Ricky opened her eyes to their widest extent and leaned forward, every inch of her expressing awe. “Rupert, don’t tell me that you are an inventor!” she cried.
“Now I know that we’ll end in the poorhouse,” Val observed.
Rupert had recovered his composure. “ ‘I yam what I yam,’ “he quoted.
“Very well. Keep it to yourself then,” pouted Ricky.
“We can have secrets too.”
“I don’t doubt it.” He glanced at Val. “Unfortunately you always tell them. See any more bogies last night, Val? Did a big, black, formless something reach out from under the bed and clutch at you?”
But his brother refused to be drawn. “No, but when it does I’ll sic it onto you. A big, black, formless something is just what you need. And I’ll—”
“Am I interrupting?” Charity stood in the door. “Goodness! Haven’t you finished breakfast yet? Do you people know that it is almost ten?”
“Madam, we have banished time.” Rupert drew out the chair at his left. “Will you favor us with your company?”
“I thought you were going to be busy today,” said Ricky as she rang for Letty-Lou and a fresh cup of coffee for their guest.
“So did I,” sighed Charity. “And I should be. I’ve got this order, you know, and now I can’t get any models. Why there should be a sudden dearth of them right now, I can’t imagine. I thought I could use Jeems again, but somehow he isn’t the type.” She raised her cup to her lips.
“Are you doing story illustrations?” asked Rupert, more suave now than he had been all morning.
“Yes. A historical thriller for a magazine. They want a full-page cut for the first chapter and a half-page to illustrate the most exciting scene. Then there’re innumerable smaller ones. But the two large ones are what I’m worrying about. I like to get the important stuff finished first, and now I simply can’t get models who are the right types.”
“What’s the story about?” demanded Ricky.
“It’s laid in Haiti during the French invasion led by Napoleon’s brother-in-law, the one who married Pauline. All voodoo and aristocratic young hero and beautiful maiden pursued by an officer of the black rebels. And,” she almost wailed, “here I am with the clothes spread all over my bed—the right costumes, you know—with no one to wear them. I went over to the Corners this morning and called Johnson—he runs a registration office for models— but he couldn’t promise me anyone.” She bit absentmindedly into a round spiced roll Ricky had placed before her.
“Wait!” She laid down the roll in a preoccupied-fashion and stared across the table. “Val, stand up.”
Wondering, he pushed back his chair and arose obediently.
“Turn your head a little more to the right,” Charity ordered. “There, that’s it! Now try to look as if there were something all ready to spring at you from that comer over there.”
For one angry moment he thought that she had been told of what had happened the night before and was baiting him, as the others had done. But a sidewise glance showed him that her interest lay elsewhere. So he screwed up his features into what he fondly hoped was a grim and deadly smile.
“For goodness sake, don’t look as if you had eaten green apples,” Ricky shot at him. “Just put on that face you wear when I show you a new hat. No, not that sneering one; the other.”
Rupert threw back his head and laughed heartily. “Better let him alone, Ricky. After all, it’s his face.”
“I’m glad that someone has pointed out that fact,” Val said stiffly, “because—”
“Oh, 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 a Regency novel. 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 fingernails 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-barreled 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 me 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 mat 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.