Strands of Bronze and Gold (5 page)

The smell from the waxy, whiter-than-white camellias on the mantel was too strong. Their scent cloyed. Suffocated. Once again I dislodged myself from the netting, careful not to let the insect in. I padded across cool, smooth marble and then sank into the velvety plush of the rug, removed the vase, set it outside on my balcony, and returned to bed.

It was too hot. I kicked off the covers. Now I was too exposed and vulnerable. At last I compromised by pulling the sheet across my middle but leaving legs and arms bare.

“
Bonjour
, Sophia.”

Below me, my godfather had stepped out onto the terrace and was gazing up at my balcony. He was in his shirtsleeves, with the collar open. A lock of black hair fell across his forehead. In the sunlight he looked young and energetic and so handsome my limbs went weak.

I realized I still wore my meager night shift and quickly crossed my arms over the front. I had been so transfixed by the view it hadn’t occurred to me that anyone might observe me.

Evidently my prudish actions amused him because there was laughter in his voice when he called up, “It is a beautiful morning, no? The picture of a June day. I regret I shall not be joining you until tonight. Too much business, alas. Mortgages and stock yields. Bah! But I will see you at supper. Make yourself at home,
ma chérie
.”

He disappeared back into the house.

Once he strode safely out of sight, the vista, which I had stepped out to see, drew from me an exclamation of delight.

Directly below lay a terrace with blood-red roses swarming over the stone balustrade. Beyond that, set out in a variety of shades of green, was a topiary garden, the dense foliage sculpted into amazing shapes. The largest were a life-sized elephant, a giraffe, and a lion, but dozens of other figures spiked up in frames of boxwood—human figures, obelisks and pyramids, cones and tapering swirls. The people shapes were a bit disturbing—alive yet not alive, and eyeless. What could I give them for eyes? I thought of roses, and the image made me laugh.

Pristine flower gardens reached down to a little lake, spotted with swans and spanned by a Palladian bridge, with columns and classical symmetry. Beyond the vast expanse of lake and lawn and parkland, trees stretched on forever. The estate was ringed with a wall of wildwood that crouched, waiting its chance to take over the cleared land once again.

The sky was still tinted pinky gold from dawn. A mockingbird landed, singing, on the rail nearby, and I breathed in a lungful of already-warm air perfumed by roses and pine needles. This was a beautiful place, and I was happy, happy, happy.

I went inside, leaving my doors open to sun and sweet air. What to do now? I had no idea how a day here began. I should have slept in longer, since, from all the novels and serial stories I had read, that was the way of ladies of leisure. But I was too excited to drift off again.

My trunk waited beside the fireplace. I unlocked the door in case the maid should come, and I began unpacking my belongings, spreading them about. My books went on the desk. I touched the tooled blue leather cover, stamped in silver, of
Grimm’s Fairy Tales
.
Wyndriven Abbey might well be the castle in any one of them. My mother’s miniature belonged on the night table and my workbasket beside a chair. Perhaps they weren’t so fine and didn’t match the underwater grotto theme, but they made the lovely room seem more truly my own. I needed pieces of home in this place.

The tall jewelry box, a long-ago gift from my godfather, now stood on a chest of drawers. It was of Chinese design in black and gold lacquer, with drawers behind latched doors. In it glittered the jewelry he had sent me throughout the years, a few small childhood treasures, my godfather’s epistles to me, and the only love letters I had ever received. I opened the bottom drawer to make sure I had indeed tucked in Felix’s letters.

Felix, my father’s young law clerk, had been sweet on me the year I was fifteen. There were several notes. I didn’t care for him in that way, but I didn’t discourage him because I liked having an admirer and he was the only boy I knew. At last, taking pity on him, Anne made me write, instructing me to tell “the poor mooncalf” that I was too young for such things. But I reread his words sometimes, and in spite of the fact that Felix was only a couple of years older and equally inexperienced in the ways of romance, they were precious to me. He waxed awkwardly lyrical about my midnight blue eyes and skin like peaches and cream. A girl couldn’t help but be flattered. Especially a girl who worried about her complexion. He had scrawled his notes on scraps of legal paper, which amused me at the time, as the
Ladies’ Monthly Assistant
assured that “for love letters good paper is indispensable.” What would the worthy Mrs. Ophelia Taylor think of poor Felix’s missives?

