“What does matter is that Victorine needs to have about her people without any connection with that old life, who can urge her to take an interest in this country. Augusta—Mrs. Deaves—is an old friend of my elder sister’s. I was most lucky to meet her in Paris, and she most graciously undertook to accompany us west.
“But in California she has responsibilities of her own. She will be at hand, but she cannot remain constantly with Victorine. I know of your own present duties, Miss Penfold. To a somewhat lesser extent my sister, coming from an alien background, needs the same guidance Ashley Manor has given its students. I am happy that I may so turn to the daughter of Captain Penfold. Your father saved my mother’s life.” He spoke very forcibly. “I believe if his daughter will accept this commission I will have someone upon whom I may depend. Mr. Hogle must have made it clear to you that in no way will you be considered a governess. You will be a guest in our house, accompanying Victorine into society as if you were—say—a cousin. A sum will be banked quarterly for you to draw on as you please.”
“And how long”—I was glad my voice sounded businesslike, for my thoughts were troubled by the decision I must make in so short a time (and also because I found my employer a disturbing puzzle I did not understand; I was far too aware of him, of his strong personality)—“will this continue?”
“For at least a year.” He surprised me with the surety of that prompt reply. “Perhaps even longer. At the end of your duties I shall see that you do not lose by coming to our aid. You may then return east or a suitable place can be found for you in California. Ladies of culture are not too common there.”
At least he was not so blunt about my chances for an establishment as Madam Ashley had been. He was indeed a mixture of qualities—frank on some points to brusqueness, and fastidious on others. But I must have time to think.
“Be sure, sir”—I arose—“I shall give your offer a most serious consideration, and you will hear from me before Friday.”
When I was no longer in Alain Sauvage’s disturbing presence (for I readily admitted that he had troubled from the first my carefully cultivated serenity of mind) calm good sense returned. Of course I could not in three days prepare to tear up my life by the roots and go to live with total strangers for a year.
And I was thoroughly sure of that decision when I was once more closeted with Madam Ashley on my return.
“You have made up your mind?”
“Yes.” I was unsure but I would not let anyone know that. “I do not believe I am the person best suited for Mr. Sauvage’s purposes.”
“Why?” Her question was so blunt I was astounded. She sounded disappointed.
I explained that a quick departure into the unknown was unreasonable, that the situation between Miss Sauvage and her brother was an unhappy one, into which one as young as I should not be drawn. An older and more mature companion would be better able to handle family discord. As I talked I noted she had a letter spread on the desk at her hand. Now and then she glanced from me to that closely written page.
“Prudent and reasonable to be sure,” she commented. “However, after your departure, Miss Penfold, I received this letter from Mr. Sauvage. In it he stated that he might not be able to talk privately as he wished to any extent; therefore he asked me to be his intermediary. The situation is indeed a strange one, and I think he is right in believing he needs a young lady of proven discretion to handle it.
“First let me say that if you were not a seasoned traveler, having accompanied your father on his many voyages until the war broke out, I would agree that the short time of preparation would be a factor to consider. But the Sauvage party will be traveling in the greatest comfort and luxury. These private cars are like miniature fine hotels mounted on wheels. You will experience none of the fatigue and difficulties of an ordinary traveler, no need to change, no worry concerning tickets and the like, a full safety of luggage.
“Now as to your objection concerning the family situation. No one wants to act as a warden over another person. But in this case there is great need for an alert companion for Miss Sauvage. I must now enter into some distasteful facts necessary for you to know, which Mr. Sauvage could not reveal to a member of the opposite sex.
“Victorine, as you know, is not Mr. Sauvage’s full sister. There is a disparity of nearly twelve years in their ages, and very little family feeling. The second Madame Sauvage”—she hesitated—“was, shall I say, indiscreet. She would not accompany her husband to this country. In bald fact she accepted the protection of another man, one highly placed in French society.
“Nor did she inform her husband of the birth of Victorine. After a number of years her relationship with her protector was severed, and she disappeared soon after. Victorine meanwhile was left in the care of a kinswoman from the West Indies, a woman about whom there was also scandalous talk.
“About a year ago this woman died, leaving Victorine without a home, and she appealed to the brother she had never seen. Unfortunately while her French guardian was living she met a connection of her foster mother, a most unsuitable man from the West Indies. That this man hoped to use Victorine to force money from the Sauvages was Mr. Sauvage’s discovery.
“He went to France, took her from the vicinity of that fortune hunter, and from the very unhealthy atmosphere in which she had grown up. He hopes a complete change of scene will be beneficial since his sister is so young.
“But there is reason to think that the young man in question will not easily relinquish his proposed victim. Therefore Mr. Sauvage needs a companion to watch over his sister. To place a lady of mature years in this position would defeat his purpose. He hopes to win the confidence of his sister, rather than let her believe herself a prisoner in his house. A discreet young person near Victorine’s age, a young lady who speaks her native tongue, yet one well aware of the dangers of unwise acquaintances, is what he needs. And in that I concur. You would not be set in authority over Miss Sauvage; rather you shall be there to supply wholesome companionship, to introduce her to another life.”
