He was tall and young, his dark hair gathered at the nape of his neck by a black ribbon. His clothing was sober but well cut: a blue coat with facings of white, dark breeches, polished boots. A sword hung at his side. One hand rested on the hilt of his sword as he bowed in response to the girl’s curtsy; the other arm held his hat, a black three-cornered hat like the ones Meg had seen in portraits of Washington. His face…
Meg was conscious of a faint disappointment. He was handsome, certainly—straight, regular features, broad shoulders, thick, shining hair. But he didn’t look quite as she had expected him to look.
The picture began to fade. Meg fought to hold it. She wanted to see more, she had been so absorbed by the lovers that she had not noticed other details. The old man was there; naturally, a young lady did not receive male visitors unchaperoned. The sampler, bright and unfaded; a small table with curved legs, a flowered carpet…
A brilliant flash, like lightning, cut across the scene and destroyed it. Meg swayed. The backs of her knees struck a chair and she fell into it. Breathing harshly, she narrowed her eyes against the light. Andy stood in the archway, his hand resting on the switch that had turned on the chandelier.
“Do you know how long you’ve been in here?” he asked.
“No. Why couldn’t you leave me alone?”
“I’ve been watching. Timing you. You were in a trance—or whatever you want to call it—for almost five minutes, Meg. How much longer would you have stayed there if I hadn’t stopped it?”
“I don’t know. What difference does it make? I did it, Andy, I did it all by myself!”
“What did you see?”
Andy was disturbed, but he was also immensely curious. The latter emotion won out; he listened intently as Meg described the scene.
“Blue coat with white facings, sword, boots… He sounds like a soldier.”
“He certainly wasn’t a local yokel. Andy, let’s try again. Right now. Together we could really get results. Please, this is the right place. We should have used this room before.”
Her weakness gone, she got up and walked toward Andy, hands out. He stood watching her, his face a mask of mingled fascination and revulsion. As she reached him, he struck out violently, knocking her hands away.
“I know this is the place,” he said. “That’s what I’m afraid of. One of us has to fight this thing, Meg—keep it under control. Otherwise… I can see Georgia breaking in here a few weeks from now and finding us sitting like mummies in those two chairs, starved to death in a catatonic trance. ”Tell them I came, and no one answered…‘“
“Of all the morbid ideas,” Meg exclaimed. “What’s wrong with you?”
“I don’t know,” Andy mumbled. He was shaking from head to foot. “I hate this room. I always have hated it. I feel sick with despair and guilt when I come in here. Don’t you feel it? Don’t you know what’s out there, under the oak tree?”
“Andy?” Meg reached out for him. Andy jumped back, stumbled, caught himself by catching at the wall.
“Don’t touch me!”
Meg was afraid to move or speak again. She was terrified—not by any ghostly menace, but by simple practical fear of a man on the ragged edge of sanity. She was not afraid for herself; it never occurred to her that Andy would harm her. She was afraid of what he was doing to himself.
After a minute mat seemed like a month, he let out a long, shaken sigh. His face was gray under the summer tan, but when he spoke she knew the worst was over.
“All right. It’s okay. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
“I wasn’t afraid.”
“Oh, yeah?” Andy smiled faintly. “You should see your face. It’s green. Clashes with that blue dress.”
“Do you remember what you said?”
“Yes.” Andy wiped his wet forehead on his sleeve. “I got a little excited but basically I think I’m right. This habit of summoning up the past can be damned dangerous, Meg. Schizophrenia, or possession, or morbid obsessions—what we’ve been doing can get out of hand. We don’t really know what we’re doing. That’s why we have to be careful. You do understand, don’t you? You aren’t mad at me for losing my temper?”
“No. Do you remember saying that you hate this room? That you’ve always hated it?”
“That’s silly. It used to be one of my favorite rooms. Not that I was allowed in here much. Sylvia kept it in apple-pie order. I was supposed to make my messes outdoors.”
“That sounds like Sylvia.” Meg tried to speak casually. “And speaking of Sylvia, we’d better get some sleep if we want to get the house in shape before she comes. A certain amount of yard work is in order, too.”
“Yes, I’ve let that go to pot the last few weeks. We’ve also got to get those antiques out of the big room…”
He talked collectedly and calmly as they went upstairs, but Meg noticed he was careful not to touch her. She kept up her end of the conversation; but when she was finally alone in her room she dropped limply onto the bed.
He’s right, she thought. It is dangerous. But not for me. He’s the one who’s in trouble. I should have realized it before. The way he keeps changing, from enthusiastic interest to horror… A psychiatrist could explain it, maybe. I can’t… Oh, yes, I can. But I don’t want to believe it. I’ve got to be careful—watch him, stop pushing when he gets angry or panicky. I’ll get him back in that room yet. Together, we can… But I’ll wait. I won’t insist. There’s plenty of time.
