Dark Masquerade (22 page)

She started past him, but he reached out and caught her arm. “Is anything wrong?”

“Of course not,” she said, forcing a brittle smile, swallowing on the tears crowding in a hard knot at the back of her throat.

“I don’t think you are telling the truth.”

Elizabeth thought something like real concern flickered in his black eyes. She was trying to form a rational reply when Celestine spoke from the foot of the stairs.

“No, she is not telling the truth! You may be sure of that!” She let the echoes of her voice fall around her before she went on in a voice that was nearly a whisper.

“But what can you expect from an imposter?”

Elizabeth stood frozen, with the color slowly draining from her face. Bernard’s grip on her arm tightened. Together they turned to watch Celestine come down the hall, dragging Callie with her by the arm. Tears poured down Callie’s face and a sob tore at her throat as she stumbled toward Elizabeth with her eyes fixed on her face.

Breaking away from Celestine’s hold on her, she fell to the floor and clasped her arms around Elizabeth’s knees.

“Oh, Mis’ Elizabeth! That Mis’ Alma told Mis’ Celestine everything. Mis’ Celestine and her came to your room and they been slapping me and pinching me. Mis’ Celestine say she’ll have me whipped if I don’t tell her everything. She say she’ll have Mr. Bernard sell me off the next coffle that comes along and I’ll never see little Joseph again. Don’t let her! Don’t let her do that to me! You won’t, will you?”

“No, no. Hush now. It’s all right. You couldn’t help it. Go back to Joseph now. I hear him crying.”

“But—but I got to tell you—”

“It will be all right. I understand, and it’s all right. Go back to Joseph,” Elizabeth said again quietly, as she helped Callie to her feet. The masquerade was over. Now the calm of despair settled over her, numbing her so that she was surprised to find her hands trembling. She clasped them together at her waist as she watched Callie begin to climb the stairs with a heavy tread, pulling herself up by the bannister and wiping the tears from her face with her white apron.

Celestine did not wait until Callie was out of sight. “This woman was never married to Felix. She is Elizabeth Brewster, the sister of the girl who was his wife. She is without doubt an adventuress of the most flagrant—”

“We will not discuss it in the hallway,” Bernard broke into the tirade. “Come into the library.”

Celestine stopped short, her mouth open, but she shut her lips and swished past Bernard into the room, holding her skirts away from contact with Elizabeth. Angry color rode high on her cheekbones at Bernard’s rebuke, but triumph blazed from under her lowered lashes.

When the door was closed Bernard took his place behind the desk while Darcourt and Celestine seated themselves on the sofa. But Elizabeth was left standing like a criminal before the bench, in negation of the gentleman’s code, which did not allow a man to be seated as long as a lady was standing. There was a grim humor for her in the thought. For all purposes she had ceased to be a lady. She could not expect the protection of the code.

Clasping her hands together tighter, she raised her head in a gesture of unconscious pride. She must look composed, she told herself. She must not show fear. And she would not, no matter what happened, beg them to let her stay.

Bernard leaned back in his chair, picking up the miniature sword, with its blade chased in gold and black, that served as a letter opener. He sat pulling it out of its sheath and pushing it back, staring at the top of his desk. As the moments passed and he still did not speak, Celestine moved restlessly and sat forward, opening her mouth. Bernard shot her a glance that made her subside back into the cushions, and then he sighed and looked up at Elizabeth.

“Is it true?”

“Yes.”

“Your sister, Ellen, is Felix’s wife?”

“She was. She died when Joseph was born.”

“I see. So you took her place. Why?”

Her jaws felt locked with tension, but she gripped her hands together and forced herself to speak.

“Ellen had planned to come here at Grand’mere’s invitation after her child was born. When she died, Joseph became mine. I took care of him, I loved him. But I could not keep him as he should have been kept. There was no money, and our house, the land, all went for the mortgage. You wanted Joseph, Felix’s son. That was plain enough from the invitation issued only after you knew that Ellen was to have a child. I was afraid that you would take him away from me. I could not expect to stay here with him as his mother would have, or to carry him away with me once you had seen him and learned that his mother, as well as his father, was dead.”

“My dear girl, of course you could have stayed. Oak Shade is a large house and my grandmother would have welcomed with open arms anyone who brought her great-grandchild to her.”

“Possibly. But I didn’t know that. I did not feel that I could take the chance.”

Celestine spoke up. “How do we know that this baby is Felix’s son? It might be any child for all we know.”

“The birth was recorded by the priest who baptized him, and I did have a copy of the marriage record of my sister and Felix,” Elizabeth said steadily. She looked at Bernard, willing him to believe her. He must, for Joseph’s sake.

“Forged records, I imagine. The brat is probably her own.” Celestine shivered delicately. “She came here for the money, I have no doubt.”

“But I didn’t know about the money until I got here!”

“So you say,” Celestine sneered, and turned to Bernard. “Suppose Felix had mentioned to her sister that he was going to leave the money? She could have known in that case because her sister could have told her. It makes more sense than this trumped up tale we have heard so far.”

“It’s not true! Ellen knew nothing of the money. I would to God that she had! She could have had decent food, better care, a doctor. She would still be alive instead of dying in a pool of her own blood bringing another Delacroix into the world!” Elizabeth grated out the last word then turned away sharply to hide the tears that sprang into her eyes.

“A fine exhibition, but it proves nothing,” Celestine sniffed.

“Celestine,” Bernard said abruptly, “Darcourt will see you to your room.”

The other girl rose slowly to her feel. “You cannot do this to me, Bernard. I have a right to be present.”

“I am sure we owe you a debt of gratitude for your efforts in this, Celestina, but I would rather speak to—Elizabeth alone.”

