Dark Masquerade (13 page)

“Accidents happen.”

“Don’t tell me that. I’ve heard it too often, but I’ll never believe it.”

“Just because she is Alma’s daughter—”

“Are you accusing me of prejudice? If so, I deny it. I have never pretended to like Alma, indeed, I fail to see how anyone could. She made my son’s life a misery, and, even at her age when she should be putting on her dowager’s cap and taking a chaperone’s chair, she still ogles every personable man she meets! But that has nothing to do with her daughter. Oh, I’ll admit she can be a likable child at times, but—”

“Child?”

“Girl then. But there has always been a wild strain in that family. Alma’s own father was hand in glove with that pirate, Jean Lafitte.”

“You should know. You never exactly turned that gentleman from your door.”

“That was before 1812, while he was sailing under letters of marque. Even the governor’s lady, Madame Claiborne, once had dinner with him at that time. I never entertained a pirate! But you are trying to distract me. I want you to send that girl away. I won’t have her here. I won’t, I tell you!”

“This is my house, and I will not have Theresa mistreated.”

“Mistreated?”

“Yes, mistreated. We will guard against any further occurrences. That is my last word on the subject.”

“You are a fool over that girl, Bernard. You always have been from the time you were in your teens and she little more than a baby. The men of this family have always been fools about women. Look at your father, marrying a woman like Alma when he should have been old enough to have more judgment. Then Felix celebrating his betrothal to one well-dowered parti then marrying an unknown chit without a penny within the month.”

Elizabeth moved hurriedly away. She did not want to hear any more. She would have to find a diaper herself. Half-child, half-witch—half-mad? But just as Bernard was holding her at Oak Shade by her love for Joseph, he was also holding Theresa.

Why?

There had been that attempt to frighten her. Could it have been more than that? What if she had been bitten by the black widow? Then there had been the attack on Callie and the danger to Joseph. Suppose they had both died, who would have benefited?

Bernard. Perhaps that was why he kept Theresa near him. He wanted the poor mad thing to rid him of the two people who stood in his way. Or perhaps he needed her as a scapegoat!

“Why, what’s the matter? Your skin is the color of milk, honey. I thought you was white awhile ago, but nothing like now.”

“Oh, Callie. What is going to become of us?”

“Before I answer, you tell what’s done happened. I know something ain’t right.”

Quickly Elizabeth told her. Callie’s face took on the grim solidity of stone.

“We can’t stay here,” she said.

“We must. Bernard will not allow me to leave with Joseph.”

“You could say that you wanted to—visit with some of your kin people, couldn’t you? He might let you leave if he thought you were coming back.”

“So soon after arriving? I doubt I could make him believe it after our clash today.”

“Maybe if we was real careful, and waited a week or two?”

“It’s possible,” Elizabeth agreed slowly. “But we would have to make a show of being satisfied, and take extreme care.”

“I see that. It wouldn’t do to let him guess what we was planning. He’d stop us for sure.”

“Oh, Callie. That isn’t what I meant. We must watch Joseph night and day. We must think twice before we say every word. There is danger all around us. Someone tried to kill Joseph and make it look like an accident caused by your carelessness. Someone has tried, I’m convinced, to harm me. They were not successful, but the next time they may be less concerned with making it look like accidents or child-like malevolence and more concerned with results. It is obvious that the people in this house, even Grand’mere who professes to care so much for Joseph, are in league against us. Suppose they had reason to suspect that I am not Ellen. They would take legal action at the very—”

“Shhh, listen.” Callie held a finger to her lips, her wide gaze on the door.

A discreet tap sounded on the panel. Elizabeth nodded to Callie, who moved to open the door with Joseph in the crook of her arm, his long gown trailing down the front of her apron.

Alma stood in the doorway, her face without expression as she stared past Callie. “Ah, Elizabeth, I hope you are all right?” she said, and then went on without waiting for an answer, “But it is Grand’mere that I need.”

“She is downstairs,” Elizabeth said.

“Then, if you have no objection, I would like to step inside. I have given Theresa a draught of laudanum for the pain of her burn, but it was not enough and I used the last of my own. I believe, however, that I know the shelf in the armoire that Grand’mere keeps her medicaments on.”

“Yes, Alma?”

