Strands of Bronze and Gold (14 page)

I took my horse now to the veranda just outside of M. Bernard’s open office window and looped her reins around a post in the
balustrade. I ran inside to ask him to look out at Lily. My godfather would know how pleased I was with his gift if he saw I fussed over her so. Also, I thought, he would see that I had recovered from last night’s awkwardness.

The office was unlocked and empty. Always before, if M. Bernard or Mr. Bass was not present, it was bolted. A massive desk hulked in the center.

The top drawer gaped open. Not knowing why I did so, I peeked inside. Only one item lay in the exact center: an envelope slightly yellowed about the edges with the name “Victoire” written upon it. I picked it up and took a quick look around.

It was shameful to read letters addressed to others.

Go ahead. Open it. The owner is long gone
.

Slowly I drew the notepaper out of the envelope. A faint perfume clung to it. The paper was tissue thin, with scalloped edges.

Dearest Victoire
,

How thankful I am there is a Trustworthy One to bring this epistle to your fair hand. One by one, the brown leaves fall. Golden summer ends. But how sweetly our pathway was strewn with roses when we walked it together
.

I was able to find another position quickly after de C. sent me packing. I now have lodgings that are not so fine as what you are used to, but that you will be happy in, I hope
.

Dearest, I cannot rest until I rest with you. You MUST leave that Person who is your husband in legal terms only. I am the husband of your soul. I love you. I adore you
.

Send instructions to me by way of that same Trustworthy One. Tell me when it is safe to whisk you away. I breathlessly await your answer
.

I bid you adieu
.

Your adoring
,
C. G
.            

The last name was Gregg, Ducky had said. He certainly could write a lyrical love letter. I wondered if he had copied bits from a book.

So … Victoire had left. She had abandoned M. Bernard. Ducky had seen her only the one time afterward. Perhaps Victoire bore children to Mr. Gregg that would ease, somewhat, the sorrow over little Anton. She might now live happily in a cozy, bustling household. Somehow, though, I doubted it. Fragile threads of tragedy seemed to cling to the letter.

Of course it had been a tragedy for my godfather. Poor, poor man. How terrible for M. Bernard to have kept this note so close. To read over and over again. Why? Why would he inflict such pain on himself?

I was puzzling over this when voices sounded nearby. Frantically I stuffed the paper in the envelope and replaced it in the drawer. How would I explain—

“How dare they?” It was M. Bernard’s voice, tight with anger, speaking from outside the open window. “Right here at the abbey.”

“It may not be the fellow I heard about in town,” Mr. Bass said hesitantly.

“Hah,” scoffed M. Bernard. “You think there is another one-legged former sailor carpenter hiring himself out to plantations, do you?” There was a pause. “Hmm, here is Sophia’s horse—where is the rider?”

I dashed from the room and flew down the corridor.

My breath came ragged as I sped to the door into the east wing. As always, it was locked. I raced outside to peek through one east wing window after another, glancing wildly about, terrified that someone had followed me. No Joe. Even now M. Bernard was probably sending for the marshal—or worse, for Garvey, with a weapon to apprehend the carpenter.

I finally found an unlocked outer door and burst inside, nearly knocking Joe’s wooden leg from beneath him as he stood attaching molding. Thankfully he was alone. He righted himself and raised his eyebrows, mildly inquiring, as if it were no great surprise to find a young lady panting and panic-stricken in the empty wing.

“You’ve got to leave right now,” I whispered. “Monsieur de Cressac knows who you are.”

Joe said nothing, simply nodded and turned to depart.

“Be careful,” I said. “And good luck.”

Without pausing, from over his shoulder, he said, “Thank you, Missy. I is gone ’fore you knows it. Done it many a time before.”

My heart still racing, I went to lead Lily back to the stables.

