Shadows 3

by Charles L. Grant

  “What else? She drags around all day, hardly eats, and meets him somewhere at night. And I’ve yet to see him up before dusk.” She nodded to Myron Shires, who had set a chair out on the lawn in front of the Lodge and had propped a portable typewriter on his knees and was tapping the keys with pianistic intensity. There was a two-beat pause as he waved an off-handed greeting.

  “Why do you think that Lorpicar wants her?” Franciscus persisted.

  “Because she’s the youngest woman here, because she adores him,” Harriet said distastefully. “She likes his foreign air, his domination. Poor kid.”

  “Foreign?” Franciscus asked, reserving his own judgment.

  “He does cultivate one,” Harriet allowed, glancing up as a large pickup with a two-horse trailer passed by. “Where would you say he comes from?”

  Franciscus laughed. “Peoria.”

  “Do you say that because you’re foreign yourself?” She made her inquiry casually, and added, “Your English is almost perfect, but there’s something about the rhythm of it, or the word choice. You don’t speak it natively, do you?”

  “No, not natively.” His answer, though terse, was not critical.

  Harriet felt herself encouraged. “I’ve wondered just where you do come from …”

  They had started up the wide steps of the porch, heading toward the engraved-glass doors that led into the foyer. There was a joyous shout from inside and the doors flew open.

  Franciscus’ face froze and then lit with a delight Harriet had never seen before. He stopped on the second step and opened his arms to the well-dressed young woman who raced toward him. They stood embraced for some little time; then he kissed her eyelids and murmured to her, “Ah, mon coeur, how good to see you again.”

  “And you.” The young woman was perhaps twenty-two, though her face was a little young in appearance. Her dark hair fell around her shoulders, her violet eyes danced. She was sensibly dressed in a twill pantsuit with cotton shirt and high, serviceable boots. Harriet had seen enough tailor-made clothes in her life to know that this young woman wore such clothes.

  “You must forgive me,” Franciscus said, recalling himself. “Harriet, this is Madelaine de Montalia, though the de is mere courtesy these days, of course.” He had stepped back, but he held Madelaine’s hand firmly in his.

  “A pleasure,” Harriet said. She had never before felt herself to be as much an intruder as she did standing there on the steps of the Lodge. The strength of the intimacy between Franciscus and Madelaine was so great that it was a force in the air. Harriet wanted to find a graceful way to excuse herself, but could think of none. She admitted to herself that she was curious about the young woman, and felt an indefinable sort of envy.

  “You must not be shocked,” Madelaine said to Harriet. “We are blood relatives, Sain … Franciscus and I. There are not so many of us left, and he and I have been very close.”

  You’ve been close in more ways than blood, Harriet thought to herself, but did not voice this observation. She felt a wistfulness, knowing that few of her old lovers would respond to her now as Franciscus did to Madelaine. “I’m not shocked,” she managed to say.

  “Harriet is a psychiatrist, my dear,” Franciscus explained.

  “Indeed?” Madelaine was genuinely pleased. “I am an archeologist.”

  “You seem fairly young to have …” She did not know how to express her feelings, and made a gesture in compensation.

  “My face!” Madelaine clapped her free hand to her cheek.

  “It is very difficult, Harriet, to look so young. I assure you that I am academically qualified. I’ve done post-doctoral work in Europe and Asia. You mustn’t assume I’m as young as I look.” Her dismay was quite genuine and she turned to Franciscus. “You’re worse than I am.”

  “It runs in the family,” Harriet suggested, looking from Madelaine to Franciscus.

  “Something like that,” he agreed. “Harriet, will you forgive me if I leave you here?”

  “Certainly. You probably want to catch up on everything.” She still felt a twinge of regret, but rigorously overcame it “I’ll see you in the lounge tonight.” As she started back down the stairs and along the wooded path toward her cabin, she heard Madelaine say, “I’ve brought one of my colleagues. I hope that’s all right.”

  “I’m sure Mr. Rogers can work something out with the owner,” Franciscus said, and was rewarded with mischievous laughter.

