Velvet Shadows (5 page)

We drew up to one of the sidewalk posts intended to aid the descent of carriage passengers and she was smiling again. A Negro footman handed us down and we stepped almost immediately into what was indeed a very different shop. There was a huge banner across the front above the entrance, on it a prancing, fiery dragon, a vast scarlet tongue lolling from its jaws. And from the open door issued a heavy scent of incense. From here, too, came the chirping of birds as a number of canaries swung in fanciful cages from the ceiling.

A Chinese wearing a blue merchant’s robe ushered us within and I, too, was lost in viewing rare and unusual wares. Nor did Victorine leave empty-handed. About one wrist was a bracelet of cool jade. And carried behind us, wrapped in the red paper of good omen, was a shawl of ivory white silk patterned with branches of flowering plum embroidered in thread only a shade or two darker than the background.

From the Bazaar we went to the Ville de Paris where one feasted eyes on velvets, French brocades, airy-light pineapple gauze from the Sandwich Islands. Then to Wakeless’s so Victorine could indulge her fancy for the Flowers of California sachet, as well as a bottle of frangipani—which I found too cloying for my taste.

There was lace to be viewed at Samuel’s, and so on, but before noon we came to a smaller shop—that of Madame Fanny Perier. Though she dealt in small fripperies, laces, and trimmings only, her shop was artfully designed to soothe clients wearied from such activity elsewhere.

The turkey red carpet was in cheerful contrast to the drabness of the outer day. And many stateroom-sized lamps were screwed to the walls, artfully intermingled with mirrors framed in gilt which reflected and magnified the room. We were seated by a small table on three gilt-legged chairs. Madame herself brought in a tray of elegant gold and white chocolate cups, together with small plates on which lay thin slices of Droste to melt on the tongue.

She talked eagerly to Mrs. Deaves, with whom she appeared to be on familiar terms. And then she produced, not as if displaying such for sale, but merely as if she wished us to see the latest amusing trifles, some of her stock.

Victorine was much taken with a crystal vial fastened to a hairpin which, as Madame demonstrated, might be skillfully inserted into one’s coiffure, to be a life-prolonging holder for small fresh flowers. And she promptly added that to her other purchases of the morning.

It was while Madame was showing her just how to adjust this that I saw the woman standing in the doorway leading to the back quarters from which Madame had brought the chocolate.

The stranger was tall and, by the mirror and lamp reflections, fully revealed to me. Instantly years were wiped away. I had been thinking of her only last night. This was that “Mrs. Smith” my father had known.

From my right I heard a gasp and I glanced at Mrs. Deaves. Her high color had faded. She closed her eyes as if she were suddenly faint. I put out my hand impulsively,
and, as if she did not know, or care, who offered support, she caught my wrist in a braising grasp.

“No!” I heard her whisper in desperate denial.

Was Augusta Deaves reacting so to the sight of Mrs. Smith? From her stricken face I looked quickly to the doorway. The other woman still stood there, watching. But, to my surprise, I found her eyes on me, not my agitated companion, and there was an odd feeling in my mind that she surveyed me not as a person, but rather as a problem it was necessary for her to solve. Then, her lips curved in a slight smile, she stepped back into the shadows, vanishing as abruptly as if she had indeed been a part of some dark dream.

I blinked before I spoke. “Mrs. Deaves, are you ill? Can I help you?”

For her face was near the color of clay, and her breath came in shallow gasps.

“Yes, yes—” Even her voice had shriveled into this hoarse mutter. “Go—let us go!”

Madame now hurried to us in a flurry of concern. Only when we were again in the carriage did Mrs. Deaves exert a visible effort to regain self-control.

“Augusta, what is the matter? Are you ill?” Victorine exhibited more feeling for her brother’s friend than she had ever shown before.

“That—that woman! That was Mammy Pleasant—no!” Mrs. Deaves sat up straighter, regained a measure of self-confidence again. “Do not ask me any more. Just pray God you will never know that wicked, wicked woman!”

I did not try to press her, but Victorine did. Though her voice was soft and carried still a note of concern, it was almost as if she took some pleasure in continuing the inquisition in spite of Mrs. Deaves’ manifest discomfort. However, as the moments passed and we left behind the scene of her momentary fright (for fear I was sure had been the base of Augusta Deaves’ flight), the older woman regained her old serenity and refused to satisfy Victorine’s curiosity. By the time we had reached our hotel her armor was again complete.

