House of Many Shadows

by Barbara Michaels

  “Okay, okay, don’t get mad at me. I was in the habit; fun while it lasted; but I don’t expect everybody to share my tastes. That makes me a rare bird in this conformist world. Most people would rather kill you than see you differ from them, and I am not talking about this generation or this country only. It’s human nature. Look at the religious wars.”

  “Some other time,” Meg said, taking advantage of Georgia’s pause to light a cigarette. “Right now there is something I want to consult you about. And if you have an appointment at noon—”

  “Right, right. Go on. I’m listening.”

  And listen she did; she was as good a listener as she was a talker, when the other party had something pertinent to say. Leaning back in her chair, arms folded, she did not interrupt once while Meg poured forth a description of the job Sylvia had set for her, and her feeling that she was incompetent to do it.

  “I think I could furnish the house properly,” Meg concluded. “I mean, I could pick out the right furniture and ornaments; it would be fun. But I don’t know enough about value. All that stuff in the attic—I’m afraid to touch it for fear I’ll damage a valuable item.”

  “There isn’t much you can damage,” Georgia said. “Unless you’ve got an Aztec feather cloak or something in the bag you’ve been hugging to your chest ever since you came in.”

  Meg didn’t answer; she opened the bag and took out the sampler.

  Georgia leaned across the table, her shirt front almost in her coffee cup.

  “Where the hell did you get that?”

  “In the attic. In a box under the eaves.” Meg held the sampler up so Georgia could examine it. The older woman didn’t touch it, but she studied it for a long time in silence. Then she glanced at Meg.

  “If I didn’t know better, I’d say it was a fake.”

  “Why?”

  “Samplers of this early date are fairly rare, for one thing. Especially samplers of this type. The early-eighteenth-century examples usually have alphabets and random motifs, not a scene; that type is commoner during the nineteenth century. Another thing—the girl has a German name, but the sampler is of the English type and the motto is in English. At this early period you’d expect an immigrant to use her own language. But it’s genuine. Look at the needlework. Very few people can do work of that caliber today, and they are making fortunes running needlework boutiques and giving lessons to fat bored housewives. The colors, the fabric—all correct. I could get you—oh, seven fifty, a thousand, maybe…”

  “But that’s an awful lot of money,” Meg exclaimed.

  Georgia shook her head pityingly.

  “You are an amateur, aren’t you, honey? Are you ready for Georgia’s quicky lecture on the antique biz? Point one—there is no such thing as absolute value in this trade.

  An object is worth what you can get for it—no less and no more. Right now you can get quite a bit. People are opulent and antiques are in style. Which brings me to point two: what is an antique? The purists will raise their noses and tell you nothing after about 1840 is an antique; Victorian furniture is nasty pop stuff. But I can sell Victorian like crazy. In fact, I can sell the suckers anything that’s more than twenty years old. You should see some of the crap I’ve got out in the barn.

  “One of the reasons why your sampler surprised me is that I’ve never seen anything near that old in that house. Sylvia let me take a quick peek around the attic after Culver played his games. I’ve got a pretty good idea what’s there. It’s junk. Good, solid, well-made junk, which I could sell in a minute; but there are no Jacobean chests or Queen Anne chairs, baby.”

  “Then those are not Chippendale chairs? I thought—” Georgia grinned nastily.

  “You spotted those, did you? Copies, my dearie. There was a revival of Chippendale style cabinetmaking in the 1850s. Takes an expert to see the difference in some cases. Incidentally, you had better get your terminology straight. A Chippendale chair is one made in Thomas’s own London workshop, and there aren’t many of those around. Other cabinetmakers of the same period used his designs, which he published in a book of patterns in 1754. ”Chippendale style‘ furniture was made, in England and in this country, between 1750 and 1785, approximately. Imitations of Chippendale style come back at various periods, but the most valuable pieces are the ones that date from the time when Chippendale was working. The same can be said of Hepplewhite, Sheraton, and other big names.

  “Now you get to somebody like Duncan Phyfe—you have heard of him? Well, thank God for that. Phyfe was a cabinet-maker, an American; and although he originated some of his own designs, he was much influenced by other great designers, especially Sheraton. You can talk about Duncan Phyfe chairs, not Duncan Phyfe style chairs. He made ‘em, they have his label or else a well-authenticated pedigree proving they were built in his workshops. As a matter of fact…” She hesitated, eyeing Meg with a comical mixture of doubt and defiance; then she shrugged. “Oh, hell, some people even I can’t cheat. I suspect Sylvia’s got a Duncan Phyfe dining-room suite up there. There are a few other goodies among the junk. I didn’t say anything to Sylvia; I mean, why the hell should I give my expertise away for free?”

  Meg waved this question away; Georgia sounded a lot tougher than she was, and Meg knew she had never had any intention of cheating Sylvia.

  “Why didn’t Sylvia ask you to do this job?” she demanded. “You make me feel even more ignorant than I did when I walked in here, and God knows I was humble enough then.”

