Authors: Andre Norton
“Before slavery was abolished she is known to have used certain provisions of California law to free slaves
being returned against their will to the South. She contributed substantial funds to the Union cause during the war, and since then has set up freed slaves in various businesses—a laundry, a livery stable, a saloon, and the like. She runs an informal servant agency supplying all types of well-trained servants, not only to hotels, but also to private families.”
“This all sounds as if she is an estimable person in every way. Yet your manner suggests that it is not entirely true,” I observed.
“The rest is only rumor. She is reputed to have learned discreditable secrets of those people over whom she desires a measure of control. Thus she may bring pressure to bear to further her own ends. But, I repeat, that is the report of rumor. Truth is only what may be proved. However, I would not want any lady of my acquaintance to know Mrs. Pleasant.”
“Thank you. Your frankness has been most helpful.”
“There is one other thing.” Now he seemed embarrassed, as if he were about to repeat something I would find absurd. “She is also spoken of as being a ‘voodoo queen.’ That is, I believe, a high priestess of some form of mumbo-jumbo—”
“Voodoo!” Such was indeed allied to fortune telling. Had not the Voodoo Queen of New Orleans, Marie Laveau, been supposed to foretell as well as curse? She I had heard of, and a woman of intelligence, retaining in her employ the uneducated and the superstitious, could profitably pretend to occult powers.
“But that is all nonsense, naturally,” he added quickly. “And—”
Whatever more he would have said was lost as Victorine entered, a sheet of notepaper in her hand.
“Tamaris,” she began eagerly, then, sighting Mr. Cantrell, she greeted him with a smile and addressed herself to him in one of those bursts of childish elation which sometimes made her seem younger than her years.
“Monsieur, for you to venture out on such an evening, even as the bearer of very good news—this is an act of
true kindness. Why, outside it is already like night.” She gave a delicate but slightly exaggerated shiver. Mr. Cantrell was already completely bemused.
“Amélie shall make us chocolate, such as I am sure you cannot find elsewhere in this foggy country, and you must drink a cup with us. A small reward for such good news! Only think, Tamaris, tomorrow we may flee this wet and dark! We are to go to my brother’s home in the country. Mr. Cantrell is to escort us, which is very obliging of him. Now, is this not something to rejoice over?”
She was gay, as utterly charming as she could be when she wished, ushering our guest to a chair, calling to Amélie to make haste. Yet (I grew more and more certain that I knew her very little indeed) I had the impression that her signs of pleasure were all surface only and that she was not as happy as she would have us believe.
I do not imagine Mr. Cantrell found the chocolate as satisfying as Victorine promised. But, since it was she who had poured his cup, he manfully sipped at the sweet contents until Mrs. Deaves joined us.
She made a magnificent entrance (for all my dislike I could not deny that she was both handsome and imposing) in a velvet gown of a deep garnet shade, with a profusion of fringe and beaded trimming. Carrying her velvet cloak banded in fur, there came behind her a tall, thin woman of rather severe countencance.
Victorine’s eyes widened in what I was sure was a mock awe.
“Très chic, chère
Augusta. But before you leave you must hear our good news. My brother has at last sent a message. He wishes us to go to this Rancho del Sol tomorrow. Mr. Cantrell will escort us.”
Plainly Mrs. Deaves did not find this news pleasing.
“But it is imperative that I remain in the city at least one day more—there is a matter of business,” she protested.
“We understand, Augusta, as will Alain. He has said many times that he knew you could not devote all your days to me and my affairs once we came here. He does not expect such a sacrifice from you.”
Victorine’s eyelids dropped demurely but that she was watching Mrs. Deaves was also plain. That she enjoyed such concealed sparring I had already learned.
“We shall be very safe with Mr. Cantrell.”
Mrs. Deaves hardly glanced at the young man who had arisen at her coming and now stood with chocolate cup in hand.
“I do not understand why Alain did not inform us directly—” the older woman began when Victorine interrupted.
“Oh, but he did, Augusta. He sent a telegram, which Mr. Cantrell delivered. It was addressed to me and to Tamaris, since, of course, we were the two most concerned. He did not mention you, doubtless because he knew you had your own affairs to attend to.”
