Strands of Bronze and Gold (16 page)

“ ‘Not all.’
Pauvre petite!
No wonder you were not thinking clearly. No wonder you thought I might let you go. Here, sit down on the ottoman and I will go myself to fetch you a nice, warm posset.”

I sank down and waited.

When he brought a steaming cup, I sipped it carefully, grateful for the comforting cream and potent nutmeg warming my throat. M. Bernard sat beside me.

“Sir, I will stay,” I said grudgingly, “but—but I truly am
concerned about my family. That’s part of the reason I wanted to leave.
Something
must be wrong.”

“Still fretting about the lack of letters?”

“I have received no mail since early July. Are you certain nothing has come for me during these weeks?”

“Of course I cannot be certain. All the post is brought to my office to await my sorting. Perhaps I missed something in the mountain of business correspondence. I will check again today.”

“And please, please may I invite my brothers and sister for a visit?”

“I told you they might come,” he said, stroking his beard, “once we knew each other better. Perhaps November. What do you think of November?”

He held all power in his hand. He could bring my family or he could refuse to let them come. I mustn’t show I was still upset. “Yes, please, Monsieur. If it—if that’s the soonest that can be contrived.”

“So,” he said, “may I return to my pressing duties without fear you will try to rush off and leave me?” His voice was caressing, his expression droll.

I turned from him so he couldn’t see my face. “I think you’re now safe.”

That afternoon Talitha brought me five letters from my family. They ranged in dates throughout the past six weeks. In one Junius complained of numerous matters, while pretending to be stoic and long-suffering. Three were from Anne, who wrote a lot of fripperies and teased about the whirl of gaiety she supposed I must be experiencing. The one from Harry jabbered on about his escapades.

All three of my siblings gave cause for concern, although Harry was the only correspondent who wasn’t trying to hide anything. He blatantly related his scrapes. He was taking fancy dance lessons and bragged about the horse he had “invested” in. Someone with as few means as my brother had ought not to invest in something that must eat and could easily die. But Harry had always despised prudence.

My godfather had withheld these letters from me for weeks while I worried myself sick over my family. He wanted me to have only him.

The scene in M. Bernard’s tapestry simply would not cooperate. I had intended a landscape of revelry, full of bright, pleasing color. I bit my lip as I stitched. Instead, the embroidery silks my godfather had bought for me were darker and duller than I had wished. The background was a green so murky as to be nearly black, and the dim wildflowers were absorbed into the setting.

I stabbed my needle into the canvas and turned to gaze at the flames of the library fireplace. Occasionally they whipped sideways when especially violent gusts of wind made their way helter-skelter down the chimney.

Ducky had mentioned my godfather could be moody. At the time I had not yet experienced it, but I had since. When he was irritated or bored or frustrated, his mouth would become thin and his eyes would narrow and glitter in a thoroughly unappealing fashion. No one had ever treated me as harshly as he had the day before. I understood he had a painful past and that some of his words and actions must be excused by that, but still.…

He had purposely withheld my letters. Separating me from everyone I cared for was not an accidental oversight. I shivered.

He was instantly solicitous. “What is it,
ma caille
?”

I must find a way to meet other people
.

I moved to the chair across from him. “It’s only that I wondered if I could attend church on Sundays.”

He turned his goblet of claret round and round so the firelight winked in the crystal facets, studying it. He did it for so long I wondered if he’d heard me.

I was about to repeat my question when he said, “I think not.”

“I understand you don’t care for religion, but I could go by myself.”

“I said no.” His voice and expression were lifeless with disinterest.

I gritted my teeth to keep from speaking so sharply that he would be shocked out of his boredom. It disturbed me how often I had to reign in my temper with M. Bernard. I had never even known I could be angry back home in Boston.

He shook himself. “Listen! Hear how the thunder rumbles in the distance. It will storm before morning.”

The tempest broke around midnight. A great boom awoke me. Panes rattled in my windows and branches crashed into the walls. Wind-ripped leaves plastered themselves against the glass and rain poured down like a million fists pounding. I snuggled deep beneath my covers. Wild storms were delightful as long as I was safe inside.

But then came other sounds: footsteps pausing outside my door and the knob being tried. My godfather’s voice calling—soft, insistent—“Sophia, Sophia.” And then louder: “Sophia!”

I clutched the bedclothes up to my chin, afraid he would hear my heart banging in my chest.

He tried the knob again, paused, then gave a grunt, and his footsteps receded.

Did he intend to make me his mistress? So no one else would ever want me? So I’d be forced to stay at Wyndriven Abbey forever? The writings of Balzac were full of mistresses, and I knew their qualifications involved sumptuous bedrooms and gifts of jewelry. If certain aspects of my life had come from the pages of a fairy tale, I had now entered between the covers of some lurid novel.

The next morning my godfather burst outside to find me on the veranda with Buttercup curled up like a round cat cushion in my lap, surrounded by a soggy world.

I dumped off Buttercup, nudging him away with a foot, cursing myself for letting M. Bernard see my pet once again. I shook out my skirts and looked up with quick-gathered self-possession.

“You have cat hair on your face,” he said as he wiped off the bench next to me with his handkerchief and seated himself.

