As the taxi followed the long, curving drive, through wide green lawns, Meg’s spirits rose. The lawn needed mowing and the shrubbery was overgrown, but the effect was one of carefree charm rather than neglect. Weeping willows swept green skirts across the grass, and the great oak near the house was a patriarch of its kind.
In her exuberance Meg tipped the taxi driver generously, and he helped her carry her luggage to the veranda. Most of her belongings had been sent ahead. Sylvia had promised the caretaker would see to everything, and sure enough, when Meg peered through the glass panels that flanked the front door she saw that the hall was piled with boxes.
The driver offered to wait while she went through the house, but Meg smilingly refused. For some reason she wanted to be alone when she stepped across the threshold. She could not imagine being afraid here, it was too quiet, too pastoral. She watched the taxi drive off, observing other treasures—a summer house in a clump of beeches, an iron deer peering out from behind an untrimmed mass of spirea. Then she reached into her purse for the keys Sylvia had given her, and with a ceremonious air inserted them into the locks. There was an old, heavy iron key that fitted the original lock, and a Yale key for the new lock. They functioned without a hitch; when she pushed on the door it swung smoothly open. Meg smiled to herself. Not even a creak of Gothic hinges. Another good omen.
She was about to enter the house when a voice hailed her. With an unreasonable feeling of irritation she turned to see a man coming toward her across the lawn. He walked with a slow slouch that increased her annoyance, while it gave her time to pin down the elusive flash of memory his appearance had provoked. It had brought a melange of impressions: mud and rocks and closed-in dark places…
Although she had never visited this house, Meg had met the man to whom it had belonged—Sylvia’s second husband. She had once spent a month with Sylvia in California while her parents were on vacation. She remembered George Brenner vaguely, as a silent, smiling man who seemed unaccountably devoted to his brisk wife. And he had had a son.
Mud and stones and dark, closed-in places… Meg winced as other memories of that horrible month returned. Surely Andy Brenner had been the nastiest, meanest little boy of his generation! Meg had been eight that summer; Andy was a few years older, old enough to be ingenious and young enough to revel in practical jokes perpetrated on the weaker sex. He had locked her in closets and sheds. He had tricked her into bogs that spoiled her shoes and her pretty summer dresses. He had thrown—no, not rocks, one must be fair; but those hard green apples had felt like rocks against her skinny little legs. When she sat down in chairs, hideous noises broke out; when she opened doors, things fell on her head. She had awakened one morning to find herself imprisoned in a cord cage; heavy twine had been wound intricately around the four posters that supported the bed canopy, and she had wailed until Sylvia had freed her. (Sylvia had not cut the cord; that was wasteful.)
It had taken fifteen minutes to unwind it, so ingeniously had Andy created his giant cat’s cradle.) Sylvia had been annoyed, but her anger had been impartially divided between the two children. “You ask for it,” she had told Meg. “He wouldn’t pick on you if you’d fight back.” Excellent advice, if she had been able to follow it…
Meg’s eyes narrowed in nostalgic fury as the ambling figure came close enough to be definitely identified. Andy hadn’t changed much, except to add two or three feet to his height. The same shaggy mop of reddish-brown hair, the same snub nose and oversized ears, the same lean, wiry body that had revealed unexpected and painful strength when he practiced jujitsu holds on her. No wonder Sylvia hadn’t mentioned the name of her caretaker!
On second thought, Meg decided she was giving Sylvia credit for too much sensitivity. Sylvia hadn’t mentioned Andy because she considered his identity unimportant. And as Andy came up the veranda steps, smiling tentatively, Meg felt a twinge of compassion. To give the man a caretaker’s job on the estate that had been his father’s, and that ought to have been his, was surely rather… It was Sylvia, that was what it was.
So she responded amiably when Andy greeted her, and let him take her hand.
“You’re looking well,” she said—and realized, as she spoke, that it was untrue. At close range, there were too many lines in Andy’s face for a man of twenty-four or -five. He was thin, too.
“You aren’t,” said Andy. “You’re skinny. Those purple bags under your eyes don’t go with your complexion, either.”
No, Andy hadn’t changed a bit.
Meg reached for a suitcase. Andy let her take it; he picked up the other suitcases and carried them into the house. Putting them on the floor, he scratched his head as he looked around at the litter of luggage. “I didn’t know where you wanted this stuff…”
“I don’t know myself. I haven’t seen the house.”
“So look at it.”
Meg gave him a long look before she turned her attention to the hallway.
A staircase with ornately carved wooden banisters rose to a landing lighted by a round, rose-type stained-glass window. The color of the glass was predominantly crimson; it shed a garish, ghastly glow across the bare boards of the landing. An open archway on the left led to the drawing room—large and well lighted by high windows, but as scantily furnished as was the hall. On the right-hand wall was a closed door; there was a second door farther along, under the curve of the upper stairs. The hall went on back into an area too dark to be visible; either there were no windows in that section, or they were heavily curtained. The wallpaper was old, its once brilliant crimson and gold badly faded. It was also horribly stained with what appeared to be…
“Paint,” said Andy, as she stepped up to examine the ugly smears. “Just brown paint. I tried to get it off, but that oil-based stuff really hangs on.”
