The Shadows of Foxworth Read online

  “Yvon left?” I muttered.

  I couldn’t believe it. Why wouldn’t he have looked in on me first?

  She smiled at my surprise. “Perhaps you don’t know your brother as well as I do,” she said.

  “What’s that mean? How could that be? We’ve been with you only a short time. You can’t know who we are.”

  “I’m not saying I know who you are, but a man’s a man. I don’t have to be with one long to know what I need to know about him. You’ll learn to be the same way if you listen to my advice and do what I tell you,” she said. “Now, no more of this chitchat. Get up and come down for some breakfast. I intend to leave within the hour.”

  She closed the door.

  Be the same way? I wouldn’t want to be anything like her, I thought. I rose and dressed and hurried down. Aunt Effie was standing and talking to an African woman with stark gray hair, which, although it would indicate age, looked in stark contrast to her beautifully smooth face, with the most sparkling ebony eyes I had ever seen. Papa would surely have liked to paint her, I thought. Wearing a light-green apron that reached the hem of her skirt, she had to be Mrs. Trafalgar. I hadn’t expected her to be an African woman. She was a little taller than Aunt Effie and much slimmer.

  “Sit down. Mrs. Trafalgar will bring you your breakfast,” Aunt Effie said. “You are never to call her anything but Mrs. Trafalgar.”

  Mrs. Trafalgar gave me the warmest smile I had yet to see in America and immediately put me at ease.

  “She has made you some oatmeal and some toast with jelly. Drink that orange juice, and don’t dilly-dally,” Aunt Effie ordered. “I will organize our transportation with George. I expect to leave in twenty-five minutes.”

  “Mornin’, darlin’,” Mrs. Trafalgar said, as if Aunt Effie hadn’t spoken. “It’s comin’ right up,” she added, turned, and went into the kitchen.

  Aunt Effie looked at me for a long moment, long enough for me to ask, “What?”

  “You have your father’s eyes. Hopefully, you’ll see the world and your responsibilities more clearly,” she quickly added, like someone who realized she had just acted human. “I’ll see to our transportation.”

  I watched her move quickly out of the room, wondering to myself if it would be at all possible to think of her someday as my aunt. Maybe the longer we lived here, the closer we would become. She would think more of us and soften, although from the way she treated her sister, it was hard to imagine her saying anything kind to anyone. I suspected she was a bitter person from the day she could utter a sarcastic or outright nasty remark.

  Some people are born with warts on their tongues, Jean-Paul would tell us. The most painful thing you can do to them is feel sorry for them. They hate being pitied.

  That was probably very true for Aunt Effie, I thought. Perhaps that was exactly what I would do, tell her I felt sorry for her. I could exact some revenge as well as she could.

  Mrs. Trafalgar brought out my food on a little silver tray.

  “I could have fetched it myself,” I said. I didn’t think I’d ever get used to being waited upon hand and foot.

  She smiled and put it before me. “There’s goin’ ta be plenty of time for ya ta do chores,” she said. “Give yerself a chance to get useta being here first. A newly planted flower needs ta get acquainted with its new soil ’fore it can grow again. So sorry ta hear about yer trouble.”

  “Trouble?”

  “Yer daddy and mama.”

  “Oh. Thank you. Do you live here, too, Mrs. Trafalgar?”

  “Oh, no, missy. Ma husband, George, and I live in the Jackson Ward district of the city. Many of ma people are there.”

  “Who are your people?” I asked.

  She laughed but didn’t really answer me. “Y’all really from France?” she asked instead.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said. “Je suis née en France.”

  “Oh, ma goodness, French itself. Means?”

  “I was born in France.”

  “Oh, sure.” She smiled. “Ya as pretty as a French girl supposed ta be.” She looked at the doorway to the hall. “Better finish yer breakfast. Yer auntie went to fetch ma husband, George. They’ll be comin’ along.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Oh, he works the house, looks after it all,” she said.

