Dark Masquerade (14 page)

It was a rising wind, pushing before it dark masses of clouds that finally blotted out the moon. It had the feel of more rain. It was not a night for casual visitors, and yet Elizabeth thought she heard the sound of hooves on the gravel drive.

Soon the hammering of the great iron door knocker echoed through the house. Celestine rose, but Grand’mere frowned.

“Curiosity is unbecoming in a lady. If it concerns us Samson will inform us.”

“What if it doesn’t? Are you not curious at all about whoever it is?”

“It does not concern me,” Grand’mere stated. But seeing Celestine’s dissatisfaction, she relented. “It is an affair of total dullness, ma chère. Nothing at all mysterious. Merely the overseer from the Delacroix plantation adjoining this one, a man Bernard hired who has not been satisfactory. There is some question of misplaced funds, I believe.”

“Oh.” Boredom settled again over Celestine’s fine, china-doll features.

The library door closed, so that they could no longer hear the murmur of voices. Although the subject seemed to be closed, Elizabeth could feel tension growing in the room. As the moments passed and no further sound came to indicate what was taking place, Alma began to fidget, picking at her cuticles and patting her hair. If Grand’mere or Celestine noticed, they did not show it, however; and Elizabeth was beginning to wonder if she was imagining things. Suddenly Alma surged to her feet.

“I’ll return shortly,” she said, moving toward the door.

“Where are you going?” Grand’mere asked in her blunt fashion, without looking up from her work.

“Upstairs,” Alma replied, dropping her eyelids suggestively. “All that wine, at supper.”

Grand’mere nodded, her face clearing. Alma glided from the room.

Alma’s excuse was plausible, but Elizabeth did not believe it. When Grand’mere began a homily on self-control for ladies, Elizabeth waited until she had paused for breath and then murmured a plea to be excused, with the alibi of seeing about Joseph ready to her tongue in case she was challenged. When no one spoke, she slipped through the door and out into the hall. It was possible that she was being over-sensitive about Alma, but every movement the woman made was of interest to her. It had to be.

As she started toward the stairs, Bernard’s valet, Ambrose, materialized from the dark regions of the house. He carried a large steaming can of hot water that he had heated in the kitchen wing at the rear of the house.

Ambrose stopped when he saw her, indicating with an inclination of his head that she was to precede him up the stairs. She went swiftly ahead of him so that he would not have to stand waiting with what she was sure was an awkward burden. “Have you seen Madame Alma?” she asked.

“No, Ma’am,” he answered, “not since before supper. I saw her coming from the little white house down near the bayou then.”

“Oh yes, thank you.” Elizabeth said, remembering the day before when she had seen Alma near the pavilion herself.

“Yes, Ma’am.” When they reached the top of the stairs, Ambrose walked steadily toward Bernard’s bedroom. He looked as though the hot can he held by the handles with two white cloths was no more trouble than a silver card salver.

What now?

She had not intended to come upstairs, for she was almost certain that Alma had not done so. But Ambrose had obviously expected her to; she suspected he would have thought it strange if she did not. She could have no reason for wandering about the darkened rooms of the lower floor. The library was the only room other than the sitting room with a lighted lamp. Alma had not been so far ahead of her that she could have mounted the stairs and entered her room without Elizabeth seeing her. She might have slipped back into the dining room or the salon, but it did not seem likely since there was no apparent reason for it. Alma had not gone out the back; Elizabeth had Ambrose’s word for it. That left the front door, and Elizabeth felt instinctively that this was the way Alma had gone.

Moving quickly but quietly, she went to the double doors which led out onto the gallery. She pulled one of them open, stepped out, and drew it shut behind her.

The night wind brushed her warm face with a chilling dampness. The sour tang of wet oak leaves was sharp in the dark. Beyond the edge of the gallery, a lantern hung from the ceiling of the lower floor, casting a yellow light which pushed feebly at the night blackness.

