Strands of Bronze and Gold (19 page)

As the trees closed around me, I breathed in the clean, fresh air, tangy with pine, so different from the cloying perfumes and underlying odors of Wyndriven Abbey. Deep within the forest, I loitered beneath a great oak flushed with scarlet and gold.

From somewhere—above me?—someone cleared his throat. I leaned my head back and was startled to see a pair of black-clad limbs dangling directly over my head.

“I warn you,” said a voice, “I can hold on no longer.”

The man came crashing down just as I scuttled out of the way. I stood transfixed, watching him untangle his long legs and stand, brushing himself off. He was a tall, loose-limbed young gentleman, wearing a black frock coat and a sheepish expression.

“I don’t quite know what to say,” he said, reaching for a shovel hat that hung on a twig near where I stood. “I must recover my dignity. Do you see it lying around here somewhere?” He glanced absurdly about. “There was a fascinating patch of lichen on that oak, and I managed to shinny up to fetch a sample. I was just going to drop down when you came along. I didn’t wish to frighten you, but you simply
would not
leave, until I was ready to lose my grip. I do apologize.”

“And I apologize for not departing quickly when you were in such a precarious state.”

He grinned down at me. He had a wide, humorous mouth beneath his large nose and a thatch of unruly brown hair. There was something droll about his appearance, and I couldn’t help smiling.

“No fault on either side,” he said. “And obviously no one is near to do proper introductions, so may I introduce myself? I am the Reverend Mr. Gideon Stone.” He sounded solemn when he said this, but then his grin returned. “I’m sorry. I’ve only been out of seminary eight months, so being a pastor is still new. Sometimes it feels as if I’m pretending. My church is the yellow brick one in Chicataw. And you are?”

“I am Miss Sophia Petheram, from Wyndriven Abbey.”

An almost imperceptible change came over his friendly expression, and there was a tinge of coolness in his voice when he bowed slightly and said, “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Petheram. I take it you are the—companion—of Mr. Bernard de Cressac?”

“Why, yes—yes, I am,” I stammered, confused by his change in attitude. “How had you heard of me, sir? I thought my godfather had no dealings in the town.”

“Your godfather? Oh, I didn’t know that was the relationship.” He nodded his head as if something were explained, and the warmth came back into his tone.

“What did you think was the relationship?” I demanded.

It was his turn to redden and stammer. He fiddled with a loose button on his coat. “I—I—the word around Chicataw—you see, a few people saw a pretty young lady traveling in de Cressac’s carriage
last summer, and they assumed—the word spread—it’s known that his wife had died a while back, so—”

“They assumed something very wrong,” I said severely.

“Yes, I realize that now I’ve spoken to you. Gossip is foolish and hurtful. I shall deliver a sermon on the subject in the not-so-distant future.”

“You may—if anyone wonders—you may tell them that Monsieur de Cressac took pity on me when my father died, and—and acts as a father toward me.” This was not strictly true, of course.

“If the subject ever comes up, I shall set the matter straight. Have you no other living relations?”

“Two brothers and a sister. They’re visiting here in December.”

“That’s good. That’s good they’re coming.”

We stood self-consciously looking at each other now, wondering what to say next or how we should take our leave. Instead, my eye fixed on something else. “Oh dear, you’ve torn your coat.” I pointed to a ripped seam under Mr. Stone’s arm.

“Yes, well, it happens. My housekeeper will have to stitch it up, and she’ll be most displeased. She lectures me regularly about the damage to my wardrobe from studying nature. I’m afraid I’m a careless fellow.”

“Let me mend it. I keep a sewing kit in my pocket.”

“What admirable foresight!” He hesitated. “Well … if you really don’t mind, I’ll take you up on that offer. It’s kind of you to save me from Mrs. Penny’s wrath.”

He removed his coat, and I pulled out my sewing kit. He looked even younger in shirtsleeves. As I stitched, we shared our histories. After he had finished seminary in Memphis, he had accepted the
invitation from his cousin to take on a local church. The cousin, a Mr. Vassar, owned Bella Vista Plantation.

“His property joins de Cressac’s, and I have no idea where the one begins and the other leaves off,” Mr. Stone said. “I confess I’m glad I don’t know the boundaries, as I have leave from Cousin Richard to wander where I will on my free Mondays, and I don’t like to worry about trespassing.”

