Authors: Andre Norton
After they had left, Victorine put her hand to her head. “I fear, Tamaris, that I am going to have one of my bad heads.” She pushed aside her fringe of bangs, her fingertips pressing against her temples and she did look ill. “The pain is getting worse. I must go and lie down, and Amélie will make me a tisane. No”—she waved me away—“there is nothing you can do, Tamaris. Always I have had these, they come and they go. I know what must be done to help.”
Nevertheless I saw her to her bedchamber and rang for Amélie. The maid came so quickly she might have been expecting such a summons, hovered over her mistress with soothing words in the patois. Upon Victorine’s insistence that she would now do well enough, I departed to my own suite.
Victorine’s room had been all rose satin, a crystal chandelier, a boudoir fit for a fairy-tale princess. But my own rooms, bedchamber, small sitting room, bath, made me uncomfortable. I longed for the neat simplicity, the uncluttered ease of my chamber at Ashley Manor. Here the walls were covered with white silk, topped with a painted fringe of mauve wisteria. There was a white fur hearth rug, all the furniture gilt and upholstered in padded mauve velvet. To me it was all show and no homey comfort.
I had found only one thing to welcome me, perhaps
because it was not new, and rich only in time-dimmed beauty. One wondered by what chance it had found its way here.
It was a worktable of papier-mâché such as was in fashion when my mother was a girl, decorated with an oriental pattern picked out with gold and mother-of-pearl in a design of long-tailed birds and exotic flowers. Since I had arrived I had lifted its lid several times, examining with pleasure the many compartments where some of the original fittings, small carved reels for silks, a matching needlebox, another probably meant to contain beads or pins, were tucked neatly away.
Now surfeited with all the gilt and velvet, I went to that and lifted the lid once more. But—there was something new within, lying almost under my hand.
That one did occasionally use wax to keep very fine thread from tangling, I was well aware, but I had never seen such a sewing aid as this one.
Slowly and reluctantly I worked the small object out of the compartment. In size it was hardly more than the length of my little finger and it had certainly never been made from the clear beeswax usually used for such a purpose. It could have been a miniature candle, for there was a tuft of wick at one end. In shape it had been very rudely molded into a human figure. A ball of head was at one end and indentations outlined arms and legs. In color it was a dull and dirty yellow. And I was sure I had not seen it before.
To the touch it had an oily, greasy feel and I closed the lid on it hurriedly. My innocent pleasure in the table was spoiled. Every time I looked at it now I could not forget that nasty little image and I went to wash my hands vigorously because I had touched it.
Two days later the house which had been a cold museum of all money could buy came alive. I felt a kind of warmth as I gazed into the mirror above my dressing table which had seemed too perfect for mundane use. All because the master had returned. And with his person Alain Sauvage negated the stiff formality, subdued the
lavish display, imposed his positive self-confidence everywhere.
My early years since my birth on ship in a harbor of the Sandwich Islands had been spent in a masculine world. For my mother died two days after I was born and my father, producing Mama Lalla, had kept me with him, much to the consternation of the American women in the Islands. I was beginning to remember, after a half-lifetime of flitting myself as best I could into the ultra-feminine world of young ladies’ schools, how men were free. My swift uprooting from Brussels when the coming of war threatened the sea-lanes had been so ruthless and complete a change that perhaps it shocked something inside me, and in that state of shock I had been docile enough to accept other standards, the very confining ones of feminine society, the rules of which I now lived by. Young ladies must be kept away from the world of action lest the precious bloom (which was really ignorance instead of innocence) be destroyed.
I had buried very deep within me my own real self, learning to conform because that was necessary for one in my position. And I was realistic enough to understand that my father’s death, the loss of his ship, made that position precarious. Had not Madam Ashley taken me on as instructoress I would have been lost indeed.
Now Mr. Sauvage opened once again a small window into the world of action. He was the only man with outstanding force of character to come into my own narrow world since my father had died. I told myself that this shaken feeling I experienced when he entered a room where I was, or spoke to me, was not founded on any real preference. Yet he changed the world as far as I was concerned. I schooled my emotions fiercely, even as I had in the past hidden grief and loss. I must summon common sense to give me the serenity one in my position must possess.
