Angelique ate breakfast alone at a table set with two plates. Barnabas did not return from visiting Ben Stokes. The toast she had made for him went dry. The coffee turned bitter and cold, and no amount of sugar could sweeten it.
Donning her hooded cloak and knitted mittens, she ventured outside. Snow had fallen overnight—a typical January in Maine, so she was told, but the icy weather was more harsh than anything she had ever known. Cold scratched her throat. It clawed at her cheeks. It transformed her breath into clouds of vapors. By the time she reached the stables behind the house, her jaw chattered uncontrollably.
This forsaken place is like the very core of Dante's Hell, she thought. Pushing up the barn door's crossbar, she entered the cold dark place that stank of horses and manure-soaked straw. "Hello? Is anyone here?"
She strolled the center avenue and counted the horses in the stalls. One was missing—the chestnut bay stallion that Barnabas preferred. Checking the wall of tack, she noticed that his favorite saddle and bridle was also missing. Has he abandoned me? That doesn't make sense! Our argument was not so terrible as all that. Would he ride away in the snow without a shirt or shoes?
Angelique started back for the house.
On the path, a man called out, "Mrs. Collins!" At first she did not respond; she was not yet used to people calling her by her married name. The servant jogged up to meet her. His name was John Riggs, an Irishman of average build who was barely recognizable under his layers of coat, cloak, scarf, hood, and rusty beard.
"Yes. Riggs, is it?"
"You're very kind to remember me, Mrs. Collins." He touched the edge of his cape's hood, where the brim of a cap would be, and offered her a bow.
Angelique drew herself up proud and tall, like the lady she now was. She gracefully accepted his bowing to her. "Shall we go into the house to talk?"
"It'll only take a moment of your time. I have a message from Mister Collins, that is, Mister Barnabas. He said he had to go into the shipyards today, very early, and won't be back until this evening."
"I understand, thank you."
Angelique took a step. The man hopped to keep up with her. She kept walking towards her house, impatient to start a fire and thaw out her fingers. Riggs talked on the way.
"Mister Barnabas also told me to tell you, uh... that is, uh..."
She raised the front of her long skirt to ascend the stone steps up to the brick portico. The front of the house faced so that the worst of the snow piled up at the rear. As she understood it, the house was deliberately situated so that the entranceway would be clear at all times of the year.
"What is the message?" she said impatiently as they traveled all the way to the front door.
"Mister Barnabas said that he's very sorry for raising his voice to you last night. He loves you very much. He wants you to wait for him without a worry in the world, because he's going to bring you back a present to make up for how poorly he's treated you."
"He said all that?" She tilted her head to study the fellow. There was no reason for this simple fellow to lie. Yet it all somehow did not quite ring true.
"Yes, Mrs. Collins, every word."
Angelique opened the door and, with a twirl of her cloak and long skirts, she rushed inside the shelter of the house. "Where is Ben Stokes?"
"The master borrowed him for the day, up at the big house. He's doing chores."
"Thank you, Riggs, that'll be all."
Angelique closed the door in his face. She hurried to the fireplace and worked to build up a large cheery blaze. Then she stared deep into the feathery brightness and chanted, "Eyes of fire. Eyes of flame. Eyes of light. Show me what I cannot see."
Ben Stokes indeed was laboring with a crew of other men. They rolled a series of barrels off the back of a wagon, down a rickety plank, and into the storeroom next to the kitchen. The barrels were labeled with painted-on letters: rice, beans, millet, corn, flour. The head cook had to point out which barrel to place where, as of course, Ben Stokes and the other servants could not read or write.
"Eyes of flame. Eyes of light. Show me, where is my husband?"
Her eyes took wing and soared over the snowy wastes and the forest's black trees weighed down with clumps of ice. Her winged eyes followed the wagon road, across and through the covered bridge, the river like India ink flowing dark between ice-capped rocks. The village of Collinsport was a shabby collection of shingled roofs and wattle-and-daub walls. Though it was broad daylight, the village was under a grayish tint as if being seen by the shine of a full moon. People walked the streets or the wharfs. Horses pulled wagons. Ships docked at the harbor.
Barnabas entered a lace maker's shop. He hesitated by the door, his eyes rolling to either side, surveying the sumptuous displays of lace handkerchiefs, lace doilies, bonnets, shawls, ladies' gloves, napkins, tablecloths, pillow shams, window curtains, and bedsheet coverlets. Angelique smiled with amusement at her husband's expression of bewilderment and dismay. As much as you enjoy the sensual feel of elegant things, all that femininity in one place is a bit much for you, isn't it?
Gradually, at a slow pace, like picking a path through a treacherous jungle, Barnabas made his way to the rear of the shop. A very old woman behind the counter greeted him. The hag's hair was a fluffy mop of white curls mostly concealed by a paisley veil. Yet her eyes were unchanged from the days of her youth—black eyes, as dark as the onyx stone in Barnabas's ring.
