Strands of Bronze and Gold (21 page)

I hesitated only a second before asking a question to help me be certain. “I’ve sometimes heard the servants singing a song about a drinking gourd—do you know what they mean by the ‘gourd’?”

“A gourd to drink from, of course,” he said, not meeting my eye.

“No! Really. Like in the song. It’s something more.”

He rubbed his chin and looked so uncomfortable I almost wished I hadn’t asked. Me and my cat-killing curiosity. Oh dear, how could I have thought of that awful idiom? I shuddered.

Finally he said reluctantly, “They call the Big Dipper the drinking gourd.”

“Yes, it does look like one, doesn’t it? And how would you go about following it?”

“The North Star is in the constellation.” His voice was very low.

I wanted to subtly offer my aid, if only I had something to give. “I would help them follow their star if I could. Please know that.”

“Of course you would.”

“I’ve tried to make friends with some of the African servants, but it’s as if I can go only so far and then there’s a wall between us. They don’t trust me.”

“And why should they?”

“Because I’m me.”

“Well, they may actually like you, but their history in this country won’t allow them to place much faith in any white person.”

I sighed. “If I were queen of the world, I would change everything.”

“Everything? Surely you’d leave the orange blossom cakes as they are.” He took the last cake, broke it, and held out half to me.

“Well, yes,” I said, taking it. “Maybe the cakes … but only if there were enough for everyone everywhere.”

I didn’t eat my piece, however. Instead, I told Mr. Stone more about my life at the abbey, touching upon my godfather’s difficult moods. Mr. Stone was a man of God and people must often confide in him, so I didn’t feel I was being disloyal. “He is unused to ever having his will crossed. No one dare oppose him. Mrs. Duckworth, the housekeeper, told me once that her master would never desire that which was improper; they both consider that they can arbitrate what’s right simply because it’s what he wants.”

“A dangerous way to think,” Mr. Stone said. His tone and expression were grave. “Tread carefully, Miss Petheram.”

“Oh, I keep my wits about me,” I said blithely. “I’m all the time learning better how to deal with him.” I felt lighter simply from sharing my concerns. I stood and stretched, then wandered over to pick up the sketchbook Mr. Stone had left lying open. “May I?”

He nodded. “I’m putting together a book about plants in this area. Only for myself, of course. Other volumes on the subject have already been published with fine illustrations, but I enjoy creating my own.”

I glanced through the pages at beautifully drawn flowers, trees, details of leaves and grasses. “These are wonderful. You were sketching when I interrupted you. Would it bother you if I were to watch you take up your pencil again? So I could see how you go about drawing.”

Enthusiasm lit his face. “I’ve counted six different types of ferns in this glade alone. I’m working on these right now,” he said, pointing. “They’re Eastern Bracken. See how the small stems branch out from the center stem and how each stem has many leaves? That’s a decompound frond.”

“Decompound. It’s so delicate—like lace. I wonder if I could crochet ferns to adorn a skirt.”

I perched myself nearby and tried to sit absolutely still with my chin propped on my hands so I wouldn’t be a nuisance. However, after only a few minutes his eyes weren’t on his sketching pad; they were on me.

When he noticed that I noticed, he smiled. “I was just thinking that in this setting, in that gown, you look like a wildflower yourself. ‘Consider the lilies of the field.’ ”

I glanced down at my dress of lavender poplin with apple green ribbons appliquéd about the hem, and I beamed up at him. I was glad he compared me to a wildflower rather than a rose. Roses were so common. “That’s from the Bible, isn’t it? Not Shakespeare? ‘They toil not, neither do they spin.’ I’m not much of a scriptural scholar, but I remember that verse because it read like poetry.”

“A great many of the verses in the Bible read like poetry. I’ve tried to write psalms myself. King David is much better at it. The rest of that verse—it’s from Matthew six, by the way—says that ‘even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.’ Of course,” he added, with a significant grin, “the beginning of the verse instructs us to take no thought for our raiment.”

