The Ebony Swan

by Phyllis A. Whitney

  After she made her choice, there had been times when she wasn’t sure she wanted to go on living. Times when she’d cried herself to sleep because John had married Emily. She was unable to be friends with Emily any longer, and there was loss for her there, too—something Emily, in her innocence, had never understood. Alex could not have endured seeing them together and hearing how happy they were in their marriage, since Emily could turn herself into a proper Tangier wife.

  Alex had dealt with pain before, and she dealt with it again, carrying on with her life so that Juan Gabriel was never hurt. The only time she had ever doubted Juan Gabriel’s love—so many years later—had been when he had shown her his ebony carving of the black swan. She winced at the memory, and was glad that the carving had been misplaced over the years since his death. She remembered packing it away, but she couldn’t remember where. It was just as well, she never wanted to see it again.

  Strange that she had loved two men named John—two high-spirited men who could hide their deepest feelings.

  When Dolores was born, Juan Gabriel had been exultant with pride, and he had not questioned this sudden miracle. He had wanted this daughter, and from the time she was a baby Dolores had given him an equal love. Sometimes Alex recognized John in Dolores, but Juan Gabriel never suspected, and she could be grateful for that.

  John Gower never saw his daughter, nor did she ever tell him it was his child she bore. Nevertheless, with some sixth sense, she felt that he knew. Perhaps, that was why he now wanted to see his granddaughter Susan. Perhaps he had a right to see her? The child of the child of his young love.

  To break the spell of her thoughts, Alex reached out to a pad of yellow paper upon which Juan Gabriel had written a few lines. The pad had remained here on his writing table, untouched since he’d left it there. Oddly enough, the lines he’d written were about Tangier Island—only snippets of information. He had never written his novel using the island. Yet he had been picking up the idea again all those years later, shortly before he became ill.

  She read the words:

  Indians occupied the island before the white man came. Perhaps a thousand years before John Smith sailed into its harbor.

  2 1/2 miles long. 1 mile wide. 7 feet above sea level. Fragile, vulnerable to hurricanes.

  Residents are of English descent. Elizabethan English can still be heard. The men catch crabs, oysters, fish of various sorts, clams. They are called watermen.

  The island has a strange beauty of its own and is peopled with men and women inbred and strong enough to survive all that is asked of them.

  Alex stopped reading because Juan Gabriel had started to set down a hint of the island’s eerie magic. He’d remembered the sunsets, and he had imagined a storm and written words of tense description. John had belonged to those generations of survivors, as Alex could never have belonged.

  She set down the pad, not wanting to be drawn back—unable to help herself.

  John! His ruggedly handsome young face was as clear in her mind as though she’d seen him yesterday. There’d been times when she’d forgotten how he looked—but every feature was there now, breaking her heart all over again. To her he would remain always young and strong and passionate. And he would remember her as the girl he had loved so desperately. She had been beautiful then. She had the photographs to prove it. So how could she bear to destroy his memory of her with the reality of old age?

  She’d continued to hold Juan Gabriel’s pencil in her fingers, and she set it back in the jug, pricking her thumb with the sharp point as she did so. She regarded the lead mark as though it was somehow important—a link between present and past.

  There was still a question she didn’t know how to answer. What if Susan had a right to know this story, and to meet her grandfather before it was too late? How was she to decide?

  It was always, so quickly, too late.

  4

  Susan climbed the two flights of stairs to the tower room, finding that the last steps took a special effort. She felt utterly weary, yet wide awake, her thoughts whirling in confusion. What she needed now was to be alone in a quiet space, so that she needn’t think at all.

  In a little while she would take a hot, soaking bath to help her fall asleep, but for now she wanted only to lie down and rest. Without undressing, she lay full-length on the bed and closed her eyes. At once the faces and incidents of the day began to flash through her mind, and there was no way to dismiss them.