Although he was sending Celestine away, there was nothing in his even, neutral tone that gave any indication of his feelings.

“But Bernard, I—” Celestine stopped, apparently seeing some change of expression in his eyes. “Very well.” She took Darcourt’s arm with ill grace.

Darcourt had been very quiet during the proceedings, maintaining a thoughtful silence, Elizabeth felt. As he passed her he caught her eye and gave her a bright smile. Several times since she had been in the house she had enjoyed his casual, almost careless, support. She was glad to see that he did not condemn her now.

The closing of the door was loud in the stillness. The anger that Celestine had aroused dissipated slowly, to be replaced by a growing tension that crept along her nerves like pain. Feeling her nails cutting into the palms of her hands, she forced her fingers to relax, staring at them in concentration. Behind her she heard Bernard leave his chair and walk around the desk.

“Do you really think that this is a surprise to me?”

“Wasn’t it?” Elizabeth raised her head a fraction.

“I suspected you from that first day. You were too different from the girl Felix had described in his letters. Since he was marrying a strange woman you can imagine the special attention I paid. I remember wondering why he would be so smitten by a woman much like the fiancée he had left at home patiently awaiting his return. You would think that he would have chosen someone entirely different.”

“Ellen was not at all like Celestine.”

“No? Fragile and dainty, as ‘delicate and pretty as a wild flower, to quote a line of his extravagances.”

“My sister was not strong, there was no question of assumed airs of delicacy, as is the fashion now.”

“You, on the other hand, are obviously strong—you said you were yourself. Remember?”

“Yes,” she admitted. “I remember.”

“Strong enough to do quite a bit of hard labor if your hands, and the callouses on them, are anything to go by.”

She did not answer, remembering the night he had examined so carefully the palm of her hand before he kissed it.

“Didn’t you guess there would be letters, that Felix would write to his family about such an important event?” He leaned against the desk, his arms folded over his chest.

“Ellen and I were much alike,” Elizabeth said, throwing him a wry smile over her shoulder as she moved away, “other than our constitutions, of course. There was three years difference in our ages, but our coloring and size was much the same. Then, Felix often styled himself a poor correspondent. It seemed a good risk. In any case I thought none of you could have formed any concrete idea of Ellen from a description you might have read once in a letter written many months before.”

“And you thought you could get your hands on any letters that might be lying around if you had to in order to prevent us from refreshing our memories? That was what you were doing here in this room the night Theresa and you were down here, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” she answered expressionlessly. There seemed no reason to dissemble any longer.

“I thought as much, which is why I kept my own letters in my room under lock and key. That is, I kept them there until last night.”

There was such a strange inflection in his voice that Elizabeth turned to face him. Light from the lamp flickered over the bronze of his face, highlighting its strong planes and igniting sparks in the darkness of his eyes.

“Last night,” he went on, “I saw the old callouses on your hands and I knew you could not be Ellen, so fragile and often bedridden. I was not sure who you were, but I thought that given time, you would tell me. I looked into those deep green eyes of yours and I thought I saw—I don’t know. I trusted the way you looked at me; steady, sure, without evasion. I burned the letters.”

In the silence Elizabeth became aware of the ticking of the ormolu clock on the mantle. It seemed to grow louder as she searched for something to say. She licked her dry lips.

“You burned them?”

“Yes.” His voice was harsh as he pushed away from the desk and walked toward her. “A quixotic gesture, was it not? I wanted to throw them in your face, but I burned them. Men are fools, always looking for the perfect woman. They put women on pedestals and then are surprised when they lose their balance and fall off. But then they pick them up, dust them off, and put them back. Men need an ideal, even if they have to make one for themselves for lack of the real thing.”

Elizabeth watched his advance in some trepidation, her mind in confusion as she tried to understand what he was saying.

“I looked at you and I saw your steadfast eyes and I ignored the lies and pretending, and I thought: There is a reason. She will confess it. I told myself that it was not the money, that eventually you would deny the settlement. But you did not, and now I will never know whether you would have or not.”

He put out his hands as if to catch her shoulders; then, before they touched her, he let them drop.

The knowledge that he had thought of her as being so much nobler and more truthful than she could ever have dared to be, was like a goad. As she felt the sting, she struck back.

“You don’t think that it was a little unfair of you to use persuasion in this purely, righteous cause?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that you have been more than ordinarily attentive in the past few days. You have tried in every way possible to make me feel the ingratitude of my position and to influence my decision,” she accused him bitterly.

His eyes narrowed. “You are wrong. I have not tried every way.”

She saw his intention flare into his eyes and she took a hasty step backward. “I didn’t mean—”

His arm slid around her, gripping her waist, and then she was roughly silenced. His lips were warm, but cruel. He paid no attention to her struggles in the steel circle of his arms. Against her his body was lean and unyielding. It was a deliberate punishment for questioning his integrity, and it was also a punishment for being less than he had expected her to be. After her first panic, Elizabeth realized in shame that he had reason for his action. She herself had disillusioned him and then taunted him with it. She had entered his home under false pretenses, accepted a legacy, in theory at least, that did not belong to her. Regardless of her motives she could not deny her guilt. She ceased to resist him. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, a treacherous tenderness crept into the kiss. Instinctively, like a child who has been hurt, Elizabeth responded to its gentle touch.

Suddenly Bernard thrust her from him. He stared at her, his breathing rough and a grim look about his mouth.

Wave on wave of color burned to Elizabeth’s hairline. In the quiet of the room there was a loud rustling as the folds of her skirts settled into place. Tears rose painfully behind her eyes, and she bowed her head.