For all my dislike of Mrs. Deaves I was forced to admire her quick acceptance of the situation. Perhaps she did not yet realize the enmity which lay beneath Victorine’s courtesy. But she made so instant a recovery that I thought only one well versed to twists of fortune in the past could do so.
Though she made a point of her own by claiming Mr. Cantrell’s escort as far as the ladies’ parlor below, and he had no excuse but to comply. Teresa draped her cloak about her shoulders, handed her her fan and evening handkerchief. Then without noticing us the maid stalked back into her mistress’s chamber and closed the door firmly, just as the outer one shut behind Mrs. Deaves and Mr. Cantrell.
Victorine gave a gurgle of laughter. “How angry she is, our Augusta. Though she tries hard not to show it. She wanted to go with us, to move in as if she already has Alain’s ring firmly around one of those fat fingers of hers. But that she will never have—never!”
She laughed again, in a different way. Not the carefree laughter of a young girl who had routed authority, rather a sound which carried anger. Then she changed the subject abruptly.
“What do you think, Tamaris, of this so stiff Monsieur
Cantrell? That he ever tasted chocolate before I cannot believe. But he was too polite to make an ugly face. He is rather like a bear, I think, a big, clumsy bear walking on hind feet. When my brother says ‘Up—do this—do that!’ he obeys.”
Her voice trailed into silence. Then she added in a return of her childish voice, “Tamaris, do not pull your face so—” She achieved an expression of prim outrage which made me smile against my will. “You think I say improper things, such as a
jeune fille,
one of your ‘finished’ young ladies, would not. But I am me, Victorine! I cannot be cut and trimmed, pushed in, pushed out, to be the proper young lady. I can only be myself.” There was a serious note in that such as I had not heard from her before. “I
must
be myself!”
She put down her cup with force enough to produce a sharp click as the china met the silver tray. Then she went to the window.
“A full moon, there should be a full moon tonight. Yet I can see nothing but this fog, this stifling fog! I think I do not like this city.”
The intensity of her tone made me uneasy.
“You will be leaving tomorrow,” I reminded her.
Victorine presented a puzzle which grew more complex with every hour I knew her. At times she was like the girls I had taught, though she always lacked much of their silliness. On other occasions she became another person, and it was with that one I was uneasy.
However, she might be happy in the thought that here society was more fluid, did not erect barriers too quickly. The criteria they themselves imposed was that those who had arrived in the 1840s and 50s were “founding fathers” if they prospered.
A dearth of women during that period had led to some strange mésalliances which would never have been accepted in the East. There were women now wearing too many diamonds, driving in too opulent carriages, who had held menial—and even less mentionable—stations in life.
The wealth they paraded before each other’s eyes was often ephemeral. A mine’s rich yield could fail, other chances reduce the wealth of a millionaire within months or weeks. So here was a society where the having—and holding—of money was the measuring stick.
Victorine came from another background, but of a society (even though it might not have been entirely respectable by American standards) which was so old as to be decadent. She was different but here her difference might not matter so much and she could march confidently ahead, or maybe in the raw newness she might unwittingly invite disaster. It was my responsibility to see that the latter did not happen, though I felt as if I myself needed compass bearings.
“Let us order dinner, Tamaris.” She came away from the window. “That fog—it crowds against the pane. Amélie—” At her call the maid appeared. “Light the lamps, please, all of them. I do not like the fog.”
I saw to it no champagne was served with our meal. And that the wine Victorine considered a necessary part of any meal was only a light one. She smiled as we sat down.
“No champagne? But, Tamaris, in San Francisco everyone drinks that. However”—she leaned over to pat the back of my hand with her fingertips—“this night I shall be good. Were you, Tamaris, in that school of yours always so strict and stern? Tell me again about the school, and how you first lived on the ship.”
Victorine made such amusing comments, was so much her amiable self, that I began to believe, with Mrs. Deaves removed, I could establish a firm base for a friendship. And I pushed my worries to the back of my mind with hopes that there they would fade into nothingness.
My companion went early to bed and I sought my own chambers, taking with me some magazines, for I was not sleepy. Victorine had been right, I saw, looking out of the window. The fog pressed against the panes, in truth, like some soft beast striving to get in. That morbid thought brought a shiver with it as I let the draperies fall again.
