Velvet Shadows (4 page)

Now Victorine laughed. “Do I frighten you a little, Tamaris, when I speak so? Do you think that I plan some dark way to rid my dear brother of Augusta? That I am, perhaps, even a witch?” She made a grotesque face.

“Good! Then I think I shall be a witch, and I shall lay
upon Augusta a curse, a strong curse. Shall I give her a spotted skin so all will turn from her in disgust—or—? Do I not frighten you now, Tamaris—just a little?”

I laughed. “Of course. Do you not see I am shuddering in horror at your evil plans?”

She gave me an odd, searching look with no answering amusement in it.

“Do not laugh at what you do not understand, Tamaris. There are things—” She broke off abruptly. “But those are of another time—another place—not of this safe little world. Finish your letter,
chère
Tamaris, then sleep well.”

As silently and swiftly as she had come she was gone. My amusement of a moment before had ebbed. I glanced about me sharply, seeking to know what had for a second or two so disturbed me. But that feeling had been only a flash, and if a warning, I was not wise enough to heed it.

During the course of the next morning Mr. Sauvage received a telegram urging that he leave the train at Sacramento to visit Virginia City where there was trouble at one of the mines his company controlled. He assured us that one of his men would be waiting in Oakland. This gentleman would then escort us on to the suite at the Lick House.

Fog was thick at the ferry. Such fog, I thought, as might well furnish the horrifying background for some story laid in the depths of London. Thus we stayed within the cabin on board, depending on our waterproof capes to keep out at least some of the damp chill. Victorine sniffed disdainfully.

“Me—I find this place abominable. Where are the bright skies, the pleasant land of which my brother spoke so much?”

The young man sent to assist us, Graham Cantrell, stood as close to his employer’s sister as decorum allowed. It had been easy to see that from their first meeting he had eyes for no one else. Even Victorine’s present sullen pout, I admitted to myself a little wistfully, detracted nothing from her very real fragile beauty. Now he hastened to say that these fogs did not always shroud the bay or menace the city toward which our boat wallowed sluggishly.

But I knew the sea. And to me such a fog would always be a threat. To look out cabin windows blind-curtained by a thick mist was frightening. And I could hear the mournful sound of warning whistles, but so thick were the damp wisps that even those seemed muffled.

Moisture gathered in thick drops on the grimed panes. The smell of the cabin was foul—old dirt, stronger human odors, a stench of machine oil breathed out by the laboring engines.

Suddenly I could not stand this confinement any longer. Seasoned voyager though I thought myself, my stomach was queasy. I need only take a step or two outside the door to find cleaner air, mist-thickened though that might be. So I went, to draw that dankness gratefully into my lungs.

There were other passengers who apparently shared my desire for the open. Most of these were only vague shadows, but to the left of the cabin door two stood close together. And now and then I caught the murmur of voices.

The taller one must be a man. The other, muffled in a cloak twin to my own, was plainly a woman. Then a member of the crew stumped by, lantern in hand, and a flash from that illuminated both plainly. Amélie, who had promised to stay with our luggage, stood there.

However, the light had not risen as far as her companion’s features. Only the fact that their situation suggested a degree of intimacy triggered my old suspicions. Was this another man attracted by chance to her pretty face? I knew so little about her—she might be very free with her favors when not under her mistress’s eye. But it was also true that there was such a strong attachment between them that Victorine would defend rather than accuse her against any such vague suspicion as mine.

I must watch Amélie, make sure her conduct was not such as to embroil her young mistress in some disgraceful trouble. And worry gnawed at me as we disembarked and drove at a snail’s pace through the nearly unseen streets to Lick House.

“C’est magnifique!
See, even in this fog one may see the shop lights. What a pleasure to visit them—let us do so!”

Victorine turned away from the hotel window, letting fall the thick drapery she had raised to look down upon the life which was Montgomery Street even on such a bad evening. She was in one of her effervescent moods.

“Not at night, my dear.” Mrs. Deaves was soberly disapproving at once. “A lady does not appear on the streets unless properly escorted—”

“But I
see
them!” protested Victorine. “There they are—there and there—” She stabbed a finger at the pane.

“Those are not
ladies.”
Mrs. Deaves’ verdict was meant to be final and quelling.

