Authors: Andre Norton
“Oh, it was not quite as bad as that. We were in the open and he had already disposed of the cigar before he joined me. We were only in talk a moment or two. He was in search of you for a promised dance.”
“So he said,” Mrs. Deaves remarked. I wondered what had passed between her and Henry Beall. If he had hinted that I was engaged in an assignation, she must have welcomed that. But Henry Beall would have suggested that another man was involved, not himself.
At any rate such gossip did not matter now for Alain Sauvage knew the truth. And if Mrs. Deaves wished to make mischief in that quarter she would not succeed.
I spent the remainder of the short afternoon with Victorine. Mrs. Deaves quit our company soon after my arrival with the news that she must be joining Alain, who had promised to take the reins of a coach-and-four (the latest novelty of the neighborhood) and drive a party of guests around the estate. When the door closed behind her Victorine sat up straighter and spoke with some vigor.
“That specimen
d'chat!
Do you not hear it in her voice, see it in her air of triumph? Already she fancies herself mistress here—ruling all—including me! Unless she cannot manage to make a marriage for me with some thick-necked, big-handed son of a miner! I tell you, she shall not have Alain, she shall not!” Her delicate hands folded into fists and she pounded them into the spread of coverlet over her knees.
“I think your brother must be left to manage his own affairs, and I do not doubt he will do that wisely.” I answered as best I could.
Though the triumph Mrs. Deaves had shown last night, when she managed to circumvent Alain's search for the intruder, was to the fore of my mind. As well as the fact that she had stepped into the role of hostess to speed the parting guests. But Victorine's present agitation was such that I made haste to reassure her, to remind her that he had not asked Mrs. Deaves to receive, but had put Victorine into that role. Just as he had seated her at the head of the table last night, and led her out to open the ball.
“Yes, what you say is true,” she admitted. “But in the
matter of a woman a man may be quite blind, never seeing an open trap she has set. I do not like Augusta, and she is determined to be Alain's wife.” She reached a hand under her pillows and withdrew it again, her fingers tightly closed about some object. I caught a glint of gold but did not see what she held, as she brought her hand to her bosom, cupping what she had hidden between palm and body.
Her eyelids dropped, in fatigue I first thought, then I believed because she was lost in thought. At that moment she had withdrawn from me. Amélie came forward and gestured. I found myself obediently rising quietly from my chair to leave Victorine and her self-appointed guardian alone. Now I wanted to find Alain, to be reassured by his presence that the shadows which seemed to be gathering were but figments of my imagination. But Alain was with his guests and I must wait alone.
Victorine appeared downstairs for dinner, a vivacious and charming hostess once more. Perhaps she made the effort fearing that Mrs. Deaves would insinuate herself further into the role of mistress here if she did not. But if she came by effort of will there was no sign of strain about her.
As this was Sunday evening, our amusement was decorous. We spent a few short hours in the White Drawing Room where the two Brighton girls played and sang, the gentlemen edging out now and then to, I was sure, smoke and discuss those matters of politics or business considered too complex for the female mind.
Alain did not make such a surreptitious sally into the night, but remained seated beside Victorine with Mrs. Deaves to his left. I withdrew to the edge of the company, content to sit quietly and relax.
When we drove to San Francisco the next day (or the next two days, as Alain wished to spare Victorine the threat of overfatigue and broke our journey halfway) Mrs. Deaves was still in our company. Victorine muttered about that in a way I hoped that neither Amélie nor Fenton, who shared the coach with us, could hear. She hoped that dear Augusta in Alain's smart turnout would be sick all
the way, that ought to make her brother think a little. But if their swifter pace did produce such qualms Mrs. Deaves showed no ill effects.
During these hours I had time to think a few deep and serious thoughts of my own. My sense of duty would not allow me to leave if Victorine was really ill. But some instinct within me warned of a loss of peace of mind if I stayed. I made myself face the truth squarely. Alain Sauvage (I never thought of him any more as “Mr. Sau-vage”) had become, without my willing it at all, a center of attraction for me, occupying far too many of my thoughts. He need only enter a room for me to be instantly aware of his disturbing presence.