And that struggle made me believe that perhaps my best solution was to get away, leave even this country where everything was too lavish, too overpowering, as overpowering as the masses of flowers brought in each
morning, the heavy velvet and gilt, the marble and mirrors.
The latest cause of uneasiness was the maid Fenton, now busied in the room behind me. I no longer had privacy even in my own quarters. Suddenly this morning I needed freedom, if only for a little while. Victorine made a practice of sleeping late. I arose unfashionably early, so I had at least an hour of my own.
I thrust the last pin into my coil of hair. Fenton had offered the services of a curling iron, but a crimped forehead fringe and the smell of singed hair was not for me.
The drapery of my poloniase puffed out over my thicker underskirt, but the dress was not as burdensome as more fashionable wear. I caught up my shawl and decided on an early stroll in the garden.
By now I had learned the geography of this massive pile well enough to reach a side door and come into the freshness of the day, where the lovely lace of new-hung spiderwebs was still strung between rose bushes. Rancho del Sol? That name made me smile.
Such a name for this mansion was preposterous. Surely its builder had had no sense of humor when he retained the name of the humbler building he had torn down to erect his own dream of a palace. I wished that I could have seen the original rancho. California must have had some history before the coming of the gold seekers—did any vestige of that remain?
“You find this prospect amusing, Tamaris?”
Startled, I gasped and turned. Mr. Sauvage stood a little to my right. How he had appeared so silently puzzled me. He was bareheaded, and in the early morning his thick black hair showed a glint near blue. Again he wore a handkerchief tied carelessly about his throat, and on his feet were not the riding boots I expected, but softer footgear similar to that I had seen worn by the Indian beggars during our cross-country trip. Save that these did not cover the feet only, but extended well up the calf, laced with thongs, and they had pointed, slightly upturned toes.
He was so vividly
alive!
Perhaps I stared too obviously,
as he did not wait for me to answer his question, but thrust forth a foot to display it better.
“Savage wear for a Sauvage. These are Apache boots, better for a long ride than our own. Now, Tamaris, tell me what you find so amusing about this rose garden that you stand here smiling.”
Perhaps it was the use of my given name, which had never happened before, that brought me to truthful boldness.
“I was, forgive me, sir, amused at the idea of calling such a stately house as this a ‘ranch.’ For I understand those are of a rather rough style.”
He laughed. “One of our anachronisms, Tamaris. Yes, Rancho del Sol hardly suits, does it? Unfortunately the ranch is a map landmark of long standing, so it seemed wise to continue the name. Tell me, what do
you
think of it?”
I was flustered by his intent stare. How could I say to the master of all this that I had reservations concerning the taste, the overwhelming grandeur, the formality of all those rooms and halls? I hesitated. Of course I could fall back on those phrases I had murmured in answer to Mrs. Landron during the grand tour. But I knew that I could not be false, even in the smallest degree, to this man.
“It is very large—”
Alain smiled first with his eyes, I discovered, before any curve of his firmly set lips showed.
“Honesty is the best policy, Tamaris, I see you have learned that. Yes, it is very large, and it is a treasure house, and it has every possible comfort known to man at the time of its building. But I will share a secret with you—I would gladly change it for the house which once stood here and was near to a hundred years older.”
“I wish I could have seen it—” The old house, simple, strong, a part of the land—how did I know all that?
“There are still a few of the old places which have not yet been wiped from the earth so a rich man can have his fancies. We shall go and see one someday.”
A queer weakness was growing in me. I had the greatest desire to rest my fingertips on his arm as I had at our
first meeting when he had escorted me to meet his sister. Another part of me fought that desire fiercely. I
must
control such strange, wandering thoughts, be the correct Miss Penfold he employed.
“I fear I am keeping you, sir, you were about to go riding?” My voice was stiff with control.
“I have been riding. You may think you have risen early, but in the country some days begin at dawn. Which”—he squinted up into the morning sky—“is now some hours behind us. Now I am ready for breakfast—what about you?”