“It looks recent. How—”
“Sylvia told you about the last tenant?” Andy sat down on one of her suitcases, which bulged protestingly. He went on before Meg could remonstrate. “Culver thought he had a nice soft setup here; he was mad as hell when Sylvia threw him out. So he left a few little mementos of his displeasure. He calculated Sylvia’s aggravation level pretty accurately; I don’t think she’ll bother suing him, especially since he hasn’t got a cent. But there was a certain amount of mess. I cleaned up most of it.”
“He didn’t calculate Sylvia’s character very accurately if he expected to hang on here indefinitely. Would you mind getting up? My suitcases come from Woolworth’s; they aren’t up to your weight.”
“Oh.” Andy pulled himself to his feet. “Don’t get huffy. I follow the old army rule—never stand when you can sit, never sit when you can—”
“I know the rest of it.”
“You ought to follow it. You look like you could use some rest.”
“I wish you’d stop harping on how awful I look. You don’t look so hot yourself. What was it—pneumonia?”
Andy’s face hardened.
“My, my,” he said. “The nice little girl I used to harass has grown up. Gotten mean.”
“You have to be mean to survive in this world.”
“That’s a rather cynical attitude for a girl your age.”
“Woman, not girl. How would you like people to call you a boy?”
“Damn it,” Andy said, “you aren’t just mean; you’ve got as many prickles as a porcupine. Look here, Meg, we’re stuck with each other; why don’t we try to get along? There’s no use kidding you. You know Sylvia as well as I do, and you know she wouldn’t hand me two bits for a cup of coffee unless I appealed to that narrow streak of benevolence she’s got buried under her fat. Yes, I have been sick. I had to quit grad school last spring, and Sylvia let me come here to recuperate. I understand the same is true of you. And neither one of us is going to give up our sanctuary. So why fight?”
“I’m not fighting.”
“Then I’d like to see you when you’re belligerent.”
“Now who’s being provocative?”
“Jee-s
us!” said Andy. He picked up two suitcases at random and started up the stairs, flinging a comment over his shoulder.
“Pick out a room and I’ll dump your stuff in it. Then I’ll get out.”
Meg followed. The suitcases were extremely heavy. Watching the movement of muscles across his back, under his cotton shirt, Meg decided to exercise a little tact.
“I’m sorry, Andy, I didn’t mean to be nasty. I was ill, and I’m still edgy. Truce?”
“You mean you don’t want to have to carry those suitcases yourself,” Andy said, without turning around. But his tone was slightly mollified, and when they got upstairs he showed her the second floor without referring to their clash.
“The master bedroom is still in bad shape,” he said, opening one of the heavy arched doors than lined the upper hall. “Culver had fun in here.”
“His vocabulary was limited, wasn’t it?” Meg studied the four-letter words scrawled across the walls in screaming primary colors.
“The wallpaper in hereneeded replacing anyhow.”
Andy said. “I figured rather than try to get the paint off I’d just strip the walls and get new paper.”
“That sounds reasonable. But why should you bother… oh. I keep forgetting you used to live here.”
“Every summer, till I was eighteen.” Andy’s tone did not invite further comment. He closed the door of the master suite and went on down the hall.
“This was my mother’s room. Sylvia kept it locked, so it’s in fairly good condition. I aired it out yesterday and made the bed, but if you prefer another room—”
“I really don’t care,” Meg said. “Oh, Andy”—as the door swung open— “this is charming. Yes, I like this room.”
Wide windows, flung open to the mellow Indian-summer air, showed a vista of green lawns and waving boughs. The faded wallpaper had an old-fashioned pattern of rosebuds enclosed in gilt lozenges. The furniture was simple—white-painted, with gilt trim: a four-poster bed, a dressing table with fluffy pink skirts, the usual chests and dressers and tables. It was more like a child’s room than that of a grown woman; and Meg realized that it had probably been Andy’s mother’s room before she married and moved into the stately master bedroom with her husband. Which meant that the house had belonged to Andy’s mother before it came to his father; and that Sylvia’s present title to it was even more unfair than Meg had realized.
“Okay,” Andy said. “I’ll get the rest of your stuff, then.”
Meg followed him. Andy was on the landing and she was two steps up when she slipped. Even as she fell she knew she was in no danger; Andy turned, hearing the scrape of her shoe and her stifled cry, and his hands went out, ready to catch her. As his fingers closed over her arms, it happened. Meg recognized the symptoms—the blurring of vision, the moment of disorientation. The stained-glass window darkened and became opaque. The walls lost solidity. Through them she saw, not the green and gold of autumn foliage, but another room—narrow, dark, low-ceilinged. There were dim shapes in the hallucinatory room, but she could not make them out. There was no floor under her feet. The dark walls closed in, but there was no floor…
The vision vanished slowly, almost reluctantly. Blinking in the rainbow-hued light, Meg swayed, and felt Andy’s arms go around her.
