“Who’s down there?”
She went quickly to the foot of the stairs. “It’s I—Camilla.”
He came to the head of the stairs and looked down at her. “A pleasant surprise! Come up, Cousin Camilla, and see my workshop.”
Holding to a rickety handrail, she mounted the stairs and took Booth’s extended hand. He drew her up the last step, and she stood blinking in the bright, spacious upper room.
Booth wore a long gray linen duster revealing smudges of paint, and he held a palette in one hand. An easel had been set up in the center of the room with a nearly finished painting upon it.
“You’re just in time for coffee, Cousin,” Booth told her. He set the palette down and brought an armchair for her, dusting it before she seated herself. “My housekeeping’s not of the best, but I don’t like servants moving my stuff around.”
When she had taken the chair, he stepped to an alcove, where a coffeepot had just started to bubble on a small stove. The fragrance of coffee was laced by the odors of Booth’s paint materials—a combination Camilla did not find unpleasant. While he busied himself with the coffee, she studied the painting on the easel.
Once more she was caught by the violent power of Booth’s work. This view was one of the Hudson, with what must surely be an exaggerated Thunder Mountain rising from the bank. Black storm clouds boiled into the sky above, and the whole was a moment held suspended in a flash of lightning. At the foot of the precipice Hudson waters churned to an angry yellow in the sulphurous light, and a tiny boat was caught in the instant of capsizing and spilling its occupants into the water. Booth had endowed the painting with a wild terror that made Camilla’s scalp prickle.
“Are your pictures always so violent?” she asked.
Booth set the coffeepot down and came over to her, interested at once in her reaction to his work.
“So you see what I’ve tried to catch? The moment of danger! The very knife edge of danger, where there is life one moment and possible death the next.”
She could see what he meant, and even sense the fascination such a moment might have for him as an artist. But she wondered what might drive a man to preserve such moments repeatedly on canvas. The picture she had seen in his mother’s room had portrayed the same “moment of danger.”
He saw the question in her eyes. “Can there be any greater excitement in life than the moment just before a man solves the last mystery?”
There seemed a dark elation in him that was disturbing. From the first she had sensed about him a strangeness that she did not understand, and which she remembered when she was away from him. Because it made her uneasy now and a little self-conscious, she left her chair to wander about the room, examining other paintings that leaned against the walls.
“Your mother spoke of arranging a show for you in a New York gallery,” she said. “Why don’t you go ahead with that now?”
He returned to the stove, filled a cup from the coffee pot and brought it to her. “I suppose I could—if I cared enough. Grandfather Orrin never approved of my painting. He didn’t consider it a man’s work. Not that I cared. I paint for my own amusement.”
Amusement was a strange word for a product so gloomy. She sipped her coffee and moved on about the room, pausing to study the scene of a fierce cockfight, in which the feathers of the birds were bright with blood as they met in deadly combat. The next picture was an unfinished painting of a woman who struggled to hold a rearing horse, its hoofs flailing not far from her head. Her face had not been completed and the background was a vague blur, but the wild eyes of the horse, its distended nostrils and bared teeth, had all been carefully depicted.
Booth noted Camilla’s arrested interest and crossed the room to turn the picture against the wall. “I don’t put my unfinished work on view,” he said.
There was almost a rebuff in his manner, and she glanced at him, puzzled. What haunted this man? What drove him and made him so strange? Darkly strange and strangely fascinating.
She returned to her chair, moving it so that she need not stare at the painting of the capsizing boat with its little human figures flung out over the torrent.
“Your model has courage,” she remarked. When he said nothing she went on. “I’ve always loved to ride. Do you suppose I could buy a horse hereabout and ride again at Thunder Heights?”
Booth sat down upon a high stool, hooking his heels over the rungs. “Why not? Grandfather Orrin’s not here to forbid it.”
“Why wouldn’t he keep horses when he had a coach house built?”
Booth drank a swallow of coffee, hot and black. “We hardly needed them, since we had few places to go. The world came to Orrin Judd when it had to, and it could hire its own hacks.”
She knew he was evading her question, but she could not bring herself to challenge him.
“If you’re seriously interested, Cousin,” he went on, “I’ll keep an eye open for a horse that’s been trained to the sidesaddle. I think I can find you a good one.”
“I’ll appreciate that.” She finished her coffee, wondering how to bring up the subject of Ross Granger and these rooms.
He gave her an unexpected opening. “I suppose you’ll plan to clean up the stable below and keep your horse here when you get one? There’s room for a stableboy beyond that partition.”
Camilla forced herself to the topic in hand. “Did you know that Mr. Granger has agreed to stay on for a time? Mr. Pompton says we can’t do without him. He has been my grandfather’s eyes and ears for so long that there’s no one to take his place.”
She stole a look at Booth as she spoke and saw that he had stiffened.
“I was afraid we wouldn’t be easily rid of him. I suppose you’ve come to tell me that I’m to move out of these rooms and let Ross Granger take over his—inheritance? Is that it?”
