Strands of Bronze and Gold (18 page)

“Indeed—although perhaps it wasn’t all imagination. Terrible actions sometimes bring about terrible retribution. Will you wear your Arabian costume tonight in keeping with your reading material?”

“Of course! How did you know?”

“Nothing escapes me.”

“I wanted to put it on and invite forty thieves for guests. I was foiled, though, because we lack convenient thieves.” For a second I felt uncomfortable, remembering my suspicions of Odette.

M. Bernard gave a wry smile. “You might be surprised at how easy they’d be to find, if they’d admit to it. Now”—he patted his pocket—“guess what present I have brought you.”

I clasped my hands together. “Let me see … Is it a gilded boat to be pulled by swans on the lake?”

I expected him to laugh, but instead, the light in his eyes was quenched. He frowned. “Is that what you wanted? You wanted a boat?”

My mouth trembled, unsure what to say now as he glared at me. This time I
had
made a mistake. “No,” I said carefully. “I was jesting. I didn’t want a boat. I—I—”

“Here, take the things.” He thrust out a small package. “Give them to Odette for all I care.” He stormed away.

I opened the lid of the box and looked sadly down at a pearly collar and cuff set. It was true I didn’t want them. Not now.

Such lightning-quick changes of mood in M. Bernard sent my nerves twining and tangling like knotted sewing silks. I must learn to think faster on my feet. The entire household and the very walls of the abbey reflected Monsieur’s temper. When I could pacify him, I performed a service to All Mankind. In my old home, people had always taken care of me. Since coming here, for the first time, I felt the responsibility to watch out for the welfare of many others. I knew I was doing satisfactorily because Ducky constantly told me how much better the master was since my arrival.

My godfather’s wives had had to deal with him. Since finding their possessions, their personalities had become ever more vivid in my imagination. I could guess how they would have reacted to M. Bernard’s abrupt fits of temper. Tara would have flown into a rage, Victoire would likely have withdrawn, Tatiana would have abased herself, and Adele would have fallen into melancholy. I would handle him better than they had.

Victoire and Tatiana, Tara and Adele. Did they stir ever so slightly when I sat in a chair they once occupied? Did they sense it when I stood before a mirror that had reflected their image? Had they sometimes used this fork or drunk from this cup?

By the time I saw my godfather again, he was restored to good spirits and we spent the evening in the library playing piquet. I adjusted my sleeve so it would better cover the bracelet I wore. I didn’t want M. Bernard to notice it, even though the strands of hair were twisted so cunningly it might have been a copper chain. I glanced at my tapestry stretched on its frame. The flames I had begun stitching were so bright against the dark background as to seem almost garish. In spite of my apprehension, I rather enjoyed
my heightened senses from having him so near these interesting creations.

He appeared to be absorbed in his cards when he said casually, “By the way, I visited your old home while I was away.”

I dropped my cards. “You were in Boston?”

“Obviously I was,” M. Bernard said as he bent to pick them up, “since I have just told you I visited your old home. I extended our invitation to your family in person. Both Junius and Anne were there, and they entertained me with the best their house offered.” He chuckled briefly, as if the best their house offered was paltry indeed.

I swallowed back my annoyance as he continued. “Your former surroundings fascinated me. You see how I want to know everything about you?”

My godfather would have filled the shabby, familiar parlor with his presence. He would have easily captivated Junius and Anne.

“And was everyone well?” I asked, eager for news of them.

“Tolerably. Junius had a cold. At least, he blew his nose frequently. I enjoyed a long talk with Anne in which she admitted her relief to have no worries for your future. They seemed delighted to accept my invitation for our house party. So it is certain—we shall see them at Wyndriven Abbey in the second week of December.”

“December? I had thought they’d come sooner.” I quickly added, “But it’s not so long to wait, and it’ll be lovely having them for Christmas. They will stay several weeks, won’t they?”

“Coming from such a distance, I expect so.”

“You’ll enjoy them.”