Romantic love as the sentimental novelists were wont to describe it—I had long seriously doubted that such intense emotion ever existed, save in the imagination of those writers. But neither had I believed I could become so aware of the slightest movement of any one man, want desperately to hear his voice, have to restrain myself from making excuses to be with him.
I was, in a way, ashamed of this discovery of my feeling. For it seemed to me that I was afraid of what lay behind some inner barrier. Safety for me lay in detachment, in refusing to allow anyone to pierce below the surface I so carefully maintained. If I were so foolish as to yield to this new feeling I would never again be
a
real mistress of myself.
For the first time I longed for the advice of a woman older and wiser than I, to whom I could speak without reserve, ask questions concerning this stir of emotion. Should I quit this household before I was too deeply entranced to ever hope for a quiet mind and heart again?
Yet there was no one to whom I could turn. Of
all
those in the past who had crossed my life, only my father had been close. And, had he been here, this was something I could not have shared with him. I must accept that I had only myself to depend upon. Any wrong choice
I
would have to take the consequences for.
That realization was frightening. I felt as if I were being
borne faster and faster toward some dark danger with no will or strength to ward off the end.
Alain established us once more in the same hotel which we had stayed in earlier. And, since our return to the city, Victorine seemed in perfect health. She was energetic, roaming restlessly about the suite, going from window to window to watch the scene below. Oddly enough she did not suggest shopping, though we took drives each day. Usually we visited the Woodwards Gardens where one could see the famous black swans on the lake and the flowering slopes around the conservatories.
Victorine was content to view such vistas from the carriage alone. And when I suggested a visit to an art gallery, and Mrs. Deaves the theatre, Victorine's answer was always “later.” Since she was not ill, I believed she was waiting for something—or could it be someone? She might be apprehensive of missing what she awaited by being engaged elsewhere.
The physician Alain favored had gone down coast and we must await his return, while Alain was caught up in a press of many affairs. During those days I learned of the feverish speculation in mining shares which was constant, not only among men, but women, too. There were astounding tales of washerwomen who were one day at their tubs and the next able to buy diamonds to cover their swollen red fingers.
I wondered if the Sauvage companies were entangled in this gambling. But when Mrs. Deaves once spoke of some investment, Alain answered quite forcibly about the folly of such buying and selling. His interests did not lie in mining alone, and it was during these days that I learned of his power over what might be termed an “empire”—including cattle ranches, lumbering, mines, steam packets, ships on voyages across the Pacific.
On the third day of our aimless city stay he returned at midmorning, bringing with him, as always, a fresh wind to enliven our enervating hothouse of a parlor.
“Your bonnets, ladies, and your mantles, jackets, whatever you need. We have a visit to make!”
So brisk and authoritative was he that I started for
those designated articles at once. But Victorine, as yet unstirring from the divan, asked languidly, “Where do we go?” Her voice sounded resentful as if she would like to say “no” at once but did not quite dare.
“To the
Ranee.
She has just come to anchor, and she carries a treasure on board which will amaze you. Hurry now, I have a carriage waiting.”
Perhaps it was the magic word “treasure” which brought Victorine out of beginning sulks. I was more than a little excited as I pinned on my hat. For I remembered —so much. It had been a long time since I had walked a ship's deck, smelled that odor which is a combination of many scents, but would always signify happiness for me.
CHAPTER TEN
As we drove along Victorine asked many questions. But I was silent, relishing the thought of the experience ahead. This was a different part of the city than I had seen, for we entered now the fringe of the infamous Barbary Coast.
