THE house stood stark and tired on its hill, a plain white antebellum house with four square columns across the front and two chimneys at each end thrusting toward a darkening sky. Its sloping roof was made of gray and aged cypress shingles. Utilitarian black shutters were fastened back from tall narrow windows under the shadowy overhang of the upper and lower galleries. The only concession to ornament was the black wrought-iron grilles that covered the lower half of the bottom windows, grilles that matched the iron fence with its spiked top enclosing the house with a tiny lawn of parched grass and a spreading chinaberry tree.

Beyond the fence the long dry grass was dotted with the flagrant yellow of bitterweed. A long winding drive lined with dust-coated trees curved before the house. A wagon track led away to the left to barns and outbuildings seen vaguely through the trees.

Amanda Trent pulled her hired gig to a stop before the wrought-iron gate, and then sat for a moment with the reins in her hand, a frown puckering the white skin between her brows. The place looked deserted. Nothing moved behind the windows of the house. There was no sign of activity about the yard. The only sounds were the jingle of the harness as the livery horse stomped to dislodge a persistent horsefly and the sighing of the wind through the yellowing leaves of the chinaberry.

Still, there was nothing she could do but get down. She had come all this way. Her conscience would not let her retreat now.

Wrapping the reins around the whip handle standing in its socket, she looked about her for her petit point reticule. Looping it over her wrist, she bunched her skirts in one hand, placed her foot on the metal step, and jumped lightly down.

As she touched the iron gate, it swung open with a warning squawk of rusty hinges. She paused a moment, her nerves quivering, a momentary fright beating up into her throat at the loud sound in the stillness. A bleak depression gripped her, a sense of abandoned hope. Was it something within herself, in her weariness after a long day in the gig rattling over rough roads? Was it something in the atmosphere, a combination of the autumn droop of the leaves on the trees and the twilight hour? It must be. It was nonsense to suppose that it was the effect of the house before her, though in all truth it appeared barren enough to give pause to a more sensitive person than herself. With a faint curve of good humor on her mouth for her moment of foolishness, she passed through the gate and started along the brick walk, covered with the searching tentacles of Bermuda grass, toward the steps.

Suddenly there was a deep growling sound. A gray dog standing as tall as her waist appeared from around the side of the house. He had the huge head of a mastiff and the rangy body of a hound. His eyes were strange, nearly opaque, with the glazed look of cracked marbles. His yellow teeth were bared in a snarl.

Amanda stopped, standing absolutely still, her wide eyes fixed on the animal. A part of her mind recognized that this was no ordinary watchdog. She knew she must not show fear.

But the dog kept coming, a continuous rumbling in his throat. A few feet from her he dropped into a crouch, ready to leap. Blindly she flung her arm up to cover her throat and drew in her breath to scream.

"Down!"

At the harsh masculine command the dog wavered.

"Down, Cerberus!"

The dog flattened himself against the ground, his ears back. He was obedient to the voice of authority, but in his peculiar eyes there seemed to burn a lust for the taste of her blood.

Amanda breathed a trembling sigh of relief so deep it was almost a shudder. She dropped her hand, clenching it on her reticule, and then raised her eyes to the dog's master.

He stood in the open doorway, one hand braced against the frame, his face hidden in the dimness. He wore an open-necked shirt with the sleeves rolled above his elbows and rough breeches tucked into riding boots. Amanda received the impression of height, of darkness, and of a closed-in countenance hastily assumed, as if something about her had shocked him.

"I apologize for your fright," he said in clipped tones that were devoid of feeling. "Cerberus does not like visitors."

Cerberus -- the three-headed dog with a collar of snakes who guarded the underworld. It was not so unusual here in the South to find people and animals named for mythological characters. In the not-too-distant past many had had the leisure and, due to the classical revival the inclination, to study Homer, Virgil, and Ovid. Her own grandfather had been addicted to the Greek and Roman poets and was fond of classical allusions. Still, few, when the time came to choose a name, settled on the more repellent characters of the ancient legends.

"I . . . I'm sorry. I didn't mean to trespass."

He glanced toward the gig waiting before the gate, then returned his gaze to her. His eyes merely passed over her, but she was sure he had missed no detail of her toilette -- the polonaise and skirt of smoke gabardine trimmed with black braid, her bonnet of black straw, her side-buttoned shoes. Acutely uncomfortable, she wondered if there was dust on her face or in her auburn hair.

"You came alone?"

"Why, yes," she answered, startled by the sharp tone.

"It wasn't a very intelligent thing to do. It will be night soon, and the roads have been thick with . . . unpleasant characters . . . these days."

