by Anne Stuart
My standoffishness didn't seem to daunt him. "It took me this long to talk the porter into telling me which car you were in. Con was ever a secretive devil when it comes to me. Mustn't trust me."
"Does he have reason not to?" I questioned with an attempt at frivolity, and was surprised to see the stricken look that passed over his open, expressive face. "Well, I'm glad you found out," I continued hastily. "I've been spending far too much time alone with my thoughts, Mr. Riordan. I'm afraid I'm homesick already."
"Peter," he corrected, smiling once more with a smile that would have captivated me totally only a week ago. Compared to Connell's smile, it was the difference between Irish whiskey and weak tea. "And don't you worry about that—we won't give you time to feel lonely. My mother and I own the land adjoining Connell's. Nothing so grand as Demonwood, mind you, but then, what is? We have just a few hundred acres and a comfortable house—but I won't bother describing it to you. You'll be seeing it soon enough." He glanced out the window at the tracings of snow on the ground. Snow that to my city-bred eyes was an amazement. "It looks like a mild winter this year. We're about due for one."
"Snow on the ground already and you call it mild?" I questioned in astonishment.
"We usually have at least a foot by this time, Mary, my girl. I may call you Mary, mayn't I?" He was very sure of himself, was this Peter Riordan. "Winters up here are a sight more difficult than in Boston—as you'll soon see. But you needn't worry about it. We're used to it. We don't let a little snow get in the way of our social life."
"Is there a social life?" I questioned idly. "I gathered from Lillian that things are pretty secluded."
"To the Fitzgeralds I suppose it might seem so. We manage to have a good time anyway." His brown eyes as they met mine were frankly admiring. "You're Maeve's cousin, aren't you?"
"Her third cousin," I corrected cheerfully. "Not quite in her class, I'm afraid."
"You've the look of her."
I gave him a skeptical glance. "No one's ever said that before, and I'll take leave to doubt it."
"But you do," he insisted, winning a small corner of my vain heart forever. "Not in your coloring, of course. But certain expressions you have . . . didn't Connell mention it to you?"
I remembered his initial, inexplicable look of dislike, and wondered whether I might not have hit upon the reason for it. "No, he never mentioned any family resemblance."
He tilted his head to one side and viewed me as he might a painting. "I suppose you're not the great beauty she is," he admitted truthfully if not tactfully, "but you've got a sweeter expression. And kinder eyes. Besides, I've always had a weakness for black hair and green eyes."
"How fortunate for me," I murmured in dulcet tones.
Peter laughed good-naturedly. "I can see why Connell hired you. He never could abide milk-and-sugar misses. But I can't understand why he'd want to leave the country just when you're going to Demonwood. The moment he described you to me I decided to head north. Too many winters in the city have taken their toll on me—it's time to rusticate for a season and redirect my energies."
I had stiffened uncontrollably at the start of his last speech. "I don't suppose it occurred to you, Mr. Riordan, that Mr. Fitzgerald hired me to tutor his son, and for no other purpose?"
He smiled at me, unabashed. "Oh, I'm perfectly willing to believe that's all you had in mind. After all, Con's married to one of the most beautiful women of the last decade, and your cousin to boot. Even if it is a marriage made in hell for both of them. I'm even willing to believe that Con hired you with only the purest of intentions on his part. After all, you're not in the usual style of his amours. But I've known Con for almost twenty years, and I'm willing to bet you that he's at Demonwood by Christmas, with or without his wife and sister trailing behind him."
"And what is it you'd be willing to bet?" I demanded, for unfortunately gaming ran in all the Gallagers' blood. Even to my brother, Ronan, safely bestowed in the priesthood.
"A kiss," he replied promptly, a rakish grin on his face.
"And what am I to have if I win? I wouldn't count a kiss from you as any great prize."
"What about my hand and heart?"
"No, thank you. Something else."
He appeared to consider the matter. "All right, if you win, I'll have Connell treat you to a weekend back in Boston in the spring. How would that be? By that time you'll be dying to get away from that poisonous child."
"It sounds agreeable enough," I said slowly. "But why do you call Daniel 'poisonous'?"