She could feel herself flushing. “Perhaps we could fix up the old nursery as a studio for you. The light there should be better than you have here, and it might be more convenient to do your painting inside the house.”
“I suppose this is a plan Aunt Letty has suggested? You were afraid to come here and ask me to move, weren’t you, Cousin?”
“I came,” she said simply, not caring to admit her reluctance.
“So you did. But what if I tell you I don’t choose to move? What if I tell you I don’t care for the nursery?”
She looked away from the rising anger in his eyes. “I don’t blame you for not wanting to move, when the place has been yours for so long.”
“Your sympathy touches me, Cousin,” he said, and began stacking his finished paintings against the wall. “All right then—I’ll move. But please understand—I’m not doing it to suit Granger’s convenience.”
She set her cup and saucer aside and went to stand beside him. “You needn’t hurry. Mr. Granger can wait. I’m sorry it has to be this way.”
His look softened unexpectedly and he smiled. “I believe you mean that, my dear. Don’t worry, I’ll cause you no embarrassment. But remember that I’m doing this for you, not for Granger.”
“Thank you,” she said, and turned toward the stairs, retreating instinctively from his gentler mood, lest he ask more of her than she was ready to give.
He did not let her go alone, but came with her toward the house. As they followed the driveway, he slipped her hand into the crook of his arm, as if he wished to reassure her. Camilla was sharply aware of him close at her side, moving with his air of restrained vitality, as though the dark power that flowed through him was held for the moment in leash. What might it be like if he once lifted his self-imposed restraint? An odd sense of excitement stirred her.
As if he knew her reaction to his nearness, he tightened his arm so that her hand was pressed against his side.
“Tell me, Cousin,” he said, “how does it happen that a young woman as attractive as you are has gone unmarried in New York?”
“I have never known very many men,” she admitted, and tried to quicken her step.
“We must mend this lack in your life,” he said. “Unless you know a variety of men, you’re likely to be too vulnerable to attention from almost any man.”
He went too far, but she did not know how to reprove him, was not even sure that she wanted to.
When they neared the house the sound of carpenters working on a scaffolding above the front door reached them, and Camilla looked up at the new repairs in satisfaction.
“The house looks better already. I’m eager to see it painted.”
Booth’s look followed her own with indifference. “I’m afraid I agree with my mother that it’s a waste of good money and energy. But if it pleases you, Camilla, if it makes you happy, then I suppose it serves a purpose in our lives.”
He released her hand from his arm and left her at the foot of the steps, going off in one of his abrupt withdrawals, so that it seemed all in an instant that he had forgotten her. She went into the house troubled by a curious mixture of emotions. At the moment she was not at all sure how she felt about Booth Hendricks.
Letty met her in the upstairs hall. “Did you see Booth? How did he react when you suggested a change of studios?”
“I know he didn’t like it,” Camilla told her, “but he tried to be kind. I suspect that he’s angry with Ross. I’m relieved to have the interview over.”
Letty was studying her with quick understanding. “You look upset, dear. Why don’t you lie down in your room for a little while and let me bring you a tisane to make you feel better?”
It was easier to allow Aunt Letty to minister to her, than to resist or refuse to be doctored. But when she was in her room again, she could not lie quietly on a bed. Her visit to Booth’s studio had been upsetting in more ways than one. She had sensed in him a bitter anger that might one day explode into the open. When it did, she hoped it would not be directed against herself. Or did she hope for just that? Did she want to be involved with Booth at whatever cost to herself?
She was still walking restlessly about the room when Letty tapped at the door. As Camilla opened it, Mignonette streaked in first, leaving Letty to enter more slowly with a tray in her hands.
“Here you are, dear,” Letty said. “There’s hot toast in that napkin and a bit of rose petal jam. Let the tea steep a minute, and it will be just right.”
“Thank you, Aunt Letty,” Camilla said, grateful for her consideration and affection.
Letty patted her arm lovingly and hurried away. For once Mignonette did not follow her mistress. She came to sit before the small table that held the tray, looking up at it expectantly.
Camilla laughed. “You’re staying for your saucerful, aren’t you?”
The little cat mewed in plaintive agreement.
“All right,” Camilla said, “I’ll pour some for you, but you’d better be careful—it’s scalding hot.”
She filled the saucer and set it on a piece of wrapping paper on the hearth. Then she poured a cupful for herself and stirred it, waiting for it to cool, sniffing the sharp aroma that was a little like that of the daisy, and not altogether pleasant. Mignonette was already lapping daintily around the cooling edges of the liquid, and Camilla watched her in amusement. A strange taste for a cat. Letty must have fed her tisanes when she was a kitten, that she had grown up with so odd an appetite.
Feeling that she must drink some of the tea whether she liked it or not, Camilla raised her cup. The cat made a choking sound, and she looked down to see that Mignonette was writhing as if in pain. While Camilla watched, too startled to move, the little cat contorted her body painfully and rid herself of the tea she had just lapped up so greedily.
Camilla set her teacup down and ran to the door to call Letty. It was Hortense, however, who came down the hallway.
