When the Splendor Falls (9 page)

“I do know what a blackberry looks like, dear,” Julia responded smugly, making a face at Blythe, but she glanced down just in case a stray farkleberry had found its way into her pail. “Well, I don’t care if there is a farkleberry in there, I won’t take another step from under this tree,” Julia vowed, collapsing onto the quilt and dragging her bonnet off as she rolled over and crossed her bare legs as if prepared to remain in so relaxed a position for some time.

Fanning herself lazily, she watched the Travers sisters with a wary eye, especially Leigh, who was busily loading the pails of blackberries into the cart, her hair hanging in untidy strands down her back. “La dee, but your mama is going to be fit to be tied, Leigh,” Julia remarked. “Just look at you. Your hair is sprouting twigs, and I just hope you haven’t gotten any freckles. Oh, and your hands! I declare, they’re so purple with juice stains one might mistake you for a kitchen maid, or a
fille de joie
with your skirts tucked up and your petticoats and bare legs revealed so shamelessly,” she said, giggling, and momentarily forgetting she’d been picking blackberries too, and in much the same state of dishabille.

“Whatever would Madame say if she could see one of her prized pupils now? ‘
Oh, mon Dieu! Vous êtes horrible, incorrigible, et peu digne d’une dame!
’” Julia said, clucking her tongue in mock disapproval and perfect imitation of Madame, who would have fainted at Leigh’s unladylike behavior and Julia’s unladylike language.

“Well, I can’t pick berries with gloves on, and even Madame would understand that,” Leigh said, frowning when she saw the purplish-blue stains that so delicately outlined her nails and highlighted every line running across her palms. “Oh, dear…” she murmured, momentarily startled by the damage.

“I declare, Leigh, you’ve even got a stain across your cheek. Or is it a scratch? Let me see your tongue,” Julia ordered, sticking out her own for view. “I bet yours is purple! No wonder you have half as full a pail as I do, you’ve been eating every other one you picked.”

“I was very selective in the ones I picked, Julayne,” Leigh said, for she’d seen quite a number of small, reddish-green ones in Julia’s pail.

“More likely, selective in the ones you ate,” Julia said, tapping her fingers together complacently, but her mouth dropped open when she saw the dark purple stains on her own pale hands. “Oooh, no…” she cried, holding her hands up to the sunlight in disbelief, “this is just awful. What if my hands are still stained on Friday?”

“You could always wear a big purple ribbon in your hair,” Blythe said, ducking behind the cart as Julia tossed one of her best kid slippers at the sly wretch.

Leigh ignored them and walked to the edge of the shade and whistled softly, staring across the meadow. Patiently, she waited, then smiled when she heard the answering neigh. A moment later, she spied Damascena’s shiny chestnut coat through the leafy green of the brambles. The mare broke into a trot when she caught sight of Leigh’s outstretched hand and the apple sitting squarely in the center of her palm.

“That’s my girl,” Leigh said, patting her lovingly, her fingers combing through the long tangled mane before she scratched the mare behind her ears affectionately.

“Here boy, I haven’t forgotten you,” Leigh said, pulling another apple from her looped-up skirt when she felt the warm breath of the colt against her arm. He snorted and shouldered his way closer between Leigh and the mare, his teeth quickly closing over the apple being held out so temptingly by his mistress.

Then he was racing away, kicking up his hind legs playfully as he circled the meadow, his tail held high. Leigh shielded her eyes as she followed his progress, noting with interest the measured, easy pace and the long length of his stride. He was going to be a winner, her little Capitaine, she thought proudly. She was still watching the colt when she was startled by a gentle nip on the soft flesh of her upper arm and jerked around to see the pony standing beside her, his velvety muzzle sniffing against her skirts as he searched for his treat.

Leigh rubbed the spot on her arm as she quickly sought the last apple she’d tucked away in the folds of her skirt. Moving her arm out of the way just in time to avoid a more painful bite this time for her slowness, she was about to deny the naughty pony his treat when she caught sight of his soulful brown eyes gazing up at her.

“All right, Pumpkin,” Leigh said, relenting. She had hardly found the apple and held it out before the pony had claimed the prize. The little pony, fat as a pumpkin, was in no mood to share his meal, and he stalked off on his short, stubby legs to a safe spot beneath a tree. There he kept an eye on the frisky colt, whose long-legged gait and curiosity were bringing him closer with each circling of the meadow.

