by Dorothy Eden
The trophies were elks’ and boars’ heads, flanked by splendidly barbaric swords and ancient pistols. Grace was inclined to agree with Ebba about them. But the portraits, hanging in an impressive line down the curving staircase and in the shadows of the landing above, looked decorative and colorful. She wondered if Ebba resented Jacob’s ancestors because she had none of any importance herself.
“The portraits, too,” Ebba agreed. “I’m tired of being examined by all those critical eyes every time I go up or downstairs. When I first came here, I thought I would never get used to their disapproval. I thought they used to dislike me because I was young, but then I realized it was because I was alive. So simple, isn’t it? Jacob, I’m only teasing. I promise not to get rid of them until—”
“I also am dead?”
“That’s exactly what I was going to say, but you make it sound so bad,” Ebba grumbled in her husky voice. “And I’ll only put them in the attics. With the ghosts of all our vanished servants. These big houses are no joke nowadays. I do a great deal of the work myself. Is it like that in England, Grace?”
“Exactly the same.”
“Well, I suppose it’s good for lazy women.” Ebba’s long, elegant hands held out to the fire didn’t look as if they were ever occupied with anything more strenuous than a little needlework, but that could be misleading. She probably kept a battery of beauty preparations. She was a curious person, offhand, blasé, a little cruel to her quiet husband, amusing, witty, fascinating to look at, heartless perhaps, but totally unrelaxed, her restless bones on wires. Why? From discontentment with an elderly dull husband? A traditional house full of disapproving ancestors? Life in the country? Lack of children? No, that last would be the baron’s tragedy, not hers.
And here she went again, putting people into words, dissecting, rationalizing. Grace took the glass of sherry from Jacob, and remembered her manners enough to wait for his formal skål to her before she drank. She was going to find her visit highly interesting. After all, it wasn’t essential to enjoy it.
“Don’t imagine you hear things in the attics in the night,” Ebba said later, in the large guest room with the curtained four-poster bed. “They’re all empty. But the floors creak, especially as it gets colder. The frost gets in. It’s too expensive to keep unused rooms heated.”
“The queen in the attic,” Grace murmured.
“What?”
“Only something Polsen told me about the Haga Pavilion. King Gustav used to keep his queen in the attic.”
Ebba’s eyes took on a curious smoky look when she was interested.
“You’re not also thinking of Willa’s Gustav, I hope. I should hardly think he has her under lock and key.”
“No, hardly,” Grace agreed.
“Well, I assure you these attics really are empty, except for all the pieces of impossibly ugly old Swedish furniture I’ve had put out of sight.”
“Aren’t you Swedish?” Grace asked, on an intuition.
“Why do you ask that?”
“You speak about Swedish things as if they were foreign.”
Ebba gave a faint smile.
“You’re very observant, Grace. No, I’m not Swedish, I’m German. But from a long time ago. I was an actress and came here with a touring company when I was eighteen and never went home again. That was twenty years ago. I still talk of some Swedish things disparagingly, I’m afraid. No wonder my husband is disgusted with me. But one has to be honest, hasn’t one?”
Honest? Was that a word one could apply to the Baroness von Sturpe? It was too early yet to decide.
At luncheon, with Ebba and Jacob facing each other from opposite ends of a long table and Grace islanded in the middle, Ebba suddenly said, “Oh, I forgot to tell you, Jacob, Grace has heard from the bride. Or the hopeful bride.”
“Willa?” Jacob’s voice was full of an animation Grace hadn’t heard before. He seemed pleased. His eyes had brightened. She had a feeling of shock. So Jacob, also, in spite of his sedate age, joined the list of Willa admirers. She found it difficult to believe. Except that his wife’s coolness, with that underlying tendency to cruelty, might well have turned him to someone as spontaneously warmhearted as Willa.
“She’s got divorce problems,” Ebba drawled.
“Already!”
“No, it’s Gustav who has the divorce problems,” Grace explained. “It sounds a bit messy, but there doesn’t seem to be anything anyone can do, especially since she’s so mysterious about where she is.”
