Authors: Andre Norton
As for shops—well, there was the Ville de Paris, named for a ship from whose decks a fine cargo had been auctioned off in 1850. There was also the silk shop of Belloc Frères, Madame Oulif’s bonnet-selling establishment. No Frenchwoman, she assured Victorine, need believe herself an exile in San Francisco.
And Victorine listened, her eyes shining. It was plain that such talk was fast reconciling her to her new home. But it was that very night that my complacency was shattered.
Our car was dropped from the train which had brought us thus far, left in a freight yard to await the second one to which it would be attached for the rest of the trip. Mr. Sauvage warned us—Mrs. Deaves reinforcing that warning with the strict tone of a chaperone—that while we were so situated, we should retire early to our staterooms where the windows would be completely curtained. There could be the curious who would seek to peer in.
I was writing a journal letter which I had promised Madam Ashley and had just reached out to dip my pen in the inkwell of my traveling desk when I was startled by a sound. It might have been caused by someone scratching with a stick along the outside of my window. It came the second time, impatiently, as if demanding my attention. Remembering the warnings, I had no intention of looking
out, perhaps to face on the other side of the pane some befuddled drunk.
A third scratching—then a low whistle. I had set down my desk and now I strained to hear. For that tune I knew. Only this morning Victorine had amused us by whistling a series of birdlike notes she said had been taught her in France.
That man—Madam Ashley’s warning, Alain Sauvage’s letter—could the rejected suitor have followed the girl, be out there now in the night striving so to attract her attention? He might well have mistaken the position of her stateroom. I must find some vantage point from which I could see who was there.
The lamps in the corridor had been turned very low. I hurried through the half-gloom to the dining salon—to the door at its end. That was heavy but not locked and I pushed it open far enough to step on the small platform. From there I would look back along the side of the car.
I was right! A shadow by the shaded window. But the figure was moving—toward Victorine’s stateroom. While from there came a sudden gleam of brighter light. The curtain within had been moved.
Gathering my skirts, I sped at a pace far from dignified back the length of the car to the door of the master stateroom where I rapped urgently. Mr. Sauvage answered so suddenly he might have been waiting such a signal. But during the few moments it had taken me to reach his door I had decided to edit my first alarm. After all I could not be sure Victorine welcomed this stranger in the night
“Miss Penfold! What is the matter?”
“Someone made a noise outside my window, sir. I believe that there is a prowler—”
I did not have time to complete my sentence. He swung around to snatch up a pistol lying on his desk, and brushed past me through the salon and out the observation door. I heard his voice raised in challenge and then what could only be the crack of a shot.
“Miss Penfold!”
“Tamaris!”
Mrs. Deaves’ door had been flung open. As she took a
step or two into the corridor I saw Victorine was behind her. So—I had been right to keep my first suspicion to myself. Victorine had not moved that curtain to welcome any lurker in the shadows. Then who—a sneak thief striving to discover if the stateroom was occupied? But for such a one to run such a brazen chance of discovery seemed hardly probable.
“What
is
the meaning of this?” Mrs. Deaves clutched the folds of her wrapper tighter across her ample bosom. Her hair cascaded loose over her plump shoulders, showing a metallic, almost artificial, gleam when so freed from its usual elaborate dressing.
“There was a prowler along the car. I went to see from the dining room who was causing such odd sounds. By that time he had reached Victorine’s window—”
“A thief!” Victorine showed far more excitement than fear. “But what did he hope to find? My jewels are all in the safe. What could he have been looking for—this prowler?”
“Perhaps whatever he could find. Anything which could be pawned for money for spirits.” Mrs. Deaves drew her wrapper closer, her voice was distilled disdain. It was plain that she found the adventure sordid and unpleasant “But how careless of him to make enough noise to alert you, Miss Penfold. Doubtless he was drunk. Was he trying to force your window?”
She peered at me and it seemed that now there was a hint of excitement in both her full eyes and her voice. Did the thought of me as bait for such an intruder please her? It was hard
not
to make such assumptions concerning Mrs. Deaves after my enforced close companionship with one who made it very plain she did not approve of me, of my reason for being here—though she masked that all so well that only one very used to the nuances of feminine company could detect it.