After a moment she pushed him away.
“Damn,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. “That was a bad one. Damn, damn! It hasn’t happened for two days; I hoped…”
She could see Andy’s face now; it was a caricature of astonishment, pallid and staring.
“What happened?” he asked.
“Sylvia didn’t give you the gruesome details? I had an accident—head injuries. Ever since, I’ve had hallucinations. I hear things—see things—that aren’t there. Other places, other people—even animals. Once I saw an elephant on Fifth Avenue, going into Brentano’s.” She tried to laugh, unsuccessfully.
Andy’s face didn’t change. “What did you see just now?”
“Another room. Different walls. It’s so discouraging. The doctors told me it would gradually go away, but it sure is taking its time. Oh, stop staring as though I were something in a sideshow! Don’t tell me you didn’t know; Sylvia must have told you.”
“She mentioned hallucinations,” Andy admitted. The color was slowly returning to his face. “I didn’t realize they were so—”
“She had no right to tell you,” Meg burst out. “She didn’t tell me about you. Now I suppose the whole neighborhood thinks I’m crazy.”
Andy’s lips parted. There was scarcely a pause before he spoke, but Meg had the feeling his comment was not the one he had originally intended to make.
“Sylvia tells people only what they need to know. She doesn’t gossip—thank God. You’re planning to live here alone?”
“I’m not sick. I just—”
“See things that aren’t there. Rather risky, isn’t it? If you walked down a staircase that didn’t exist—”
“I tripped. The hallucination started after I fell. Once it begins I can’t move at all; I’m paralyzed. Are you suggesting you should move in with me?”
“God forbid,” said Andy piously. “I am suggesting I check up on you at frequent intervals. How often does this happen? You have auditory hallucinations too, I gather.”
“Listen to the boy’s technical vocabulary,” Meg exclaimed. She studied Andy with a new suspicion. “What were you majoring in? Not medical school?”
“None of your business,” said Andy. “Every well-read layman knows about hallucinations; they are probably behind ninety-nine percent of the so-called occult experiences people have.Damn it, do you think I’m that interested in your goofy problems? Sylvia pays me—not much, but she does pay me—to keep an eye on things around here. That includes you. I’m not going to have you setting fire to the house or breaking your skinny neck in a fit of lunacy.”
“Well, that certainly sets things straight. All right; for your information, I have these goofy problems once or twice a day. They only last for a few seconds; once the hallucination has passed, I’m perfectly all right. Sylvia is not paying you to be my keeper, and I’ll be damned if I am going to have you sticking your nose in here all the time on the pretense of watching over me. Is that perfectly clear?”
“Perfectly,” said Andy.
He walked on down the stairs, leaving Meg holding the breath she had just taken in, preparatory to a further series of critical comments. He crossed the hall, went out the front door, and closed it quietly behind him.
Meg looked down at the boxes of books, clothes, and miscellany littering the hall. Now that, she thought disgustedly, was a stupid thing to do. What’s the matter with me? He was trying to be nice—in his own weird way. I didn’t have to be so overly sensitive.
She forgot her critical conscience as she began to explore the house. It was a delight. Every room held fresh treasures—window seats whose lids lifted for the storage of toys and blankets; unexpected balconies draped with ivy; fireplaces, and more fireplaces. The tower was the piece de resistance; if the stairs had not been so formidable, Meg would have moved into the topmost room immediately. It had windows on all four sides and balconies all around; a domed ceiling ornamented with plaster bas-reliefs of fruit and flowers and fat cupids; a hooded medieval fireplace tucked into a corner; mahogany paneling that looked as if it must conceal at least two secret passages…
However, there were five flights of stairs from the ground to the topmost tower room. Meg gave the room a last lingering look and retreated. At least she could put some appropriate furniture in the place and use it as a retreat for reading and meditating. Sylvia had given her—well, no, not carte blanche, Sylvia didn’t trust anyone that much—but she had implied she might be willing to pay for necessary furnishings. It would be fun to select furniture for this room.
The house wasn’t as unmanageably large as Sylvia had implied. The rooms were enormous, but there were only five bedrooms on the second floor, plus a bathroom and
a sitting room that formed part of the master suite. The Victorian bathroom filled Meg with joy. It was almost as big as the bedrooms, with a fireplace of its own. The huge marble tub, encased in a mahogany box, was so high she would need a stool to get in and out. The water ran hot when she tried it.
The third floor had more bedrooms, smaller and less elegant. This was children’s country. One slightly larger room had served as a nursery, and a cubbyhole next to it had been the cramped bedroom of the nurse or nanny. The central staircase ended on the third floor, but there was another stair at the back of the hall—narrow, steep, enclosed. It went up, presumably to the attic, which Meg decided to leave for another day. She followed the stairs down and found herself in a pantry-service area between the kitchen and dining room. Of course; these were the stairs the servants used—poor devils. Where had they slept? Belowstairs, presumably, with the damp and the black beetles. Meg decided to leave the basement for another day too.
House of Many Shadows Page 2