"That, my dear lady, I'll leave for you to discover. In the meantime we have much more important things to discuss, such as the story of my life." And he proceeded to beguile the rest of my hitherto tedious and maudlin trip with amusing and highly unbelievable tales of his childhood and college years, his various short-lived professions, and other entertaining subjects, while I listened to them with half a mind only, still remembering my last sight of my cousin's husband, and wondering what would happen if and when we met again.
Chapter Four
I was glad of Peter Riordan's company in more ways than one. When we finally arrived at our destination it was fully dark, and that dark, combined with a brisk wind and the beginnings of a freezing rain made me wonder whether I had been a fool to take on this frightening job so far away from all I'd ever known and loved. As I stepped from the train, the rain whipped at my heavy blue serge skirts, tugged at my already disarranged hair, and added a note of gloom to my troubled spirits.
"This way, Mary." Peter put a firm hand beneath my elbow and guided me across the almost empty railway platform. And his touch left me sadly unmoved. "Good evening, Carpenter," he greeted a small, bun- dled-up figure waiting impatiently beside a carriage. "You see what I've brought you? A new teacher for darlin' Daniel."
"Good evening, Mr. Riordan. Good evening, Miss Gallager," the figure said grudgingly. "Welcome to Vermont."
"Oh, I've already welcomed her," Peter reassured him jovially. "And in return for bringing such a treat, how about a ride to my ancestral acres?"
"Certainly, sir," Mr. Carpenter answered correctly, if without enthusiasm. "Would you mind if I took Miss Gallager home first? The wife's been keeping dinner for her and you know how Mrs. Carpenter is when she's kept waiting."
"I do, indeed," Peter said lightly, helping me up into the carriage.
"How far is it to Demonwood?" I asked once we started moving. I had been up since daybreak and exhaustion was just beginning to set in. I devoutly hoped it wouldn't be long before my new, albeit temporary, home.
"Not too far, sweet Mary," he replied with sudden gentleness, and I wondered with a spasm of nervousness whether he was about to pounce. I squirmed back into the plush corner of the carriage. I had no doubts about my ability to defend my virtue, but I really didn't relish the thought of proving it right now. Besides, Peter had been charming and so friendly, and I had the uneasy feeling that I'd need a friend where I was going. "Another twenty minutes or so," he continued after a moment, and I relaxed against the velvet cushions. "And Stonewalls is only another half hour away from Demonwood—you won't be deserted, you know."
Could he read my mind? It was an eerie feeling. "I'm sure I'll be too busy to feel deserted."
"Perhaps," replied Peter, not sounding at all sure himself. He leaned forward across the carriage, and I could feel his breath warm on my face. "I'm going to say something to you, Mary, and I want you to remember it. If anything happens, anything goes wrong, you can always come to me. I'll see that you're safe, I promise you. And that's with no strings attached."
This was the second veiled warning of the day, and my overtired Irish temper began to smolder. "What could go wrong?" I demanded bravely. "Is there something I should know that you aren't telling me?"
The silence in the carriage seemed to stretch and grow, with only the sound of the wind sighing through the tall trees and the clip-clop of the horses' hooves penetrating the gloom. Then he laughed, a convincing, self
-deprecating little laugh. Except that I wasn't convinced.
"Oh, you might find dear little Daniel more of a burden than you think. Or the remoteness of the place might drive you mad after all your years in the big city. Or you may very well love Vermont—there's no telling. I'm just saying that if you don't, if you have any problems, you know that you have a friend."
I was touched, skeptical, and still faintly alarmed. But Peter Riordan had the air of a man who knows when he's been indiscreet, and I knew from experience with my brothers that I would get no more out of him. So, with all the patience in the world, I leaned back and shut my eyes.
Before I realized it the carriage had drawn to a halt, and blazing lights illuminated our shadowy, dark faces. "We're here," Peter announced unnecessarily, his voice suddenly hushed, and I felt my stomach tighten. I, who had never before been nervous a day in my life, stared out the window through the lightly falling snow at the monstrous structure that was Demonwood.
"Elegant, isn't it?" Peter's voice was ironical as he handed me down.
"It is that," I breathed, momentarily cowed at the massive grandeur of the place. I had never seen such a glorious, hideous thing in all my life. Four stories high and made of stark, drab-colored wood, it looked very new, very expensive, and very cold. Even the light shining from the windows facing the drive and pouring from the open front door did little to alleviate the gloom of the place. I couldn't control a little shudder of apprehension.