As for “peaches and cream,” I placed my two jars of Dew of
Venus lotion on the dressing table. I had bought them months ago in hopes they would erase my scattered freckles, but at home I never remembered to slather it on. Here I would remember. This was my chance to improve myself. To become elegant and gracious. And interesting.

“Who will I be here?” The words jarred the muggy air. My hand flew over my mouth as Talitha, the housemaid from last night, entered.

“Master say I am to help you dress and take you down to breakfast, Miss.”

She brought water for a sponge bath and then assisted me into fresh drawers and chemise. She laced up my corset and topped it with a camisole trimmed with
broderie anglaise
.

I tried to engage her in conversation once again. “Have you any family, Talitha?”

“A sister,” she said shortly. “But not here.”

Next came stockings and garters and a flounced petticoat topped by my hoop, and finally a morning frock. As she dressed me, I made a few more attempts to get her talking, but she answered either in monosyllables or not at all.

The dress was so roomy that Talitha had to find a sash to pull it in, while the pair of beaded slippers she held out pinched my feet. Whoever had purchased my wardrobe had bought in several sizes. The maid brushed back my hair in two smooth wings over my ears, although the humidity would soon make it frizz, then plaited and coiled it and tucked it into a snood. My grooming was completed with pearl earrings and a ribbon about my neck.

Mrs. Duckworth joined me for breakfast in a small (for this
house) morning room. “Normally I eat in my own quarters, but I thought you might like a bit of company for your first breakfast here,” she said.

Gay sunshine poured in through floor-to-ceiling windows, sending lights twinkling through cut crystal and silver and sparkling in the jarred jams and jellies on the sideboard. The walls were covered in hand-painted Chinese silk, with blue and green landscapes composed of mist-shrouded mountains and waterfalls, willow trees and winding paths. I wondered what lay at the end of those alluring roads.

Through the glass doors beckoned a glorious day for exploration.

“It’s so pretty outside,” I told Mrs. Duckworth. “I’m going to stroll through the grounds after breakfast.” Imagine living in a house with “grounds.”

“I don’t expect you’ll have time today,” she said. “Master Bernard’s orders are that I am to give you a tour of the house this morning. The parts I can, of course, for I haven’t all the keys, but there’s still more than enough to boggle the mind. And then, this afternoon, Madame Duclos will arrive. She’s traveled all the way from New Orleans to measure you for your wardrobe.”

I lifted my hands in a helpless gesture. “Really and truly, Mrs. Duckworth, I’ve got more than enough. My head’s all in a twirl.”

“Oh, no, no, my dear.” She shook her head violently. “You cannot disappoint the master in his plans. Only think—morning dresses and walking dresses and evening dresses. A whole long list Master Bernard has made.”

“Well then, do you think the dressmaker will allow me to help a little with the designing and sewing? I’m quite good at it.”

Mrs. Duckworth was scandalized. “Certainly not. She’ll take your measurements and show you fabrics and trims and fashion plates, but then she’ll bundle the whole kit and kaboodle back to New Orleans and you won’t see it until it’s done.”

I seated myself and reached for a beaten biscuit and saucer of marmalade. “My sister, Anne, and I used to laugh at all the specific outfits a high-society lady is expected to own. We would pore over fashion plates and read them aloud. Receiving dresses for the morning and receiving dresses for the afternoon and promenading dresses for walking in the park and promenading dresses for walking at the seaside. Wouldn’t it be nice to have nothing to do but change clothes? Why, do you suppose I ought to be wearing a marmalade gown in which to eat marmalade?”

Mrs. Duckworth didn’t crack a smile. She remained serious, concerned lest I not appreciate the delights in store for me.

