Bride of a Stranger (Classic Gothics Collection) (14 page)

“Claire, my dear girl, whatever came over you?”

Without knowing quite why she did it, Claire let her arm fall so that the knife was hidden among the folds of her skirt.

“That ceremony—it was horrible!” she cried with loathing.

“Yes, I agree. At least, it seems so to our eyes. But one must not judge by our standards.”

“Torturing live animals can be nothing but cruel, regardless of the standard you use.”

“Don’t distress yourself about it, Claire. It has been done so for hundreds of years, and will continue to be done in spite of us.”

Claire let it go. “But—what of your cat?”

“Perfectly well. For a price, the priestess forced a concoction down his throat, and the black imp got up and walked off by himself. I have little doubt that we will find him waiting for us on the doorstep when we return.”

She proved an able prophet. As they neared the house, the cat came from the darkness to wind himself about their legs. The purring noise in his throat had a rough note, as if he had strained his vocal chords, but otherwise he seemed entirely normal.

Glancing up toward the room she shared with Justin, Claire thought she saw a shadow cross the window. It would be Justin now, surely. What was she to say? Your mistress tried to kill me? She caught the inside of her lip between her teeth, trying to think.

Her action in hiding the knife from Octavia. troubled her. And having kept silent before his aunt, could she begin to explain to her husband, the moment she saw him, what had happened? It would seem odd to say the least.

The dagger, it seemed, was an embarrassment she could do without. She had no wish to sow discord between Justin and herself, there was enough between them already. And she was afraid, deathly afraid, that his sympathies would lead him to doubt her word if Belle-Marie chose to deny her story. She did not want a test of strength between herself and Belle-Marie. She knew too well who would win.

And so, as they neared the front steps, Claire stopped. She bent down, as though to tie her slipper, and thrust the dagger beneath a clump of fern. She would retrieve it in the morning at a time when it would be easier to hide it in her room or some other place about the house. Why she wanted to keep it secreted she did not know, but just then it seemed important.

Justin was standing beside the fireplace, a glass of sherry in his hand, when she stepped through the french door. He raised an eyebrow, his eyes traveling from her disordered hair to her stained slippers. With a leisurely grace, he reached out and pulled the bell rope, summoning Rachel.

“Octavia and I were walking,” Claire answered his unspoken query, but avoided his eyes. She unbuttoned her spencer and tossed it onto the bed, then ran a hand over her hair, trying to smooth it back into her slipping chignon.

“It seems to have put color into your cheeks,” Justin observed.

Claire felt her face grow warmer, and she glanced at him out of the corner of her eyes. He was dressed for dinner in a coat of claret superfine, a color that went well with his brand of dark, feline looks. The scar, she thought, gave a savage cast to his features and now that the surprise and instinctive horror of its presence had passed, actually added to his appearance.

She had not realized that she was staring at the scar until he turned abruptly away. Then, since Rachel chose that moment to tap on the door, he opened it, and strode from the room.

Could he have thought that her feelings were of repugnance? The thought filled her with such dismay that it was a moment before she could attend to her maid’s inquiry and point out the dress she intended to wear for supper.

It was after breakfast the next day before she had the opportunity to retrieve the knife. Every moment until that time someone, it seemed, had been at her side; Justin, Octavia, Helene, or Berthe. At last, in the middle of morning, she contrived to slip away by herself. But even as she knelt and slipped her hand beneath the fern, a voice spoke behind her.

“Found something?”

Shock made her jerk her hand back, her hand with the fingers curled around the blade of the knife.

“Y-yes,” she stammered, getting to her feet and turning to face the overseer. What was his name? Ben. That was it.

“It looks to be a knife of some kind,” the man said. “Fancy frog-sticker.” He stared from her to the knife, his head cocked on one side and both hands on his hips.

The knife was about six inches long with a thin, four-sided blade, a rounded guard, and a hilt of turquoise enamel set in gold tracery.

“It must be valuable,” she ventured, turning it in her hand as if she had never seen it before.

“Reminds me of that bunch Edouard’s got hanging on his wall. Betcha a Spanish real it’ll be one of his.”

Memory stirred. She did vaguely recall someone, perhaps Berthe, mentioning that Edouard collected knives. She did not think, however, that this one could be a part of his collection, but she could hardly say so. It was such an obvious possibility, especially to someone who did not know how it came to be lying beneath the fern.