"Are you cold?" my companion asked solicitously, hurrying me up the wide front stairs and into the mansion. I stopped short just inside the door so that I could fully appreciate the lofty, repelling atmosphere of the place.
The entry hall, (and, indeed, the entire house, as I was soon to discover) was large and cold and bare, with the marble floors and the lofty ceilings screaming aloud the very newness and the pretensions of the place. The walls were a particularly repulsive shade of brown, the curtains cold, shiny silk, and a blast of icy air seemed to swirl and eddy through the still, damp atmosphere. I had never seen a more unwelcoming entrance, and I turned to Peter in helpless dismay.
"It affects you that way, does it? This monstrosity is Maeve's pride and joy, so you'd best not criticize it when one of her spies is around."
"It's . . . it's very grand, isn't it?"
He laughed, and took one of my unresisting hands in his and clasped it warmly. "Very grand," he agreed, "and very new. Connell had it built for . . . before he met Maeve." I noticed the abrupt change in his wording but forebore to comment on it. "But it's pretty much Maeve's creation. Con leaves it to her and Lillian and the boy whenever he can. If you ever find you're desperately in need of more comfortable surroundings you'll know where to find me."
This was the second offer of shelter in a matter of minutes, and my sense of unease grew. "I'm sure I'll be fine," I lied, unclasping his hand with gentle firmness. Peter Riordan was a very handsome, sensitive young man, but at that point I wasn't interested in handsome young men. In the back of my mind hung the image of a tired, cynical man, and the feel of his mouth on mine lingered, flooding my chilled body with a guilty, telltale warmth.
"I won't say good-bye, Mary," he murmured, oblivious to the tortured workings of my brain. "I'll be over in the next few days to see how you're doing, and to give you a tour of the countryside. You ride, don't you?"
"Yes, but . . ."
"No buts, my girl. Connell would have no objections to your taking the air with me. You can't work all the time, and you'll find there's precious little around here to keep you occupied." He recaptured my limp hand, brought it to his lips, and kissed it lightly, his mouth soft against my work-worn hand. "You remember what I told you, Mary," he said softly, his voice pitched low- "Till then," he added in a louder voice, and left me.
I watched his departing figure out of tired eyes, feeling mildly bereft. It seemed a day for leave-takings, and I wondered how long it would take me to get accustomed to this new life. I had had more change in one day than in the rest of my twenty-three years. It was with great weariness and trepidation that I turned to face the woman approaching me across the highly polished floor.
"Miss Gallager?" Her face was pink and round and should have emanated goodwill, but her tiny little black eyes were as cold as the wind howling around this lonely mansion, and her small pink mouth was pursed in a prim, disapproving pout. Her uniform of black bombazine with its rows of fussy jet trim was molded to her sturdy, round little figure, and as she moved toward me on oddly mincing little feet her keys jangled at her ample waist, proclaiming beyond any doubt her status as housekeeper and chatelaine of Demonwood.
Before I could even open my mouth she continued, "I'm Mrs. Carpenter." Her steely glance raked over my travel-worn form, and I thought I detected a barely audible sniff of disdain. "Mr, Fitzgerald informed me that you would be coming, although I hadn't known that Mr. Riordan was such an old friend." Her expression said clearly that it wasn't for the likes of me to associate with the gentry.
Determinedly I stifled the wave of explanations that flew to my lips. I wasn't about to justify my actions to this disapproving old witch. I met her tiny black eyes with cool unconcern.
Her eyes wavered first. "I'll show you to your room," she continued after a moment, her thin-lipped mouth expressing her contempt. "I'm sure you'd like to freshen up before you have supper." And if I didn't wish to I was clearly even more of a slattern than I appeared to be.
"Yes, I'd like that," I responded politely. "Is Daniel still awake? I'd like to meet him tonight, if that's possible."
"Mr. Daniel," she corrected frostily, "is always in bed by six-thirty. Tomorrow will be soon enough. Come with me." Her stiff, upright form swept ahead of me, and wearily I followed, my bravado vanishing. I had had such high hopes for my new life. I had never expected that I would have to cope with a hostile chatelaine and a child stigmatized as a little hellion by his father's friend. I felt like throwing my carpet bag down and indulging in a strong fit of hysterics.