  “You met my brother, Yvon, this morning?”

  “Yes, I did. He didn’t say much, but he’s a handsome young man. I’m sure he will do well. George took him ta the offices.” She looked at the door. “Finish up now like yer auntie told ya.”

  She hurried out as if she was afraid Aunt Effie would catch us talking.

  Almost as soon I finished eating, Aunt Effie was at the door.

  “Put this on,” she said, holding out a light-blue wool shawl. “It’s a bit on the cool side this morning.”

  “Thank you.”

  I followed her to the door. George was waiting at the automobile. He opened the door for us, and Aunt Effie got in, with me right behind her.

  “Don’t slouch when you sit. A young lady always is cognizant of her posture. Do you know what that means?”

  “Yes. I don’t slouch.”

  “You are now,” she insisted. “You haven’t been taught what good posture means. Shoulders back, head high, and fold your hands in your lap, and don’t lean against the automobile door. I suggest you watch how I comport myself in public. You will in time be meeting many people, and first impressions usually stick. You understand?”

  I wanted to say, My first impression of you nearly turned my stomach. Instead, I simply nodded. I looked out the window at the people and stores, but my gaze was clouded with the tears that seemed to ice over my eyes.

  “My mother did not live long enough for her to teach me everything I needed to know about conducting myself properly in society, mainly because I was stuck at home caring for your aunt Pauline, but when the time came for me to join my father because he no longer had any hopes of passing on his success to his son, I had to watch and learn.”

  Then, in a softer tone, she added, “Much like you, I was a fish in a bowl tossed into the sea to find her way amongst the schools of other fish.”

  I looked at her. Did she really see some resemblance between us? Was this a note of compassion and understanding?

  “If you do what I tell you and listen carefully to my instructions, you will survive.”

  “Survive?”

  “This is a dog-eat-dog world. That includes the women in it. Those whom you meet out there,” she said, nodding toward the street, “will see you as a threat. You are going to be very attractive, and you will have the Dawson name and power behind you eventually. I expect most men will make fools of themselves trying to attract your interest. It’s in the nature of men,” she added, speaking as though she was chewing on a rotten egg. “I doubt that your mother had a chance to educate you in all this or that it mattered, living in that village,” she added, pronouncing “village” as if it were a profanity.

  “My mother taught me what I needed to know.”

  “Did she? How much about her own youth did she tell you?”

  I looked at her and then down, my heart beginning to race. Did she know that Mama had kept most of her youth a secret from both Yvon and me? Except for that day she suggested she had been a femme fatale once, she said little more and didn’t want to talk about that at all.

  “How do you know so much about her?”

  She smiled and looked out her window. “I know,” she said, “what I had to know. My father and I used the services of a private investigator to discover why his son, my brother, would give up so much for this silly pursuit of art and then a woman. When you’re old enough, I will tell you what you need to know.”

  “You’re a liar. You’re just trying to get me… to hate what my life and my family were so I’ll do whatever you say.”

  “You’ll see for yourself,” she said, surprisingly and disturbingly calmly. What would I see? “We’re here.”

  We stopped in front of a store with large windows. Printed over them was the name THALHIMERS. George stepped out to open the door for us and help us out. My eyes went everywhere. It seemed like an explosion of people coming and going, some walking very fast, others involved in conversations as they went along. Groups of women were going in and out of the store. When we entered, I couldn’t believe all the different things that were being sold in one place.

  “Is this a street fair?” I said.

  “Hardly. This is one of the first department stores. We’ll be going to the ladies’ clothing department,” she said, just as a tall woman with dark hair spun into what looked like a beehive approached us.

  “Miss Dawson, welcome,” she said. “Everything is ready for you.”

  “Thank you. This is my niece, Marlena.”

  “What a pretty girl. Please. Follow me,” she said.

  I looked at my aunt.

  “It’s all right to say thank you when someone gives you a compliment.”