Victorine scowled, letting the red velvet drapes close out the lights and the bustle of life on the street. I was growing very weary of red velvet. Hotels seemed particularly fond of that as if it were a badge of respectability and luxury. And the Lick House certainly paraded the latter.

Its interior of carved woodwork, velvet, and plush marble floors made its tasteless opulence overpowering. Just as the meal which had been served in our private suite—six courses beginning with oysters and adding every imaginable delicacy in or out of season—had left me feeling there was far too much food in the world.

Champagne also seemed to be the rule, produced as a matter of course, just as a glass of iced water might be elsewhere. Also, and this had surprised me, both Victorine and I had been served it without question. I scarcely touched my glass. But Victorine and Mrs. Deaves did not follow my example.

“Your brother, my dear”—Mrs. Deaves held her ever-present embroidery bag on her lap but at this moment made no attempt to open it—“keeps his own carriage here in the city. And there is no reason why we cannot use that to visit some of the shops tomorrow. If there are any additions you wish to make to your wardrobe—”

Then she had glanced slyly in my direction. I caught her eye boldly. If she thought to daunt me with the implied disparagement of my wardrobe, she failed. I was secure in the knowledge that I made the proper fashionable
appearance always expected of one of Madam Ashley’s instructoresses.

However, a glance around the ladies’ parlor, through which we had been ushered with no little ceremony upon our arrival, had made plain that what was considered correct taste in the East was very lacking compared to that worn in the flamboyant West. Such a wealth of overdresses —sometimes of two contrasting colors on a single gown—fringes, headings, wreathing of flowers and laces, I had never seen displayed before.

It was the fashion here, Mrs. Deaves had informed us, during one of her instructive monologues on the uses of polite society, for families of wealth not to maintain a town house (though there were some of those, of palace size and design, on such likely sites as Nob Hill) but rather to retain a permanent suite in one of the major hotels, thus escaping the cares of homeowners.

This custom had begun in the early days of the gold seekers when the majority of arrivals were lone men and lived in boardinghouses. Many gentlemen banded together and established semiprivate places for boarding, presided over by competent and even highly talented cook-housekeepers. So attached had the gentlemen become to this state of affairs that, even after some of them had been provided with families and homes, they still kept up the “boarding” establishments and visited those in the evening to meet friends, talk business, and engage in activities one does not generally discuss openly.

During our dinner Mrs. Deaves had continued to talk, offering such a constant flow of information that I wondered how she found time to do justice to her food. But I listened closely, to learn we were indeed now faced by a world quite different from all I had known.

“Yes!” Victorine plumped herself down on one of the plush-covered love seats. “We must see all the shops! But—I forgot—we have no money. How, then, will we be able to buy—?”

Mrs. Deaves laughed. Her face was flushed. She had dined very well, though she must be tightly laced, so
wrinkleless was her boned bodice. During the meal her voice had grown louder, her words a little slurred, her laughter more and more frequent

“You need not worry. Alain’s credit is very well established. Carrying money is tiresome. You see, they will not accept paper bills, such as one uses in the East. Here you can offer only gold or silver.”

I was disturbed by that. My purse, safely pinned in my petticoat seam pocket, must then have its contents changed. Sould I seek out a bank to do that, or could I apply to Mr. Cantrell? I disliked being without ready funds. Not that I expected to shop for myself tomorrow, but if an emergency arose—

Mrs. Deaves got to her feet. Noticing the deepening flush of her face, I speculated as to whether she was beginning to regret the combination of an ample meal, those glasses of champagne, and her tight lacing. She made a slurred excuse and went to her room.

Victorine yawned. “Me—I am sleepy also. But in the morning”—she smiled as might a small child promised some treat—“we shall then explore this city. Shopping I love!” Her full lips (which sometimes with their ever-moistness seemed at variance with her girl’s face in a way I found odd but could not explain why) curved into one of those smiles with which she could ever entrance. “We can dream tonight of what is to be seen tomorrow.”

I entered my own room to discover someone there before me. Laying out my lawn nightgown was a maid I had not seen before. She was a Negro of middle years (though it is difficult to judge the age of those of another race), plain of face and thick of body under a dark blue cotton dress. Her apron was no froth of ruffled lawn such as Amélie wore, but plainly serviceable, and her cap hid all but a fringe of hair on her forehead.

