourself to the bother of importing someone.”

“No bother at all. Every lady wishes for a French maid. And if you think you can get out of this, you are very much mistaken.” He wagged his finger playfully.

“You see, I’ve no head for languages and speak very little French. I would be more comfortable with someone I could talk to easily.”

“In this you must be guided by me. You shall have Odette. She comes highly recommended. She is an impoverished gentlewoman and therefore much more suited than the locals to serve the needs of a fashionable lady. The delays have been preposterous, but she should arrive within the month.” He gestured dismissively. “Let us speak no more of the matter.”

Arguing would be useless.

M. Bernard launched his plans for our first trip together. “I am
picturing you mounted jauntily on a camel. It is not much different from riding a horse once you get used to the swaying. The hump, you know. You will have to wear trousers—Sophia, am I boring you?”

He said this last because I was staring sightlessly over his head, thinking how my godfather’s adventures abroad had certainly been exciting for him, but that at home he had left behind solitary women cut off from everything they knew. “Oh!” I said, startled. “Did you say something about humps?”

He arched one black brow. All through the dessert course he was at his most charismatic and I was once more under his spell, which had frayed ever so slightly about the edges during dinner.

Later I stood by the balustrade of the veranda, waiting for M. Bernard to join me after his solitary gentleman’s cigar and port. There was a soul-stirring vibrancy in Mississippi summer nights. The air was perfumed with late roses and crushed flower petals. Fireflies glimmered in the dusk and bats swooped black across a purple-edged sky.

It wasn’t long before M. Bernard appeared, followed by his gigantic Irish wolfhound. He removed his richly colored dressing gown and draped it on the back of a woven-wicker chair. The collar of his loose shirt was open, and he wore a smoking cap embellished with a beaded design. He stood silently at my side, following my gaze into the twilight.

A mosquito buzzed between us. At first we ignored it, not wanting to disturb the magical moment, but it was persistent. M. Bernard swatted at it and nearly hit me.

“It’s just a simple country mosquito,” I said. “It doesn’t know that it’s bad manners to buzz in our ears.”

My godfather chuckled and squeezed my waist. “Simple country mosquito, indeed,” he murmured.

Normally Finnegan ignored me, but now he raised his head, bared his teeth, and growled, low in his throat. I drew away.

M. Bernard dropped his arm from my waist. Placing his knee on the dog’s back, he gave a vicious twist to Finnegan’s ear until the dog yelped. “Never, never snarl at Sophia, sir.”

“Please, Monsieur,” I whispered. “I wasn’t frightened. Please don’t hurt him.”

Foolish Finnegan growled again, and M. Bernard twisted harder. “It is how he learns what is expected of him. Sometimes it hurts to learn.”

“Well, it won’t be necessary after this,” I said, reaching out a tentative hand to stroke the dog. “I shall make Finnegan my friend.”

My godfather let go of the dog’s ear, gave him a brisk pat, and seated himself. “Now, let me tell you how entertaining Finnegan was a few months ago when one of the local preachers made a visit.”

The hound laid his great head on his paws, ignoring me now for his own good.

M. Bernard related how Finnegan bounded up to the man (“friendly as you please”), and the parson skedaddled up on his horse with his long legs flailing. “And there was our Finnegan, entirely blameless. I called after the fellow, ‘He merely wanted to gnaw at your face, sir, and perhaps eat one hand. What do you care, when you have two?’ ” His laughter at the memory was as deep and
rich as the plum cake we’d had for dessert. “Oh, if you could have seen the man, fleeing down the drive, hardly seated upon his horse.”

I managed a faint smile. Poor minister. Who wouldn’t be frightened of a dog that size charging toward him?

“You are too far away,” my godfather said. He patted the wicker footstool next to his chair. “I nearly must shout to speak to you. Come, sit here.”

It was awkward to seat myself on so low a stool in my crinoline. M. Bernard smiled at my difficulty and reached out a hand to help. I laughed a little as well, although I was still shaken by the dog incident.

