The Ghost and Miss Demure (8 page)

“Also known as Charles the worst,” Karo quipped, though she soon realized it was wholly inappropriate. She got frowned at. Apparently Tristam didn’t do forced levity before noon.

Her employer continued. “It seems that there was actually a finite number of times that you could swap political horses back then, especially when rumors of bizarre sexual practices and demon-worship begin to circulate at court. Then came the rise of Cromwell. To be fair, I think the devil-worship stuff was fabricated by Vellacourt family enemies. There is no suggestion in any of the diaries that he studied the order of the Left Hand Path.”

Karo blinked. “The Left Hand Path? Oh, you mean Satanism. I thought that was all Louis the Fourteenth and in France.”

“Yes, it was. But news traveled fast and rumor even faster. In any event, faced with growing scandal and a strong sense that the king was going to lose his argument with parliament and then his head, the Vellacourt family wisely picked up stakes and moved to the New World. Charles gave the Vellacourts a generous land grant in return for a suitable donation to his coffers, and then the doomed monarch waved them off with a somewhat hypocritical ‘Satan, get thee behind me’—which didn’t impress anyone since he had accepted Satan’s bribe. The Vellacourts promptly invested in slaves to build and work this plantation in Virginia, and a sugar cane plantation in Haiti. What these workers thought of Hugh’s sexual practices in either place has mercifully not
been recorded anywhere, so all that exists are family diaries and journals and letters, and those are largely cryptic. Clarice Vellacourt, the present owner, is not inclined to open the family library to scholars, so perhaps we are safe from outside exposure. If we decide it is to be avoided at all costs.”

“If?” Karo repeated.

“Well…I have given this matter some thought, and maybe in this era of liberalism we can make a positive feature of the family behavior, as long as we don’t go too far or get
too
truthful.”

Karo shook her head, baffled. “A positive feature? To the general public? In Virginia? How so? I can’t quite picture this: the Disneyworld of S and M, featured in a two-tone brochure, quaint woodcuts of Vellacourt getting flogged. Er…or was he the one doing the flogging?”

Tristam laughed. “Both. His mistress was what in the modern parlance is called a ‘top.’ But Vella-court liked to change things up from time to time.”

“I see.” His ease with the subject puzzled her.

He sensed her continued befuddlement. “Well, we couldn’t be too obvious in our advertising, and to maximize visitations we would have to offer both X-rated and G-rated tours. But it would be a plus in some circles that the old rogue did what he did. He probably even swung both ways, at least when he was young.”

“What! You mean he was bisexual? That’s not a plus!” Karo spluttered. “Mention that at all and there goes the Christian audience! Oh, dear. We’re going to have to bury this one six feet under.
I just knew the gift horse would have rotten teeth,” she muttered to herself.

“Yes. They always do,” Tristam said with sympathy. “Pity Vellacourt didn’t live in California. They’re a lot more understanding of ‘reprobates’ on your west coast.” He turned away from the painting and shoved a set of antlers away from a narrow door tucked under the stair.

“Not
that
understanding, I assure you! In fact, if my parents ever hear one word about…” She shuddered. “You’re absolutely sure about this? I mean, dead certain?” Karo screwed up her courage to ask the necessary question. Sometimes historical researchers had to be a little bit like priests or doctors when examining a famous personage’s delicate—or
in
delicate—past. Probing was always allowed if it was for educational purposes. “He was a man who had a sexual torture chamber. For fun. And he was bisexual.” It went against most everything she’d been taught was natural and right.

“Oh, yes.” The answer was airy but final.

“How can you tell that the torture was only for fun?” she pressed. “I mean, the
torture.
Some stuff going on in France was horrible. Who was that mass murderer—La Voisin? Maybe Vellacourt liked to mistreat slaves similarly. There’s some precedent for that sort of thing. And if that’s the case, we really don’t want to bring the matter up, especially not in any way that suggests approval or ac cep tance. The whole monster-vampire thing works in New Orleans, but not here in Virginia. As it shouldn’t.” The last sounded a little prudish to her ears but she didn’t take it back.

Tristam didn’t answer. Instead, he pulled the little door open, and a cloud of dust and cobweb billowed into the room on the stale air. It smelled of mice, mold and mushrooms—icky gray ones with little cone hats. He stepped back with a grimace and closed the door, shutting off the unpleasant odors. “Most of the evidence is empirical. Vellacourt is nothing like La Voisin. I have found no impedimenta of witchcraft, though there are devices for hunting and torturing witches. Those aren’t in the garret, though. The only suggestion of witchcraft is a vague reference to Vellacourt having read the Grimoire of Pope Honorius.”

