Room Beneath the Stairs

by Wilde, Jennifer;

  We were heading directly for the island now. It gleamed in the afternoon sunlight, the village as picturesque as I remembered it, the pines beyond rising up in steep levels. I could see a part of the roof of the big house, a mere patch of dull red from this distance. I would be living in that house. Among strangers. London was so far away. Ellie and our shabby, comfortable flat seemed so distant. I felt a nervous tremor in the pit of my stomach. If only Grey were sitting beside me, holding my hand, I wouldn’t feel so timorous, so afraid.

  “Hey, snap out of it,” Grey said, laughing. “We’re here.”

  Immersed in my thoughts, I had been unaware of our arrival. The launch rested beside the pier, knocking gently against the wooden pilings. The motor was no longer running. Grey seized my hand and smiled a broad, reassuring smile. Had I only imagined his worry of a few minutes ago? He bounced onto the pier, pulling me up beside him. I felt much better now, comforted by his smile, his energetic movements. This was the man I knew and loved. The other, the tense, nervous stranger smiling a forced smile, was a Grey I didn’t know.

  “How do you like the car?” he inquired, pointing to an ancient but gleaming brown and tan Rolls-Royce parked a few yards away. “It’s the only car on the island, incidentally. The villagers have no use for automobiles, though most of them own boats.”

  “It’s gorgeous,” I said. “I’ve never been in a Rolls.”

  “Carlotta’s pride and joy, though it’s been years since she’s set foot in it. She spends most of her time in that crazy tower room, denying that an outside world exists. Hey—I guess I’d better give Burke a hand.”

  As Grey and Burke began to stow the luggage in the trunk of the Rolls, I examined the waterfront. It bustled with activity. Children played noisily on the piers, tripping over coils of rope. Fishing nets hung on weathered, leaning poles. Small boats rocked in the water, their sails furled and tied to the masts. There was a smell of salt and sun-scorched canvas, and gulls circled overhead against a blue-gray sky, crying out raucously. Although the wharf was crowded and several people strolled along the street facing it, no one seemed to pay the slightest attention to us. Nevertheless, I could feel eyes peering at me furtively. Later on, I knew, my arrival would be the major topic of conversation at dinner tables and in the pub; every detail of my appearance would be discussed at great length. I felt strangely exposed as I stood there beside the boat.

  While the waterfront was flooded with sunlight, the village beyond was in shadow. I saw the pub, its yellow paint peeling, its wooden doors swinging as a man in a bulky navy blue pea jacket stepped inside. There was a post office, a bank, even a Woolworth’s, all the shop fronts gray or brown or mellowed tan, festooned with faded white gingerbread woodwork. The village was much larger than it looked from afar, several narrow side streets winding up behind this main one, all of them cobbled. Treètops towered up over dusty red brick chimneys and sooty smoke pots, and I glimpsed a church with a burnished copper spire.

  I could see a cinema on one of the side streets, the marquee announcing a Michael Caine epic that had played in London two years before. Although Greycliff Village was undoubtedly a thriving modern community, there was a strong nineteenth-century flavor. With the exception of a few touches like the cinema and Woolworth’s, it could hardly have changed much since the days of Queen Victoria. There were no automobiles, for one thing; no parking meters. No gaudy signs were posted. The clash and clangor of the twentieth century seemed to be missing. Shrouded in late-afternoon shadow, the village had an atmosphere of age, yet there was none of the warmth usually associated with quaintness. This was a cold place, unfriendly to outsiders. I sensed that immediately.

  “Not much to do here, I’m afraid,” Grey said, coming to stand beside me as Burke fetched the last of our luggage. “When the young people want to have a good time they ferry over to the mainland.”

  “It’s a very—pretty place,” I replied.