She paused and I dared to voice my greatest objection:
“And to report upon her to her brother!”
“Naturally you shrink from such an idea,” Madam Ashley agreed. “But that is not what Mr. Sauvage wants. He wishes no report on his sister, but only knowledge of any stranger who attempts to meet her in a surreptitious manner. Your main duty would be to make life so pleasant and attractive as to persuade Victorine her brother wishes her well, with a bright and happy future before her. Does this allay the doubts raised by your natural scruples?”
“You advise me, then, to accept this position?”
“I believe it to be an opportunity such as one seldom is offered. But the decision must be entirely yours.”
Perhaps I had meant to say “yes” all the time, retreating behind my common sense because of a timidity which was not natural to me. Perhaps the wanderer’s blood bequeathed me by my father stirred now as I answered, reversing myself.
“I will say yes then—” It was excitement rising in me now, rather than fear, though it would have been far better had I allowed my first prudence full rein at that moment.
CHAPTER TWO
Friday morning Madam herself escorted me to the station. Now that there was no turning back I shivered, the palms of my hands damp within my gloves.
The Sauvage car was the last of the train, painted a dark green and with a brass-railed observation platform to the back. I could see passengers in the ordinary coaches ahead looking curiously for the passenger. Then Mr. Sauvage himself came to aid me.
I made my goodbyes in a flurry. The stares of the coach passengers were disconcerting. A lady, as had long been drilled into me, was never conspicuous. And my discomfort continued even as I went into the stateroom assigned me. But with the strangers’ eyes now gone, I looked around with interest, to realize how unlike the usual train this car was.
My private quarters was one of four small rooms, with a div
an to open out into a bed, a small table (fastened securely against the sway of the floor), a wardrobe, and, within a curtained cubby, a lavatory. I removed my hat and jacket, glanced into the mirror above the table to make sure I looked tidy, and then went in search of my fellow passengers.
Since the train was in motion now I felt unsteady walking the narrow carpeted corridor. It had been too many years since I had enjoyed the freedom of my father’s ship, known how to adjust to unstable footing. As I went I passed a fifth stateroom, much larger, with a big desk at which Mr. Sauvage was seated, a pile of papers before him.
Beyond that was the parlor-salon with built-in desk, and bookcases, several large comfortable chairs which could be swung on their pedestals so that one could watch, beyond heavily draped windows, the rapidly changing countryside. Mrs. Deaves was settled in one of these chairs, her back to the window as if she preferred to believe herself in an ordinary parlor. She had opened a large workbasket and skeins of silk were laid out on her knee as she matched color against color. She greeted me civilly but with no hint of any pleasure in my company. Of Victorine there was no sign so I ventured to ask where she might be.
“The poor child believes this motion makes her ill. She is lying down.” There was a trace of indifference in her voice, and I wondered if she agreed with Mr. Sauvage that his sister was using the excuse of illness to avoid contact with us.
It was doubtless my duty, and also only civil, to go and inquire about my hostess. There were indeed those who were sensitive to such motion. As I returned down the corridor I again saw Mr. Sauvage, deeply absorbed in his papers. For a moment I paused, without being quite conscious that I was staring rudely at my employer. The formal clothing he had worn at our first meeting had given him a stiff appearance, adding to his harshness of feature to make him seem a formidable person. But now he had laid aside the fine broadcloth and wore light trousers and a loose brown velvet sack coat. His shirt was unstarched and he had a scarf of soft red material knotted to draw the collar together at the throat. It was a style I had never seen before, but it made him seem far less severe.
“You wish, mam’selle?”
To my annoyance I both started and flushed as if I had been caught out in some breach of good manners.
Victorine’s maid held the next door open a little, eyeing me, I believed, with sly impudence.
“How is your mistress?” I asked in French. Perhaps my voice was a fraction tart, but I disliked the thought that the girl had been watching me before she spoke.
I had always believed that tales of one taking an instant dislike to another person at first meeting were exaggerated. But now I found this girl with her honey-golden skin, her dainty good looks, chilled me.
She wore a dark blue dress and a frilly apron (that more the badge of her service than for any practical purpose) and her hair was puffed and rolled up very modishly under a cap as much a token as the apron.
“She is—” Whatever she might have said was interrupted by an imperious voice.
“If that is Miss Penfold, Amélie, bid her enter.” The words, if accented, were in excellent English. Did Victorine really need any coaching in the language of her new home?
Amélie’s face was shadowed by a faint sullenness, but she squeezed to one side to let me by. As her hand dropped from the door panel I sighted something on her wrist which made me catch my breath, involuntarily throw out my own hand to strike it away.
“Look—on your wrist!”
My answer was laughter. Amélie put out her arm nearly at my eye level, to make very sure I would realize my mistake. All my life I have had a horror of spiders. One of my worst nightmares is to dream of such crawling on me. But now it was plain that what perched on the maid’s wrist was not a living creature but a spider intricately wrought in black enamel and gold, fixed to an arm-hugging bracelet.