  What did she think of her grandmother, now that she had met her? The young pictures of her as a ballet dancer had been fascinating, and Susan wanted to know more about that time. Yet the beautiful young girl in the photographs seemed to have little connection with a woman grown weary and remote from life. How could she hope to feel any affection for a woman so old and austere?

  The encounter with Theresa at the foot of the stairs haunted her. Why could she remember nothing of what had happened when her mother died? There had been moments, in the past, when some glimmer of memory had risen, only to escape when she tried to grasp it.

  In the end, unwillingly, her thoughts turned to Peter Macklin. The small, adoring child who had loved him still existed in some part of her mind—perhaps more vividly than anything else from the past. She felt unhappy and concerned because of the things Eric Townsend had revealed so carelessly—perhaps maliciously—but she must not get involved. In a few days she would have all the answers she needed and she would be gone. Nothing that existed here in Virginia need ever affect her again.

  Deep in her subconscious a faint voice was laughing. It’s already too late, it seemed to be saying, and she told it to be quiet.

  Lying down wasn’t going to work. She couldn’t rest while her mind was so active. She threw a sweater over her shoulders and went outside to the small balcony that circled the tower. The sky was dark except for millions of stars. A few clouds covered the moon.

  She let the balcony rail guide her as she followed the circle of the tower from the back of the house around toward the front. There were no streetlights in this tiny village, but friendly lamps burned in several of the old Victorian houses that lined the country road. In a strange way she felt less alone up here in their company than she’d felt downstairs with the woman who was her grandmother.

  In the darkness, her hand came to a break in the rail and she stopped. She knew she had reached the part of the balcony where the stairs Hallie Townsend had climbed descended to the ground. Opposite the top of the stairs was a closed door that must lead into the partitioned section of her larger room. She tried the door and found it locked.

  She felt mildly curious, but went on to explore further, crossing the gap where the stairs began. Rounding the tower, she could make out the back lawn sloping toward the water with the creek shining beyond, and an intermittent moon painting its surface. Up here everything seemed hushed except for the lapping of gentle waves against dock pilings, and frog sounds from the nearby marsh. The night smelled salty-fresh. A mere whisper of wind blew through treetops that grew only a little higher than the roofs of this house.

  Down near the water she saw a stretch of shadowy building that must be a boathouse. Light shone in a window at the land end of the building and, as she wondered who was there, a door opened—revealing an oblong light that briefly silhouetted a dark shape. An invisible hand reached inside to touch a switch and the doorway vanished. Someone crossed the lawn toward the house, and Susan recognized her grandmother’s lonely, rather mysterious presence as she turned to look for a moment toward the creek. An unexpected feeling of compassion touched Susan—something sad that she could not name.

  The woman on the lawn went into the house, and Susan walked on around the tower to her room. Now she felt she could indulge in a lovely luxurious soaking in water scented with the lavender salts provided in the great glass apothecary jar on the bathroom shelf. When she finally got into bed she felt relaxed and read
y to sleep. Only a momentary uneasiness concerning those outside stairs disturbed her. There was no bolt on the balcony door to her room—though what did it matter? This house was as safe a haven for her as any place could be. Only talk at dinner about the murder of Peter’s wife left a twinge of uneasiness. And a deep sadness for her childhood friend.

  Thoughts slipped into dreams, and she slept deeply. Anyone could have climbed the outside stairs and gone into the locked room, or into Susan’s room, for that matter, and she would never have been aware of an intruder.

  Sunlight pouring through the tower windows awakened her early, and Susan found herself rested and ready to face the day. Whatever her dreams had been, she didn’t remember them. Now she was eager to see her grandmother again and learn more about her and, above all, about her own mother. A trace of the feeling she’d experienced last night, when she’d looked down upon that solitary figure coming out of the boathouse, remained, and she made no effort to dismiss it. How sad it must be to be old and have all your life behind you. Her own life still lay ahead, even though she wasn’t happy about the part she had lived. It was up to her to see that the future was better.

