Authors: Andre Norton
A bouquet had been delivered to each lady earlier, with Mr. Sauvage's compliments. Mine consisted of the ivory roses, accompanied by a short note of regret that it was not white violets. The fragrant flowers were in a crystal holder united by a chain to a ring one could slip on a finger. My fan was of my father's giving, a brisé one of carved ivory from China.
“Miss”—Fenton sat back on her heels (she had knelt to smooth out my short train)—“you look just lovely!” Her plain face lighted up.
“Mainly your work, Fenton.” I gathered my skirt and made one of those grand curtsies learned at Ashley Manor. “To you goes the credit.”
“Oh, miss—!” I was surprised at the feeling in her voice. When she had been sent to me I had resented her as a curb on what small independence I thought I had a right to. Perhaps I was uneasy because I had never had a personal maid before. And sometimes she had looked so disapproving, as if the arrangement suited her no more than it did me. But recently we had become closer. And I was aware she took pride in dressing me and that I must be a credit to her.
My skirts whispered on the carpet as I went on to Victorine's suite. There I faced one who might have stepped out of a fairy tale—the princess all little girls long to be. Her hair was dressed loosely, a second string of pearls woven through it. Above the massing of gauze which edged her satin bodice, molded so closely to her young body, her perfect shoulders emerged as if from some lightsome summer cloud. We read of great beauty but we seldom see it as I viewed it that night.
“Tamaris—but that dress
is
right for you after all.” She picked up a mother-of-pearl holder with pure white roses.
“Victorine! Never have I seen anyone look so lovely!” And I meant that with all my heart.
She caught up her full skirts and turned slowly about, looking over her shoulder into the mirror.
“Myself, I think that Amélie has done better than ever before. You hear that, Amélie—
très bon!
”
Amélie held a spangled fan in one hand as she watched Victorine with an odd expression I could not read. Was it envy?
A little of my old distrust and uneasiness flooded back. But I would not think of that now; nothing must mar Victorine's happiness tonight.
Mrs. Deaves was as magnificent as I had guessed. Her golden skirts with their trimmings of hummingbirds, the beaks of which were gold, the tiny eyes rubies, had the splendor of at least a duchess. Though I disliked seeing those small birds killed to make dress ornaments. Their use so was a part of the same waste which assaulted something in me all through this house. Gold and yet more gold, red velvet, things which in restraint could be beautiful, but when in opulent parade disgusted rather than pleased.
My dinner escort was a Major Barkley from the Presido, colorful in his dress uniform, stiffly attentive. He was one of the bachelors and his remarks (plainly delivered for the sake of good manners) were based on features of the countryside. Though he unbent a little when I spoke of Mr. Sauvage's description of some of the old California houses which had
not
been razed. He said he had been stationed here prior to the war and grew quite animated in his description of a cattle round-up on such a ranch. My companion to the left was a much older man, who, when we exchanged conversational partners, paid me some too florid compliments, but exhibited much greater interest in the contents of the plate and glass before him.
Even the house had been changed tonight. Now the great hall under its amber dome had a circular seat of quilted red velvet in the center. This formed a ring to enclose a tiered pyramid of red and white camellias, bordered by red and white roses, the fragrance of which was near overpowering. On the balcony at second-floor level a string orchestra had been installed to play soft music to promenade by, and there were divans and chairs scattered about.
The two great salons, where strips of opaque crystal
bearing mythological designs alternated with full-length mirrors on the walls, had been converted to one huge ball-room by pushing sliding panels back into hiding. It was at the entrance to this that Mr. Sauvage stood, Victorine to his right, and me (in spite of my attempt to avoid being so singled out) to his left.
Mrs. Deaves did not form one of our small reception list, though I did not doubt she had fully expected to. She stood instead with others of the house party, a set smile on her lips, talking in a low tone, with feverish vivacity, to her dinner partner.
My discomfort at being so placed on show was such that I found it increasingly difficult to remember names and faces as the guests began to arrive, each lady being presented at the door with a dancing program.
Mr. Sauvage had already filled ours I saw when I had a moment to glance at mine. When our duty in the reception line was finished I was claimed by the Major who, though not too graceful, performed creditably enough in the lancers to music provided by a second and larger orchestra.
