The Gilda Stories (12 page)

“Ah, it is the west and Gilda is the moon!” Sorel said, letting his affection and admiration flood the room.

She moved quickly through the salon, aware that the late-lunchtime patrons were looking at her. She tried to slip into the seat, but Sorel held her hand to his lips and would not let her sit. “You must not hurry when you are dressed as a monarch. That is cruel to those of us who've hungered to gaze upon you.”

Anthony came up behind them with the glasses that seemed to always be at hand. “Perhaps she's not as gluttonous for attention as some of us.” He nudged between them with his narrow hip, making Gilda fall onto the settee unceremoniously. She laughed, relieved to be somewhat less on display. Sorel sat with an aggrieved expression. “By that I suppose you mean me?”

“Not at all. I meant myself,” said Anthony coyly, “for it's I who continually stand about, with all eyes on me wondering whom I shall attend next. Creating conversation and curiosity wherever I go.”

The three laughed while Anthony poured champagne into the glasses. When he had retreated, Sorel was quiet. Gilda took several moments to think of what to say. She expected Eleanor's driver at any moment, yet she wanted to begin her afternoon with good feelings.

“I feel a bit like an errant child. I've much confusion about everything that is going on around me. It is a new world for me.”

“Yes, Anthony has told me many times that I'm much too self-involved to notice that others take many different paths. I fear I may not have accepted your independent judgment as honestly as I should. Perhaps learning most of what I know about you through Bird's reminiscences of you as a child has weighted my perspective too much.”

As Sorel took a breath, Gilda sat forward with her question. “I must ask this—please know I feel I must or I would not. Do you believe that Eleanor killed Samuel's wife?”

“No, I don't!” Sorel's response was vehement. “But what was done was, in some ways, much worse. The death of Samuel's sadly neglected wife was a blessing; the sin was in bringing her into the family at all. She was young, gullible, quite taken with Eleanor, and after the years of ill-treatment by that fool, it was not a surprising turn of events. It was a sorry, sorry occurrence that I regret, one that I tried to but could not prevent.”

“But what of her part?” Gilda asked, trying to keep her voice even.

“Many things are within our power. To draw others close, to enrapture them, is a simple one. Eleanor partakes of the joy of our existence merely through the exercise of this power.”

“But I'm no plain, neglected wife searching for attention. Why do you and Anthony insist that I must be wary of her?”

“You, my dear, are even more of a challenge: an equal—a mystery. Don't underestimate the magnitude of her need.”

“But you seem to care for her so.”

“I do. I've known her since she was a child. It was only through an error in judgment, my own, that she is as she is today.” Sorel seemed to have shrunk inside his unhappiness. “I thought she would become more mature. Learn to respect our ways. Clearly in my anxiousness to keep her with me I had not really looked at who she was or what her real relationship was to this world. She is as a daughter to me, but one who only takes. In a charming, entrancing way, but only takes—never gives.”

Sorel looked up as a footman approached their table and said no more. Gilda stood and leaned down to kiss Sorel. She held one dark hand against his pale cheek and pressed her lips against his face. She was afraid of his words and saw how difficult this had been for him. She whispered, “I'm not alone. My fears were misplaced.”

Gilda was surprised to see Eleanor's eager face as the coachman opened the door to the coach. “Wait,” she said, making Gilda stand a moment before climbing in, much as Sorel had done. “Yes, the color and cut fit you wonderfully. I thought so.” Gilda felt heat rise in her face but simply concentrated on lifting the skirt and climbed into the carriage.

“It was very kind of you to loan me this—”

“Don't be silly. It was meant for you, for you to wear it for me. Now,” she tapped the side of the coach, “I've a wonderful surprise.” She said no more as the carriage made its way through the late-afternoon streets. It halted at the pier, and the coachman held their hands in his leather-clad grip as they stepped down into the milling crowd. Eleanor pushed her way forward, ignoring annoyed glances. A young man who stood at the front of a line of people waiting to purchase tickets turned stiffly, but immediately smiled at Eleanor's glowing presence. He touched his hand briefly to his cap and stood aside to let them purchase tickets for the ferry across the bay.