“A grimoire?”

“Yes, but it isn’t here, unfortunately, so we can’t see what, if anything, he took from it. No, when I say ‘sexual torture chamber,’ I think the violence that was done here was mainly…Well, there was nothing
horrible
done here, as odd as this man was. He was harmless, I think. The whips I’ve found are mostly made of velvet. Mostly. There are some leather tawses. Some little golden manacles are lined with beaver pelts, though there are larger ones that would fit a man that are made of iron. Some paddles have illustrated leather. The tooling is actually quite nice on some of them, although still rather, um, limited in theme. There’s even a padded rack that can be adjusted for comfort and multiple positions, which is Hugh Vella-court’s own invention. I know this because he left journals complete with bad illustrations to explain it, a sort of owner’s manual for the dilettante sadist. All in all, this mansion houses an excellent collection of late seventeenth-century
erotic paraphernalia—perhaps the only such set in America,” he summed up calmly. Golden eyes twinkling, Tristam asked, “Shall we go up now? Or would you rather face it on a full stomach?”

Well, she’d asked to get the pain over all at once, Karo admitted to herself. Still, this was a lot. “Maybe later,” she replied. “I guess I’m still feeling a bit faint from the ideas of whips and chains, sex and witchcraft. No point in facing every challenge at once.”

Also, there was something else. It wasn’t something she had ever admitted to a living soul—or even a dead one—but a part of her had always been a bit fascinated by the idea of bondage. Here was her chance to actually look it in the face. But she wasn’t ready to see this room with Tristam English beside her. No, that would be too much. She would make her first visit alone.

But, the black arts? That had never interested her at all. She didn’t believe in the Christian Devil, but she did believe that there was such a thing as evil, and that it could linger. If this house had been used for evil purposes, which was possible, no matter what Tristam claimed, she needed a little while to work up the courage to face the scene of the crimes. A
torture
chamber!

Tristam’s brow creased as he studied her. He seemed apologetic for anything he might have said that was beyond the pale and she was annoyed with herself for letting her shock be so apparent. “I quite agree. Let’s make sure you are at full strength before we shock your system with any visuals.”

“So,” Karo said, trying to make some joke to
show that she wasn’t entirely upended by this development but drawing a total blank. She often thought of herself as a sophisticate, but she didn’t know how to begin rationally discussing Vella-court’s hobbies, much less how to market them to a tourist crowd. She had a sudden image of the gargoylelike man in the portrait parading up and down his torture chamber wearing a red leather waistcoat and a pair of high-heeled shoes with paste buckles and paisley socks. It was pure Monty Python silliness, and the thought made her feel better. Dev ils got smaller when you laughed at them.

“Yes?” Tristam prompted.

“Are…are we certain that this wasn’t the summer villa? A hideaway for a mistress would have some tradition behind it, and that could possibly be made into a tourist stop for those with slightly puerile interests if peddled carefully to the right market.” She was babbling a bit, but the situation had scattered her wits. She was still trying to figure out reasons this degeneracy could be accepted by normal society.

Tristam didn’t seem to mind. “Couldn’t it just?” There came a flash of that charming grin and another spray of those invisible pheromones of his that made her insides jump and flutter. “But, no. This was the main residence. Vellacourt wasn’t that sophisticated or considerate of his wife, who died shortly after they emigrated. He is especially graphic in his writings about his carryings on. His journals are a disaster in terms of political correctness. He was a competent architect, though. The old house is well constructed and
more tasteful than some of these strange later additions would lead you to suspect. And he was a fair farmer, though he did not personally till the soil.”

“But still a bisexual lecher sadist,” Karo said under her breath, again swept away by morality. “And a rose by any other name.”

Tristam shrugged. “Just so. And I always think it’s best to look things square on. As I told the current owner, there’s nothing to be gained from wincing at cold hard facts, evil ancestors, or even bad grammar.” She couldn’t tell if there was laughter in his voice.

“Well, one thing is certain,” Karo replied.

“Yes?” her employer asked.

“I can’t have my parents coming here on vacation. They’ll just have to wait for a visit to Williams-town and Jamestown after I’m through. Father might—
might
—understand, but mother is Episcopalian…and not the kind who drinks heavily and only goes to church on Easter Sunday.”

Tristam began to laugh. “I understand. My own mum is so high church as to verge on Roman Catholic.” He pointed up the stairs. “Okay, we won’t do the torture chamber, but let’s go up anyway. Turn left at the top. I want to show you the ugliest pilasters in North America. Then I’ll feed you breakfast.”

As they started to climb he asked, “Are you at all attached to the pleasures of the table?”

