Dark Masquerade (25 page)

Knowing it would do no good, they beat on them with their fists and called for help until Joseph screamed with fright. At last, exhausted, they sat down against the wall on the floor. Callie took the baby and quieted him.

“Even if one of the servants or anyone prowling about could hear us through these walls they would think we were some kind of spirits,” Elizabeth said, with a kind of helpless macabre humor.

“Don’t talk like that!” Callie whispered urgently, flicking a look around.

“It must be after midnight by now.”

“Oh, don’t—you tempting the devil!”

Elizabeth shook her head, but as she stared around at the small windows set high in the walls, the tiny altar, the bronze plaque and the chiseled letters on the crypt marker, something cold touched her heart. It would be a terrible place to die, so near the house and yet so far away. It could happen. How often did people come to the chapel? Not for months at a time. The walls were thick, the building tight and close. It was not all that far from the drive, but still a long way to make their voices heard even if they had any way of knowing when there was someone out there to hear.

In the morning they would be missed, but no one would dream of looking for them here. Darcourt, hearing they were gone, would think they had gotten away without his help and would probably keep quiet about his offer to take them into town. Was there a chance that he had not left yet? It was so late. It was possible that he might find them, though she was afraid he had already gone. Unconsciously Elizabeth crossed her fingers before she went back to her thoughts.

What an actress Theresa was. Or had her distress been an act at the time? Had she overheard her brother’s words to Elizabeth and baited this trap for them? Why would she do it? Was it only dementia, or was there, somewhere in the girl’s twisted brain, a reason for her actions?

“Mis’ Elizabeth, I-I don’t feel so good.”

As Callie spoke her head lolled on her shoulders. Beads of perspiration stood out on her forehead and upper lip, while the color had drained from her face, giving it a gray cast.

“What is the matter?”

Slowly the Negro woman shook her head, and then grimaced as if that slight movement hurt her. “My—stomach,” she gasped, pressing her abdomen. “You—better take Joseph—” A cramp caught her and she heaved, closing her eyes.

Elizabeth caught the baby as he began to slip from Callie’s nerveless fingers. She reached out, grabbing Callie’s shoulders as she began to topple over, but she could not hold her. Callie struck the floor, drawing her legs up with a moan. Suddenly, helplessly, she began to retch.

Elizabeth was stunned by the suddenness of the sickness. Quickly she drew toward her the bundles of clothing that Callie had dropped against the wall. Opening them, she made a pallet of sorts and placed Joseph carefully upon it. Then she took one of the clean hemmed cloths that served as diapers for Joseph and tried as best she could to make Callie more comfortable. Without water it was not possible to accomplish much.

Callie, her head resting on Elizabeth’s knee, raised her eyelids as if they were weighted. That lemonade—it tasted kinda funny—bitter like. Don’t—” she licked her lips slowly as though her tongue was thick. “Don’t—” she tried again to speak, her eyes wide and staring in the flickering candlelight, but she could not finish the warning. Her eyes closed and she went limp. Searching frantically, Elizabeth found a weak heartbeat, but nothing she could do roused Callie.

Was Callie right? Was there something in the lemonade? It was more than likely. What better way to insure that they did not attract attention, and help, to themselves?

Suddenly she noticed that the light in the tiny room was flickering. Looking behind her, she saw the candle guttering in its gold holder, almost out.

Joseph was asleep, Callie unconscious. She was trapped with a baby and a sick, and possibly dying, woman in that chapel of the dead. The horror of it crowded in on her in a suffocating wave, closing her throat so that she could hardly breathe. It had been just bearable in the light. If the candle went out she felt that the walls of the building would close in on her and she would go screaming mad with terror.

