Night of the Candles (27 page)

“Utter nonsense. How can you think such a thing with Amelia barely in her grave?”

“It’s true. Sophia as much as said so.”

“Really, Amanda. You talk as if she had something to fear from you.”

“No, but it may be that she thinks she does, which amounts to the same thing.”

He shook his head emphatically. “I can’t believe it.”

He was so obtuse, so phlegmatic, he had to see something for himself before it became real for him. “Are you doubting my word, Nathaniel?”

“Not your word, but perhaps your understanding,” he stated firmly.

“Nathaniel! You…”

“Please, let’s not quarrel, Amanda. You aren’t yourself…”

“Really!”

“You haven’t recovered from your accident, and if the truth was known, I think you were more affected by Amelia’s unfortunate death than you realize. Your nerves are strained.”

“I am, in fact, a total incompetent! Given to daydreams and nightmares and with only a tolerable understanding of what goes on about me! Next you’ll be saying I’m no better than poor Carl!”

“You’re exaggerating…”

“I thought you, at least, could be depended upon to support and help me, Nathaniel. But you, you have to see the dragon first, don’t you? You can’t take my word that he is there.”

“Are you going to harp back to that possession nonsense? If so, then yes, you’re right. I will have to see it first!”

“I would like to accommodate you, but unfortunately I have no control over it.”

“Then there’s nothing more to be said, is there?”

“No,” she agreed, her voice suddenly tired. “I don’t suppose there is.”

There were quite a number of buggies and wagons around the church; the horses held their heads down, their tails patiently switching at flies as if they had been there for some time. Women dressed in their best tie-back dresses, looped and braided, and wearing bonnets of questionable becomingness, stood talking in groups while a conclave of stern, bewhiskered men was being held near the hitching rack. Children ran here and there with a spotted mongrel or two chasing breathlessly at their heels. Hoes and rakes leaned against the fence, while within the railings industrious … or playful … young boys still plied whitewash on tombstones made of transported iron rock or raked the leaves that had been blown in drifts against the fence. Even from where she sat Amanda could see the bouquets of beautiful flowers that lay on the freshly scraped graves. New flowers, new earth exposed with every blade of grass removed. Was that supposed to be a reminder of the rawness of the loss of loved ones?

She almost opened her mouth to comment to Nathaniel, then she closed it. She doubted Nathaniel would agree, and she felt no real necessity to share her thoughts with him.

As they pulled up she jumped down unaided. Some of these people must have been here all day, she thought, as she noticed covered dishes and baskets reposing in the back of several wagons. A few people seemed to be taking their leave even now as the gray day imperceptibly darkened into evening.

As the carriage, with Jason beside it, drew up behind them, greetings were called. A few men came toward Jason with their hands outstretched, but Amanda was quick to notice that no such gesture was made toward Sophia though there was a tentative smile or two of recognition.

As Nathaniel was introduced into that masculine circle, she acknowledged her own presentation with a stiff nod. Nathaniel might smile and shake their hands, but she could not help wondering how many of these upstanding gentlemen had been clothed in a sheet in the front yard of Monteigne a short time ago. As soon as she could, she left them, drifting toward the feminine circle. Marta, like a large, silent shadow, moved beside her. The ground was uneven, and the nurse stumbled, recovered, then stumbled again. A foolish smile passed over her face, and her blue eyes focused somewhere beyond the graveyard. She swayed. “Let me…” she muttered, reaching out one large hand.

The sudden dead weight on her arm made Amanda sag. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, let me … just catch my … breath.”

“Did you get down from the carriage too fast?” Amanda began sympathetically, and then she caught the smell of brandy fumes.

Drunk, her mind registered, but she stood still with Marta’s fingers clinging to her arm as to a lifeline.

“P’raps if I could sit down,” Marta suggested in a thick whisper.

“There is a bench over against the fence.”

“Would you be so kind, fraeulein?” she said, tugging on Amanda’s arm.

Stifling a feeling of repugnance, Amanda led her to the bench. An elderly lady in rusty black was seated at one end, but it did not seem to matter to Marta.

“Must speak to you,” she said, “of great … great import…” And she hiccupped gently.