“Well, I’m glad to hear she’s all right,” Jacob said, still with that air of relief.
“Good gracious, did you think she had come to a bad end?” Ebba said amusedly.
Ebba made the same remark, in her lightly sarcastic voice, to the Backes later that day.
Even after such a short time, Grace had been glad to leave the big pineapple-colored house with its desolate views. Her bedroom windows looked over the forest less than a hundred yards away, other windows over the autumn-stripped garden, and the distant lake, its water black in the fading light. It was all too quiet, too brooding.
Alone in her room she had already imagined she heard the nocturnal creakings in the attics. She had never been stupidly nervous like this before. It was ridiculous, but she wanted to cry.
That was it. She kept imagining Willa’s lonely queen crying silently, hour by hour, in her small high prison.
Really, this country, with its threat of winter, darkness, snow, was affecting her mind. She was getting worse than Kate Sinclair and that was saying something.
She missed Polsen. And Willa’s letter, which had been such a relief at first, was weighing on her like those brooding snow clouds. It was closely written between the lines, and she couldn’t begin to guess what the invisible writing said.
But the drive to Sigtuna was interesting, and the little lakeside village charming with narrow streets and rows of small shops, golden birches reflected like yellow fires in the lake, and children from a nearby school shouting.
The Backes’ house was painted dark red in the conventional Swedish style. Willa had written in her diary that she would paint her cottage pink, what the Swedes needed was a little frivolity. Frivolity was the last word that could be used about the Backes’ house or the Backe family itself. Everything was exactly as Willa had described it, Mama Backe sitting in an armchair with her plump white hands folded neatly one over the other in her lap, her black dress pinned across her large bosom with an enormous cameo brooch, her gray hair dragged into an uncompromising knot on the top of her head, her little mouth pursed into wrinkles, her eyes glinting behind steel-rimmed spectacles. Papa Backe tall, thin, cadaverous, his complete lack of interest in the visitors suggesting a slight senility. The formidable Ulrika bustling about with plates of food, and cups of tea, the latter made especially for the English guest. And Dr. Sven Backe, who seemed only to acquire authority and masculinity when he was in his office. Certainly he had little when under the watchful eyes of his mother and sister.
He would do better if he ran off with his eager nurse, Grace thought. Anything would be better than this smothering atmosphere.
But the setting of the house was attractive.
Through the lace curtains Grace could see the feathery rushes bending over the lake in the bitter wind. Golden leaves whirled, too light and papery to settle.
“It’s really pretty here in the summer,” Sven said. “Crowded, of course. Everyone comes to swim or sail.”
“We like it best in the winter.” Ulrika, with her winter face, was saying nothing unexpected. “It’s quiet and private then. It belongs to the permanent residents. The snow falls, and the lake is frozen over, and we have large fires. Isn’t it nicest then, Sven?”
“It’s a good time for working,” Sven agreed.
“My brother is writing a thesis,” Ulrika told Grace with pride. “He likes to have his time uninterrupted.”
It seemed that Mama Backe didn’t speak English, although her watchful eyes
suggested she understood more than she admitted. She occasionally made a remark to Ulrika or Sven in Swedish. The old man at the other side of the fire was entirely silent.
Willa in this household was utterly incongruous. Whatever had they made of her when she had visited?
Yet she must have been of importance, for Ebba was making a point of telling Sven and Ulrika about the letter from her.
“Grace was so relieved to get it. Weren’t you, Grace? I believe you thought she had been abducted.”
Ulrika gave a single exclamation of laughter.
“Who by, I wonder? Not Sven!”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Ulrika,” Sven said crossly.
“Well, you have to admit there was a rumor at the beginning that you had been engaged to marry her.”
“There were rumors about everyone she had ever been seen with. You know that as well as I do. After all, she was only here once, for a weekend, and with several other people.” The dark melancholy eyes rested on Grace. “We went swimming and sailing. The Sinclairs were here, too. And Bill Jordan.”