And now I was certain myself that the shadow I had seen had had more than theft on his mind.
“I do not know what he wanted,” I returned evenly. “I came to warn Mr. Sauvage.”
“So you did.” Mrs. Deaves gave a shiver. “Had you not
done so we might have all been strangled in our beds!” Her tone, the exaggeration of that last, were meant far differently, suggesting that I had created for some purpose of my own, and doubtless a disreputable one, an unseemly uproar.
Victorine had pushed past her and was crowded close against one of the salon windows, her hands cupped about her eyes to cut out the dim lamplight and see the better what might lie outside. “There was a shot—did we not hear a shot also?”
“Mr. Sauvage took a pistol with him—”
“A pistol! Perhaps then he has killed this bandit! He is a good shot, my brother. I have heard this said of him. Yes—there are lanterns—men coming with lanterns! They are running—”
“Victorine!” Mrs. Deaves hurried forward, setting a hand on the girl’s shoulder to draw her away from the window. “My dear, if you can see out, it is even more certain that they can see in. Come away at once! None of us are dressed in a manner to face strangers, and we must not present a disgraceful spectacle for the vulgarly curious!”
For the first time I became aware that one member of our party was missing.
“Where is Amélie?”
Victorine whirled about. The rebellious pout which had been her answer to Mrs. Deaves’ warning faded.
“Amélie!” she repeated as if calling her maid. Then she caught up the trailing skirt of her wrapper, ran down the corridor. “But Amélie—she must have been in my stateroom. Perhaps this—this thief has harmed her!
Ma pauvre
Amélie!”
So—then there
had
been someone in Victorine’s stateroom to answer that summons at the window. Had the fellow come to meet Amélie? In spite of the careful primness of her clothing the girl was strikingly beautiful. It could well be that she had caught the eye of someone of the train crew; perhaps she was not adverse to such attentions.
Victorine tugged open the door of her stateroom with another loud call of the maid’s name:
“Amélie!”
Inside we could see the girl huddled down on the divan, her hands covering her face, her shoulders shaking. The small lace cap had slid from its anchorage on the coils of her hair and the hair itself straggled in elf-locks about her hidden face.
Victorine gave a little cry and sat down beside her, her arms around the shivering maid.
“Amélie—
ma pauvre petite
—what is it? What has happened?”
The torrent of French which broke in answer to Victorine’s question was mainly unintelligible to me. It was plain in her fright the maid had reverted to a patois. But Victorine appeared to understand, uttered small murmurs of comfort, trying to soothe the overwrought girl. She looked up over Amélie’s shoulder at us.
“This is indeed horrible.
Ma pauvre
Amélie has suffered such a fright. She looked to see what made a strange noise at the window and there was outside a face! A face of such horror that her senses nearly departed from her. She could not even cry out for help, so great was her fear!” Victorine shivered in sympathy. “Then the face—suddenly it was gone. She heard cries—a shot—it was terrible for her—
“Come,
ma petite
.” Now she spoke more softly and a great deal more calmly to Amélie—it might have been that she had deliberately summoned emotion to make certain we understood the enormity of what happened. “You are altogether safe now—we are here. My brother, the men of the train, they shall make certain no more evil comes near you. And I have to thank you, Tamaris,” she said directly now to me, “that so quickly you found help. Had you not done this—who knows what might have happened?”
Within moments, as Victorine continued to speak soothingly to the distraught girl, Mr. Sauvage returned. The intruder had vanished completely, the shot had been fired by him, but into the air as a warning.
However, noticing the set of his chin as he told us that, I believed that he wished he had aimed at his elusive target. From now on, he assured us tersely, there would be
a guard set. And it would not be long before our car was picked up by the westward-bound train.
But when I returned to my stateroom I was unable to busy myself once more with my letter. Certain points of difference between the evidence of my own eyes and Amélie’s story arranged a pattern as I pulled them out of memory. In the first place that first noise certainly had not been made by an intruder striving to force a window. No, certainly it had been a tapping to attract attention—and there was the whistling also.