However, I believed that she was bitterly unhappy about
her self-betrayal. And once we were within the suite again she left us hurriedly for her own room. Victorine was not yet ready to let the matter drop.

“Who is this Mammy Pleasant, then, to upset Augusta so? Who
did
you see in the shop, Tamaris? I saw no one at all.”

“There was a woman standing in the doorway of the inner room—that was all.”

“Just a woman? But what kind of woman would make Augusta’s hands shake, turn her face so white? Augusta was afraid, Tamaris, truly afraid.”

“I do not know anything more than we saw the woman,” I answered carefully. That it was Mrs. Smith I had no doubt, her personality was such that having once seen her, one was not likely to forget her easily. But I had no idea of telling Victorine what little I knew. And the reason for Mrs. Deaves’ display of fear even my imagination could not supply.

There was a tap at the suite door and Victorine, who was nearest, answered. She returned with a sealed note.

“A message for Augusta. From this Mammy Pleasant, do you think?” She weighed the envelope across her palm as if so she could guess the contents.

“That would be none of our business.” I summoned my small authority, if I
did
have any authority. Truly it
was
none of our business and I did not like this avid curiosity on Victorine’s part.

“Ah, but here is a mystery. And mysteries are delightful.” Victorine now held the note between fingertips. “What a pity we cannot read this—”

I nearly feared at that moment, so mischievous was the glance she sent me, that she might indeed open it. But it seemed that even her curiosity did not lead that far. She went to Mrs. Deaves’ room, tapped, and called, “A note for you, Augusta. There is an answer expected, a man is waiting for it.”

So long a pause followed that I first thought Mrs. Deaves did not intend to answer. Then the door opened only wide enough for Victorine to slip the note within. But a few moments later Mrs. Deaves threw wide that door and
sailed out, looking far from the hunted and haunted woman who had earlier taken refuge from us.

“Dear James! I might have known James Knight would do something like this.” Her speech bubbled. “Teresa is here! James heard of my return, immediately hunted her up. Oh—to have Teresa with me again!”

She brushed past Victorine to fling open the outer door also. A man in groom’s livery stood waiting.

“Please tell your master that of course Teresa must come to me. As soon as possible—no, let me write a note!”

Leaving the door open, she bustled to the desk by the window and seized upon a sheet of paper. Her pen scratched swiftly and she thrust the result into an envelope, went to hand it to the groom. When the door closed she rubbed her hands together.

“Things always work for the best after all—” I think she spoke her thought aloud. Then, as if remembering us, she added hurriedly, “An old friend is staying here. He chanced to see my name registered and has done me a great service. I had a maid before I left two years ago, one I greatly trusted. Unfortunately I was going abroad for an extended stay and she could not accompany me as her mother was ill and she did not want to leave her.

“But Mr. Knight met her by chance a week ago and she asked concerning me, since her mother is now dead and she wishes very much to return to my service. Oh, to have Teresa back again—with her I shall feel so safe!”

I think she realized that revelation the instant she uttered it for her expression was momentarily confused and she added hurriedly, “Teresa is one I can trust with everything.” That sounded even more lame and she dropped the subject for another:

“Mr. Knight has asked me to dine with him. Since he had much to do with the settling of my late husband’s estate, I must see him. Therefore I cannot be with you this evening.”

She swept back into her room. As the door closed behind her Victorine gave a small laugh.

“Well enough! I think we can do without you, dear Augusta.”

She went back to her favorite stand by the window.

“Tamaris, there is fog coming in again. Already the shops show lights and it is only early afternoon. Are there always such mists in this city?”

She was right, as I saw when I joined her. The gaslights of the shops were waging a losing battle against gathering mists.

“Tonight”—Victorine twisted one of the gilt tassels of the drapes—“there should be a full moon. But does one ever see the moon in this damp country?”

She waited for no answer; instead she caught me by the hand, drawing me back to the warm security of the room.

“Let us open all these.” She gestured to the parcels and boxes which had been brought up from the carriage. “I want to see my treasures again.”

Tissue paper flowed about us as we freed from wrapping scented gloves with embroidered backs, a parasol, lengths of silk which Victorine fingered lovingly.

“Amélie is very clever with her needle. She can use this—and some of that gauze, and these white roses—and put together such a dress! Yes, even that stern-faced brother of mine will have his heart moved to see me in it!”

“Mr. Sauvage is not hard-hearted!” Was it only duty which brought that protest out of me? “All of these are of his providing, Victorine.”

She glanced at me, her head a little atilt, her lustrous eyes wide, a smile on her full lips.

