Night of the Candles (2 page)

“This was Amelia’s room. I thought you might want to see it,” Sophia said expressionlessly.

“Yes,” Amanda answered slowly, aware of an odd undercurrent without being able to see the reason for it.

“I’ll bring you some water and a towel.”

“Thank you.” She stripped off her gray leather gloves then reached up to remove her bonnet. As the door closed behind the other woman, Amanda stared after her in perplexity.

With a tiny movement of the shoulders, she thrust the jet tipped bodkin through the crown of her bonnet and, placing it on the washstand, laid her gloves on top of it.

A quiet descended on the room. The smell of disturbed dust and a musty perfume too faint to identify lingered in the air. Glancing around her as she waited for Sophia to return, Amanda slowly began to realize that here in this room was opulence foreign to the rest of the house. There was a slipper chair, half hidden by the tester bed, in a silver brocade trimmed with purple tessellated braid. The china pitcher and bowl had been painted with a design of violets, pink roses, and cherubs, and silver tissue cloth formed a sunburst beneath the tester over the bed, held in place at the center by a gold medallion. In the corner between the front and side windows stood a dressing table covered with silver-topped boxes and jars and surmounted by a large mirror in a walnut frame.

It was curious. The other rooms on the lower floor had been furnished with good pieces but with a lack of color that bordered on austerity. Also, her first impression had been right, she saw now. The furnishings in this room were not nearly so old as those in the rest of the house. Who had fashioned this lavish retreat? It must have been Amelia, but who would have thought that her taste would have run to such heavy luxury?

Smoothing her hair that had been ruffled by the removal of her hat, Amanda moved toward the dressing table with its mirror. She felt a derisive smile curve her lips, for she expected to see a terrible color clash when her auburn hair was reflected against the background of red and pink and silver. Then the smile faded. The vibrant colors-behind her seemed to bring burnished life to her smoothly styled hair and to give a glowing sheen to her complexion while the silver was repeated in the gray of her eyes. She suited that room more perfectly than she would have believed possible.

A peculiar feeling moved over her so that she shivered without realizing it. It was like deja vu, a term she had heard but never fully appreciated before. It was as if she had been there before, in front of that mirror, with the room at that precise angle behind her.

As she stared, her reflection dimmed. Turning, she saw that the light in the room had faded also. Beyond the window it appeared that night had fallen with amazing swiftness, but as she moved to stand peering out she saw that the effect was caused by a black cloud looming up from the southeast. The wind had risen; she could see the tops of the trees threshing in the woods some distance from the house. The gray-blue light had drawn the color from the grass leaving it without life, flattened by the wind.

As she watched she saw her gig, with a man at the reins, being driven along the wagon track toward the barn among the trees. Perhaps Jason had given orders for her horse to be watered. It was a thoughtful gesture. It had been a long dry drive.

Aware of her own thirst, she turned quickly when the door opened behind her. She would be glad to return to the parlor downstairs for her refreshment.

A woman stood in the doorway. She gave a gasp followed by a single word that rose to a shriek.

“No!”

Amanda swallowed, a nerve throbbing in her throat. Then she moved into the center of the room toward the large woman.

“What is it? What is the matter?”

“Gruess Gott,” the woman breathed, putting her hand to a massive bosom. “You gave me a turn.”

“I didn’t mean to startle you. I was waiting for Sophia to bring water.”

“Ach, that one! She says to me, ‘Look in Amelia’s room. There is a surprise.’ The mischief-maker. I’ll have her eyes some day! But don’t be alarmed. I have no anger for you. I know well it is the doing of that one. It is no fault of yours that you have the size, the hair, and the eyes of Madame Amelia.”

Amanda summoned a smile. “Amelia and I always favored. However, you will notice that my eyes are gray. Hers were almost the color of violets.”

Ponderously the woman moved closer, squinting to see in the dim room. “Yes. It is so,” she agreed, nodding. “Ah, the violets. How Madame Amelia loved them, their scent, their color … You knew Madame Amelia? You are her kinswoman, it may be?”

“A cousin. Our fathers were brothers. We were brought up together by our grandparents.”

