Strands of Bronze and Gold Read Free

together.

My godfather flung open the doors to my bedroom. I could feel his eyes on my face, gauging my reaction. I entered the room, prepared to appear delighted. There was no need for pretense. Obviously I was not to be treated as a pitiful, unwanted relation. I turned to M. de Cressac and tried to say the words “Thank you,” but no sound came out.
    He nodded, smiling. He understood.
    A world of underwater fantasy stretched before us. The bed, shaped like a gigantic opalescent seashell, was raised on a dais and swathed in a velvet coverlet the color of sea foam. Curtains of filmy green-blue, shot through with silver, hung about it, as well as mosquito netting that could be held down by posts in the footboard. The floor was of mottled blue marble, polished and slick as glass, while white-paneled walls held niches showcasing statues of dolphins and sea gods. Above the mantel, which was held up by alabaster mermaids, soared an undersea mosaic featuring starfish and seaweed done all in luminous blue, gray, and lavender mother-of-pearl,and in front of the fireplace squatted a massive round ottoman upholstered in crushed white velvet, tufted with pearls.
    I had always craved luxury, so this room was a delight, although my Puritan ancestors might well be turning over in their graves. I dashed from one beautiful item to another. I could scarcely believe I was now the proud owner of a dressing table stocked with a marble-backed hand mirror, combs, and brushes, as well as a glittering array of faceted crystal bottles and jars and pots of ointments and powders and perfumes. What would my brother Harry think if he saw me using these artifices? He used to tease that I was vain because he caught me gazing at myself in the mirror once. Perhaps he was right—certainly it was lovely to be young and fortunate and have my godfather say I resembled my mother, who had been a “beauty.”
    M. de Cressac might have been reading my mind because he said suddenly, “You favor your mother in more ways than hair and features. Your voice, the way you move, even your expression—as if you are thinking delightful, secret thoughts. I once called her
mon rayon de soleil
—a ray of sunshine.”
    “How well did you know her?”
    “Not as well as I wished.”
    “Won’t you tell me more about her? No one would ever answer my questions satisfactorily.”
    “Someday. When I am in the mood.”
    I lifted a pearl-handled pen shaped like a feather from the dainty lady’s desk. Every consideration had been prepared. “You’re too good, sir!” I cried. He was, indeed, too good, and I intended to enjoy every bit of it.
    He beamed down from his imposing height. “Allow me to be generous. I have lived too long without my … goddaughter.” He hesitated over the last word, lightly brushing a stray wisp of hair from my cheek. “Mrs. Duckworth will show you your powder closet and the wardrobes, which are stocked with a few ready-made frocks to make do until Madame Duclos can supply you with new ones.”
    “Surely I have enough for right now.” I felt I should protest at least a little. “After all, I’m in mourning still for my father.”
    “Ah, that is where I hope you will humor me.” He clasped his hands together beneath his chin. “Your father was a good friend to me. You know he was my attorney when I was in great trouble, and I mourn his death. However, I cannot bear to see you always drooping in black like a sad little starling. Will you not oblige me by coming out of mourning now? No one here will judge us for our breach of etiquette. You can honor your father in other ways. You must remember the happy times and tell me of them.”
    “I suppose I can do that,” I said doubtfully. If only my sister, Anne, were here to help me know if it were right. Or my eldest brother, Junius, who felt it his duty to instruct everyone in proper manners. I didn’t wish to be disrespectful to our father’s memory, but then again, M. de Cressac now