Gilda's stomach lurched when she realized the nature of the surprise, but she remained quiet as they backed away from the others who were waiting and boarded the ferry. Her mind raced for the source of her panic. She knew the dangers of water, its ability to draw their powers from them, yet she also knew there were many of their kind who took sea journeys. Sorel and Anthony themselves were proof of the protection their home soil afforded them. Yet Gilda felt herself shift uncomfortably inside her own skin.

She noticed that Eleanor clung tightly to her arm as she guided her inside the small, open-air enclosure, and continued to do so even when they were seated. Neither spoke as the ferry filled around them, nor during the damp, rolling journey across the bay. As soon as the boat docked, Eleanor left it with the same precipitous gait. Gilda followed close behind.

Eleanor did not slow her stride until they were somewhat away from the crowd. “That's where we go,” Eleanor said, pointing at a green peak rising sharply just north of where they stood. Gilda looked puzzled but was so pleased to be on solid ground again she didn't care if it was the side of a mountain.

Around them some people were boarding a small caboose that seemed to climb by a circuitous route. More people were walking toward the ferry. Gilda and Eleanor moved away from the bay on a broad path marked by wagon ruts. Eleanor pulled her skirts tightly around her and said with an impish smile, “I suppose you feel quite superior, you with your bloomers! They're quite appropriate today, eh?”

“I don't think I could have resisted wearing this dress, no matter the journey.” Gilda pulled up her hem and tucked the ends into her waistband.

“Mt. Tamalpais,” Eleanor said after a few minutes at a brisk pace, and turned toward the woods. At first they strolled easily. Gilda took in the magnificent size of the trees and the musky scent of the undergrowth. It reminded her somewhat of the pine forests she slept in during her travels away from Woodard's. There didn't seem to be a trail cut into the woodland, but Eleanor proceeded with assurance. They stopped several times to admire large, low-lying foliage and once to observe a small stump covered so thickly with dotted lady bugs that they seemed to be undulating flesh. Because they were not following any of the trails others used, they passed no one, although on occasion they heard voices as visitors passed downward out of the chill of the late afternoon.

Gilda enjoyed the solitude—and the companionship. She had begun to feel the pulse of the town in which she had arrived so full of anxiety and questions. She could see its beauty, understand why Anthony and Sorel would wish to live here. The lights of the city were simple diversions; these woods and this mountain were at the real heart of what California was. They reached the top quickly, even with their minor explorations. The undergrowth was thick, but Eleanor led Gilda to the western slope to a spot she had obviously visited before.

They stepped out of the trees as if onto a balcony, and the red ball of the sun slipped gracefully downward before them as if it knew they were looking. Gilda gasped and stepped backward reflexively into the trees' shadow.

“It's alright. The hems are woven with your soil. And here, just at this juncture, with the sun so close to the horizon, the rays have little effect.”

Eleanor clasped Gilda's hand and pulled her closer. They watched the sun's color shift and change in reverent silence. Eleanor slipped her arm around Gilda's shoulder protectively. The rhythm of their breathing synchronized as they let the slight warmth of the sun touch them. It soon dropped behind the horizon, and darkness gathered in the woods around them. They stood for a moment, Eleanor still holding Gilda.

When she was able to speak, Gilda said, “That was one of the most beautiful sights I've ever seen. I had no idea such a thing was possible. I mean without covering or shelter… so close.” Her voice was filled with awe.

“I've wanted to show this to someone, someone who would see it as I do. The closeness of it.” Eleanor turned back toward the now dim horizon with its spray of colors fading behind. “So close, yet far. We will never look upon the sun with the innocence and delight that others have. Here the fog that rolls in off the bay constantly makes the sun a hidden treasure.”

“How long have you been coming here?”

“Since I was a little girl. My uncle first brought me after my parents died in the fire. It was Christmas many decades ago. So many people died… homes were destroyed. He pointed toward the setting sun and told me that I mustn't be too sad because they were there—and didn't that look like a wonderful place to be?”