His fingers closed gently on my arm just above the elbow and drew me forward.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“But this is not the way to the house—”
“You shall discover that there is more than one place in which one may breakfast. Now Victorine and Augusta prefer to be served in bed. Though on occasion they may come yawning to the table. But they miss some of the small pleasures of life—”
I knew that I was disobeying every rule of proper decorum as I allowed myself (though I really had very little to say in the matter) to be led along a walk bordered by rose bushes, under an arch cut through the thick body of a hedge, and so into a small wilderness where stood a small octagonal summerhouse.
Within was a table spread with a red and white checked cloth like that of a farm kitchen. And the plates and cups were not Havilland, but brown and irregularly shaped as if made by hand. On a neighboring and smaller table were covered dishes.
“But you are waiting for a guest—” I caught my breath, and took tight rein on that too-heady sense of freedom, drawing on common sense, also that virtue which
had been drilled into me for the last half of my life—prudence.
“A guest—you, Tamaris. Learning you seem to be addicted to early-morning rising and walking through the dew, I thought I would be lucky and catch you—which I did!” He laughed.
I thought to him this was merely an amusing adventure, no more than a picnic in the woods. If it could only be so for me! I yearned at that moment for that youthful irresponsibility I had tasted so fleetingly in my venture into the rose garden.
But I had been too long schooled to the knowledge that one was judged in the world not by intent but by outward appearances. The servants who had brought this food, any who might have seen our coming, could and would use their tongues. Invention would lead such witnesses to embroider with “facts” that did not exist. On such a seemingly innocent meeting as this reputations had foundered. I held fiercely to my common sense and training.
In that world where Augusta Deaves lived, a blown-upon reputation was past saving. She herself would need only a suggestion—that I perhaps had made a rendezvous for a “secret” meeting with my employer—to damn me. Prudence must win—not only for my own sake but because of Victorine.
“A pleasant thought, sir, and a kind one.” I wondered if my tone sounded as false to him as it did to me. “But you must understand I cannot take advantage of your generous and good nature. How could I play companion to your sister if my conduct caused any whisper? And be sure”—my tension and anger perhaps now made my speech more vehement, anger not at him (for gentlemen are not apt to see the pitfalls among which a lone woman walks carefully in conventional society), but at that society itself which would forbid such a treat—“that my staying would lead to whispers. Men, Mr. Sauvage, are free to do much, indulge their whims and fancies, and enjoy small breaking of the rules. Women are not.”
“I did not think that Captain Penfold’s daughter would be so missish.” His face had turned wooden, expressionless.
“It is because I am Captain Penfold’s daughter, sir, that I abide by the rules of proper conduct, even as he did his duty. Petty though such may be, they
are
the discipline a woman must live by. You cannot say ‘this may not be done’ to others unless you are willing yourself to obey. Since you wish me to companion your sister into society, I must make a special effort to abide by the rules. I am young for the position you have given me, sir, and so must be doubly careful. I can do nothing which, innocent and pleasant as it may be, might lead to gossip. You have engaged me for a purpose and I would not be doing my duty should I disregard it for my own enjoyment.”
He had leaned back against a tree, and was measuring me with a look I could not interpret. Though I felt as if I were a strange creature he must classify. Then he shrugged.
“Very well, Miss Penfold. Stern duty it is then. And I shall not ask you again to do anything which will endanger your social acceptance.”
He bowed and went abruptly into the summerhouse. His cold formality was that of our first meeting. But that was as proper. I should be grateful; instead I was weighed down by a desolation I could not understand—or did not want to examine too closely.
I went back down the path sure I was right, but no glow of duty upheld warmed me. Instead I felt forlornly alone and, by the time I reached the house, I was fighting tears, so fled to my own suite in haste. Missish I must indeed seem to him. But what did men understand of gossip and how dire it could be? That I had done the right thing I knew, but I was desperately unhappy. Out of all proportion to the incident, I tried to tell myself.
