In The Face Of Death (5 page)

“Surely you do not intend to go to the theatre unescorted?” He gazed at her in dismay. “No, no, Madame, you must not.”

“But why?” she asked reasonably. “I have attended the theatre alone in London.” As soon as she said it, she realized she had slipped; it was rare for her to make such an error.

“Never tell me you went alone to the theatre as a child,” he countered. “Not even French parents are so indulgent.”

“Not as a child, no,” she allowed, irritated that her tongue should have got her into such a pass with Sherman, of all people.

He stopped walking, and looked down at her, cocking his head; the lamplight made his red hair glow like coals. “As a gentleman, I should never ask a lady this question, but I fear I must.”

She returned his look. “What question is that? I have told you the truth, Mister Sherman.”

“Of that I have no doubt,” he answered, so directly that she was startled. “I can perceive the truth of you as if it grew from you on stalks. No, the question I ought not to ask is, how old are you?” Before she could answer, he added, “Because I have received an accounting of your money in the Saint Louis office of Lucas and Turner, and with it a portrait and a description to verify your identity. It would seem that you have not altered in the last decade. You appeared to be about twenty when you first went there, and you appear to be about twenty now.”

Very carefully she said, “If I told you when I was born, you would not believe me.”

He studied her eyes and was satisfied. “That, too, is the truth.” He again looked at his pocket-watch. “We are going to miss the curtain.”

“Does this mean you are escorting me?” asked Madelaine.

“Perforce,” answered Sherman with a faint smile.

“But what of the gossip you always warn me about? And your wife is still with her parents.” Madelaine noticed that the theatre-goers had all but disappeared from the street. She glanced at Sherman. “Are you really set on seeing Racine?”

His face did not change but his voice softened. “No.”

“Nor am I,” said Madelaine, who had seen
Phedre
more than twenty times in the last sixty years. “Surely there is somewhere we can go that will not cause tongues to wag?”

Most of those going to the theatre were in their places; the few that remained on the street hurried to reach their seats before the curtain went up. They paid no attention to Madelaine and Sherman.

He coughed once. “There are rooms at the casinos, private rooms. Men dine there in private. Sometimes they are used for assignations.”

“Would that bother you?” asked Madelaine. “Going to such a place?”

“It should bother you,” said Sherman sternly. Then he made up his mind. He took her by the elbow and started to lead her in the direction away from the French theatre. “My carriage is in a livery around the corner on Pine Street,” he said.

“I wish you would not hold onto my arm in that manner,” she said to him. “It’s uncomfortable.”

He released her at once, chagrined. “I meant nothing unsuitable, Madame.” He put more than two feet between them. “You must understand that I sought only to guard—”

“Oh, for all the Saints in the calendar!” Madelaine burst out, then lowered her voice. “I meant nothing but what I said: I dislike having my arm clutched. But I am glad of your company, Mister Sherman, and your protection. I know these streets can be dangerous.”

He paused at the corner of Pine Street. “I will take you home.”

“Yes, please,” said Madelaine amiably, “take me home; after we have our own private discussion.”

This time there was an eagerness in his eyes as he looked down at her. “What did you mean by discussion, since you are clarifying your meaning, Madame?”

“That, in large part, is up to you,” said Madelaine, regarding him steadily. “I will not seduce you, or demand what you are unwilling to give; I want no man who is not willing to have me.”

He laughed abruptly. “What man would that be? One who is dead or prefers the bodies of men?”

Madelaine answered him seriously. “I do not mean only my body, Mister Sherman. If that is all I sought, it is there for the taking, all around us. I mean one who is willing to see into my soul. And to let me see into his.”

Taken aback, Sherman straightened up, and stared down the dark street. “Let me make myself plain to you, Madame, and if what I say is repugnant, then I will deliver you to your front door post haste. No matter what you may stir in me, I cannot, and I will not, compromise my obligations to my family. I am in no position to offer you any advantage, Madame. I am married, and that will not be changed by any desire I may feel for you.”

“I don’t recall asking you to change, or to hurt your family,” said Madelaine as she put her hand through his arm. “I only remember suggesting that we spend the evening together.”