It was a relief to hear Grand’mere’s aristocratic tones and to see her approaching from down the hall. The old lady quickly had the situation under control. The laudanum was brought out for Alma, a diaper found for Joseph, and Elizabeth, after drinking the wine sent up by Bernard, was ordered to bed.

But sleep could not be ordered and the first clear light of dawn was creeping around the edges of the drapes before her mind wore itself out with fears and speculation. She fell into a heavy slumber that gave no rest.

With the bright light of morning came a lessening of tension. The events of the night before took on a feeling of unreality. There was a lingering feeling of unease, of guardedness, but as the hours slipped by and no one mentioned what had happened, those terrible moments in the library faded. Elizabeth began to feel a renewed sense of confidence in the rightness of what she was doing and in her ability to carry it through.

It was during the afternoon siesta time that Denise came to Elizabeth’s room. Due to her sleepless night, Elizabeth had been taking advantage of the hours of repose. Her entire body was so heavy with exhaustion that it was some few minutes before she could get to the door.

“Would you come with me, s’il vous plaît? Madame Alma wishes to speak to you.” There was something in the Frenchwoman’s manner that jarred on her nerves, but glancing at herself in the small mirror set in the door of her armoire and smoothing a few ruffled hairs into place, she followed Denise along the hall.

Alma lay, en déshabillé, among the dingy lace pillows scattered over a chaise of the kind made popular by Pauline Bonaparte, Napoleon’s notorious sister. Alma had been absent from the dinner table and it was obvious that she had scarcely moved from her position on the chaise all day. From the evidence, it appeared that most of her days were spent in much the same manner. A number of French novels, thin salacious volumes in yellow covers, lay among the pillows. A depleted box of bonbons lay on the floor. On a table nearby stood a collection of bottles and porcelain pots of rouge, kohl, and maquillage, that enamel hard face-covering that cracked if the wearer dared to smile. A silver-backed hand mirror was flung carelessly among the cosmetics.

Elizabeth dragged her gaze from the table. Though she had never actually seen most of the things on it, she did not want to appear to be staring. No lady admitted to painting her face. The discreet application of rice powder papers to remove the shine from the forehead, nose and chin, and a whisk across the cheeks with either rose petals or the very daring red Spanish papers, were the only acceptable improvements on nature.

The light was dim, the drapes closed. Not a breath of air stirred. The stale odors of old perfume and hot wax from the candles burning in the girondole hung in the room, clinging to its tasteless clutter.

“You must forgive me if I don’t get up. I feel quite done in. Emotional upsets are most fatiguing, don’t you agree?” Alma said, as Elizabeth advanced into the room. Switching her gaze to Denise, she went on. “You have been most helpful, as always, my dear Denise. There is a bauble in the box on my dressing table that you may have with my gratitude.”

“Merci, oh merci, Madame—and Madame will not forget the other? You did promise, because of the message I—”

“No, I have not forgotten.” Irritation laced Alma’s voice. “You may give the order to the servants to move your bed into this room, but not just now, you understand?”

“Yes, Madame, of a certainty.” Denise glanced at Elizabeth from the corner of her eyes, and then lowered her lids. Taking the piece of jewelry with her she left the room, but the careful manner in which she closed the door, shutting Elizabeth into the room with Alma, sent a tremor of apprehension along Elizabeth’s nerves.

Alma stared after Denise, and then sighed. “Ah, well. I suppose it will be worth it. I do hate giving up my jewelry, poor bits that they are. But that is what one is reduced to when one is poor.” She made a small careful movement of the lips, shrugging her plump shoulders under their satin morning wrap. Her hair, an unnatural deep black, was drawn to the top of her head in a severe, unbecoming style. In the candle gleam it had the hard repellent shine of the lacquer that kept it in place.

“To be poor is boring beyond anything, to be a widow also is to be sunk in ennui. I never would have credited it, but it is so, I assure you. You will understand in another year—when your grief has faded. Won’t you?”

There was an odd lilt in her voice, something disturbing in the arch look in her black eyes that made Elizabeth wary.

“Perhaps.”

