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Room Beneath the Stairs

Page 9

by Wilde, Jennifer;


  “You won’t be sleeping alone.”

  “I know, but—”

  “Indulge me, luv. This is a very romantic situation, almost illicit. Here you are in a maddeningly fetching nightgown, and I’ve crept along the hall to visit you. The lights are low. I’m in a powerfully sexy mood.”

  “Grey, I appreciate your feelings, but—”

  “Indulge me.”

  “I just don’t think it’s the right—”

  His mouth stopped me, and then his hands, and then all thought of argument fled. Later—much, much later—I sat up in bed. The room was in darkness now, but moonlight spilled through the windows, making faint pools of silver in front of the recess. Outside, the wind raged, and beside me Grey slept soundly, his large body sprawled out, warm. His robe was a heap of crumpled satin on the floor. I thought of all that had been said, all that had happened during the remarkable day that had just passed. Something wasn’t right. Something hadn’t been satisfactorily explained.

  I understood now why I had had such a cold reception at this house. I could see now why Helen and Evan would resent me, and Burke, too. He was almost a member of the family, had practically raised Grey. Although I disagreed with Grey about it, I understood why Helen Porter had put us in separate bedrooms, but there was something else, something vague and elusive. I had the feeling that all of them, Grey included, were hiding something from me, some dark secret. Reason told me that I was imagining things, but instinct and intuition were stronger than reason in this instance. All was not right. All was not as it should be.

  I was convinced of that. Perhaps it was a premonition, but I knew Grey and I could never be happy together in this house. Sleepless, unable to relax, I watched the moonbeams fade, watched the sky outside lighten from black to ashy gray to misty violet, and I knew that some way, somehow, I had to persuade my husband to leave this house, leave the island. Soon, a voice inside me urged.… As soon as possible.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Dazzling rays of sunlight poured through the windows, filling the room with silvery brightness. Beside me, the bed was empty, although a distinct impression remained and the pillow was dented. When I finally slept, I must have slept soundly, for I had no idea when Grey had left. The sun was high. The sky was a bright blue-white. Through the windows I could see sea gulls circling over the water. I heard their cries and the sound of the waves as they pounded against the rocks below. I sat up, stretching, feeling very alone, wanting Grey with me.

  I felt the strange house around me. Even with sunlight reflecting on the whitewashed walls, it seemed cold, alien. I could never belong here. I could never be a part of this place. Sitting in the lonely bed, I felt defenseless. If only Grey were here to hold my hand and laugh at my fears. I needed him. I needed his rich voice and his amiable smile. The thought of waking up alone in this bed every morning was unbearable. For a moment I seemed to be prey to invisible forces, and then I climbed out of bed, determined to be bright and cheerful and meet this new day with fortitude. I would persuade him to leave—I had to—and I needed all my resources.

  After washing my face and brushing my hair, I changed into a pair of tailored gray and blue checked slacks and a dark blue turtleneck sweater. I had just finished dressing when Judy stepped nimbly into the room.

  “Mornin’, ma’am,” she said. “It’s dreadfully late.”

  “Good morning, Judy. Is it? Late, I mean.”

  “After ten,” she retorted. “Mrs. Porter thinks it’s shocking for anyone to sleep so late. Myself, I’d adore the opportunity. Up and at it at six for me, no matter how late I was up the night before. I’ll be old and creaking before my time.”

  “You look radiant today,” I remarked, smiling.

  “Really?” She darted over to the oval mirror to examine herself. Her blue eyes were sparkling, and there was a delicate pink flush on her cheeks. She patted her short, glossy black curls and smiled a pixie smile, obviously thinking about something enchanting. I felt sure it was male in gender.

  “You’ve got a beau, haven’t you, Judy?”

  “How did you know?”

  “It shows. What’s his name?”

  “Ned Stockton, ma’am, and he’s a dream. Owns his own boat, he does, completely independent at twenty-two. I have a bike, and I bicycle down to the village to see ’im—Mrs. Porter’d have six fits if he was to come up here. Doesn’t approve of him, her, and I’ll have to admit she has a point. He’s rough and rowdy just like all the village boys. No class, none of ’em, but so gorgeous. My Ned has dark gold hair and wicked brown eyes and such shoulders.…” She sighed, thinking about the shoulders. “Cook and Stella say I’m a perfect fool over him, but then they’re old. A girl has to have something to amuse ’er on this wretched island.”