“Don’t worry about those stains, Julia,” Leigh said as she returned to where Julia was frantically trying to wipe away the purple stains from her hands with a cologne-soaked handkerchief, but the more she rubbed, the darker they seemed to become.

“Not to worry?” she squealed, staring down at the purplish-pink skin that covered her hands. “You may have Matthew Wycliffe so blinded with love for you that he might not notice anything amiss, even purple hands, but I am hardly so fortunate. How can I give my hand in marriage when it looks like this? I had intended to receive several proposals this week, Leigh. And now I cannot attend little Lucy’s birthday party! I would become a laughingstock. The whole county will know, and when the gossip starts there will be no end to it. Why, Libby St. Martins will probably hear of this in Charleston and laugh her foolish blond head off,” Julia cried, her voice rising shrilly. “And Libby is always claiming that her hair is fairer than mine,” Julia stormed, the old grievance seeming all the more important with this latest threat to her beauty. “La dee, but hers looks quite brassy!”

Leigh, however, did not seem overly concerned as she sauntered back to the cart. She was well used to Julia’s ravings, and seldom took them seriously. Reaching beneath the seat, she withdrew a bundle. “Jolie thinks of everything, even before Mama does,” she said with a grin of satisfaction as she pulled a bottle stoppered with a cork from the bag and held it up for Julia to gaze upon.

“What is it?” she asked faintly, hardly daring to breathe lest her hopes be shattered. “Not Jolie’s highly prized, secret skin balm? Oh, Leigh!” Julia exclaimed when Leigh nodded, for salvation was at hand. “It has never failed and everyone agrees that your mama, even for a woman her age, has the softest, palest, and most translucent skin in all of Virginia.”

“Jolie thought Mama’s lemon and cucumber lotion might not be strong enough, and she didn’t want to cause my mother a fit of the vapors when she saw our hands.”

“And what is that?” Julia demanded when Leigh held up another, smaller bottle that contained a delicate pink-tinted lotion.

“Roses and lavender,” Blythe told her. “Mama’s favorite, and guaranteed to leave your skin soft and sweet-scented after it has been scoured down to the bone by Jolie’s voodoo mixture.”

“Voodoo? Not really? What do you think is in it?” Julie asked, her gray eyes wide with horrified speculation that did nothing to lessen her determination to rub some on her stained hands.

“‘Eye of newt, and toe of frog…’” Leigh quoted with Shakespearean seriousness, sidestepping Julia’s other kid slipper as it flew past her head. “Actually, I think it has almonds in it, and oatmeal, and…”

“I hate oatmeal.”

“…and lemon juice, and sour milk, and Jolie’s secret herbs, which she gathers only by the light of a full moon.”

Julia’s mouth fell open. “No, not really?” she breathed, truly impressed. “It
is
very potent, isn’t it? After all, Jolie took those horrid grass stains out of my best Sunday gown with it, remember? It must be magical,” she declared, a complete believer in its powers.

Hearing a strange sound, almost like a muffled snort, Julia glanced with haughty disdain at Blythe, but Blythe, with an innocent-enough-looking expression, was lifting the last of the pails of blackberries into the cart.

“I recall it also ate a hole in the seat of one of Guy’s finest pair of riding breeches,” Blythe added on a helpful note.

“We’ll have to wash this off as soon as we use it or it might cause an irritation,” Leigh warned as she uncorked the bottle, wrinkling her nose at the odor that wafted forth before she poured some into Julia’s eagerly outstretched hands.

Julia glanced up in surprise, her expression of pleasure becoming a frown. “A rash?” she said, thinking of the creamy, unmarred loveliness of her shoulders, especially when shown off to perfection in her new gown.

“It only happens to people with very delicate skin—”

“I have very delicate skin,” Julia informed her, eyeing the liquid dripping from her palm as if it had suddenly turned into blood.

“—but I have seldom seen that happen,” Leigh continued, pouring a fair amount into Blythe’s hand and her own, then rubbing her hands together until the thick, grainy liquid had almost disappeared.

Julia gave a squeal. “It’s coming off!”

“Your skin?” Blythe asked in genuine amazement, thinking there was no end to the tragedies that befell Julia.

“No, silly, the stains! The blackberry stains are gone!” she breathed in awe. “Quick, Leigh, where is the water?” she cried, glancing around for the carafe.

Leigh pointed behind Julia at the stream, the water looking invitingly cool.