  “We get quite a lot of tourists in the summer,” he told me. “Swarms of them come over to browse in the antique shops and buy lace, although they could get it much cheaper in London. The villagers hate them, but money is money, no matter the source. There’s a teashop, and a fairly nice restaurant, too, if you like—”

  His words seemed to blur together, becoming merely a background noise. I was no longer paying any attention to him. I was watching the girl coming along the wharf toward us. Long black hair fell in a cascade of curls about her shoulders, bouncing as she walked. Her eyes were very dark blue, her red mouth full and sensual. Her short blue cotton skirt billowed in the breeze, and her low-cut white peasant blouse did wonders for a figure that could only be called remarkable. A violet wool shawl with fringed edges was wrapped provocatively about her arms, more for effect than warmth. She was undeniably common. She was also one of the most stunning creatures I had ever laid eyes on.

  Grey continued to talk. His back toward her, he wasn’t aware of the girl’s approach. She sauntered along, toying with the violet shawl, bright sunlight splattering about her like spotlights. A group of fishermen stopped mending their nets. A husky blond lad in jersey and jeans leaped up and whipped off his cap. The girl seemed totally unaware of the attention she was receiving. A girl who looked like that would take it for granted, I thought. She was perhaps twenty yards away when she noticed Burke putting the luggage in the trunk of the Rolls. She looked startled, and then her whole face lit up with surprised delight. She hurried toward us, smiling a radiant smile; and then she saw me standing with Grey. Her face paled visibly.

  “You’re not listening to me,” Grey protested. “What—”

  He turned around and saw the girl. His jaw tightened and his eyes grew guarded. For a moment they looked at each other; the girl seemed on the verge of tears, suddenly very young and vulnerable. Clutching the shawl tightly around her, she hurried off in the opposite direction. We watched as she disappeared around a corner, and then Grey turned back to me. His manner was ever so casual, his expression utterly guileless. He thrust his hands into his pockets and shrugged his shoulders.

  “Who—who is she?” I had to ask the question.

  “Haven’t the foggiest notion,” he replied.

  The lie was not at all convincing.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  There would have been no point in pressing the matter. Grey was a vigorous young man, filled with ardor, highly sensual by nature. I hardly expected him to have led the life of a monk before he met me. With his virile good looks and his charm, he must have had dozens of women flocking around him. The girl with the violet shawl had obviously been one of them. I could understand that, but I couldn’t understand why he had found it necessary to lie about her. That hurt. Deeply.

  Burke had placed the last suitcase in the trunk of the Rolls. Slamming the lid down, he jerked his head, indicating that we were ready to go. Grey took my arm and led me over to the car.

  “Something wrong?” he asked lightly. “You look upset.”

  “It’s nothing. Just nerves.”

  “Nothing to be nervous about, luv. We’re going home. You’ll love the big house.”

  “I’m sure I will,” I replied.

  Burke opened the door for us. I noticed again his powerful build. He must have been six feet two at least, and the body beneath the tight uniform gave an impression of solid muscle. There was a smell of oil and tobacco about him. As I climbed into the car, moving past him, I could feel the eyes behind the sinister-looking dark glasses studying me, although his face remained expressionless. Grey got in beside me, and in a matter of minutes we were driving away from the waterfront, moving past the village and winding up a twisting road that weaved between great stands of towering pine trees. The motor purred smoothly as the road grew steeper, steadily climbing.

  I tried to forget about the girl. She wasn’t important. The lie was. I realized more than ever how little I really knew about the man beside me in the back seat of the Rolls. There were whole areas of total darkness. I knew nothing abou
t his schooling, his friends, his love life. In many ways we were strangers still. Almost as though he were reading my mind, Grey took my hand and pulled me closer to him. I could feel the warmth of his body, smell the scent of his skin. Holding my hand very tightly, he looked down at me and grinned, then kissed me lightly on the mouth. That made all the difference. He loved me. The rest was irrelevant.

  “My great-great-grandfather bought the island over a hundred and fifty years ago,” he said, breaking the silence. “It was unsettled then, desolate, still a refuge for smugglers and the like. He granted land to a few settlers, and the village sprang up. We still own all the land besides the village proper.”

  “It’s much larger than I remem—than I thought it would be.”