“Letty’s gone downstairs. What is it?”
“Mignonette is sick. I just gave her a saucer of tea and she’s throwing it up.”
An odd expression crossed Hortense’s face. She cast a single look at the cat and then picked up the untouched cupful of tea. She sniffed it and shook her head.
“I’ll take care of this,” she said and picked up the teapot as well to carry away.
Camilla poured water into the saucer for Mignonette and began to fold up the paper. In a moment Hortense was back.
“You mustn’t let my sister dose you with these things,” she said. “She overrates her knowledge of medicinal herbs, and it’s best not to give in to her whims. What if you had drank what was in that cup and hadn’t the faculty of getting rid of it as Mignonette did?”
She went off without waiting for an answer, and Camilla regarded the cat doubtfully. Mignonette was trying weakly to clean herself, and she looked up at Camilla with an air that might have been one of entreaty. Camilla picked her up gently and carried her downstairs in search of Letty.
Grace said Miss Letty was in the cellar larder, and Camilla went down the lower stairs. She found Letty at work cleaning shelves, with Booth assisting her in a desultory fashion. They were taking down bottles and jars, wiping them and replacing them in neat order.
Camilla held out the cat. “Mignonette drank some of my tea just now and it made her painfully sick for a few moments. She really frightened me. Though I think she’s recovered.”
Letty turned and Camilla saw the color drain from her face. She almost snatched the cat from Camilla’s hands and held her close, stroking the small body tenderly. Camilla had never seen Letty angry before, but now she fairly bristled with indignation.
“No one gives Mignonette anything without my orders,” she cried. “Never, never do such a thing again!”
Camilla heard her in astonishment and found no answer.
“Perhaps,” Booth said quietly, “we had better think of Camilla. Did you drink any of the mixture, Cousin?”
“No.” Camilla shook her head. “Aunt Hortense came in when I told her the cat was sick, and she took the pot and cup away and emptied them. I hadn’t even tasted the tea.”
Her words seemed to bring Letty to herself. While she did not release her hold on Mignonette, she gave Camilla a weak and apologetic smile.
“I’m sorry, dear. Mignonette means so much to me that I—I was cross for a moment. It was most inconsiderate of me.”
Booth was watching her, his gaze alert and questioning.
“What was in the tea, Aunt Letty?” he asked.
Holding the cat to her shoulder with one hand, Letty hurried to the row of shelves behind the door and took down an empty jar. “Why—it was just my usual marjoram and mint mixture. I used the last of it—see.”
Booth took the jar from her hands and removed the cover, sniffing before he gave it back to her. “Are you sure? Sometimes I wonder how you tell all these leaves and powders apart when you’re working with so many ingredients.”
“It’s quite simple,” Letty said with dignity. “I know the appearance of each one as well as I know the faces of those about me. And every scent is different too.”
She put the empty jar back on the shelf, and Camilla noted idly a vacant place on the same shelf a little farther along, where a bottle had been removed from between two others.
“Tell me, Aunt Letty,” Booth said, “did anyone else know you were going to fix this pot of tea for Camilla?”
For just an instant Letty’s gaze wavered. It was nothing more than a flicker, yet Camilla sensed in it indecision and hesitation. A shock of distrust that was close to fear flashed through Camilla, leaving her shaken and apprehensive.
Then Letty was herself again, and if she had experienced a moment of doubt in which she had seen a choice of action before her, the fact was quickly concealed by her more usual manner. Had she thought in t
hat instant to conceal blame, or to place the blame elsewhere? In any case, she did neither.
“I’m sure it wasn’t my tea that upset Mignonette,” she said. “I tell you what—I’ll fix you some fresh tea, dear. It won’t take a minute.”
Camilla started to refuse, but Booth broke in smoothly. “Make some for me too, Aunt Letty. The three of us can have a pot together. I’ve had a bad morning.”
He glanced at Camilla, his look faintly mocking, as if he dared her to refuse. His mood had lifted strangely into something laced with excitement, and far from reassuring to see.
Letty made the tea, heating water on the stove out in the main room of the cellar, where a fire already burned beneath a simmering mixture. There were several straight chairs about a round table in the big room, and they sat down to drink a mint tea that Letty had flavored with leaves of fragrant balm. Mignonette, apparently none the worse for her experience, trustfully took a saucerful from Letty’s hands. But only in the small cat was there any trust, Camilla thought as she sipped the fragrant tea. Letty’s eyes did not meet her own, while Booth’s gaze met Camilla’s all too readily. She felt a little sick with distrust, so that she could hardly swallow.
Before they were through, Hortense came downstairs and regarded them in astonishment.
“Do join us,” Letty said almost gaily, but her sister refused.
Booth slanted an oblique look at his mother. “You shouldn’t have thrown out that pot of tea so quickly. It might have borne looking into. Could you tell whether anything was wrong?”
“They all smell vile to me,” Hortense said. “That cat was at death’s door. What affected the cat might have killed Camilla.”
Thunder Heights Page 12
