Strands of Bronze and Gold (20 page)

When I reached her, Odette fired off biting French words, probably a scolding for my long absence. She paused, then said slowly, heavily accented, “You must take care, foolish girl.”

I felt no triumph that she had broken into English. “I have had a shock.”

Immediately she peered closer. “What? What has happened?” she asked sharply.

“I found my cat—you know, the yellow-striped one—hanging dead back there.”

She drew in her breath. “That is bad. Garvey shall cut it down.”

“No need. I met … a man from town. He said he’d do it.”

“Then now we must hurry. You are late.”

We started back to the house.

“I knew you could speak English.” I had to say it.

“But no one else must know. Monsieur de Cressac asked particularly in his advertisement for a French speaker only. He does not wish me to understand English. It is not my job to speak to you.” She swished on ahead.

“Just tell me one thing,” I called to her back. “Why did you show my letters to Monsieur de Cressac? What had I done to make you hate me so?”

She gave an exasperated sigh, glanced quickly toward the house, and waited until I came close. “I did not—do not hate you. I did it because I need Monsieur de Cressac to trust me and I just wanted to see … something. That is all. I am sorry it was at your expense. When I came here, I thought you were—never mind, Mademoiselle. No more. We must hurry.”

I scurried after, but much as I tried to get her to explain further, she remained tight-lipped, shaking her head and glaring.

That evening I had no excuse to stay away from dinner. I couldn’t tell my godfather about Buttercup. I washed my face and allowed Odette to smear rouge into my cheeks to give me some color.

As usual, M. Bernard awaited me in the banquet hall, his fingers drumming on the linen tablecloth.

While Charles pushed my chair in, it occurred to me that it might be wise to mention my meeting Mr. Stone, if, in fact, the shadow I had seen had been cast by one of my godfather’s spies.

I waited until halfway through my soup, and then made my tone casual. “Today in the woods I met your parson—the one Finnegan frightened. He’s a student of botany and had found some interesting lichen.” Should I have said “Odette and I” had met him? But if someone had seen me, they knew I had lost Odette. I hated deceit;
in the words of Sir Walter Scott, “Oh, what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive.” One must be very clever and remember many details to be a good liar.

Something in my godfather’s expression told me my information wasn’t a surprise, but all he said was, “Did you indeed? And what did you think of him?”

“I thought him very ugly.”
(Forgive me, Mr. Stone!)

“He has a nose like a parrot,” M. Bernard said, with a faint, contemptuous smile.

“More like a peregrine falcon.”

“And legs like beanpoles.”

“I would have said like a grasshopper.”

“And his mouth!” Thank goodness M. Bernard was laughing now as he popped a cod’s eye between his lips.

“As wide as that platter.” I pointed to the heaping tray of sweetbreads. “He did know the names of some of the plants I’d been wondering about, though.”

M. Bernard’s laughter died as his eyes narrowed. “Is that so?”

Had I made a mistake saying anything to Mr. Stone’s credit? But I must pursue it on the slight chance I was ever seen with him again.

“I want to know all about every last plant on Wyndriven’s grounds.” I tried to look up at him earnestly. “So I can discuss them with you and maybe even help you a tiny bit. You have so many cares with this vast estate. I should like to be more useful.”

He gave a good-natured laugh. “I have told you,
ma belle
, you do not need to be anything but decorative. Besides, you and Ling have your errands of mercy among the slaves.”

“It’s rare for them to need us. Which is good, of course, but I want other ways to help.”

“You may ask Mrs. Duckworth if she has some little task to set you about the house.”

“I’ll do that. But also I’d like to study plants—I’ve always loved them, and they’re so different here from those I grew up with.”

“My, what an eager scholar you have become in the past few hours.”

“Not so recent as that,” I said playfully. “Why, even when I was little, I kept our parlor aspidistra alive and happy.”

“Oh, very well, if you find it amusing.” He dismissed my botany interests with a flick of his long hand in a very French gesture.