Then when I had looked out and there had been that lifting of the curtain at Victorine’s pane there had been no face pressed against the glass there—the shadow had been well away from the side of the car.
But these were small things, only enough to awaken suspicion, nothing to carry proof. I could not use them to impeach the maid’s story. Amélie was lying, I was sure. I must watch her—
There was a sudden jar and then a jerk. We were once more ready to move on. Wearily I undressed and got into bed. There was a sense of relief at being free of the yard tracks and on the move. If Amélie had planned an amorous adventure it had failed and that was that.
CHAPTER THREE
Morning brought sunlight and disbelief. Now that we were well away from the dark and the would-be invader, I must not allow my imagination to build a shadow into frightening substance.
Mr. Sauvage spent more time with us in the salon, pointing out scenes of general interest. And Mrs. Deaves, now all smiles and soft words, appropriated all she might of his attention. He had shed much of that polished shell which had made him a forbidding person, he seemed less and less one of that fashionable world Mrs. Deaves
seemed to consider her own. Yet apparently she welcomed this change in him.
Still I could see in him that which I had always admired in my father and the other ship’s officers I had known as a child—competency and a sense of duty. His manners were never too brusque, yet his more negligent dress, the hearty note which crept into his speech, his enthusiasm, made me believe in New York he had been forced into a tight mold he disliked; now he showed the man he really was.
I think my first reaction was envy. It was so easy for a man to break with conventions, a relief denied to my sex. I looked back to those very hard months when I had been transferred from the freedom of my father’s ship to the prison (for then so it seemed) of a school ashore. I had learned my lesson well, perhaps too well, for I had passed from student to teacher, only to discover that my new role required even more from me in the way of discipline.
When I watched Mr. Sauvage swing off the train at some station to visit a telegraph office (it seemed very necessary that he keep in constant touch with his affairs both east and west), I wished for the first time in years that I could claim only a few small liberties.
Several times he suggested that we also leave the car for a short stroll on the splintered wood of the platforms at such halts. Mrs. Deaves plainly disliked such visits to these stations where ragged Indians begged, small boys sold caged prairie dogs, and men in red or blue sweat-stained shirts, wearing high-crowned, wide-brimmed hats and great cruel-looking spurs on their boots, stood and stared at us, their jaws moving as they continually chewed tobacco.
But Victorine was eager to go whenever her brother asked. She rattled along in French, making rudely frank comments on what we saw, taking her brother’s arm amiably as if she already held him in high affection.
Though there was much which was drab or unpleasing, there was a grandeur in the land itself. And there was a vigor in these rough men, akin to that of seamen. They were determined to bend the country, rugged and forbidding as much of it was, to their strong wills. Only, I
thought, it was not a land which any woman could love with the same inarticulate passion.
Our silks and frills, laces and fringes, were as out of place as those red shirts, spurs, and neckerchiefs would be in the East. One had to learn to accept the stares and understand that we were the rarities here. And I came to understand that such stares were compliments and not a matter of rude discourtesy.
Other passengers from the forepart of the train also stretched seat-cramped limbs and we came in time to recognize faces among them. So I realized that there was one man who continued to position himself in order to watch our party as long as we remained outside the coach.
The stranger wore a wide-brimmed hat which well overshadowed his face, and also a full black beard. Thus between the shadow of the hat brim and that sweep of hair, he might as well have been masked. But I thought he was young. His body was slender, even though he wore one of the bulky dusters as a protection against the grime and cinders of travel. At the halts he opened that and tossed it back as one might a cloak, showing the broadcloth of a city man.
I had just become uneasy at this continual watch upon us when it ceased. When he did not appear again, I decided, with an odd feeling of relief for which I could not account, that he must have left the train. I must not let myself imagine things and hold in suspicion everything and everyone.
“What do you think of this country, Miss Penfold?” Mr. Sauvage’s question started me out of that prudent resolution.
Outside there wandered a stream paralleling the tracks at this point. The tumbling water seemed to offer such cool refreshment that I wished for a moment I could walk beside it. Meanwhile my employer seated himself in the chair next to mine, adjusting it a little so his attention could be divided between the outer world and me.