After a silent meal with a brooding M. Bernard, a meeting was called with all the servants. The Negroes gathered, old and young,
in a half circle at the bottom of the veranda steps. Ling and Mrs. Duckworth, Achal and Alphonse stood beside the master at the top. Garvey stood slightly behind, clutching a cruel-looking cat-o’-nine-tails whip. I cowered just outside the morning room doorway. My godfather had indicated I should attend. Part of me could not bear to, and yet I dared not defy him and stay away altogether.

M. Bernard stood scanning the group for several moments. His grip was so tight on the walking stick he held that his knuckles were white. A muscle beside his eye twitched. Most of the servants bowed their heads. Some shuffled their feet. Tension was palpable in the air.

“My people,” M. Bernard said finally, in ringing tones, “as you all well know, a person has been here. A liar come to stir up trouble. The patrollers are now on the heels of the rogue, and he will be caught and jailed. But you—all of you—I have housed you, fed you, cared for you, and yet you have harbored this snake. What should be done to such disloyal slaves?” Here he hit his stick in his other palm with such a crack that everyone jumped. “You agree you deserve punishment, do you not?”

The servants made no response, still looking at the ground, wisely drawing no individual attention. Had I been the object of Monsieur’s wrath, I believed I would have withered away.

“But”—M. Bernard’s features contorted a little as he brought himself under rigid control—“I choose to be merciful. Your food rations shall be cut only for this month. However, you must reveal the identity of the person who warned this scoundrel to leave before I could confront him. Who was it? Tell me now.”

I grasped the doorframe. I had never thought of this. It hadn’t
occurred to me that M. Bernard would realize someone had alerted Joe to flee. The moment stretched on. No one spoke. Even the little ones stood still, huddling behind their mothers. A crow cawed hoarsely from the forest.

“Very well,” my godfather said. “Children, go back to the quarters. The others will be there shortly.” He waited until they were gone. “Now, if no one will speak, then someone innocent must suffer. You, Willie, come up here.”

The poor old gardener shuffled up. He seemed to shrivel smaller as he approached my godfather’s powerful frame. M. Bernard removed his coat and handed it to Ducky.

“Take off your jacket and shirt, Willie,” M. Bernard commanded. “Bend over the rail. Garvey, the whip.”

Garvey stepped forward and handed his master the whip.

Willie, who always was dressed neatly, looked exposed and skinny, naked from the waist up.

I darted up to M. Bernard and grabbed his arm. “Please,” I begged, “don’t do this. Perhaps no one warned the man. Perhaps he left of his own accord.”

“Go inside, Sophia,” M. Bernard said coldly, shaking his arm free, “if you cannot watch quietly.” Then, hissing so softly that no one else could hear, “And never presume to tell me how to manage my own people.”

I retired to the morning room, despising myself for not confessing it had been me who had warned Joe. I simply could not do it. As penance I leaned my cheek against the door and watched M. Bernard bring the lash down on Willie’s bare back, wincing each time as if the sting were against my own flesh. Again and again and again.
As the lash dropped down in between strokes, it left lines of crimson on the flagstones. The sounds of Willie’s suppressed agony would be forever in my ears.

Each lash was a deathblow to the infatuation I had carried for my godfather. Eventually M. Bernard grew tired and ceased, his breath heaving. I dragged myself up to my room.

After a while Talitha entered. “Master say come out on the veranda.”

I shook my head. “I can’t face him after what he just did.”

“Yes, you can. You got to.” She straightened the sash of my gown.

“How could he do that to Willie?”

“Easy. He got an arm on him, the master do.” As she was briskly brushing through my hair, she said, “It’s a good thing Peg Leg Joe got a head start. It’s a good thing someone warned him. They would’ve strung him up.”

“Yes, but will Willie be all right?”

“He been beat before. He tougher’n he looks.” She hesitated, rubbing her wrists, before saying, “The best way you can help us is to butter Master up and smooth him out so he ain’t angry no more.”

After pondering her words, I nodded slowly and rose. She was leaving ahead of me when I stopped her. “Talitha?”

She turned and waited.