“Oh. Sorry.” I brushed my cheeks quickly with both hands. He always knew how to rattle my composure.

“It was a violent storm we had during the night.”

“Yes, sir, it was.”

“Were you frightened?”

“No, sir. I enjoy storms.”

“I worried you might be huddled in your bed terrified. I tried to come reassure you.”

“Did you?”

“I did, but your door was locked. Do you lock it every night?”

“I do.”

“Do you think someone is plotting against your virtue?” A gleam of amusement twinkled in his honey brown eyes.

“No, sir. I simply feel more secure with the big, dark house shut out.”

“You know I have all the keys, don’t you? I could enter at any time I wanted.”

“Yes, sir, I know that. But I’m also aware you have respect for my honor.”

He shrugged and rose. A great pressure eased from my shoulders when he said, “I do, you know. I do indeed have respect for your honor, and I give you my promise I will always guard it. And next week, when I am away on business, you shall have my keys to keep. Good day,
ma chérie
.”

He strode away, whistling. I had made a narrow escape.

I passed Odette coming out of the stables with Garvey that afternoon. He sweated and swaggered; her expression was self-satisfied as she straightened her skirts. Whatever they had been doing evidently did not need a command of each other’s language.

She saw me, arched her thin black eyebrows, and swept up behind to follow wherever I went.

I said nothing but, filled with a trembling determination, headed off across the parkland. I skirted downed limbs and picked my way through puddles. I led her over the most uneven ground, scrambling through brambles and squelching over soggy hollows where I had to pull my feet out with sucking slurps. As she tagged along, she kept
emitting exasperated sighs and phrases that sounded like French oaths under her breath.

“Why don’t you turn back?” I called over my shoulder, not expecting an answer. I often asked this during our rambles and, of course, never received an answer. We tromped through goldenrod that made her sneeze and up hills so briskly her breath came in labored pants.

And my godfather thought
I
was delicate. Her discomfiture lent a certain pleasure to my walks.

My half boots were clotted with black mud. More mud splashed on my dress. The hem of Odette’s skimpy gray twill maid’s uniform was filthy and soaking wet. She must clean and repair her own garb as well as mine. Hah!

Suddenly a little cry sounded from behind. I whirled around. Odette had tripped over a clump of tall weeds. Once I ascertained she wasn’t truly hurt, I picked up my skirts and was off, dashing for all I was worth into the woods.

I crashed through a thicket of brambles and found myself surrounded by corrugated trunks of trees so dense that only the merest speckling of pale light filtered through from above.

I was alone. I was alone outside!

Odette called my name and I waded in deeper. I wasn’t a fool; I did watch for the traps Garvey had said were planted here, as well as for poison ivy. I simply didn’t let them worry me unduly.

What was this unaccustomed feeling? Serenity. It was serenity and well-being. As if I had come home after a long absence. I plucked a lacy fern frond to tuck into my pocket. Later I would press it between the pages of a book.

By stepping carefully from stone to stone, I crossed a wide brook. There seemed a clean, pure goodness in the gurgling, laughing sound it made. No wonder in the old tales crossing running water left one safe from evil. The smell of the forest was earthy and mossy and rotting, but in a clean, natural way. Birds warbled and squirrels scrambled.

Here I could think. Here I could consider the happenings of the past months.

I had been losing myself. I had to strive to remain Sophie-like. Thank goodness I was no longer besotted with my godfather. Thank heavens my self-esteem had been fostered by a loving family or his powerful personality might have eroded mine away completely. As it was, I was ashamed to realize that during this time I had spent with him, I had relaxed some of my principles.

“Oh, Anne,” I whispered, “what should I do?”

There was no question I shouldn’t be living unchaperoned with M. Bernard. My family would never have allowed me to come here had they known he was a widower. Panic skittered in my stomach when I remembered the rattling of my bedchamber door.

And yet, I had glimpsed his vulnerability, his pain. He had survived many blows in life. Everyone he had cared for had left him, one way or another. I couldn’t abandon him now. He had said he had regard for my honor. He had given me his word. I still enjoyed most of our time together. He was intelligent and interesting and generous and could be sensitive and kind. He had the power to be a great man if his noble side were nurtured. I could help him become the gentleman he should be.

And there was such a thing as a chair thrust under the doorknob if I needed that security.

The shadows lengthened. I must go back.

I had no trouble finding my way out of the forest. Some sort of sixth sense guided me through the trees.

Odette slumped miserably beside a low brick wall not far from the edge of the woods. I almost felt sorry for her.

She raised her head when I approached.

“Listen,” I said. “You can understand what I’m saying, so drop the pretense. You may tattle to my godfather, but if you do, I’ll only make your life harder. Every once in a while I must get away to the woods by myself. If you’ll stay here by this wall with your sewing or whatever, I’ll promise to be back within two hours and to keep my clothes clean. A break for me, less work for you. What do you say? A truce?”

She studied me, taking in my disheveled aspect, then savagely kicked against the wall to knock loose a clump of mud from her heavy boot.
“Très bien, Mademoiselle.”

“I am leaving today,” M. Bernard announced a few mornings later. “I must be gone a few weeks. As promised, you shall safeguard my keys.”

He held out the iron ring and I took it, trying to hide my excitement. It was weightier than I had expected.