  Harriet dug her hands into her pockets and told herself that the hurt she felt was from her unaccustomed riding, and not from loneliness.

  The moon was three days past full and one edge was ragged, as if mice had been at it. Soft light illumed the path by the lake where Emillie Harper walked, her face pensive, her heart full of unspoken longing. No one, not even Reverend Masters, had made her feel so necessary as Mr. Lorpicar. A : delicious shudder ran through her and she stopped to look at the faint reflection of her form in the water. She could not see the expression of her face—the image was too indistinct for that. Yet she could feel the smile and the lightness of her desires. She had never experienced any feeling before that was as irresistible as what Lorpicar summoned up in her.

  A shadow crossed the moon, and she looked up, smiling her welcome and anticipation. In the next instant a change came over her, and her disappointment was almost ludicrous.

  “Good evening, Miss Harper,” Franciscus said kindly. He was astride his grey mare, saddle and bridle as English as his boots.

  “Hello,” she said listlessly.

  He smiled at her as he dismounted. “I felt you might be here by the lake. Your parents are very worried about you.”

  “Them!” She had hoped to sound independent and confident, but even to her own ears the word was petulant.

  “Yes, them. They asked me if I’d look for you, and I said that I would. I thought you’d prefer talking to me than to your father.”

  Emillie’s chin rose. “I heard that you had a Frenchwoman come to visit you.”

  “And so I have,” Franciscus said with prompt geniality. “She’s a very old friend. We’re related in a way.”

  “Oh, are you French?” she asked, interested in spite of herself.

  “No, though I’ve lived there upon occasion.” He was leading the grey now, walking beside Emillie with easy strides, not rushing the girl, but in a subtle way not permitting her to dawdle.

  “I’d like to go to France. I’d like to go to Europe. I want to be someplace interesting.” Her lower lip pouted and she folded her arms.

  Franciscus shook his head. “My dear Emillie, interesting is often another word for dangerous. There is an old Chinese curse to that effect.”

  Emillie tossed her head and her pale brown hair shimmered in the moonlight. She hoped that Mr. Lorpicar was able to see her, for she knew that her pale hair, ordinarily mousy in the daylight, turned a wonderful shade of lunar gold in bright nights. She did not look at the man beside her. “You don’t know what it is to be bored.”

  “I don’t?” His chuckle was not quite kind. “I know more of boredom than you could imagine. But I have learned.”

  “Learned what?” she challenged, staring along the path with ill-concealed expectation.

  He did not answer her question, but remarked, “I don’t think that Mr. Lorpicar will be joining you tonight.” He did not add that he had gone to cabin 33 earlier and made a thorough investigation of the aloof guest. “You know, Emillie, you’re letting yourself …” He did not go on. When had such advice ever been heeded, he asked himself.

  “Get carried away?” she finished for him with as much defiance as she could find within herself. “I want to be carried away. I want something exciting to happen to me before it’s too late.”

  Franciscus stopped and felt his mare nudge his shoulder with her nose. “Too late? You aren’t even twenty.”

  She glared at him, saying darkly, “You don’t know what it’s like. My father wanted me to marry Ray Gunnerman! Can you imagine?”
/>
  Though Franciscus knew nothing of this unfortunate young man, he said with perfect gravity, “You’re hardly at an age to get married, are you?”

  “Father thinks I am. He says that I need someone to take care of me, to protect me. He thinks that I can’t manage on my own.” Her voice had become shrill and she had gone ahead of him on the path.

  Privately, Franciscus thought that Mr. Harper might be justified in his conviction, for Emillie Harper was certainly predisposed to harm herself through her desire to be controlled. “You know,” he said reminiscently, “I knew a woman, oh, many years ago …”

  “That Frenchwoman?” Emillie asked so sharply that Franciscus raised his fine brows.

  “No, this woman was Italian. She was a very attractive widow, and she wanted new sensations in her life. There always had to be more, and eventually, she ran out of new experiences, which frightened her badly, and she turned to the most rigorous austerity, which was just another form of sensation for her. I’m telling you about her because I think you might want to examine your life now.”