  When she went downstairs she found Theresa breakfasting alone in the red dining room. For a moment Susan stood quietly in the doorway, observing this Montoro cousin. Theresa’s Spanish heritage had left its mark in her beauty.

  When Theresa looked around, Susan was again aware of her huge dark eyes, with an unsettling rim of white showing beneath the pupils. Strangely haunting eyes.

  “Good morning.” The tilt of Theresa’s chin seemed almost regal, and there was no warmth in her greeting. “We all take care of ourselves at breakfast. George and Gracie have their own house, and we don’t expect them early. If you want anything special, you’ll need to fix it yourself.”

  “Toast and coffee and orange juice will be fine.” Susan went to the long buffet set beneath the painting of a crab apple tree in bloom.

  “No orange juice,” Theresa said. “There’s too much sugar in fruit juice, and sugar is an enemy for Alex—hypoglycemia. Peter allows her half a banana. I go along with Alex’s diet—it’s better for me too.”

  An American breakfast without orange juice seemed a bit strange, and Susan’s growing impatience with doctors surfaced again, though she didn’t comment. When she’d dropped whole wheat bread into the toaster on the buffet, she poured hot coffee from the percolator into a blue glazed cup. Then she leaned closer to read the name of the artist who had painted the crabapple tree.

  “You painted this?” she asked Theresa with surprise.

  “I was younger then,” Theresa said indifferently. “I had more time.”

  Susan joined her across the table. “You don’t paint anymore?”

  The beautiful mouth twisted in self-derision. “I paint eggs.” And then, as Susan stared blankly, she said, “Oh, they are very handsome eggs! In the Ukrainian style, though with intricate designs that are my own. They sell rather well during the holidays, but they’re only a hobby. These days my work is to look after Alex’s affairs, as well as to look after Alex.”

  There seemed a challenge underlying Theresa’s words, and Susan spoke mildly. “I’m sure you must be a great help to her.”

  Theresa was scornfully silent. Outside the open windows bees hummed industriously, and the smell of flowers drifted into the room on a warm early morning breeze. It was all wonderfully peaceful and relaxing, except for Theresa’s scarcely hidden resentment. Susan made an effort to counter her hostility by speaking directly.

  “I’m not moving into your territory, Theresa. I already realize that I don’t belong here, and I don’t expect to stay long. I will leave my grandmother and her affairs to you. I just wanted to see this place for myself, and meet my Virginia family. I want to know much more about my mother, and when the blanks have been filled in, I’ll go.”

  “What if it’s better not to fill in those blanks? I have a bad feeling about your coming.”

  “Why?” Susan asked, barely controlling her annoyance. “Please tell me why.”

  “How can one know about such things? Juan Gabriel used to say I had a special sixth sense. I have a feeling that you will bring trouble to your grandmother—and to yourself.”

  One didn’t argue with crystal balls—however imaginary.

  “That’s the last thing I want, Theresa. I would never willingly upset my grandmother.” Susan took a sip of coffee and said, “When I was little you used to tell me stories about when you were an Incan princess. Do you remember that?”

  “So you do have memories of the time you lived here.”

  “Bits float to the surface now and then—but they are only bits. I remember you quite clearly. Did you tell me those stories?”

  Theresa’s manner softened a little. “I exaggerated, I’m sure. I was always an imaginative, dramatic child. Though your grandfather told me once that there was a trace of Incan blood in my heritage from my mother. He felt that I should be proud of it. Once he even put me into one of his books, though I didn’t feel flattered because he portrayed me as an Indian peasant woman—hardly the princess that I wanted to be. I forgave him, of course—he was such a remarkable man. He deserved much more from life than he ever got.”

  Criticism of her grandmother seemed implied, and Susan spoke up quickly. “It seems to me that he must have gotten a great deal from life: fame, wealth, satisfaction in the writing of books that were widely acclaimed. I want to know more about him too.”