  “I’m happy for you, Judy.”

  “You’re very sympathetic, ma’am. I’m young, you see, and in London there was so much to do.…” Judy looked pensive for half a minute, then she sighed again and smiled, her bubbling good humor returning. “The old lady wants to see you,” she said. “In a dreadful humor this morning, she is. Threw things at me. She’s a dear, actually, only a bit loony. I’m really quite fond of her. I imagine I’d have given my notice and gone back to London a long time ago if it wasn’t for her. She depends on me, you see. Won’t let anyone else wait on ’er.”

  “I’ll visit her as soon as I’ve had breakfast.”

  “Oh, you’ll breakfast with her. She has such goodies in her room. Orders ’em through the mail—fancy jellies and jams, little tins of meat, marvelous biscuits and toast. I’ve instructions to bring up a fresh pot of coffee as soon as I leave here.”

  “How do I get to her room?” I asked.

  Judy gave me directions and turned to leave. As she reached the door, I called her back.

  “Judy, have—have you seen my husband this morning?”

  “Mister Grey? He was up bright and early. Teased me somethin’ awful as I was foldin’ up the linen. He went down to the village as soon as he’d had ’is breakfast.”

  “Did he say when he’d be back?”

  “He was rather mysterious about the whole thing. Mrs. Porter asked him all sorts of questions and ’e merely shrugged her off; said he had things to attend to. Burke was supposed to drive him down, but Mister Grey slipped off on foot before Burke could get the car out. Burke was furious.”

  “I see. Well—thank you, Judy.”

  She left, and after giving myself a quick inspection in the mirror, I followed, passing through the sunny sitting room, down the dark enclosed staircase and along the narrow hall that had seemed so menacing the night before. Reaching the wide hall, I turned to my left, moving in the opposite direction of the staircase that led downstairs. There were uncurtained windows at the far end of the hall, and although bright pools of sunlight burnished the floor beneath them, the rest of the hall was dim, the whitewashed walls a shadowy gray. Halfway down, two doorways faced each other on opposite sides, one with stairs leading down to the basement, the other with white stone steps that curled up to the tower rooms. I started up, a bit nervous about meeting Carlotta.

  The staircase was spiral, enclosed, curving around the lower part of the tower and eventually leading to a small landing with a large golden oak door worn smooth and darkened with age. There was a huge brass knocker. I rapped it timidly against the wood. After a moment there was the sound of bolts being shoved back and locks unfastened. The door swung inward, and three cocker spaniels lunged out, one blond, one brown, one white with glossy brown spots. The blond sniffed at my feet. The brown tried to leap into my arms. The brown and white raced around me in frantic circles.

  “Behave!” Carlotta Brandon snapped. “Victoria, stop that! Albert, stop leaping! You’ll have a heart attack. Disraeli! Get back in this room at once, all three of you! Well,” she said as the dogs scampered back inside, “you took your own sweet time. I’ve been waiting breakfast for you, and I’m famished. No respect, you young people. None whatsoever! I m
ay by fifty-nine, but I’m entitled to a little consideration.”

  “I thought Grey told me you were sixty-four—”

  “No tact, either! Come on inside.”

  She pulled me in and banged the door shut, slamming one or two bolts into place. The spaniels danced about excitedly, delighted with me, delighted with themselves. The room was very large and incredibly cluttered. It looked like nothing so much as a magpie’s nest, filled with bright colors, crammed with ancient, exquisite furniture that was chipped and battered. A long table beneath one of the windows was crowded with pots of jam and boxes of biscuits and tins of meat, along with books and papers and priceless dishes and chased silverware. Silk shawls were draped over the lumpy sofa and chairs. Parcels, some opened and spilling excelsior, some still wrapped in brown paper and tied with string, were scattered about; and there were perhaps a thousand books piled about on furniture and stacked on the floor. Pictures adorned the walls, dime-store prints hanging beside Picassos and a glorious Renoir. A small doorway opened onto stairs that wound up to the bedroom above. It was a bizarre apartment, but the total effect was incredibly charming, the clutter and mess giving it a distinct character. I was startled to see a powerful-looking rifle leaning against a wall.

