Norton, Andre - Novel 23 (22 page)

 
          
 
But there was something Saranna could do
besides demand explanations from Damaris; she could finish her letter to Mr.
Sanders. She took out her small lap desk, brought out paper, made sure her pen
was properly trimmed. Only when all her preparations were complete, she chewed
at the tip of her quill, trying to think reasonably and coherently. She had a
reason for writing, to ask whether he had heard from Pastor Willis concerning
any small sum of money left after the sale. However, to that the lawyer could curtly
reply yes or no, and she would have no immediate contact to ask him concerning
Damaris' protection. At last Saranna believed that she had chanced on the
proper formula. She was a young female, deprived of her natural guardian by
Jethro's absence. Could she not play upon that note, suggesting that she needed
mature,
masculine
advice concerning some problem which
she did not wish to entrust to a letter?

 
          
 
A debt! That was it—some debt she had not
formerly known about. And with that excuse, she was only stretching the truth a
little.
For she did feel a debt of responsibility toward
Damaris, though they were no blood kin.
But she might word her letter in
such a way that Mr. Sanders could believe her dilemma now arose out of the
past.

 
          
 
Saranna wrote slowly word by word, weighing
each sentence as she set it down:

 
          
 
Honored Sir:

 
          
 
Since my worthy brother is now at sea and will
not return to us for many months, I am turning to you as his legal adviser and
good friend, to ask a very great favor.

 
          
 
There has lately come to me knowledge that I
have an obligation, to which I was heretofore blind. It is of the greatest
necessity that I give an answer very soon to this problem. However, my
ignorance of such matters is great. I feel that I need well-informed advice as
to how I must now proceed in this affair which is too detailed and private a
one to set out in any letter.

 
          
 
I am begging your indulgence when I ask if you
can arrange a meeting wherein I may explain this difficulty and gain from you
guidance as to my future conduct.

 
          
 
I am, sir, with respect—

 
          
 
Stiff and formal.
However, such an approach Saranna judged would be to the taste of Mr. Sanders,
perhaps impress him more than anything which was in the least effusive or
struck a more friendly tone. She checked the page for both penmanship and any
errors of grammar or spelling, gave a sigh as she folded and sealed it. The
letters going out of Tiensin, though those were very few save during the days
when Honora was in residence, were placed in a post bag which in turn was taken
down to the wharf to be collected by any sloop inward bound to Baltimore.
Saranna hated to entrust this missive to such an arrangement, but she knew no
other way to send it.

 
          
 
Now she shivered as she turned down the lamp,
undressed, and crept into a bed where the sheets seemed chill. She should be
tired after their frenzied activities of packing below, yet she was never more
wide awake. The tension of that work still held. And what would be the reaction
in the morning?

 
          
 
In the absence of Honora or any guests the
great parlor and library were kept closed. Yet surely before the end of the
day, Mrs. Parton, on some necessary household errand, would discover the loss.
What would happen then? Such a large-scale disappearance of the whole
collection, with the exception of a few too large pieces (such as the blue and
white parlor screen), could not be the work of an ordinary thief. No—it would
be speedily guessed who was responsible.

 
          
 
Then what—?

 
          
 
Saranna sought and discarded explanation after
explanation which might be advanced for the stripping of the room. That the
action would be traced back to Damaris, she was entirely certain. And where had
those hampers been taken?

 
          
 
There was only one logical place that Damaris
had given —the hidden garden. The Chinese men were clearly from that. Then was
also the Fox Lady a truth? Were they her servants? But who or what was she? And
how had she come to Tiensin?

 
          
 
What of Gerrad Fowke's story of how Captain
Whaley had imported Chinese servants to labor on the house and the garden?
However, Mr. Fowke had stated they had all been returned to their native land
when their work here was done. Who had counted them—then? The Fox Lady— Saranna
now summoned to mind all her memories of her meeting with that strange dancer
in the moonlight.

 
          
 
The woman's grace, the jewel box of a house in
which she lived—if it was not all part of a dream (and Saranna, against her
will, was beginning to think that it was not
)—
then
the dancer was plainly no servant but a personage of standing and authority.

 
          
 
The Captain's—wife?

 
          
 
Saranna wondered. Had Captain Whaley indeed
married some lady of birth and breeding in China and then hesitated to bring
her openly to the attention of the neighborhood here, fearing that some narrowness
of prejudice might well preclude her being received honorably as she should be?
All that was plausible, except for the fox visage.
No
woman born could wear a fox's mask for a face!

 
          
 
Some deformity of birth—to
blight her life?

 
          
 
Saranna's hand sought the fox pendant which
still lay on her breast. Against her skin it was not as chill as the sheets; it
rather seemed to generate
a warmth
of its own. In the
dark she traced the carving with a fingertip. A white fox—she had seen at least
two among that silent company who had watched the dancer. Did it have some
meaning?

