arose—
Mrs. Deaves got to her feet. Noticing the deepening flush of her face, I speculated as to whether she was beginning to regret the combination of an ample meal, those glasses of champagne, and her tight lacing. She made a slurred excuse and went to her room.
Victorine yawned. “Me—I am sleepy also. But in the morning”—she smiled as might a small child promised some treat—“we shall then explore this city. Shopping I love!” Her full lips (which sometimes with their ever-moistness seemed at variance with her girl’s face in a way I found odd but could not explain why) curved into one of those smiles with which she could ever entrance. “We can dream tonight of what is to be seen tomorrow.”
I entered my own room to discover someone there before me. Laying out my lawn nightgown was a maid I had not seen before. She was a Negro of middle years (though it is difficult to judge the age of those of another race), plain of face and thick of body under a dark blue cotton dress. Her apron was no froth of ruffled lawn such as Amélie wore, but plainly serviceable, and her cap hid all but a fringe of hair on her forehead.
She bobbed a curtsy. “I’se Hattie, Miss. I do for ladies does they want—” With her eyes cast down, she waited for orders. Something in her air of patient submission made me uncomfortable. It reminded me of those times before the war when my father, a man opposed to slavery and all it stood for (considering that it demeaned both masterand slave), had engaged in secret actions I had not understood. The India Queen had several times carried dark-skinned passengers, not on any official listing, from such ports as New Orleans and Charleston.
CHAPTER FOUR
I was quick to assure Hattie I did not need her assistance but was careful to thank her for the offer. As she left with a soft-footed tread, I unhooked my bodice, my memory going back through the years to things my father and I had never discussed.
There had been a woman then, a very strange person with an air of authority, though she had worn the plain dress of an upper servant. She had dined with us twice on board the India Queen in the port of New Orleans, and afterward my father had sent me to my cabin while he talked with her in private. She had been introduced only as Mrs. Smith, a name which did not fit her, and her serene manner had been accented by the oddness of her eyes, one being blue, the other hazel. Her skin had been olive, her hair dark, and she was handsome, with soft and pleasing manners.
Afterward my father had cautioned me not to mention her visits, and I had always been sure that she had had something to do with the escape of slaves. Since those days I had never seen her, but now I recalled her as plainly as if she had been the maid I found in my room.
I firmly dismissed that particularly clear flash of memory as I picked up my hairbrush. The top of the dressing table was not littered as the one that served Victorine, which I had last seen in the greatest confusion. I had no set of scent bottles with blown-glass butterflies for stoppers, nor any other of the pretty clutter she gathered so easily. My possessions might be termed schoolmarm neat and so I could detect that they had been moved.
One of the first things I had unpacked was a curious box, my father’s last gift to me. It had been made somewhere in the Far East of carved wood, parts of the design inlaid with mother-of-pearl. In it I always kept mementos of my family—the miniature of my mother which my father had given me, one of himself he had had painted at my urging, a few old letters, my mother’s wedding lines, a letter to her from my long-dead grandmother. None of these had any value save for me.
The box had been moved. I set aside my brush to pick up the coffer. Its catch was a secret one, or so I had believed. For it was located in the carving where one must insert a fingertip to release it.
I needed only to glance within to know that the order
Mrs. Deaves got to her feet. Noticing the deepening flush of her face, I speculated as to whether she was beginning to regret the combination of an ample meal, those glasses of champagne, and her tight lacing. She made a slurred excuse and went to her room.
Victorine yawned. “Me—I am sleepy also. But in the morning”—she smiled as might a small child promised some treat—“we shall then explore this city. Shopping I love!” Her full lips (which sometimes with their ever-moistness seemed at variance with her girl’s face in a way I found odd but could not explain why) curved into one of those smiles with which she could ever entrance. “We can dream tonight of what is to be seen tomorrow.”
I entered my own room to discover someone there before me. Laying out my lawn nightgown was a maid I had not seen before. She was a Negro of middle years (though it is difficult to judge the age of those of another race), plain of face and thick of body under a dark blue cotton dress. Her apron was no froth of ruffled lawn such as Amélie wore, but plainly serviceable, and her cap hid all but a fringe of hair on her forehead.
She bobbed a curtsy. “I’se Hattie, Miss. I do for ladies does they want—” With her eyes cast down, she waited for orders. Something in her air of patient submission made me uncomfortable. It reminded me of those times before the war when my father, a man opposed to slavery and all it stood for (considering that it demeaned both masterand slave), had engaged in secret actions I had not understood. The India Queen had several times carried dark-skinned passengers, not on any official listing, from such ports as New Orleans and Charleston.
CHAPTER FOUR
I was quick to assure Hattie I did not need her assistance but was careful to thank her for the offer. As she left with a soft-footed tread, I unhooked my bodice, my memory going back through the years to things my father and I had never discussed.
There had been a woman then, a very strange person with an air of authority, though she had worn the plain dress of an upper servant. She had dined with us twice on board the India Queen in the port of New Orleans, and afterward my father had sent me to my cabin while he talked with her in private. She had been introduced only as Mrs. Smith, a name which did not fit her, and her serene manner had been accented by the oddness of her eyes, one being blue, the other hazel. Her skin had been olive, her hair dark, and she was handsome, with soft and pleasing manners.
Afterward my father had cautioned me not to mention her visits, and I had always been sure that she had had something to do with the escape of slaves. Since those days I had never seen her, but now I recalled her as plainly as if she had been the maid I found in my room.
I firmly dismissed that particularly clear flash of memory as I picked up my hairbrush. The top of the dressing table was not littered as the one that served Victorine, which I had last seen in the greatest confusion. I had no set of scent bottles with blown-glass butterflies for stoppers, nor any other of the pretty clutter she gathered so easily. My possessions might be termed schoolmarm neat and so I could detect that they had been moved.
One of the first things I had unpacked was a curious box, my father’s last gift to me. It had been made somewhere in the Far East of carved wood, parts of the design inlaid with mother-of-pearl. In it I always kept mementos of my family—the miniature of my mother which my father had given me, one of himself he had had painted at my urging, a few old letters, my mother’s wedding lines, a letter to her from my long-dead grandmother. None of these had any value save for me.
The box had been moved. I set aside my brush to pick up the coffer. Its catch was a secret one, or so I had believed. For it was located in the carving where one must insert a fingertip to release it.
I needed only to glance within to know that the order
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