She bobbed a curtsy. “I’se Hattie, Miss. I do for ladies does they want—” With her eyes cast down, she waited for orders. Something in her air of patient submission made me uncomfortable. It reminded me of those times before the war when my father, a man opposed to slavery and all it stood for (considering that it demeaned both master
and slave), had engaged in secret actions I had not understood. The
India Queen
had several times carried dark-skinned passengers, not on any official listing, from such ports as New Orleans and Charleston.

CHAPTER FOUR

I was quick to assure Hattie I did not need her assistance but was careful to thank her for the offer. As she left with a soft-footed tread, I unhooked my bodice, my memory going back through the years to things my father and I had never discussed.

There had been a woman then, a very strange person with an air of authority, though she had worn the plain dress of an upper servant. She had dined with us twice on board the
India Queen
in the port of New Orleans, and afterward my father had sent me to my cabin while he talked with her in private. She had been introduced only as Mrs. Smith, a name which did not fit her, and her serene manner had been accented by the oddness of her eyes, one being blue, the other hazel. Her skin had been olive, her hair dark, and she was handsome, with soft and pleasing manners.

Afterward my father had cautioned me not to mention her visits, and I had always been sure that she had had something to do with the escape of slaves. Since those days I had never seen her, but now I recalled her as plainly as if she had been the maid I found in my room.

I firmly dismissed that particularly clear flash of memory as I picked up my hairbrush. The top of the dressing table was not littered as the one that served Victorine, which I had last seen in the greatest confusion. I had no set of scent bottles with blown-glass butterflies for stoppers, nor any other of the pretty clutter she gathered so easily. My possessions might be termed schoolmarm neat and so I could detect that they had been moved.

One of the first things I had unpacked was a curious box, my father’s last gift to me. It had been made somewhere in the Far East of carved wood, parts of the design inlaid with mother-of-pearl. In it I always kept mementos of my family—the miniature of my mother which my father had given me, one of himself he had had painted at my urging, a few old letters, my mother’s wedding lines, a letter to her from my long-dead grandmother. None of these had any value save for me.

The box had been moved. I set aside my brush to pick up the coffer. Its catch was a secret one, or so I had believed. For it was located in the carving where one must insert a fingertip to release it.

I needed only to glance within to know that the order in which my oddments had been left was changed. Someone had opened the box, made free with the contents. Anger flared in me. I could expect a thief to search for a jewel case, but mine was locked inside my trunk. Unless the thief thought this to be such, perhaps a natural assumption.

Who? Hattie? No, I had no right to make such a quick, damning judgment. The reputation of this hotel was such that they surely hired no employees of whom they were not certain. And I had no proof; nothing had been taken. But I did not want it to happen again.

As I continued to prepare for bed I realized that I could not entrap anyone unless I proposed to spend the day hiding in, say, the large wardrobe. And that made me smile in spite of my anger and uneasiness.

If not Hattie, or some other servant, then who? Amélie? I found in spite of my effort to be fair I could believe this of her. In my opinion she was sly and untrustworthy. But why she wished to rummage among my things—that I could not understand.

I held the box closer to the lamp to see if there was any sign it had been forced. When I did this, my face very close to its surface, I smelled a sickly sweet odor—a familiar one. Yes, that was similar to the scent from the contents of the tiny bag sewn into my shawl.

That absolved any servant here, but it pointed the finger more firmly at Amélie.

I must speak seriously to Victorine. The causes for my suspicions were thin, but taken together they should make her listen to me. Drawing on my wrapper I went back to the parlor.

The room was dark, but there was a faint reflection of light from the street below. At my tap there was no answer from Victorine’s chamber. Surely she could not have fallen asleep so quickly? My second tap was delivered with more force and the door swung open as if inviting me to enter.

Emerging from the shadows was a massive bed possessing a pretentious tester. A subdued night light on a side table showed Victorine lying quietly on the bed, not in it. She had indeed removed her dress, but still wore a whirl of petticoats, her fine chemise slipping wantonly from one shoulder to show more of her breast than was modest.

Even her hair had not been unpinned, though some locks had shaken free. She seemed asleep, but so strange was this collapse (for so it seemed to me) that I caught up the night lamp and carried it to the bedside, holding it over her.