He set about putting me at my ease once more. “Now, I need a story, Scheherazade. I have missed your tales these nights.”

“What sort do you want?”

“Tell me about your family. Of all things, I should like to hear more of them.”

“I’m worried about them right now. I haven’t gotten a letter in ages.”

“Oh, you know they are busy. You have related how the good Junius must work long hours and Anne must teach children. You have said that Harry cavorts with his friends. You have written to them. They know you are safe. You are off their hands. Now they need concern themselves about you no longer.”

Was it true? Were they simply glad to be rid of me? No, I would not believe it. There was nothing in our past to suggest such a thing. They wanted my success and happiness and eventually hoped to share at least a little in it.

If M. Bernard felt he knew my siblings, he might aid them. I now related funny stories of how we would tease Junius for his pompous ways and Harry for being such a dandy. “When Harry came home wearing cherry-red striped trousers, Papa told him, ‘If you must walk around on peppermint sticks, kindly do so in the privacy of your own room.’ ” I described how sweet and lovely Anne was, with her cloud of soft blond hair, and how she worried she would be left an old maid. “She’s now four-and-twenty, but if she only has the chance to go out in society, not a man could help but fall in love with her.”

M. Bernard snorted. “Well, perhaps there might be one or two.” He leaned down and said, close to my ear, “Some prefer a ruddier glow to a lady’s head.” He pulled one pin from my hair and then another and another, until my curls tumbled about my face. “There! That’s better. I have wanted to do that since you first came. From now on, always wear your hair down in the evenings. It is a particular desire of mine to see it long and rippling, like silken embers.”

The weight of hair clung clammily to my neck. I had put it up for over two years; my hair fell past my hips, and it was inappropriate to let it hang wildly. I wondered: Did he want it loose because he still thought of me as a little girl or because he considered me a woman to admire? From the way he was looking at me now, it was the latter.

I pretended to be engrossed in petting Finnegan.

Once I had collected myself, I tried again to interest him in my siblings. He had said that “of all things,” he wanted to hear
about them most. “You would like my family, sir. Maybe soon they might come for a visit? I can’t wait for you to get to know each other.”

“Why?” His voice was hard-edged. “Do they wish to meet the Midas in his palace?”

I stared. How did he know that my brothers thought of him only in terms of his wealth? “No,” I said quietly. “They wish to meet the man who gives me such happiness.”

He seemed to consider his long hands. “Perhaps someday they might come,” he said slowly, “if their absence makes you less than content here. It would be good for them to see how well you are cared for. But first you and I must become closer. I am a lonely man, Sophia. Unlike King Midas, people I touch do not turn to gold.” He paused and looked out into the darkness. “Instead, they shrivel away—poof!—to dross. My tender feelings have been betrayed more than once. I have been unhappy in my connections.”

That a person so confident should show this gap in his armor touched me. I would not disclose Ducky’s confidences, but I had to say something. “I know you’ve had your trials, sir. I hope I can bring you some comfort.”

He smiled. “You,
chérie
, will be the saving of me. Of this I am certain now.”

We were leaning in close. He shook himself and stood. “It is late. I have kept you talking too long.”

He walked me to my bedroom door and bid me good night.

When I entered my room, I nearly stepped on the shattered glass from M. Bernard’s photograph where it lay, as if flung, facedown near the door.

Who had dared do this?

Gingerly I cleaned up the pieces, wrapped them in a scarf, and hid them beneath some linens in a chest in the hall until I could think what else to do with them.

Someone in this household hated my godfather.

Peg Leg Joe’s sermon and song had given me a great deal to think about. From my reading of articles and advertisements for runaway slaves in Boston newspapers, it had been clear that a steady trickle made their way northward. They would sneak off in the dead of night, stumbling along as I had when I went out in the pitch dark to hear Peg Leg Joe preach. There were no mass exoduses. Most never dared to leave, but there were safe houses—stations, they were called—for those who did make their way through the Underground Railroad. Peg Leg Joe had mentioned a minister nearby who might guide them on the first stage of their journey.