Dark Masquerade Page 2

  “How old?” she asked abruptly of Elizabeth. The woman spoke in the Creole French of the area, as had Bernard when he answered her. Bernard made a move to translate but Elizabeth forestalled him. “I understand.”

  Her mother had been born and reared in New Orleans. Her mother had met her father, a Mississippi planter, while visiting relatives in Natchez.

  To the woman she said in a cool voice, “Joseph is four months old.”

  Bernard Delacroix did not lack a sense of humor. “Let me present you,” he said dryly, “to my step-mother, Madame Alma Delacroix.”

  The older woman barely acknowledged the introduction. With her small plump hands folded across the silk of her black dress she demanded, “Why wasn’t I told?”

  Bernard began to answer her, but as it was nearly impossible to be heard above the now crying baby, he did not continue. He turned toward the door, looking, Elizabeth supposed, for the butler to summon assistance. When he saw who stood in the doorway a faint smile touched his lips.

  “Grand’mere,” he said, “what kept you?”

  A white-haired woman with steel spectacles on her nose and a cane in her hand advanced into the room. Dressed in black from the pointed leather shoes on her feet to the batiste cap trimmed with black ribbon on her high-held head, she was actually smiling as she came toward Elizabeth.

  “You there,” she said to Callie, ignoring Bernard’s comment. “Take my great-grandson and follow that girl.” She jerked her head toward a Negro maid in a white cap and apron who was hovering in the doorway. “Mind you be careful of him going up the stairs. Ask the girl for whatever you need to make him comfortable, but hurry. I dislike intensely to hear a baby crying!”

  Elizabeth helped Callie to her feet with a hand under her elbow. Then she watched in some trepidation as they left the room.

  “You may be easy,” Grand’mere said calmly. “They will be cared for, I assure you.”

  “Yes, of course,” Elizabeth replied, summoning a smile.

  “I believe it will be best if you also seek your bed. Quite frankly, you appear exhausted.”

  She glanced at her grandson. “You agree, Bernard? I think all discussion can be postponed until tomorrow. We have waited this long, a few hours more will make no difference. In any event, if we delay here very much longer we will have Darcourt and Celestine with us.”

  Bernard inclined his head but made no move to go, his eyes narrow as he gazed at Elizabeth’s pale face.

  “Sherry and biscuits usually make our supper since we have a large mid-day meal, but I will have something a little more substantial sent to you shortly.”

  “I would be grateful.”

  Alma Delacroix had been listening impatiently.

  “You will oblige me, Bernard—unless of course, you wish to hold a family conclave?”

  Bernard stared at her a moment, and then lowered his eyelids. With a slight shake of his head, he offered his to the plump woman, his step-mother, and led her from the room, her neck craning back over her shoulder.

  For a long time after they had gone the old lady they called Grand’mere stared at Elizabeth. “You have a good chin,” she said at last. “And you seem like a sensible girl, not quite what I expected, but sensible. That is an exceedingly rare quality here at Oak Shade. You would do well to cultivate it.” Her old voice held a dry humor. Then a stiffness came into her manner.

  “I believe in plain speaking and I want you to believe that what I am about to say is to help you make some sort of life here with us. You cannot help but be aware that your marriage to my grandson Felix was a surprise to his family, an unpleasant surprise. He had been betrothed to his cousin, Celestine, since they were children. The betrothal is a serious matter to us Creoles. We are the foreign born descendants of pure French and Spanish forebears and follow their strict marital traditions. The betrothal is an alliance, a contract signed by all parties. To a Creole, breaking off the betrothal is almost as unheard of as breaking the marriage! You must understand our feelings. Felix’s death in the war in Texas was not only a great sorrow to us all, but it was also unfortunate for you since you will not have his love and support to help you become a part of this family.”

  She looked up at Elizabeth to see how she was affected by that statement, and seeing no sign of tears, went on: “You must know that you have been asked to come here for the sake of Felix’s son. Perhaps I should not speak of it, but I dislike pretense. I do not know why you have accepted my invitation, I only know that I am glad you have. It required courage, I’m sure. I win do what I can to help you make a place for yourself among us, but you must expect a certain amount of resentment. It is not unnatural under the circumstances.”