That her deep slumber was normal I doubted. I touched her shoulder. Her flesh was chill, yet there were tiny beads of moisture on her upper lip. She uttered a low moan and turned her head.

Now I hurried to light the larger lamp, then drew the covers up over her. I could not be sure, looking back, how much of the wine she had drunk. But where was Amélie and why had she left her mistress in such a strait?

As I came around the end of the bed, heading for the bell pull, I collided with a small table. A glass rolled onto the floor, the spoonful of liquid still in it dribbling onto the thick carpet. But something else fell and I stooped to pick up a fan.

The guard sticks were very thick, making it seem much heavier in consequence. And in one of these guard sticks a portion of the surface had slid to one side, to uncover a small compartment. There was a dust inside and I touched fingertip to that, raising it to my nose.

Again that sickly odor!

I shivered at what my imagination suggested. But surely Victorine had not been drugged against her will, or such evidence would not have been left in the open for the first comer to discover.

I gave the bell pull a vigorous jerk. Since Amélie was not here I had no idea where to find her. But Hattie or some other servant answering my signal could locate the maid.

As I paced nervously back and forth waiting, I twisted the fan in my hands. Then realizing what I did, I pushed the lid back over the compartment and laid it down just as a tap sounded at the door.

At my call Hattie entered.

“Do you know where Miss Sauvage’s maid is? Her mistress is ill.”

“ ’Deed no, miss.” Her capped head swung from side to side. “Mebbe I can do fo’ the lady. There’s Doctuh Beech—he’s right down the hall a ways. Though it’s early for genlemens to be comin’ up yet—”

As she spoke she joined me by the bed, leaning forward to stare at Victorine with what I thought was avid curiosity but little compassion. Then I was sure it was not at the face of the girl that Hattie was gazing so intently, but at the ugly necklace Victorine so favored that she wore it almost constantly—the gold and enameled snake.

Drugged, or under the influence of too much wine? In either case I hesitated about calling an unknown doctor. But I could summon Mrs. Deaves. As I opened my mouth to order Hattie to do just that, someone brushed by me, swung around to face us both, as if to protect her mistress. Amélie, holding a small pot in both hands, eyed me fiercely, her attitude one of outrage.

“What do you here?” she demanded in French. “My lady—why do you come to disturb her?”

I refused to be intimidated. “She is ill. This is no normal sleep.” I replied in the same language.

“But, of course, she has taken one of her powders. Her poor head, it was aching. I went to fetch her this tisane,
I know how to make her comfortable. Now you will wake her and the pain will return—” Amélie crowded us away from the bed, the pot still held before her as if that were a weapon she might use in Victorine’s defense.

I heard a loud gasp from Hattie. The older woman was cowering away, her attention upon the girl’s wrist, her eyes wide. She was staring at that gruesome spider bracelet which Amélie wore with the same devotion to the piece as her mistress showed in her preference for the snake necklace. With an inarticulate cry Hattie ran from the room.

Amélie smiled and said something in her patois. But the smile was gone in an instant as she looked once more to me.

“It is true what I say. My lady is asleep. Soon she will wake and want her tisane. Then her head will be better and all will be well with her.”

I was sure that I was not reading concern for her mistress so much in her eyes now, as a cold and calculated dislike for me. However, her explanation had such logic I was forced to accept it. There were yet some days before Mr. Sauvage would join us, but I intended to report this scene to him when I could.

Amélie, her attitude near open impertinence, followed me to the door. That she closed firmly behind me, like one raising a drawbridge of a castle against the enemy. I still wondered if it was the wine or something else which had affected Victorine but I did not have the knowledge or the opportunity of proving any suspicion.

When I awoke in the morning memory flooded back. As I dressed I stared at the long wardrobe mirror, without being the least aware of my own reflection therein, but seeing in my mind the fan with its hidden compartment. How foollish had I been not to bring that with me when I left Victorine’s room. I recalled now there had been initials inlaid over the compartment—but I somehow did not think those had been either a V or an S.

The room was chilly. Both Mrs. Deaves and Mr. Sauvage had warned that spring in San Francisco did not mean warmth and balmy air. Rather ladies here held to their furs
long after those were laid aside elsewhere. So I chose a heavy dress, one of violet silk and worsted, its drapery and bodice trimmed with bands of deep purple velvet. And before I went into the parlor I took Mama’s shawl, the cheerfulness of its color, as well as its warmth, heartening me.