But there wasn’t time. As her conscious will relaxed in the drowsiness that precedes sleep, a small inner voice denied the assumption. Time was running out and the house was still waiting, with a mounting intensity that would soon reach its climax.
Chapter 11
Andy was in a cheerful mood next morning, as if he had completely forgotten his gray-faced horror the night before. Naturally Meg did not refer to it, and Andy worked her so hard she had little time for introspection. The old piano that had blocked her progress for so long was moved grudgingly out against the wall; tables and sideboards were shifted. They didn’t try to clear the room completely, only to move things into positions from which they could be readily approached. They made considerable progress, but there were still several heavy pieces to be shifted when Andy called a halt for lunch.
“Better get cleaned up if we’re going to Reading,” he said casually.
“Go to Reading?” Meg repeated in surprise.
“I thought you were going to have tea with old lady Adams.”
“Good lord, I completely forgot. Maybe we shouldn’t take the time.”
“We can make it up by working tonight. There are a few things I want to look up anyway, while we’re there.”
Meg glanced obliquely at him. His face was calm; he poured milk into two glasses, clear up to the brim, without spilling a drop. He looked so normal she found it hard to believe what had happened the night before; and when he looked at her and smiled, she felt a ridiculous, illogical sense of well-being.
“I’ll be ready in fifteen minutes,” she said.
As they drove along, Meg was still trying to figure out why he had suggested the expedition. She had expected him to give up his research for a while; but finally she realized that his fear was a very specific fear of one room and what might happen in it. If he kept her busy with other things, there wouldn’t be time for occult experiments. Well, she had decided she wouldn’t push him. Not for a while, anyway. In the meantime, it was nice to have him in a good mood.
Meg had donned a dress she hadn’t worn since she left New York—a sedate, brown dress that, according to Andy, made her look like a timid wren. It had a white collar and cuffs and a wide patent leather belt in a darker brown, and it was the closest thing Meg owned to an “afternoon tea” dress.
Mrs. Adams clearly approved of it. When Meg saw the elderly woman’s face brighten at the sight of her, she felt slightly ashamed. Her motives for calling on Mrs. Adams were purely selfish; she had not realized how much the old
lady had looked forward to her visit. She said as much, with a graciousness that had no marring tone of self-pity.
“My dear, how nice! I hardly dared hope that a busy young thing like you could spare the time to visit me.”
She had prepared lavishly, however. When Meg saw the tea table, with its fine china and dainty little sandwiches, she felt another qualm of guilt.
“Your young man couldn’t join us? I know men hate tea parties; but dear Matilda’s grandnephew is always welcome.”
“He had work to do,” Meg said, smiling. “But he sent his regards, and hopes to see you again soon.”
The last part of the speech was Meg’s addition, but the older woman nodded as if she expected such courtesy from Matilda’s grandnephew.
“I was very fond of Matilda,” she said, and launched into a spate of reminiscences. Meg listened sympathetically. If she intended to interrogate Mrs. Adams about murders, the least she could do was listen to a few stories about the good old days.
“Historical research is fascinating,” Mrs. Adams said, pouring Meg another cup of tea. “Try one of these cookies with the nuts, my dear; I’m sure you don’t need to worry about calories, you’re so slim… Yes, I don’t know what I’d have done without such a hobby, and my work at the museum, after my dear husband died. Friends pass on, and one’s physical infirmities increase. That is why it is all the more important to use the mind, you see; that part of one’s anatomy stays flexible, I am happy to say, long after the knees and back stiffen! I can’t help laughing, sometimes, when I think how bored I was by history in school. But of course it is more interesting when it is personal; when one realizes that historical personages were one’s own ancestors.”
“I find it fascinating even though they aren’t my ancestors,” Meg said with a smile.
“Ah, but how do you know they aren’t? And of course you take an interest in local genealogy because of Andrew. It is very sensible of you. After all, one never knows! There are families, even in Reading, which I would hesitate to allow a daughter of mine to become connected with.”
In the nick of time Meg managed to keep her jaw from dropping. So that was how the land lay! She hesitated, trying to decide whether or not to take advantage of this innocent error. Mrs. Adams mistook her silence for maidenly modesty.
“I hope I’m not speaking out of turn. To a young person these ideas may seem shockingly hardheaded; but it wouldn’t do to take chances with—with children, would it?”
“Nothing is settled yet,” Meg mumbled, dropping her eyes to hide the amusement in them.