She took in his meaning at once. The carpetbag rule in Louisiana was entering its sixth year. There was great political unrest in the state. The dark -- and robes made of sheets -- was being used to cover much of the struggle for power that was taking place. But many crimes other than political could be covered with the night and a sheet.

Though she was aware of the dangers, she felt bound to defend herself. "I have always driven myself. In any case, I didn't intend to be out so late."

"Are you lost then?" he asked with the economy of words of a man with other, more important, things on his mind.

"I don't think so. I was for a time, but then I was directed to this house. I'm looking for a man, Jason Monteigne."

At the name stillness came over the man in the doorway. Slowly he straightened and stepped forward into the evening light. When he spoke there was a soft note of dread in his voice mixed with a timbre that was somehow menacing.

"What need have you with Jason Monteigne?"

The dog growled again at the sound, his hackles rising.

"Truthfully, nothing," Amanda said, quelling the impulse to step back a pace. "I really wanted his wife, Amelia Trent Monteigne. She is my first cousin."

The change came from within. His eyes seemed to catch flame with a blazing pain before they hardened into the frozen fire of emeralds. The color drained from his face, leaving it like a bronze mask with his features chiseled upon it -- the thick arched brows and high cheekbones, the high-bridged nose and firmly molded mouth.

Amanda knew, and she wanted to stop him, to keep him from voicing the words that would give such hurt. She could not.

"My wife is dead," he said, and the burning light in his eyes was suddenly gone.

"I . . . see." Amanda dropped her gaze to her gloved fingers as she began to tear at the strings of her reticule. "We didn't know. I . . . don't know what to do, but perhaps . . . that is . . . my grandfather wanted her to have this. Perhaps you would . . ."

Fumbling in the small cloth handbag attached to her wrist, she drew forth a necklace of opals and garnets set in gold and thrust it toward him. Her fingers, she saw, were trembling so violently that the sections of gold made a faint clinking sound.

"What is it?" he asked, making no move to take it from her.

Behind Jason Monteigne a woman moved from the house, a conscious expression in her brown eyes, as if she had been listening. She sauntered to his side with a lazy insouciance and placed a possessive hand on his arm. She had hair like fluffy white cotton and a mouth that wore a look of sullen stubbornness.

"Why, Jason," she drawled. "Anybody can see what it is. It's a necklace." She flicked a glance at Amanda, the glitter of self-interest barely hidden behind long, blond, almost white, lashes.

"Not just a necklace," Amanda corrected her. Without realizing it she brought the piece of jewelry closer to her own body. "It is a legacy from my grandfather. It belonged to his wife, my . . . our, Amelia's and my own . . . grandmother. She is dead now, and my grandfather died a month ago. He left this to Amelia in his will, to his only grandchild, beside myself. He called it the collar of Harmonia."

"Take it, Jason," the woman beside him said. "You are your wife's heir."

Jason did not answer her. He lifted his head, staring down at Amanda. "The collar of Harmonia was a bribe."

"You're right of course," she said, her words tumbling over themselves, the effect of his unnerving stare. "But this one was called by the classical name because it was a wedding gift from my grandmother's father on her wedding day more than fifty years ago. You must remember that in mythology the collar was originally given to Harmonia by the god Vulcan on her marriage to Cadmus. It was only later that it was used to curry favor. I have come a long way to bring the collar to . . . to its rightful owner. However, if you don't want it . . ."

She could sense the stiffening of attitude in the man before her. So could the blond woman.

"Oh, come. Let's not be hasty," the other woman said, pressing her fingers into the muscles of Jason's arm in a silent, physical appeal. "Why don't you ask this lady to come into the house where we can talk about it in comfort? I'm sure she would like to wash the dust from her face and hands and take some refreshment."

Amanda smiled, grateful for the offer of hospitality though it was not hard to recognize the motive behind it. She was torn between what she conceived to be her duty to turn over the necklace and a reluctance to see the collar of Harmonia fall into the hands of the woman before her. She would be glad for a few moments to think. Jason hesitated, his reluctance to proffer his hospitality patent. His green eyes moved from the expectant woman beside him to Amanda's tired and pale face. His lips tightened, then he gave way with a shrug and a mocking half bow, inviting Amanda to mount the steps and go before him into the house. As she went she could feel the eyes of the dog boring into her back.