If Mr. Sauvage had ignored Mrs. Deaves’ wish to be singled out as co-hostess, he was politely punctilious about giving her the second dance, having opened the ball with Victorine and then relinquished her to a younger escort But when the third, a waltz, began, he bowed before me.
In such a throng, with people continually passing in and out, or going to walk along the conservatory veranda, or sit in the center hall, it was difficult to keep Victorine in sight, especially as all the other debutantes present also wore white. I was trying to locate her when my partner said abruptly, “Are you looking for someone, Tamaris? Do you have some acquaintance here you want to meet?” His tone was sharp with no jesting note in it.
“No, sir. But as you well know my status here is on a slightly different basis than that of your other guests. I am watching for Victorine.”
“Duty as always then.” But there was a softer note in his voice. “Tonight I do not think you should take that duty too seriously. Think not of Miss Penfold the very proper lady instructoress, the ideal companion-in-
residence, but rather of Tamaris who is quite young enough, and certainly pretty enough, to be enjoying a ball.”
Only he was so deadly wrong.
Supper was served at midnight and my escort of the last waltz, an amiable young man whose name to this day I cannot remember, proved himself quite adept at selecting from the display of macaroons, blanc mange in fanciful shapes, tipsy cake (and very tipsy it was, too), brandied cherries, jelly trifles, and the like a most tempting plate. Having been ceremoniously seated on the round seat in the hall to await his return with champagne, I had a moment free to check on Victorine.
And I saw her—not nearby, but up on the balcony, where she stood with her back to the silver railing, talking with a man. Some trick of the gaslight caught his face and I started. He possessed a masculine version of Amélie's features! But I must be imagining things—
Before I could rise my escort returned and I had no valid reason to hurry away. Also the young man had left Victorine and she was now seated as if awaiting the same service which had just been provided for me. Who was that man?
I did not really taste the delicacies on my plate, nor attend intelligently to my partner's conversation. I hoped I was not outwardly rude; at least he showed no signs of boredom. But at last I could stand it no longer.
Thanking him as gracefully as I could, I explained I must seek Victorine. It was a lame excuse but he accepted it politely. Perhaps with relief, as I had certainly not been a rewarding supper companion.
As I started up the stair to the balcony I saw Victorine on the move again. This time she sped down a side corridor, the cream Chinese shawl about her shoulders. And she was heading for the stairs at the back of the house. It was up to me to restrain her from any folly. I gathered up my far too heavy and hindering skirts to follow her.
Although the forepart of the house was thronged, here was silence and emptiness. Luckily Victorine never glanced back; she could not hear any trailers. She gained the lower
hall and the door there giving on the garden, but not that section where the fairy lights of tree-strung lanterns illuminated statues and walks.
My skirts caught on a bush and I had to halt for a moment. That pause, short as it was, lost me Victorine. But she could not be too far ahead, and this leafy underbrush had only one opening. I shivered as I hurried on, my skirts held as high and close to my body as I could manage. Victorine had a shawl but the night wind was cold on my bare shoulders.
A fork in the path—which way? The garden was so large and the paths had been laid out to wander, crossing and dividing. Perhaps I could never find her. The way to my right led to the lighted section. Now I caught the scent of tobacco; some masculine guest had come outside to indulge in that habit most ladies deplore.
“Miss Penfold!”
I turned my head to see Henry Beall.
“Is there any way I may assist you?” Even the dim lantern light betrayed my agitation. I must be very careful lest Victorine be suspected of some indiscretion.
Which meant I must bear the suspicion of indiscretion for myself. I forced a smile I did not feel.
“You surprised me, Mr. Beall.” In my own hearing, my voice did not carry the right note of embarrassment. But perhaps I underrated my powers of dissimulation for now he was smiling, a smile I hated to have turned on me, since it made very plain he thought I was keeping some rendezvous.
“Your pardon, dear lady.” The bow he made me was a veiled insult, warming my cheeks with a flush of anger. Yet I could not counter it with the disdain I wished. “But you are very much alone here. May I share your solitude? The moon is bright enough for a stroll or—”
I must find Victorine! But how to rid myself of this unwelcome escort I did not know. There was really only one way and that would confirm all his suspicions. So it must be done.
“You are most kind, Mr. Beall. But, as it chances, I do have an escort due to appear at any moment—”
Again that hateful smile.