  “You don’t get it?” Georgia raised shaggy red eyebrows. “Sylvia doesn’t care a rap about selling that stuff. She’s a pack rat. She doesn’t need the money; she loves owning things, lots of things. It may sound funny, but I think Sylvia gave you the job out of kindness. Her philosophy of life is half-baked, but it makes some sense; it wouldn’t be good for you to sit around that house with nothing to do.

  Sylvia doesn’t come across as especially bighearted, but that’s just her manner. Because she doesn’t express emotions well doesn’t mean she has none.“

  “Sylvia?” Meg smiled faintly. “Don’t get the wrong idea, Georgia. I’m grateful to Sylvia. I’m even fond of her, in the same wishy-washy way she’s fond of me. You’re a warmhearted person yourself, that’s why you attribute better motives to other people than they deserve.”

  “Well, well, you’re young,” said Georgia maddeningly. “You’ll learn. You’d better scram, kiddo. I’ve got to work on my face or my buyer will scream and run at the sight of it. Let me give you one piece of free advice—don’t do anything to that stuff upstairs. Put what you want downstairs, inventory the rest—with photos, if possible—and forget it. If you have any specific problems, call me. Your sampler, for instance. You can’t leave it like that. Want me to frame it for you? Don’t worry, I’ll bill Sylvia.”

  It was a reasonable suggestion, and Meg had every confidence in her new acquaintance. But she was oddly reluctant to let the sampler out of her hands, even for a few days. Georgia read her expression correctly, but misinterpreted the reason for her hesitation.

  “I know; it’s exciting when you find something really good. Okay; just be careful with it. You might get a couple pieces of glass and put it between them. Tape down the edges. Of the glass, I mean, not the sampler. And for God’s sake, don’t iron it or wash it.”

  “I know better than that,” Meg rose. “Thanks, Georgia. I do appreciate—”

  “We’ve had the amenities, honey. Once a day is enough.”

  As Meg walked along the flagstone path under the dripping trees she realized that she would have to walk all the way home. She was not anxious to return to the empty house, so she had lunch in town, at an overly quaint tea shoppe where the prices were outrageous and the food mediocre. Then she explored the shops for a while. The local bookstore held her for some time; she squandered a part of Sylvia’s small allowance on some reference books. They cost the moon and weighed a ton.

  Several people stopped and offered her rides as she slogged along t
he gravel shoulder of the highway. By the time she had walked a mile the offers were exceedingly tempting. Her shoulders ached and her load felt like lead instead of books. But although she told herself that hitchhiking was probably safe out here in the country, she was too wary to succumb, and when she finally turned into the long driveway leading to the house she was dragging both feet. The house had never looked more welcoming.

  She had to put the books down in order to find her key and unlock the door; and when the portal stood open she fell back a step, peering into the hall, for fatigue forgotten in a surging wave of… What was the feeling that moved out of the house to engulf her? Not fear. Expectation. As in childhood, when she had come back from school, entering a house where she was welcomed and wanted and awaited…

  Abandoning her parcels for the moment, Meg walked slowly into the house. But if something waited there, it did not wait for her. She was not the one it welcomed; nor even the Traveller, bringing news.

  Chapter 6

  Meg had expected to miss Andy—not because he was so charming, but because the house was rather large for a single occupant. The time passed quickly, however. Two heavy volumes on antique American furniture kept her occupied for hours. She worked in the attic, moving furniture and carrying some of the smaller pieces downstairs. Having purchased labels the day she visited Georgia, she was able to start the inventory.

  Georgia called the following day. Meg had almost forgotten there was a telephone in the house, and the shrill ring, after so many hours of silence, startled her so that she dropped her notebook.

  “Figured I’d better check, make sure you hadn’t broken your hip or something,” Georgia said cheerfully.

  “That’s a happy thought,” Meg said, remembering the way she had raced down the narrow attic stairs. It would be ironic to break a leg running to answer a call inquiring after her welfare.

  “Those things do happen, even to the young and spry. How long is Andy going to be gone?”

  Meg said she didn’t know. They chatted for a few minutes, and then George rang off. Meg was left with a feeling of mingled appreciation and annoyance. It was nice to know that someone was interested in her welfare, but she wished the town were not so well informed about everyone’s comings and goings.

  After looking over one of the books she had bought, on American samplers, Meg was inspired to start another project. It was a crazy project for someone who had never been able to sew on a button without stabbing herself in the thumb, but Meg was determined to reproduce Anna Maria’s sampler. Georgia had not underestimated its value. According to the book’s register of samplers, the one Meg had found was among the earliest, and certainly one of the prettiest. It would probably end up in a collection, and yet Meg yearned to own it. A copy would be the next-best thing. Embroidery, she reminded herself, was considered excellent occupational therapy.

  She went to town next morning to buy graph paper and paints. These were obtainable at the general store, which stocked arts-and-crafts items not normally found in such establishments. Meg also bought eggs and milk and a few other perishable food items. When she came out of the store, her arms were full. It was then that she saw a familiar and unwelcome form across the street.

