A Question of Class (5 page)

From the sound of men’s voices and the clinking of glasses, Morris and Mr. Thomas were downstairs enjoying an aperitif in the drawing room. Catherine tiptoed down the hallway. At the entrance to the guest room she paused and then went inside, closing the door behind her.

Mr. Thomas’s bedclothes were carefully folded on top of a chair. He appeared to have few possessions, other than a leather rucksack. Catherine undid the buckle and peered inside. It contained a notepad and two pieces of paper, one of which was the contract he’d shown her last night. She fingered the other for a minute, horrified at the thought of reading someone’s private correspondence. Yet any knowledge of her captor might prove useful. She unfolded the letter and was surprised to find it written in French.

The handwriting was shaky and the return address was in Burgundy. From what she could decipher, the writer was a man named Pierre Renard, and he spoke warmly of Mr. Thomas and thanked him for all of his help the past several years. The second page had gotten damp and was smudged, and she was unable to follow the rest of the narrative.

She put the letter back in the rucksack and opened up the drawing pad. Inside were penciled landscapes of vineyards and village scenes along with several portraits, including one of Freddie. The drawing captured the innocence of Freddie’s youthful face, yet the cigarette dangling from his mouth made it clear how desperately he wished to be a man.

Turning to the last page of the drawing pad, she gasped. A nude woman stood in a pool of water, hair streaming around her shoulders. The water line was barely above her hips, and her naked image was reflected in the stillness around her. Mr. Thomas had seen her.

Her cheeks flooded with embarrassment as the shock settled at her core. Mr. Thomas had been here only one day and he’d already seen her at her most vulnerable. She should march down to the drawing room with his artwork under her arm and present the evidence to Morris. It might get Mr. Thomas kicked out of their lives at once, and she would be free.

But only for a short time. It was also possible Morris would laugh, or dismiss Mr. Thomas and then insist she accompany him to Trenton. Catherine took another look at the image. She had to admit, it wasn’t lurid. The pencil lines were steady and sure, and the artist had spent more time on her eyes and face, offering the suggestion of her curves with quick, light strokes. The overall effect was gently provocative.

She put the drawing pad back. If Mr. Thomas had lived in France for a time, why hadn’t he mentioned it to Morris, who was born and raised there? Mr. Thomas talked vaguely about traveling the world, but he’d left out quite an important fact. And his interest in art suggested a more cultured side than the rough sailor he pretended to be.

Looking at the drawing made her feel strange. When she’d met Morris, he’d repeatedly spoken of her beauty and made it clear he wanted to possess her. But this drawing captured her essence in a way that was not graphic or leering. The expression on her face matched what she’d experienced swimming: the sense she was safe from the cares of the world.

Once Catherine recovered her composure, she ventured out and was surprised to find only Mr. Thomas in the drawing room. He stood near the window, a wineglass in his hand. Outside, the sun was setting, and the sky was a bright pink near the horizon, with brilliant streaks of orange.

She poured a glass of Madeira from the decanter. Her hand shook ever so slightly and her breathing was shallow.

“Good evening, Mrs. Delcour.”

“Mr. Thomas.”

“Your husband is downstairs, choosing a bottle of wine for dinner.”

“Thank you. I trust you’ve made yourself quite at home here,” she said.

“I’m delighted to be here.”

“I’m sure you are.” She squared her shoulders. “Enjoying our liqueurs, dining at our table and even sketching the help.”

He went slightly pale. But he didn’t even blink, just returned her stare. “Freddie has got an unusual face.”

“So he does. And it’s not only the servants you appear interested in.”

Mr. Thomas stared out at the sky. He seemed upset. “I saw you walking toward the river, and I thought you were running away again.”

“And you followed me?”

“Yes, and then I was trapped. It was not my intention to see you that way.”

“With no clothes on?” She couldn’t help herself. It was nice to see the man squirm. “Completely undressed?” He still didn’t answer her.

“What do you think my husband would say once he learned you’d been spying on me, Mr. Thomas? Of course, that’s what he’s paying you to do, but I doubt he expected you to take it to this extreme.”

He gave her a sideways glance. “He’d react the same way to the news you stole his horse and carriage last night.”

“It appears we both have secrets. For example, you’ve lived in France, have you not?”

He gave her a wry smile, “You went through my private correspondence as well?”

“I think it’s only fair. You invaded my privacy, so I did the same to yours.”

“That seems reasonable enough.”

He seemed to be enjoying their sparring, which annoyed her. “Why haven’t you told Mr. Delcour about your visit to his mother country?”

“It hasn’t arisen as of yet. You should feel free to tell him yourself, if you like.”

His manner was so boyish, so straightforward. And she wished his voice didn’t rumble through her body so.

“Perhaps I will. Tell me the truth about where you went after escaping from Haiti.”

“I did sail all over, that much is true. But I settled in France a few years ago, working on a man’s estate.”

“I don’t see why you need to keep it a secret from my husband. We both spent a good deal of time in the country.”

“And did you enjoy living in France?”

“Immensely.”

“Immensely? A strong word. What so captivated you?”

Catherine considered her reply. She’d never put her thoughts into words about living in France. “The people, mostly. They were so lovely to me. I knew so little, and it didn’t matter to them. It didn’t matter who I was, or where I came from.”

“And it does here?”

Her voice was sharp. “Everything matters here. What family you were born into, where you live, what you wear. It’s disheartening.”

She felt silly, having said so much. She was babbling. “What was your sister like? The first Mrs. Delcour.”

