“I cultivate detachment,” Wendy said airily. “My job demands it. Sloppy sentimentality won’t steady a wobbly satellite; clear thinking often will. If you choose to romanticize Miss DeClerke, that’s your business, but don’t ask me to join in.”
I returned her condescending gaze with a defiant one of my own. Wendy Walker might understand inanimate objects, but she had a lot to learn about the human heart. Her callous dismissal of Lucasta’s tragic life appalled me. If I hadn’t wanted to say good night to Jamie, I would have gladly left Wendy to her own devices and gone to my room. But I stayed on, for Jamie’s sake, and seethed in resentful silence as she switched on her headlamp and went to the door to look for him.
“No sign of him,” she reported, and resumed her seat.
“What made you think he’d be here in the library?” I asked. “Catchpole told me you’d both gone to bed.”
“We had, but . . .” Wendy bent to fiddle with her boot lace. “But when I went to look for blankets, I saw the light down here and thought one of you had gone exploring. You don’t strike me as a very brave little toaster, so I assumed I’d find Jamie in here. That’s why I said his name first.” She sat up. “I wonder where he is?”
“Searching for Catchpole,” I said. “He was ready to lock the old man in the coal hole.”
“He can’t do that,” Wendy protested. “Not before Catchpole makes breakfast for us, anyway.”
I smiled dutifully, but I couldn’t relax. Wendy’s abrasive comments—I considered myself an extremely brave little toaster—had reawakened my earlier suspicions. Her use of the pry bar still niggled at me, and the queer miner’s headlamp seemed like the sort of tool a burglar would use to keep his hands free while stuffing the family silver into his swag bag—or his backpack. Her story about searching for extra blankets seemed fishy, too. Why would she need extra blankets, I asked myself, when she had a perfectly good sleeping bag strapped to her pack frame?
“Did you find the blankets you were looking for?” I inquired, wondering if she’d used the pry bar to break into the chest.
“No,” Wendy replied. “The chest was empty. That’s why the lid made such a loud noise when it fell.” She swung sideways and draped her legs over the arm of Jamie’s chair. “I guess I’ll have to use my sleeping bag tonight. I was hoping to find something more luxurious, like an antique quilt or a big, puffy duvet.”
Curses, I thought, foiled again. Every time I came up with a good reason to regard Wendy with suspicion, a better reason came along to take her at face value.
Aloud, I said, “Jamie found the album you were looking at. Fascinating, isn’t it?”
“Not to me.” Wendy looked askance at the morocco-bound album. “Old photographs give me the creeps. The people in them are so stiff and . . . dead-looking. I feel as if I’m touring a morgue.”
“I have to admit that I never thought of it that way,” I said diplomatically, and wrote Wendy off as a Philistine to whom I had nothing more to say.
From a conversational point of view, it was fortunate that Jamie chose that moment to return.
“So this is where you’ve been,” he said as his gaze fell upon Wendy. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Catchpole—”
“—is probably snoring in his own bed by now,” Wendy interrupted, and calmly recounted her encounter with the blanket chest for Jamie’s benefit.
He wasn’t nearly as surprised by her explanation as I had been.
“I didn’t think it was a gunshot,” he said. “It sounded more like a door slamming. I thought Catchpole might have been chasing you through the house.”
“I haven’t seen Catchpole since he took us to our rooms.” Wendy got to her feet. “Which is where I’m going now. I don’t know about you two, but I’m ready to hit the sack.”
“Try to get there quietly, will you?” Jamie requested.
“I’ll do my best. See you in the morning.” Wendy’s headlamp flared as she entered the murky corridor, leaving Jamie and me to make up our own minds about whether or not to turn in.
I waited a moment, then crossed to look into the corridor, to make sure Wendy wasn’t listening at the keyhole. Satisfied by the sight of her headlamp floating toward the bedrooms, I closed the door and favored Jamie with a speculative gaze.
“Do you trust Wendy?” I asked.
“In what way?” he said.
“I don’t know. . . .” I clasped my hands behind my back and paced deliberately between the door and the hearth. “I have a funny feeling that she’s not telling us the truth.”
