The shelter was like a child’s secret playhouse. Had her mother played here as a little girl? Camilla wondered. The big dark leaves and thick branches shielded her all around and she was completely hidden. She knelt on brown earth, softened now by spring rains, and began to dig with her trowel. It would take a fairly large hole, she discovered, to hide all evidence of her culinary crime. So absorbed was she in her digging that the sudden crackling of branches being parted came as a startling sound. She looked up in dismay to see Ross Granger peering at her through the wall of her shelter.
“What’s wrong?” he asked. “I saw you scurrying up here like a fugitive. Are you digging for buried treasure?”
What she was doing seemed suddenly ridiculous and childish—not at all a role becoming to the mistress of Thunder Heights. She regarded him uncomfortably, unable to think of a reasonable explanation for her actions, fighting an impulse to laugh out loud and further label herself a child.
He glanced from the hole to the covered bundle and the smile left his face. “Oh? That’s not Mignonette, is it?”
This was too much. She covered her face with her hands to stifle her laughter and sat helplessly back on her heels. At once he picked up the trowel and knelt beside her.
“Don’t worry—let me take care of it. You turn your back, and I’ll have it buried in no time at all. If it’s the cat, this will devastate Letty. What happened anyway?”
She lowered her hands, and when he saw she was not crying, but laughing, he dropped the trowel and stood up, clearly annoyed.
“The—the only thing that—that died,” she choked, “was—oh, look for yourself!”
He stirred the bundle doubtfully with his toe and the cloth fell back to expose the lumpish gray contents. “What is it?” he asked.
She wiped her eyes with a handkerchief and thrust back her tendency to hysterical giggles. “You looked so funny and sympathetic! And now you look so suspicious! I—I was just trying to make bread. Aunt Hortense and Booth left for New York right after breakfast. Everyone’s gone from the house except Aunt Letty and Grace, who are working upstairs. Before she left, Aunt Hortense said I couldn’t even bake a decent loaf of bread. So I wanted to prove her wrong and confound her with my skill when she came home. But the only one I’ve confounded so far is myself.”
He started to grin, then to laugh out loud, and the tendency to giggle left her abruptly. It wasn’t that funny. His amusement was altogether too unrestrained, and she did not like being the butt of his laughter.
He caught her eye and sobered. “Now you’re angry with me. But you thought the situation funny yourself until I laughed. If you’ll stop scowling at me, I’ll help you out.”
“Help me out?”
He picked up the trowel again and quickly enlarged the hole. Then he dumped the sodden dough into the grave and covered it, stamping down the earth.
“I don’t suppose you want a headstone?” he said.
Camilla had gained time to recover a semblance of poise and she stood up and held out her hand for the trowel. “Thank you, Mr. Granger. Though I really could have managed by myself.”
“Oh, we’re not through,” he said cheerfully.
She looked at him in bewilderment, and once more the amusement in his eyes faded. He was regarding her with an odd tenderness that was almost like a caress. His tone softened.
“Don’t think I don’t know what a hard time you’ve had in that house. You’ve had everyone fighting you, including me, and giving you very little help in your effort to do something to save the old place. To say nothing of the people in it. Orrin Judd would have been proud of you, Camilla. I think you’re wasting your time on the unimportant and on what can’t be changed. Which makes me very sorry—because I like to see the young and brave and—and foolish—succeed.”
The climate between them had changed in some subtle way. There was a long breathless moment while she looked into his eyes and time hung queerly suspended. She was aware only of their closeness in this tiny space, hidden from the world by branches all about, aware only of him, as he was of her. This is what I want, she thought. Something in her had known from the first moment she had spoken to him on the riverboat that someday it would be like this, and that when the moment came she would not retreat. She had fought him and resented him, and raged within herself because of him. But now nothing mattered except that his strong fine head with the bright chestnut hair was bending close, and there was a question in his eyes.