  “You want me to settle for Ray Gunnerman?” she demanded, flushing in that unbecoming, mottled way.

  “No. But you should realize that life is not something that is done to you, but a thing that you experience for yourself. If you always look outside yourself for your definitions, you may never discover what is genuinely your own—your self.” He could tell from the set of her jaw that she did not believe him.

  “What happened to that Italian woman?” she asked him when he fell silent.

  “She died in a fire.” Which was no more than the truth. “Come, Emillie. It’s time you went back to your cabin. Mr. Lorpicar won’t be coming now, I think.”

  “You just don’t want me to see him. That’s the second time you said he wasn’t coming.” She thought he would be impressed with her determination, and was shocked when he smiled gently.

  “Of course I don’t want you to see him—he’s a very dangerous man, Emillie.”

  “He’s not dangerous,” she protested, though with little certainty. “He wants to see me.”

  “I am sure he does,” Franciscus agreed dryly. “But you were with him last night and the night before. Surely you can forego tonight, for your parents’ peace of mind, if not your own protection.”

  “Well, I’ll go up to see him tomorrow afternoon,” Emillie declared, putting her hands on her hips, alarmed to discover that they were trembling.

  “Tomorrow afternoon? That’s up to you.” There was a sad amusement in his dark eyes, but he did nothing to change her mind.

  “I will.” She looked across the curve of the lake to the hillside where cabin 33 was located. The path was a little less than a quarter mile around the shore, but from where she stood, the cabin was no more than a hundred fifty yards away. The still water was marked by a moon path that lay like a radiant silver bar between her and the far bank where Mr. Lorpicar waited for her in vain. “He has to see me,” she insisted, but turned back on the path.

  “That’s a matter of opinion,” Franciscus said and changed the subject. “Are you going to be at the picnic at the south end of the lake tomorrow? The chef is making Mexican food.”

  “Oh, picnics are silly,” she said with the hauteur that only a woman as young as she could express.

  “But Kathy is an excellent chef, isn’t she?” he asked playfully, knowing that Lost Saints Lodge had a treasure in her.

  “Yes,” she allowed. “I liked that stuff she made with asparagus and walnuts. I didn’t know it could be a salad.”

  “I understand her enchiladas and chihuahuenos are superb.” He was able to speak with complete sincerity.

  “I might come for a little while,” she said when she had given the matter her consideration. “But that’s not a promise.”

  “Of course not,” he agreed gravely as they walked past the bathing beach and pier and turned toward the break in the trees and the path that went from the beach to the badminton courts to the Lodge itself and to cabin 19 beyond, where the Harpers waited for their daughter.

  Harriet Goodman was deep in conversation with Madelaine de Montalia, though most of the other guests gathered around the stone fireplace where a large, ruddy-cheeked woman held court while she put the finishing touches on the meal.

  “And lots of garlic, comino, and garlic,” the chef was instructing the others who stood around her, intoxicated by the smells that rose from the various cooking vessels. “Mexican or Chinese, there’s no such thing as too much garlic.” She paused. “Most of the time. Now, making Kung-Pao chicken …” and she was off on another description.

  “I don’t know how she does it,” Harriet said loudly enough to include Franciscus in her remark.

  “She’s an artist,” Franciscus said simply. He was stretched out under a young pine, his hands propped behind his head, his eyes all but closed.

  Mrs. Emmons bustled around the wooden tables setting out the heavy square glasses that were part of the picnic utensils. “I must say, the owner must be quite a surprising man—real glass on a picnic,” she enthused.

  “He’s something of a snob,” Mr. Rogers said, raising his voice to call, “Mr. Franciscus, what’s your opinion?”

  Franciscus smiled. “Oh, I concur, Mr. Rogers.”

  “Are you going to spend the entire afternoon supine?” Madelaine asked him as Harriet rose to take her place in line for food.

  “Probably.” He did not look at her but there was a softening to his face that revealed more than any words or touching could.