“But of course, dear lady. His gain is my loss. I will be but an unnecessary third. But may I inquire if you have seen Victorine? The next dance is mine and I have not found her—”
“She may have retired momentarily, sir. You would better seek her in the house than here.” My impatience colored my reply. He smiled more broadly and bowed again.
“Naturally. Please accept my apologies for the intrusion.”
I watched him go before I moved on, suspicious that he might choose to linger for no other purpose than to see who would join me. Only when I was sure he was out of sight did I turn into the left-hand path.
The gravel was white in the moonlight and I could hear muted sounds of music from the house. But somehow I seemed cut off from the safe world I knew. I was chilled, worried, and, worst of all, sure I had neglected my duty. Had I kept closer watch on Victorine I might have prevented this midnight excursion.
I paused to listen, and so caught the murmur of voices. Whispers so low pitched I could distinguish only a word or two, and those in that patois which Victorine spoke with Amélie. Only three words I could understand reached my straining ears:
“St. John's Eve.”
CHAPTER NINE
Since I was not a Catholic the saints’ days meant nothing to me, but the words were my guide as I stole forward. Ahead, as the path turned, a screen of brush still concealed the speakers from sight. Just as I made up my mind to move boldly, I heard the crunch of heavy footsteps
on gravel, moving away. Throwing aside all caution I hurried around that curve.
Here was a glade opening around a small pool with a softly playing fountain to feed it. Facing that was a garden bench of wrought iron. And on it Victorine sat, or rather slumped.
Her shawl had slipped to the ground, her head lay back, her eyes closed. I ran to her, sniffing a stranger scent than the rose oil she used as a perfume, something vaguely disagreeable.
“Victorine!” I caught her hands, her flesh was fever hot She opened her eyes, staring at me as if I were a stranger. And she kept moving the tip of her tongue back and forth across her lips as if she still tasted something she longed to savor again.
Then her eyes focused, and I felt tension flow out of her. Her hands went limp, her head dropped even more. Her eyes were closed now, a grimace of what might be pain distorted her face.
“Victorine! You are ill!”
“Oui”
—her answer was very low and weak—“so very ill, Tamaris. Please do not leave me—” Her hands turned in mine, closed with a convulsive, bruising force on my wrists.
“Let me go for help—”
“Non!
Stay, please stay. I am so
triste
—my head, it spins so—such pain, such floating—! Stay with me, do not leave me alone!” She continued to hold my wrists with a strength I would not have believed such a frail girl could possess, as if so she anchored herself to safety.
Perforce I stayed. Though I was worried. Certainly these attacks were not just acting to avoid situations she disliked. Victorine needed far more than just the tending of a devoted ignorant maid.
“Victorine? Tamaris?”
I was never so glad for anything in my life as to see Alain come into the glade. At the same time Victorine's grip on me loosened. I caught at her just in time to steady her against my body or she would have slid to the ground.
Together we got her back to the house, Alain carrying
her, while I kept the bushes from catching at her billows of gown and train. When we brought her into her suite Amélie was there as if she knew there would be a need for her. As she worked efficiently to get her mistress to bed, with what little help she would allow me to give, I knew Alain was waiting in the sitting room. But I had so little explanation for him—
“She is ill.” Amélie shot a hostile glance across the bed. “Always she has these—these maladies when she is too excited. Now she sleeps and when she wakes all will be well. It is true, what I tell you!”
I thought that Victorine did now seem to be sleeping normally. But that she needed treatment for such attacks was apparent. However, when I went out to Alain, I thought to discuss this in Victorine's suite might not be wise. Amélie could be on guard in more than one way, not only for her mistress, but also that she not be supplanted here.
“What is it?” I could read Alain's impatience in his tone. “What were you two doing out in the garden, Tamaris?”
I made a warning gesture to the door behind me and answered carefully.
“Victorine was taken with one of her bad heads. She thought going into the night air might help.”
His expression changed slightly. He had been quick to catch and interpret my signal, for now he said, “It is well you found her. We must let her rest.”
He opened the hall door, then closed it firmly behind us both. Nor did he say anything until we were opposite my own sitting room. Then, with no by your leave, he opened the door of that and waved me in.
I was afraid Fenton might be waiting. But the room was empty, with only a single lamp turned low.
“Now let us have the truth—what happened?”
I began by describing the young man I had seen with Victorine on the balcony and Alain's impassivity became fixed.
