Norton, Andre - Novel 23 (29 page)

 
          
 
Millie's interest in the fan quickly
dissipated. "Miss Saranna, I don't know how you can get those. Do I try to
get them for you—they
is
kept in the part of the house
where I ain't never supposed to show myself. And
do
Mrs. Parton or that John see me—"

 
          
 
But Saranna was already trying to improvise
writing materials. On the hearth! There
was charred wood—dark
ashes
. She quickly knelt and scraped the blackest of these onto the
dish-bottomed holder of the bedside candlestick.

 
          
 
Paper?
The book she
had brought to her room. Ruthlessly she tore out the flyleaf. Then she drew out
from her store a knitting needle.

 
          
 
"Millie, can you get me some vinegar—very
little—perhaps a couple of tablespoonfuls?"

 
          
 
The maid nodded vigorously. "I can and no
one will ask none about that
. '
Cause ladies rinse
their hair in vinegar. I can wash your hair and no one will say it be somethin'
as we ain't ever
do
."

 
          
 
"Good enough!" Saranna was already
unbraiding her hair. "Get it right away. Oh, leave the fan here until
later.”

 
          
 
Millie laid that on the table and was gone.
How well her plan might work, Saranna did not know. But she did believe that
were Gerrad Fowke to know of what Honora planned, he would put an end to it.

 
          
 
Millie was back shortly with an armload of
towels, a jug which she announced contained rainwater, the only proper rinse
for any lady's hair, and a much smaller jug of vinegar.

 
          
 
"Miss Honora," she announced,
"is a-lyin' in her room with a headache. She got that triflin' Polly, who
think she's so mighty big 'cause she's Miss Honora's maid, a-sittin' there
a-puttin' cloths on her head and a-gettin' her thmgs. I heard tell as how Mr.
Fowke, he talked sharplike to her before he rode off. And she didn't take
kindly to that nohow—"

 
          
 
While Millie got ready the towels and
washbasin, Saranna experimented with the vinegar and the charcoal from the
fireplace. She mixed a black enough liquid, but whether it would last after
drying was a question. In the meantime, she thought of what she must say.

 
          
 
"I go an' get the hotted water now,"
Millie announced. Saranna nodded absently in reply.

 
          
 
She dipped the point of the needle into her
mixture and began to print out letters. Since she had neither the time nor the
space on her torn-out page to be formal, this must be terse and to the point.

 
          
 
Mr. Fowke:

 
          
 
They plan to attack the hidden garden.
Men from the city.
Kill the foxes and whoever may be within.
I must ask help for Damaris—and for Tiensin.

 
          
 
She made her signature a single
S. Saranna
was sure he would not have any difficulty
in knowing who had sent this. She laid her message out to dry. Though she had
gone over each letter in those words twice, she could not be sure of the
staying power of her improvised ink.

 
          
 
When Millie returned, she went through the
lengthy ritual of washing her hair, applying towels from the mammoth pile the
maid had provided, as well as brushing and sitting in the full sunlight of the
afternoon in order to dry it. But the strands were still faintly damp as she
had Millie rebraid it for her appearance at dinner.

 
          
 
Honora and Damaris might not attend that meal;
if so, Saranna determined to dine in solitary state, so asserting her
independence before the household. She had Millie once more hook her into her
dress, deciding not to vary that with the more formal satm waist, and descended
the stairs with a firm step.

 
          
 
As she entered into the breakfast room she
found it in semitwilight, no candles lighted, no place set. They had not
expected her then. But with a determined wiU, she pulled at the bell cord. It
was Rose, not John who came in answer to that perhaps overforceful ring.

 
          
 
"Where is dinner?” Saranna said.
"Surely this is the hour—"

 
          
 
"We—Mrs. Parton—she say you take a tray
in your room, Miss Saranna."

 
          
 
"Nonsense.
I am
perfectly well and able to be here. You will bring my dinner now." Saranna
had never been so authoritative in her life. But she sensed that she must prove
that she was not a nonentity in this house. The spirit and pride which had
carried her and her mother through the dark days in
Sussex
had come back to her full force. She was
young, that was true. And were Jethro here, her duty would be to obey the
wishes of the master of the household. But that did not mean that she had to
let Honora stand in authority over her.

 
          
 
She waited, watching the appearance of John,
who eyed her first as if he were going to protest, but then turned to set out
silver and fine china before the chair which had been hers since she had come
to Tiensin. Saranna fully expected Mrs. Parton to confront her with some
prohibition from Honora. But the housekeeper did not show herself, and Saranna
ate slowly and methodically as if this was the only possible arrangement she
could countenance.

 
          
 
There was no reason to sit alone in the
parlor. Having achieved her purpose so far, she returned to her own room,
lighted the lamp, and took up her book.
Though she found that
even when she had read several pages, she had no idea of the story.
Finally, she laid it aside.