Inside, the house was well furnished but shabby. It was obvious it had not been refurbished since the years of bounty before the War Between the States. The Turkish carpet which stretched the length of the entrance hall connecting the front and back galleries was threadbare down the center and before the doors of the principal rooms. The wallpaper, in a stylized pineapple pattern indicative of hospitality, was faded almost beyond recognition. Overhead, the bronze chandelier had only a handful of candles in its brackets instead of the five dozen it was designed to hold. Its teardrop lusters were dull, sadly in need of a vinegar bath. The sideboard against one wall also showed the effect of neglect. Its foot pieces were gray with dust, and the silver tea service, which occupied one end, was purple with tarnish.

Through the open door, Amanda caught a glimpse of the front parlor. Cold ashes lay caked beneath an Adams mantel. The straight lines of Federal furniture were plain in a small secretary and a pair of armchairs.

In keeping with the simplicity of the earlier era in which the house had doubtless been built, a plain staircase with a square newel post mounted to the second floor. If the house ran true to form, the upper rooms would follow the same plan as the lower with six spacious rooms, three on each side, leading off the main hall.

"If you will come with me?" the woman called Sophia said, irony lacing her tone as Amanda stood staring about her.

"Yes, of course," Amanda said, flinging an embarrassed glance to where Jason Monteigne leaned in the doorway. The intensity of his gaze as he watched hastened her steps, and she mounted the stairs at the side of the white-haired woman.

"I appreciate your offer of hospitality," Amanda said as they reached the upper landing.

The woman slanted her a small smile, but did not answer.

The bedroom into which she was shown was large and comfortable. It had its own fireplace with a white Carrara mantel flanked by windows on each side. A Brussels carpet strewn with pink cabbage roses on a maroon ground covered the floor. Crimson velvet draperies hung at the windows with lace curtains beneath them, while matching draperies were drawn back from the head of the great walnut tester bed. An armoire took up almost the whole of the opposite wall but for a tall connecting door into the next room. The wallpaper was of silver stripes with a heading of red roses intertwined with silver lace ribbon. At a glance the room seemed to have seen little wear. It had not been used in some time. A layer of dust covered everything, even the white drawn-work spread and pillow shams on the bed. A brown spider had made his web in the bowl on the washstand.

"This was Amelia's room. I thought you might want to see it," Sophia said expressionlessly.

"Yes," Amanda answered slowly, aware of an odd undercurrent without being able to see the reason for it.

"I'll bring you some water and a towel."

"Thank you." She stripped off her gray leather gloves then reached up to remove her bonnet. As the door closed behind the other woman, Amanda stared after her in perplexity.

With a tiny movement of the shoulders, she thrust the jet tipped bodkin through the crown of her bonnet and, placing it on the washstand, laid her gloves on top of it.

A quiet descended on the room. The smell of disturbed dust and a musty perfume too faint to identify lingered in the air. Glancing around her as she waited for Sophia to return, Amanda slowly began to realize that here in this room was opulence foreign to the rest of the house. There was a slipper chair, half hidden by the tester bed, in a silver brocade trimmed with purple tessellated braid. The china pitcher and bowl had been painted with a design of violets, pink roses, and cherubs, and silver tissue cloth formed a sunburst beneath the tester over the bed, held in place at the center by a gold medallion. In the corner between the front and side windows stood a dressing table covered with silver-topped boxes and jars and surmounted by a large mirror in a walnut frame.

It was curious. The other rooms on the lower floor had been furnished with good pieces but with a lack of color that bordered on austerity. Also, her first impression had been right, she saw now. The furnishings in this room were not nearly so old as those in the rest of the house. Who had fashioned this lavish retreat? It must have been Amelia, but who would have thought that her taste would have run to such heavy luxury?

Smoothing her hair that had been ruffled by the removal of her hat, Amanda moved toward the dressing table with its mirror. She felt a derisive smile curve her lips, for she expected to see a terrible color clash when her auburn hair was reflected against the background of red and pink and silver. Then the smile faded. The vibrant colors-behind her seemed to bring burnished life to her smoothly styled hair and to give a glowing sheen to her complexion while the silver was repeated in the gray of her eyes. She suited that room more perfectly than she would have believed possible.

A peculiar feeling moved over her so that she shivered without realizing it. It was like déjà vu, a term she had heard but never fully appreciated before. It was as if she had been there before, in front of that mirror, with the room at that precise angle behind her.

As she stared, her reflection dimmed. Turning, she saw that the light in the room had faded also. Beyond the window it appeared that night had fallen with amazing swiftness, but as she moved to stand peering out she saw that the effect was caused by a black cloud looming up from the southeast. The wind had risen; she could see the tops of the trees threshing in the woods some distance from the house. The gray-blue light had drawn the color from the grass leaving it without life, flattened by the wind.