She paused to let her eyes adjust to the dark and then walked toward the railing and the light. She stopped while she herself was still in darkness, hidden from the ground by the stretch of gallery railing.

Clutching her forearms, she stared out at the windy night, wondering what had become of the early Southern spring she had heard so much about. Was it a myth, like miracles, and the handsome prince and happily-ever-after? She had come seeking the miracle of security and a little happiness, and all she had found was degradation and despair. Everything she did and said seemed to draw her deeper into this morass of lies. It was like quicksand—the more she struggled, the deeper she went.

Was she mad now, clutching at the proverbial straw, in thinking that Alma had something to hide, something that could be used against her to nullify her blackmail attempt? It seemed so. It seemed the height of lunacy to be standing out there in the darkness waiting for something, anything, to happen. And yet she had to make the effort. She could not give up without a fight. It was not her way.

Beneath her the front door slammed and she could hear the scuff of boot heels across the brick floor of the lower gallery. A horse, hitched to one of the rings set into the mounting block beside the front drive, lifted his head, jingling his bit and bridle and blowing softly through his nose.

Looking toward the sound, Elizabeth could just make out the shape of the horse on the far edge of the lantern’s radius. Then the man, the overseer she assumed, came into view.

He was big; his broad shoulders strained the rough material of his shirt. The thick column of his neck, and the massive arms ending in wide hands with fingers like sausages, indicated brute strength. He clamped a hat on his mat of thick curls just as he reached his horse, and then he swept it off again as a woman glided toward him out of the shadows.

The light was dim but there could be no doubt. The woman was Alma. She drew close to him, speaking earnestly and placing one hand on his arm. He replied, bending his head, looking down at her. What were they saying? Elizabeth would have given much to know.

So intent was she on the scene below her that she did not hear the scrape of footsteps until they were directly behind her. Before she could turn she was caught. The warmth and strength of a man’s arms, the smell of cigars and fresh linen enfolded her. He whispered against her hair as he drew her hard against him.

“Celestine, ma cœur, you waited.”

“Don’t!” Elizabeth cried out, pressing her hands against his chest.

She was released immediately, but the damage was done. Alma and the man beside her raised pale, shocked faces toward the gallery, and then the overseer swung into his saddle and sent his horse galloping down the drive.

“My apologies,” Darcourt said with stiff courtesy.

“You—you startled me,” Elizabeth said, forcing a laugh. “But I expect you were more surprised than I.”

“Yes.” Relief that she was not offended was evident in his voice. “I needn’t tell you that I expected someone else. Please forgive me?”

“Yes, do not think of it. Good night,” she said, and sent him a smile across the darkness. She turned away and went back into the house.

The days, rainy and chilly, passed without any satisfaction from Alma. There had been no opportunity for Elizabeth to confront her with what she had seen, and Alma, knowing perhaps that it was to her advantage to avoid a confrontation, did nothing. Sometimes, however, Elizabeth caught Alma looking at her with such active dislike that she was filled with both satisfaction and a distinct uneasiness.

With the wet weather they were all confined to the house. There was little privacy, even in their bedrooms. Out of sheer boredom, each knew exactly where the others were at all times. No one was safe from interruption or eavesdropping. As a result, Callie and Elizabeth had stopped talking to each other except as mistress and maid. What had to be said was conveyed by a look or a nod.

Because the house was still in deep mourning they were spared the morning visits of friends and neighbors. Though they would have to come at some time, Elizabeth was thankful to be spared the ordeal just now. However, as the days of rain wore on she often thought that it might not be an entirely bad thing to have a visitor to take their minds off themselves.

Theresa’s burns began to heal, but she was still confined to her room with what Grand’mere described as a crise de nerfs, nervous prostration. If Elizabeth suspected it was something more than that, she was unlikely to find out precisely what, for she was barred from the room as being unnecessarily upsetting to the injured girl. She had to depend for her news on the vague bulletins issued by Denise, Theresa’s principal attendant.