CHAPTER SIX
That thick mist appeared to muffle sound. In my chamber only the ticking of the clock broke the silence. And that quiet had a heavy, oppressive quality, smothering—pushing my thoughts into dark corners.
I sought sleep which did not come, reading words without comprehending. Slowly I became aware that I was listening—though for what I did not know. Finally I pushed aside the magazines and arose, a little bewildered. I had heard of second sight, but that night I had the feeling I stood on the edge of a vast dark pool into which some unseen, un-understood menace sought to push me.
As I fought my nerves, strove to control my imagination, there came a sound louder than the clock’s steady ticking—the soft closing of a door in the parlor beyond.
My own door stood slightly ajar or I would not have heard that. Now I opened it yet farther so I could view a shortened vista of the parlor. By the hall door, hand on knob, stood a figure wearing one of the long waterproof cloaks. This could not be Teresa, she was much taller; and Mrs. Deaves, I was sure, had not yet returned.
The cloak fell back a fraction and I caught a flash of vivid yellow. That was the color of one of Victorine’s dresses which Mrs. Deaves had ruled far too strident to be worn. Victorine so dressed, and stealthily making an exit!
Even as I moved to intercept her she slid around the hall door in a manner which could only be described as furtive. I could not pursue her into a public corridor wearing only a wrapper over a nightgown, and could I really be sure it
was
Victorine?
I looked into her chamber. The night lamp burned and I knew instant relief when I saw the bed occupied. Though the sleeping girl had her head turned away. But
there was no mistaking the dark hair straying from under the lace-bordered nightcap. Then who—?
Amélie! Amélie wearing one of her mistress’s dresses, probably bound for some disreputable rendezvous. At last I would have the proof I needed to remove such an influence from Victorine’s life.
And I determined to wait for the maid’s return so I could confront her. I heard Mrs. Deaves come in, but I did not try to talk to her. Unless I could make my influence felt by Victorine unaided, I was a failure in my present position of trust, and Mr. Sauvage would have to find someone better qualified.
As the night wore on wearily, so did my thoughts become darker. At the soft chime of one from the clock I perceived the flaw in my plan. Amélie might not return here at all. Her quarters were not with us, but among those provided for maids of the visitors. She might only have come for the dress, thinking to smuggle it back unseen in the morning during the flurry of our packing—and again I would have no proof.
I paced the chilly room, fighting sleep. When the hands on the clock pointed to one-thirty and I was wavering like one drunk, I knew I was lost. Instead I must watch tomorrow for the return of the dress. As I stumbled to bed I tried to plan coherently, but a fog of sleep, as thick as the mist against the windows, swallowed me.
A sharp rapping brought me awake. It took me a moment to realize where I was and there were the bright lines of daylight around the edges of the window shades. Stumbling, I reached the door.
“Tamaris? Are you ill?” Victorine faced me with what I believed was real concern. “It is so late. We feared there was something wrong—”
Late? I was fully roused. Of course, we were supposed to leave for the country this morning! But I had never overslept before. And, if Victorine was as ready to go as her dress implied, her packing must already be done. I had had no chance to look for the yellow gown.
“Mr. Cantrell will be here in less than an hour.” Mrs. Deaves, looking as heavy-eyed as I felt, appeared behind
Victorine. “Surely, Miss Penfold, you realize the importance of being ready?”
“Poof—what does time matter?” Victorine broke in. “Take all the time you need, Tamaris. I shall order those rolls you like, and some coffee while you dress. Do not worry about packing; Amélie is very accomplished and she will see to that. We cannot take our trunks in the carriage anyway—they are to follow. But Mr. Cantrell promises they shall be there as soon as we are.”
She closed the door before I could refuse Amélie’s assistance. And I was forced to admit that if I handled my own packing I would delay our departure. Why had I not attended to some of this last night when I tried to keep that useless vigil? Was I losing the practical good sense I had always prided myself on possessing? Pride, as we know, is a sin.