“Yes, what is it?” Amanda spoke in a neutral tone but her attention was caught. Was the woman as drunk as she wanted to appear?

“I go. I have been told to go, and I dare not refuse, on pain of death.”

“Go? Where?”

“I will not say. I have hired a man. He will come tonight, and I will run far, far away from this place of sad memories, this place of sad regret. I will go far and never return, perhaps to the homeland I will go. I have never seen it. My mother…”

“Marta,” she interrupted this maundering recital. “Who told you to go? Who has threatened you?”

“The one I fear, have always feared. Madame Amelia never feared, no, never. It was … it was … a … pity.” With shaking hands she reached for the net bag, an oversized reticule, that hung from one beefy wrist. Drawing the strings open with difficulty she plunged in a hand and took out a tonic bottle. Pulling the stopper she drank, shudderingly.

“What is that?” Amanda asked, watching her carefully.

She laughed with a husky, wheezing sound. “You know,” she said with a bleary playfulness, lifting a limp finger. “You know, you know.”

“If you keep this up you won’t be able to … to leave tonight!”

“Don’t worry. I’ll do it. I paid my money. The man with the cart will come. I know. I know, I know.” She laughed at her feeble joke.

“You haven’t told me who ordered you away.”

“No, not what I wanted. Wanted to tell you … I like you … A … Amanda. Wanted to tell you … what? Something. Have I forgotten? No. No, it was come. Come, too. Quick, quick. Before it’s too late. You’re not Amelia, not safe.”

Safe? Amelia? But there was no time. “Marta, tell me something. Did you … was it a … something you made up … about Amelia and the baby? Was it?”

“Why? Why should it matter now? When we’re leaving.”

“Then it was a lie.”

“No! Never said that. Never did. Never will.”

“Jason denied it. And Theo.”

Marta smiled, the heavy skin of her face creasing. “Men!” she said and suddenly burst out laughing.

“Shh. Be quiet,” Amanda said and immediately the nurse sobered, but there was such a strange gleam in her eye that Amanda was half afraid to question her further, afraid that raucous, mocking noise would echo again across the silent mounded ground behind them.

Amanda sat beside Marta trying to think. But it was impossible in that gathering. She felt exposed, as if she was being eyed in curiosity. One or two women came up to her with their condolences as the news circulated who she was. They had known Amelia slightly, having seen her in town or at church. None were real friends, however, and when they learned that Amanda would not be staying in their community they moved away, satisfied that they had performed their social duty.

The Monteigne family plot had been cleared and the tombs scrubbed in readiness. Amelia’s grave was neatly mounded once more, the vase standing firm, ready. Who had done that? Jason and Theo? Or had Jason merely issued the necessary orders? Not that it mattered. Perhaps that was where he had gone … was it only this morning? It seemed a hundred years ago.

She offered to help Sophia place the wreaths and bouquets but was refused. Like a general placing troops to the best advantage she parceled out the creations she had made on the various graves of the Monteigne and Abercrombie family plots.

Evening drew on and they straggled back to the carriage to eat their cold supper before the last feeble light had left the sky. They were growing chilled with nothing to do but stand and talk in increasingly hushed voices and admire the floral handiwork of the women of the community. A couple of bottles of wine brought to wash down the chicken and ham and potatoes, and the pickles, the spiced peaches and cake also took away the incipient cemeterial ague.

The glow they caused did not last long, however, as the autumn darkness closed in.

When the last of the food had been put away, the girandoles inside the church were lighted, and the people outside trickled into the building.

Small and unpretentious on the outside, the interior of the church was beautiful. The ceiling was arched in sections like ribs with spiral posts for support. The floor was of polished wood; the pews were curved to support the back and neck of the occupant, and cushioned with ruby velvet. Behind the altar was a reredos of carved wood that had been gilded and painted. It represented the Madonna and Child in the center panel with the figures of saints on either side.

Sophia was involved in a long recital of the difficulties Jason’s mother and father had faced in having the reredos shipped from France as Father Metoyer arrived.