Jamie followed me. “About what?”
“About why she came here,” I said abruptly. “About why she carries a pry bar and straps a weird lamp-thingy to her head instead of using a flashlight like a normal person. About why she’s poking around in blanket chests when she has a sleeping bag.” I rubbed my chin thoughtfully. “Now that I think of it, she didn’t give me a straight answer about the gun, either.”
“Gun?” Jamie said. “What gun?”
“I asked her if she had a gun in her backpack and she said ‘Not likely.’ That’s not a straight answer, is it?” I shook my head. “And I don’t believe her room is cold. Mine’s as warm as toast.”
“It won’t be if you neglect the fire much longer.” Jamie put his arm around me and gave me a good-natured shake. “Let’s slow down for a moment, Lori. Let’s take a deep breath, shall we? Is it possible, do you think, that our unusual situation may be coloring your judgment? Don’t you think you may be reading too much into things you wouldn’t otherwise notice? I’m not teasing you—I feel it myself.” He loosed his hold and let his gaze traverse the room. “The silence, the shadows, the isolation—they weave a powerful spell. It’s bound to conjure some strange imaginings. I’m certain you’ll think of Wendy differently in the clear light of day.”
I remained stubbornly silent for a moment, then gave a reluctant nod. “You may be right about Wendy. I know you’re right about the fire in my room; I should get back before it dies down. Unlike some people I could mention, I don’t have a sleeping bag to rely on.”
“I’ll come with you.” Jamie banked the fire, picked up his oil lamp, and escorted me back up the corridor. When we reached my room, he paused and bent his head close to mine.
“If you feel a chill coming on in the night,” he said softly, “feel free to knock on my door.” I was about to utter a courteous, if not entirely heartfelt, thanks-but-no-thanks, when Jamie deflated my latest imagining by adding, “There must be a dozen extra blankets on top of my wardrobe. You’re welcome to them all.”
“I’m sure I’ll be fine,” I said, hoping the floor would swallow me whole before Jamie took note of my blushes. “Sleep well.”
“You, too.” He smiled warmly and went to his room.
I scuttled into my own room, closed the door, and leaned against it, cringing with embarrassment. I’d come within a hairsbreadth of turning down an invitation that Jamie had clearly had no intention of making. How could I have imagined, even for a moment, that he would consider making a pass at me? Who did I think I was? Miss Irresistible?
Jamie Macrae wasn’t a hormone-addled teenager. He was a grown man, and a gentleman, to boot. Apart from that, he was still recovering from the agonizing ordeal of watching his father succumb to the ravages of Alzheimer’s disease. It was extremely doubtful that he’d be in the mood for a spot of hanky-panky with anyone, let alone a happily married mother of twins, who most certainly would have rejected the offer, had he made it in the first place, which he hadn’t.
“Get a grip,” I muttered, and carefully avoided Reginald’s eyes.
I couldn’t avoid looking at the blue journal, however. It seemed to glow with impatience and I realized, with a wince, that nearly three hours had passed since I’d heard Jamie outside my bedroom door. I tossed coal onto the dwindling fire, shifted the oil lamp from the bedside table to the tea table, and threw myself into the plump armchair. I took a brief moment to catch my breath,
then opened the journal very gently, hoping Dimity wouldn’t be too put out with me for abandoning her at such a suspenseful moment.
“Dimity?” I said tentatively. “I’m sorry for taking so long to get back to you. It turned out to be a false alarm. That is, someone was at my door, but it wasn’t who I thought it was, it was someone else.”
I watched in dismay as the lines of royal-blue ink appeared on the blank page. Dimity’s flowing copperplate had turned ominously crisp and formal—a sure sign that she was not the happiest of campers.
Nine
Who, precisely, is snowbound with us, Lori? Dimity’s clipped handwriting brought to mind a school-marm’s snappish voice. A band of vagabonds? A Boy Scout troop? The wind section of the London Philharmonic?
“I’m sorry,” I repeated. “What happened was, Jamie and I got to talking and we lost track of—”
Jamie, is it? Now I understand. Don’t tell me, let me guess. Tall? Dark? Handsome? Oh, and let’s not forget charming. They’re always charming, aren’t they?