“Yes, Alain is most generous.” But there was a slight trace of mockery in her answer. “I must remember always to be truly thankful for his generosity. If I am not, then it is your duty, Tamaris, to remind me. And when he returns I shall thank him properly as a good sister should. You shall see!”

I thought it better not to enlarge upon the subject. Again she might well be trying to see how far my control over her extended. But I thought now, more than a little disturbed, that she was not yet ready to accept the family ties my employer wished to tighten. Perhaps there was more that I could do, or should have done. An older and wiser companion should have been chosen for this task.

Her smile widened. “Poor Tamaris, you are so easy to tease. I know well that Alain wishes me to be happy—within the limits of his own world. And this has been a good day. Me, I like San Francisco in spite of the fog. It is not Paris, but it has its own merits. See—I am surrounded by some of them now!”

Amélie appeared then and was overcome (or gave a rather theatrical performance of being so) as her mistress called her attention to this particular item or that. Seeing them so completely occupied, I went to my own room, with more than a little to trouble my mind.

CHAPTER FIVE

Of course I had been tempted to buy during the morning. And to hold to prudence can also leave one with a nagging feeling of dissatisfaction. Prices were high here and one could easily spend on trifles in one shopping tour more than my quarterly pay at Ashley Manor. I must conserve my resources, wasting nothing.

But that was of no account when weighed against the manner of Victorine herself. I must somehow reach her or I was not the mentor Mr. Sauvage needed—and if I discovered that was so I must admit my failure frankly and withdraw as soon as possible. Most of the time, in spite of her flashes of temper, she was amenable enough.

My unease had so little substantial to build on, still it lingered. Wait and see—but I firmly intended upon Mr. Sauvage’s return to speak with him, state my doubts concerning my fitness for the responsibility he had given me.

As I turned away from placing my pelisse and hat in the wardrobe, my eyes fell upon my traveling lap desk. There was the journal letter for Madam Ashley. What I would not give now to step into her study and ask for advice. There was—I could not even explain certain formless, vague wishes to myself, and I must by all means
avoid fruitless dreaming. My letter—it was unsatisfactory, for though it said so much, yet it revealed so little of what puzzled and disturbed me. But I would complete it now and mail it.

Only when I unlocked the desk, I knew once more my privacy had been invaded. The pages were not in order. My Morocco leather address book, the pearl-handled pen, the thin sheets of India paper suited for such long letters, the envelopes, the small crystal inkwell with the seal cover, wax, my father’s own seal—all were here. Still I knew they must have been examined, perhaps even the letter read!

Catching that up I scanned the pages hurriedly. No, my suspicions had not been committed to paper. I had written only of the country and our day-by-day journey across it. There was nothing here that the whole world could not read. But to think that it might have been looked over in stealth angered me, with the same anger I had felt to find my family treasures had been examined.

I rang for Hattie. At least she could tell me who had been in this room during the morning.

But it was not Hattie who answered the bell. Though she was also a Negro, this maid was much younger, more assured, even pert, in her manner, regarding me boldly. I sensed, though I knew I could never prove it, that she was well able to play the spy.

“You wanted me, miss?”

Not only did her manner border on impudence, but her pretty face and lithe, well-shaped body could not be disguised by the coarse uniform she wore. She was a mulatto, I believed, and would be a match for any clumsy questioning I could try.

“Where is Hattie?”

“Hattie’s gone.” She watched me slyly, as if she expected some other question, perhaps about the desk. I decided it better not to ask any.

“What is your name?”

“I’m Submit, miss.”

Suddenly I was inclined to laugh. That meek old Puritan name for this girl was a fantastic misfit

“Very well, Submit. Will you please unhook me—”

In reality I did not want her touching me, but I had to have some reason for calling her. And I believed she was amused as she deftly unhooked and helped to draw off my heavily draped skirt.

She was perfect in her role, fast, neat, well trained in a maid’s duties. When she went to hang my dress in the wardrobe, she clicked her tongue disparagingly and shook her head.

“That there Hattie, she never took no iron to these ‘fore they was hung up. Best I do that, miss. The longer these here packing creases set, the harder it’s goin’ to be to get them out.”

I nodded agreement. And the longer Submit moved purposefully about, commenting on this and that in what was now a respectful way, the more she seemed a lady’s maid. My imagination had perhaps supplied all those reservations.

While she worked I finished my letter, sealed it. Submit, a selection of my dresses in her arms, left. And she was gone only a moment when there was a tap on my door and Mrs. Deaves entered.