“If there were to be rumors about anyone, it should have been about Bill Jordan,” Ulrika said decisively. “Still, he didn’t live long enough to tell the tale.”
Grace looked at Sven. “It must have been terrible for you, having to give evidence about a friend’s death.”
“That’s all in the life of a doctor,” Sven answered. “It was obviously an accident. I never had any doubt about that.”
“And why,” said Ebba lazily, “must we get on to this unhappy subject again? Or on to that silly cousin of yours, Grace, for that matter. I’ve told you I’m really so enormously bored with her.”
“So are we all,” said Ulrika, putting the teapot down with a thud. She added something in Swedish to her mother, and the old lady nodded several times, her sharp eyes on Grace. Were they discussing whether she might have designs on Sven? Were they suspicious of every single woman who came within his orbit? Well, whatever the initial rumors had been about him and Willa, one could entirely discount them now. They were too incongruous. Willa would have run miles from this depressing household.
Grace said as much to Ebba on the way home, and Ebba gave her low, satirical laugh.
“Good heavens, Grace, did you think Willa and Sven might have had a thing. Impossible. He’ll never escape his mother, much less that dreadful sister. Not that he wouldn’t like to.”
“Would he?”
“Well, again, perhaps not. People can get attached to their prisons.”
“Is his thesis important?”
“I believe so. He’s very clever. He wants to be famous. Ulrika wants him to be, too, but when the time comes, she’ll change her mind. It might take him away from her. People are too complicated. They make such problems for themselves. I’m sorry for Sven, having that family around his neck, but I also want to shake him for not pushing them off.”
Grace was moderately certain that Willa would have had the same reactions. A man like Sven could not have been of any more than momentary interest to her. Yet he was a significant part of her diary. Sven, Axel, Jacob, Gustav…
But Gustav didn’t exist, except in another guise. Or did he?
For a curious overheard remark gave Grace a wakeful night. The attics creaked, to be sure, but Ebba’s low words to Jacob, by the fire in the library after Grace had said good-night and then returned to ask for a book to read, were more disturbing. “Gustav will arrange it, of course. Who else?”
Ebba had jumped at Grace’s appearance, her pallid face staring out of the gloom of a dying fire and burned-down candles.
“You came in so quietly. Is there something the matter?”
“I just wanted to beg a book to read, if you have any in English.”
“Masses. Help yourself.” Ebba yawned. “I must go to bed. Are you coming, Jacob? Put your accounts away. The worries of running an estate with not enough staff, Grace. No one should envy us.”
So Gustav was an employee. Why not? It was a common name in Sweden. Or was Ebba’s oblique explanation a little too deliberate?
The Sinclair children hurtled up the steps to the front door. Their parents’ ascent was more leisurely, Kate’s slow, Peter’s positively a crawl.
“Poor Peter has had the bug now,” Kate explained. “Haven’t you, darling? He isn’t infectious, but he’s still frail.”
Peter, his eyes dull and dark-circled, his skin yellowish, did look frail and lethargic.
“The trouble was he wouldn’t go to bed,” Kate went on. “And he’s working awfully late at nights.”
“Had to,” said Peter. “Do shut up, Kate. Rushed jobs are rushed jobs. Anyway, I never could stick staying in bed with a thermometer. Are we getting some shooting today?”
“If you feel up to it,” Jacob said, and Ebba, greeting both Kate and Peter with light kisses, added, “We’re having an early lunch, and then you men can do what you please. Sven and Ulrika are here.”
It was a gray day with a low dark sky. For coziness, Ebba had drawn the curtains in the dining room and lit candles, purple red and green ones in the sconces around the walls. Their light was reflected in the glass on the table, bowls and tumblers of Orrefors and Kosta, so heavy that you could drop one on someone’s toes and break them, Grace reflected. Or on someone’s head. But no one here was going to be throwing brandy glasses about. They were all such good friends, and they enjoyed their formalities so much. All the skålling that must go on, to the hostess, to each guest separately. Even Ulrika managed to present a pleasant countenance and proved to be quite jolly with the Sinclair children. She had them eating their food with obedient dispatch on the promise that later she would take them up to the attics to play their favorite game of dressing up.