Amélie brought in a breakfast tray and straightway set about working to fill my trunk and bag, working swiftly, expertly. She offered to dress my hair or otherwise assist in my toilet, but this I refused. When I had finished my rolls, hooked the last fastening on my bodice, she had made more headway than I could have thought possible, pausing once to suggest the taking of the heavier of my two jackets as the day was chill.
It was not the barouche waiting for us this time. Rather a five-glass landau providing more room for a lengthy drive. Victorine was handed to the seat of first choice in the right-hand rear, I took the left, and Mr. Cantrell sat facing us, his back to the horses. There was no sign of fog as the carriage moved through crowded streets, giving way to horse-car and dray when necessary. In turn we were trailed by a larger and less elegant vehicle transporting our luggage under Amélie’s guardianship.
The morning was pleasant, though cold. Thus we were glad of the white fur rug over our knees, the velvet foot cushions between our boots and the floor. Mr. Cantrell pointed out sites of interest as we passed. At first Victorine attended to him, then her eyelids began to droop as if her night had been no more restful than mine. But I remained alert enough to give him polite heed.
We stopped at posting stations at intervals for changes of horses. Each new team led out, Mr. Cantrell explained, was of Mr. Sauvage’s own stable, kept there with groom paid by him for just such service. So our pace was as swift and steady as the nature of the road allowed. If San Francisco had tried to smother us with fog, the country of the Rancho del Sol, I discovered, presented just the opposite, a blaze of sun.
Though the name of the humble ranch buildings which had once stood on the site had been retained, the edifice now occupying that site was far different. I had seen some of the ancient and beautiful chateaux in Europe, and in addition those manors erected along the Hudson River a hundred years earlier—also the impressive mansions now rising in New York. But this sprawling compound of many styles, all ostentatious and opulent, was such I could not find words to describe it.
On the first morning under its roof we trailed through many rooms, the housekeeper, Mrs. Landron, manifestly taking pride in what she had to display. I already knew that the “rancho” was not of Mr. Sauvage’s building. Rather it was the magniloquent expression of one Harvery Pickering, a gold-rich Forty-niner, who had apparently given a captive architect instructions to produce to the last fantastic detail some weird dream.
When fever carried Mr. Pickering away from its forty rooms, a sad discovery followed. To the wrath of his heirs all his estate was the house and the land into which he had poured his wealth. Since an enterprise in which Mr. Sauvage had a major part held the mortgage on the estate, it so passed into the hands of a new owner.
We began our tour eagerly, praising here, uttering the proper exclamations of astonishment and gratification there. But the smothering luxury piled upon luxury soon raised in one only the desire to escape—get away from these miles of marble or polished floors, the league upon league of velvet drapery, of walls covered with silk or painted murals.
There was a Pompeian room and a Chinese room which (except for some treasures of oriental art displayed far too
close together to enhance their clean beauty) was very much the idea of the “Chinese” entertained by someone who had never visited that venerable country.
A white and gold parlor possessed not one but two rock crystal chandeliers, display cabinets of rosewood lined with rose velvet to hold such a medley of precious trinkets it would take weeks to make any pretense of seeing them all.
Walls in another room were painted with a mural of terraces and ruins. That was the breakfast parlor, opening in turn into a glass-enclosed veranda fitted, Mrs. Landron told us, with proper reverence, with hot-water pipes to maintain a constant semitropical heat and offering a sheltered walk with a conservatory of strange plants and flowers and an aviary of birds as beautiful as if flowers had broken from some stems and winged about.
There were too many marvels, far too many. I was overwhelmed into silence. Even Victorine gave few glances about her. Finally, when we were shown a very masculine library, she said, “This is indeed of great magnificence, madame. We are left speechless. And my brother must be pleased, it is all so well kept.”
Mrs. Landron radiated pride. “Mr. Sauvage has always been satisfied.”
“How can he be otherwise?” Victorine smiled. “But it is just so very much!”
“Rancho del Sol is a very well-appointed gentleman’s residence,” Mrs. Landron replied complacently. I thought she looked upon this splendor possessively, as, being its first guardian, she had become in a measure also its owner.
Yet to me it was a jumbled mansion, a series of tasteless showrooms rather than a home. There were so many rarities that their numbers destroyed the beauty they would have provided for the eyes had they been fewer and better placed.