I caught at words hastily.
“It is certainly very beautiful. But I do not think it will be easily tamed. I wonder how cool that water is—”
He smiled. “Yes, a stream in the heat of the day. Water in many places out here is more precious than gold. Men’s lives depend upon it. While gold is wealth and not life itself.”
“Though men believed otherwise in forty-nine,” I ventured. “Did not many lose their lives in pursuit of riches then?”
“Too many. Gold fever is dangerous. But that is past; now we build, set our roots deep. We have railroads to tie us with the East, we open lands for crops, cattle—” He spoke quickly and then began to talk of life in California.
My father had never looked upon me as without intelligence simply because I had been born female. Until my twelfth year, when I was sent ashore to school, I, who had been born aboard ship, taught from an excellent library my father carried, I had always had my questions answered with respect for my mind. And I had not heard such stimulating conversation as this for years.
Most of the men I had met socially used an inane surface speech for ladies. To dip below that and display any understanding of or interest in important events was a social error. The enthusiasm for study my father had fostered in me had become a solitary act—near a vice. And at this moment I realized just how cut off from what I wanted I had been. I was the thirsty wayfarer chancing in a wilderness upon such a stream as that before us.
Mr. Sauvage encouraged the questions I asked, waited for me to make comments, which he accepted as natural. I began to mention things my father had drawn to my attention. For he had made it a point to see that I visited many unusual places in the lands to which the
India Queen
carried cargoes. That I had inherited his ability to pick up languages easily he had found a matter of pleasure.
“So you have then visited Canton and the Sandwich Islands?” Mr. Sauvage was really interested. “And what did you think of that part of China which you saw?”
He was not condescending and so I answered forth-rightly what I had observed. I think I startled him when I explained that I had been entertained for two days in
the women’s quarters of one of the great merchants, seeing a part of native life which was open to no male travelers.
“You have had many advantages,” he commented.
“One above all others, sir—that was having a father who trained in me an inquiring mind.”
Perhaps my answer was a little too sharp, for then he asked, “You say that with such emphasis, Miss Penfold. Do you believe that your father’s attitude was then out of the ordinary?”
“Judging, sir, by what I have learned since I lost his companionship, very much so. He fostered in me a wish to enlarge my horizons and then gave me every opportunity of doing so. Since such educational advantages are usually reserved for sons instead of daughters, I know now he was very much out of the ordinary.”
I was skirting the edge of propriety in that answer. Was there the beginning of a frown to draw his dark brows together? He could well believe I was reflecting in some way on his own convictions.
“Alain! I did not know you were waiting.” Mrs. Deaves swept down upon us from the corridor. “It is thoughtless of me to waste your time when you have so much to worry you. But I have all the papers here—”
She busied herself loosening the catch of the portfolio she carried.
“I am at your service, as always, Augusta.” He arose and reached for the portfolio.
I realized this was a dismissal and was a little piqued that it was so abrupt. Not that I had any more claim on his attention than common courtesy dictated. Mrs. Deaves made no more acknowledgment of my presence than a slight nod of the head as I passed her on my way to my stateroom.
There was still my letter to Madam Ashley, but I was not in the mood to add the daily entry to that. Instead I gazed out the window at a land which now looked very forbidding. And I was still trying to sort out the puzzle of my own feelings when there came an imperative rap at my door and Mrs. Deaves entered before I could answer.
“Miss Penfold!” She used my name in the same tone I
had in the past employed to bring an inattentive scholar to order. Instant resentment was my inner reaction.
“Mrs. Deaves?” I returned inquiringly. “There is something I can do for you?”
“There is something you can do for yourself, Miss Penfold.” Without invitation she seated herself.
Perhaps she expected a response from me, but I waited in silence for her to continue. This had always been an excellent device with which to counter such emotion as she displayed.
“I am referring, of course”—she fell to turning one of her many rings around on a plump finger—“to the fact that young ladies in good society do not seek to attract the attention of gentlemen—”
Did they not, I thought bitterly. Most of their time was spent in maneuvering to do just that, as subtly as possible, of course.
