by Dorothy Eden
Grace spoke on a sudden belligerent note, turning to the room at large.
“Don’t be silly, Grace,” came Ebba’s low, controlled voice. “We’d all adore to see her. I only don’t understand why you had to play that charade. As if there were a mystery or something.”
“Isn’t there a mystery?”
“Well, darling, I expect you know your cousin better than any of us here. If she’s acting out of context—how do you say that?”
“Out of character,” supplied Sven Backe.
“That’s right. How clever of you, Sven. Well, we just wouldn’t know about that, would we? I, anyway, didn’t know Willa well enough.”
“Eloping isn’t a thing a girl does every day,” observed Axel. “Not even Miss Willa.”
“Yes, Grace, have you known her manner of eloping in the past?” Peter Sinclair said, his arm around his wife, the facetiousness back in his voice. “We English let our lives be ruled by precedent.”
“I don’t care how you rationalize it,” Grace said stubbornly. “To me there is a mystery. And I won’t be satisfied until I get to the bottom of it.”
She could do a little outstaring herself, even with Axel Morgensson. But this was foolish. These were her guests, not her enemies. Why did that little flutter come over her that they all hated her? Even Winifred Wright, with her puzzled, slightly outraged expression. Letting the side down, was she?”
“Let’s all have another drink,” came Polsen’s calm voice.
“Such a draft, all at once,” complained Miss Anna Morgensson.
Then Fru Lindstrom’s jolly laugh restored normality.
“But what an actress you are, Fröken Asherton. I really believed you were Fröken Bedford. Everyone did.”
Everyone? Then why that sudden moment of petrified shock, as if Willa’s appearance was such an astonishing, even unwelcome thing?
“It’s worse than before,” Grace murmured to Polsen, pouring drinks in the kitchen.
“What?”
“The mystery.”
“Repercussions,” said Polsen obscurely.
“What do you mean?”
“How many drinks is that? Enough? We must wait for the repercussions.”
“Tonight?” Grace’s heart was jumping nervously again.
“Who knows? Come along. You’re neglecting your guests.”
And the first repercussion, if it were one, happened even sooner than could have been expected.
“Grace, would you come spend next weekend with us?” Ebba asked. “Have you visited an old Swedish house?”
“Only Gripsholm Castle.”
“Ours isn’t exactly a castle, but it’s nearly eighteenth century. I think you’ll find it interesting. Do come.”
“I’d love to,” Grace said with a private feeling of recklessness that should not accompany an acceptance of an invitation to a weekend in the country.
“Marvelous. We’re not far from Sigtuna. Sven and Ulrika might come over for dinner. Unless you want to be quiet.”
“I don’t want to be quiet,” said Grace. “Why?”
“I can’t imagine why I said that. Of course you don’t. We might even have a party.”
Afterward Grace wished Ebba had included Polsen in her invitation. But why should she, any more than she should include Axel or, any of the embassy people? She wondered, too, if Willa had ever spent a weekend with the baron and baroness, but that she could discover later.
Polsen gave her his inscrutable look when she told him of this development.
“Should I have accepted?”
“Of course. Why not?”
“I wish you had been asked, too.”
“Me? The dull professor?”
“I’m not exactly scintillating myself. I expect Ebba is just thinking she ought to be hospitable to a visitor to her country.”
“Get her to take you to Uppsala. There’s a fine university there. And a cathedral.”
“You could have done that,” said Grace. “I would have been happier with you.”
“Then all right. Save it for me. Go driving in the forest instead.”
“The forest?”
“There’s miles of forest around the Von Sturpe estate. And the lake, of course. Sigtuna is pretty. But it’s the wrong time of year.”
“I hope it won’t be raining.” Grace repressed a shiver. “I don’t really want to go. I haven’t the right sort of clothes.”
“Borrow Willa’s.”
“Yes, I suppose I could. She wouldn’t mind. I can leave a note of explanation in case she comes back while I’m away.”
This, however, proved to be unnecessary, for two days later the letter from Willa arrived.