As we stood in the center hall above which, two stories high, curved a dome of golden glass to provide a counterfeit sun glow, Victorine fingered the robe of a marble
figure, nymph or goddess, who held high a torch to illuminate the first steps of the grand staircase.
“I am so vey tired,” she said in that tone that usually foretold one of those languid periods of hers—which I was not yet sure were the result of real physical fatigue or her expression of boredom. “I think that—”
She was interrupted by one of the footmen appearing with a salver on which rested two cards. Visitors—
Victorine lifted the top card. “Mrs. Arthur Beall,” she read, then she glanced to the second. “Mr. Henry Beall. Who may these people be?”
She sounded petulant and I gave her a warning glance. If she had listened at all to Mrs. Deaves’ gossip she would remember that the Bealls were the nearest neighbors (if they might be termed so when miles of the two estates lay between us). We must be civil, no matter how inopportune their visit.
“They are our neighbors, remember what Mrs. Deaves said?” Before Mrs. Landron I could not be frank about my charge assuming the role of her brother’s hostess. I had yet to see Victorine in the society of her peers and I hoped no whim or carelessness would complicate her local acceptance.
“But, of course. You will show them to the White Drawing Room, if you please. So very kind and thoughtful of them to bid us welcome. Come, Tamaris, let us not keep our first guests waiting.”
I sighed with relief. Morning calls never lasted long. And perhaps she was also aware of the need for making a good first impression.
We reached the White Drawing Room only a few seconds before our guests were ushered in. Mrs. Beall was in advance, accompanied by Mrs. Landron herself, with whom she exchanged some pleasantry about the weather. She was a woman of early middle age, but one who used every artifice known to preserve the remains of what must have been truly startling beauty.
Her elaborately dressed hair was of that bright auburn shade decreed to be most handsome for this season, though her skin showed a matte complexion which is more
often combined with dark locks. By the left corner of her mouth was a single beauty spot, drawing attention to the ripe, promising curves of her lips.
For she was one of those rare women who, without in the least losing any dignity of manner, exude a physical charm which we as a sex are not supposed to note or admit exists. I have seen only a few women who have it, but with Mrs. Beall it was noticeable and—to me—slightly repellent.
“Miss Sauvage?” She looked from one of us to the other, seeking the daughter of the house.
Victorine did not answer. A glance in her direction instantly disturbed me. She was very pale—had her plea of being tired really been true? She stood by a chair, her hand resting on its back as if she needed some support to steady her. I watched her fingers tighten on the carved wood until the knuckles stood out in knobs. And I had already taken a step, fearing she was about to faint, when she spoke.
“But, of course, you would not know.” She laughed and to me that sound was forced. “I am Victorine Sauvage, and this is my friend, Miss Tamaris Penfold.” She flashed a smile in my direction so fleeting it was as if she did not see me at all.
“Miss Sauvage, Miss Penfold,” Mrs. Beall acknowledged the introduction. “May I present my stepson Henry—”
She had stressed that “step,” maybe for the best of reasons. For anyone who wished to cling to the semblance of youth could not have acknowledged this hearty young man as her own.
Hearty he was, thick through shoulders and neck, with a red, full face, and hair so fair that his eyebrows and lashes appeared almost white. He did not seem the type to be paying morning calls, attending ladies in a drawing room. I could better picture him out in some hay field, his shirt sleeves well rolled up those heavy muscular arms. This scion of the Beall name, for all his superfine clothes, was lumpish and awkward. How unlike Mr. Sauvage. Broadcloth and linen did not become my employer
too well either, but in the western dress he still possessed authority and dignity. Henry Beall had neither.
He made all the proper responses, conducted himself correctly if stiffly. His eyes, after one sweep over me, never left Victorine. And there was something not too likable in the way he watched her. However, judging by the response of Mr. Cantrell and this young Beall, Victorine might well be the belle of the coming season.
The Bealls did not linger, remaining exactly the correct time, wishing us a pleasant stay in the country with all the conventional polite phrases, suggesting further meetings when we were settled in. But, I noted, Mrs. Beall did not push such vague invitations; it was her stepson who repeated suggestions of future pleasurable outings.