Her hair was in disarray about her shoulders and she carried her brush in one hand as she walked up and down, disregarding my offer of a chair.

“If Teresa would only get here!” She held out the brush, eyeing it as if she were no longer sure how one used it. “She is so clever. Amélie is very good, of course, but her first duty is to Victorine and only Teresa knows just how I like things. Yet—”

Now she stopped to face me, plainly uncomfortable. “I—in spite of my wishes I must speak of something I do not want to mention. Only my duty makes me warn you.”

Her self-confidence was once more shaken. Gone, for the moment at least, was that determination to keep me in my place. She began pacing again, her half-fastened wrapper billowing out to display much of her full figure. And her sentences were only half-finished, delivered breathlessly as if she had been running, or was pressed for time.

“It is about Mammy Pleasant. She—she is a fiend! What she has done—no, that I cannot tell you, I can only warn you. Do not have any dealings with her for the sake of your future, your peace of mind.”

“But why should I have any dealings, as you express it, with this woman?”

She stopped pacing to face me once again, studying my face as if she were not quite sure what she dared say. But when she did speak her tone again held some of the old cool superiority.

“Exactly. She would have no reason to approach
you.
But she seeks power. It would be much to her interest to cultivate any member of the Sauvage household. I think she will try to reach Victorine. I shall alert Alain, of course. But until his return it is our duty to see that she does not meet his sister. The dear child is so impulsive she would be attracted by the bizarre—”

I made a logical guess. “Does this Mammy Pleasant profess to tell fortunes? Is that her form of gaining power?”

“That—and in other ways. Outwardly she makes a pretense of being a servant, a superior one. But there are those who know her better.” Augusta Deaves moved her hands uncertainly. I believed she was torn between the need for warning and a fear which urged her to keep silent.

I knew she was afraid of the woman with the two-colored eyes. And thinking back to that meeting in the shop I was chilled. For Mrs. Smith had plainly been watching me. But my father had not considered her evil, and how could this woman he had dealt with be changed into the Mammy Pleasant of Mrs. Deaves’ deep dread?

“Of course, I shall make every effort to keep Victorine from any such contact,” I agreed.

She nodded. “But it is well that you will be going soon to Rancho del Sol, well away from this city. And—”

“Madame, there is someone to see you.” Amélie came in. At the sound of her voice Mrs. Deaves flinched as if from a blow. But she went to answer the summons, and a moment later I heard her voice raised in warm welcome.

“Teresa! How good it is to see you! Oh, Teresa, I have so missed you—” Then the sound of a closing door brought silence.

I was left to consider her warning. Those who profess to tell fortunes, or those who (as the foolish believe) can summon up spirits, do exert strong influence over the gullible. But to believe that Mrs. Deaves had ever been so beguiled was hard for me to accept. She impressed me as one who intrigued coolly for what she desired, never taking an impulsive step. However, she was a badly shaken and frightened woman.

I did not know whether Victorine would be attracted by such superstitious nonsense; such matters had never been mentioned during our short acquaintance. And now on my guard I would make sure she did not fall victim to any such lure.

How I wished Mr. Sauvage were here! He had not mentioned either that this particular folly was to be encountered in San Francisco, and I needed his authority and knowledge to draw upon. That all cities had crimes and concealed horrors, usually hidden from the class of people I now moved among, I knew.

While my father had shielded me from the sordid life of the waterfronts in many ports, he had never mistaken, as was common, ignorance for innocence. He had, as delicately and carefully as he could, made plain to me that there were certain aspects of life which were both degraded and degrading, people who used vile, low practices to furnish their livelihood. There were streets in cities where a woman dared not walk unless she was already abandoned to wickedness. And vice did not just lurk in squalor either. It was to be found where the outer covering was as fair as in the most happy and innocent household.

Such matters were understood but not discussed. And as long as such a polite covering was maintained, society accepted the status quo. Perhaps in the future there might come a time of greater openness, so frankness and truth could combat evil. But that time was not ours.

I could understand that Victorine, heir to part of such a
great fortune as the Sauvages controlled, would be marked as fair game by someone intent on gain through crooked, ugly means. Yet in the natural order of the circle in which she moved those agents of the dark would not dare to prey openly.

Only my mind kept returning to Amélie, also to that dark figure in the mist-haunted ferry, to last night when Victorine had appeared to lie in a drugged sleep. To accept responsibility alone, I was not fitted for that. Let Mr. Sauvage return and he must decide what should be done. Mrs. Deaves’ warning might carry more weight with him than the list of unexplained happenings I could offer.