His face softened. “Dolly was ten years older than I was, so she was more a caretaker than a sister. She was lovely and kind and quite silly.”

There was something so tender in the way he spoke of his sister that made Catherine remember her own, Sophie. Catherine’s last memory of Sophie was the day she left to go with Morris to France, when her sister was a sweet four-year-old, fast asleep in her bed. Catherine had left without waking her up, as she couldn’t bear to say goodbye. The memory rattled her. This was not the way she had expected this conversation to go. Somehow it had veered off track. She glanced at the door. Morris’s voice drifted up from the kitchen, where he was swearing at Mrs. Daggett.

“Is there anything else you’d like to know?” asked Mr. Thomas.

She detected a hint of sarcasm in his voice. “Indeed there is. Why haven’t you informed my husband you foiled my escape last night? You’ve been employed by him yet are withholding important information. I’d like to know what you are up to.”

* * * *

Delcour entered the room, preventing him from answering her question. Benjamin couldn’t believe the woman had gone into his room and rifled through his personal belongings. She’d read his letters and seen his drawings and the thought made his blood boil. In particular
that
drawing. He’d lost the upper hand and now had to be careful. Benjamin tried to drive the image of her wet body from his mind, but it was difficult. He’d drawn her in the same way he’d longed to touch her, and he could still see the drops of water beading down the crevice of her breasts. He wondered what she would taste like, what it would be like to kiss her. It made any conversation quite difficult, and he wished he’d never followed her down to the river at all.

“Has she given you any trouble?” asked Delcour with a laugh.

“None at all,” said Benjamin. Mrs. Delcour coughed.

“I’m glad to hear it.”

At Mrs. Daggett’s signal, they moved to the dining room. Mrs. Delcour strode ahead, and Benjamin stared at the small curls around the nape of her neck. She was radiant, even if it was due to the heat. She refused to look at either man once they’d sat at the table.

He felt sorry for her. The woman was trapped and her husband seemed willing to toss her away, now she was no longer the darling of society, as she must’ve been in France. It was a pity. She had no idea what she’d be in for in the West Indies, with the bugs and the flies and the diseases. Which was exactly what Delcour was aiming for.

Mrs. Daggett served them all a malodorous fish soup and he reluctantly picked up a spoon. “May I ask how you started in the importing business, Mr. Delcour?”

“Ten years ago, Carpenter and I realized these Americans”—Delcour gestured toward his wife—“as silly as they are, were tiring of cider and ale. As their palates became more refined, I knew my connections in Bordeaux, where I was born, would prove valuable. I was familiar with the vineyards, and Carpenter had the ships. Together, we imported the best bottles from Tenerife, Madeira, France and Portugal. We sell to every innkeeper and hotel in town.”

“It appears you’ve cornered the market,” said Benjamin. He listened as Delcour talked on, mentioning in great detail a new shipment from Bordeaux considered the best of the best.

“Carpenter will be serving several bottles at a ball he’s giving in a few days,” said Delcour. “And I expect to sell out by the end of the week.”

Mrs. Delcour lifted her head. “A ball?”

“Yes, my darling, I’ve already told Carpenter you have engagements here at the Mount, and I’ll be away on business.”

Her face fell. Of course, her paramour would be there, Benjamin thought.

Mrs. Daggett cleared their plates and brought out a fatty roast joint. It seemed strange to eat such rich foods when it was so warm outside, but Benjamin guessed Delcour was trying to impress him.

“And so tell me, Mr. Thomas, where did you work in France?” asked Mrs. Delcour. Her eyes were fierce.

Delcour stopped sawing his knife through his meat. “You didn’t mention you were in France.”

“I’ve lived in so many places,” said Benjamin. “At one time, I helped a man manage his estate. Near Dijon.”

Delcour put a large chunk of meat in his mouth. “Who? Was it someone in the wine trade?”

“No. He was more of a businessman, mustard shops, that kind of thing.”

Delcour, appeased, went back to eating but Benjamin noticed his wife was still looking intently at him.

“Mustard shops?” she asked.

“Yes, mustard shops.”

Benjamin needed to put an end to her line of questioning. “I often did night runs of deliveries,” he said. “The roads weren’t good, and we sometimes ran into trouble. I wouldn’t advise it.”

She gave him a wry nod. He had won this round. Luckily, Delcour was too consumed with getting every piece of meat off the bone on his plate to notice the exchange.

“If you do well working for me, my boy, there might be a place for you in Delcour & Carpenter.” He took a sip of wine. “And, since we’re family, and I do not have a son, it would be wise of you to listen closely to what I do and say, and know when to keep quiet. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Benjamin couldn’t tell whether Delcour was referring to his plans for his wife, or what had happened to Dolly. Delcour was issuing him a warning, either way.

Delcour sat back in his chair, looking quite pleased. “The key to success is reaching the most important people in society. In France, of course, that was simple. My family connections helped ease the way. But here in New York, it appears I will need to do more than be my charming self. The Jays, the Gracies, they are all quite happy to buy my wine from me. But they won’t invite me to their balls, and they don’t care for my wife’s company. It’s such a shame, as she’s so beautiful.”

“Enough,” said Mrs. Delcour said sharply. “That’s quite enough.”

“They know, you see, she comes from the lower classes,” continued Delcour. “In fact, when I came upon the girl, she was basically a scullery maid.” Delcour’s face was flushed from the heat, the wine and the rich food. “I should have known better, but she was immensely appealing, as you can imagine. Looking back, I made a terrible mistake, but at the time I was entranced and couldn’t think straight.” Delcour lifted his glass of wine. “My love. My
wife
.”