  “I understand,” Elizabeth said quietly when she saw that the old lady had finished. A quiet anger seethed in her mind, and she found herself once again feeling nearly glad that it was herself and not Ellen who was here. She understood perfectly. She understood that she was on trial, that if there were adjustments to be made in order for her to live at Oak Shade, she would be expected to make them. She would have to learn to accommodate her life to theirs. She must not be offended because they did not want her but only Joseph. She was to be accepted for his sake. Unconsciously she raised her head. Very well. Their attitude made no difference. She had come, after all, for Joseph’s sake also. Joseph had a rightful place here at Oak Shade plantation. So long as he was accepted, loved and cared for, she did not care whether she belonged or not, if she could be with him. Their affection was not necessary for her welfare.

  “There is one other thing you should realize. Celestine, the girl Felix was to marry, is living here in the house. Her parents are touring in France, a protracted visit to relatives. For the time being Bernard and I are acting as her guardians. Perhaps you will remember that she is our cousin and try to understand her position. She regards herself in the light of a widow. She loved Felix, you know, and has been in deepest mourning for him.”

  Elizabeth felt a flush of indignation mounting to her cheeks, but there seemed little to say. How would she have felt, she wondered, if she had in truth been Felix’s widow? How could she have brought herself to stay in this house in circumstances like these? It was a useless question. She knew very well that if she had had any legal claim to her sister’s child, she would never have come at all.

  “Come,” the old lady said imperiously. “Give me your arm up the stairs. If I keep you here much longer Bernard will wonder why he should not have his discussion with you also.”

  “Perhaps he should,” Elizabeth said in a tight voice.

  “I forbid it. You are much too fatigued. It would not be at all the thing.”

  Elizabeth’s antagonism began to fade as they slowly climbed the stairs. As she held the old lady’s elbow she could feel the fragile bones and sense a faint but constant trembling. But though her anger was gone, a depression remained. It settled deeper over her when she glanced over the banister rail and caught sight of the family at the supper table. The room below was bright with a dozen candles. There were candles in the twin candelabra on the sideboard and in the chandelier above the table. An epergne filled to overflowing with white azaleas sat in the center of the white lace cloth which was studded with silver and crystal. Bernard and his step-mother had returned to their places at the table, and there was also a young woman at the board who she thought must be Celestine. She was dressed in black, though her mourning was relieved by a pink camellia at the neckline of the lace bertha that fell over the great, drooping puff sleeves of her dress. Another flower nestled atop the curls of soft black hair at the back of her head, which were drawn back from a demure center part. Her finely molded face was tinted with delicate color as she toyed with a small wine glass and laughed across the table at Bernard. A second man sat at the table, but though he was somberly dressed also, as befitted a house of mourning, his face held a look of such reckless gaiety that Elizabeth came to a halt, startled. His hair gleamed in golden waves under the candleligh
t and his laughing eyes appeared blue, though it was hard to be certain at such a distance. As she watched he lounged back in his chair, said something to Celestine, and touched a fingertip to his neat mustache, which was a shade darker in color than his hair.

  “That is Darcourt, a thorough-going scamp, but likable enough,” Grand’mere said, following the direction of her gaze. “My son married twice. Bernard and Felix are of the first marriage, Darcourt and Theresa are the children of the second. Theresa you will see later.” There was a shade of contempt in her voice that brought Elizabeth’s head around, but the old lady went on as if she was unaware of her interest. “My son has been dead for some time. Perhaps it is a good thing God does, at times, dispense small mercies.”

  As they moved on up the stairs Elizabeth looked back. A scamp he might be, but he was undeniably a handsome one. He was more handsome in his way than Bernard, though it might have been his animation, his obvious enjoyment of life, that gave that impression. There was a great contrast between the two men, not only in their coloring, but also in their faces. Where Bernard was sun bronzed Darcourt was pale, and where Bernard’s mouth was stern with overly firm lines, the other man’s curved with an attractive and faintly sensuous charm.