For a time she had thought that she might be called to account in answer to the accusations that Theresa had made. Theresa had not yet told anyone that she had seen Elizabeth going through the desk. At last it began to be borne in on Elizabeth that what everyone wanted most was to forget what had happened. They wanted her to forget as well. The scratches on her arms faded, the window in the library was reglazed, and a painting replaced the broken mirror over the mantel. With the removal of these reminders the incident began to lose its clear taste of fear in her mind.

Through usage the house became familiar. Its grandeur ceased to be exceptional except at times when she was struck by the sight of a twenty-foot table laden with innumerable dishes, or a chandelier blazing with fifty wax candles at one time. Gradually she began to feel less constrained with the rest of the family, as well as the numerous servants who came and went. But a reserve remained. It was as if something held them all back, herself included, from anything other than day-to-day irritations and trivialities. Beneath the current of all conversations lay unspoken thoughts like snags waiting to founder the unwary in a moment of carelessness.

At last the weather cleared. The sun rose in a cloudless blue sky. Each blade of grass, each leaf, sparkled with rain jewels. The gravel on the drive glistened and birds sang, flitting among the trees around the house. The doors and windows were opened to the fresh sweet air so that those gathered at the breakfast table could see the change.

“What a lovely day to go to the chapel,” Grand’mere said, a satisfied smile wrinkling her face in the clear light.

Bernard looked up from his plate. “Yes, of course,” he said after a moment.

Alma’s face took on a mutinous scowl, but she did not object. Darcourt and Celestine glanced at each other with a look of pained acceptance.

“Chapel?” Elizabeth asked finally, since she appeared to be the only one who needed to do so.

“Indeed, yes,” Grand’mere answered. “We ordered a plaque, a memorial plaque for Felix, to be mounted in the family chapel. He may be lost to us, buried in some common grave—we may only hope in consecrated ground—but there must be some suitable remembrance, today of all days, the anniversary of his death.”

It was true. Felix had died a year ago this day. Nervously Elizabeth fingered her mourning brooch, looking at her plate. She had forgotten.

Grand’mere went on. “The plaque is quite impressive, of bronze with a fitting sentiment engraved beneath the lettering. Bernard ordered the plaque in New Orleans last summer. It has been an unconscionable long time in arriving. Still, one cannot hurry artistry. Since it came so near the anniversary date, and also the time of your arrival, we felt that it would be a nice gesture to have it set in place today. All is in readiness. We even have a good omen. The rain has stopped.”

“I see.” What Elizabeth saw best was that this ceremony, if it could be called that, would be an ordeal. Would they expect her to be overcome with grief when confronted with the final evidence of Felix’s death? Or could she carry through with a pretense of white-faced, courageous sorrow?

“You are very quiet,” Grand’mere rapped out. “Don’t you approve?”

Elizabeth nearly smiled. It still seemed strange that it should matter whether she approved or disapproved. “It sounds quite perfect. Tasteful and—fitting.”

Alma snorted. “Tasteful? I should say it is tasteful. What else, pray? Also outrageously expensive.”

“Mother,” Darcourt said repressively.

“Don’t use that tone with me, Darcourt. I will say what I please.”

“Alma, have the goodness not to show such ill-breeding at my breakfast table.” Grand’mere stared at her daughter-in-law.

“Ill-breeding!” Alma seemed to swell. “I am as good as anyone at this table, and a pox on stupid prohibitions against speaking of money. I suppose it is in keeping with the ostentation of that mausoleum built like a temple for the dead, but I think it is an amazingly expensive tribute when the same thing could have been chiseled into the marble, as was the name and date of my poor Gaspard. Especially at this time! Why, we are all having to stint ourselves. There are dozens of things we are told are too dear this year, such as our sojourn in France. It is too bad. Such a thing never happened while Gaspard was alive.”