Karo was glad for the change of subject. “Yeah. Especially if I don’t have to cook.”

“Are you firm about that?”

His tone was the first sign of worry she’d taken
from him, but she stuck to her guns. “Fairly. It’s sexism to think that the woman should always have to cook. It would be more efficient to share responsibilities. Since we’ll be sharing our time here.”

He sounded somewhat disappointed. “Well, I expect we’ll muddle through. I’m a fair hand with the B and E, and I can just manage toast.”

She laughed. “Good to know it. And, by the way, I can’t stand kipp—Uh, what is that…that
thing
?” She pointed, almost outraged.

“Fruit, I think. But, yes, it looks a bit like something else. And that’s a snake and a tower, I hope. But the wood is so cracked it’s hard to be definite. I felt you needed to get a look at it, so you could ponder it over breakfast. It really has that Vellacourt feel. It’s what we’ll be selling here.”

“It’s got to be the ugliest pilaster in North America,” she murmured, awed. “And the most pornographic.”

“Yes, that Vellacourt feel,” Tristam repeated. “Stand over here, actually. See? It looks rather like the south face of the temple of the Kama Sutra. Only, not as artistic.”

Karo tilted her head. “No, not by a long shot,” she agreed. “That Vellacourt feel. How are we going to sell this?”

Yesterday upon the stair,
I met a man who wasn’t there.
He wasn’t there again today.
I wish, I wish he’d stay away.

—Hughes Mearns

If slightly more prudish than himself, his new assistant was correct about many things, among them that Belle Ange was hideous. Tristam simply could not fathom why the abomination of bad taste that was this mansion had been called Beautiful Angel. If Hugh Vellacourt had demonstrated a sense of humor, Tristam would have suspected him of practicing irony, or that he had given in to the whim of his concubine. But Vellacourt’s graphic journals were phlegmatic in the extreme and did not suggest that he had developed an interest in anything beyond his libido or purse; humor or affection were right out.

An interest in his libido—a case of the pot calling the kettle black, Tristam admitted, watching Karo’s denim-clad legs conquering the maids’ backstairs with vigor. But surely he would be forgiven this brief lapse of lasciviousness. It was not every day that a bewildered and utterly delicious nymph wandered in out of the rain to make herself at
home in his bed and life. Karo’s legs alone made this moldy project worthwhile.

“I don’t think we should take tours up this staircase,” she called back, a bit breathless. “I mean, think of the cardiac arrests in the over-sixty crowd—especially in the August heat. Though, kids would love it. This is just like a rat maze. And so creepy!” Her enthusiasm was catching.

“You seem to be enjoying it,” Tristam observed, lifting his eyes to an acceptable height in case she turned at the top of the stair and caught him gawking.

“Well, it’s my first day. I expect my eagerness will wind down some. I’ll get a bit more jaded, especially if this search for treasures turns out to be a snipe hunt. I have hopes, though. It is very rare for a house to have actually remained in the same family for so many years. Perhaps they didn’t sell off all the good stuff.”

Tristam thought about the third floor, packed to the rafters with aged debris, the accumulation of several generations of avid and unchecked collectors who had made it their life work to simply fill the Gothic monstrosity that was this house. From the now nearly drained wine cellars—relocated to an outbuilding some years ago because the basement so frequently flooded—to the steep, grimy garrets added every half century or so, it was everywhere too dusty, too narrow…and too
ugly
, as his nymph would say.

Except the torture chamber. That room, original to the house, was remarkably free of dust and surprisingly inviting with minimal clutter. He’d found himself drawn to it, and to thoughts of
Karo…But he wouldn’t even let that X-rated thought cross his mind.

“How soon will the jading take place?” he asked. “I think the first pall fell over me about twenty minutes in. Miles of endless rat’s nest. I’m almost sorry now that I threw out the still.”

Karo laughed. He really liked the sound. It was low and soft, utterly delightful.

“It’ll happen eventually,” she promised. “But I’m a slow cynic. I can’t help being a little enchanted with some of what’s around. No matter what you say about the designer…Well, it’s really much better than what I expected last night. Or, some of it is.”

“You couldn’t have expected much,” Tristam retorted.

She turned long enough to give him a strange smile. “I’ll have to take the fifth on that. It’s a little too soon for total honesty, don’t you think?”

Tristam returned her smile. She was right. It was way, way too soon at least for some of the things he was thinking.

“Did you say ‘still’?” Karo prompted. “As in, for making moonshine?”

“Yes, they’ve been producing here the finest grain alcohol that ever blinded man since around sixteen-fifty or thereabouts. Some traditions never die unless you rip them out at the root, raze the shed and threaten the police.”