“There’s nothing wrong with pretty clothes,” I said as I smoothed out my skirt demurely, “as long as one doesn’t dwell upon one’s appearance constantly. But the rest of the scripture fits me well. I certainly toil not, although I asked Mrs. Duckworth for some tasks about the house, and the only one she set me was helping Daphne with the flower arranging, which Daphne resented. And neither do I spin—except for my bracelet, of course. I did more or less spin this.” I held out my hair bracelet, mostly so Mr. Stone would notice what a slender, dainty wrist I had.

He walked over to examine it more closely. “It’s an unusual piece of jewelry. Is it human hair?”

“It is. You’ll think me gruesome, but it’s strands from myself and from my godfather’s four wives.” I then told him about my investigations into my godfather’s past relationships. “And that day when I found their portraits and all their possessions—things they’d loved—consigned to the attic, it made me so sad that I
wanted to bring a piece of them downstairs.” I laughed a little self-consciously. “When I speak like that, it sounds as if I meant to prop one of their limbs in the corner of the drawing room, doesn’t it? But I promise it was with positive thoughts toward the ladies that I spun the bracelet. I didn’t want all traces of them to disappear.”

Mr. Stone had been listening in attentive silence, a furrow between his brows, but now he said slowly, “De Cressac has been married four times?”

“Yes, he was divorced from the first; the other three are dead.”

“And you tell me they all had red hair?”

“Well, redd
ish
. According to Mrs. Duckworth, he’s always been attracted to ladies with that coloring.”

“Miss Petheram, forgive me for asking, but am I right in assuming your siblings’ hair is of a different shade? He took no interest in them?”

“No. No, I’m the only redhead among us. But then, he’s my godfather and not theirs, so naturally he’d notice me rather than them. And he was fond of my mother and I resemble her.” By now I was feeling distinctly uncomfortable. He was voicing my earlier concerns, which I didn’t like to think about.

“My dear girl, thank heavens your family is coming soon. And by the way, you have very tiny wrists.”

He called me his dear girl. And he noticed my wrists
.

Thunder had been rumbling for the last few minutes. Now a great crack boomed, making us start, and it was as if the bottom had been let out of the sky.

We both leaped to our feet.

“I must go!” I cried over the pounding rain. “Don’t worry—I’ll be fine.”

He reached out to me, but I didn’t realize it until I was already darting through the trees.

Odette had been wiser than I. She had worn a hooded cloak. I lowered my head and sloshed through the driving downpour. The moment we entered a side door, she muttered something and raced on ahead, presumably to prepare a bath and dry clothing. I followed behind, wringing out my hair and shivering.

That night at supper only George served us. It didn’t seem right, with only half the bookends. I missed Charles and longed to ask where he was, but I didn’t dare.

However, something happened at that meal that made me think perhaps I had another friend in the household.

“You are tense,
chérie
,” M. Bernard said. “Have you had a stressful day? It rained, as I told you it would. Don’t tell me it caught you unprepared.”

“No, sir,” I said, happy that I’d shaken out and dried my hair. “I lost track of the time, though, and had to hurry to dress. Perhaps that’s why I seem stiff.”

He put down his fork on his plateful of eels, rose, and stood behind me. He lifted my hair, bundling it in one hand, and with the other began to massage my back above my dropped-shoulder collar of Chantilly lace. This, of course, made me even more tense. “Ling tells me you did not go on your picnic today,” he said.

Before I could act surprised, I saw Ling, from across the room, almost imperceptibly shake his head.

I had learned something of Ling during my four months at Wyndriven Abbey. Once I wouldn’t have caught his gesture, let alone deciphered it quickly enough to act upon it. Now I said without pause, “As you pointed out, the weather appeared threatening.” For some reason Ling thought it best my godfather not know I had been in the forest that day.

“Then perhaps, since you are fond of picnics, you will not object to dining with me
alfresco
at luncheon tomorrow. In the orchard, I think.”