Angelique knew this shop well. She had accompanied the Countess duPres on several occasions. The old woman was a refugee from the territory of Moldavia, in Europe. She spoke very little English but was fluent in German and French. From the several visits, Angelique had gathered that the old woman had fled to America because she was something called a "gypsy" and that, in Europe, this was as shameful a bloodline as the African heritage would be in Martinique.
Barnabas spoke to the old woman now. His lips pursed in such a way that she knew he was speaking French. Angelique sighed with regret that she had only mystic eyes and could not hear. What she would not give to listen to his deep voice pronouncing the soft words of her native tongue.
The old woman retreated into a back room and soon returned with a mahogany box. She opened it for Barnabas to display its contents. On a pad of crimson velvet lay a variety of delicate glass vials. Each one of them a multifaceted jewel with exquisite caps of filigree silver.
Perfume! Angelique thought excitedly. He is buying me a rare perfume.
Angelique closed her eyes. She sank back into the cushion of the armchair. She hugged herself and could not stop smiling. He does love me. It took an argument for him to realize that he loves me, after all. It's time to give up on this silly dream of Josette.
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Angelique spent hours preparing supper. She boiled a large wriggling lobster in a cast-iron stew pot, while red potatoes and purple corn cobs toasted in the hob of the chimney. She steamed a bowl full of snow peas. Humming a little Creole tune, she stirred maple syrup and a pinch of cinnamon into the Indian pudding with a wooden spoon.
The front door opened. She heard the clop-clop of his heavy riding boots and the flutter of his wool cape as he brushed the snowflakes off his shoulders. Angelique shivered with the thrill of his return.
"Barnabas, you're back!" She rushed out of the kitchen and into his arms.
He embraced and kissed her lightly. The weather had chilled his face to icy stone. "Hello, my dear."
"I'm so glad you're back! Supper is almost ready."
"Did Riggs give you my message?"
"Yes." Angelique tilted her head to cast a coquettish smile at him sideways. "You had business in the town, and you were buying me a present?"
From the inner pocket of his waistcoat, Barnabas produced a small cedar box tied shut with a ribbon. Angelique snatched it from him. She fairly danced across the room and stopped near the blazing fireplace. She tore off the ribbon and picked open the lid. There was a folded piece of lace. No perfume bottle—only lace. Confused, she lifted it out and held up a perfect triangle of the needlework so delicate and precise that a spider would feel envious.
"It's a neck kerchief. Do you like it, ma cherie?"
"Why... why, yes I do," she stammered. Perhaps she had closed her mystic eyes too soon. Perhaps he had changed his mind about the perfume and bought her the lace kerchief instead.
Barnabas moved away from her to the little table by the window that held several crystal decanters of claret, port, and sherry. "I'm quite chilly from the outdoors. I think I'll have a glass of sherry. Will you join me?"
"I would like that very much."
Join me, he said. Such a simple phrase and yet heavy with a greater meaning. Perhaps he will never completely give up on Josette until he fully trusts me, and for that to happen, I must tell him the truth. Not all of it... Not yet... Just a little... I'll say that I'm gifted with second sight and that I have premonitions in my dreams. Yes, that's harmless enough. We'll see if he can accept that much and then, we'll see... He's so Jeffersonian in his scientific reasoning! He always scoffs at his Aunt Abigail who rants about witchcraft, as if she's just come from the Salem trials yesterday. He falls asleep during the Sunday sermon, if he goes to church at all. He may not believe me, and so, if he laughs off the idea of premonitions, there's no harm in telling him more. I could say that I'm a magical healer—that the brew I made for Sarah's illness was actually enchanted. I could explain to him the legends of the island, the traditions of the vodoun, and he would be quite entertained. He told me once of meeting a warlock in Barbados and found that experience very amusing. Yes... I must tell him! If we are to be married and spend the rest of our lives together, and bring up a family together, he must know—a little—of the truth of what I am.
He carried the two glasses of sherry across the room. He offered her the one in his left hand.
"Barnabas, there's something about me that you don't know. It involves my upbringing on the island. You may find it quite amusing."
"Oh? And, what is that?" As he sipped from his sherry, he watched her over the rim of the glass. Crystal facets scattered the firelight and created flickers like a starry night in his dark eyes.
"I..."
A knock on the door interrupted her.
Barnabas turned sharply. "Who could that be?"
Angelique, still carrying her glass of sherry, went to the door and opened it. Naomi Collins entered bringing with her a flurry of snowflakes and a swirl of light green cloak. She carried a large flat parcel wrapped in brown paper.
"Mother! You shouldn't be out in this weather." Barnabas made her set down the parcel by the door. He hurriedly escorted her to the armchair near the fire.
"I wanted to bring the..." His mother's jaw chattered from the cold so that she could hardly talk, but she gestured with her fur muff at the parcel.