The blatant noise reached our ears even through the closed carriage windows. Here, I had heard,’ hoodlums ran in packs, and the police (specially chosen for strength and courage, carrying both pistols and knives) dared only go in twos and threes. This strip of the city was famed throughout the seas. In filthy lodging houses, the unspeakable drinking dens, crimps followed their trade, putting opiates into the liquor of fuddled seamen, plundering them of everything worth taking, then shipping them out again, inert and oftentimes deathly ill, to fill up the crews of waiting ships.
My father had never dealt with crimps. Twice in this harbor, he had told me, he and his mates had to fight on deck to get rid of them. And his stories of San Francisco portside had made me shudder.
But when we at last stepped on the deck of the
Ranee
I
gazed about with a feeling close to pain. She was a clipper, one of those beauties now, alas, fast being replaced by steamers. No more beautiful ships have ever existed, the dreams of men who had built them, sailed them fearlessly into waters where the American flag had never been shown before. She was one of a dying race and I loved her.
We were met by the Captain and his first officer, escorted below, Victorine complaining over the unsteady footing. But I discovered that sea legs cannot be lost and I needed no steadying hand.
Captain Maxfield entertained us royally. There were boxes of candied ginger, other strange sweets. Yet not so strange or exotic to me. I was surrounded by far-found objects such as my father had once collected. There was a scroll of a Chinese painting, a hideous mask with shark teeth set in its gapping mouth, a Malay kris, its blade pitted by exposure to the salt air.
I nibbled my ginger and gazed from one wall to the next until I was startled from old dreams by the first officer:
“Pardon me, Miss Penfold, but one would think you had been here once before, the way you look about you.”
“I have,” and then catching sight of his amazed expression, I explained. “No, I did not mean right
here.
But my father was Captain Jesse Penfold and I sailed with him for many years. In fact I was born on shipboard.”
“Fancy that now!” But I supposed in my fashionable furbelows I looked far removed from Spartan sea life. “Captain Jesse Penfold? Aye—I've heard tell of him. In Canton it was. He was good friends with Merchant Ho. They still speak of him there.”
“I am so glad!” A man should live in the memories of those he had touched. That those of his calling still spoke of him with respect made me proud and happy.
“And it was he who beat off five pirate junks in the Japanese sea, too, I heard tell,” Mr. Whicker continued. “Now
that
was a story!”
I smiled. “One which seems to have grown in the telling. I was there, you see. There were only two junks and
one must have had a drunken steersman, it sailed so erratically. But their attack was frightening for a while.”
“Two—five—what matter? It took a tough man to do that. Those eastern pirates are none I want to meet without a couple of cannon primed and ready and a pistol in each hand. It was a sad loss, Miss Penfold, when those devils of Reb commerce raiders put an end to such a man and his command,” he ended frankly.
Again I was touched and pleased, glad to know my father was remembered so.
“Well now, ladies.” The Captain, who had been talking with Alain, arose. “Mr. Sauvage thinks you might like to see the cream of the cargo before he turns it over to the bank guards.”
He went to a small safe well secured to the deck and brought out a metal box. From that the Captain lifted several trays, lined with raw Indian cotton, which held treasure indeed.
There was one tray of pearls, their luster gleaming against the dull cotton. Below those a second tray held stones from Ceylon, rubies and sapphires, and the third contained jade. Not that jade which is usually exported to the West, but that translucent “imperial” jade kept so closely within the borders of China that many westerners do not know it exists. These pieces were not unset stones like the others, but worked and carved. There was a butterfly, two perfect drop earrings, a bracelet bearing a tiny intricate scene—all of which might have belonged to a lady of the Court.
“That jade—where could you have gotten it?” I asked before I thought.
Captain Maxfield smiled. “Fair come, Miss Penfold, though of this quality you might well wonder. The truth is we were lucky in the Straits. The pirates tried one of those devilish tricks of theirs—set a ship's boat adrift with an upright oar, a bit of a shirt rag fastened to it for a distress signal. Only one of our hands had been in a ship near suckered in by such a ploy some years back. So we let them think we took the bait and then got the dhow as
they came in to board us. We found this”—he patted the top of the box with weathered brown hand—“in her captain's quarters. No telling where he had stolen it, could be loot of years. But in any case there are no legal owners, they're probably long dead. So it's rightful treasure trove.”