Luckily Fenton had gone and I was able to cry in peace. Though I am not usually one who reacts with tears. In my position those are a luxury not to be indulged in too often, or too long. What if Victorine were to make one of her sudden entrances and demand why I wept?
I had again gained full command of myself when there was a rap on the door and to my surprise Fenton issued
in a footman carrying a tray, which he put down on a small table she hastened to clear.
The salver bore a bowl, not crystal but actually carved of ice, and about its rim lay a loose wreath of ivory-tinted rosebuds. Within were heaped strawberries under a sifting of finely shaved ice which formed a frost over them. Beside this was a compote of Belleek, as ivory and perishable as the roses, fashioned in the form of a fluted shell supported by seahorses. This contained a mound of powdered sugar. But there was also a goblet of opaque green and white glass. Into that the footman poured a small measure of champagne.
“Fenton—what is this?” I hoped I showed no signs of my recent indulgence in tears.
Fenton’s solid features cracked into a smile.
“The master, miss, chancing to meet me, asked how you enjoyed your breakfast. I ventured to reply that you had not, to my knowledge, eaten. He ordered this prepared that you might see what was offered to ladies at Saratoga last summer. You being from the East, he thought you might enjoy it. I believe, miss, you dip the strawberries either into the sugar or the champagne.”
Did he mean this in subtle mockery? But still I felt a new warmth in me. Could it instead be a peace offering, a very generous one? I was going to believe it did signify a measure of goodwill once more between us.
“What an unusual idea. And so very thoughtful of Mr. Sauvage. Thank you, Harlett.”
I dipped a berry into the sugar, crushed it tart-sweet in my mouth. I would even try one christened in champagne.
But by afternoon my happy mood faded. I had reminded Victorine that we must return the Bealls’ call. During the past two days she had advanced one excuse after another, the main one being that she did not feel well. But she could not disdain social duties forever, so, pouting, she set out with me in the victoria.
“These so silly cards.” She adjusted her parasol, glanced pettishly at the case in her lap. “Such a stupidity. One for me, and one for Alain, though he is not with us at all. Why that?”
“Because,” I answered patiently, though I was well aware she meant to annoy, “he is the master of the house and is now in residence.”
“In residence! Such formality. Tamaris, did you always know all this, what to wear, what to do? To me it is a very boring game which never comes to an end. What if someone, sometime, broke all these petty rules, spoke as she pleased, did as she wished—what would happen then?”
I thought of that morning when I had been so grievously tempted to do just that.
“It has been done.” And perhaps I spoke sharply because of that memory. I added a warning: “Afterwards the consequences were not very pleasant for the one who refused her role in the play.”
“What happened? Was it just that she no longer had to make these card-carrying visits?”
“She was not invited to parties which were neither boring nor stupid. Young gentlemen have mothers and sisters who abide by the rules and keep them.”
“Stepmothers,” she corrected me with a giggle. “Beside this bear-man, this Henry Beall—I do not think him so young. He is too big, too thick—” With her free hand she gestured to suggest Henry Beall’s imperfections. “Altogether he is
not
to my taste.”
“Perhaps that is so. But you will meet others more to your liking.”
Victorine sighed. “I hope that is true, for I am finding this a most wearying afternoon.”
She had been so right, I thought ruefully, as we drove away from Fairlawns, having only left our cards at the door.
“So this stepmother is ill,” Victorine commented. “We ride through dust and heat just to lay cards on a tray held out to us. Me, I do not believe she is ill at all, she is only more sensible than we are. She wishes to take a little nap, to rest herself, so she says ‘My head, it aches. Do not admit anyone foolish enough to call. Say I am ill.’ Well, she now has those so important cards and we need not come again.”
What Victorine considered a distasteful and wasted
afternoon was not yet at an end. As our carnage entered the drive we sighted a traveling coach before the main entrance of the rancho and Mr. Sauvage handing out Mrs. Deaves.
There came a wrathful mutter from Victorine. “Again that one! Tonight two candles shall I—” she paused nearly in mid-word and then continued: “See how she regards him, as a snake eyes a small and helpless rabbit put into its cage—”
Victorine’s analogy was startling. That the larger reptiles have such disgusting ways of feeding, one knows. But she spoke with the familiarity of one who had witnessed such an enormity.