“I was wrong then,” he interrupted as if he thought aloud. “So
he
did dare to be here tonight! And perhaps—but tell me, how did you get into the garden?”
I made my story as short as I could, but I mentioned meeting Henry Beall. Alain nodded.
“Yes, I met him also. I had seen you from the terrace and followed. It was good that I did.”
What had his thoughts been then? That I was so untrustworthy a guardian that I had sought a hidden rendezvous after all my “missish” words earlier? But it was not Alain's scorn or possible suspicion which counted now, it was Victorine.
“You would know this young man again?”
“Yes. He is quite unmistakable.”
“Good. I want you to come with me. If you see him, point him out. I have had him described to me but we have not yet met face to face. Meanwhile we shall say that Victorine has been taken ill and is resting.”
As we returned to the hall we came face to face with Mrs. Deaves.
“Alain! Where have you been? Judge Stevens and his wife are about to take their leave—”
Ignoring me entirely, she laid her hand possessively on his arm, drawing him with her. I could see his dilemma. Now it must be up to me to hunt alone for Victorine's mysterious escort.
But that was difficult. The crowd, passing back and forth, was never still or confined to one room. How could one search effectively? I tried but speedily discovered that in order not to make myself conspicuous I had to pause now and then for some exchange of civility with a guest. Alain had made a mistake in putting me in the reception line earlier and so given me a quasi-hostess status.
I had reached the glassed-in veranda when I came upon a group of ladies paying court to an older and very stately dame, whom I recognized as the redoubtable Mrs. William Gwin, for almost two decades the leader of local society. Her black velvet and pearls were well suited to her role, and it was plain from the attitude of those about her she was still very much on her throne.
On the outskirts of the small court, which I was endeavoring to avoid, I saw one not as politely attentive as
the others. Mrs. Beall, wearing mauve brocade and a rich display of diamonds, was looking about as if searching for someone. Then her eyes met mine.
She edged her way gracefully out of the group and cut off my escape into the conservatory.
“Miss Penfold!” She repeated my name so sharply I was forced to pay her heed. “I have not yet had a chance to speak to Miss Sauvage—”
Why, since in the immediate past she had given every indication of not wishing to pursue any acquaintance, I could not understand. But so firm was her manner now I could not push by without open rudeness.
“Victorine is not feeling well, Mrs. Beall. She has just retired with a sick headache.”
For a moment I thought she was about to challenge my statement. Then some second thought apparently checked that impulse and she said, in quite another tone of voice, “What a pity. She is quite the belle. I have heard many compliments on her this evening. I trust her disorder is not serious?”
“Not in the least.” I replied with all the reassurance I could muster. “She is subject to these attacks when she becomes fatigued or overexcited. This has been an occasion to produce both those conditions.”
“Yes, an important night for any girl, her formal entrance into society.” Mrs. Beall spoke absently. “Tell me,” she continued, “you have been with Miss Sauvage for some time, have you not, Miss Penfold?”
I sensed a method in her questioning and grew wary. But telling the strict truth is some protection.
“Since she was in New York only.” I did not elaborate.
“So you did not know her in France—when she was younger?”
“No, Mrs. Beall.”
“It is odd that she did not come sooner to live with her brother.”
My reticence seemed to force her more and more into the open. There was a demanding note in her voice. Surely the story of Victorine's past must be common knowledge. Rumor and gossip must have played in turn with such an
account. That Alain Sauvage had gone to claim a sister heretofore unknown should be known to all the “old families.”
“I know nothing of that, Mrs. Beall,” I said firmly.
Though the art which had maintained her semblance of youth was meticulous, yet tonight, kind as the lighting was, she had a slightly haggard look. Now her eyes hardened.
“Of course you would say that!” she flashed. She must have been hard driven for the polite surface of her manners to so crack. “Do you not guess? I have a mother's desire to know more of a young lady in whom my son shows so much interest—”
Her explanation was so patently false she must have realized it even as she spoke. I did not believe that she harbored any maternal feelings for Henry. She did not even try to explain herself further, only stared rather wildly at me.
I was amazed for I read in that look a desperation out of all keeping with what I knew. As if—almost as if in Victorine she had discovered some danger.
She turned away, twisting her lace-covered fan in her hands. Though she might be able to control her expression, those writhing hands betrayed her. I heard the ivory sticks snap. She looked at the broken fan and then gave a little cry and hurried away.