It was addressed to Grace in England and had been readdressed by Grace’s father. The postmark was too blurred to read, but the date on the letter, which Grace unfolded with fingers that shook ridiculously, was exactly a week ago.
There was no address.
Dear Grace,
You must be wondering why I haven’t written sooner, but Gustav and I are having a spot of bother. Gustav was too optimistic about a tiresome divorce he has to get, did I tell you? It has been delayed, so I’m having to wait a while to be made an honest woman. It won’t be too long, but it’s a bit maddening and depressing. I’m beginning to show, as they say. But unless something absolutely unforeseen happens, we’ll get to the altar in time. Gustav is holding my hand, bless him. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be seeing you long before I make you an aunt. No, you’ll be a second cousin, won’t you? Doesn’t matter. Just come to Sweden and see the little beast.
All love,
WILHELMINA
“There it is!” Grace said to Polsen, pointing with her still trembling finger. “Wilhelmina! Again. We’ve had this private arrangement for years that if Willa wanted help she would send me a message signed ‘Wilhelmina.’ No one knows about this but us. So there you see. She is in trouble.”
“Yes. She must be. No divorce, no husband.”
“Not just that. Willa would take a situation like that in her stride. It wouldn’t be something she had to send me a cry for help about.”
“Something more serious,” Polsen said thoughtfully. It was a statement rather than a question.
Grace nodded, her lips dry. She had only been apprehensive before, she realized. Now she was frightened.
Polsen held the envelope up to the light, studying the blotted postmark.
“Uppsala,” he said, at length.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. Look. Here’s the U, and there the tails of the two P’s. An A at the end. It shouldn’t be too difficult to find Willa there. A pregnant English girl in a small university town would be fairly visible. Why are you looking so critical?”
“A letter posted in Uppsala doesn’t need to mean she’s there. She could still be in that cottage in the forest.”
“And only came to town to post the letter and telephone the Sinclairs?”
“Not even that,” said Grace unhappily. “I’m certain Gustav made her write this letter and then took it himself to post it. He’s seen that she’s written in her usual style, but he still doesn’t know about her secret signature. Her SOS to me, who she thinks is in England. What does she imagine I can do there, when I can’t even do anything here?”
Polsen looked at her admiringly.
“What a brain you have, Grace. You’ll be a great writer.”
“Never mind that—”
“I was going to say that now I’ll do some guessing. Willa doesn’t know you’re in Stockholm, but Gustav does. Right? He’s getting a little disturbed at the way you’re behaving, so he’s had Willa write this letter, cleverly addressed to England, knowing it would be sent on to you here and hoping it would put your mind at rest.”
“It’s done the very opposite!”
“But only because of the private signature, which Gustav doesn’t know about. All criminals make some small but dangerous mistake.”
“Criminals!”
“He is hardly an honest man. Is he?”
“Oh, Polsen!” Grace pressed her hands to her temples in despair. “What are we to do now? Has this horrible man got Willa hidden away until somehow he makes her get rid of the baby?”
“Too simple. No one would go to those lengths for something that could be done comparatively easily. It must be more than that. I’m sorry. But I have to say I am now a little alarmed.”
“Me, too.”
“There was never another telephone call to the Sinclairs.”
“Kate says not. She didn’t find out who that caller was. She thinks the children made it up.”
“Then let us reflect. You had better go to the Von Sturpes this weekend, as planned.”
“Must I?”
“It’s better, I think. Just keep your eyes and ears open. It will be all right. You’ll enjoy it. Try to get invited to the Backes, too.”
Grace’s face was harrowed as she thought of the ordeal ahead. It was an ordeal in spite of Polsen’s calm way of assuming it would be enjoyable. Ebba with her intimidating assurance and sophistication and her eighteenth-century house full, no doubt, of dark stairways and old portraits, the Strindberg house of the Backes, with Mama, Papa, and the dour sister, Ulrika. And always the gloomy forest, and the steely shine of the lake, and the wind howling, and the sky heavy with snow that refused to fall.