“I will have to ask Edouard about it,” she said thoughtfully.

“No need. He’s down at the copperage, saw him there myself not more than ten minutes ago. Be glad to take it to him.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream—”

“No trouble,” he insisted, holding out his hand, his eyes too bright, too appraising as he stared at her, slowly shifting his wad of chewing tobacco to the far side of his mouth, where it bulged in his cheek as he smiled with yellowed teeth. His shirt showed sweat stains under his arms, and the leather suspenders that held his breeches were twisted and curling at the edges with age. His boots were caked with mud. None of these things would have mattered if there had not been the arrogance in his stance that expected her to overlook them.

Controlling a feeling of distaste, Claire handed him the knife with the hilt toward him, taking care that their fingers did not touch. With a murmured thank you she turned and left him, but as she looked back he was still standing, following her with his eyes. He was no longer smiling.

She had almost reached her room before it occurred to her that now, with the knife gone from her possession, there was no way for her to prove what had happened in the swamp if she tried to tell of it. Ben had wanted the quadroon girl. Suppose they were lovers? Belle-Marie might have sent him to bring back the knife. Had he stared at her in such a manner because he knew the quadroon had tried to kill her, and that she was too unsure of herself to admit it? Or was it some more personal inclination that filled his mind? Shuddering a little, she could not help glancing once more over her shoulder. Ben was walking away toward the trail that led to the swamp. The person hastening to meet him was not the quadroon, however. It was Edouard.

A terrible doubt gripped her as she watched them meet, saw the knife change hands, and then the two men walking off together. They were probably doing nothing more than holding a discussion about some phase of plantation work, she tried to tell her self. She was becoming suspicious of everyone and it was too easy to see conspiracy everywhere. But it was odd to see Edouard around the house at that time of the day.

She turned toward her room, then stopped with a gasp of surprise. Justin stood in the door, a look of such blackness on his face that she almost took a step backward.

“Is—is something wrong?” she asked.

“With a woman one never knows.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” she said, but because of what she had kept from him, a guilty flush crept to her hairline.

His eyes narrowed as he gazed down at her and the scar on his face seemed to stand out in a ridge. “You are my wife. I would advise you not to forget it.”

“I am not likely to do so,” she said, seeing at last that he was referring to her obvious interest in the two men. Perhaps he had even seen her talking to Ben a few moments ago.

Justin stepped back, and with her head high Claire made to brush past him. But he grasped her arm, his fingers bruising her flesh so that she bit back a cry of pain.

“Don’t try my patience, Claire. When it snaps I might enjoy the consequences. You, I’m persuaded, would not!”

She was hungry for the first time in weeks. Since the evening before, when she had seen the cat become so ill after eating her meal, she had not eaten alone. Breakfast she had eaten in the dining room with the others. She had not dared to comment, even to Octavia again, about the possibility that she had slowly been poisoned, but she was growing hourly more certain that such had been the case. Her increasing appetite, her general sense of renewed well-being, seemed to prove it. She refused to think of how it might have been done, and yet now she drank nothing, ate nothing, that either Rachel or Justin’s man brought to the room, unless it was also to be shared by her husband. She felt certain Belle-Marie would not chance harming him.

She had not seen Justin since their confrontation earlier. Which meant that though it was late, nearly time for the noon meal, nothing had passed her lips. She had missed the eleven o’clock coffee and cakes she usually enjoyed. If she waited until Justin had also changed clothes for dinner, he might suggest ordering a carafe of fresh water at least, but she could not wait. She did not wish to see him alone. His threat, veiled though it had been, was too fresh in her mind. Even the memory of it made her clench her hands to still their trembling.

Jumping up from her chair, she stood in the center of the floor as she heard footsteps approaching along the gallery. Then as her nerve deserted her, she fled to Octavia’s room.

Octavia was not there. More than likely she was in the kitchen with the cook or supervising the laying of the table for dinner. Claire stood listening, but she could hear no sound from the dining room. The house was quiet with the somnolence of a warm summer’s day. The blinds were closed, shutting out the hot brilliance of the sun, leaving the rooms in semidarkness. For a moment it seemed to Claire that she was alone in the house, free of constraint, free to be herself; then a door slammed somewhere toward the back. She moved toward the door connecting Octavia’s room with the dining room, expecting to see the older woman appear on her way back from the outside kitchen. Still she did not come.