 
          
 
The storm last night had seemed to clear the
air. There was a moon rising. She looked down from her window to the hedge which
walled in the hidden garden. How very tall that growth was, cutting off the
view from even this second-story window. And it was thick, too. If Honora
ordered that cleared away, the hands
who
did it would
have a very difficult job before them.

 
          
 
Suddenly Saranna was tired. There had been so
much happening this day and she had been up well half the night before helping
Damaris repack the treasure collection. Slowly she undressed, aware of the
aches of fatigue in her body. She put on her muslin gown, tied her nightcap
firmly in place, and settled herself among her pillows. But, once she lay
prone, her desire for sleep seemed to have fled. There was something else, a
sensation she had not experienced before— a little nagging feeling that she had
left something important undone. Yet as she went over all her memories of the
day, she could not locate that omission. Done—or undone?

 
          
 
Had she made a bad error in judgment in her
appeal to Mr. Fowke? Or was it that she must make sure before she slept of Damaris'
whereabouts? With a sigh, Saranna sat up. Then she heard it!

 
          
 
Out of the night came that strange off-tone
music again. She scrambled over the edge of the bed. Her wrapper—
Where
had she left her wrapper? This time she had forgotten
to light the Emperor's night lamp and she bumped forceably in the dark against
the chair where she had hung the wrapper. With that about her shoulders, her feet
forced stockingless into her slippers, she crept to the door and unlocked it.
She then threaded the key onto the tie of her wrapper.

 
          
 
Damaris! She was sure Damaris might be bound
for the hidden garden. And this time she herself had not awakened from any
sleep, she was very certain that what she heard was no part of any strangely
vivid dream.

 
          
 
She went first to Damaris' door. That was
tight shut and did not yield as she turned the knob. She dared not knock or
call without perhaps arousing Honora's maid in the chamber near the fore of the
hall where a crack of light showed strongly at floor level.

 
          
 
Damaris—could she have already gone on into
the hidden garden? If that were where the treasure had been taken, then there
was good reason for the child to check upon it. Saranna moved cautiously down
the dark hall. Now her hand was on the pendant she wore, both night and day.
The gem seemed not to be chill and cold, rather warm—though that was certainly
only a fancy.

 
          
 
Step by step she descended the back stairs.
There was a light glow from the direction of the kitchen, the sound of voices,
but all safely muted. She was at the outer door now and had lifted the latch.

 
          
 
The night wind was almost too fresh for the
gown and wrapper she wore. She wished she had taken more time and dressed. But
again that urgency gripped her. It was here and now she must move!

 
          
 
Around the house she went, to front the hedge.
The eerie trilling of a flute had risen slightly above the other sounds which
combined to make a harmony which, to her Western ears, did not sound like music
at all.

 
          
 
Saranna felt her way along the edge of the
hedge and then she stopped, pulled aside brush limbs with both hands, and found
the concealed doorway. Once more, she fought her way on into the garden, down
the twisting path, beyond the small house of the flower-grated windows until
she could see the terrace.

 
          
 
But tonight, in spite of the music, there was
no fox-faced dancer swaying gracefully under a waning moon, no company of foxes
transfixed by her movements. The musicians sat back in the shadows under the
overhang of the eaves as they had done before. But in the moon door of the
house stood a woman who could only have been the dancer save that tonight it
was a human face she wore.

 
          
 
Her robe was not the loose-flowing,
high-belted one which had swirled about her in the moon dance, rather it was
richly heavy, stiff with embroidery, high-collared and clasped upon the
shoulder. Her hair was stretched over a frame in a formal fashion, decorated
with pins which glittered, as did the long earrings hanging from her exposed
ears. She was as majestic as a Queen in her own courtyard, and if this was
Damaris' "Princess," the title was very fit.

 
          
 
Her eyes were upon the path and, as Saranna
emerged from the growth behind
her,
one hand arose as
her very long sleeve folded back upon the wrist to show the fingers with their
gemmed nail guards. She beckoned, and Saranna, again feeling neither awe nor
fear, rather that this was an ordained act, came forward upon the terrace,
approaching her who stood in the moon door.

 
          
 
''Mei —" The lady stepped back into the
room where the lamps were lit, and once again Saranna followed.

 
          
 
"You are welcome, younger sister."
Though the lady spoke English, her words had a slightly sing-song quality. Now
she pointed to that wide bed which was also a place to sit. Once more the table
divided them as they settled themselves upon its padded surface. But this time
no tea service was waiting.

 
          
 
Rather the Fox Lady put her hand upon a box of
lacquer work whereon were many foxes patterned m red and gold on the black
surface. From that she took a bundle of small ivory sticks like those of a
dismembered fan, yet of the same width throughout. Then Saranna saw that some
were divided by an inset bar of dull red, while others were untouched.

 
          
 
"Younger sister, you have come and the
hour is a propitious one. At such a time, the Great Ones make known what may
lie
ahead for those of us who have not yet ascended. For my
own life, I know all readings well, but this is the moment when I must also
find what influences lie before you, and whether the path which is yours is
also, for this space of time, mine.