  “Madelaine!” Harriet called from her place in line, “Do you want some of this? Shall I bring you a plate?”

  The dark-haired young woman looked up. “Thank you, Harriet, but no. I am still having jet lag, I think.”

  “Aren’t you hungry?” Harriet asked, a solicitous note in her voice.

  “Not at present.” She paused and added, “My assistant will provide something for me later.”

  Harriet recalled the cherub-faced Egyptian student who had arrived with Madelaine. “Where’s she?”

  “Nadia is resting. She will be here later, perhaps.” She leaned back against the tree trunk and sighed.

  “Nadia is devoted to you, my heart?” Franciscus asked quietly.

  “Very.” She had picked up a piece of bark and was toying with it, turning it over in her hands, feeling the rough and the smooth of it.

  “Good. Are you happy?” There was no anxiety in his question, but a little sadness.

  Madelaine’s answer was not direct. “You told me many years ago that your life is very lonely. I understand that for I am lonely, but I would rather be lonely, having my life as it is, than to have succumbed at nineteen and never have known all that I know. When I am with you, I am happy. The rest of the time, I am content, and I am always learning.”

  “And the work hasn’t disappointed you?” His voice was low and lazy, caressing her.

  “Not yet Every time I think that I have truly begun to understand a city or a people, something new comes to light and I discover that I know almost nothing, and must begin again.” She was pulling at the weeds that grew near the base of the tree.

  “This doesn’t disappoint you?”

  “No. Once in a while, I become annoyed, and I suppose if my time were short, I might feel more urgency, but, as it is …” She shrugged as only a Frenchwoman can.

  A shadow fell across them. “Excuse me,” said Mr. Harper, “but have you seen my daughter, Emillie? She went out very early this morning, but I thought surely she’d be back by now.” He gave Franciscus an ingratiating smile.

  Franciscus opened his eyes. “You mean she isn’t here?”

  “No. My wife thought that she might have gone swimming, but her suit was in the bathroom, and it’s quite chilly in the mornings …” He held a plate of enchiladas and chalupas, and he was wearing a plaid shirt and twill slacks that were supposed to make him look the outdoors sort, but only emphasized the slope of his shoulde
rs and the pallor of his skin.

  Alert now, Franciscus sat up. “When did you actually see your daughter last?”

  “Well, she came in quite late, and Doris waited for her. They had a talk, and Doris left her about two, she says.” His face puckered. “You don’t think anything has happened to her, do you?”

  “You must think so,” Franciscus said with an odd combination of kindness and asperity.

  “Well, yes,” the middle-aged man said apologetically. “After everything the child has been through …” He stopped and looked at the food on his plate as if there might be revelations in the sauces.

  Franciscus got to his feet. “If it will make you less apprehensive, I’ll check out the Lodge and the pool for her, and find out if any of the staff has seen her.”

  “Would you?” There was a weak, manipulative kind of gratitude in the man’s pale eyes, and Franciscus began to understand why it was that Emillie Harper had become the victim of the Reverend Masters.

  “I’ll go now.” He touched Madelaine’s hair gently. “You’ll forgive me, my heart?”

  She smiled up at him, saying cryptically, “The Count to the rescue.”

  “You’re incorrigible,”’ he responded affectionately as he put his black hat on. “Ill be back in a while. Tell Mr. Rogers where I’ve gone, will you?”

  “I’ll be happy to.” Madelaine patted his leg, then watched as he strode off.

  “He seems reliable,” Mr. Harper said to Madelaine, asking for reassurance.

  “He is,” she said shortly, leaned back against the tree and closed her eyes.

  Mr. Harper looked at her, baffled, then wandered off toward the tables, looking for his wife.

  Kathy had served most of the food and had launched into a highly technical discussion with Jim Sutton about the proper way to cook scallops.

  Emillie Harper was not at the Lodge, in the recreation building, at the swimming pool, the badminton courts or the beach area of the resort. Franciscus had checked all those places and had found no trace of the girl. Those few guests who had not gone on the picnic had not seen her, and the staff could not recall noticing her.