As she watched she saw her gig, with a man at the reins, being driven along the wagon track toward the barn among the trees. Perhaps Jason had given orders for her horse to be watered. It was a thoughtful gesture. It had been a long dry drive.

Aware of her own thirst, she turned quickly when the door opened behind her. She would be glad to return to the parlor downstairs for her refreshment.

A woman stood in the doorway. She gave a gasp followed by a single word that rose to a shriek.

"No!"

Amanda swallowed, a nerve throbbing in her throat. Then she moved into the center of the room toward the large woman.

"What is it? What is the matter?"

"Grüss Gott," the woman breathed, putting her hand to a massive bosom. "You gave me a turn."

"I didn't mean to startle you. I was waiting for Sophia to bring water."

"Ach, that one! She says to me, 'Look in Amelia's room. There is a surprise.' The mischief-maker. I'll have her eyes some day! But don't be alarmed. I have no anger for you. I know well it is the doing of that one. It is no fault of yours that you have the size, the hair, and the eyes of Madame Amelia."

Amanda summoned a smile. "Amelia and I always favored. However, you will notice that my eyes are gray. Hers were almost the color of violets."

Ponderously the woman moved closer, squinting to see in the dim room. "Yes. It is so," she agreed, nodding. "Ah, the violets. How Madame Amelia loved them, their scent, their color . . . You knew Madame Amelia? You are her kinswoman, it may be?"

"A cousin. Our fathers were brothers. We were brought up together by our grandparents."

"Of course! You will be her dear Amanda, nicht? She spoke of you sometimes, when her heart turned toward home. She told me of how your fathers were killed in the war and of how your mother died of the fever and her own mother remarried a man with no use for a child . . . especially another man's child."

In the guttural accents of the woman, Amanda thought she recognized a member of Louisiana's German colony. Lured to Louisiana by John Law's Mississippi bubble, they had made a section above New Orleans, known as the German Coast, their own. Their culture had added a soupcon more flavor to the already rich blend of French, Spanish, Scots-English, African, and Indian heritages in the state.

"I didn't mean to be so long . . ."

Sophia, coming through the door with a pitcher of water in one square, rather brown hand and a towel over her arm, spoke to Amanda. "I see you have met our capable Marta. Has she told you her life's story yet? Never mind. She will, given the chance. I advise you to be ruthless. Tell her at once you don't want to hear anything so boring."

"At least I am a decent. God-fearing woman," Marta retaliated, a scowl drawing her small, pale blue eyes together. "I have no need for the prayers of other people."

"Pray for me, Marta, when you fall down on your knees tonight before your stern God. Pray for my wicked soul."

"Do you dare to mock the Lord, you blasphemous creature? Sin lies upon you like dirt upon the ground. You should always go robed in scarlet. The Lord knows your sins, he knows, and he will mete out punishment, you will see, you will see."

"Don't be tiresome, Marta. Go away." Sophia gave the big woman a push toward the door.

Marta shook her off. "Don't order me. You have not the right. I go, but it is because I have no liking for seeing your sly face."

Sophia closed the door with a vindictive snap while the other woman was still speaking, and then moved to place the pitcher on the washstand. "That Marta," she said with a touch of scorn. "I can't see why Jason keeps her on. She is no use anymore."

"No use?" Amanda asked, seeing that some contribution to the conversation was expected of her.

"She calls herself a nurse, in imitation of Miss Nightingale, but lady's maid would be more like it. She was Amelia's slave from the moment Jason brought her here. For me, I doubt she could help with a hangnail." A grimace twisted her lips.

Amanda walked to the washstand. She wiped the grime from the bowl with the towel and then tipped water into it. Picking up the soap she asked, "Amelia needed a nurse?"

"Didn't you know?"

"We . . . didn't hear from her often. My grandfather never approved of the marriage."

"Yes, I know. Stupid of him. Jason could have been of invaluable aid with his resources."

Her grandfather had not needed Jason's aid, but Amanda made no comment. She patted her face dry then let her gaze go to the window where a streak of lightning flashed.

"Was she ill long?"

"Several months. She was delicate from the first, complaining of headaches and lying about in her dressing gown."

Delicate? Amelia had been a normal, healthy girl. There had never been any questions of weakness or ill health of a chronic nature before her marriage.

"When exactly . . . did she die?"

"It must be over three months. Odd, it seems longer. I suppose that's because Jason has been so hard to live with."

"What caused it . . . how did it happen?"