“It occurred to me that Felix must have been very fond of you—and you of him, of course. My step-son had his father’s excessive sense of responsibility, both of his sons do. It was oppressive at times, but such feelings are very worthwhile, especially when they result in generous portions for the unfortunate widows. My Gaspard left me very well provided for, unfortunately I never had the least notion of economy. So I find myself with pockets to let. Mind you, I am not complaining. Still, I would not refuse if you felt able to lend me a little of the—er—ready?”

“I am very sorry, but I cannot help you.” Elizabeth was unable to keep a certain stiffness out of her voice.

“Cannot? Or will not? The latter, I think. Let me put it to you bluntly. I know, for I have heard Bernard and the old lady talk of it, that you have a very comfortable allowance. I don’t ask much, a few hundred, but I believe it will be in your best interests to see that I am not displeased. I could make it very unpleasant for you, I do assure you.”

“Unpleasant? I don’t know what you mean.”

“I mean, Chère, that I have certain information about you and your precious sister that would upset your pony cart with a vengeance.”

“My—my sister?”

“Dear Felix’s wife!”

“You have been spying—” Elizabeth began, then the possible significance of the exchange of that piece of jewelry earlier struck her. “You must have paid Denise to spy on me!”

“Denise? That would be foolish beyond permission! No, the woman is useful to me as a message carrier, but despite the airs of intrigue she likes to give herself I do not tell her all I—discover.” Alma’s face cracked as a sneer curled her mouth. “Oh, la vache!” she muttered, snatching up her hand mirror to survey the damage to her mask of maquillage.

“Tell me,” Elizabeth said, staring at the over-plump woman in her soiled wrapper. “Why haven’t you gone to the others with what you know?”

“The others? What do I care about them? They have never liked me and make no bones about it. It makes no difference to me who takes their money, so long as I get my share. You think I like living here in this monument to the dead? Oh no, I have plans. There was a time, when Felix went away, that I hoped. I had persuaded him to make his will in favor of Darcourt, you see. Then he married your sister. That was a blow to the heart. Half a kingdom, for that was what it nearly was, gone.” There was a stricken look on the ravaged face. Alma switched her gaze from the mirror back to Elizabeth.

“That is neither here nor there. Now I think you will be generous with me. After all, I was once in line for Queen Mother, and now you hold that place, however little right you may have to it. It should not be hard for you to spare a few pennies for my needs.”

“I have no money, honestly.”

“No, but you can get it.”

Elizabeth ignored the sarcasm. “Not from Bernard. He as good as told me that I could expect nothing until I have proven that I am Ellen Marie Delacroix née Brewster. I cannot do that until I recover the things that were taken from my room.”

“You have something of a problem then, don’t you, chère? Well, I am in no great hurry. A week, two weeks, will serve just as well. But do not strain my patience too long. You might try a few wiles in the meantime. A few tears on Bernard’s shoulder, beg him prettily, yes? You may be surprised how easy it will be to bring him around.”

“I—I could not do that,” Elizabeth said, her lips cold with fastidious horror at the idea of what Alma was implying.

She laughed, an unpleasant sound. “Why not? He is a man. You may be surprised also at what you can do—and how enjoyable it can be—when you must.”

The image that Alma had evoked, the possibility of her going to Bernard and crying in his arms, stayed with her long after she had left his step-mother’s room. Though she could not feature it happening, there was such a strange fascination in the thought that it was difficult for her to face Bernard with any degree of composure. She found herself avoiding his eyes, and barely speaking that night at the supper table. When she did force herself to smile at him the idea Alma had planted filled her brain and she could think of nothing sensible to say. She could only sit, crumbling a biscuit and sipping her sherry.

It was a relief when at last she could escape from the table to the small yellow sitting room beyond the great salon that was open only to visitors. Even though she had to share it with Alma, Grand’mere and Celestine, she was at least free of the embarrassment of Bernard’s presence.

Grand’mere took up her needlework. Celestine settled down beside her with a minute piece of embroidery, Bernard’s initials surrounded by a laurel wreath. Alma, perhaps from the effect of six glasses of wine at the supper table, turned morose, complaining aloud in a whining voice. To keep from having to make conversation with her, Elizabeth wandered to the window, absently rubbing at the raw scratches made by Theresa’s nails on her arms. The lamplight behind her made a mirror of the glass, so that the only thing visible in the outside darkness was the leaves of the trees, sparkling in the fitful moonlight, moving in the wind.