“I have no idea either. I hadn’t even thought of property lines.”

“De Cressac allows you to go about unaccompanied?”

“No, sir, actually he doesn’t, but I require my maid to wait for me at the edge.” I poked the needle emphatically into the next stitch. “I need
some
time away to collect my thoughts.”

“Everyone does. That’s one reason I’m an avid student of plant life. It’s an excuse to go off alone so I may hear God’s messages more clearly.”

I shot him a quick glance. He didn’t say this in an affected manner or to impress me; he was simply a man of faith making a statement.

“I’ve never thought of it that way,” I said, “that the unusual clarity of my mind when I’m out here comes from God.”

“Perhaps part of the ambience is also due to the abundance of witch hazel nearby. Have you noticed?”

“I wouldn’t know it if I saw it.”

“There, see that shrub there? If you make wands of it, you can wave them over paths to protect you from passing malevolent beings. It’s also used to fashion water divining rods.”

“And do you believe that, Mr. Stone?” I asked, feeling mischievous.

“Which? The malevolent beings or the protection from them or the water divining?”

“All three,” I said lightly. I was funning, of course, but was curious to hear his answer.

He didn’t jest in return. His face was serious when he said, “I believe in the devil, of course, and the fact that malevolent spirits reside in some men cannot be denied. Thankfully God is far more powerful. But it’s also true that some plants aid folks and some harm.” He refused to act at all embarrassed as he continued: “I myself have seen a man miraculously finding water with a witch hazel rod twitching and nearly pulling him along, and I have also come upon plants that exuded an aura of malignance, which was not my imagination.”

“Oh, I believe you. There’s a tree on the drive approaching the abbey—an oak all twisted and deformed. It’s evil. I can’t imagine why my godfather keeps it.”

“Perhaps de Cressac finds the grotesque beautiful. There are those who do.”

“Some forms of the grotesque I like, but not that tree. It sends shivers down my spine.” I handed Mr. Stone his coat. “There you are. Finished.”

“Thank you,” he said. He dug in his pocket now and drew out first a fuzzy horehound drop, next some wadded-up fishing line, and finally a pocketknife. Deftly he sliced off a twig of witch hazel. “Here. A wand for you. Now you’re magically protected whether you need it or not.”

I drew my thumb and forefinger along the twig. This was a very unusual clergyman. I looked up at him, and his eyes met mine. He opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again, trying to decide whether or not to say something.

“Have you—Miss Petheram, are you happy living at Wyndriven Abbey?”

“Why do you ask?”

Now he did look embarrassed. “I had an encounter with your godfather six months ago that left a bad taste in my mouth.”

Realization dawned. “Oh, you were not the parson who—or were you? Were you the preacher who was frightened by the dog?”

“You’ve heard the story. Yes, it was me. I went there to talk to de Cressac, as he’s a bit of a legend in Chicataw and I consider everyone in the area my responsibility. I’m sure I looked the fool your god father thought me when I leaped so clumsily onto my horse.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Monsieur de Cressac’s sense of humor isn’t always … kind.”

Mr. Stone gave a wry grin. “I’m not normally leery of dogs. It’s only that that one was so big and coming so fast, and I promise you, its jaws were slathering. Little did de Cressac know, though, I got even with him and offended a portion of my congregation in the process. I preached against all he stands for—against the evils of the frivolous and lazy lives of the Southern aristocracy. How the time they allow for service and spirituality is measured in scant teaspoonfuls. The Nash family was so unhappy with my words, they switched over to the Episcopalians. De Cressac will never hear of it, nor would he care if he did, but it made me feel better—and it needed to be said.”

“You were very brave. Have … have you ever preached against slavery?” I asked the question tentatively. It was a sensitive subject.

“I’m not that brave. Discretion is the better part of valor and all that. I’d be run out of town on a rail, and how would that help anyone?”

I drew with my wand in fallen leaves. Could Mr. Stone possibly be the sympathetic minister Peg Leg Joe had mentioned? I might never know; such a thing must be kept a carefully guarded secret. But I could picture this young man doing valuable work with the Underground Railroad.