“Ugh!” Grace was shivering again. “What a country this is. Keep this place warm for me, Polsen.”
“I’ll be doing more than that”—his hand rested briefly, she fancied affectionately, on her head—“while you’re enjoying your baronial dinner parties.”
But he wouldn’t say what it was he would be doing, and once again she was reluctantly compelled to believe that he suspected, or knew, more than he intended to tell her.
Chapter 10
EVERYONE BUT POLSEN WATCHED Grace leave with Ebba, who had arrived in her white Mercedes. Was it chance that caught Captain Morgensson hurrying down the stairs with a canvas bag slung over his shoulder at that precise moment? His aunts were leaning over the stair rail, waving to him and saying something in Swedish. When Grace appeared, they called farväl to her, too, and hoped she would have a nice time.
“Is your ship sailing?” Grace asked Captain Morgensson, who had stood back politely to let her pass.
“Ja! Shortly. I will be seeing you when I return again, I hope.” His bleak eyes held a stirring of warmth. Merely sensual, Grace thought. Merely his automatic reaction to a woman.
Fru Lindstrom, as was to be expected, was in the hall, being deferential to Ebba. Grace got included in this distasteful servility.
“Ah, Fröken Asherton, how fortunate you are, a beautiful drive, a weekend in the country.” Her hearty laugh rang in Grace’s ears as she followed Ebba outdoors. It was useless to wish that Polsen, also, was joining in this cozy farewell. But he had gone out very early. She had heard his firm footsteps going down the stairs before she was up. She had thought he might be back before she left, but he had not been, and she was unreasonably disappointed. If he hadn’t waited to say good-bye, he might at least have told her where he was going. She was getting as inquisitive as Fru Lindstrom.
Ebba, as svelte as ever in a high-necked sweater and a suede jacket, her ashen hair tied back with a black velvet ribbon, was friendly enough in her cool, offhand way.
“We’ll be home in good time for lunch. Then you can see over the house. Are you interested in architecture? Swedish history?”
“Everything.”
“Yes, I suppose a writer has to have a curious mind.”
Was there an underlying meaning in that remark? She was getting too suspicious. Ebba’s profile was pure and calm.
“I have a very curious mind,” Grace answered.
“Then use it on the Backes, who have invited us to tea this afternoon. There’s a family that’s turned in on itself. Such a pity. Sven could be so charming if he weren’t so inhibited. Tomorrow the Sinclairs and the Backes are all coming for the day. Jacob likes to go shooting with Peter and Sven. We women can have a lazy time.”
“Shooting elks?” asked Grace.
“Did I hear apprehension in your voice? You’re thinking of that poor young man, Bill Jordan. It’s time that was forgotten. There are hunting accidents every year. So are there car accidents and other unfortunate things. It does no one any good to brood on them. Look at Kate. She lets simply everything get her down. I have no time for neurotic women, especially when they become such a liability on their husbands. If Kate isn’t careful, she’ll ruin Peter’s job for him, and that would be a great pity. He’s so clever and able. Don’t you agree?”
“I don’t really know him well enough. I feel sorry for Kate, but she is pretty limp. Still, she might have been like Willa, and I suppose that would have been worse.”
“How?” There was a sharp inflection in Ebba’s voice.
“Flirting with everyone. Starting scandals. I’ve had the feeling ever since I’ve been here that every man I’ve met could tell me more about Willa than he has done.”
Ebba gave her low, amused laugh.
“Even my husband? Well, you may be right. She was a foolish creature, but one had to admire her vitality. Men always like vitality, don’t they? What about your Polsen?”
“He’s not mine!”
“Am I wrong? I thought he was quite possessive. Sweet, too, if you like that type. Do you know anything about him, except what he wants you to think? The gentle bumbling professor? Perhaps not so bumbling if the truth were known. I expect he has a good brain?”
She was being cross-examined, Grace realized, and took satisfaction in answering noncommittally, “I wouldn’t know. We haven’t discussed intellectual subjects.”