“Yes, I hope to, although you must take care not to neglect me while they are here.” He placed the cards back in the box, showing our game was at an end. “And there is something else I should like to do, but it would be better received coming from you.”

“What is it?”

“I wish to give money to your family, although I do not want to hurt Junius’s pride, since he is the main breadwinner. Do you think we can contrive to send, oh, a few hundred dollars without embarrassing them?”

I threw my arms around M. Bernard’s neck.

One morning not long after my godfather’s return, he sought me out, grabbed me by the hand, and led me down to the lake. He used his walking stick to point ahead at what was tied to the little dock. There bobbed a small rowboat, looking more like a child’s toy than a real vessel, just the size to fit two adults on its polished seats if one of the adults was small. Its gilded prow was carved into the curving neck and head of a swan.

“Perhaps,” he said, “our living fowl would not agree to pull it, but I thought it would still please you. I sent Bass scouring the coast to find such a pretty plaything for my Sophia.”

He watched with pleasure as I dashed up to the boat and ran my hand along its smooth side. “How clever you were to find this! I was jesting about the boat because I never dreamed such a thing was possible, but you’ve made it a reality.”

He held me about the waist until I could sit down. He climbed in as well and then rowed into the middle of the lake. We cut
through a dusting of golden leaves that floated on the surface while the swans glided out of our way. Once in the center, he let the boat rest in the still, green water.

I pointed to a silver streak darting by. “Look. A fish!”

“Nothing but trash,” M. Bernard said. “Before your brothers come, I shall have it stocked with catfish so they can take in some fine Southern fishing.”

The world glowed idyllically in the autumn sunshine. M. Bernard lay in the bottom of the boat with his head against the prow, watching me sleepily. His legs straddled my fawn-colored half boots. I leaned back and closed my eyes, enjoying the sunlight through my eyelids and the faint motion of the water. I could spend hours like this.

Eventually M. Bernard roused both of us and taught me to row by leaning around me and wrapping his hands over mine on the oars. His warm breath tickled my neck when he gave instructions. At one point he might have kissed the tip of my ear or his lips might have accidentally brushed it, I couldn’t decide which. At the thought that it might be an embrace, my breath quickened. This was the right setting for a kiss, and a month ago I might have welcomed it.

I rowed frantically toward a dense stand of cattails. “Will you pick me one?” I asked.

“Of course,” he said, amused.

He stood up in the boat, gave the silver skull knob of his walking stick a twist, and pulled a long, thin blade from the wooden shaft. I turned cold. I hadn’t realized it was a sword stick. He cut an armful of cattails.

I stroked their velvety brown heads. “I’ll put them in a vase in my
room. There’s something endearing about them. They really do feel like a cat’s tail. I love it when I stroke—” I bit my tongue and let the sentence hang.

M. Bernard raised his eyebrows. Suddenly one of the cattails burst open and the fluff shot straight at him, the down clinging to his hair. I tried to keep a straight face, but my godfather looked so surprised and so comical that laughter burst from me.

I clapped my hand over my mouth and sobered instantly. “I’m so sorry. May I help you pick them out?”

He grinned. “Please do.”

I sat close to clean the seeds from his skin and hair and beard. I flicked them off to float on the water like fairy boats themselves. My godfather seemed to be enjoying it. He called me a bewitching rogue.

We rowed back to shore immediately afterward.

That afternoon my heart sank when I heard M. Bernard’s raised voice coming from his office. The pleasant mood hadn’t lasted even a day. The door burst open and he stalked out with a face like a thundercloud. Poor Mr. Bass. Poor me. This boded ill for the evening.

The atmosphere of his ugly humor hit me the moment I entered the banquet hall. All through the meal M. Bernard rebuffed every attempt at conversation. He seemed absorbed in staring down at his food. A particularly bloody sirloin oozed on his plate.

“Ling!” he bellowed. Revulsion distorted his features.