She raised her own head without hesitation and went quite simply into his arms. He was not gentle now. His mouth was hard upon her lips so that they felt bruised beneath its touch. Her body ached under the pressure of his arms, but she did not want the pain lessened. When he raised his head she would have put her arms about his neck and risen on her toes to rest her cheek against his own, admitting everything—all the wild feeling that surged through her, all the wanting so long held in check because there was no one to want. Her movements were those of one spellbound, as though she had no will of her own, and could bow only to his. But he took her by the shoulders and held her suddenly away, his eyes grave, his mouth unsmiling.
“You are something of a surprise,” he said.
The words were like an unexpected slap, and the blood rose in her cheeks as though the blow had been a physical one. There was a moment of consternation while she stared at him in helpless dismay. Then she turned and would have run straight away from him, but this time he caught her hand.
“Come along,” he said as calmly as though nothing had happened between them. “I told you we weren’t through. We’ve work to do.”
Brooking no resistance, he led her down the path toward Thunder Heights. She could not struggle against him without indignity, so she went with him, shocked and angry and confused. When they reached the back door, he did not release her hand, but came with her up the steps and into the kitchen. There he looked about confidently, while she watched him, completely at a loss.
“With your permission, I’ll wash my hands,” he said. “You still want to bake bread, don’t you?”
To Camilla’s astonishment, that was exactly what they did. Spellbound once more, she obeyed him, afraid to wake up and face what had happened, afraid to acknowledge the emotion that had swept through her there beneath the beech tree. Under his skillful instruction, she began the process of breadmaking all over again, and he was as matter-of-fact when he asked her to scald the milk as though that exultant moment between them, with the shock of its aftermath, had never been.
“To be good,” he told her, “a batch of bread should be made with a large portion of love and cheer mixed in. At least that’s what my Aunt Otis always used to say. She had the cheeriest kitchen I’ve ever seen. There were always yellow curtains and yellow tea towels all around, so that if the sun wasn’t really shining, it would seem to be in her kitchen. Aunt Otis raised me, and she used to say there was no reason why a man shouldn’t know how to bake bread, when bread-baking was good for the soul. She was right too.”
Camilla listened in wonder, her sense of shock lulled for the moment by his words and his companionable presence. She did as he told her, and the dough seemed to come to life under her hands.
“Where is your home?” she asked him, curious now to know all there was to know about this man.
“It’s on the river—but down along the Jersey bank,” he said.
It was easy now to ask him questions. “Did you grow up there? What of your mother and father?”
“My mother died when I was born, and my father was mostly away in his work as an engineer. As I’ve told you, he was Orrin Judd’s good friend and worked on many a project for him. But Aunt Otis had me in hand while I was growing up.”
Looking at the breadth of him, at his bright hair and the mouth that was smiling now, but which she had seen only looking firm and stern, Camilla thought silently that his Aunt Otis must have done a very good job indeed. A shiver like a warning sped along her nerves, but she did not
heed it. Whether he regretted kissing her or not, she wanted to be with him, to be near him, and that in itself was something new and frightening.
“Now,” he said, “you’ll need to put this in a warm place to rise, leave it alone for a couple of hours and—”
She clapped a hand to her mouth. “That’s it! I left it to rise in the cellar where it’s cool. Of course the yeast never started to grow.”
He nodded at her, grinning. “Think you can carry on successfully now? You can knead it after it rises—that’s for better texture—and let it rise again. Another kneading and it’s ready for baking. Can you fire the stove all right?”
“If I can’t, I’ll get Grace to help me,” she said.
Plainly he was going to leave her now, with so much that was still unexplained between them. Yet she could ask him no further questions. You could not say to a man, “Why did you kiss me, if you didn’t mean it? Why did you invite me into your arms if you didn’t want me there?”
“I’ll go back to my work now,” he told her, “and you needn’t admit you’ve had any help. After all, you did the whole thing yourself, so you’re entitled to the credit.”