“Mr. Sauvage—Alain”—she used his given name as if she would so underline that fact that it was
her
privilege to do so—“is very good-natured. Though he is a man of affairs which need constant attention, he is well bred enough not to show impatience—”
I had continued to eye her with the perplexed look of one unable to understand. Perhaps my attitude puzzled her in turn for she paused, to begin again:
“You are quite young, Miss Penfold, and your circumstances have been such that you may be misled by some common civility. Mr. Sauvage found your recent conversation a little—shall we say, odd—in a lady selected to be a companion to his sister. Since this is a delicate matter he pressed me to speak to you about it.”
“But, of course,” I agreed blandly. “And it is most kind of you to do so, Mrs. Deaves. Though I am still somewhat at a loss as to the nature of my offense, since my most recent conversation with Mr. Sauvage was initiated by him. I thought he wished to know more of my background. That I believe to be quite natural under the circumstances.”
She flushed. I think she had thought I could be easily cowed. And I was sure her dislike of me grew with each word. But I had spoken what could well be the truth and
she knew it. Now having so temporarily silenced her, I attacked in turn—if one might think of our conversation as a skirmish.
“I assure you I have no wish to give any offense. And I believe, now that Mr. Sauvage has satisfied himself as to my background, he will have no need for any further conversations. You may tell him that I understand the message sent through you, and I will act with discretion in the future.”
I was sure that she had never met my tactics in the past. By her standards I might seem insolent, yet she could not seize upon any words of mine to accuse me of that fault Muttering something I could not hear, she left as abruptly as she had burst in upon me.
Now I had something else to consider. I must walk very warily indeed in the future, giving this woman nothing upon which she could build a plausible attack. If I had read Mr. Sauvage aright, I did not believe he had sent Mrs. Deaves here. He was the type not to move deviously, but rather express himself directly.
However, he could have made some casual comment to Mrs. Deaves which allowed her to believe she could so approach me. Perhaps I
had
been too carried away by his easy manner so that my own had verged on forwardness. I must watch my tongue and be on terms of strictly polite correctness when dealing with Mrs. Deaves’ Alain. And that knowledge gave me a sense of loss and even a twinge of pain. It was as if I had been awakened out of a long time of boredom, given a glimpse of brightness, and been sternly forbidden to seek that out again.
It was with little pleasure that I answered the dinner gong. Mrs. Deaves dominated the conversation at the table, her purpose perfectly transparent to me. She sprinkled her sentences with names, taking as her subject the social round in San Francisco, the “season” to come, and the role Victorine would be expected to play. She was freezing me out of that charmed inner circle by all her implications. And if Mrs. Deaves achieved the goal Victorine had suggested, that of the mistress of the Sauvage
household, I believed my term of employment would be far shorter than that which had been agreed upon.
When Mrs. Deaves at last suggested that we return to the salon Victorine yawned, saying that she was finding train travel very conducive to slumber and that she was about to retire. I said I had a letter to write and escaped so easily that I knew it was to the relief of Mrs. Deaves.
But I had no more than gotten into my wrapper and was giving my hair its nightly brushing when Victorine slipped into my room without any warning knock.
“What did that old henwife say to you earlier, Tamaris? She was hot with rage when she went past my stateroom. Was that because my brother had talked with you for a while?” She curled up on my divan without invitation.
“Bah—you are going to be discreet.” Victorine made the last word sound as if it were a sin of sorts. “I see by your look you will not answer me. But I am not stupid, I can guess that is the truth. That one thinks to become Madame Sauvage—already in her ears she is called so. She is so afraid of not gaining her desire that she sees in every female a threat to her plan. Well, listen to me, Tamaris, she shall never get what she wishes!
“First—because she is really a fool, and, though I have only known my brother a short time, this much I have learned of him—he is not one to suffer a fool gladly. Also, she tries too hard. Sooner or later she will make plain what she wishes and that will give my brother a disgust of her. She is no fit mate for him!”
There was no hint of amusement in Victorine’s eyes, rather they were brilliant with the same emotion which deepened her voice, low though that already was. It was plain that the girl did possess some feeling for her brother. And Mrs. Deaves might well be defeated before she realized she had this particular adversary.