The Saint-Germain Chronicles (23 page)

“Reverend Masters.” Jim Sutton repeated (he name three or four times to himself. “You know, he’s a tail man, like Lorpicar. Not the same type. A blond, fallen-angel face, one of those men who looks thirty-five until he’s sixty. He’s in Arizona or New Mexico now, I think. Some place where the locals aren’t watching him too closely.”

“And do you think he’ll continue?” Franciscus inquired gently of the two.

“Yes,” Harriet said promptly. “There are always people who need a person like Masters in their lives. They invent him if they have to. He’s a magnet to them.”

“That’s damn cynical for a woman in your line of work,” Jim Sutton chided her. “You make it sound so hopeless.”

For a moment Harriet looked very tired and every one of her forty-two years. “There are times I think it is hopeless. It might be just because I deal with child abuse, but there are times I feel that it’s not going to get any better, and all the work and caring and heartbreak will be for nothing. It will go on and on and on.”

Jim Sutton regarded her with alarm, but Franciscus turned his dark, compassionate eyes on her. “I understand your feeling—far better than you think. Harriet, your caring, your love is never wasted. It may not be used, but it is never wasted.”

She stared at Franciscus astonished.

“You know it is true, Harriet,” Franciscus said kindly. “You know it or you wouldn’t be doing the work you do. And now, if you’ll excuse me…” he went on in his usual tones, and rose from the table. “I have a few chores I must finish before the bar closes up for the night.” He was already moving across the dimly lit room, and stopped only once on his way to speak to the Wylers.

“Well, well, well, what do you know,” Jim Sutton observed, a laconic smile curving his mouth. “I’m beginning to see why you have dreams about him. He’s got a great line.”

“That wasn’t a line,” Harriet said quietly.

Jim nodded, contrition in his face. “Yeah. I know.” He stared into his glass. “Are the dreams like that?”

Her answer was wry but her expression was troubled. “Not exactly. I haven’t had one yet this time. I kind of miss it.”

“You’ve got the real thing instead. Your place or mine tonight?” He put his hand on her shoulder. “Look, I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. Erotic dreams, who doesn’t have them? Franciscus is a good guy.”

“I only have the dreams when I’m here,” Harriet said, as if to explain to herself. “I wish I knew why.” Her laugh was sad. “I wouldn’t mind having them elsewhere. Dreams like that…”

“It’s probably the proximity,” Jim Sutton said, and then, sensing her withdrawal, “I’m not jealous of the other men you sleep with, so I sure as hell am not going to be jealous of a dream.” He finished his rum and cocked his head in the direction of the door. “Ready?”

“God, yes,” she sighed, and followed him out of the lounge into the night.

For the last two days Emillie Harper had wandered about listlessly, oblivious to the stares and whispers that followed her. She had taken to wearing slacks and turtle-neck sweaters, claiming she was cold. Her face was wan and her eyes were fever-bright.

“I’m worried about that child,” Harriet said to Franciscus as they came back from the stable.

“Victim’s syndrome, do you think?” Franciscus asked, his voice carefully neutral.

“More than that. I can’t imagine that Lorpicar is a good lay. Men like that almost never are.” She was sore from the ride, since she had not been on a horse in eight months, but she walked energetically, doing her best to ignore the protesting muscles, and reminding herself that if she walked normally now, she would be less stiff in the morning.

“Do you think they’re sleeping together?” Franciscus asked. They were abreast of the enclosed swimming pool now and could hear Mrs. Emmons’ familiar hoots of delight.

“What else? She drags around all day, hardly eats, and meets him somewhere at night. And I’ve yet to see him up before dusk.” She nodded to Myron Shires, who had set a chair out on the lawn in front of the Lodge and had propped a portable typewriter on his knees and was tapping the keys with pianistic intensity. There was a two-beat pause as he waved an off-handed greeting.

“Why do you think that Lorpicar wants her?” Franciscus persisted.

“Because she’s the youngest woman here, because she adores him,” Harriet said distastefully. “She likes his foreign air, his domination. Poor kid.”

“Foreign?” Franciscus asked, reserving his own judgment.

“He does cultivate one,” Harriet allowed, glancing up as a large pickup with a two-horse trailer passed by. “Where would you say he comes from?”