“You don’t mind do you, Ebba?” she asked.
“Not in the least. I keep old theatrical costumes up there,” Ebba explained to Grace. “And there are boxes of bits and pieces from Jacob’s family. Some old military uniforms. Alexander likes wearing a sword, don’t you, darling?”
Alexander wriggled with pleasure. Georgy said that she wanted the hat with the ostrich feathers. She would so dearly like it to be her own, to take home.
“Georgy!” Kate admonished.
“Why not?” said Ebba lazily. “Can you see me ever wearing it?”
“She mustn’t ask for things.”
“Being a woman, she must test her persuasive powers,” Ebba said. “Don’t you men agree?”
The man laughed, but Kate had her head down, the familiar frown between her eyes. She didn’t like Ebba, Grace realized. She probably hated coming here. But there seemed to be so little she did like; one began to feel sorrier for Peter all the time. He had scarcely touched his food, but he had had his wineglass filled more than once and was beginning to look better. By the end of the meal he had got back his attractive animation, and the yellow tinge had left his face. He was impatient to get outdoors before the early twilight came down.
“We should have two hours of daylight. Let’s make the most of it.”
“Peter!” Kate’s eyes were on Peter’s empty glass. “Should you? I mean—”
“Are you suggesting I can’t shoot straight after three glasses of wine?”
“I was only thinking—” Kate stopped, and Grace knew that she had been going to mention Bill Jordan.
“For God’s sake, stop fussing!” Peter exclaimed.
“I was only going to say you may still have a temperature. I don’t want to nurse you through pneumonia.”
“I’ll take care of him, Kate,” said Sven in what was obviously his best bedside manner. “If it’s too cold, we’ll come home.”
“How far are we from your cottage?” Grace asked Kate idly. “I’ve got completely mixed up. There’s always an arm of the lake, wherever we go.”
“Oh, it’s about ten miles away. Isn’t it, Peter?”
“Something like that,” Peter said. “We’ve locked it up for the winter. It’ll be snowed u
p before long.”
“Until the beginning of May.” Kate sighed. “All those dark months.”
It was cozy by the fire in the big dark hall. Grace half dozed, and Ebba went unashamedly asleep, her elegant head tipped sideways against the cushions of her chair. Kate had knitting, a half-finished child’s sweater, but she kept stopping work, as if she were too deep in thought to concentrate. From the attics the sound of the children’s voices, occasionally accompanied by Ulrika’s unexpected laughter, came faintly. Ulrika was explained now. She had too much maternal instinct, and no one but her elderly parents and her brother to expend it on. Everyone, Grace thought sleepily, became harmless when their idiosyncrasies were interpreted.
The peace of the afternoon was shattered, however, when the children erupted into the room to show their costumes.
“Look at me!” shrieked Georgy. “I’m a lady.”
She was tottering on high heels and had the coveted ostrich-plumed hat tipped crookedly over one eye. One hand held up a long satin skirt; the other clutched at a skinny leopard-skin fur tippet tied round her neck.
Alexander, in an ancient military jacket that reached to his ankles, marched about noisily, trailing a sheathed sword.
“Alexander is supposed to be my boyfriend,” Georgy said, doubling up with giggles.
“I’m going to fight a war,” Alexander announced. “I’m going to slash off people’s heads.”
“Georgy,” said Kate in a curiously still voice, “where did you get that piece of fur?”
“Out of the box. Why, Mummy?”
“I just thought—I had seen it before.”
Ebba, who had been looking at the children in tolerant amusement, looked again at Georgy. Something flickered in her eyes, momentarily. Then she was laughing lazily.
“One of Jacob’s aunts had a passion for bits of fur. There’s a box full of moth-eaten pieces. She must have looked like an old cat.”
Georgy burst into shrieks of laughter.
“Do I look like an old cat, Mummy?”
“It’s like a tie Willa had,” said Kate in the same still voice.