  “She said it so fast and turned. I know how to say thank you.”

  Rather than get annoyed with my response, she looked pleased. “Perhaps you did inherit enough from your mother to survive,” she said.

  I had no idea why she had decided to weave this web of mystery around my mother’s past, but it was annoying me. Every time I wanted to snap back at her, however, I thought about Yvon. He wanted us to be clever and do what she asked for now. He was right, of course. We didn’t have much choice. It was just that by the time I was finished swallowing down my rage, my throat would ache and my stomach would want to explode.

  All that anger flew out of my thinking when we began to look at the clothes. I didn’t have much to say about it, but I was overwhelmed by how much she was buying for me.
She ordered dozens of this and dozens of that, as if stockings, undergarments, blouses, and skirts, even hats, were like potatoes and tomatoes. Once I tried something on and she liked the way it fit, she bought two. Everything was to be wrapped and boxed and delivered, except for the dress she wanted me to wear now.

  “Take what she came in and burn it,” she told the saleslady.

  “No,” I said. “My mother gave me that dress.”

  She thought a moment and then told her to put it in a separate bag so it didn’t touch anything new, not even a pair of stockings.

  As we headed for women’s accessories, she said, “You’ll find that sentiment is a weakness in this world, especially in the business world. Your cutthroat competition will take advantage of it every time.”

  “I have only pity for them,” I said.

  She smiled. “I do look forward to having this discussion after your brother and you have been fully dipped in the new world, perhaps a year from now.”

  From accessories, she took me to shoes and boots. Never once did I hear her say this or that was too much, no matter what the price. Since everything was in American money, I wasn’t sure how expensive things were, but because of the sheer amount of what she was buying me, I knew she was spending a lot of money.

  “Why are we buying so much?” I finally asked her.

  “We?”

  “You.”

  “I don’t intend to have to do this again for some time. Caring for you today is taking me away from business. Although I have Mr. Simon, I must approve most everything we do. I expect you to be self-sufficient as quickly as possible. One helpless soul around my ankles is quite enough,” she added.

  We left with me in new undergarments and a new dress, stockings, and shoes, but we took little of what she had bought me. It was all to be delivered later today.

  “When we return home, you will wait for the arrival of Mr. Donald. He has been hired to tutor you in all things and not only the secretarial skills you will be required to have. He is what we call a professional gentleman. From time to time, you, as well as your brother, of course, will be required to attend formal dinners, business dinners, and I want you both to be proper and impressive. You are Dawsons now, the Dawsons of Richmond.

  “You’ve never lived under the umbrella of our family’s reputation and success. You have no idea what it means to be in elegant society. You are no longer a French girl walking barefoot on some beach, Marlena. You are my niece, a Dawson, and so must be thought of as such. Mr. Donald will show you how a young lady comports herself in society, how you will eat and speak. I have given him free rein. Mr. Simon will personally attend to your brother. I expect that what you learn from Mr. Donald you will practice at our home immediately, and when I feel you are ready, I will introduce you to other families and permit you to work for the Dawson company.

  “In time,” she said with confidence, “you will be reborn.”

  “I will never forget my home, my parents, and the life I had,” I said defiantly.

  She nodded softly. “We’ll see,” she said, and looked out her window as we motored back to the mansion that at this moment seemed more like a prison.

  I was beginning to appreciate what poor Aunt Pauline had endured her whole life.

  What if she was right? I thought—I feared.

  What if I forgot my family back in France and became just like her?

  7

  When we arrived, I saw another motorcar, smaller and less impressive, parked near the barn, which my aunt made a point of telling me was not a barn but a garage. I was happy to inform her that this was another English word born in a French mouth. When we entered the house, a short, stout man with a well-trimmed auburn goatee stepped out of the sitting room to greet us. His eyes widened and brightened at the sight of me, which I would ordinarily feel was something nice, but the way his thick lips folded and unfolded, showing the tip of his pale pink tongue, made me hesitate. I did not return his smile.