“I see.”

Karo glanced out the window. Tristam knew what she was seeing. The meadow had been shorn to a reasonable height but would be freckled with the detritus of the last storm. Beyond that were
the ferocious vines with which the gardeners did weekly battle. The damn things did their best to strangle their architectural prey, pulling at the stones from the outbuilding and graveyard, trying to draw them back into the ground from which they’d been quarried.

When she spoke again, his assistant’s voice was thoughtful. “Was Vellacourt a gentleman? I mean, I know he was a man of means, but was he considered honorable for his era? I mean, publicly?”

“Yes, but who would judge him otherwise? His peers were few and far between. ‘Gentlemen’ basically came in two models back then: rapacious or genteel idiots. The idiots didn’t last long. Of course, in the very early days no one did. Malaria, understandably hostile natives, starvation…Ah! The good old days in early America!”

“All true. But the clothes were pretty. Maybe we’ll find some still intact.”

“If you were rich they were lovely, I’m sure. Unfortunately, we have found little here worth displaying from the seventeenth or eighteenth centuries. All we have is a few sets of the common man’s rough woolens.”

“A pity. The slaves and the poor must have suffered in all that wool.”

“That was probably the least of their suffering,” Tristam pointed out.

“True enough. Eventually I’ll have to devote some time to sorting through the papers in the librar—Oh!”

Karo jumped back and landed in his waiting arms, just as he had anticipated at this turn of the hallway. Their embrace was clumsy in the confines
of the narrow corridor, but Tristam did his best to appear strong and manly. “Is it a mouse?” he asked, though he knew better. “I’m afraid they are everywhere.”

“No, I don’t mind mice or even rats. I think I’ve found another of that granddaughter’s paintings.”

She stepped from his sheltering arms and gingerly shifted a pile of antlers with her knee. A smallish picture frame leaned against the wall. Tristam had seen it already, had almost shrieked like a girl when it came looming out of the gloom. Karo picked the frame up with her thumb and finger, checking the back carefully to see that she wasn’t picking up any pests as well. Tristam had noticed that, while she wasn’t afraid of mice or rats, she did not care for spiders at all.

“Valperga.” He sighed. “I know her well. She was her own favorite subject. There are even more paintings of her than of Hugh.”

“Oh, isn’t she a peach? Grandma, what big teeth you have! Was her name really Valperga? How cruel parents can be.” Karo sat the frame down on the top of an old trunk. Pushing her hair back from her forehead left a smudge. It also pulled her thin shirt tight enough for him to make out some of the lacy details on her bra, which was different from the floral item she’d been wearing last night.

Tristam began to sweat. The upper floors had grown uncomfortably warm as the day ripened into its full potential, but that wasn’t the problem. The real issue was waiting patiently for an answer to his speculations while he stood fantasizing about the lacy flowers under her blouse.

Not that he could be blamed for being distracted, he assured himself. Her dark locks might be dusty and her hands nearly black with grime, but she looked immeasurably pettable in those tight jeans. It was a wonder that the woman could look so good wearing smut and cobwebs, but she did. Obviously, he had been closed up in this house for too long. Or perhaps his brain was addled by the same lightning that had affected his nymph. Whatever ailed him, he wasn’t sure if he loved or hated it.

“That’s how the old crone referred to herself,” he finally managed. “She did not care for her own name, which, according to the only genealogy I’ve found, was Agartha.”

Karo shook her head. “She has only herself to blame. There is nothing wrong with Agartha. I was named after a maternal grandmother, which seemed a good idea at the time, since the parents wanted to please her. And they did, but only for a few months—she died soon after I was born. Her pleasure in the name was short, and my suffering long. It isn’t fair, being burdened with a difficult name, but you don’t see me changing mine. Especially not to something like Valperga.”

“Karo sounds sweet and old-fashioned,” Tristam said.

“Yep. Sweet, like the syrup. Would you want to be called after food?” She frowned, changing the subject by glancing again at the painting. “Do you suppose it’s an accurate self-portrait? Or was Valperga just burdened with dozens of neuroses?”

Tristam reluctantly turned his attention back to the picture. Hungry black eyes peered out from
the cracked canvas, and he frowned with distaste. If the creature in the portrait had ever possessed youth or beauty or kindness, these had fled by the time the painting was done.

Karo shuddered dramatically. “I pity any woman who has
that
as a self-image. Talk about a bad hair day! It reminds me a bit of Poe’s degenerative style. You know, the black cat that got more and more abstract each time he drew it?”