"The doctor from town said it was a growth in her head. She couldn't stand the pain. In the end she took her own life. She drank an overdose of the laudanum she had been taking to ease her."

"Amelia? Take her own life? I can't believe it." Amanda whispered. "She would never have done such a thing."

"No? You should have been here to hear her cry and beg for death," Sophia said with a callous authority that forbade contradiction.

As they made their way back downstairs Amanda could not rid herself of her first conviction. Amelia could not have committed suicide. She had been so gay, so carefree. She loved all the bright things in life, sunny days, parties, music, pretty clothes in brilliant colors. She had loved to laugh, to meet new people. When they had gone away to boarding school, the seminary for young ladies, Amelia had been the one who was taken up by everyone. She had been the one with the most friends, the most secrets to giggle over.

When they were children together they had been close, she and Amelia, dependent on each other for help and companionship, and they had remained good friends within the framework of the school, but Amanda could not help feeling left out.

She had been a quiet solemn child, a reserved young woman with a strong practical streak that had been fostered by her grandparents. She was apt to choose materials for her clothes for their durability and failure to show soiling rather than for beauty. Lacking the outgoing personality of Amelia, she had never really cared for the gregarious life of the boarding school, and so she had not been upset when she had been called home to look after her grandmother in her last illness.

It was in the last months of the final term, after Amanda had gone, that Amelia had met Jason Monteigne. It had been at a house party near Christmas, a party given by the parents of one of her many friends. She had been, for Amelia, strangely secretive about the meeting. She had known their grandfather, a Scotsman by birth and a staunch Presbyterian, would not approve of a man whose mother was half French and half Indian of the Caddo tribe, whose father had made his fortune as a riverboat gambler, and who was himself a follower of Popery. The week after Amelia had returned to school from attending her grandmother's funeral, she had eloped with Jason.

With a shake of her head, Amanda pushed the memories of that time, more than three years past, from her mind. She could not allow herself to dwell on those days now.

In the front parlor they found a small but cheerful fire burning beneath the Adams mantel. Its warm glow dispelled some of the gathering gloom, lending an air of spurious hospitality to the room. A pair of lamps illuminated the corners, a condition the room tolerated in stiff discomfort, like an elderly matron enduring the revealing light of the sun upon her patched and faded garments.

The flickering lamplight also disclosed a portrait hanging above the mantel. It shone on gold buttons and braid and slid gleaming along the length of a dress sword. The figure was a soldier in the tailored gray of an officer of the Confederate Army. One hand rested on the hilt of his sword, the other held a broad-brimmed campaign hat, letting it lie against his gold-striped trouser leg. There was pride and confidence in every line, from the set of the straight, broad shoulders, to the firm placing of the booted feet. In the background was the spread of green field with long, arrow-straight furrows pointing toward a white pillared mansion on a hill. The house was Monteigne and the soldier, young, carefree, faintly reckless, was Jason.

"A handsome devil, isn't he?" Sophia mocked as Amanda stood gazing up at the portrait.

Amanda looked away at once, moving to hold out her hands to the flames beneath the mantel. "I hadn't realized . . . that is . . . Amelia never mentioned that he had fought in the war."

"Amelia had no use for unpleasant things. She tried very hard to forget them, and she usually succeeded."

"You seem to have known my cousin well," Amanda said. She could not disagree with this appraisal of her Amelia's character. It was true enough, though she could not, as Sophia's tone suggested, consider it a fault.

"We . . . my brother and I . . . have been neighbors of Jason's all our lives. We have always been in and out of each other's houses. And, of course, I have been serving as Jason's housekeeper since we lost our plantation."

"I see."

"No, I'm sure you don't," the other woman said, smiling at Amanda's carefully neutral tone. "We could not pay the back taxes, and a slimy carpetbagger bought our home at a Sheriff's auction. Jason took us in. Since Amelia was ill, I made myself useful."

There was nothing surprising in the tale. People in the South had been put to stranger shifts in the last few years. What was odd was the satisfaction Sophia seemed to feel in the arrangement.

Before she could comment, footsteps were heard in the hallway outside and a man appeared in the doorway. Of average height, he was broad in the chest and shoulders, creating an impression of stockiness. His hair, the color of corn silk, lay fine and thin across his skull. A mask of pale gold freckles covered his face, testifying to his outdoor occupation. With his blue eyes and pale lips he was obviously related to Sophia, though the smile, which lit his features, was warmer by several degrees.

"Allow me to present my brother, Theodore Abercrombie. Theo, this is Amelia's cousin, Amanda Trent." Sophia performed the introduction with bad grace.