Her mouth felt stiff and her lips would not smile easily. She could only nod in silence. He put out a hand and touched her shoulder lightly. Then he was gone by way of the back door.
She could hear him whistling as he rounded the house, returning to the rooms he preferred to keep so far from the house. The sound was a cheerful one, but she did not know whether to laugh or to weep.
A little to Camilla’s relief, Ross did not appear at dinner that night, but sent word that he was going to the village, so Camilla and Letty dined alone. With Hortense’s restraining presence removed, Letty was ready to chatter, but Camilla felt subdued and pensive, and she listened in a silence that was only half-attentive.
There were a few moments of excitement over the bread she had baked. Matilda, coming home from her visit, had found the fresh loaves and admired them generously. Letty said this was the best bread she had tasted in a long while, and Camilla must certainly show Hortense what she could do when she returned from her trip.
Camilla accepted their compliments in her preoccupied state and kept her secret. The thought of Ross was never far away, and she did not want to be alone lest she give herself wholly to dreaming about what had happened.
After dinner, they avoided the parlor ritual, and Camilla followed Letty and Mignonette upstairs.
“Something’s troubling you, isn’t it, dear?” Letty said when they reached the door of her room. “Would you like to come in and keep me company for a while?”
Grateful for the invitation, Camilla seated herself on a window cushion in the circular tower that made an addition to Letty’s small room. Sitting there, high among green branches that pressed against the windows, she felt like a bird suspended in a swinging cage. She could glimpse the river shining far below in the twilight. It was a peaceful spot, and she tried to let her mind go blank, let her feelings wash away in the quiet green light.
Letty made no attempt to question her, or draw her out, but went contentedly to work on her collection of receipts.
“I’ve decided to think about your suggestion for a book after all,” she said. “Whether I try to have it published or not, it will give me satisfaction to compile it.”
“I’m glad,” Camilla told her, pleased to see her aunt busy and interested. It was a shame that the shadow of such a lie should be allowed to hang over her head. Mignonette sprang onto the window seat and began washing her face with an energetic paw. Camilla pushed her over idly, to pick up a book the cat was sitting on. It was a fat volume and seemed to be a medical dictionary of herbs. The pages fell open and she read at random, her interest only half upon the words.
Sage tea was good for sore throats, it appeared. Summer savory might be used to cure intestinal disorders. Sesame was a mild laxative and could be soothing when applied externally. The action of thyme was antiseptic and antispasmodic. Tansy … her interest quickened at the name. Tansy could be rubbed over raw meat to keep the flies away, and its leaves were useful in destroying fleas and ants. It was a violent irritant to the stomach, and many deaths had been caused by it.
Camilla looked up from the pages, watching Letty in silence for a few moments as she worked with her papers.
“You said the other day that you used tansy in puddings,” she said at length, “and sometimes in tea. But this book says that it’s poisonous.”
Letty did not look up from her sorting. “It is if one uses too much of it. The Pennsylvania Dutch make poultices of the sap, and they used the leaves in tea in treatments for the stomach. It’s all in the quantity used.”
The bottle of tansy juice had been there on the shelf and available, Camilla thought, and a jar with tansy leaves. There had been a strong scent of daisies about the tea that had made Mignonette ill. Though of course Aunt Letty had admitted to a touch of tansy in the mixture. She wanted to ask more questions, but she could not in the face of the suspicion Hortense had tried to cast upon Letty. She could not look at Letty and believe her guilty. If anyone was to be blamed for that tea, it was probably Hortense. Had Booth known what his mother had tried to do? she wondered, remembering the look she had caught between them that morning in the cellar.
Letty spoke evenly, quietly, still not looking up. “It’s very easy to pick up a few facts and put them together in the wrong pattern. I never let myself do that if I can avoid it, my dear. Too much harm may be caused by a mistaken interpretation.”
Camilla glanced at her, startled. “Sometimes I think you’re a little fey. Sometimes you almost read my mind.”