The mass for the suffering souls in Purgatory — who had to expiate the sins they had committed on earth before they could enter Heaven — was a solemn emotional experience. For Amanda, it was in the nature of a memorial service for her cousin whose name was read along with those others who had died in the past twelve months. More moving still was the moment when the priest took a candle and lighted the taper of the person standing nearest to him, who in turn lighted that of the next, until everyone in the building held a flame, symbol of rebirth and everlasting life, in their hand.

That done, they filed from the church, protecting the flames with their cupped hands as they emerged into the windy darkness. They made their winding way into the cemetery behind Father Metoyer who carried a small font of holy water with which he sprinkled the graves. As each grave was blessed, those who were related to the deceased placed a burning candle before the headstone. A few guttered out in the whipping wind, but most were protected enough to continue burning.

It was not long before they stood in the midst of dozens of glimmering pinpoints of light. The black night, the wind, the encroaching forest that crowded up to the fence enclosing the graveyard, the myriad flickering, dancing lights, sent a shiver along Amanda’s nerves.

A final prayer, and Father Metoyer mounted his horse and was gone. Somewhere another congregation waited to hear a Mass for their dead. One by one, other families followed the lead of the priest, kneeling to say a private prayer, then climbed stiffly into their wagons and buggies, gigs and carriages, and rattled away, leaving their candles to burn down alone.

“When will we go?” Marta asked under her breath, not waiting for an answer as she once again had recourse to the tonic bottle in her net bag.

Sophia took her up sharply. “We will go last, of course. The party from Monteigne is always last to leave. Someone has to stay until the candles melt away to prevent fire and protect the church. It is a holy vigil — one never shirked.”

They were quiet then, standing, the three men bareheaded, before the grave of Amelia. No one spoke, no one mentioned prayer, and yet, it was a moment of reverence, a moment of remembered loss, a moment to consider that in not too many years they also would be old bones beneath the cool, sandy earth joining those who had gone before.

In that silent, windswept moment they heard the last of the wagons roll away out of the churchyard, and they were left alone.

Marta sighed heavily and shifted her feet, then caught at Amanda’s arm. Amanda felt the tremor of distress that shook her.

“Look, there,” she said pointing into the darkness beyond the glow of the candles.

As Amanda swung her gaze in the direction the nurse indicated, a sweeping gust of wind swirled about them, and some of the far candle flames near the wood danced, flattened, and died. But there was nothing else to be seen in the darkness.

“Where? I don’t see a thing.”

“It’s … gone now. ‘Twere a demon … or a grendel.”

“A what?”

“A … what is the word? An … ugly beast!”

Sophia, becoming aware of their conversation broke in. “Impossible! You’re seeing things, and I for one can’t say I’m surprised.”

“No bickering, please,” Theo said in a quiet, strained voice.

“Bickering? Who’s bickering? This fool said something about an animal of some sort over there.” She waved toward the woods.

“Not an animal. A grendel … a … dragon. Beowulf tore off his arm…”

“Please,” Theo’s voice had turned sharp. “Remember where you are.”

“I remember,” Marta said with an attempt at a firm nod. “I remember, but I would like to forget.” Fumbling in her bag she drew forth her small bottle and took a deep pull. “I would like to forget,” she repeated, then taking a deep breath she muttered, “I will…”

Suddenly her eyelids fluttered down. She sagged, then like an aerialist’s balloon collapsing, fell to the ground.

On reflex Amanda caught at her but her strength was no match for the weight of the nurse. She was nearly dragged down too before she stumbled, regaining her balance.

“What the…” Theo exclaimed turning, but he was too late to help.

Jason reached her in time to keep her head from striking the ground while reaching out a quick hand to Amanda to steady her. Nathaniel, as though he resented Jason’s touching her, reached out and caught Amanda’s forearm, sending Jason a hard look.

“Well, for heaven’s sake,” Sophia exclaimed angrily.

“Unconscious,” Jason said after a cursory examination.

“Passed out, you mean,” Sophia said. “If this isn’t the most disgusting thing!”

“I suspected her tonic had a strong smell,” Theo agreed.

“We can’t leave her here on the cold, damp ground…”

“She’s a hefty weight,” Nathaniel said. “We ought to see if we can bring her around. Neither of you ladies would have smelling salts with you, I suppose?”