  “Two and a half square miles, approximately. My grandfather cleared several acres on the promontory and built the house. He had a great fondness for the Mediterranean and had the architect pattern the place after a villa—white stucco, red tile roofs, even a tower for a carillon. It’s quite impressive, actually. The patios and terraces look directly out over the ocean.”

  The road grew level as we reached the highest point of the island, a wide, pine-studded plateau on the cliff side. We were driving west, away from the end of the island where the caves were located. Passing through two tall white stucco portals, we drove down a narrow road bordered on either side by beautifully appointed formal gardens. Carefully groomed shrubs grew tall and green. Flagstone paths wound among neat patches of lawn and flower beds, and there was a pond with floating red lilies and a white marble fountain that shot up ribbons of shimmering water. A low wall completely surrounded the gardens. There were pine trees behind it on the right; on the left, one could see nothing but sky beyond the wall.

  “The whole estate’s built on the edge of the cliff,” Grey explained. “Behind that wall is a sheer drop to the rocks below, several hundred yards down the side of the cliff.”

  “How frightening.”

  “There’s no danger, unless you take a notion to walk along the top of the wall. I used to when I was a boy. Drove Aunt Helen out of her mind.” He chuckled, sliding his arm around my shoulder. “Burke used to give me a dreadful beating every time he caught me at it.”

  Burke gave no indication that he’d heard us. Peering straight ahead, he continued to drive at a snail’s pace along the narrow road. I looked out at the gardens. Something about them puzzled me, although at first I wasn’t sure just what it was. They were undeniably lovely, but something was not quite as it should be. When it dawned on me, I sat up with a start.

  “Grey!” I exclaimed. “The flowers—they’re in full bloom.”

  “I wondered when you’d notice that.”

  “But how is it possible.…”

  It was astonishing. In their neat, formal beds, purple violets vied with dazzling white daisies and vividly blue larkspurs. Bronze and yellow chrysanthemums grew side by side; and pink, salmon and dusty orange roses bloomed in profusion. I knew little about gardening, but I knew it should have been a botanical impossibility for such a variety of flowers to bloom at this time of year in this salty sea air. Grey smiled, delighted by my confusion.

  “Carlotta’s idea,” he said. “I told you she was eccentric. She was determined to have a spectacular garden, and flowers simply wouldn’t grow in this rocky soil, no matter how hard she worked at it. She was furious, not about to be bested by anything so trivial as nature. So she had these made. They’re artificial, handcrafted in Italy of the finest enamel. She spent a fortune on them, but you’ll have to admit the garden is spectacular. Only the grass and shrubs are real.”

  “What a glorious idea!” I exclaimed. I felt that I was going to like the indomitable Carlotta.

  “Look—you can see the house.”

  Ahead of us was a long, rectangular bowling green surrounded by evenly spaced evergreens, and through the slender trees I had my first glimpse of the big house. Surrounded by terraces and tiled patios joined by flights of low stone steps, it was enormous, sprawling in every direction, multileveled, the white stucco dingy with age. Dark brown shutters, weathered and worn, were at every window, and there were balconies with wrought iron grillwork and verandas that created an inviting Mediterranean air. The red slate roof shone dully in the diminishing rays of sunlight, and the carillon tower rose on the left, dark bronze bells visible through the four arched openings. Perched on the very highest point of the island, the big house was silhouetted against a deepening blue sky. It was lovely, the loveliest house I had ever seen.

  Burke drove slowly around the semicircular drive that curved in front of the house, stopping before a low flight of steps that led up to the veranda. He held the door open for us, and I followed Grey out of the car, awed by the beauty of the place. A variety of shrubs grew in heavy pots on the smooth terraces, and greenery hung in baskets on the broad, cool-looking front veranda. To the left, beyond a tiled patio, an extension of the garden wall guarded the steep drop. It was very windy, and I could hear the waves pounding against the rocks below. My hair flew in every direction. Soft violet-gray shadows spread as the sun slipped lower in the west. Grey stood beside me, holding my hand, grinning like a little boy showing off his prized possession.