Instead, I trudged along behind Mrs. Carpenter, head held firmly up, eyes straight ahead, as we traversed stairs and halls and then more stairs and halls, each one as ornate and elegant as the previous one, the only difference between them the various shades of olive green, puce, and a particularly rancid salmon- colored one. It wasn't until we reached the very top floor when my guide stopped to let me get my breath. She wasn't even winded.
"I decided to put you up here," she informed me with sudden false cordiality. "Mr. Daniel has been worried recently about ghosts and the like. There have always been silly rumors about this floor, and I decided that a teacher would be certain to be full of common sense—just the right thing to calm his fears, don't you think? Set an example to us all."
And who's going to calm my fears. I wondered with a start of nervousness, staling at the tall, gloomy hallway. I prided myself on being a sensible young woman, but when it came to ghosts and banshees I was reduced to a quivering mass of terror. I gave Mrs. Carpenter my most endearing smile, determined to win an answering response. Her basilisk eyes met mine, then looked away. "I'm sure this will be lovely," I said gamely after a moment or two.
She responded with a genteel snort, opening the door at the back of the hallway. I was less than entranced.
The room was made up of half-windows; their cold panes staring in at me like so many eyes. A sharp breeze was blowing, rattling the panes, and the room was colder than any room I'd been in during my not too opulent life. Surreptitiously I pulled my black wool cloak around me. The space was huge and sparsely furnished, dominated by a massive four-poster bed—one of those dynasty-founding affairs. The two walls that weren't floor-to-ceiling windows were paneled with intricately carved wood, made up of cupids, satyrs, and nymphs in positions that were absolutely embarrassing upon close inspection. I turned to my silent companion.
"It was once a studio for Mrs. Fitzgerald," she offered. "She tired of it a few years ago and this has been empty storage space until now.
When Miss Maeve redecorated her bedroom we moved the old Fitzgerald bed up here, and I believe the paneling came from an old castle in Ireland belonging to one of Mr. Fitzgerald's ancestors. Perhaps even the Countess of Carra- dine herself." Mrs. Carpenter's voice took on a hushed reverence at the mention of that august name. "It amused Miss Maeve to have it installed. I do hope it doesn't disturb you?" Her concern was as false as her sudden, smirking affability.
"Not in the slightest," I lied cheerfully. "It'll be a little better with a fire," I added, shivering slightly. Mrs. Carpenter watched me stolidly.
"We don't allow fires in the servants' bedrooms," she observed, and noted with complacency the flush that mounted to my face.
"Mrs. Carpenter," I said with deceptive gentleness after a long moment, "before I'm here another minute we'd best get a few things straight. Number one, I am not a servant. I am a teacher. Number two, I have no intention of spending the night in this room without a fire to warm it. Ghosts I can stand, pneumonia is another matter." I stopped, at a loss for a moment.
"Is that all, miss?" Mrs. Carpenter murmured, visibly unmoved.
"Yes, Mrs. Carpenter."
"Then someone will be up with your bags shortly. And someone will kindle you a fire. Though I doubt it will do you much good. Nothing seems to warm this room." On that sepulchral note she left me to my jumbled thoughts.
She was right, of course. The blazing fire added an aura of warmth to the cold, bare room, but no actual heat penetrated more than a few feet into the barren interior. Besides the bed and the cavernous wardrobe that had swallowed up my meager clothing there was a small writing desk and a large, uncomfortable chair. It was there that I sat and ate the poor meal Mrs. Carpenter had seen fit to send me, and it was there I sat, composing a bright, cheerful, lying letter to my brothers about the elegant house and the warmth of my reception. Finally my usually fertile imagination failed me, and I put the ebulliant missive aside and crawled wearily up into the soft, overwhelming bed, shivering against the chill of the rough, linen sheets. As I lay there in the cold, dark room I wondered unhappily how I would bear spending the next seven or eight months in this cold, unfriendly place without anyone to keep me company, not a friendly face in the state, as far as I could tell. Of course, Peter Riordan would be around as often as I let him; I knew enough about men to recognize that right off. But I was only fooling myself. It wasn't a friendly face or Peter Riordan that I wanted. I reached up and touched my mouth with suddenly trembling fingers, and on that thought I finally fell asleep.