I knew that Dimity’s fit of pique had been brought on by prolonged worry, and that her chosen theme was based on the few close encounters of the whoops!-I-forgot-I’m-married kind I’d had with a handful of men in the past. I’d never broken my vows to Bill, but Dimity was painfully aware of the number of times I’d bent them, so I couldn’t resent her observations or accuse her of hurling groundless innuendoes.
“Jamie Macrae is all of those things,” I said evenly, “but he’s also in his room and I’m in mine and never the twain shall meet, so to speak, except on the most platonic, blanket-borrowing level. Okay? Besides, he’s not the only one here. There’s an American backpacker named Wendy Walker and a crotchety old caretaker who looks after the place.” I paused briefly before adding, sotto voce, “The philharmonic’s stuck in London.”
When Dimity’s handwriting resumed, it scrolled across the page in its usual graceful manner, and I knew that one storm, at least, had blown over.
I apologize for my intemperate outburst, my dear, but I’ve been terribly concerned about you. You must tell me what’s going on. Why did you tear out of here in such a lather? Where have you been? Why were you gone for such a long time?
I sent up a silent prayer of thanks for Dimity’s forgiving nature, settled Reginald in the crook of my left arm, and said, “I thought the old caretaker was spying on me through the keyhole, so I lost my temper and went after him—to give him a piece of my mind and maybe a smack in the chops. But it wasn’t him, after all. It was Jamie.”
I see. There was a brief pause. Jamie was spying on you through the keyhole?
“No!” I exclaimed, and hurriedly explained what Jamie had been doing. “He heard me talking to you and thought I was talking to Bill. He didn’t want to interrupt my tête-à-tête with my husband, so he went to the library by himself. Jamie’s thoughtful and courteous, Dimity, which is more than I can say for Wendy, the other backpacker. She’s a real pain in the—” A jaw-stretching yawn silenced my own intemperate outburst.
Needless to say, I’m champing at the bit to hear more about Wendy, but it sounds to me as though you should be in bed, Lori. You must be extremely tired after your difficult day.
“Ridiculous, but true.” I glanced blearily at my watch. “It’s not even nine o’clock yet, but it feels like midnight. I guess the blizzard knocked the stuffing out of me.”
I’m glad it did nothing worse. Pleasant dreams, dear girl.
“Thanks, Dimity.” I waited until the lines of royal-blue ink had faded from the page, then closed the journal and got ready for bed. As I crawled beneath the covers, I wondered if I’d have trouble sleeping in a place devoid of normal, every-night noises.
I didn’t.
I rolled over sleepily to drape an arm over Bill and noticed two things at once: Bill wasn’t there, and our bedroom was a lot colder than usual. Shivering, I slid my arm back under the covers, nestled my head more deeply into the soft, welcoming pillow, and made a mental note to have Mr. Barlow check the cottage’s central heating first thing in the morning. I was on the verge of dozing off when the sound of muted voices reached my ears.
I opened my eyes and peered, perplexed, at the toile coverlet, then sat up abruptly as reality asserted itself. I wasn’t at home, snug in bed with my husband. I was in a strange bed in a strange bedroom in a strange place called Ladythorne Abbey. And I seemed to be wearing someone else’s nightgown.
As my memory of the previous day’s events slowly clicked into place, I realized that the muted voices coming from the corridor belonged to my two housemates. Jamie Macrae and Wendy Walker were holding a quiet conversation outside my door, but as I bent my ear to listen, they moved beyond my range of hearing, leaving only one audible word floating behind them.
“Breakfast,” I echoed, and my stomach promptly reminded me that my last meal had, in its opinion, taken place far too long ago. I lifted my watch from the bedside table and saw that it was nearly seven o’clock.
“Ten hours of sleep is enough for anyone, right Reg?” I twiddled my pink bunny’s ears and hopped out of bed, confident that my resourceful companions would have a pot of tea brewing by the time I joined them.
The fire had burned low in the night, so I heaped it with coals before pulling on a clean pair of woolen socks and a long woolen dressing gown from the wardrobe. I waited until the flames were leaping, then padded up the hall to the bathroom.