"Delighted, Miss Trent," Theo said, inclining his head. "If I had known we had a visitor, I would have taken more trouble removing my dirt. I am afraid I've only just come from the fields. We're harvesting, you know, trying to get the last cotton ball before the fall rains begin."

"Miss Trent isn't interested in your problems," his sister said, a cutting edge to her voice. "She only came on a small errand. She will be leaving shortly."

Theo glanced beyond them to the window, which framed a towering mass of dark clouds roiled by the wind. A frown creased his brow before he spoke. "Oh? I'm sorry to hear that. I take it you have come to see Jason, Miss Trent. Can I run him to earth for you, or have you already spoken to him?"

Sophia answered for her. "He was here only a moment ago. I can't imagine where he has disappeared to."

"Or that he would dare to do it without telling you?" her brother murmured in a tone meant for his sister's ears alone. Sophia moved away with an angry swish of skirts. Taking up a poker, she prodded the logs in the fireplace, making them blaze up.

There was a smell in the air of dust and old wallpaper, of smoke, burning oak logs, and the sulphurous taint of the storm. Moving out of the way of the other woman, Amanda took a seat on the slippery hardness of the green-striped silk settee.

Somewhere in the house a door slammed. The draft stirred the window hangings and caused the flames in the lamps to shiver. His footfalls loud in the stillness, Theo stepped to a chair opposite the settee and lowered himself into it. The change of position placed Amanda in the full glow of the lamp on the table beside her. Theo made a small sound in his throat that turned into a difficult cough. Glancing at him with a smile of ready sympathy, Amanda found him staring at her above the clenched fist he held to his lips. He looked away at once, but the freckles stood out on his face like blotches and for an instant his eyes had been dark with what had every appearance of shock.

Sophia, her attention also drawn to her brother's face, laughed. "You didn't expect that, did you? Isn't it just what you needed, what we all needed, to have the lovely face of dear dead Amelia return to haunt us?"

"Sophia," her brother said, a warning in his voice.

It was not needed. Sophia swung away, her lips tightly folded, as Jason strolled into the room.

As a concession to his guest he had donned a brown cord jacket. His dark hair was damp and newly brushed, and his trousers had been pulled down over boots wiped free of dust and dirt from the field. His eyes scanned the company, missing nothing, neither Theo's uncomfortable silence nor Sophia's sulky chagrin. His green gaze locked with Amanda's for the length of time it took her to recognize his iron self-control, and then he looked away.

"I believe. Miss Trent, that you were promised some refreshment. On a night like this I think something with strength in it is in order."

Jason walked to the sideboard just inside the dining room, which led from the parlor. Through the wide entrance that normally closed with tan double doors, she watched as he used water, already heating over a spirit lamp, to mix two glasses of negus. When he brought a glass to Sophia and herself, she thanked him without demur though she would have preferred plain water.

Returning to the sideboard he poured drinks from one of the bottles with silver tags, drinks with a much stronger color, for Theo and himself.

There was the distant rumble of thunder. Amanda looked up in time to see, a brilliant streak of lightning crackle before a deafening roll of thunder exploded just above the house. She could not repress a start or the frown that drew her brows together.

"There, did you see that?" Theo asked leaning forward in his chair to send her a smile. "The rain will break any minute. You can't mean to try for town. You must stay."

There was a warmth about Sophia's brother that inspired liking. His bright blue eyes held genuine concern for her safety and well-being. Waiting for her answer, he seemed completely oblivious of the fact that the hospitality he was pressing upon her was not his to offer. "I couldn't impose," Amanda said, flicking a glance on her host.

Theo caught the implication of that flutter of the lashes. "No imposition. Isn't that so, Jason?"

"By all means, stay," Jason answered, looking briefly from his glass with an expression devoid of either concern or welcome.

As his eyes slid over her, Amanda felt that he was deliberately keeping his face blank, as if he was enduring her presence as best he might until the time he could be released from the memories the sight of her inevitably brought back to him. The grieving widower. Was it a pose? She wondered, and then flushed as Jason looked up to catch her watching him, the speculation plain upon her expressive face.

"I would really rather go back into town," she said dropping her gaze to the glass in her hands.

"Nonsense. Think of the danger," Theo insisted with a seriousness hidden by a gallant air.

Sophia intervened. "Perhaps if Amanda insists on going back, one of you could act as her escort."

"An excellent idea, Sophia," her brother exclaimed, "I volunteer."

"Really, there is no need," Amanda protested.