Tristam shrugged. “Perhaps it was a familial brain disorder. I think Hugh Vellacourt was slightly mad, though in an English sort of way. He certainly didn’t have normal taste in furnishings.”

“The library is more or less classic, and
fairly
tasteful.”

“Calling the library tasteful is giving it undue praise, but at least the furnishings are less belligerent than in most of the house. They are mostly eigh teenth century,” he reminded her. Noticing a streak of dust and a bit of cobweb, Tristam brushed at his sleeve. “I do wonder about that low door. Perhaps Hugh felt that people should abase themselves before the temple of knowledge. But, no—that would be giving him too much credit.”

Karo laughed. She looked over at her equally dusty companion as he tried to reorder his clothing, and considered again the things he’d told her downstairs. Far from being stuffy or standoffish, Tristam English had proven to be forthright and unflinching—and pleasant company. Though, she was rather baffled by his treatment. On the phone he had sounded distant and formal. Their project was anything but, and today he was behaving very much like an uncle indulging a favorite niece.

Kind. Unhurried. Amused. These weren’t characteristics of people she generally met on the job. Bosses tended to take one look at her no-nonsense but eager manner and pointed her at the largest messes they could find. That, or they patted her on the head and called her sweetie. Though she liked to blame her name, she also knew it had a lot to do with her diminutive stature and delicate voice; few people looked beyond packaging.

Tristam was doing neither, and it was confusing—in the nicest possible way.

“What does that mean, anyway?” she asked. “English madness? Insanity with charm?”

“Exactly.” Tristam leaned carelessly against a plaster wall. His shirt was already hopelessly begrimed. Some relief would come from bringing in a cleaning crew and exterminator, but he couldn’t do that until Karo had found and marked all of the plantation’s historical treasures. It wouldn’t do to buff the patina off some priceless candlestick.

In the meantime, living in squalor wasn’t too terrible now that he had someone to bear him company. He might even survive the beastly late summer weather. Winds could bluster and clouds could threaten; he could just ignore them.

“Instead of just the usual slaves to cater to his whims, he had a defrocked priest.” Tristam lowered his voice. “And a tender young bride of wealth and breeding, who died under very mysterious circumstances after providing an heir. Let’s see, there was a hunchbacked butler, a French concubine—”

“Really? You’re not just saying this to give me hope? I mean, a defrocked priest and a hunchbacked
butler would be great in a brochure. Not quite as good as Berkeley—they have two presidents and a signatory of the Declaration of Independence—but it’s all still quite usable.” She laughed, beginning to have some fun.

“No, really,” he promised. “Mad Father Basco, removed from the priesthood before he was twenty and who lived an unnaturally long life. The beauteous Eustacie La Belle—if that was her real name. And S and M master Hugh Vellacourt. These three should be of a great deal of interest to tourists—especially those who are bored blind by the
same old same old
historical plantation tour they usually get,” he suggested mildly. “This place is much more exciting than two presidents and a signatory to the Declaration of Inde pendence.”

“Well, maybe,” Karo allowed. “So, you’re really and truly serious about the priest and the concubine?” This bothered her, though she knew it was silly to maintain any illusions about the character of historical personages—especially when she’d been given so much proof already to the contrary. Still, she had always felt that it took a lot of courage and even imagination to pack up one’s life and leave everyone and everything you knew behind. If it had been easy, more people would have done it. Hugh had done just that, and she wanted to give him some respect. She didn’t say this to Tristam, though, because it sounded naïve. He would probably tell her that most people didn’t leave anywhere willingly and were in fact being chased by mobs. He’d say that fleeing for one’s life didn’t take much courage or imagination.

Tristam’s voice called her back. “What sort of
mad-dog Englishman could Vellacourt be without them? He was a favored personage here, you know, one of the privileged gentry. A soul brother—and later a debtor—of John Robinson’s. One would have to work hard to be more infamous in these parts.”

“John Robinson? Of the House of Burgesses?” Tristam nodded when she gasped. “America’s first big-time tax defrauder, who started this nation on the road to revolution?” He nodded again. “Well, that’s great! We can really use that. Political corruption is perennially popu lar,” she told him with real enthusiasm. “Very few people have moral prohibitions against tax fraud. In fact, they expect it. Throw in that priest and suggestions of religious persecution and we have a winner. Carter’s Grove may be the prettiest of the local plantations, but we’ll certainly have the one with the most corrupt past.”

“What about the concubine? I think she makes a good part of the story,” Tristam suggested. “She really was quite something out of the ordinary, and was definitely corrupt. Not to dress it up in too fine a language: Vellacourt bought her at auction in a bordello in Paris. She was fifteen and already an accomplished…businesswoman.”