“Z’araignée, Miss Penfold. It is chic to wear such insects, never real, naturellement, but fine copies. See—I, too, am in high fashion. I wear la Couleuvre.”
Victorine pointed to her own throat where, above the lacy collar of her chamber robe, coiled a snake with jeweled eyes, its tail caught in its mouth to make the circlet complete. It was a strange, and to me, unpleasant, piece of jewelry, certainly unsuitable for a young girl.
I thought I recognized a trace of slyness in her eyes. She was like one of the Ashley Manor girls testing a new teacher, trying to see how many freedoms might be taken. And that realization banished much of my nervousness; this attitude I had coped with before.
“That is indeed a fine piece of work, mademoiselle—”
“Not mademoiselle, I beg you. I am Victorine—and my brother has said you are Tamaris.” She stumbled a little in pronouncing my name. “You see, we are to be friends.
Only in truth yours is a name I find hard to say. Is it common in this America?”
“No. But it is an old one in my mother’s family, given to many generations of daughters.”
“Tamaris,” she repeated. “Now I begin to think it has a good sound. Come”—she reached out and caught my hand, drawing me down to sit beside her on the divan bed—“you must sit here while we talk and learn to be friends.”
“Mrs. Deaves said you were not feeling well—”
Victorine laughed and made a mischievous face. “A headache, yes. There was such a bustle to get off this morning. But Amélie brewed me her special tisane, then she rubbed my poor head, and—now the pain is gone! Also, I will tell you a secret, Tamaris—I have been with dear Augusta now for many long days, and I find her tedious. She watches me so closely. I am sure she has a tendresse for my brother and wishes to impress him with her care of his poor little sister. She is less clever than she believes and I will not take part in her little play. Me, I have no wish to call Augusta sister.”
She had herself been watching closely, watching me. Now she laughed again, louder.
“Do I startle you with the truth, Tamaris? Ah, but if everyone only spoke the truth many troubles could be avoided. Augusta thinks to use me to reach Alain and I—” Now she paused. “Poor Tamaris, you believe I have a tongue which wags too fast and free—even as my good bonne Sophie used to tell me when I was small. Let us hear of you.”
She questioned me frankly, so frankly that I could not be offended. For her questions showed a deep interest in my past and this could well be the way to win that confidence we must have between us if were to live together as Mr. Sauvage wished. So I told of my wandering years on board my father’s India Queen, of my time at the school in Brussels—and of my later life at Ashley Manor. That last establishment seemed to fascinate Victorine.
“A school for the making of young ladies! But can one make indeed a young lady from an aspiring female, Tamaris?” Her face was so comical when she demanded that I had to laugh.
“Of course the will to learn must be very much a part of it. Madam Ashley has had many successes, I assure you.”
“And now my dear brother wishes to make of me a young lady of the proper pattern.” The good humor vanished from her face. “Is that why you are with us, Tamaris?”
I decided that blunt frankness such as she had displayed already was my best approach. “No. I am with you because he believes you need a friend while you take your rightful place in our society. There are differences of many kinds between the customs of Europe and those of this country.”
“That I have already been told,” she said with a kind of smoldering emphasis.
There was a litter of small trifles strewn about, a lacy handkerchief, a vinaigrette, a small hand mirror, a fan. She picked up the mirror. The glass was framed in silver, the back embossed with a design of a cupid amid roses. Now she studied her reflection, not as might a vain person, but searchingly, as if she hunted for something important.
“They tell me,” she abruptly changed the subject, “that in this country marriages are not arranged by the family, that one can wed as one pleases.”
“But one’s family is still concerned fo
r one’s future and happiness,” I returned, wondering if I were now about to hear the story of the unwelcome suitor against which I was to form part of the barrier. “Those who love them strive to keep girls from mistakes which could be costly.”
“How correctly you answer!” Victorine yawned. “Amélie’s tisane—it is apt to make me sleepy. Tamaris—you will pardon me—”
My dismissal was rude enough to be irritating. But patience and the need for outer serenity are early learned in my profession. I said I was glad she could rest, and left.
As I emerged into the corridor I saw Amélie’s blue skirt whisk through the dining room door. She must be going to the galley. Suddenly I was tired, too. And the idea of a rest in my stateroom was irresistible.
Once there I changed my dress for a loose wrapper, curled up on the divan with my mother’s India shawl to draw over me. That had been my prized possession for so long. Unlike the Chinese ones, or the English ones we now use, it had been fashioned in the old way of many small strips of fine weaving embroidered together into a harmonious whole. I ran my hands over it lovingly, allowing memory to flood my mind.
But my roving fingers encountered a small hard lump I did not remember. Sitting up I examined the hem edge closely. There was a tiny bag, hardly thicker around than a stout cord, whipped in to lay as flat as possible at the base of the fringe. Had it not been for my stroking it might have gone unnoticed for a long time. With the scissors from my workbox I snipped with extreme care until I had it loose.
I found no opening but it was filled with something. Finally I used the points of my scissors to pull at some very tiny stitches at one end. Then I pinched the gap shut until I found in the small desk a sheet of paper onto which I could shake those contents.