But as Claire swung from the open door, she noticed that another of the four doors from Octavia’s room stood open a thin crack. The room beyond was the bedroom in the front of the house, Edouard’s room, she was almost positive.

From where she stood she could see the head of the bed with its posts holding a high tester, and a portion of a table holding a whale-lamp of pewter. He thought of the knife collection Ben had mentioned stirred, and almost without realizing what she was doing she moved to touch the door, making it swing noiselessly inward. She stood still a moment, listening, her gaze fastened on the wall of knives around the head of the bed. When she was sure the room was unoccupied, she stepped inside.

There were small, thin daggers, to fit the hand of a woman, slender stilettos, and also wider, more dangerous looking blades, blades as short as three inches, and those that came close to being swords. Some were bare, while others were sheathed in scabbards of intricate workmanship, chased, carved, or inlaid with gold, ivory, or wood set with semiprecious stones.

Claire let her gaze roam the wall until she found what she sought, a bare hook with a light shadow on the wallpaper in the thin shape of a knife. She had reached up to trace the outline with the tip of her finger when there was a slight sound behind her.

“What are you doing in here?”

Claire froze, her breath catching in her throat. Then she swung slowly around to face the woman who stood in the door leading from the gallery. Her mind felt numb, but as she saw who it was she swallowed and managed a smile.

“Why, Berthe, you startled me. I—I was going to the dining room when your son’s collection of knives caught my eye. You don’t think he will mind if I admire them?”

Berthe did not answer that directly. She moved slowly into the room. “You are thinking, I don’t doubt, that Edouard gets his hoarding instinct from me. Oh, you needn’t deny it. It has often been remarked upon. We are not a family who easily gives up anything we have ever owned. We enjoy the mere fact of possession, a trait not to be wondered at, I think, when we have always been dependent for the necessities of life on someone else, first my husband’s brother, and now, his son.” Her voice was quiet, her pallid face without expression, and yet there was an intensity about her. Was it always there, Claire wondered? Perhaps it was the contrast with the vivid Helene that had made Berthe appear such a mousy creature.

“But are you interested in knives? My husband began this collection many years ago, and my son has added to it. Let me see if I can remember for you, and tell you a little about them. Some of them are extremely old; one or two are more than three hundred years in age. This one, for instance, is called a
cinquedea
. See the broad, tapering blade? It is almost a sword, isn’t it? And here is the kidney dagger, an illustrative name, don’t you think? There are one or two left handed knives, for use when a sword was held in the right hand during a fight or duel, and you see several with unusual guards to protect the hands and fingers. Some are very pretty things, I think, with the gold and jewels and the chasing on the blades. But you must ask Edouard about them. He can tell you so much more than I.”

“Oh, I felt only the most idle curiosity,” Claire declared, trying for a light laugh. “A knife is not a woman’s weapon.”

“I expect you are right. The thought offends, does it not? So physical. But come; let us go into the dining room. Octavia will be annoyed if we are late for dinner.” Berthe turned toward the gallery door through which she had entered.

“Could we go this way?” Claire asked, indicating the direction of Octavia’s room. “The sun is so hot on the gallery floor that it burns through my slippers.”

“Yes, of course, I quite understand, my dear. I remember when I was carrying Edouard, the heat affected me in much the same way.”

“Oh, but—”

“You must not be embarrassed. You will have to get used to comments. Octavia, I am sure, will not spare your blushes, nor will Helene, when you begin to lose your shape. Helene can be quite vicious. She considers all other women as rivals in some vast competition, I think. She is not a happy woman. I have always been glad she was not here to torment me while I was
enceinte
. My son, you know, is older than Justin.”

“Yes, so I understand,” Claire said, as they moved through the door into the dining room. She was happy to have the subject of her supposed pregnancy passed over.

“Her vanity would not allow her to be seen while she herself was in a family condition. She actually persuaded Marcel to carry her abroad.”

“Pride is a strange thing,” Claire commented as Berthe paused expectantly.

“Indeed so. I am glad that beauty has never been a consideration with me. My son is my pride.”