  As they turned the corner around the upper newel post Elizabeth felt oddly reluctant to leave that scene of laughter and comfortable living downstairs. It had been a long time since she had enjoyed either. Deep inside her there was a stirring of longing. She had been a part of a family once. Now she was alone, alone with the responsibility for her small nephew. To belong again, to share the responsibility, to be relieved of worries—the thought was seductive. It was also impossible. Angrily she shook her head, and as she walked on she raised her chin higher in atonement for that moment of weakness.

  They passed two small Negro boys scuffling on a long padded bench; these were errand boys stationed in the hall to carry messages and run small errands. Then the two women came to a large bedroom at the front of the house.

  Firelight, the only illumination, flickered redly on the hearth, leaving the rest of the room in shadow. Beside the fire a pan of water sat, left from Joseph’s bath, and near it Callie sat rocking slowly back and forth. The sleeping child, clean and replete, lay against her shoulder. His dark hair curled in wispy fineness over his head and his long lashes lay on his plump cheeks. His great-grandmother stood looking down at him, and then she turned away, her face impassive.

  At their entrance the figure of a woman glided from the depths of darkness near the great four-poster bed. Her skirts of black taffeta made a whispering rustle and the small gold earrings in her ears caught the yellow gleam of the fire. Obviously a French lady’s maid, she could have been any age from twenty-five to forty. Her narrow eyes skimmed over Elizabeth’s serviceable but unmodish mourning clothes and dismissed them with a tiny derisive movement of her thin lips. She bowed her elaborately dressed head to Grand’mere and set her pale face into deliberately pleasant lines.

  “Madame is ready to prepare for bed? If these intruders can be dismissed I will help her. I was certain my mistress could not have ordered this woman and her charge to come here, to her own room, but I could not make this stupid girl who calls herself a house servant attend me, and I would never disturb Madame at supper.”

  “Do not fuss, Denise,” Grand’mere said absently. “I must think.”

  “But Madame—”

  “Be still, I say.”

  A silence alive with the offended dignity of the maid, Denise, descended.

  Suddenly Grand’mere spoke. “The child must sleep in here with me, of course. This room is one of the largest in the house. His nurse will be able to stay near him at night, and since you, Ellen Marie, will wish to be nearby also, you must have the room beside me. It has a connecting door. Denise sleeps there in the ordinary way, but she can very well have another room, perhaps the one next to the nursery.” The old lady seemed not to hear Denise’s gasp of outrage.

  “There is no need for that,” Elizabeth protested, aware of the maid’s inimical glance toward her. “If there is a nursery—”

  “There is every need. No child in this family has ever gone to the nursery until he was three at least. It is much safer to have your babies near you. I always did.”

  Elizabeth acquiesced, but she thought uncomfortably that it would not make her position any easier to have the household routine disrupted on her account. Then she smiled to herself as she realized that it would not be for her at all but for Joseph.

  She stood back as orders were issued and the errand boys in the hall were sent scurrying with instructions. In a very short time a cradle and a trundle bed had been set up in the room, and a light supper had been spread on a table before the fire. The room next door was swept clean of the maid’s possessions, the bed remade, and her own trunks brought up and unpacked. Then a long Julep tub was brought up and placed near the fireplace. It was filled with hot water from a can brought with half-running footsteps and a great deal of subdued giggling from the servant girls. Tactfully Grand’mere went back downstairs, taking Callie with her to have her own meal in the kitchen.

  The rest of the family might have had sherry and biscuits for supper, but for Elizabeth the kitchen had conjured up breast of chicken served on a bed of rice with a piquant sauce, new potatoes in their jackets, fresh peas, and for dessert, strawberries with cream over a sponge cake, and an excellent madeira. It was delicious, but Elizabeth hurried through it. She was spurred by the thought of the hot bath waiting, her first since leaving Texas nearly a week and a half before.