“Charles is always good-humored with you, isn’t he?” I asked.

Her brow wrinkled. After a moment she nodded.

I wound and unwound one of my curls around my finger. “I’m sure you can say anything you want around him and he’ll still care for you.”

“Yes.”

“You’re very lucky.”

Compassion flashed across her usually cool expression. I gave her a bleak smile and passed by her to join M. Bernard on the veranda, where he was pacing.

I apologized for interfering in his treatment of the servants.

He shrugged. “You do not understand how these people must be dealt with. They cannot be allowed to get out of hand. There are too many of them. Have you heard of the carnage of the 1791 slave rebellion in Haiti? My great-uncle’s entire family—with all six of his children—was slaughtered there. As the standard of their uprising, the Negroes carried a pike with the carcass of an impaled white baby.”

Such a thing could never happen in our country. Not among the people I knew, black or white.

He brushed his hands together as if washing them of the consequences. “I have no choice but to keep my people subdued. Did you think I enjoyed the whipping?”

I shook my head, although I wasn’t sure; if he didn’t want to do it, why did he carry it out himself? Why not have Garvey wield the lash?

A sharp little silence followed as M. Bernard sank down on a bench. I sat beside him.

Buttercup wandered up to rub against me. I scooped him into my arms.

“What is that animal doing here?” my godfather demanded.

“Isn’t he a darling?” I said, my hot cheek against Buttercup’s fur. He was hot also, but in a comforting, fuzzy way. “He visits now and again. I’ve named him Buttercup.”

“He belongs in the stables. I will give you a suitable pet if you desire one.”

“A puma?” I whispered.

“I beg your pardon?” he said sharply.

I shook my head. “Nothing. I don’t want a pet. I just like to play with this cat once in a while.”

“No playing with him in the future. I cannot abide felines.”

Without responding, I tossed Buttercup down and shooed him away. I would feed and cuddle my cat whenever I wanted. I had no intention of giving him up.

M. Bernard glanced over and raised his brows, questioningly. There were shadows under his eyes and he looked drained. Maybe all this was harder on him than I realized.

I searched for words to say. “Shall I tell you about the time when I was small and thought I was sprouting wings?”

“Tell on,” he said wearily.

I worked to win him from his ill humor, and soon I was succeeding. He relaxed and slowly grew languid and affectionate in the heavy air. He leaned in to me and chuckled once.

“You have a gift, Sophia,” he said. “It is a joyfulness of spirit that can turn darkness into light. When you smile, it makes others want to smile.”

“Like a clown,” I said, laughing, but his comment gratified me. There was something pleasing in my power to sway M. Bernard’s mood. Perhaps it had to do with the age-old tricks employed by women. Helen of Troy and Delilah and so on. Interesting company. He was so strong, so sophisticated, so powerful, and yet Talitha was right—I could influence him.

“Bonjour, Mademoiselle,”
the maid said, curtsying.

“You must be Odette,” I said.

Talitha had brought her to my room and ducked away as quickly as possible. The Frenchwoman was pretty, perhaps still in her twenties. She had sleek black hair and bright, malicious black eyes. Before we spoke, they flicked up and down over me, obviously finding my person lacking. Her gray dress and white apron were crisp and immaculate, tightly fitted to her swelling bosom and drawn in to a tiny waist, with a perky bow behind.

“Je ne parle pas français.”
That was nearly the limit to my French.

“Oui, Mademoiselle.”

What was I to do with her now? I gestured to indicate the powder closet and wardrobes. She opened them and, with a contemptuous little smile, ran her hand through the hanging garments. M. Bernard had said she was an impoverished gentlewoman—which must explain her manner, as if she were much too good for the job she was compelled by circumstances to do.

Already I missed Talitha.

In the next days it grew ever harder. Odette followed whenever I roamed outside, despite my insistent gestures for her to depart. On the third day after she had shadowed me about the gardens, a surge of defiance sent me to confront M. Bernard as he worked in his office.