I’d been too tired to take note of the bathroom’s decor the night before, so it came as a delightful surprise to see the pretty enameled tiles covering the walls, the tub with its mahogany surround, and the classic pedestal sink. The toilet and bidet were housed in a separate room next door, a sensible arrangement for those who enjoyed long baths free from interruption.
I found fresh towels in a wall cupboard and a tempting array of toiletries—clearly chosen with a woman’s desires in mind—in a hand-painted, three-drawer dresser beside the sink. I gazed longingly at the exotic bath salts, luxury shampoos, and fragrant lotions, but decided against making full use of them. Although Catchpole’s industrious boiler-stoking had provided ample hot water, I was put off by the thought of rising from a steamy bath into air crisp enough to freshen lettuce.
After a quick wash-and-brush-up I returned to the bedroom to dress. I put on my own jeans, then went to the wardrobe to select a wool sweater from the dozen folded there. I chose a buttery-soft and blessedly warm scarlet cashmere sweater to replace my lightweight cotton top, and sent a silent word of gratitude to Tessa Gibbs for recognizing the vagaries of the English climate and providing for her guests accordingly.
I pulled on my hiking boots and started toward the door, then did an abrupt about-face and reached for the cell phone, knowing Bill would fret until he’d gotten his morning call. He was, as I’d expected, pleased to hear from me, but when I asked if there was any chance of him coming to my rescue in the near future, he hesitated.
“Have you looked outside yet?” he asked.
“No,” I replied, “but I will now.”
I went to the windows and pulled the heavy drapes aside. I squinted to protect my eyes from the painful glare of sunlight on snow, but I needn’t have bothered—it was nearly as dark with the sun up as it had been with the sun down. The sky resembled an impenetrable block of lead, and although the wind had stopped battering the windowpanes, fat snow-flakes continued to tumble lazily from the heavens.
“Oh,” I said.
“Uh-huh,” Bill confirmed.
“Doesn’t look too promising, as far as rescues go.”
“Nope.”
I sighed. “Does anyone have any idea when this stupid storm will end?”
“The weathermen have lots of ideas,” said Bill, “but since they failed to predict the storm in the first place, I’m reluctant to put too much faith in them.”
He gave me a brief summary of activities on the home front—photos of Emma’s snowbound horses had arrived via e-mail, attesting to a high l
evel of equine health and happiness—as well as various catastrophes that had taken place around the world while I’d been away. As he moved from hotel fire to bus crash to earthquake, I realized, with a guilty twinge, how happy I was to be temporarily beyond the reach of television and radio.
“And those are the headlines for this morning,” Bill concluded, mimicking the pompous tones of a professional announcer. “Stay tuned for further details. Rather, don’t stay tuned.” He reverted to his own voice. “We should probably stop the conversation here, Lori, in the interest of battery conservation.”
“I’ll call you at five,” I promised.
“It might be better to save the phone for emergencies,” said Bill.
“Being deprived of you could count as an emergency,” I retorted.
“Now, Lori,” Bill said firmly, “we don’t know how long you’ll be stuck there. I think that, from now on, you should call only if you need help. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll assume you’re all right.”
“Okay,” I said with a sigh. “I think it’s a terrible idea, but it’s probably the sensible thing to do.”
“It is. I love you,” he added, and rang off.
I placed the cell phone on the bedside table and returned to the window to gaze morosely at the courtyard. A few cobbles had been swept clean by the wind, but most were covered by undulating drifts of snow, like swales on a golf course, and the outbuildings were buried nearly to their roofs.
“Not fit for man nor beast,” I muttered.
The cliché brought Catchpole—and his budgies—to mind. I felt a vague sense of unease as I recalled his decision to return to his cottage after guiding me to my bedroom the night before. The snowdrifts were daunting enough in dim daylight. They would have been downright life-threatening in the dark.
I lifted my gaze to the snow-covered landscape beyond the courtyard, then hastily collected my down jacket, stocking cap, and gloves.
Aunt Dimity: Snowbound Page 8