  “What can I tell you? You’ve probably seen the photographs on his book jackets. Even in his older years he was strikingly handsome, with thick white hair and those unexpectedly blue eyes—perhaps from that Highland ancestor who dropped in on the family centuries ago. He was tall and rather thin, and I remember the strong, aristocratic beak of his nose. His voice was beautiful—it could make the back of my neck prickle.”

  “How do you mean?” Susan retrieved her toast and sat down to butter it, while Theresa thought about her answer.

  “Sometimes Juan Gabriel could be coaxed into reading aloud from his books. He would change his voice level to make it run up and down the scale, so he sounded almost spooky when he wanted to. He could also throw in silly words in a lighter voice that made us laugh.”

  “You were very fond of him, weren’t you?”

  For once Theresa sounded entirely sincere. “After my parents died, he was like a father to me—much more than Alex was ever like a mother.”

  Theresa’s devotion to Juan Gabriel was clear, and so was a hint of resentment against Alex. Yet most of her time seemed to be spent serving Juan Gabriel’s wife.

  “Last night,” Susan said, “when I stepped outside on the tower balcony, I saw a light burning at the near end of the boathouse. My grandmother came out the door. What is down there?”

  Theresa seemed suddenly attentive. “That’s where Juan Gabriel used to work. His study was in this end of the boathouse. All his last books were written there. I can’t think why Alex would have been there at night, or any time. She’s avoided that place for years.”

  Susan let that go and asked another question. “Yesterday, when I met Dr. Macklin at the library, he warned me that my grandmother hadn’t been well. Can you tell me what’s the matter?”

  “Sometimes she has an irregular heartbeat, and her blood pressure can rise. Nothing serious, Peter feels. We all try to shield her, but her own independence makes that difficult. Also your coming has been hard for her.”

  “Why should that be? I don’t think she feels very much about me, one way or another.”

  Theresa seemed to ignore her. “Of course Marilyn Macklin’s death devastated her. They’d grown to be good friends while Marilyn was working on her biography of Juan Gabriel Montoro. Alex seemed to feel responsible in some way for her death—though of course that’s absurd. Alex was quite ill for a time, but Peter pulled her thro
ugh. Perhaps his own troubles made her get out of bed to fight for him.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “She appeared before the grand jury to vouch for him, and of course everyone knows and respects her. But it was a difficult experience and it sapped both her physical and spiritual energy.”

  As she finished, Theresa glanced toward the hall door, smiling. “Here’s your grandmother now. Good morning, Alex. You’re early. What can I fix for your breakfast?”

  Susan turned in her chair, startled by Alex’s appearance. She had discarded her long white pants for a full skirt of warm saffron, with a tiny blue print woven into the silk. An embroidered jacket of pale azure topped the skirt. Her hair had been wound on top of her head in a thick coil, with an amber Spanish comb thrust into its pile.

  On anyone else this might have seemed an odd way to dress for breakfast, but obviously Alex Montoro knew what suited her, and she set her own style. This morning she’d chosen to be a bit exotic, and the hint of a lovely scent floated around her.

  “Hmm—you smell good!” Susan said.

  Alex’s laughter was warm, natural. “You used to tell me that when you were small.”

  “It’s a perfume called Drina that Worth made up for her,” Theresa explained proudly.

  “About a hundred years ago!” Alex smiled. “When it was no longer on the market, Juan Gabriel bought up all the leftover stock, so it will last me another hundred years.” She nodded to Theresa. “Thank you—I’ll have my usual breakfast this morning.

  Theresa went out to the kitchen, and Alex sat down in her place at the head of the table. “Did you sleep well, Susan?”

  “Very well, thank you.”

  They were being formal and courteous now, and Alex said nothing more until Theresa returned with a bowl of hot oatmeal and a sliced banana. Whole grain toast and an herbal tea completed her menu, and she ate with good appetite. When Theresa rejoined them at the table, Alex continued.