The butler had been waiting to pour the spirits. He scurried up without his usual dignity.

“Yes, sir?”

“Take this away. I cannot abide the sight.”

Normally M. Bernard was fond of rare meat. As Ling picked up the platter, his gaze met mine and held for just a moment. And in it I read a strange thing. I read pity.

Surely I must have been mistaken. I twisted off my ring, and it clinked loudly on the china. M. Bernard directed a sharp glance my way. He said nothing, however, simply turned to his wineglass.

After emptying it, he shouted at Ling, “More wine! Leave the bottle.”

He ate no food, but drank glass after glass, his face flushed, glaring straight ahead at the candelabra, the reflected flames glittering in his silver earrings and his eyes.

As I rose thankfully to leave the room, he mentioned no plans for the evening. I supposed we would meet in the library eventually.

Forty minutes later, however, I descended to the rich notes of the cello. The throbbing strains led me down the spreading staircase, along the cold marble hall lit by glowing sconces, past dark gaping doorways, toward sounds and light streaming from the music room.

M. Bernard made no comment when I entered—perhaps didn’t even see me—but seemed enthralled by his own playing.

Seated at the piano, I listened for a moment, then attempted to follow, but I could not keep pace with him. His notes were discordant; I couldn’t harmonize.

I ceased playing and listened, spellbound and disquieted. At first his strident bowing conjured up visions of tempest and storm, passion and fury. Then his bow slowed, and its moaning wrought images of bleakness and decay and ancient, secret chasms. The
chords ebbed and flowed, now swelled, shrieking. Through this strange spyglass of music, I saw writhing bodies with tortured arms outflung. I glimpsed hell.

Agony engulfed me. I could bear it no longer and fled, the sounds reaching after, taunting. I stumbled to my bedchamber and slammed the door shut, leaning against it, breathing heavily.

What had happened down there? When we made music together the first time, he had kissed me at the end. What would have been the aftermath had I stayed tonight?

After Odette left, I heard a sound from outside. Softly I opened my balcony door and peeked down at the veranda.

M. Bernard hunched there on his hands and knees, retching, vomiting wine.

Much later, probably after midnight, I was jerked awake by another noise that ceased before I could identify it. Whatever it was turned the very marrow of my bones to ice. I rose, wrapped my coverlet around me, and stepped outside.

A lopsided, gibbous moon, striped with shredded black clouds, bathed the gardens in pale light. The distant lake reflected it, and the Palladian bridge and my swan boat created a haunting scene from fairy tales. Perfectly peaceful. Nothing amiss.

A movement among the shadows near the water caught my gaze. Two tall, lithe figures, hand in hand, moved into the silver light. I recognized the silhouettes of Charles and Talitha. He pulled her close. I abruptly dragged the curtains across the vista and turned away. It had been too beautiful to watch.

M. Bernard came up behind me in the morning room and put his hand briefly on my shoulder as he jauntily swung his leg over a chair.

“I am famished.”

I wasn’t surprised he was hungry, but I
was
surprised by his unclouded brow and unshadowed eyes. He cheerfully gobbled down eggs, sausage, ham, an orange, and a scone, all during the time it took me to finish one slice of jam-smeared toast.

Evidently my godfather’s wild music and stomach purging suited him.

“La vie est belle,”
he said, rising. “I am now ready to take on Bass and the overseer who caused me afflictions yesterday. By the way, I am sorry if I was not sociable last night. It is their fault. I cannot tell you how frustrating they were, but I will soon have them sorted out. Have a glorious day,
mon cœur en sucre
—which, if you are wondering, means ‘heart of sugar.’ ” He flipped my curls with one hand as he sailed from the room.

Odette was hovering outside on the veranda. She followed as I headed out across the gardens and through the parkland.

It was a brilliant blue October morning with sharp gusts of wind skittering around corners. Whereas not long ago the leaves had been the dulled green of fading summer, now autumn spattered the scene. Odette seated herself at her usual station beside the brick wall.