Free Velvet Shadows by Andre Norton Page A

Francisco in spite of the fog. It is not Paris, but it has its own merits. See—I am surrounded by some of them now!”
    Amélie appeared then and was overcome (or gave a rather theatrical performance of being so) as her mistress called her attention to this particular item or that. Seeing them so completely occupied, I went to my own room, with more than a little to trouble my mind.

CHAPTER FIVE
    Of course I had been tempted to buy during the morning. And to hold to prudence can also leave one with a nagging feeling of dissatisfaction. Prices were high here and one could easily spend on trifles in one shopping tour more than my quarterly pay at Ashley Manor. I must conserve my resources, wasting nothing.
    But that was of no account when weighed against the manner of Victorine herself. I must somehow reach her or I was not the mentor Mr. Sauvage needed—and if I discovered that was so I must admit my failure frankly and withdraw as soon as possible. Most of the time, in spite of her flashes of temper, she was amenable enough.
    My unease had so little substantial to build on, still it lingered. Wait and see—but I firmly intended upon Mr. Sauvage’s return to speak with him, state my doubts concerning my fitness for the responsibility he had given me.
    As I turned away from placing my pelisse and hat in the wardrobe, my eyes fell upon my traveling lap desk. There was the journal letter for Madam Ashley. What I would not give now to step into her study and ask for advice. There was—I could not even explain certain formless, vague wishes to myself, and I must by all meansavoid fruitless dreaming. My letter—it was unsatisfactory, for though it said so much, yet it revealed so little of what puzzled and disturbed me. But I would complete it now and mail it.
    Only when I unlocked the desk, I knew once more my privacy had been invaded. The pages were not in order. My Morocco leather address book, the pearl-handled pen, the thin sheets of India paper suited for such long letters, the envelopes, the small crystal inkwell with the seal cover, wax, my father’s own seal—all were here. Still I knew they must have been examined, perhaps even the letter read!
    Catching that up I scanned the pages hurriedly. No, my suspicions had not been committed to paper. I had written only of the country and our day-by-day journey across it. There was nothing here that the whole world could not read. But to think that it might have been looked over in stealth angered me, with the same anger I had felt to find my family treasures had been examined.
    I rang for Hattie. At least she could tell me who had been in this room during the morning.
    But it was not Hattie who answered the bell. Though she was also a Negro, this maid was much younger, more assured, even pert, in her manner, regarding me boldly. I sensed, though I knew I could never prove it, that she was well able to play the spy.
    “You wanted me, miss?”
    Not only did her manner border on impudence, but her pretty face and lithe, well-shaped body could not be disguised by the coarse uniform she wore. She was a mulatto, I believed, and would be a match for any clumsy questioning I could try.
    “Where is Hattie?”
    “Hattie’s gone.” She watched me slyly, as if she expected some other question, perhaps about the desk. I decided it better not to ask any.
    “What is your name?”
    “I’m Submit, miss.”
    Suddenly I was inclined to laugh. That meek old Puritan name for this girl was a fantastic misfit

    “Very well, Submit. Will you please unhook me—”
    In reality I did not want her touching me, but I had to have some reason for calling her. And I believed she was amused as she deftly unhooked and helped to draw off my heavily draped skirt.
    She was perfect in her role, fast, neat, well trained in a maid’s duties. When she went to hang my dress in the wardrobe, she clicked her tongue disparagingly and shook her head.
    “That there Hattie, she never took no iron to these