“And that I may have you if that is what I wish,” he said, as if to give her one more chance to change her mind.

Madelaine’s smile was quick. “I am not challenging you, Mister Sherman. I am seeking to spend time with you.”

“Whatever that means,” said Sherman.

“Whatever that means,” Madelaine concurred.

San Francisco, 16 June, 1855

. . . Tonight will be better.

The sheets were fine linen, as soft as antique satin, and there were six pillows and a damask comforter flung in glorious disarray about the bed. In the wan spill of moonlight from the window, Sherman was standing, wearing only a loosely belted dressing-gown, and smoking a thin cigar as he gazed out into the darkness. “The other evening and now this. What must you think of me?”

“Nothing to your discredit,” said Madelaine quietly, hardly moving as she spoke. “I think you do not trust what you want.”

“That’s kind,” he said tightly. “Many another woman would be offended.”

Madelaine turned on her side to look at him, regarding him with a serious expression. “If that’s not it, what is bothering you?”

He met her eyes. “You are.”

“Why do I bother you? Would you rather not be here?” she asked, more puzzled than apprehensive.

“No. There is no place I would rather be,” he answered evenly.

“Then why—?” she began, only to be cut off.

“Because it is what I want,” he said bluntly, and stubbed out his cigar in the saucer she had set out for that purpose. “A man in my position, with a wife and a good marriage, has other women for necessity and amusement. It isn’t that way with you. You are not a convenience or an entertainment. You are not convenient at all. You are what I want. All of you. And I should not. I must not.” He started toward the bed, tugging at his sash and flinging it aside as he reached her. He stared down at her as his robe fell open. “Do you know what it means to want you so much, to go beyond reason with wanting you? I want to possess you, and I fear that you will possess me. I am afraid that once I touch you, I will be lost.”

“Is that so terrifying a prospect?” she asked, moving to make a place beside her in the bed.

“Yes.” In a shrug he dropped his dressing-gown to the floor, letting it lie in a velvet puddle.

“Then come and stretch out beside me. We can talk like friends, all through the night.” She piled up two of the pillows. “I don’t require you take me.”

“How do you mean?” he asked sharply.

“If you do not want to touch me at all, you need not.” She regarded him kindly. “If you would like to, then you may.”

He scowled. “How can you say that you want me, that you have me here, in your house, in your bed, and not care if I—”

She sighed. “I’ve told you before, William—”

“Don’t call me William,” he interrupted, seeking a distraction from the confusion that warred within him.

“I won’t call you Mister Sherman, not here,” she said, slapping one of the pillows with the back of her hand; though it was dark, she could see his face clearly and knew that he was deeply troubled. She strove to lighten the burden of desire that so plagued him, and decided to stay on safe ground. “What does the ‘T’ in your name stand for?”

“My friends and . . . and family call me Cump,” he said, swallowing hard.

“Cump?” She was baffled.

“My given name is Tecumseh,” he said at last. “The Ewings added William when they took me in after my father’s death. So that I could be baptized into their Catholic religion.” He sat on the edge of the bed and absently reached out to stroke her hair.

Madelaine knew he had just given her a very special gift. “You’re named for the chief of the Shawnee.”

“Yes,” he said with urgency as he reached out and wrapped his long-fingered hands around her upper arms. “How did you know about Tecumseh?”

“I know he had a twin brother, Tenskwatawa, and they were both called The Prophet.” It was not a direct answer, but all she was prepared to give now. “Come to bed, Tecumseh. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

He glowered at her, then looked down at himself, sighed, and swung his legs up and under the covers. He stared up at the ceiling in the darkness. “What should we talk about?” he asked, his manner forbidding.

“Anything you wish, or nothing at all. Either will please me if it is what you want.” As much as she wanted to lie next to him, to feel his flesh against hers for the length of her body, she, too, lay on her back and stared at the ceiling, noticing a faint crack in the ornamental plaster-work. She wanted to bridge the rift between them, and sought for something she could give him, as he had offered her his name. “Let us share secrets, as friends do,” she suggested impulsively. “If you like, I will tell you how old I am.”