"None of us here at Monteigne would be able to forgive ourselves if anything happened to you. If you must go, I go with you." He glanced at Jason as though for support. Their host was in the process of pouring himself a fresh drink. The look he sent Theo was quite unreadable to Amanda, still it had the effect of sending the hot blood rushing to Theo's hairline.

A species of indignation stirred in Amanda's breast. Theo was, so far, the only one who had tried to be kind to her. It was the outside of enough to see him belittled for his efforts.

"If you are certain you won't mind the drive, then I confess I would be glad of the company," she said. It was true enough. An escort, a man at the reins, would be a comfort on these unknown roads after dark. She had lost her way once this afternoon, there was nothing to keep her from doing so again. Too, although she had seen no sign of unusual activity earlier, she was not blind to the possibility of being molested if her assailants discovered she was a woman alone.

"I will not mind," Theo answered so simply no one could doubt the truth of his statement.

Thunder vibrated through the room. Hard on the sound Sophia spoke. "Even with an escort, it really is foolish of you to think of leaving now, you will be soaked to the skin, or worse, blown off the road. What would it hurt to stay a little longer, until the rain stops? And as long as you are waiting, you may as well take dinner with us. Theo, I'm certain, will want to fortify himself for the long drive into town and back."

It would not be fair to expect Theo to wait until his return for his meal. Reluctantly Amanda agreed.

"Good. That's settled," Theo said, setting down his glass and rubbing his hands together before holding them out to the fire. "Getting cooler, be Halloween in little more than a week."

"Will it? Yes, I suppose so," Amanda said, mentally counting up the days.

"All Hallow's Eve. We shall have to lay in a stock of candles."

"Candles?"

"For the Night of the Candles."

"I don't . . . oh, you mean for the cemetery. Do you keep that custom?"

"We, Sophia and I, have French Catholic ancestors like so many in this area. If you have never seen the cemetery glimmering with candlelight to keep away the demons on All Hallow's Eve, you should make the effort. As a custom it has a certain macabre charm."

"Don't let my brother persuade you. Miss Trent," Sophia said in her husky voice. "The occasion has a religious significance, it's true, but it is also an excuse for the most diabolical and disgusting tricks ever to be invented by a childish mind. I have no liking for cemeteries at the best of times, but I keep a wary eye out on The Night of the Candles."

"I resent the implication!" Theo said, then sobered with a quick, slanting glance at Jason. "I don't imagine any of us will be in a frolicsome mood this particular year."

He referred, of course, to the still fresh bereavement, the new grave with Amelia's name on the stone. The thought cast a pall on the company that Theo tried to break by taming brisk and matter of fact.

"Well, when do we eat?"

His sister lifted her feathery blond lashes in a languid sweep. "Dinner will be ready when Proserpine is ready and not one second sooner, you know that. This evening she was late starting dinner because her second granddaughter has a cold, and she had to carry her some pepper sauce for her cough."

Amanda sipped her hot, watered wine with sugar and spices. She was not very hungry. She had taken a lunch hamper from the hotel this morning and eaten it along the way. How long ago that seemed. Then she had thought to find Amelia alive. She had expected that they would have a comfortable gossip and she might visit a day or two. Her bags were in the gig. She had missed Amelia, her sprightly ways and infectious laugh, missed having someone to talk nonsense to now and then. Amelia had been such a happy person and so young to die. But she must not go on thinking in this vein or she would be crying, here in front of these strangers. She took a deep, resolute breath.

"You must be alone in the world now, Amanda, if what you say about your grandparents is true. What are you going to do with yourself?" Sophia's voice was polite but a new curiosity gleamed in her brown eyes.

"I won't be alone for long. I am engaged to be married, probably in the spring."

"Your fiancé allowed you to come here alone?" Jason asked.

"I can see you don't approve. Women have had to become independent here in the South since the war, Mr. Monteigne. There are not enough men to escort all the women left alone."

"That doesn't answer my question."

"No, perhaps not. To be perfectly honest, I didn't tell Nathaniel I was coming. He was away on business in New Orleans. He is a lawyer, you see, and interested in politics. I had the opportunity to travel as far as Natchitoches with friends who were going on to Shreveport, and I could not allow the chance to pass. It isn't as if it were a journey around the world, you know. It's only a matter of some sixty or sixty-five miles from my grandfather's plantation."

"Oh, your grandfather had a plantation? What will become of it now?" Sophia probed, ignoring her brother's frown of disapproval.