Franciscus laughed. “Peoria.”

“Do you say that because you’re foreign yourself?” She made her inquiry casually, and added, “Your English is almost perfect, but there’s something about the rhythm of it, or the word choice. You don’t speak it natively, do you?”

“No, not natively.” His answer, though terse, was not critical.

Harriet felt herself encouraged. “I’ve wondered just where you do come from…”

They had started up the wide steps of the porch, heading toward the engraved-glass doors that led into the foyer. There was a joyous shout from inside and the doors flew open.

Franciscus’ face froze and then lit with a delight Harriet had never seen before. He stopped on the second step and opened his arms to the well-dressed young woman who raced toward him. They stood embraced for some little time; then he kissed her eyelids and murmured to her, “Ah, mon coeur, how good to see you again.”

“And you.” The young woman was perhaps twenty-two, though her face was a little young in appearance. Her dark hair fell around her shoulders, her violet eyes danced. She was sensibly dressed in a twill pantsuit with cotton shirt and high, serviceable boots. Harriet had seen enough tailor-made garments in her life to know that this young woman wore such clothes.

“You must forgive me,” Franciscus said, recalling himself. “Harriet, this is Madelaine de Montalia, though the
de
is mere courtesy these days, of course.” He had stepped back, but he held Madelaine’s hand firmly in his.

“A pleasure,” Harriet said. She had never before felt herself to be as much an intruder as she did standing there on the steps of the Lodge. The strength of the intimacy between Franciscus and Madelaine was so great that it was a force in the air. Harriet wanted to find a graceful way to excuse herself, but could think of none. She admitted to herself that she was curious about the young woman, and felt an indefinable sort of envy.

“You must not be shocked,” Madelaine said to Harriet. “We are blood relatives, Sain… Franciscus and I. There are not so many of us left, and he and I have been very close.”

You’ve been close in more ways than blood, Harriet thought to herself, but did not voice this observation. She felt a wistfulness, knowing that few of her old lovers would respond to her now as Franciscus did to Madelaine. “I’m not shocked,” she managed to say.

“Harriet is a psychiatrist, my dear,” Franciscus explained.

“Indeed?” Madelaine was genuinely pleased. “I am an archeologist.”

“You seem fairly young to have…” She did not know how to express her feelings, and made a gesture in compensation.

“My face!” Madelaine clapped her free hand to her cheek. “It is very difficult, Harriet, to look so young. I assure you that I am academically qualified. I’ve done postdoctoral work in Europe and Asia. You mustn’t assume I’m as young as I look.”
Her dismay was quite genuine and she turned to Franciscus. “You’re worse than I
am.”

“It runs in the family,” Harriet suggested, looking from Madelaine to Franciscus.

“Something like that,” he agreed. “Harriet, will you forgive me if I leave you here?”

“Certainly. You probably want to catch up on everything.” She still felt a twinge of regret, but rigorously overcame it. “I’ll see you in the lounge tonight.” As she started back down the stairs and along the wooded path toward her cabin, she heard Madelaine say, “I’ve brought one of my colleagues. I hope that’s all right.”

“I’m sure Mr. Rogers can work something out with the owner,” Franciscus said, and was rewarded with mischievous laughter.

Harriet dug her hands into her pockets and told herself that the hurt she felt was from her unaccustomed riding, and not from loneliness.

The moon was three days past full and one edge was ragged, as if mice had been at it. Soft light illumed the path by the lake where Emillie Harper walked, her face pensive, her heart full of unspoken longing. No one, not even Reverend Masters, had made her feel so necessary as Mr. Lorpicar. A delicious shudder ran through her and she stopped to look at the faint reflection of her form in the water. She could not see the expression of her face—the image was too indistinct for that. Yet she could feel the smile and the lightness of her desires. She had never experienced any feeling before that was as irresistible as what Lorpicar summoned up in her.

A shadow crossed the moon, and she looked up, smiling her welcome and anticipation. In the next instant a change came over her, and her disappointment was almost ludicrous.

“Good evening, Miss Harper,” Franciscus said kindly. He was astride his gray mare, saddle and bridle as English as his boots.

“Hello,” she said listlessly.

He smiled at her as he dismounted. “I felt you might be here by the lake. Your parents are very worried about you.”