She eased Callie’s head to the floor and jumped up, reaching for the other unlighted candle in its holder. She grasped it and held its wick to the dying flame of the other. For a moment she thought it was going to catch in time, then she saw the flame sinking lower and lower. It sputtered, drowning in hot wax, and then it died with a hiss. But just before darkness closed in on her, her eyes were caught by something lying on the altar beside the candlestick; matches, the matches that had been used to light the candle. She knew it had to be them, because the day Grand’mere had lit the candles on the altar, the anniversary of Felix’s death, she had used a candle brought from the house in a hurricane globe. And she had cleaned away every trace of dust or trash on the altar. Now there were two match stems lying there broken in three places and shaped into a circle.

Darcourt always broke his matches in just that way.

Darcourt.

As she stood there in the dark, Elizabeth began to discard her preconceived idea of Theresa as the one who had been threatening her. She did not know why it had taken her so long to do so, except that the alternative had been Bernard—

Those spiders. Could a girl like Theresa have gathered them? And placed them so cunningly under the covers without being noticed by the servants coming and going, a girl who was supposed to be semi-invalid, confined to her room? Was it really possible for her to have struck Callie and left her unconscious, a woman both taller and heavier than she? Would Theresa, so fascinated with Joseph, have left him in such obvious danger at the top of the stairs, even if she had been suddenly afraid of being discovered with him?

That night in the library, Theresa had said, “We knew you would.” We. Suppose the idea had been planted deliberately in her head that Elizabeth was plotting to send her away? It would account for her rage toward her. Grand’mere had said that Theresa had always been easily led. Who could lead her better, for who could know and apply her secret fears better, than her own brother.

Then Darcourt must have sent Denise to his mother this afternoon, knowing that Alma would tell the Frenchwoman about Elizabeth. He also must have expected, knowing Denise and her vindictiveness toward her for usurping her place in Grand’mere’s rooms, that the woman would not be able to resist denouncing her. He must have known the knowledge would upset Theresa. Why would he want to do that? Why would he try to kill her and Joseph? There had to be a reason!

Something fluttered at the back of her memory, but she could not quite catch it. The harder she tried, the more elusive the idea became.

A small noise made her turn. Joseph was awake again from the sounds, waving his fists in the air and kicking his feet up, straining against the material of his long gown. He made a humming noise in his throat, but he did not cry. She was so thankful that he did not, that a wave of love for the baby swept over her and she smiled ruefully, willingly distracted by the thought of the things that call forth love.

Then, as she stood there in the dark listening to the baby, the thought came to her that unless something was done, Darcourt would have won. If something was not done, she and Joseph and Callie would die of thirst and starvation, unless they became desperate and chose poison as a reprieve from the more lingering death. It should have been poison for her, she had no doubt. It was unlikely that Darcourt had intended Callie to die; he had not known she was coming. But he could not have supposed that a baby would drink lemonade. He had intended for Elizabeth to die, leaving Joseph to the slow, terrible death of thirst, starvation and exposure. Alone.

Rage welled up within her at the thought, a vicious, blinding anger that had to have some outlet. Someone would hear her! Someone would help her! She would make them!

Grasping the tall gold candlestick with the burned-out socket, she lifted it high above her head and ran at the stained glass window near the ceiling, sending the candlestick smashing into the glass. She ducked as splinters of glass rained down upon her head, and then she smashed at it again. But even as she did it she knew it was no use. The window was too small for her to climb through, a slender rectangle too narrow for her shoulders to pass through, and too high for her to see out of without something on which to stand. Her only satisfaction was that it might be easier for them to hear and to be heard.

The night breeze rushing into the opening was fresh and cool against her flushed face. She took a deep breath to call for help, but then she let it out slowly. What was the use? The house was too far away for her voice to carry and no one else had any reason to be near at this hour.

What would bring someone other than a noise? A light, a beacon, some kind of signal fire might bring them, but she had nothing with which to light one. If she had only watched the candle closer.

Behind her Joseph, frightened by the noise and the dark, was crying again. She could hear Callie breathing too, in quick, shallow gasps. She leaned her head against the cold, pale marble of the wall. She felt so helpless. There should be something that she could do. She could not just let Joseph die here. She could not watch him die, she could not stand it. Now Joseph was alone and he could not understand why he was on, the hard pallet on the cold floor. Raising her head, she picked her way across the broken glass to him, guiding herself by running her hand along the wall. Picking him up in her arms, she sat down with her back against the wall, rocking him, soothing him. At last he quieted, resting his head in the curve of her neck.

