Andre Norton Super Pack. Andre Norton
be quiet!” Charity leaned forward across the table. “Yes,” she nodded, “you’ll do.”
“For what?” Val asked, slightly apprehensive.
“For my hero. Of course your hair is too short and you are rather too youthful, but I can disguise those points. And,” she turned upon Ricky, “you can be the lady in distress. Which gives me another idea. Do you suppose that I might use your terrace for a background and have that big chair, the one with the high back?” she asked Rupert.
“You may have anything you want within these walls,” he answered lightly enough, but it was clear that he really meant it.
“What am I supposed to do?” Val asked.
Charity considered. “I think I’ll try the action one first,” she said half to herself. “That’s going to be the most difficult. Ricky, will you send one of Lucy’s children over with me to help carry back the costumes and my material—” She was already at the door.
“Val and I will go instead,” Ricky replied.
Some twenty minutes later Val was handed a suitcase and told to use the contents to cover his back. Having doubts of the wisdom of the whole affair, he went reluctantly upstairs to obey. But the result was not so bad. The broad-shouldered, narrow-waisted coat did not fit him ill, though the shiny boots were at least a size too large. Timidly he went down. Ricky was the first to see him.
“Val! You look like something out of Lloyds of London. Rupert, look at Val. Doesn’t he look wonderful?”
Having thus made public his embarrassment, she ran to the mirror to finish her own prinking. The high-waisted Empire gown of soft green voile made her appear taller than usual. But she walked with a little shuffle which suggested that her ribbon-strapped slippers fitted her no better than Val’s boots did him. Charity was coaxing Ricky’s tight fashionable curls into a looser arrangement and tying a green ribbon about them. This done, she turned to survey Val.
“I thought so,” she said with satisfaction. “You are just what I want. But,” the tiny lines about her eyes crinkled in amusement, “at present you are just a little too perfect. Do you realize that you have just fought off an attack, led by a witch doctor, in which you were wounded; that you have struggled through a jungle for seven hours in order to reach your betrothed; and that you are now facing death by torture? I hardly think that you should look as if you had just stepped out of the tailor’s—”
“I’ve done all that?” Val demanded, somewhat staggered.
“Well, the author says you have, so you’ve got to look it. We’d better muss you up a bit. Let’s see.” She tapped her fingernail against her teeth as she looked him up and down. “Off with that coat first.”
He wriggled out of the coat and stood with the glories of his ruffled shirt fully displayed. “Now what?” he asked.
“This,” she reached forward and ripped his left sleeve to the shoulder. “Untie that cravat and take it off. Roll up your other sleeve above the elbow. That’s right. Ricky, you muss up his hair. Let a lock of it fall across his forehead. No, not there—there. Good. Now he’s ready for the final touches.” She went to the table where her paints had been left. “Let’s see—carmine, that ought to be right. This is water-color, Val, it’ll all wash off in a minute.”
Across his smooth tanned cheek she dribbled a jagged line of scarlet. Then instructing Ricky to bind the torn edge of his sleeve above his elbow, she also stained the bandage. “Well?” she turned to Rupert.
“He looks as though he had been through the wars all right,” he agreed. “But what about the costume?”
“Oh, we needn’t worry about that. They knew I’d have to do this, so they duplicated everything. Now for you, Ricky. Pull your sleeve down off your shoulder and see if you can tear the skirt up from the hem on that side—about as far as your knee. Yes, that’s fine. You’re ready now.”
Rupert picked up from the table a sword and a long-barrelled dueling pistol and led the way out onto the terrace. Charity pointed to the big chair in the sunlight.
“This will probably be hard for you two,” she warned them frankly. “If you get tired, don’t hesitate to tell me. I’ll give you a rest every ten minutes. Val, you sit down in the chair. Slump over toward that arm as if you were about finished. No, more limp than that. Now look straight ahead. You are on the terrace of Beauvallet. Beside you is the girl you love. You are all that stands between her and the black rebels. Now take this sword in your right hand and the pistol in your left. Lean forward a little. There! Now don’t move; you’ve got just the pose I want. Ricky, crouch down by the side of his chair with your arm up so that you can touch his hand. You’re terrified. There’s death, horrible death, before you!”
Val could feel Ricky’s hand quiver against his. Charity had made them both see and feel what she wanted them to. They weren’t in the peaceful sunlight on the terrace of Pirate’s Haven; they were miles farther south in the dark land of Haiti, the Haiti of more than a hundred years ago. Before them was a semitropical forest from which at any moment might crawl—death. Val’s hand tightened on the sword hilt; the pistol butt was clammy in his grip.
Rupert had put up the easel and laid out the paints. And now, taking up her charcoal, Charity began to sketch with clear, clean strokes.
Her models’ unaccustomed muscles cramped so that when they shifted during their rest periods they grimaced with pain. Ricky whispered that she did not wonder models were hard to get. After a while Rupert went away without Charity noticing his leaving. The sun burned Val’s cheek where the paint had dried and he felt a trickle of moisture edge down his spine. But Charity worked on, thoroughly intent upon what was growing under her brushes.
It must have been close to noon when she was at last interrupted.
“Hello there, Miss Biglow!”
Two men stood below the terrace on a garden path. One of them waved his hat as Charity looked around. And behind them stood Jeems.
“Go away,” said the worker, “go away, Judson Holmes. I haven’t any time for you today.”
“Not after I’ve come all the way from New York to see you?” he asked reproachfully. “Why, Charity!” He had the reddest hair Val had ever seen—and the homeliest face—but his small-boy grin was friendliness itself.
“Go away,” she repeated stubbornly.
“Nope!” He shook his head firmly. “I’m staying right here until you forget that for at least a minute.” He motioned toward the picture.
With a sigh she put down her brush. “I suppose I’ll have to humor you.”
“Miss Charity,” Jeems had not taken his eyes from the two models since he had arrived and he did not move them now, “what’re they all fixed up like that fur?”
“It’s a picture for a story,” she explained. “A story about Haiti in the old days—”
“Ah reckon Ah know,” he nodded eagerly, his face suddenly alight. “That’s wheah th’ blacks kilt th’ French back in history times. Ah got me a book ‘bout it. A book in handwritin’, not printin’. Père Armand larned me to read it.”
Judson Holmes’ companion moved forward. “A book in handwriting,” he said slowly. “Could that possibly mean a diary?”
Charity was wiping her hands on a paint rag. “It might. New Orleans was a port of refuge for a great many of the French who fled the island during the slave uprising. It is not impossible.”
“I’ve got to see it! Here, boy, what’s your name?” He pounced upon Jeems. “Can you get that book here this afternoon?”
Jeems drew back. “Ah ain’t gonna bring no book heah. That’s mine an’ you ain’t gonna set eye on it!” With that parting shot he was gone.
“But—but—”