 
          
 
Damaris' Prmcess—the Fox
Lady?
And Damaris said the pendant was a mark of favor. Perhaps, now
that Saranna herself had aided Damaris in this late act to hide the collection,
the younger girl would be moved to more and complete explanations.

 
          
 
The storm which had raged was now spent. There
were no more fierce cracks of lightning, roars of thunder, though the rain fell
steadily outside. Saranna's hand turned on the pillow. She found herself
watching the two rounds of light which marked the eyes of the Emperor's cat.

 
          
 
Somehow as she
lay
there, her hand upon the pendant, her tension began to ease until at last she
slept.

 
          
 
Millie, in a flurry, aroused her once more. So
that Saranna was still half-bemused with slumber she had not completely shaken
off, when she descended to the breakfast room. Damaris stood by a window
looking out on a dripping world. She smiled back over her shoulder at Saranna.
"It is still raining," she commented. "What if it rains forty
days and forty nights again? We might be washed right away—"

 
          
 
The prospect of that did not seem to dampen
her spirits any. She had an almost festive air about her as she came to the
table. To Saranna the younger girl had the appearance of one relieved from some
burden, now at peace with herself and the world. Did Damaris believe their
looting of Tiensin would simply go unnoticed?

 
          
 
"This is a good day to sew," Damaris
observed, helping herself liberally to hot biscuits and then to comb honey.
"I took my basket to the sewing room before I came downstairs—"

 
          
 
Such unconcern Saranna could not share. But
perhaps she could and must counterfeit an appearance of it. She agreed that it
seemed an excellent day for some indoors employment, and then was caught up
answering a round of questions Damaris showered upon her. Apparently the
younger girl had collected some of the Godey Ladies' Books which Honora had
left behind and had been studying the various fashion plates, now professing a
desire to learn how to make this or that elegant trifle until Saranna warned
her that such skills might well be beyond both of them.

 
          
 
Every time the door opened to admit John or
one of the maids with fresh coffee, hot breads, or the like, Saranna braced
herself to hear the alarm
raised
. When that did not
come she found, to her surprise, that she was growing impatient, that she
wanted to face the worst and get it safely behind her. Did Mrs. Parton (of whom
they had seen nothing this morning so far) not inspect the rooms under her
care? Even though Damaris insisted that the maids not be allowed to dust the
collection, still the carpets must be brushed, and other housekeeping chores
waited within the closed rooms.

 
          
 
Mrs. Parton's continued absence added to
Saranna's sense of all not being well. At length, as they finished the
meal,
and Damaris paused in her flow of comment on what
might or might not be fashionable, Saranna dared to ask the first question of
her own:

 
          
 
"Where is Mrs. Parton?"

 
          
 
"Down at the quarters," Damaris
returned promptly. "Old Jane is ill." For a moment her smile faded.
"I wanted to go, but the Poker wouldn't let me. Old Jane, she was my
mother's own nurse when she was just a little baby. But the Poker says she has
a fever and it could be catching. Always afraid of something catching—the Poker
is."

 
          
 
"But she went herself—" Sararma pointed
out.

 
          
 
"Yes, but you ought to see her. She has
an herb bag around her neck and she smelled—" Damaris inelegantly pinched
her nose between thumb and finger. "Saranna," she drew closer to the
older girl as they went out into the hall, "what's the matter? You kept
looking at the door all the time as if you were afraid something horrible was
going to come in—"

 
          
 
"But, Damaris," Saranna was taken
aback, "surely you know that Mrs. Parton, that everyone will want to know
where your grandfather's collection is! The minute they discover the pieces
gone they will—"

 
          
 
Her words grew slower because Damaris was
slowly shaking her head. The young girl flipped up her apron and showed under
the string which had held the key to the room upstairs with the four camphor
wood storage boxes. There were two more keys jangling against it now, both
large and heavy.

 
          
 
"Locked," she explained. "Oh, I
suppose the Poker will be upset when she finds them locked. But if she looks in
her key basket she is not going to find her keys. That will give us the
time—"

 
          
 
"Time for what?"

 
          
 
"Time for someone else to make sure that
the treasure is never going out of Tiensin." Damaris seemed entirely
confident, though Saranna had no equal belief that any amount of time right now
would solve the problem. It would only defer the reckoning which they both must
face sooner or later.

 
          
 
But perhaps her letter would reach Mr. Sanders
if Damaris could continue to cover up the disappearance of the collection, even
by so crude a method as merely locking doors and hiding keys. A little
heartened by that thought, she hailed John who was just turning into the
breakfast room and held out the sealed envelope she had taken from her apron
pocket.

 
          
 
"For the mailbag, John, please—“