  Meg hesitated in the doorway. She was tempted to duck back inside before Culver saw her. It was too late. Indeed, as she learned later, he had been waiting for her to come out.

  He started across the street, an ingratiating smile on his face; the expression was even less attractive than his scowl. He was still wearing his torn, short-sleeved T-shirt, and Meg felt a stir of pity at the sight of the bare arms patterned with goose bumps and blue veins.

  She nodded at him and began walking, but escape was not so easy. Culver fell in step beside her.

  “Where you going?”

  “Home,” Meg said shortly.

  “Buy you a cup of coffee.”

  Meg looked at him in amazement. Really, the man was too much. He might have apologized for his behavior on the occasion of their first meeting. Apparently he considered his present amiability sufficient cause for rejoicing.

  “No, thanks,” she said. “I haven’t got time.”

  “I wanna talk,” Culver insisted. “Got a business proposition for you.”

  Meg stopped and turned to face him. He had not shaved for a week, nor bathed for at least that length of time. As he stood posturing, one hand on his hip, Meg knew he considered himself quite seductive.

  “Go ahead and talk,” she said. “I haven’t time to stop for coffee, and anyhow, I can’t imagine what sort of business we could transact.”

  “It’s cold out here,” Culver whined. “How about if I walk home with you?”

  “I’m meeting Andy.”

  “Oh, yeah? I thought he was in Philadelphia.”

  Meg was both angry and alarmed. Damn these people, she thought; don’t they realize it’s dangerous for me when they spread this kind of information?

  “He’s coming back today,” she said coolly. “I really am in a hurry, so—”

  “Okay, okay.” Culver scowled, and then forced his features into a less threatening aspect. “Look—uh—you could use some bread, right? I mean, like, we’re both in the same spot. Broke.”

  “No. I’ve got a job waiting for me as soon as I get over my—my illness.”

  “Me too, sure. I’ve had a run of bad luck. You know, a creative person can’t just produce on demand, like an assembly line. That old—I mean, your cousin—doesn’t dig that. She doesn’t understand the artistic temperament. Pretty soon I’ll be painting again. Any day now. I’m waiting for inspiration, you dig? And when I do… Christ, will I make some people crawl! I’ll be famous and rich and people will be standing in line for my paintings. She’ll come around then, and brag about how she helped me when I was down and out, and, man, will I tell the world about her! I’ll fix her…”

  His voice trailed off into silence, but his lips kept moving; his eyes, staring, were focused on a vision of success that blotted out the real world of cold and hunger and contempt. Meg shivered. He was a pitiable character. Perhaps he had had talent once; he must have had, to attract Sylvia’s patronage. But there was no hope for him now, barring a miracle. He was trapped in a spiraling circle of self-pity and drugs, and the spiral could only lead down.

  “Mr. Culver,” Meg said loudly.

  Culver started. His eyes focused on Meg, but dazedly, as if he had never seen her before and were wondering who she was.

  “You ought to get away from this town,” Meg said. “There’s nothing for you here. You need a big city—the stimulation, the inspiration of crowds and other creative people.”

  “Yeah,” Culver mumbled. “Yeah. I’m going to split. Get out of this stinking hick town. No wonder I can’t paint here. No stimulation.”

  “Good,” Meg said heartily. “I wish you luck.”

  She turned away. Culver hopped in front of her.

  “I can’t split till I get some bread,” he said.

  Meg glanced around. Once again the streets had emptied themselves; Culver had that effect on the townspeople. Meg wondered what this prolonged interview was doing to her reputation. No doubt the town would add Culver to the list of her hypothetical lovers.

  “I can’t give you any money,” she said crisply. “I’m not rich. Good-bye, Mr. Culver.”

  “No, wait, dammit.” He reached out as if to touch her. Meg stepped back. She could not have concealed her revulsion even if she had wanted to. Culver’s face darkened.

  “Okay, I’ll spell it out, since you don’t seem to like my company,” he said with a sneer. “You need bread, so do I. That place is loaded with antiques. She’ll never notice if something is missing. I’ll split with you, fifty-fifty—and I’ll do the dirty work, marketing the stuff.”

  They were standing in front of a private house, one of the few on Main Street that had not been converted into a shop. Meg saw a shade move in the front window. Even if she had been tempted by the petty larceny Culv
er proposed, common sense would have warned her; the whole town had seen her and Culver talking together, and now she would be suspected if any of Sylvia’s property came onto the market. The only thing she could do was express her anger, and let the town see that, too. Anyway, there was no point in being tactful with Culver. He would keep on hassling her unless she gave him a flat refusal.

  “No deal,” she said. “And don’t try anything on your own, Mr. Culver. I’m going to tell Andy about your proposition. In fact, I think I’ll call the police and mention it to them. If anything is stolen, they’ll know whom to look for.”

  She got the reaction she expected, and more. Culver’s face turned purple. He raised his arm, and Meg retreated hastily.

  “You touch me and I’ll have you arrested,” she said, not troubling to lower her voice. “You’ve got a lot of gall making me a proposition like that!”