“I’d like that.” I managed a smile and an upward glance, then added: “I can’t wait! I don’t see enough of you.”

He drew one finger across my upper back, raising goose bumps, and once again sat down to his eels.

Thank heavens for Ling. I only hoped no other of my godfather’s henchmen had seen me outside, revealing the lie.

I caught Talitha in the hall on my way up to bed.

“I missed Charles at supper,” I said. “Is he ill?”

She looked furtively around. “No, Miss Sophia. He ain’t sick. He been sent away. He—he made the master mad, so he sent Charles out to the cotton fields.”

My stomach turned over. Charles’s only fault had been kindness to me.

Talitha continued to stand before me, some great emotion working in her beautiful features. Finally she spoke, low and fierce. “I told him and told him he acted too friendly with you. But he say, ‘Oh, the poor girl don’t got nobody. Oh, the poor girl need someone be nice to her.’ Well, you see what being nice to you done to him?”

“I do see. I’m so sorry,” I said. “I had no idea … I just—”

She flinched away as though I were poison when I reached toward her, and she was gone before I could finish. I didn’t know what I would have said anyway.

I was constantly making careless mistakes, but this was no left-the-silk-gloves-out-in-the-rain sort of a mistake. This was a ruined-a-man’s-life mistake. Pleading with my godfather wouldn’t restore Charles to his position. Sick at heart, I knew that if I showed any further interest, it would only make matters worse.

During the past months of watching the tall footman, with his dignity and humor, and Talitha, with her strength and elegance, I had grown to admire them and to long for what they had. Their bond was so strong that when I stepped between them, I imagined I could feel it tangibly. How could I have been so careless as to have caused this separation?

I vowed to be more cautious until I could help them escape to freedom.

M. Bernard awaited me, seated at a table beneath the still-laden branches of the orchard. The sky was a bright autumn blue and the temperature balmy. Silver-covered dishes lay on a damask cloth, and George stood discreetly at a small distance to serve as needed.

“So elegant,” I said, seating myself. How different this picnic was from my last one.

“I can seldom shirk my duties, but I wished particularly to please you today.”

I made myself smile. “You’re so thoughtful.”

For the next hour I had the pleasure of basking in M. Bernard’s fascination. And in return I simpered and blushed, looked up at him through my eyelashes, shyly admiring, and ate a sampling of each delicacy George uncovered. I dared not refuse to play this game.

A green and gold beetle crawled on the tabletop toward the
asparagus. It became a diversion to see if it would reach its destination unnoticed. I hoped it would. I had already eaten my asparagus anyway.

M. Bernard’s gaze followed mine and fixed on my little beetle friend. His jaw tightened. When it was just about to reach the platter, he brought his palm down hard. I winced. He wiped his hand on a napkin and gestured for George to clean up the squashed remains.

He stood. “And here is a pear for dessert.” He drew the blade from the shaft of his walking stick. The sight of the wicked steel for the second time made my mouth go cotton dry. He cut a golden pear from a high branch and let it drop into his hand. He tossed it to me, and I reacted quickly enough to catch it.

My godfather didn’t obtain fruit for himself. Instead, he watched while I ate, as if it gave him pleasure to see me bite and chew.

“It’s delicious, but I can’t finish it,” I said finally, laying the half-eaten pear on my plate.

M. Bernard took my hand as he often did. This time, however, he began to peel off my black lace mitt, finger by finger. He held my naked hand then, turning it, stroking and studying it, as if it were of unusual interest.

“So beautiful,” he crooned. “And just a little sticky with juice.” He cast me a mischievous glance and raised my fingers to his lips. His tongue flicked out over my flesh. I gasped as he sucked each finger. “The perfect dessert.”

“Sir!” I snatched my hand back and fumbled to replace my mitt.

He let out his bark of laughter. “Such exquisite confusion.” He
stood and stretched. “Exquisite, but still I must teach you not to be missish. Shall we stroll through the orchard now? There are many fine fruits to be had.”