“What do you talk about?” Ebba asked.
“Willa, mostly.”
“Good gracious! What a thing! Another woman! Was that bad joke you played at your party his idea?”
“Partly. We thought it would liven up things.”
“And it fell flat,” said Ebba. “Like Kate.” She gave a short laugh. “You ought to know, Grace, that we’re all a little bored with the subject of Willa. I’ll tell you a secret. We rather hope she won’t turn up again, even with a husband. She is a very tiresome young woman.”
“Well, she won’t be turning up immediately,” Grace said deliberately, watching Ebba’s face, which instantly showed all the surprise she could have expected.
“Why? Have you heard from her?”
“Yes, I had a letter. It was sent on to me from England.”
“Well, for goodness’ sake, Grace, you are a secretive person. Why didn’t you tell me at once?”
“Even though you’re bored with the subject?”
“I’m not bored with real facts. Have you some, at last?”
When Grace had related the contents of Willa’s letter, Ebba lifted her handsome head and laughed with the greatest amusement.
“Oh, dear! Forgive me, Grace. But this is exactly what Willa deserves. It won’t do her any harm at all. When one thinks of her own behavior—”
“Are you thinking of Bill Jordan?” Grace interrupted.
“Not only him. She really was a little tramp. You have more or less said so yourself. I think Gustav, whoever he is, is the one to be pitied for having this problem.”
“It is his baby,” Grace pointed out.
“Oh, that. Such an old-fashioned way to blackmail a man.”
Ebba’s mind was a cold, analytical one. Grace wondered if it ever held warmth and affection, even for her quiet husband. She must have found the untidiness of Willa’s life very distasteful, although why it should have affected her was a little puzzling. Unless Willa had made a pass at the quiet Jacob. There did seem something personal in Ebba’s satisfaction at Willa’s predicament.
Sven, Axel, Jacob, Gustav…
“Did Willa ever stay with you?” Grace asked curiously.
“She visited us for a day.
She came with the Sinclairs when she was staying in their cottage. Peter and Jacob went out shooting and took her with them. I never invited her for a weekend. We weren’t on those terms of friendship.”
Are we? Grace wondered silently.
“You’re so different from your cousin,” Ebba answered for her. “Everyone notices that.”
The road ran through the yellow, amber, and dark-green landscape. Cold gray turrets of clouds hung on the horizon. The plowed fields, turning the earth up to the sky, looked sodden and sour. A row of sunflowers, their vibrant yellow vanished, hung blackened, withered heads, against a roadside cottage. Like Willa with her canary-yellow head? Grace wondered involuntarily. Was it hanging withered and forlorn, too?
Ebba slowed down and turned into a narrow rutted road, bordered with birches. It ran in a straight line to a mansion a mile in the distance.
“Home,” said Ebba.
It was a handsome house, pineapple-colored with dark-brown facings. A long flight of steps led up to the front door. There were eagles’ heads on the balustrades and a long stretch of lawn with formal gardens on each side of the house. There would be peacocks, Grace thought fancifully. Or pet eagles. It was that sort of place.
The door opened, and Jacob stood on the steps, holding out his hand and smiling in his courteous way.
“Welcome, Grace,” he said.
He looked older by daylight, his skin drawn over delicate bones, his complexion pallid, his eyes the washed blue of the wintry sky. At least twenty years older than his wife, Grace calculated. Perhaps more. And whatever Ebba might once have felt for him, besides her desire for his title and his handsome house, had clearly dwindled, for now she swept past him into the large, square, dark-paneled hall, only saying over her shoulder, “We could do with drinks. Come by the fire, Grace. How do you like our baronial hall? One day I’m going to get rid of all this gloomy paneling. I want everything white and gold, like a French château. Jacob says how would his trophies look with that background? But I intend to get rid of the trophies, too.”
This seemed to be a long-standing argument, for Jacob, pouring drinks at a vast mahogany sideboard, said good-humoredly, “And the family portraits, don’t forget, my darling.”