  “Like it?” he inquired.

  “It’s breathtaking, Grey. Like—like something out of a storybook.”

  “We’re going to be happy here, Carolyn.”

  His voice was grave, and there was a determined note, as though we would have to work at it, as though there were odds against our being happy here in this house. I looked at my husband. All the gaiety and boyish enthusiasm had vanished, and he seemed almost grim as he led me up the steps and onto the veranda. We paused in front of the dark, ornately carved door. Grey was still holding my hand. He squeezed it tightly. His body was tense, his back rigid. He drew a deep breath and opened the door, a resolute expression on his face.

  The front hall was spacious, the plaster walls whitewashed, the ceiling crossed with dark oak beams. Oriental rugs were scattered over the polished parquet floor, and there were tall plants in glazed red-brown urns. A large brass chandelier hung from the ceiling; there were matching brass sconces along the wall. Doors opened into connecting rooms, and at the end of the hall an immense staircase rose to a landing, smaller stairs branching off to the left and right. As Grey and I entered, a woman came down the staircase, pausing midway to stare at us.

  “So you’ve come back,” she stated.

  “Hello, Aunt Helen,” Grey said casually. He was in control of himself now. There was a touch of defiance in his voice.

  Helen Porter continued down the stairs. Although she must have been well over fifty, she was still a handsome woman, tall and slender, clad in a severely tailored suit of dark gray linen. Her ebony-black hair was pulled back in a neat bun. Her complexion was as smooth as porcelain, and as hard. Her coral-pink lips were set in a tight line, and her dark brown eyes were cold. Smiling, suffused with warmth, she would have been beautiful, but I had the impression that this woman hadn’t smiled in a very long time.

  “This is Carolyn, Aunt Helen.”

  “I assumed as much.”

  “Look, there’s no need to be rude—”

  “Do you expect me to welcome her with open arms?”

  “Damn it, I.…”

  Helen Porter ignored him. She turned her steely gaze on me. I felt a hot flush color my cheeks. She scrutinized me with piercing eyes, examining me as one might examine a servant applying for a position in the house. After a moment she nodded curtly.

  “You’re extremely attractive,” she said, “and you look well bred. I suppose it could be worse. At least you’re not a chorus girl with bleached hair and false eyelashes. What does your family do?”

  “I have no family.”

  “Indeed? None at all?”

  “I’m alone in the world. I—I was. Now I have Grey.”

  “So it seems.”

  “Aunt Helen, look, can’t you be halfway dece
nt? I know it’s hard for you, but—”

  “I’d like to see you in the study, Grey. We have things to discuss. I’ll take your wife up to her rooms first. Meet me in the study in ten minutes.”

  “Christ! You think you can—”

  “Come, Carolyn,” she said, ignoring his outburst.

  Her voice was crisp and dictatorial. She expected to be obeyed without question. I glanced at Grey. He was frowning.

  Helen Porter started back up the steps. After half a moment’s indecision, I followed her. We turned to the right and, reaching the second floor, moved down a long, wide hall with whitewashed walls. Turning to our left, we went down a smaller hall, then climbed up a narrow enclosed spiral staircase and stepped into a large, airy sitting room flooded with light from the large curtainless windows that looked out over the water far below.

  “This will be your sitting room,” she informed me. “Your bedroom is through that door, and there’s a connecting bath. I hope you find it suitable.”

  “It seems quite comfortable, Mrs. Porter.”

  “This apartment is rather isolated from the rest of the house. You’ll have a great deal of privacy.”

  “That’s—thoughtful. Grey and I will appreciate it.”

  Helen Porter stood in the middle of the room, looking at me. I sensed that there was something else she wanted to say to me, that she was deliberately restraining herself. Although she appeared hard and unyielding, I felt that it took a great effort for her to maintain that hard shell, that behind it was another woman, vulnerable and uncertain. Despite her chilly composure, there was a worried look in her eyes. I wondered what caused it. Did I pose some kind of threat?

  “You don’t approve of me, do you?” I asked.