“Them!” She had hoped to sound independent and confident, but even to her own ears the word was petulant. “Yes, them. They asked me if I’d look for you, and I
said that I would. I thought you’d prefer talking to me than to your father.”

Emillie’s chin rose. “I heard that you had a Frenchwoman come to visit you.”

“And so I have,” Franciscus said with prompt geniality. “She’s a very old friend. We’re related in a way.”

“Oh, are you French?” she asked, interested in spite of herself.

“No, though I’ve lived there upon occasion.” He was leading the gray now, walking beside Emillie with easy strides, not rushing the girl, but in a subtle way not permitting her to dawdle.

“I’d like to go to France. I’d like to go to Europe. I want to be someplace interesting.” Her lower lip pouted and she folded her arms.

Franciscus shook his head. “My dear Emillie, interesting is often another word for dangerous. There is an old Chinese curse to that effect.”

Emillie tossed her head and her pale brown hair shimmered in the moonlight. She hoped that Mr. Lorpicar was able to see her, for she knew that her pale hair, ordinarily mousy in the daylight, turned a wonderful shade of lunar gold in bright nights. She did not look at the man beside her. “You don’t know what it is to be bored.”

“I don’t?” His chuckle was not quite kind. “I know more of boredom than you could imagine. But I have learned.”

“Learned what?” she challenged, staring along the path with ill-concealed expectation.

He did not answer her question, but remarked, “I don’t think that Mr. Lorpicar will be joining you tonight.” He did not add that he had gone to cabin 33 earlier and made a thorough investigation of the aloof guest. “You know, Emillie, you’re letting yourself…” He did not go on. When had such advice ever been heeded? he asked himself.

“Get carried away?” she finished for him with as much defiance as she could find within herself. “I want to be carried away. I want something exciting to happen to me before it’s too late.”

Franciscus stopped and felt his mare nudge his shoulder with her nose. “Too late? You aren’t even twenty.”

She glared at him, saying darkly, “You don’t know what it’s like. My father wanted me to marry Ray Gunnerman! Can you imagine?”

Though Franciscus knew nothing of this unfortunate young man, he said with perfect gravity, “You’re hardly at an age to get married, are you?”

“Father thinks I am. He says that I need someone to take care of me, to protect me. He thinks that I can’t manage on my own.” Her voice had become shrill and she had gone ahead of him on the path.

Privately, Franciscus thought that Mr. Harper might be justified in his conviction, for Emillie Harper was certainly predisposed to harm herself through her desire to be controlled. “You know,” he said reminiscently, “I knew a woman, oh, many years ago…”

“That Frenchwoman?” Emillie asked so sharply that Franciscus raised his fine brows.

“No, this woman was Italian. She was a very attractive widow, and she wanted new sensations in her life. There always had to be more, and eventually, she ran out of new experiences, which frightened her badly, and she turned to the most rigorous austerity, which was just another form of sensation for her. I’m telling you about her because I think you might want to examine your life now.”

“You want me to settle for Ray Gunnerman?” she demanded, flushing in that unbecoming, mottled way.

“No. But you should realize that life is not something that is done to you, but a thing that you experience for yourself. If you always look outside yourself for your definitions, you may never discover what is genuinely your own—your self.” He could tell from the set of her jaw that she did not believe him.

“What happened to that Italian woman?” she asked him when he fell silent.

“She died in a fire.” Which was no more than the truth. “Come, Emillie. It’s time you went back to your cabin. Mr. Lorpicar won’t be coming now, I think.”

“You just don’t want me to see him. That’s the second time you said he wasn’t coming.” She thought he would be impressed with her determination, and was shocked when he smiled gently.

“Of course I don’t want you to see him—he’s a very dangerous man, Emillie.”

“He’s not dangerous,” she protested, though with little certainty. “He wants to see me.”

“I am sure he does,” Franciscus agreed dryly. “But you were with him last night and the night before. Surely you can forgo tonight, for your parents’ peace of mind, if not your own protection.”

“Well, I’ll go up to see him tomorrow afternoon,” Emillie declared, putting her hands on her hips, alarmed to discover that they were trembling.

“Tomorrow afternoon? That’s up to you.” There was a sad amusement in his dark eyes, but he did nothing to change her mind.