  “Wouldn’t be without it,” Carlotta said, observing my surprise. “I’m a crack shot. Those damned sea gulls think this tower’s a lovely place to roost. Such racket! I bag at least a dozen a week. Albert! Get away from that cake, you greedy bastard!”

  She slapped the brown cocker on the rump and heaved him off the table, tossing him casually on the sofa, then turned to examine me. She was tall and thin, wearing a loose, flowing white silk smock patterned with blue and green splotches. Her hair was a highly improbable shade of blonde, covering her head with short, fluffy curls, and her face was weathered and worn, battered with age, stamped with character. Large, luminous blue eyes peered at me critically. Her nose was thin and sharp, and her small scarlet mouth was pursed. Carlotta Brandon was as bizarre as her room, but there was a fascinating grandeur about her. Larger than life, deliberately theatrical, she was like a magnificent old lioness, magnetic, beautiful in her way. I adored her on sight.

  “Yes,” she said impatiently, “you’ve got style. Rossetti might have painted you, or Holman Hunt. Violet-blue eyes and long chestnut hair and a dreamy air about you. Distinct. Most of these young fillies you’re always seeing in magazines, you can’t tell ’em apart. All of them going about with wild hair, and clothes that barely cover their bodies. Not that I approve of slacks—scandalous things for a woman—but I realize time marches on. When I was a girl, back during the Trojan War, a woman in slacks—well, it doesn’t bear thinking about! You look vague and rather helpless, but there’s character there. Definitely. You have style.”

  “Thank you,” I replied, a bit overwhelmed.

  “You’re too young to have flair, of course. That comes with age, and experience. You meet life with gusto, you fight, you suffer, you’re either defeated and become a broken old woman, or you develop flair. Me, now, I was terribly uninteresting until I’d had a few knocks, learned a few lessons. I learned that life was full of pain and grief and sorrow, and then I learned to accept it and make a place for myself in the midst of it. I’m a crazy old woman, they say; mad, hopelessly dotty! Ha! My life is full of fascination, here within these walls. Why should I leave? Why should I expose myself to all that grief? An ostrich may keep its head stuck in the sand, but it has such gorgeous plumage! Plumage is important. Do you think I’m insane?”

  “I think you’re—fascinating.”

  “Smart girl! Helen, now, she’d prefer me to be a sweet little old lady in a rocking chair, crocheting doilies and spooning pablum. I loathe sweet little old ladies. Loathe Helen, too, for that matter. Such a cold, hard woman. Never could stand her. Motherly love can stretch just so far! She was a frigid, sly child, and age hasn’t improved her one bit. Made her worse, if anything. No spirit, no zest! The personality of a prickly pear and as lovable as a block of ice. Passion? She doesn’t know the meaning of the word. That husband of hers was almost as bad. Attractive devil, like Evan, but all business, couldn’t think about anything but stocks and bonds and profits and investments. He made a fortune, ran the business with wonderful efficiency, but his life was so dull! Life should be a grand adventure, a fabulous exploration, and both of them missed the boat. Evan, now, he may rebel one of these days and cut loose. You’ve met him?”

  “Yes,” I said stiffly.

  “Didn’t take to him, I see. No charmer, Evan, but full of life. It’s seething there beneath the surface. He would have made a glorious pirate. Has the face for it, doesn’t he? He should be stealing diamonds from rich, plump matrons in Monte Carlo or running a dive in Marseille. Evan has the soul of an adventurer, but it’s smothered here on the island—”

  A loud knock interrupted her. The spaniels began to bark and dash about excitedly. Carlotta pushed back the bolts and threw open the door to admit a rather flustered Judy, who bore a heavy tray laden with a silver coffeepot, several covered dishes and a wicker basket full of bread crumbs. With a martyred expression, she set the tray on a table in front of the sofa, brushed a stray curl from her forehead and placed her hands on her hips.

  “Will that be all?” she inquired.

  “No sass, girl!” Carlotta snapped. “So you have to climb a few stairs? It’s good for your figure! You’re getting a bit chubby, lass. You put on a few more pounds and that scoundrel down in the village’ll throw you over in no time flat.”