“It’s my Scottish blood, I suppose,” Letty said without smiling. “Sometimes I have a queer feeling of knowing when something is about to happen. As I did the night Papa died. And there have been other occasions too. The night your mother rode out to her death was one—” She stopped and shook her head. “I mustn’t think about these things. They give me an uncomfortable feeling. I don’t want to be queer and—and fey.”
Camilla left her window seat and went to sit beside her.
“If there’s anything queer about you, Aunt Letty, then it’s a nice sort of queerness to have,” she assured her aunt.
She began to help Letty with her sorting, and the green light faded at the windows as night came down. The sky to the west might still be bright, but the shadow of Thunder Mountain had fallen upon the house, and here night had already begun.
As the evening wore quietly on, Camilla began to feel lulled and peaceful. Letty was right—she mustn’t allow groundless suspicion to grow in her mind. She must live in this house and accept the people in it. She could not afford to question what lay behind every action, or she would find no peace here at all.
She did not remember the little riding crop she had found until she returned to her room. Then she got it out and carried it back to Letty.
“Look what I found in the shrubbery today,” she said, and held out the black crop with its tarnished silver head for Letty to see.
Letty stared at it without recognition for a moment. Then she rose from her work and came to take it from Camilla’s hand. The color went out of her face, and she sat down abruptly.
“Where did you find this?” she demanded.
Camilla explained how she had climbed down the bank and walked out upon the spit of land that extended into the river. How she had seen something odd caught in the brush and had found the riding crop.
Letty brushed at her face as though cobwebs clung to it. “No,” she said. “No!”
“Do you know whom the crop belonged to?” Camilla asked.
“Of course,” Letty said. “It belonged to my sister Althea. Papa had it made for her when she first started riding.”
“I saw the saddle with the silver mountings in the attic,” Camilla said. “Was that hers too?”
“Yes. Papa brought the saddle and bridle from Mexico.”
“Someo
ne has been going up to the attic to care for the leather and polish the silver,” Camilla said.
“Papa did that.” Letty spoke in a low voice. “After Althea ran away and he was so angry with her, he used to go upstairs sometimes to sit with those riding things she loved. Once when I went looking for him, I heard him talking to them as if she had been there. He was questioning and scolding—all in the manner of a man who couldn’t understand what had been done to him. He wouldn’t let us mention her name, but he used to steal up there and take care of her things, so that the leather wouldn’t dry out, or the silver tarnish. Even after her death, he went right on caring for them. I think it brought him some sort of comfort.”
Camilla could imagine her grandfather climbing the attic stairs with his head bowed, going to his sorrowful task. Perhaps in some strange way he had recovered his daughter in love and pain as he worked over her things. The picture was sadly touching.
“Perhaps I can bring my mother’s saddle down from the attic and use it again,” Camilla said. “Perhaps she would like to have me wear her habit and use her things.”
Letty started to speak and then fell silent.
“Why were you startled when I showed you the crop, Aunt Letty?” Camilla asked. “Was my mother carrying it that evening when she went out to ride for the last time?”
Letty rose and went to the window of the little tower room to look out toward the river, shining now in the pale light of a rising moon.
“I don’t remember,” she said. “I’m not sure.”
“No, of course she couldn’t have carried it,” Camilla mused. “Not if she rode up Thunder Mountain. Not when I’ve just found the crop down near the water’s edge. Even if she dropped it, it could never fly so far out in the river.”
Letty nodded as if relieved. “You’re right, naturally.” She seemed to brighten a little. “I can’t imagine how it ever got there. It’s very strange. But probably not important.”
Camilla took the crop back to her room, but she felt restless and not at all ready for sleep. The moment she settled down and was still, all the thoughts she wanted to put away from her would come rushing back. Perhaps a walk would quiet her, still her thoughts. Softly she slipped through the hall and down the stairs, finding her way in the light from the canopied lamp above.
Thunder Heights Page 17