“So it is. After an auction or a private sale, whichever you decide,” Alain said briskly, “the sum realized shall go on ship's share. I'll give you a receipt for the box and that will be taken straight to the bank. Tucker himself has agreed to value it. He may make you an offer; if he does, consider it. His jewelry shop is the best in the city.”
“We'll leave all that to you, Mr. Sauvage. You take owner's cut anyway.”
“Not this time,” Alain shook his head. “Spoils of a fight I wasn't in are not mine. You risked your lives, I don't collect on that.”
The Captain produced pen, ink, and paper and Alain wrote out the receipt. Over his hunched shoulder I watched Mrs. Deaves and Victorine. The former was frowning but Victorine had eyes only for the gems. There was a kind of hunger in her face—as if she regarded food placed just beyond her reach.
I felt the fascination of the gems also—mostly the jade. Then my mind shuddered away from imagining how those pieces had found their way into the hands of a Straits pirate. I believed that any who wore them and knew of their history could not feel clean.
“Alain,” Victorine said as we once more settled in the carriage, “those so beautiful things—who will buy them?”
“Perhaps Tucker. His ‘Diamond Palace,’ as they speak of it, could afford them. At any rate Captain Maxfield can depend upon him for a fair appraisal. Now you have seen what might be termed ‘the wealth of the Indies.’”
“The wealth of the Indies,” she repeated dreamily.
“And most of the profit will be wasted!” There was irritation in Mrs. Deaves’ voice. “Those men were perfectly ready for you to accept owner's share, Alain. Now it will go into the pockets of ordinary seamen, to be wasted in such places as these!” She waved a gloved hand toward the streets of the Barbary Coast.
“Not ordinary seamen. Very extraordinary ones to accomplish what they did. No, owner's share comes from legitimate trading. This find was the result of their risking their lives. They are entitled to benefit from their effort, if ever men did. That jade—it must once have been the pride of some imperial princess or concubine. How did it wind up in the strongbox of a Straits pirate?”
“In a way I would not care to dwell upon.” I spoke my earlier thought aloud.
“Quite right!” Alain returned promptly.
We did not return at once to the hotel; rather Alain escorted us to the famous French restaurant, The Poodle Dog. There we lunched on viands which I had not seen or tasted since I left Brussels on the
India Queen.
It was when we arose after dining that I caught a glimpse of a dark head beside a pillar on the far side of the room, eyes which watched us.
Was that the young man I had seen with Victorine on the balcony? Or was I inclined to see that stranger in any man of the right height and coloring? My glimpse had been so fleeting I could not be sure.
A waiter came hurrying just as Alain was handing us into the carriage. He reached past Mr. Sauvage and handed a folded handkerchief to Victorine.
“Mademoiselle dropped this—”
Victorine murmured thanks, crumpled the linen square to ruck it into the lace undersleeve of her dress. A small enough incident, and an innocent one—but it lingered in my memory.
As we entered the Lick House Alain was presented with a telegram which set him frowning. His mouth became grim and all the harsh lines in his face were emphasized.
“Bad news?” Mrs. Deaves asked quickly. She appeared ready to offer sympathy but I could not imagine Alain Sauvage wishing that, no matter what blows life might deal.
“There is difficulty at the Horseshoe again. I thought that this last time I had made Parkinson see reason. He simply cannot deal well with the men. It is time I made a
change there. But this means another trip to Virginia City. I shall make it as short as possible.”
“At least,” Victorine observed after he left, “he did not send us back to the country. Here there is something to do, to see—”
“But you have not wished to do anything.” I was more disturbed at the change of events than I dared display.
Again I was responsible, and if Victorine had only been waiting for Alain to go—what could I do?