Eleanor's voice sounded almost like a child's. “He took such good care of me all those years. He tried to give me the things he thought my parents would want for me. So hard he worked. When I look at him now, shrunken and weak, it's difficult to remember him with a short sword cutting his way through the undergrowth and branches until he found just the right spot so the sun would be close enough to feel. Now I wait for him to die, to join them there—to stop looking at me with fear and confusion, wondering why I remain young and he grows old.”

“What then, when there's no one left to remember you as a child?” Gilda asked.

“There's always Sorel and Anthony,” Eleanor said with a hard-edged laugh. “Let's get back,” she added sullenly.

They made their way down the slope quickly, arriving just as the ferry was preparing to load the few remaining citizens who'd spent time on the mountain or with the giant redwood trees at its base. They sat on a bench at an angle so they were able to watch Tamalpais disappearing in the fog as the ferry returned to the city. The carriage and driver were waiting in the same spot, and in a few moments they were seated under a lap robe, being driven to Eleanor's salon.

After their arrival, Eleanor told Gilda to follow her, and walked toward the back hallway. The encountered a woman in an apron about to enter a kitchen. Eleanor ordered warm water and towels, then she and Gilda went into a small anteroom behind the main room. Within moments the maid appeared with a wash basin and steaming pitcher. Two fluffy towels hung from her arm as she strained with the heavy burden. Eleanor had collapsed on a settee beside a small table and lamp. She jumped up as soon as the girl set the water on its stand. “Go, go,” she said impatiently, and the girl backed out of the room.

“This city is filled with such mud it's possible there could be more here than on all of the mountain. But still…” Eleanor was speaking distractedly as she wiped at the dirt on her face and hands. She then dusted the hem of her skirt. “Next time, perhaps we'll both wear breeches and caps.”

They finished removing the dust and leaves that clung to their clothes and walked back out to the public room. Once again a bottle of wine was brought to their table before Eleanor spoke. Gilda looked around the room, this time more carefully than when she had visited before. The patrons of the early evening were few. Eleanor spoke just as Gilda noticed this. “We are more likely to entertain guests later in the evening, after the theater. One night we had what felt like all of the Tivoli in here at once. Clamoring for wine and the like.”

Gilda could hear the hint of disdain in Eleanor's voice and wondered why she bothered with such an endeavor if she didn't enjoy it. And again Eleanor responded, “One must find ways of keeping up with people. Sorel is quite right, this is the best way of doing so—”

“Please don't do that,” Gilda said.

Eleanor looked surprised. Then a subtle shift in her features conveyed hurt feelings. Gilda felt that perhaps she had done something wrong, although she was taught that to so casually take advantage of the ability to read the thoughts of others was rude as well as a poor substitute for interaction. Nonetheless, she couldn't help thinking she had been too sharp with Eleanor.

“I just feel uncomfortable when you answer my questions before I've been allowed to decide whether or not to ask them.”

Eleanor didn't quite look mollified but sipped from her wine without saying anything.

Gilda continued. “On the plantation all of our activities, all of our needs were supposedly met. We were told what we could eat, what we could wear, when to waken, when to retire for the evening. My mother resented that bitterly. She did all she could to make small variations in the routine, in the proscriptions, so there was some sense that our lives were our own. She used to say, ‘It's a gift. We can keep our thoughts to ourselves and out of their hands.' My thoughts have often been the only place I could live freely.”

Eleanor looked contrite as she took Gilda's hand in her own. “Please forgive me. Sorel says I'm like a spoiled child sometimes. I just wanted us to be close. I'd not thought about how different your life has been from mine. Tell me about the plantation. I've wondered what it would be like.” Her voice was again like a child's, thoughtlessly probing.

“There's little I can tell you, really. I remember things as if I'd seen them through a very small window. The backs of my sisters and the others dragging long bags of cotton, the sound of their breathing, much too heavy for children. My mother sweating in the cook house. I don't remember her anywhere but inside the house. Isn't that odd? Only in the kitchen or going up to take care of some illness or other. But never out back where my sisters slept. I know she went down to the cabins when the preacher came, but I don't remember her there with me. I remember how it felt when she held my hand. It was a narrow world, much of which I've gratefully forgotten.”