maid is? Her mistress is ill.”
“ ’Deed no, miss.” Her capped head swung from side to side. “Mebbe I can do fo’ the lady. There’s Doctuh Beech—he’s right down the hall a ways. Though it’s early for genlemens to be comin’ up yet—”
As she spoke she joined me by the bed, leaning forward to stare at Victorine with what I thought was avid curiosity but little compassion. Then I was sure it was not at the face of the girl that Hattie was gazing so intently, but at the ugly necklace Victorine so favored that she wore it almost constantly—the gold and enameled snake.
Drugged, or under the influence of too much wine? In either case I hesitated about calling an unknown doctor. But I could summon Mrs. Deaves. As I opened my mouth to order Hattie to do just that, someone brushed by me, swung around to face us both, as if to protect her mistress. Amélie, holding a small pot in both hands, eyed me fiercely, her attitude one of outrage.
“What do you here?” she demanded in French. “My lady—why do you come to disturb her?”
I refused to be intimidated. “She is ill. This is no normal sleep.” I replied in the same language.
“But, of course, she has taken one of her powders. Her poor head, it was aching. I went to fetch her this tisane,I know how to make her comfortable. Now you will wake her and the pain will return—” Amélie crowded us away from the bed, the pot still held before her as if that were a weapon she might use in Victorine’s defense.
I heard a loud gasp from Hattie. The older woman was cowering away, her attention upon the girl’s wrist, her eyes wide. She was staring at that gruesome spider bracelet which Amélie wore with the same devotion to the piece as her mistress showed in her preference for the snake necklace. With an inarticulate cry Hattie ran from the room.
Amélie smiled and said something in her patois. But the smile was gone in an instant as she looked once more to me.
“It is true what I say. My lady is asleep. Soon she will wake and want her tisane. Then her head will be better and all will be well with her.”
I was sure that I was not reading concern for her mistress so much in her eyes now, as a cold and calculated dislike for me. However, her explanation had such logic I was forced to accept it. There were yet some days before Mr. Sauvage would join us, but I intended to report this scene to him when I could.
Amélie, her attitude near open impertinence, followed me to the door. That she closed firmly behind me, like one raising a drawbridge of a castle against the enemy. I still wondered if it was the wine or something else which had affected Victorine but I did not have the knowledge or the opportunity of proving any suspicion.
When I awoke in the morning memory flooded back. As I dressed I stared at the long wardrobe mirror, without being the least aware of my own reflection therein, but seeing in my mind the fan with its hidden compartment. How foollish had I been not to bring that with me when I left Victorine’s room. I recalled now there had been initials inlaid over the compartment—but I somehow did not think those had been either a V or an S.
The room was chilly. Both Mrs. Deaves and Mr. Sauvage had warned that spring in San Francisco did not mean warmth and balmy air. Rather ladies here held to their furslong after those were laid aside elsewhere. So I chose a heavy dress, one of violet silk and worsted, its drapery and bodice trimmed with bands of deep purple velvet. And before I went into the parlor I took Mama’s shawl, the cheerfulness of its color, as well as its warmth, heartening me.
Victorine was already posted at a window. The fog was gone this morning, but the day was gray and overcast. She, however, was in a sunny mood, her gaiety heightened by the bright blue of her dress.
“The shops—they are already open. Do you not long to visit them, Tamaris? See”—she gestured to a settee where rested a small hat of beplumed
“ ’Deed no, miss.” Her capped head swung from side to side. “Mebbe I can do fo’ the lady. There’s Doctuh Beech—he’s right down the hall a ways. Though it’s early for genlemens to be comin’ up yet—”
As she spoke she joined me by the bed, leaning forward to stare at Victorine with what I thought was avid curiosity but little compassion. Then I was sure it was not at the face of the girl that Hattie was gazing so intently, but at the ugly necklace Victorine so favored that she wore it almost constantly—the gold and enameled snake.
Drugged, or under the influence of too much wine? In either case I hesitated about calling an unknown doctor. But I could summon Mrs. Deaves. As I opened my mouth to order Hattie to do just that, someone brushed by me, swung around to face us both, as if to protect her mistress. Amélie, holding a small pot in both hands, eyed me fiercely, her attitude one of outrage.
“What do you here?” she demanded in French. “My lady—why do you come to disturb her?”
I refused to be intimidated. “She is ill. This is no normal sleep.” I replied in the same language.
“But, of course, she has taken one of her powders. Her poor head, it was aching. I went to fetch her this tisane,I know how to make her comfortable. Now you will wake her and the pain will return—” Amélie crowded us away from the bed, the pot still held before her as if that were a weapon she might use in Victorine’s defense.
I heard a loud gasp from Hattie. The older woman was cowering away, her attention upon the girl’s wrist, her eyes wide. She was staring at that gruesome spider bracelet which Amélie wore with the same devotion to the piece as her mistress showed in her preference for the snake necklace. With an inarticulate cry Hattie ran from the room.
Amélie smiled and said something in her patois. But the smile was gone in an instant as she looked once more to me.
“It is true what I say. My lady is asleep. Soon she will wake and want her tisane. Then her head will be better and all will be well with her.”
I was sure that I was not reading concern for her mistress so much in her eyes now, as a cold and calculated dislike for me. However, her explanation had such logic I was forced to accept it. There were yet some days before Mr. Sauvage would join us, but I intended to report this scene to him when I could.
Amélie, her attitude near open impertinence, followed me to the door. That she closed firmly behind me, like one raising a drawbridge of a castle against the enemy. I still wondered if it was the wine or something else which had affected Victorine but I did not have the knowledge or the opportunity of proving any suspicion.
When I awoke in the morning memory flooded back. As I dressed I stared at the long wardrobe mirror, without being the least aware of my own reflection therein, but seeing in my mind the fan with its hidden compartment. How foollish had I been not to bring that with me when I left Victorine’s room. I recalled now there had been initials inlaid over the compartment—but I somehow did not think those had been either a V or an S.
The room was chilly. Both Mrs. Deaves and Mr. Sauvage had warned that spring in San Francisco did not mean warmth and balmy air. Rather ladies here held to their furslong after those were laid aside elsewhere. So I chose a heavy dress, one of violet silk and worsted, its drapery and bodice trimmed with bands of deep purple velvet. And before I went into the parlor I took Mama’s shawl, the cheerfulness of its color, as well as its warmth, heartening me.
Victorine was already posted at a window. The fog was gone this morning, but the day was gray and overcast. She, however, was in a sunny mood, her gaiety heightened by the bright blue of her dress.
“The shops—they are already open. Do you not long to visit them, Tamaris? See”—she gestured to a settee where rested a small hat of beplumed
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