Strands of Bronze and Gold (30 page)

“I have been in communication with Père Noël,” Bernard said, “and he knows Sophia’s whereabouts for a fact.”

We all laughed.

Bernard could cause any room he was in to come alive. His energy and vitality filled his surroundings, making everything more exciting, especially mixed with the tremulous expectancy of the season. Impulsively I squeezed his hand, and he squeezed mine back.

We sang “As I Sat on a Sunny Bank” and “God Rest You Merry, Gentlemen” and “The Holly and the Ivy.” Then Bernard taught us French carols while the glowing tree made the room mysterious and magical. When we sang in French, from the corner of my eye, I spotted a flicker of sapphire flitting in the shadows. I realized then that even if I talked to Adele, she wouldn’t understand, since she spoke no English. I wondered: In her life with Bernard, did she also find brief happiness in little things?

I tried to imagine I was in love with Bernard. If I could make believe well enough to convince myself, everything would be easier. He continued to go out of his way to help my siblings enjoy their stay. I was aware, and grateful, that he neglected his work for them. Once the Christmas decorating was done, he and my brothers spent the daylight hours hunting and fishing while Anne and I painted china or trimmed bonnets or stitched our needlework or simply chatted companionably. At other times we would all ride out on horseback or picnic or take in local sights. In the evenings we played cards or charades or music.

When we were with my family, Bernard was affability itself. Still, there was a humming tenseness in the atmosphere.

At suppertime one evening I paused before entering the banquet hall. Only Bernard was seated at the table. Could I scuttle back up to my room until someone else came down?

He saw me.

“Ah, there you are,” he said, rising and coming toward me. Then
he noticed my gown. “Why are you always wearing these things nowadays?”

“What things?” I asked, trying to move around him to my chair.

“These dresses that make you resemble one of your Puritan ancestors. High collars. Sleeves down to your wrists. Past your wrists actually,” he added dryly, since the ruffles of my cuffs trailed gracefully down. “Is it your family’s presence that makes you so prudish?”

“It’s cold,” I said, fidgeting with the lace fichu that rose high on my neck. “It’s wintertime, even if it is Mississippi.”

He chuckled low in his throat. “Well, your modesty makes you an enticing little Puritan. The more you cover up …”

He reached down and slowly, deliberately pulled off my fichu, with a look from narrow, laughing eyes that said,
What are you going to do about it?
Then he proceeded to unbutton my top button.

My hand flew up to his. “Bernard, the servants—and my family—”

George and Ling stood impassive against the wall, but they were stiffly aware of our interaction.

“
Oui
. All the more exciting.” He dipped his fingers in his wineglass, spread dripping purple liquid across my chest, and bent his head to lick and suck it off.

I trembled all over and endured for a moment.
What to do?

Swiftly I ducked low and drew away, frantically buttoning and retying. I babbled, “For me, the anticipation of our marriage is what makes it so exciting.”

He growled, but he didn’t grab me back, as I had expected. “You’ll
push me too far, Sophia. You are fortunate I have been a patient man.”

Always I was called fortunate. I tried to look up at him adoringly. “And I’m so grateful and it makes me care for you all the more that you respect my honor.”

He turned on his heels and strode to the doorway, not waiting for George, who was striding over to open it. He flung the door wide and slammed it behind him, so that the china and crystal on the table shuddered.

When my family finally came, I did more babbling, trying to ignore my sticky bosom and wondering how long I could hold off Bernard. Most of the time my imagination wasn’t strong enough to prevent the distaste I felt for his caresses. Distaste edged with uneasiness and—yes—fear.

That night I attempted to lodge a chair under my doorknob. It was too short. The others in my room were too tall. It didn’t matter. A chair wouldn’t stop my fiancé any more than a lock would, if he wanted to enter my bedchamber.

Less than a week before the ball, Bernard suggested we perform
tableaux vivants
, and we took up the idea with enthusiasm. Scenes from literature or history or paintings were re-created in drawing rooms with great detail. We had heard of such pleasures but had never before participated in them.

All that day we dashed about, preparing our
tableaux
. Chests and wardrobes throughout the house were robbed for costumes and props. Bernard and I were to perform a scene copied from a
painting in which I portrayed Salome and he portrayed John the Baptist’s head on a platter.

For the performance I wore a garland on my streaming hair, with a crimson robe covering my gown. We placed two tables close together and draped them with a cloth in which Bernard cut a hole so his head could loll to one side, seemingly without a body attached. He looked terribly gruesome, and I told him so. This pleased him.

He took his part seriously, so the evening began badly when Harry burst into laughter at first sight of our scene. I hushed my brother and pacified Bernard, but this boded ill for what might come next.

However, Bernard appeared to be restored to humor as he freely helped himself to brandy. While Anne and I prepared behind a curtain for our
tableau
, he called out, “May I propose the scene ‘Nymphs Bathing.’ I should enjoy that immensely.”

I covered my face with my hands as I thought of Junius’s and Harry’s embarrassment at the suggestion of their sisters posing nude. I was somewhat used to Bernard’s indelicate ways, but my siblings were not. Anne blushed and patted my hand. She understood.

Anne’s and my depiction was to be Marie Antoinette and her lady-in-waiting riding a tumbrel to their execution. Anne had procured two gowns from somewhere that she supposed were similar to clothing of that period. Mine was striped in leaf green and gold with a lace scarf, while Anne’s was azure. We placed ourselves in our tumbrel made from a table turned on its side with paper wheels and called for Harry to draw the draperies. The curtain opened with a whisper.