  She stepped into the tub and lay soaking, feeling the tiredness, the soreness, melting away. The feel of the water was silky against her skin and the pleasant tang of the lavender soap imported from England gave her a feeling of luxurious comfort. It had been some time since scented soap had been a part of her life.

  A length of toweling lay on a slipper chair standing between the fireplace and the tub. Elizabeth reached out and dragged the chair away from the fire. She could smell the odor of hot lacquer; the chair was much too good to allow its finish to be blistered from the heat. The other furnishings in the room were equally good. An enormous four poster bed of dark wood with a green canopy and hangings stood against one wall. The cradle at the foot was an exact replica of the larger bed, even to the mosquito netting that was looped inside the canopy. A rosewood washstand and a giant armoire, reaching within inches of the high ceiling, were companion pieces to the bed. But the prie-dieu in the corner had a different look, a Spanish appearance, with its carved rest and padded leather bench. It reminded Elizabeth of the altar at the Spanish mission where Ellen and Felix had knelt, of the sonorous words of the marriage service spoken by the priest, the flickering candles and the heavy scent of flowers and wafted incense. Connected as it was with their deaths, however, it was not a happy memory. Elizabeth shook her head to banish it, but there was no escape. The black crepe of deep mourning hanging over the pictures on the walls, on the mirrors, and even surmounting the windows, was a glaring reminder.

  She frowned and stood up suddenly, sloshing the bath water over onto the floor. Exclaiming in annoyance, she reached for the towel and stepped out of the tub, and then she went still as a strange noise came from the connecting room. Unlike the bustle of preparation that had been going on earlier, this had a furtive sound. As she listened it came again, the rustling of cloth or bed covers, and then there was the scrape of a hasty footstep and a muffled thump as the door into the hall was softly closed.

  A servant returning to finish some small forgotten job, she tried to tell herself as she hurriedly skimmed into her nightgown and pulled her dressing gown around her. But somehow she could not make herself believe it. A silence had fallen over the house. It had been some time since she had seen the family at the dinner table. Where were they now? Had they come up to bed? She glanced over her shoulder at Joseph sleeping quietly in the cradle. Assured that he was safe, she jerked the belt of her dressing go
wn in a knot and then walked to the connecting door, turned the knob, and pushed it open.

  There was no one there, but then she had not expected there to be, remembering the sound of the closing door. The room was neat, orderly, and apparently unchanged from the way the maids had left it. Or was it? Hadn’t the bed been left turned for the night? But why come back in and make it up again?

  The bed looked soft, tempting with its feather mattress and spread of muslin edged with lace. The thought of all the lumpy, smelly mattresses she had endured in the past week came to her, and she felt an almost unendurable weariness. It might be diplomatic, and better-mannered, to wait up to bid her hostess good-night, but she did not know where the old lady had gone or when she would return. The warm fire and the hot bath had made leaden weights of her eyelids, relaxed knotted muscles, and taken the last vestige of her energy.

  Slowly she moved forward, caught the spread, and flung it back.

  Suddenly she jerked her hand away, a surprised cry catching in her throat. Between the bed pillows of the four-poster bed lay a green preserving jar. Its loose glass lid had fallen open as the spread was removed, and spiders, released from their prison, crawled from the jar, spreading out over the sheet.

  Small and large, brown and gray, a dozen or more spiders ran or crept in all directions, their legs casting multiplying shadows in the light of the candle beside the bed. Then over the glass lid a last spider came crawling. Its plump, unwieldy body was a shining black, and on the underside an orange hourglass could just barely be seen.

  A black widow!

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  Disbelief gripped her and she stood staring. Was it some kind of macabre joke? A black widow for a widow in black? Then as a shiver of revulsion rippled over her skin she whipped around and scooped up a wooden handled hairbrush from the washstand. Though she had to lean over the other creeping insects to get to it, she crushed the black widow first, grinding it into the sheet, and then with an anger approaching hysteria she flailed at the others, smashing them with the back of the hairbrush while her hair swung around her face.