“Of course! You will be her dear Amanda, nicht? She spoke of you sometimes, when her heart turned toward home. She told me of how your fathers were killed in the war and of how your mother died of the fever and her own mother remarried a man with no use for a child … especially another man’s child.”

In the guttural accents of the woman, Amanda thought she recognized a member of Louisiana’s German colony. Lured to Louisiana by John Law’s Mississippi bubble, they had made a section above New Orleans, known as the German Coast, their own. Their culture had added a soupcon more flavor to the already rich blend of French, Spanish, Scots-English, African, and Indian heritages in the state.

“I didn’t mean to be so long…”

Sophia, coming through the door with a pitcher of water in one square, rather brown hand and a towel over her arm, spoke to Amanda. “I see you have met our capable Marta. Has she told you her life’s story yet? Never mind. She will, given the chance. I advise you to be ruthless. Tell her at once you don’t want to hear anything so boring.”

“At least I am a decent. God-fearing woman,” Marta retaliated, a scowl drawing her small, pale blue eyes together. “I have no need for the prayers of other people.”

“Pray for me, Marta, when you fall down on your knees tonight before your stern God. Pray for my wicked soul.”

“Do you dare to mock the Lord, you blasphemous creature? Sin lies upon you like dirt upon the ground. You should always go robed in scarlet. The Lord knows your sins, he knows, and he will mete out punishment, you will see, you will see.”

“Don’t be tiresome, Marta. Go away.” Sophia gave the big woman a push toward the door.

Marta shook her off. “Don’t order me. You have not the right. I go, but it is because I have no liking for seeing your sly face.”

Sophia closed the door with a vindictive snap while the other woman was still speaking, and then moved to place the pitcher on the washstand. “That Marta,” she said with a touch of scorn. “I can’t see why Jason keeps her on. She is no use anymore.”

“No use?” Amanda asked, seeing that some contribution to the conversation was expected of her.

“She calls herself a nurse, in imitation of Miss Nightingale, but lady’s maid would be more like it. She was Amelia’s slave from the moment Jason brought her here. For me, I doubt she could help with a hangnail.” A grimace twisted her lips.

Amanda walked to the washstand. She wiped the grime from the bowl with the towel and then tipped water into it. Picking up the soap she asked, “Amelia needed a nurse?”

“Didn’t you know?”

“We … didn’t hear from her often. My grandfather never approved of the marriage.”

“Yes, I know. Stupid of him. Jason could have been of invaluable aid with his resources.”

Her grandfather had not needed Jason’s aid, but Amanda made no comment. She patted her face dry then let her gaze go to the window where a streak of lightning flashed.

“Was she ill long?”

“Several months. She was delicate from the first, complaining of headaches and lying about in her dressing gown.”

Delicate? Amelia had been a normal, healthy girl. There had never been any questions of weakness or ill health of a chronic nature before her marriage.

“When exactly … did she die?”

“It must be over three months. Odd, it seems longer. I suppose that’s because Jason has been so hard to live with.”

“What caused it … how did it happen?”

“The doctor from town said it was a growth in her head. She couldn’t stand the pain. In the end she took her own life. She drank an overdose of the laudanum she had been taking to ease her.”

“Amelia? Take her own life? I can’t believe it.” Amanda whispered. “She would never have done such a thing.”

“No? You should have been here to hear her cry and beg for death,” Sophia said with a callous authority that forbade contradiction.

As they made their way back downstairs Amanda could not rid herself of her first conviction. Amelia could not have committed suicide. She had been so gay, so carefree. She loved all the bright things in life, sunny days, parties, music, pretty clothes in brilliant colors. She had loved to laugh, to meet new people. When they had gone away to boarding school, the seminary for young ladies, Amelia had been the one who was taken up by everyone. She had been the one with the most friends, the most secrets to giggle over.

When they were children together they had been close, she and Amelia, dependent on each other for help and companionship, and they had remained good friends within the framework of the school, but Amanda could not help feeling left out.

She had been a quiet solemn child, a reserved young woman with a strong practical streak that had been fostered by her grandparents. She was apt to choose materials for her clothes for their durability and failure to show soiling rather than for beauty. Lacking the outgoing personality of Amelia, she had never really cared for the gregarious life of the boarding school, and so she had not been upset when she had been called home to look after her grandmother in her last illness.