“Master Bernard says you are even to have a ball gown.”

“Oh? Truly? Will there be a ball? Does Monsieur de Cressac entertain much?”

“No, no, not now, but back in France … such interesting festivities he hosted. Once he held a soiree in honor of some Grecian marbles he had acquired. All the guests wore gauzy togas and powdered their skin and hair pure white. Like statues themselves, you see? Some who did not understand might have thought their costumes too scanty, but oh, it was a sight! Master Bernard resembled one of those Grecian gods. With a wreath of leaves in his hair.” She nodded in reminiscence, then remembered our subject. “But he’s ordered a gown for you, which makes me wonder if he’s planning a ball at which to present you to local society.”

She offered this last with a smile that completely closed her eyes, as though she expected the prospect of a ball would be the
pièce de résistance
for all my girlish hopes and dreams. As it should be for a seventeen-year-old girl, and as indeed, once I recovered from the picture of my godfather decked out in leaves, it was for me. I rewarded her expectations by giving my shoulders a delighted shiver. “I’m so happy to be here. Monsieur de Cressac is kindness itself. I shall hardly know how to go on with so many new clothes—it will quite turn my head. And a ball! Do you really think he might hold a ball?”

“I should think it likely for your sake. You’re very young, and he knows you would enjoy such a thing, though in all the years he’s lived in Mississippi, it’s never before happened. I’ve never seen him like this, even—but that’s neither here nor there. The master isn’t fond of local society; he says the Southern aristocracy is without true culture, and according to him, all Mississippi gentlemen do is drink whiskey and hunt and play poker.”

“And chew tobacco,” I chimed in. “The hem of my traveling skirt is gummed up with brown tobacco juice from the floor of the stagecoach I rode on in Tennessee. Disgusting. It was as if the men didn’t care where they spat.”

The housekeeper nodded in sympathy. “Not truly civilized, these people, whether they’ve acquired new money or not. Our Molly is a wonder with the laundry, though, and she’ll get your skirt clean. Anyway, as I was saying, the master’s not a great one for close friendships, but then, he’s had his disappointments in life, poor man, so he keeps to himself. However, there are several suitable families within thirty miles who would jump at the chance to attend
a ball here. Mr. Bass—the master’s agent—tells me they’re interested in everything to do with the master and the house.”

Given human nature, he was probably right. Twenty-five years ago it must have been the talk of the town when dray after dray arrived, lugging the stones of the abbey.

With a sigh, I glanced out the windows at the inviting morning, then turned resolutely back to my second biscuit, on which I had spread greenish preserves. Mrs. Duckworth told me they were made from scuppernong, a type of Southern grape. “All right, we’ll start on the house. I hope I shan’t have to be led about for many more days. This place is so enormous and all perfectly kept. I don’t know how you do it.”

The housekeeper’s bosom visibly swelled. “Ah, well, that’s as it must be. The master demands perfection, and I do my best to see that the staff delivers it.” She fiddled with her chatelaine, making the many keys clink. “But I’m not as young as I used to be, although I must manage well enough, for Master Bernard says he cannot imagine what he would do without me. And it’s not only the housekeeping he trusts me with.” She lowered her voice. “There’s so few he can confide in. He is so very happy to have
you
here now. Why, this morning he was whistling before breakfast. Can you believe that?”

I thought how M. Bernard had looked on the terrace and could well believe it. I idly tugged up the lace at my bosom. “I hope I can live up to his expectations.”

“Oh, you’ll do fine. Your youth is to your advantage. You’re moldable and not at all like … some people.”

We began the tour after I snatched up a fan to flutter as we
walked. The humidity wrapped around me like a warm, damp cloth.

I was led through salons and hallways, a sculpture gallery full of chilly marble statues, and a library with thousands of volumes behind glass doors and an enormous Irish wolfhound snoozing on a tiger-skin rug before the hearth. We wandered up wide, stately staircases and narrow, winding ones.