“That is a wonderful secret for a lady to share with a friend, and quite an admission for any woman to make.” He laughed once, then looked grave. “Very well. On my honor I swear I will never repeat it,” he told her somberly.

“You had best not,” said Madelaine, and plunged ahead, telling herself that surprise was an advantage with this man. “For I was born November 22nd, 1724, at Montalia, my family estate, in the far south of France.”

For several seconds, Sherman was silent. Then he chuckled. “1724, not 1824. That would make you more than a century old, Madame.”

“I am,” she said, beginning to worry.

He turned toward her, trying hard to keep the incredulity out of his voice. “All right. I deserved that. For the sake of argument, we will say you are ancient, a veritable crone. You are one hundred thirty-one years old, or will be in November.” His chuckling continued, rich and easy, the hard lines in his face relaxing so that he, himself, now appeared younger than he was. “And how did you attain this great age without looking older than a girl just out?”

“Because I died August 4th, 1744. I
was
just out,” she replied, trying to keep her voice from trembling, though she could not disguise the chill that seized her, making her quiver.

“August 4th, 1744,” he repeated, as if hearing the words again would change them. His chuckle turned to coughing, and he took a minute to bring his breathing under control. He lay back on the pillows, willing himself not to cough. “You don’t expect me to believe this, do you?”

“Why not?” she answered, fighting the desolation that swept over her. She was afraid her teeth would chatter. “Tecumseh, you know when I am lying. I am not lying now, am I? This is the truth.”

“The truth?” he scoffed. “Well, Madame, you sure look mighty pretty for a corpse.” He rolled on his side, propped himself on his elbow and stared at her. “How can you claim to exchange confidences and then tell such bald-faced. . . .” The words straggled; when he spoke again, he was awed. “You
are
telling the truth, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” she answered as if from a great distance.

“But how? . . . ” He touched her face with one long finger; he did his best to comprehend the implications of what she said. “Dear God, Madelaine, how?”

She gave him Saint-Germain’s answer. “I drink the Elixir of Life. And I do not die. I cannot die.”

“Then tell me something of your youth.” His steel-colored eyes grew sharp. “Who was ruling France then?”

“When I came to Paris, Louis XV was King,” she answered calmly, though she continued to shiver as much from the strength of her memories as from apprehension about Sherman. “That was in the fall of 1743. I went to my aunt so that she could introduce me into society.”

“What sort of fellow was he, Louis XV?” demanded Sherman, making her answer a test. “I warn you, I know something about the man, and will not be fobbed off with vague answers.”

“Venal, luxury-loving, indolent, handsome, over-indulged, manipulative. In a word, spoiled.” She stared at him, surprised when he took her hands in his. “I escaped the Terror, which is just as well.”

“A lovely corpse without a head, that would be difficult,” agreed Sherman in ill-concealed excitement.

“A corpse is all I would have been. Those who taste the Elixir of Life are not proof against all death. Madame la Guillotine is as deadly to me as to you. So is fire.” She looked directly into his eyes. “In the time I have lived, can you imagine the number of times I have said good-bye?” And how many more times I will, she added silently. She thought of Trowbridge then, his devotion which had cost him his life to save hers, and Falke, going willingly into the furnace of the Egyptian desert in order to be free of her.

“No, Madelaine. Don’t despair,” he said, with the urgency of one who knew despair well. His arms went around her and he drew her close to him as if to protect her from the weight of grief. “It is unbearable,” he murmured, pressing his lips to her hair.

She rested her head on his chest, listening to his heart beat, hearing the pulse quicken. “I am told one learns, in time.” Her breath was deep and uneven.

He reached to turn her face up to his, searching out secrets. “What are you, then? I’d better warn you I don’t hold any truck with the supernatural. And don’t preach religion at me, whatever you do. I get enough of that from the Ewings.” He made an impatient gesture at the mention of his in-laws.

“No religion,” she promised. “Other than that most religion is against those of us who come to this life.” She stretched to kiss him, feeling yearning and resistance in his mouth. “We die, but slip the hold death has on us, and we live—”