"The package? Oh, the package is not important. You could have sent Riggs with it." Barnabas put aside his own empty glass. He grasped his mother's hands between his own and exclaimed, "You're freezing! Let me pour you some sherry."
"Here, take mine." Angelique offered it.
"No," he said. "I'll pour her some more."
Angelique insisted, "I haven't touched it."
As Naomi Collins reached up for the glass, Barnabas cried out, "Wait! I see a chip in the rim! You'll cut your lip."
He reached between the two women to grab the glass. In his haste, he accidentally knocked it out of Angelique's hand. The sherry fell to the carpet and spread out in a broad wet stain.
"Oh, how clumsy of me!" he said.
"It's quite all right." From the mantle, Angelique took one of the hand towels hanging to dry alongside Barnabas's socks. She sank to kneeling on the carpet and dabbed at the stain.
He just stood there, staring down at his wife on the floor. She felt more than saw his frown of disapproval. Angelique felt a blush, assuming that he was reminded of her past role as a servant. She had ascended to ladylike status so recently. Just this morning, a servant of Joshua Collins himself had bowed to her! And now, this evening, she knelt on the floor beneath the skirts of a lady and wiped up a spill on the carpet.
"Barnabas?" his mother asked. "Are you going to pour me that glass of sherry now?"
"Yes of course." He crossed the room, poured a glass, and soon returned to his mother's side.
"It's only partially full," Naomi observed before she tossed it back in one gulp.
"Well, uh, it's..." Barnabas tugged nervously at the lapels of his waistcoat. Angelique saw his agitation and understood; he never spoke of it, but he worried about his mother's fondness for sherry and port. "It's only a little swallow to take the edge off the chill. If you're still cold, I'm sure Angelique wouldn't mind brewing you a pot of coffee?"
"I wouldn't mind at all, madame." She rose to her feet with the soiled rag and the empty glass.
"The fire is adequate to warm me up," Naomi said with a bit of an embarrassed pout to her small mouth. "Now I must tell you, that parcel was sent out from Florence, Italy two months ago and delivered yesterday, but your father refused to have any of the servants carry it down here."
"But why?" He retrieved the flat, rectangular package from the foyer and brought it into the room.
"He said, 'if Barnabas wants his mail, he can...' Well, then he said an expletive that I can't repeat. He declared that you should come and get it for yourself. If he asks later, we're all to say that you stopped by the house."
Angelique studied the little sherry glass. She saw no chip in the rim. To be sure, she ran the tip of her finger around it and felt nothing. A quick sniff. The fumes of sweet wine had another underlying scent—something she could not name; something like a rotten mushroom.
Barnabas ripped into the parcel's brown wrapping paper and revealed a framed canvas. "Oh..." he groaned as if punched in the stomach. He held it aloft in front of his face. Slowly he turned to allow the firelight's full brilliance to shine upon it.
Josette in a white gown had been captured in oil paint. The face was not exactly a perfect likeness, but it was close enough to give Angelique the chills. Not just the painting itself, but the anguish that warped his shoulders as he held the frame in his hands.
Naomi Collins picked up a note that had dropped to the floor with the shreds of wrapping paper. She read aloud, "'Father insisted that this be his wedding present to us. At first I laughed and said, 'Papa, Barnabas will have me. Why will he need a portrait?'"
He gingerly set the portrait on a chair, balancing the frame on the arm rests. He stood like a zombie, immobile, emotionless, fully withdrawn into himself, staring enraptured at the image.
"Oh, Barnabas," said his mother. "I'm so sorry. Shall I take it back with me? Shall I put it away in a storeroom?"
"No," he whispered. "I want to keep it."
"Why?"
"You and Father took all the other portraits up to the new house," he said. "I have empty walls."
"But it only pains you to look at it!" his mother insisted. "Let me take it away."
"No!" He whirled about, blocking his mother's gentle hands from reaching for the portrait. "I said, please don't take it."
Angelique charged forward two steps and stopped. She held her ground, facing him off as she would face an opponent in a duel. "Why do you want to keep it, Barnabas? Do you still love her?"
"Must you ask?" he answered, his expression smoothing out to a neutral mask. "I am married to you, am I not?"
"Perhaps I'm jealous. I just love you so much!"
He asked, "Angelique, do you know what love is?"
"Of course! It's how I feel about you!"
"Do you? Really?"
Naomi Collins withdrew from standing in between the two of them. "I should go back to the house before your father notices I've gone."
Barnabas strolled with his mother to the front door. He reached for his own cape on the hook. "I'll walk with you. It's almost dark."
Angelique rushed nearer to the foyer, but the hard cold stare in his eyes froze her in her tracks. "Are you coming back soon?"
"Yes, I'll come right back for you, my dear," he said, opening the door. A blast of icy wind blew moth-like flurries of snowflakes into the foyer. He hunched into the collar of his coat and, with a protective arm around his mother, ventured outside.
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