The mixture of old-fashioned delicacy and hard practicality in Mrs. Adams’ speech was almost too much for her composure. But why should she assume that her generation was the first to concern itself about dangerous genes? The old grandmothers hadn’t known about blood types and congenital diseases, but they had a folk wisdom that served the same end. No, it wouldn’t be sensible to select the father of your prospective children from a family whose members were conspicuously defective. Happily aware of Meg’s thoughts, Mrs. Adams went on talking. “I hope you won’t wait too long. I never believed in long engagements. I understand you are both doing a splendid job remodeling the Emig house. It’s a pleasure to see young people going back to the old family home instead of moving into one of these horrid modern apartments.”
Meg’s head began to spin. This was leaping to conclusions with a vengeance.
“The house is so big,” she said tentatively. “Too impractical, I’m afraid. Actually, I believe Sylvia plans to donate it to the Historical Association.”
Mrs. Adams shook her head.
“Your cousin is playing a little joke on you, my dear. The association couldn’t possibly manage a place like that unless the donation were accompanied by a very substantial endowment. Besides, it wouldn’t be proper. The house should belong to Matilda’s grandnephew. As for practicality, you might consider opening the house to the public on certain days, or even running an antique shop, as so many have been forced to do. But I understand Andrew’s writing has been very successful. And such an ideal location for an author, my dear.”
Meg stared. Mrs. Adams didn’t look like a witch. Her wrinkled face was pink with animation, her eyes showed only kindly interest.
“Andy’s writing…” she began.
Mrs. Adams blushed. “Of course I know his novel was published under a pseudonym. Very properly—it was not a—it was a very modern novel. I have not read it, of course. But these days, unfortunately, it is necessary to be coarse in order to sell, and I’m sure Andrew will write a book that is worthy of him one day. When a young man is thinking of starting a family, he must be practical.”
Meg was so stupefied by the barrage of facts—true or false—that she almost forgot what she had come for. She accepted another cup of tea and lost track of the conversation for a while as she grappled with the new ideas. Mrs. Adams babbled on, unaware of her abstraction. Then Meg heard a word that woke her up with a vengeance.
“… murder. One doesn’t like to think of such things. But if you are marrying into the family, you have the right to know.”
“I’m glad you think so,” Meg said. She didn’t want to ask questions and betray that she had not been listening. Unfortunately, it seemed that she had heard the end of a discussion, not the beginning. Mrs. Adams smiled and fell silent.
“I am interested in genealogy,” Meg said, hoping to prime the pump. “I found a book, written in the thirties, about the Emig family—”
“Oh, my dear, that is quite inaccurate. A frightful hodge-podge of fact and fantasy. I have a book I’d be delighted to lend you; unfortunately it is out on loan just now to another friend. She is a Gross; the Sadlers, Grosses, and Emigs are closely connected, you know. I will ask her for it and send it to you.”
“I don’t want to put you to so much trouble,” Meg said. She wasn’t interested in family history; she wanted to ask about the murders.
“It is no trouble at all, my dear. I hope your interest is—that is to say, I hope you have no reason for your interest beyond the general?”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
Mrs. Adams looked distressed. There was a spot of color on each withered cheek.
“One hates even to mention such nonsense,” she said, avoiding Meg’s eyes. “But one has heard… you haven’t had any unpleasant experiences in the house, have you, my dear?”
“Are you saying that the house is supposed to be haunted?”
Mrs. Adams started as if she had used an obscenity. “I don’t credit such stories for a moment,” she said.
“Then there have been stories?”
“Not in general circulation, my dear. Few people know the history of the place.”
The room was getting darker. Mrs. Adams rose and turned on a lamp. Meg realized she ought to leave, but she didn’t want to; this was getting close to home.
“The site was abandoned for almost a century,” Mrs. Adams said. “Not surprisingly. When Benjamin Emig built there, some of those who remembered warned him against it. But it was a robustly rational age, and Benjamin was not a sensitive man. He certainly never experienced anything in the house. My father used to say that Mr. Emig would send a ghost packing in a hurry.”
“But someone else did experience something?” Meg asked. Her hostess was beginning to glance at the clock. She knew she must leave soon; Andy would be foaming at the mouth.
“Matilda once mentioned…” Mrs. Adams shook her head. “No, I really shan’t repeat such tales, it would not be fair to you. She was only a child, and children do imagine playmates and pretty ladies, don’t they? She grew out of it, my dear. I am so glad to hear you have not had any trouble. I hope your home will be fortunate for you. You must come again, and let me hear how you’re getting on.”
It was a dismissal, long overdue; Meg could only rise and thank her hostess.
Once she was out of sight of the house she began to run. It wasn’t dark yet, but the shadows
of night were falling fast. Andy was parked around the corner. He had refused to come nearer the house for fear of being trapped. He was standing by the car, waiting for her. She slid under the wheel and sat with her shoulders hunched in anticipation of the lecture she expected.
Andy slammed the car into gear with the usual objections from the clutch, and they took off. Not until they were almost out of town did he speak.
“We may have to spend the night at a motel.”
House of Many Shadows Page 21