I, on the other hand, led a frivolous and useless life. I vowed to be of more service in the future. And where in the world had I stashed my Testament and prayer book? Now that I had met the unfortunate preacher of M. Bernard’s story, I felt worse than ever about it. No wonder callers avoided the abbey. What must the county think of its inhabitants? “What legends do they tell concerning Monsieur de Cressac?” I asked.

Mr. Stone was silent as he cut his own switch and sketched alongside my designs. Our wands touched, and I felt an almost electrical charge shoot up my arm. I looked at him, wondering if he had felt it too.

Finally he spoke. “In town he’s considered a romantic figure, shrouded in mystery. Can’t you imagine the rumors? It’s as if he’s planned for that effect—his accent, his wealth, his looks. The ladies admire him from afar, of course—or so my housekeeper tells me—the gentlemen, not so much. They call him Bluebeard.” He dropped his wand and paused, removing his hat and running his fingers through his hair so that it stood up even more than it already did. “Miss Petheram, you’re far from your family. Should you ever need
help, I hope you’ll know I’m your friend. Every Monday you can find me in the woods.”

“I’m much obliged to you, sir, although I can’t imagine ever having to take advantage of your offer. I can see you don’t like my godfather, but you mustn’t say such a thing in my presence. He has been very generous to me.”

He directed a considering glance my way before he replaced his hat on his head. “I would never say any such thing. I can’t dislike him, as I don’t know him. I simply wanted you to know—never mind. It was presumptuous to say what I did.”

I wished I could stay longer, but it was time to return.

“I enjoyed meeting you, Mr. Stone,” I said, and rose.

“Yes. Yes, well, the pleasure is mine. May I walk you part of the way?”

“Oh, please do. I’d like that.”

He shouldered his leather sample bag, and we strolled in companionable silence toward a path I often used. I could hear only the low, mourning sigh of the treetops. Where was the usual twittering and scrabbling of small creatures?

We rounded a curve in the path and almost ran into something hanging directly above it.

I started back and put my hand over my mouth to stifle a cry. Mr. Stone pulled me around to shield me from the sight, but I could still see under his arm. I stared with horror at the dangling body of Buttercup. He hung suspended from a branch by a thick, knotted cord, his eyes bulging. He circled slightly, round and round, round and round, in the breeze. It looked grotesquely playful.

I fought nausea.

Mr. Stone took me by the elbow and led me away.

After a moment he asked gently, “Was it your cat?”

I could only nod and rub my forehead. After I caught my jagged breath, I said, “He’s dead of course.”

“Yes.” Mr. Stone’s mobile features registered deep distress.

“He’s Buttercup. My pet. What cruel, beastly beast of a person could have murdered him?”

Mr. Stone’s mouth tightened. “Some villain. There aren’t many around here, but I must suppose there are some. I’m so sorry you had to see such a thing. I could help a little—I could take poor Buttercup down. And please may I offer you my service in burying him?”

I looked up at Mr. Stone and instantly received the impression that here was a man who could be trusted. “Oh, would you? Would you do that? But where? You see, my godfather didn’t like me associating with Buttercup. Because he was only a common cat.” As I spoke, the picture of M. Bernard, drunken and sweating, came to mind, but I could not—would not—think of it. Later … there’d be time to consider such things later.

“I could lay him to rest in my garden,” he said. “I have a perfect spot beneath a dogwood tree. He’ll be surrounded by daffodils in the spring and tiger lilies in the summer.”

“Tiger lilies? Why, that would be perfect. He looks—looked—like a little tiger.”

“Then that’s where I’ll take him. You go on, and think of your cat sleeping peacefully among the lilies.”

“Thank you so much.”

I left Mr. Stone to his unpleasant chore. My limbs trembled as I made my way.

Who could have done such a thing? I remembered the yowling that had awakened me during the night; but a wild animal could not suspend a cat from a cord. Some fiendish
person
had done this. I rubbed my eyes as if to rub out Buttercup’s image. I could ask Charles or Talitha if they had seen anyone, since they had been out and about during the night, but something in me was too frightened to inquire more deeply into the subject at this time.

As I lowered my hands, I thought I saw shadowy movement flicker deep in the trees. I looked closer but could make out nothing from the ordinary. Just then a squirrel spiraled down the trunk of a pine. Only a squirrel.