They were old friends, perhaps more than friends. So, with his sister’s safety at stake, she would be more open with him. And she was also right—the sooner we left this fog-bound city for his country estate, the better.

When I entered the parlor later the room was empty. Victorine and the fruits of her shopping had vanished into her own chamber. The door of that was open a crack, through which sounded a steady ripple of that patois I did not understand. I went to the nearest window.

The fog had thickened. Shivering, I drew my shawl closer about me. Perhaps I should ring for the waiter to light a hearth fire. The sight of the flames would be as cheering as the heat. As I moved toward the bell pull I saw the slip of white on the carpet near the door as if it had been pushed under from the hall.

My name was inscribed on the envelope in bold black script. Slipping out the single sheet it contained, I held that close to the nearest lamp.

To the daughter of Captain Jesse Penfold. Since I owe much to your father, I now take pen in hand to warn his daughter. That which you see may not be what it seems. Watch carefully and be cautious. Should you need a friend in the future, as I needed one in the past and found him, send word to Mrs. Pleasant at 92 Washington Street.

Mrs. Pleasant—Mammy Pleasant! I crumpled the note
into a ball, very glad no one was here to see. Memory to balance Mrs. Deaves’ warning. If it were true, as I firmly believed, that Mrs. Smith and Mrs. Pleasant were one and the same, I was inclined in her favor. I needed guidance badly. If I only had someone to consult with now. Not Mrs. Deaves—I shrank from discussing this with her.

To allow her to know that in the past I had met with a woman she termed a “fiend” would only provide her with ammunition against me. I must know more—but to whom could I apply? My sex, age, position here were such that the slightest ripple of talk could raise a shadow of scandal. And eager tongues would give the shadow substance. I would serve neither Mr. Sauvage nor myself by raising gossip.

A tapping at the outer door set my heart to beating faster. Almost I could believe that it was the enigmatic Mammy Pleasant herself. But I opened upon one of the waiters, proffering a tray on which another note lay with a gentleman’s card. And with distinct relief I read the name “Cantrell.”

Though I knew nothing of this young man personally, Mr. Sauvage held him in high enough regard to select him as our escort during his own absence. And I had good reason to see him now to ask him to change my small roll of eastern bank notes into the coins accepted here.

“Ask Mr. Cantrell to come here.” Since the note was addressed in both Victorine’s name and mine, I felt I could take the liberty of issuing such an invitation.

I should summon Victorine, but I wanted a few moments alone with our caller. Dared I ask him some of the questions to the fore of my mind after I begged his aid in the matter of my funds? I would wait—see if I thought him discreet enough.

Retrieving my purse, I called in to Victorine. Amélie answered that her mistress was dressing, but she would give her the note.

My wait was not long. Mr. Cantrell’s interest in Victorine had been marked from their first meeting; perhaps he thought my summons was from her. If he had, he was
gentleman enough to display no surprise at my receiving him alone. I came to the point at once, citing Mrs. Deaves’ warning about no merchant being ready to take bank notes.

He agreed that this was the case, and offered to turn out his own purse, exchange for me with what money he had on his person, and get the rest from a bank. But my hardly saved sum was so small he was able to cover most of it, laying out gold pieces and the heavier and larger silver coins on a table. When I thanked him, I decided recklessly to seek part answers at least to the questions now plaguing me.

“Mr. Cantrell, there is one question I have good reason to ask. In fact, I wish that I might ask this of Mr. Sauvage as it may be of major importance to him.” I gathered my courage as he looked at me with a measure of surprise, as well he might.

Then I plunged. “Can you give me any information about a woman named Mrs. or Mammy Pleasant?”

Surprise in his expression turned to shock, followed by a blankness of countenance which might cover either distaste or wariness.

“Might I ask where you heard of this person, Miss Penfold?”

“I have reason to believe that we saw her today, that she was interested in us.”

By the oblique hint that Victorine might be involved I had turned the right key. He nodded.

“Yes, that might be so. Very well, Miss Penfold, but remember what I have to say is largely rumor. This city is a storehouse of many strange stories, and people with very unusual pasts walk its streets. Mrs. Pleasant—outwardly—is a respected housekeeper for Mr. Milton Lanthen. In addition she owns and operates a boardinghouse for some of the highest-placed gentlemen. She has taken a great interest in and shown much sympathy for members of the Negro race.