For a moment no one said a word. Then Harry asked loudly, “Now, who are you supposed to be?”

“Can’t you tell, foolish boy?” Anne said, stung out of character. “We’re Marie Antoinette and her lady-in-waiting, of course.”

I said nothing because I saw Bernard’s face. First it went red, then blanched, and his eyes bulged. I broke out in a cold sweat. What was happening? What had I done now?

“Where—where did you get those gowns?” he gasped at last.

“Why, from the attic,” Anne said. “From trunks in the attic.”

And then I knew. She had filched them from one of the brides’ trunks. The dresses hadn’t seemed familiar—I had rummaged through so many that long-ago day—but I, at least, with my vivid hair, must look remarkably like one of those women.

Bernard gave a terrible, wordless cry, dropped the goblet he held so it shattered and splattered, then staggered from the room.

I cursed myself that I hadn’t realized what we were wearing. Now that I looked at the gowns closer, they likely had been Victoire’s.

“What just happened?” Junius asked.

I shook my head. How could I begin to explain what a mistake poor Anne and I had made? “He—these dresses belonged to one of Bernard’s wives. I didn’t know, but I should have known. I’m so sorry.”

“Well,” said Harry, “does this mean I don’t have to portray Paul Revere announcing the arrival of the British?”

We all laughed nervously, but I racked my brain to think how I could soothe my fiancé. Now he knew that all his wives’ possessions hadn’t been burned. What would the repercussions be? Was poor Ducky in trouble?

I searched in vain for Bernard. He must have left the house.

It was late, as I sat at my dressing table, when Anne came in to me.

“Sophie, I’m worried about you.” She seated herself in a chair next to mine.

“Why in particular?” I asked. There were myriads of things that were worrisome about me.

“You seem so—oh, I would call it edgy, these days. You start at every sound, you flinch, you give sideways glances as if you expect something to spring out at you. I know now that Monsieur de Cressac can be difficult to deal with; it’s him that makes you so apprehensive, isn’t it?”

I hesitated. I could make excuses—I had not been feeling well, some such flimflam—but instead decided to speak the truth. “Yes. Bernard’s temperament does make me tense. I never, never know what will trigger an explosion. Even when he’s happy, I worry about when he’ll be angry next. Always treading carefully wears on me. It goes against my nature.”

Anne’s eyes brimmed with compassion. She didn’t speak for a moment, looking down at her hands. “He seemed the answer to all our problems. I thought you’d soon learn to love him. Many wives suffer from volatile husbands, but the men never actually strike them.… You don’t think he would, do you? I mean, if you are truly afraid, we’ll take you away with us. We’ll figure another way out of our troubles.”

“No,” I said. It was more now than Harry’s debt. There was no doubt at this point that if I cried off from our engagement, Bernard would seek revenge. He had all the resources of great wealth and
ruthlessness at his disposal. “No, it’s the right thing to do. Once it’s done, everything will be better. Just you wait—I’ll pick you out some dashing Southern gentleman for your sweetheart.”

My sister put her arm around my waist and smiled weakly.

My skirt shifted as something—someone—invisible edged by. For just a moment I considered telling Anne of the other reason I was jittery: my phantom Sisters, who haunted Wyndriven Abbey. The manifestations were occurring more and more frequently. At times an arctic touch, so soft, brushed past. The warbling murmur of voices often sounded, too muffled to grasp. I glimpsed the Sisters again and again. At other times I simply
felt
their presence—some great emotion hanging quavering in the atmosphere. They were disturbing but not threatening. It was not the dead I feared.

Anne would think me mad.

She rose to leave, and her expression was infinitely sad. “I would willingly take this burden from you if I could. I’ve never felt true love, so in marrying Monsieur de Cressac, I would feel no lack.”

I gave a choking little laugh. “Unfortunately your lovely tresses are the wrong shade.”

The next morning Bernard slumped on a bench in the frosty garden, head in hands. The lawns were now dun-colored, and no flowers bloomed, but the cedars and magnolias and boxwood topiaries shone green.

I touched his shoulder and he raised his head. He had not changed clothes since our ill-fated
tableaux vivants
. He was pale, with sunken and bloodshot eyes.

“It was the dresses,” he said. “They were supposed to be destroyed.”

“It doesn’t matter,” I said wearily. “You don’t need to explain.”

Then, as if I hadn’t spoken, he continued, “She’s gone—she betrayed me with another man and deserted me, but there she was. It was you, of course, but it was her face I saw above the dress.” He put his hand to his forehead and stood, swaying on his feet, disoriented. He leaned against a balustrade.

“I understand,” I said. “It must have been a terrible shock.”

He stared at me now without speaking. His expression was one I had never before seen him wear—wounded and bewildered. I had expected anger. I had expected recriminations. Not this.

I lowered myself to the cold marble bench and pulled him down beside me. He lay his head in my lap, and I carefully touched his hair. “There now,” I said softly. “I’m so sorry it happened, but it’s only me here.”

He stiffened and his hand clamped down on mine.

The
bon vivant
. The beast. The hurt child. Who was the true Bernard? I supposed he was all of them.

We were all relieved that the weather was perfect the days before the ball and that the morning of the great event dawned cold and clear, with the slightest of bracing breezes. A winter deluge could have spoiled everything, making the roads impassable.