Well done, Sophie
. Now if I were seen talking with Mr. Stone, I would have a reason. Sometimes I impressed even myself in my cleverness in handling my godfather.

It was interesting how, although the clergyman certainly would be considered a rather homely man, his looks pleased me. Beside him, M. Bernard’s features seemed too obvious and overdone.

“Miss Sophia!” Charles swooped after me down the hall, holding out a basket. “Here’s the picnic Mr. Alphonse fixed for your lunch. I suggested he tuck in extra orange blossom cakes, as I know how you like them.”

It was Monday, and I stood dressed for my forest walk. To have Charles act so friendly moved me. Without thinking, I laid a hand on his arm. I meant to thank him for everything—not just the basket, but for his steadfast kindness to both me and poor Buttercup.

At that moment M. Bernard rounded the corner. His eyes went straight to where I touched Charles. His brows lifted slightly. I snatched my hand back, looking ridiculously guilty as I did so. Charles bowed and slipped away.

M. Bernard paused for a moment before saying lightly, “Oho! Going for a picnic,
ma loutre
? The clouds threaten, but of course that will not stop you. You are avid about your woodland rambles.”

“Yes, sir. I enjoy the outdoors above all things.” I searched his face, but it was impossible to read.

“
Oui
. Above all things,” he said with an odd smile.

He was displeased. “Perhaps—perhaps you would join me?”

“Not today. Urgent business calls. Instead, I wish you
au revoir
so you may wend your way. Be sure to take a wrap.”

He continued down the corridor. I watched after his powerful figure sheathed in perfectly fitting ochre brown until he turned the corner. He didn’t like me to enjoy anything without him. However, I certainly wouldn’t cease my forest walks; they were my only escape. And it would be nice if I were to meet Mr. Stone again—although it was unlikely to happen, I reminded myself quickly.

In spite of the brooding sky and M. Bernard’s instructions, I left the house without snatching up a cloak.

Odette accepted an orange blossom cake with a frown, but by now I knew her expressions well enough to guess she was pleased with it. She was already eating when I moved on into the forest, swinging my basket. I glanced around to ensure that no one lurked. I stepped quickly and circled back on myself several times to confuse anyone who might follow.

Whereas last week the autumn leaves had been mostly flaming scarlet and orange, I now trod on a natural carpet of pure fallen gold, as if I stepped through the streets of heaven. A sudden gust sent a golden shower like a blessing down upon my head.

He was there ahead of me. Mr. Stone. He hunched on a rock in a ferny glade studded with boulders, absorbed in sketching. I hesitated. Although we had introduced ourselves, it wasn’t proper to speak to a young man alone. And what if he wanted to remain alone? I couldn’t help it—I
must
approach him. I strode into the clearing and said, “Why, Mr. Stone, how nice to see you again.”

He looked up and warmth flooded his face. He stood awkwardly and bowed. “Miss Petheram! I confess I wondered if I might find you here since we’re both fond of this wild place. Would you care to take a seat on a rock? I’d pull one out for you, but they’re firmly rooted in the soil.”

I chose a boulder that suited my contours and held up the picnic basket. “You see, I’ve brought a luncheon. Will you join me? There’s plenty.”

“Yes, indeed. I had no breakfast and it must be”—he glanced at his pocket watch—“yes, it is, close to two o’clock.”

I spread a snowy cloth on a flat stone table and distributed the sandwiches, the pears, the sliced carrots, and the orange blossom cakes upon it. “I must thank you again for taking care of the—that task you did for me last week.”

“No need for thanks, Miss Petheram. I was glad to be of service.”

Alphonse had even included a flask of lemonade. “I’m afraid there’s only one cup,” I said.

“It’s no matter. I can fashion one from the leaf of a sarsaparilla. It adds a pleasant flavor to whatever one drinks from it.”

“In that case, would you make me one as well?”