“That was because Alain spoke always of the
docteur
and said I must not tire myself by doing things until I saw him. Now Alain is no longer here to shake his head and say be careful. I am
not
ill, as I have told him—all of you—but never does he listen. I have only now and then an aching head which makes me feel queer and giddy. Now I do not feel that way at all and we shall do things without seeing Alain's stern face.” She drew down the corners of her mouth in a counterfeit of a disapproving expression.
At least she was not going to start at once, for which I was thankful. For instead she started toward her chamber saying she would rest now. We had had cards left by those who had attended the ball, but had been absolved from the rounds of duty visits by the plea of Victorine's ill health and the fact we were in the city ostensibly to see a physician.
I think Mrs. Deaves chafed at our isolation when Alain was no longer available. Now she might wish to establish contact with old friends and I would be left alone as Victorine's mentor.
Heretofore the girl had been docile enough. But that restlessness which she showed again in the afternoon, wandering from window to window, dismayed me.
Mrs. Deaves withdrew with a bundle of notes she said must have immediate answers. And Victorine's lack of ease reacted upon me; I could not settle with a book nor a piece of needlework. Victorine had made plain from the first that fashion magazines were her only reading. If she had ever opened a book, that had been an act of curiosity to see why others could be attracted to reading.
Though she had clever fingers and could fashion amusing trifles in the way of caps, jabots, and the like from scraps of lace, ribbon, an artificial flower, her span of concentration was short. She would toss her creation aside before it was quite finished, leaving Amélie to add the last few stitches, her interest in it gone.
Now she clapped her hands in that way she always used to summon her maid, a gesture I found too hinting of slave-day customs to like. Though neither mistress nor maid seemed to find it amiss.
“Amélie—bring me the cards.” Her order was in the sharpest tone I had ever heard her use in addressing the maid.
While, unlike her usual quick obedience, Amélie did not go at once, I saw her lips part as if to say something, and she glanced questioningly in my direction.
“It is all right, I tell you!” Victorine's impatience mounted. She seemed overriding some unheard protest. Her fingers went to her throat, parting the frills of her vestee to reveal the serpent necklace. “Bring them now!”
Amélie went with visible reluctance. And Victorine selected one of the smaller tables, swiftly stripped it of a vase of roses, a salver filled with calling cards, and a half-emptied box of bonbons. She ended by switching off the crimson plush cover to bare the polished surface.
A couple of jerks brought the denuded table to face her chair, as she kicked the cover into an untidy heap. Amélie returned, a black box in her hand, but she did not present that directly to her mistress.
Instead she stood by the table, holding what she carried pressed against her breast as if she hated to yield it up. Victorine's fixed gaze met the maid's stare. Then very slowly Amélie put down the box. That hideous bracelet with its spider setting was very obvious as she did so. I wondered why she clung to an ornament lifelike enough to bring a shudder from me every time I saw it.
“You may go!” There was a chill in Victorine's voice.
Amélie left slowly. She might be lingering, hoping to be recalled, to have her mistress declare she had changed her mind. If so she was to be disappointed.
Victorine paid no attention to me. She might have been alone in the room as she moved briskly as one repeating an action she had carried out many times before. The lid of the box pivoted to one side at a touch, and she lifted out a pack of cards.
They were certainly no ordinary pack such as might be used for a game of whist. In her white, beautifully kept hands, they were as incongruous as if she had deliberately reached into a gutter for a handful of mud. For their surfaces, as far as I could see, were grimed with ancient dirt. Such a foul deck might have been used for play on the Coast, yet they did not seem to disgust Victorine.
She shuffled three times before she laid the cards out, face up, on the table in a complicated pattern which had no resemblance to any form of patience I knew. Some were horizontal, crossing those laid vertically. And she did not use the entire deck, only a counted number. It was plain this was serious to her, her attitude was one of intense concentration such I had never seen her display before.