When he was quiet at last, Elizabeth sat listening to the silence around her, realizing that something was wrong. She strained her eyes in the blackness which was lighted only by the flow of the moonlight beyond the broken window. Callie was only a dark shape against the far wall, a silent shape. She had stopped breathing.

Holding the warm weight of the baby against her, Elizabeth leaned her head back, feeling the coldness of the marble striking through her clothes to her heart. There was nothing she could do for Callie. Nothing. Her eyes burned, her head throbbed. The hands that held Joseph trembled as she tried to straighten his gown. Deep inside her there was a growing feeling that if she made the slightest sound it would turn into a scream, and so she sat very still huddled in upon herself. Soundlessly the tears rolled down her cheeks.

Her tears had dried and Joseph was once more asleep when she imagined she heard the noise of footsteps outside. Then came a scraping sound as a key was placed in the lock and turned. She was so stiff from sitting that she could hardly move, but she drew back into the depths of the chapel, crouching defensively over the baby.

The door swung slowly open. A shaft of yellow lantern light fell across the floor, silhouetting the shape of a man.

“God—” Bernard breathed.

Elizabeth stumbled to her feet, stricken dumb with a wonder laced with fear, the fear that she was terribly wrong, that Bernard had come not as a rescuer but as an executioner.

Then she and Joseph were in his arms being carried out into the sweet fresh air of the night.

Bernard set Elizabeth on her feet. She looked at his face, so grim in the light of the lantern sitting on the chapel steps, and a little of her gladness faded.

Theresa stepped into the circle of the lantern light. “Joseph—is Joseph all right?” she asked fearfully.

“Yes.” Elizabeth found her voice finally. “He is fine, but I think Callie is—dead.”

“How?” Bernard grated.

“Poison.” Bernard’s anger was chilling, and Elizabeth spoke as tonelessly as possible, trying not to think of the past hours for fear she would begin to cry. To ward off the possibility, she spoke again. “How did you find us?”

“Theresa came to warn me that something might be going to happen to you. She brought me the key to the chapel. It had been left in her room while she slept. I didn’t recognize it at first. Denise had to tell me what it was. I am sorry that it took so long.”

Again his voice was brusque, and the thought crossed her mind that he might be trying to control some emotion, but then she dismissed the idea. Bernard looked as if he had dressed hurriedly. He wore a shirt, without studs, open to the waist and thrust into the waistband of his pantaloons which were in turn tucked into the top of his riding boots.

Theresa spoke up. “It wasn’t Bernard’s fault that we were so late. Denise would not let me see him to tell him what I wanted, not until I told her why. It was hard, the hardest thing I ever did. And when I had told her, Denise would not believe me.”

“I’m surprised she ever did. What did you say to her to make her believe you, my sweet little sister?”

Darcourt spoke from the shadows at the edge of the clearing. In contrast to Bernard, he looked as if he had dressed leisurely on arising from his bed. The white of his dress shirt shone above the black velvet collar of his dressing gown. On his feet he wore embroidered turkish felt slippers. In his hand was a dueling pistol with a long barrel curving back to an ornate butt, while a second pistol hung at his side from his left hand.

Theresa started as her brother spoke, but she did not seem frightened or disturbed.

“I told her everything. I had to or she would not have listened to me.”

“It won’t make any difference,” he said confidently. “I can always talk her around.”

“Can you, Darcourt? I don’t think you can, not now.”

“You mean after this?” He waved the gun at the chapel and Elizabeth. “There won’t be anything to worry me about this, not when I am through.”

“What do you mean?” Theresa asked, but from the pinched look of her features she had already guessed.

“Because they will blame it on you again,” her brother told her softly, almost gently. “They will think that you shut them up in there, and when Bernard found them you killed them both with your brother’s pistols.”

“They won’t! I’ll tell them what happened!”