“I’m sure such a sentiment will give you more joy,” Claire managed to comment after casting about in her mind for a response.

Berthe nodded. “My son has never caused me the least concern—well, I cannot truly say that. There was once, but I’m sure it was nothing to signify.”

“You mean the scar, I think.”

“Yes, you are so very understanding. I hope you will not hold it against Edouard. I’m sure he never meant to do it. It was only a thoughtless child’s prank.”

Perhaps it was natural for her to defend her son, Claire told herself, but a feeling of anger shook her at the woman’s dismissing tone, as though it was unimportant that Justin had been left with a scarred face as a constant reminder of the incident.

Dinner was a strained occasion. Flies buzzed over the bowls and platters, only barely discouraged by the
chasses mouches
, or ceiling fan, that creaked overhead. The boy, seated in the doorway, whose job it was to pull the rope that set the contraption to swaying, was half asleep with the warmth and the monotony of the task. Now and then Octavia would clear her throat and fix him with her dark gaze as a hint that he should bestir himself.

Octavia seemed to have her mind on other things, however, for when not seeing to the table service, she lapsed into a grim abstraction. It was left to Berthe to try to make conversation, supported by her son, until Helene, with a twisted smile and a glance around the table, informed her that she was wasting her time.

“Oh? But I have nothing but time,” Berthe said softly. “Widows only mark time until death takes them to dwell with their loved ones.”

“Spare us. We have all heard of your bereavement until we are weary of it, and today my nerves will not bear any more,” Helene said, staring at the opposite wall over the heads of the others.

“Helene, Berthe, please—” Octavia said, as if suddenly aware of the tension around her.

“But don’t you agree, Octavia?” Berthe insisted. “We three, you, Helene, and I, are all waiting for the release of death?”

“I don’t like this conversation. Please let us speak of something else.”

“Even those who are dearest to us in the next generation cannot make up for the ones we have lost, don’t you find? One’s own son is little consolation. You understand, I know, Octavia,” she smiled, her eyes bright with watchfulness.

Claire was startled to see the color drain from Octavia’s face. And as she turned to Berthe, she thought she saw a faint smile just disappearing from her mouth. What could the woman mean? Octavia had no son. Why should she understand more readily than Helene? Claire recognized that a part of Berthe’s insinuations might concern Helene’s mourning for Gerard, but it seemed unlikely that she would mention it publicly, even by intimation. Perhaps, then, she had meant to compare Helene’s state, as the wife of a man totally paralyzed, to widowhood? She sighed. She did not understand the innuendoes she could sense below the surface of the exchange between the two women. She was relieved when Edouard cleared his throat and engaged her in reminiscence of New Orleans.

She ate conscientiously, knowing she needed to regain her strength, but in that atmosphere of strain she rapidly lost her appetite. It did not help that every time she looked up she found her husband watching her, an inscrutable expression on his face. She felt a certain guilty gladness when, after the meal, Justin elected to return to the fields and she could escape to the privacy of her room to rest, alone with her thoughts.

She slept heavily, awakening with a feeling of depression. A tired staleness hung over her, and she stared at the walls, trying to gather the vitality it would take to get up. It was only the thought of a cooling sponge bath that made the effort possible.

It was still some time before the supper bell would ring, but dressing would take up time, and so she allowed Rachel to slip a dress of plum gauze trimmed with gold ribbons over her head. Then she sat fanning, trying to keep her hair from sticking to her perspiration-damp face, while the maid arranged her hair.

She had not realized that the fan she was using was the one Justin had presented to her in her wedding basket until he stepped into the room and stood for a moment with his eyes fixed upon it.

Claire gave him a hesitant smile in the mirror, but he did not return it. He looked away, then crossed to a chair and sat down with his legs stretched out before him. Staring at nothing, he pulled his shirt from his pants and stripped it off, dropping it in a heap on the floor.

Claire colored a little as she looked quickly away from his broad shoulders and the gold medal on a chain that glittered against the bronze skin of his chest.

“It is very hot,” she said, irritated that her voice came out with such a breathless quality.

“It is, which leads me to wonder for whom you are expending all this energy prinking yourself?”

“Why, for myself, I suppose.”

“Are you certain? Edouard was most attentive at dinner.”

“Was he? I’m sure I did not notice.”