Victorine was already posted at a window. The fog was gone this morning, but the day was gray and overcast. She, however, was in a sunny mood, her gaiety heightened by the bright blue of her dress.

“The shops—they are already open. Do you not long to visit them, Tamaris? See”—she gestured to a settee where rested a small hat of beplumed sapphire velvet, a loose gray jacket banded and collared with chinchilla—“I am prepared.” She whirled around so the flounces and ribbons of her dress were a-flutter, a child excited by a promised treat.

But Mrs. Deaves did not share her enthusiasm. Victorine fidgeted during our breakfast when our chaperone did not appear, watching her bedroom door, which remained shut.

“How does your head feel this morning?” I asked one of the questions at the fore of my mind.

“My head?” Victorine repeated a little blankly. “Oh, you mean the aching. That is gone. Amélie always knows what to do for me. I think”—she was now prettily penitent—“that I drank too much champagne. For when I went to my room—poof!” She raised her fingers to her temples. “There was such a pain here, and the room—it was spinning around and around. So Amélie had me quickly lie down and gave me one of my powders before I had taken off more than my dress. She told me you were much alarmed for me, Tamaris.”

“I was,” I replied shortly. Her explanation was logical, yet something within me still questioned.

“I promise that never again shall this happen. I shall be most abstemious. Like you I shall say
‘non’
and
‘non’
to much wine, and then I shall not suffer. But this morning, thanks to Amélie, I am not in the least ill. Poor Augusta”—she looked again to the door—“do you think she now
has a head which aches? Perhaps I should offer to her Amélie’s remedy—”

Maybe the thought of shopping revived Mrs. Deaves. When she did issue forth from her chamber shortly thereafter she was her usual self, showing no traces of a disturbed night. Also she was in excellent humor, smiling at Victorine’s excitement. When Mr. Cantrell sent up his card with the message our carriage waited, she was as quick as the girl to draw on her gloves, peer in the mirror to assure herself that her hat was securely anchored well to the fore of her remarkably puffed chignon.

Victorine took a small ivory-leafed tablet from her belt purse, glanced over some notes as we went.

“Embroidered stockings,” she murmured in French. “Buff with violets, or pale green—Tamaris, was it the pale green which had strawberries worked on them? I have a sad memory and Augusta told us so much last night.”

I laughed. “There were also pink ones mentioned—with blackberries in floss work. Those seem a little startling, I think.”

Victorine made a face. “Me, I do not think blackberries are in the least chic. But the poudre sachet of Flowers of California—that I must certainly have. Oh, Tamaris, is this not most exciting!”

I had to admit that visiting the notable shops of San Francisco did attract me. But when Mr. Cantrell bowed us through the damp chill air of the street into our carriage I was not so sure. I could not guess whether dampness was the last of the night’s fog, or a promise of rain to come, and the general drabness of the day was depressing.

Luckily our barouche was closed. The carriage was smartly turned out and, if representative of Mr. Sauvage’s stables, I could see he chose always the best. Once we were seated Victorine leaned forward to study the luxurious appointments of the yellow satin upholstered interior, uttering exclamations of surprise at each new discovery. Though Mr. Sauvage had, since the marriage of his sister, kept a bachelor establishment, the barouche suggested that he was not unmindful of female needs. In various small pockets and compartments Victorine discovered,
and displayed to us, a card case of tortoise shell, a vinaigrette containing smelling salts, a mirror, a box of hairpins, and a pincushion.

“We are so well provided for every eventuality,” I commented.

“Perfectly ordinary and in good taste,” Mrs. Deaves returned coldly.

Victorine laughed. “How very clever of my brother! Though it may be that he does not care at all, and it is the duty of some servant to see this is kept in order. Now here, Augusta, where do you conduct us?”

“First I think the Chinese Bazaar. You shall find that most unusual, my dear.”

We threaded through traffic as thick as any choking a busy New York street. Here, in addition to the horse cars for public transportation, were those peculiar to this city, traveling on a cable of chain, which was in turn controlled by steam engines at either end of the line. Victorine, enchanted, wanted to take a ride. But our chaperone appeared so shocked at such a departure from ladylike behavior that even the impetuous Miss Sauvage was subdued.