  He stepped forward, rubbing his palms together as if he had just washed his hands and was drying them. His nose was thick at the bridge, which made his hazel eyes smaller. I had seen pictures of men dressed the way he was, dressed to meet the king. He was wearing a black cotton frock coat and a black brushed cotton vest with a flat front and a notched lapel. There was a gold pocket watch, the chain attached to the third button of his vest. He had a stand-up-collar dress shirt and a gray ascot.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Donald, but shopping these days takes longer than it used to.”

  “Most things do, Miss Dawson, most things do. And this, I assume, is our Marlena.”

  “Yes. Our Marlena,” she said, sounding like pronouncing my name stung her tongue. “Marlena, this is Mr. Donald, your tutor.”

  She waited. I saw the way her eyes went from me to him and back to me.

  “Very pleased to meet you,” I said. I reluctantly held out my hand.

  He nearly jumped forward to take it and held it in his stumpy, thick fingers as he widened his smile and nodded at my aunt. “Nicely done. Maybe our work won’t be so difficult,” he told her.

  Nicely done? What did I do? From where did she tell him I had come? Some uncivilized part of the world? He kept my hand a few moments longer. When he felt me pulling it back, he finally let go.

  “I wish it were so, Mr. Donald, but I suspect you’ll earn every penny I pay you.”

  He laughed. “Do you need to take a few minutes to freshen up?” he asked me. “Or should we begin and get acquainted as quickly as we can?”

  “She can freshen up on her own time,” Aunt Effie said. “Please get started. I have a few things to do before I go to the offices.”

  She turned to me.

  “I’m leaving you in very capable hands, Marlena. Devote your full attention to Mr. Donald, and treat him with the utmost respect. I will inform Minnie and Emma, my maids, to set the table for a formal lunch experience,” she told Mr. Donald.

  “Thank you, Miss Dawson. Shall we?” he asked me, and gestured at the sitting room. “I have some papers and books to introduce you to as a way of beginning our work.”

  My moment of hesitation raised my aunt’s eyebrows, so I walked quickly into the sitting room. The books and papers he had described were on the dark-cherrywood table, and the table had been moved closer to the Wedgwood-blue settee.

  “Let’s sit there,” he said, indicating the settee. “You must tell me all about yourself first. I’m intrigued. Brought up in France and almost overnight becoming an American. Quite an experience for one so young, I’m sure.”

  I sat. He stood there for a few moments looking down at me, perhaps anticipating an excited thank you.

  “I would give anything, Monsieur Donald, not to be here,” I said, with a fixed glare that wiped the intended friendly smile off his face.

  He turned those lips into his mouth as he had done when I first entered the house. His eyes lost any twinkle they had, and his puffy cheeks hardened.

  “Yes, of course. I am sorry about the circumstances. But,” he added after a brief pause, “we must make the best of it now. One look at you tells me you have the strength to do so and have the potential to be a fine young lady.”

  “My mama and papa always told me I already was.”

  “Of course,” he said, his eyes shifting everywhere as he struggled to find the perfect words. “I’m here to put the finishing touch on you, nothing more and certainly nothing less.” He glanced at the doorway and then back at me. “So, your aunt envisions you working at your family company,” he continued quickly, and waddled his way around the table to sit beside me. I shifted on the settee as far as I could to my right, because his leg was right up against mine. He reached for one of the papers.

  “I have here a sort of test of your English skills so we can determine where best to put our energies. You do read English?” he asked suddenly, his face fearful as the possibility of his truly starting from scratch occurred to him. Obviously, Aunt Effie had told him little about me.

  “My mama and papa were Americans. Mama taught both my brother, Yvon, and me how to read, write, and speak in English. My papa was usually off painting, but we all read aloud at night from their favorite books sometimes, and once in a while, Papa got an American newspaper off a ship that docked in Villefranche-sur-Mer. We all read it.”