"It will have to be sold. It is too far from town to be practical for Nathaniel and me to live there, as much as I hate the idea of leaving the old house. It was nothing very grand, since it was built before the cotton boom, but I love it." Amanda had the feeling that she was being drawn, but it could not matter, and it was necessary to pass the time somehow.

"You have moved then?"

"I'm just on the verge of doing so. Most of my things are packed away. But I wanted to clear away all my obligations first. Nathaniel and I are going to build a new house on the edge of town."

"An edifice suitable for a rising young lawyer-politician, of course," Sophia commented. "I'm sure your grandfather's money will come in handy."

Amanda was silent a moment, long enough to quell the impulse to answer such cynicism as it deserved, before she replied. "That is not the case at all."

"No? Tell me, Amanda. With whom are you going to live until the wedding?"

"Why, with Nathaniel's parents. They have quite a nice home themselves. Nathaniel is hardly a pauper."

"That may be, but politics is notoriously expensive, and it appears to me that your young man is being very sure of you. So sure that you felt you had to escape him the moment his back was turned."

"That isn't true!" Amanda exclaimed, staring at Sophia with real horror.

"Pay no attention to my sister," Theo said with a dismissing wave of his hand. "She enjoys the pose of the worldly wise cynic. Don't let her infect you with the disease."

"I'm sure there's no danger of that," Jason drawled. "Amanda hasn't the look of the easily disenchanted."

"Are . . . are you suggesting that I am gullible?" Anger boiled up suddenly. Why should they bother when she would go out of their lives in an hour or so, never to see them again? Why should they attack her with their verbal barbs? Although uninvited she was still a guest, and this was the height of discourtesy.

Thunder rumbled again and then, in the midst of the sound, came the ringing of a handbell.

"At last!" Theo got to his feet and gave his hand to Amanda as she rose, then tucked her hand into his elbow, and led her toward the dining room, leaving his sister to follow with Jason. The nurse, Marta, met them at the foot of the stairs. The woman, her face almost purple from the exertion of hurrying, fell in behind them.

Jason took his place at the head of the table. The cook, Proserpine, standing behind his chair, ran her eyes over the company, and then, a carefully blank look hiding her displeasure, went away to bring another place setting for Amanda. Amanda glanced at Sophia, but if the woman had been made to feel she had been derelict in her duties, she gave no sign. Sophia took her place, automatically on Jason's right and watched with an amused expression as her brother held the chair on the left for Amanda, then sat down beside her.

It was a simple meal. Vegetable soup was followed by crisp golden chicken stuffed with herbs, fluffy biscuits the size of a silver dollar, gravy, rice, smoked ham with sweet potatoes, and some of the eggplants of the season mealed and fried. Dessert was a pie made with fresh pecans and cane syrup, still warm from the oven.

The courses were accompanied by wine, and Amanda noticed that Jason refilled his glass often from the decanter at his elbow.

Halfway through the meal the rain began, falling thick and heavy on the roof, while the lightning flickered continuously beyond the muslin curtains over the windows.

There was not much conversation. The storm seemed to have a depressing effect on the group around the board, except for Marta who ate with a stolid unconcern for the other diners, pushing the food into her mouth by the forkful. Theo and Sophia spoke now and then, employing the short swift comments of those long used to each other's thoughts and opinions. Jason sat morose, staring at his wine glass, now and then raising his eyes to let his gaze slide over Amanda as if he would like to stare but would not allow himself to do so. A scowl drew his brows together, and she wondered if his anger was directed at himself or at her.

As Proserpine, a big woman with a round face on which ill nature had stamped strong lines, brought the last dessert plate, she stopped beside Jason.

"Yes, what is it?" he asked without looking up.

"That tramp, the crazy Carl. He's done come in out of the rain. He's eatin' in my kitchen right now."

"And?"

"And this time he's got a lizard with him, feeding' it off his plate!"

"A lizard?"

"One of them . . . change-lizards."

"Chameleon."

"That's right. I ain't puttin' up with no such carryin'-on in my good clean kitchen. You tell him to take himself off. I ain't havin' no lizard runnin' around on the table where I eat!"

Jason sighed. "What can it hurt? You have to make allowances for Carl."

"I'm through making 'lowances. A kitty-cat I can stand, but I ain't standin' no scaly lizard with beady eyes and a wicked, forked tongue! What if that little beast gets loose in the stranger's bedroom tonight? It's me that'll . . ."

"All right, all right. I'll speak to him."

Mollified, Proserpine nodded and moved with head held high and a slow step from the room, her skirts rustling from the paper she had sewn to her petticoats to imitate the sound of taffeta.

Copyright © 1978 by Patricia Maxwell