It was in the last months of the final term, after Amanda had gone, that Amelia had met Jason Monteigne. It had been at a house party near Christmas, a party given by the parents of one of her many friends. She had been, for Amelia, strangely secretive about the meeting. She had known their grandfather, a Scotsman by birth and a staunch Presbyterian, would not approve of a man whose mother was half French and half Indian of the Caddo tribe, whose father had made his fortune as a riverboat gambler, and who was himself a follower of Popery. The week after Amelia had returned to school from attending her grandmother’s funeral, she had eloped with Jason.

With a shake of her head, Amanda pushed the memories of that time, more than three years past, from her mind. She could not allow herself to dwell on those days now.

In the front parlor they found a small but cheerful fire burning beneath the Adams mantel. Its warm glow dispelled some of the gathering gloom, lending an air of spurious hospitality to the room. A pair of lamps illuminated the corners, a condition the room tolerated in stiff discomfort, like an elderly matron enduring the revealing light of the sun upon her patched and faded garments.

The flickering lamplight also disclosed a portrait hanging above the mantel. It shone on gold buttons and braid and slid gleaming along the length of a dress sword. The figure was a soldier in the tailored gray of an officer of the Confederate Army. One hand rested on the hilt of his sword, the other held a broad-brimmed campaign hat, letting it lie against his gold-striped trouser leg. There was pride and confidence in every line, from the set of the straight, broad shoulders, to the firm placing of the booted feet. In the background was the spread of green field with long, arrow-straight furrows pointing toward a white pillared mansion on a hill. The house was Monteigne and the soldier, young, carefree, faintly reckless, was Jason.

“A handsome devil, isn’t he?” Sophia mocked as Amanda stood gazing up at the portrait.

Amanda looked away at once, moving to hold out her hands to the flames beneath the mantel. “I hadn’t realized … that is … Amelia never mentioned that he had fought in the war.”

“Amelia had no use for unpleasant things. She tried very hard to forget them, and she usually succeeded.”

“You seem to have known my cousin well,” Amanda said. She could not disagree with this appraisal of her Amelia’s character. It was true enough, though she could not, as Sophia’s tone suggested, consider it a fault.

“We … my brother and I … have been neighbors of Jason’s all our lives. We have always been in and out of each other’s houses. And, of course, I have been serving as Jason’s housekeeper since we lost our plantation.”

“I see.”

“No, I’m sure you don’t,” the other woman said, smiling at Amanda’s carefully neutral tone. “We could not pay the back taxes, and a slimy carpetbagger bought our home at a Sheriff’s auction. Jason took us in. Since Amelia was ill, I made myself useful.”

There was nothing surprising in the tale. People in the South had been put to stranger shifts in the last few years. What was odd was the satisfaction Sophia seemed to feel in the arrangement.

Before she could comment, footsteps were heard in the hallway outside and a man appeared in the doorway. Of average height, he was broad in the chest and shoulders, creating an impression of stockiness. His hair, the color of corn silk, lay fine and thin across his skull. A mask of pale gold freckles covered his face, testifying to his outdoor occupation. With his blue eyes and pale lips he was obviously related to Sophia, though the smile, which lit his features, was warmer by several degrees.

“Allow me to present my brother, Theodore Abercrombie. Theo, this is Amelia’s cousin, Amanda Trent.” Sophia performed the introduction with bad grace.

“Delighted, Miss Trent,” Theo said, inclining his head. “If I had known we had a visitor, I would have taken more trouble removing my dirt. I am afraid I’ve only just come from the fields. We’re harvesting, you know, trying to get the last cotton ball before the fall rains begin.”

“Miss Trent isn’t interested in your problems,” his sister said, a cutting edge to her voice. “She only came on a small errand. She will be leaving shortly.”

Theo glanced beyond them to the window, which framed a towering mass of dark clouds roiled by the wind. A frown creased his brow before he spoke. “Oh? I’m sorry to hear that. I take it you have come to see Jason, Miss Trent. Can I run him to earth for you, or have you already spoken to him?”