“Oh, Leigh, no! If Blythe splashes me, then my dress will be ruined. The water spots will never come out of this material.”

Blythe opened her mouth to protest, but then thought better of it when she remembered the last time they’d been on the riverbank and she’d splashed Julia’s gown with a drenching spray of muddy water.

“Surely you are going to take your gown and petticoats off, Julia? I intend to, even if this is an old gown. And these petticoats—it will take forever to dry them out if they get wet. And I think that likely, for have you looked at your feet?” Leigh asked, turning around so Blythe could unhook her in back.

Julia stared down at her greenish-red toes, and for once in her life she was speechless—but not for long. “My toes! Oh! Leigh Alexandra Travers, I hate you! If you hadn’t insisted we go blackberry picking, none of this would ever have happened! I declare, this is an afternoon I’ll not soon forget, or forgive you for,” Julia said with a tearful sniff, placing the full blame for her predicament on Leigh.

“Now, now, Julayne,” Leigh said soothingly, and Blythe grinned, thinking Leigh knew how to handle Julia even better than plump little Pumpkin. “Let’s unhook you, then rub some balm on your feet, then we’ll wade into the stream and wash it all off. Remember how much fun we used to have wading, and it is so hot, don’t you think?” Leigh said in a persuasive tone as she unhooked Julia’s gown and untied her petticoats and poured more of Jolie’s special balm into Julia’s palm.

“Well…’tis rather hot,” Julia allowed, and it did feel good to be out of her gown and petticoats and standing in the cool shade in only her chemise and pantalettes. “La dee, I do wish I hadn’t had Bella lace me so tight this morning, but I do declare I’ve been having trouble getting into my best Charleston gowns since I came home,” Julia fretted, wishing she hadn’t had that last stuffed egg as she tried to loosen the laces of her corset. She started to giggle when she caught sight of Leigh and Blythe, who’d draped their gowns and petticoats over the side of the cart.

“Oh, dear, whatever would Madame say if she could see us now? We look worse than gypsies. I dare say we couldn’t go for a Sunday stroll along the Battery dressed like this,” she said, feeling slightly giddy at the thought of such a scandalous scene—and yet, the thought of standing before a gentleman in only her chemise and pantalettes caused Julia’s heart to quicken its beat.

“I do believe you are blushing, Julia,” Blythe said as she ran down the slope and splashed into the stream with complete abandon, just as Julia had feared she would.

At a far more circumspect pace, Julia followed, looking for all the world as if she were indeed out for a Sunday stroll—in her finest lace-edged pantalettes and best straw bonnet, her dainty parasol held aloft to shield her from the sun.

Leigh, after hanging Julia’s petticoats and gown on the cart, was the last to enter, and by then Julia was perched on a flat rock, her bare feet dangling in the clear waters of the stream. Leigh waded into the middle, the frill of lace on the legs of her pantalettes becoming soaked as she went deeper. Bending over, she dunked her hands into the water, washing away Jolie’s balm, then rinsed her feet and calves. Straightening, she glanced around curiously, expecting to see Julia or Blythe watching her, but Blythe was wandering along the far bank and Julia was intent upon her own thoughts.

“We really must do this more often, Leigh,” Julia said, flicking a bug from her foot with the tip of her parasol. “It truly is quite refreshing.”

“Why don’t you come back in, Julia. This mud feels wonderful squishing between your toes,” Blythe said, her attention caught by a frog leaping into the grasses on the far bank.

“It really is such a pity that Blythe hasn’t had the pleasure of meeting Madame. I suspect she could do wonders with the child,” Julia said with a heartfelt sigh, her own attention held as she admired her reflection in the water. “You do remember I am going to be staying at Travers Hill tonight, since Althea and Nathan are staying over. I just hope I don’t have to share a room with Noelle.”

“You’ll be sleeping in our room,” Leigh assured her, glancing down at her feet, which were now free of grass and berry stains. She held up her hands, smiling at the results of Jolie’s special balm.

“Did you remember to bring that lotion, Blythe?” Julia asked, glancing down at her own slender hands. “I don’t want my skin to become chafed.”

“It’s behind you on the rock, Julia,” Blythe told her, making a grab at the frog. “Don’t bother, Julia, dear, I’ll get it for you. I believe it is out of your reach,” Blythe said, hurrying over to where Julia sat daydreaming on the rock.

“There. Hold out your hand,” Blythe requested, placing the frog in Julia’s innocently outstretched palm.