“Tamaris—I swear to you, that one shall never rule here!” She lapsed into French, which she seldom did now. And I had come to know that such a lapse was a matter of either temper or distress.
Still, as our victoria came to a halt, and we alighted in turn, she was all smiles. Tripping lightly forward, she offered Mrs. Deaves the feminine greeting of cheek against cheek. She might have been longing to see her so-dear Augusta as she addressed the visitor.
It was apparent that Mr. Sauvage was as pleased with the new arrival as his sister pretended to be. And we entered the great hall a united party, no matter how separated our thoughts.
I had one flight of fancy when we gathered in the White Drawing Room that evening after dinner.
Augusta Deaves played the pianoforte and Victorine sang some pretty French songs. But what would happen if we were suddenly laid under some spell which would make us reveal our innermost thoughts, concealed now by polite conversation?
The next morning I awakened with a sense of loss. There had been a swiftly faded dream I could not cling to, only I knew that in it I had been happy. As I sat up I thought I knew the reason for dreaming. This was my birthday—though none now living save Madam Ashley would remember. She had always had a tea on this date
for me. And, while my father was still alive, there had been a box of small gifts, a treasured letter.
Now there was no one to care. Self-pity was wrong. As penance for that I would allow Fenton to perform the duties of a lady’s maid as she wanted to. A good resolve which I discovered was not too much of a cross after all.
To my relief she did not again suggest a curling iron, but put up my dark brown hair very skillfully, with a finish I could never myself achieve. And with Mrs. Deaves here I wanted to look my best—the feminine armor we all don from time to time.
Fenton had laid out a dress of silver gray, banded with soutache braid of a violet shade. And somehow that gave my spirits another lift.
“The master said to tell you, miss”—Fenton gave a settling twitch to the wide bow of violet velvet just above the swell of bustle and drapery at my back—“that breakfast for the family will be in the Green Room this morning.”
Heartened by the thought—I did present my best face to the world—I went downstairs. Strawberries in ice again? I hardly thought so.
But another surprise did await me. Victorine sat there and Mr. Sauvage arose to escort me with some ceremony to a chair before which on the table was not only a bouquet of those ivory rosebuds, but several packages wrapped in tissue and tied with colored ribbons.
“You look so astonished, Tamaris.” Victorine laughed. “Did you believe we would forget your feast day?”
“But—how did you know?” I felt a little flustered as I seated myself.
“Alain knows everything. How
did
you know, Alain?”
“There is very little about Captain Penfold and his family I do not know since we owe so much to him. The date of a birthday is very easy to learn.”
His sister nodded. “Now, Tamaris, you must open your gifts and guess which are from Alain and which from me.”
My hands were a little unsteady. It was so unexpected. My father had always made an occasion of this day and now it was almost as if he were close to me, sharing in my
excitement. Such special thought for my pleasure was something I had never expected.
My first choice proved to be a richly bound volume of Mrs. Browning’s verse. With it in hand I bowed my appreciation to Mr. Sauvage. Victorine clapped her hands.
“The first guess and it is right!”
“Of course.” He smiled at me. “Do you not realize, Victorine, that a proper young lady may accept only an edifying book or perhaps a box of bonbons from a gentleman? One abides by the rules.” There was no note of challenge in his voice, yet a little of my happiness was dulled. Was he being sarcastic?
Quickly I chose a second package, to find a carved sandalwood box I recognized as one Victorine had bought in the Chinese Bazaar. Within, on a bed of cotton, lay a heart carved of crystal strung on a velvet ribbon. I was enchanted with the pretty trifle, and at Victorine’s bidding, fastened it about my throat to admire the way it rested on the frill of my net chemisette.
The third package contained Mr. Sauvage’s bonbons. But they were contained in no ordinary box, rather nested in a filigree casket of octagonal shape with an enameled butterfly (so real-appearing one might expect it to flutter away) for a lid handle. While the confections themselves were all topped with candied violets or rose petals, designed to tempt at least a duchess.