  “I am not chubby!” Judy said angrily.

  “I have eyes in my head, don’t I? Near busting out of that uniform, you are. Has Burke gone down for the mail yet?”

  “Not yet.”

  “He knows I’m expecting several important packages! The new catalogues are due to arrive as well. No consideration! None. Tell him to get a move on, girl!”

  Judy raised her eyes heavenward and left the room, closing the door behind her.

  “I adore getting packages,” Carlotta explained, slamming the bolts back in place. “Every day brings a new surprise. Presents from me to me. I send for all sorts of things, anything that captures my fancy in the catalogues. Books, food, clothes, puzzles, bed warmers. I never know what the mail will bring. I do all my shopping that way. It’s very exciting! This smock came day before yesterday. Smashing, don’t you think? Rather dear, but then it’s only money.”

  She uncovered three bowls and set them on the floor. As the spaniels tore into their meal with great relish, Carlotta picked up the basket of bread crumbs, threw open a window and began scattering them on the ledge. The air was immediately filled with fluttering, shrieking sea gulls. She tossed crumbs into the air, and the gulls swooped and swirled, creating an ear-splitting din. Sun flashed on glossy blue-gray wings. Charlotta’s weathered old face was aglow with pleasure as she watched their antics, and when the basket was empty she closed the window with a smile of satisfaction.

  “Poor dears, they have to scrounge so hard for food nowadays.”

  “I thought you shot at them,” I remarked.

  “Did I say that? Well, dear, I do prevaricate a bit. Life’s so dull if one doesn’t. What shall you have for breakfast? I’ve got a marvelous assortment of goodies.”

  “Just coffee,” I replied. I had had a good look at the marvelous assortment of goodies and was very dubious about any breakfast Carlotta might serve.

  “Nothing else?” She seemed disappointed. “Well, I’m not really hungry myself. I snacked earlier on. Caviar on toast when I first got up. Most refreshing.”

  She sat down on the sofa, the sleeves of her smock billowing like butterfly wings. I sat down beside her and began to pour coffee into two thin, elegant china cups. The dogs had finished their meal, and a single sea gull perched on the window ledge, peering angrily at us through the glass. Carlotta sipped her coffee, making even such a pedestrian action seem charged with drama.

  “Disraeli!” she c
ried suddenly “Stop that at once! Shame on you. You know Victoria doesn’t approve of such shocking conduct! Aren’t they adorable?” she asked. “Such comfort, such delightful companions. Judy walks them for me early every morning and in the afternoon, and sometimes I let them roam the house just to aggravate Helen. They sense her animosity and plague her something awful, the dears. Of course I’ll have to keep them shut up now that Grey’s back—” she added thoughtfully.

  “Doesn’t he like dogs?” I inquired.

  “He was such a precious little boy,” she said, totally ignoring my question. “So affectionate, so precocious. I used to adore playing with him. He was like a puppy himself. Before the accident. After that he was never quite the same.”

  “His parents’ accident?” I asked.

  “Such a tragedy, such a shock to the child. He was very sensitive, you know, very emotional. His parents meant the world to him. He loved them both quite desperately.…” She hesitated, frowning, and for a moment I thought she was going to talk about the accident, but she merely shook her head, her eyes full of grief.

  She was silent for a long while, staring across the room without focusing, and then she shivered visibly. “This island.…” Her voice was a husky whisper. For the first time I felt that I was losing her, that her scintillating mind was growing muddled. She tugged at the material of her smock, crushing the silk between her fingers, and then, abruptly, she leaped up with the energy of a girl, picked up one of the unopened parcels and set it on the cluttered table.

  “It’s such a terrible place, dear,” she said. “Now where did I put my scissors? They use such strong string nowadays. Ah, here they are. I saw you arrive yesterday. You looked nervous and upset. Grey looked terrified, and no wonder! This island.…” She cut the string and began to tear the brown wrapping paper from the box. “I suspect it’s my costume jewelry. I ordered it over a month ago. They’re so slow delivering! Lovely things, I ordered. A coral necklace, earrings—Last night, I saw you wandering around. I wanted to call to you. I wanted to warn you. It frightened me. You should never do that.…”

 

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