I went on into the veranda. There were people there, though the crowd was beginning to thin, for a dawn breakfast was offered. Others were calling for their carriages. And nowhere had I seen the young man.
Later I met Alain in the great hall where he was bidding guests farewell. He glanced at me and I answered with a slight shake of the head. Mrs. Deaves had at last won her place by his side and was queenly self-confident. I slipped away without trying for speech with him.
The sun was rising when I regained the quiet of my own room. I had paid a visit to Victorine, found her sleeping, Amélie on guard. In the sitting room waited another maid, sent there by Alain to run any errands—or rather to make sure of Victorine's continued privacy, I fancied.
Fenton, who aided me off with my gown, showed consideration by not talking. Ever since I had followed Victorine into the garden this had been a draggingly long night of worry and I was glad it was over.
I slept most of the day, but it was not restful slumber and I carried into my late waking memory of disturbing dreams, so my own head was aching. But by the time I drank the tea Fenton brought me, I was able to better order my thoughts.
When I visited Victorine I found Mrs. Deaves seated in a chair close to the bed. The girl was propped on pillows and, while she looked languid, she had lost the feverish flush. She smiled at me in welcome.
“Tamaris at last!” She drew a small watch out of the embroidered pocket made fast to the inner side of the tester curtain, consulted it, then frowned at me in mock reproof. “You have slept and slept. Twice Amélie went and Fenton hushed her away. Did you take some powders?”
“No. It was the fatigue of a long and exciting evening. But how are you feeling, Victorine?”
She clapped her hands over her ears. “Never do I want to hear those words again! I feel much better, but no one will believe that is so. Now Alain says on Monday we shall go to the city, that I must see some physician there to prove that I was only a little tired. The rooms were so hot I went into the garden, then I walked too fast, and I was chilled—which made my head bad. So all this fuss-fuss—it is for no good reason. This I say to Alain but he will not listen. He puts on a stern face and says that I must see the doctor—
“Very well, I shall do so. Then when Alain learns how foolish are his fears we shall hear no more about it. Always this has been with me so, even from a small child. Amélie knows just what to do to make me feel right again. To speak of a doctor is foolishness.”
That she had met someone in the garden I was sure. If Christophe D'Lys had followed her, if it had been he I had seen talking to her on the balcony, it might well have been she promised to meet him in the garden. Those
words I had caught—St. John's Eve—I must find a saints’ calendar, try to discover the right date.
But now I accepted—outwardly—Victorine's excuse. And I greeted Mrs. Deaves pleasantly, hoping she had enjoyed the ball.
“A most enchanting time. As you must know, Miss Penfold. The garden was beautiful in the moonlight, excellent for private talks and walks, was it not?” Her malice was hardly hidden.
But I was startled, thinking for a moment that she might have witnessed Victorine's secret meeting. Still the malice was plainly directed toward me.
“Mr. Beall is most attentive,” she continued in that lazy purr. “Only perhaps I should warn you, Miss Penfold, that while a married lady is allowed freedoms in society, an unmarried one, even of mature years, finds many censorious eyes ready to mark any deviation in her conduct.”
“That is well known, Mrs. Deaves.” If she had expected some protest of injured innocence from me she was not going to get it. I saw the slightly malicious amusement in Victorine's expression and with it curiosity. Did she wonder what I had been doing in the garden?
“Mr. Beall?” Victorine repeated. “Tamaris—can it be that the so-gallant Henry was that attentive to you last night? But what a disappointment! I had thought him coming here to play
my
cavalier.” She gave a mock sigh. “So you took Mr. Beall into the garden, or he took you? Fie, Tamaris, you who always talk so much about being ladylike. Did the moon influence you that much?” Her tone was still light even though it carried a slight sting, but not the malice Mrs. Deaves had used.
“I was in the garden because I saw you leave the house, and I feared, as it turned out rightly, that you were ill. While I was searching for you I encountered Mr. Beall. That is the extent of my excursion into the moonlight.”
Victorine laughed. “If he was smoking one of those
très horreurs
he affects, then I am pleased he did not find
me.
For I have such a dislike for that odor. It makes me sick, even sicker than one of my heads.
Pauvre
Tamaris—”
She made such a face I echoed her laughter.