As I reached for the cup he made, my hand shook a little. I wondered if Mr. Stone had any idea how shocking this would be considered by polite society—a gentleman and a lady who were not related dining together alone in an isolated spot. I doubted he thought of it. I hoped he wouldn’t. He was an unworldly man, and surely he, as I, sensed that we were a pair of innocents and that the world’s rules changed in the forest.

I told him about my family and my old home. “You would have liked my father. He was a quiet man, but he kept us laughing with his understated sense of the ridiculous. He was interested in every subject. He wasn’t successful in a worldly sense, but he was widely read. I’m sure he would have loved discussing religion and botany with you.”

“He sounds like a man after my own heart,” Mr. Stone said. “You were lucky to have such a father.”

I nodded and looked away.

“And what about your mother? Are you like her?”

“She died a few months after my birth, but supposedly I favor her in both appearance and personality. I wish I could have known her.” I looked down at my lap for a moment. At least I would see my brothers and sister soon. “It’s a shame you probably can’t meet my family when they’re here. We spent such agreeable times together; we didn’t socialize with many people outside the family, so we depended on each other.”

“I’ll hope that somehow I may yet make their acquaintance.”

Mr. Stone had a subtle charm of his own, not at all like my godfather’s. M. Bernard was overly conscious of his own charisma—he knew exactly what he was doing when he set out to enthrall. Mr. Stone didn’t scintillate like M. Bernard, but he listened to each word I uttered with interest. He stated his own opinions with firmness, but he still respected mine. He clearly stood for everything good, clean, and honest, which made him comforting to be around; I could speak freely and didn’t have to be on my guard. He would never, never be unscrupulous.

He told me about his own family. He was the youngest of five sons, the offspring of a planter in Virginia. “My childhood home is named Lauri Mundi. It’s a beautiful place. Not nearly on the scale of Wyndriven Abbey, of course—cozier,” he said with a smile, “but impressive still. My eldest brother and his family live there now with my parents. He’ll inherit it, but he assures us that we’ll always be welcome, that it will always be home. My other brothers have taken up professions in trade. Only I chose the Church.” He looked down at his large hands, which he had clasped together. “My father and brothers sometimes act as though they pity me, but I feel mine was a true calling. My mother understands. You’d like her. She is everything a mother should be. I’m entirely happy with my choice of profession.” He laughed then and added, “Except when Mrs. Wright and Mrs. Everly are feuding.”

“Mrs. Wright and Mrs. Everly?”

“Two ladies in the parish. They compete in every way. If I stay fifteen minutes longer at a luncheon with Mrs. Wright, Mrs. Everly is in a huff and will promptly invite me to dinner at her home and keep me there for hours and so forth.” He looked wistfully off into the trees. “Sometimes I don’t at all understand people.”

“Ah …” I could feel myself smiling mischievously. “I suspect it’s women you don’t understand. Do Mrs. Wright and Mrs. Everly have unmarried daughters?”

“Why, yes, they do.”

“Then that explains it.”

“Oh? Ohhhh …” He laughed a little and reddened.

We talked as if we’d known each other for years and spoke on every subject—flowers and birds, the people of his parish, rich and
poor. I questioned him further on his opinion of the institution of slavery. Already I valued his judgments.

Mr. Stone nodded. “You might well wonder, since I’m a child of the South and my father is a planter. He knows my beliefs—that no man should have such power over others. In the Bible we’re urged to let the oppressed go free and to break every yoke. Our Constitution grants rights that all people, regardless of their race, should have. The day will come when all black people will be freed, I’m certain. I can only hope it will be without the shedding of much blood. I fear a terrible retribution may come upon the South because of the practice.” He had begun by speaking quietly, but as he continued, his voice gained an intensity that made it obvious he was passionate about the subject.

It had to be him. He had to be the preacher Peg Leg Joe mentioned. And then I remembered what Joe had said about recognizing the man—how the apostle Peter was a “rock.” Mr.
Stone
! Yes!