by V. J. Banis
The same would be true in Sophie’s case. If the girl had been responsible for the fire, Maggie would be alert to future dangers, but she doubted if the girl would prove overly dangerous in the future. Compassion and understanding usually brought trust and loyalty...and sometimes love.
Sophie looked weird sitting at the enamel-topped kitchen table, still wearing part of her ridiculous witch’s costume and makeup. She had traced dark circles under her eyes and black lines down and across her face. She resembled a storybook character who’d jumped from the page of the book and came to life.
Maggie fussed with the coffee. Sophie sat dazed and quiet, hands folded in front of her.
“Was the party fun?” Maggie asked in an effort to get the girl’s mind onto more pleasing thoughts.
Sophie looked up. “Miss Heather told me I could go. The children always expect old Sophie every year.” She made a face. “The others don’t want me there but I go anyway. The children like me.”
“I’m sure everyone likes you, Sophie.”
“No they don’t. Nobody likes Sophie. They say terrible things about me when they don’t think I’m listening. But I hear them. They’re always talking, saying bad things about me and Miss Heather.”
“Tell me about Miss Heather,” Maggie said, trying to sound matter-of-fact. She adjusted the gas flame under the coffeepot and came to sit down beside Sophie at the table. The single candle burning in its holder threw their faces out of proportion. Maggie decided her best tactic would be to humor the girl. “Have you worked for her very long, Sophie?”
“Oh, yes. I was just a wee thing when I came to live here with Miss Heather. She found me in the field. She took me home and gave me nice things to wear.”
“And where is Miss Heather now?”
“Now?” Sophie gave her a blank look. “Upstairs, of course. She’s in her room in the tower.”
“Doesn’t she ever come down from the tower?” Maggie felt a tight stab of fear when she remembered the light in the tower window. Heather Lambert couldn’t possibly be up there. She’s dead. Everyone said so.
“Sure she does. Lots of times.”
“Why does she stay in the tower?”
“That’s where she lives.”
“Will you take me to meet her?”
Sophie shook her head. “She doesn’t like to meet people.”
Maggie forced a smile and reached over to pat Sophie’s hand. “But as long as I’m her houseguest, don’t you think it would be nice if I went and introduced myself to her? I really would like to meet Miss Heather.”
“No,” Sophie said sharply, pulling her hand away. “You mustn’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“Miss Heather wouldn’t like it. She’d get mad. She’d do terrible things.”
“But why? Why would she do terrible things?”
Sophie merely shrugged.
Maggie thought about the fire and suddenly wondered if the possibility might exist that Miss Heather really wasn’t dead, as everyone thought. Or perhaps someone else was living in this old, abandoned house. Heather Lambert had once found this half-demented child in a field and had taken her in. Had Sophie emulated her by bringing home another lonely soul? A relative, perhaps?
She told herself she’d have to investigate that tower room at the earliest opportunity. She’d have to search the house from top to bottom to make sure no one other than herself, Sophie and Rebecca were living here.
Maggie got up and started to look in the cupboards for cups and saucers. There was a mirror hanging on one wall and when she passed in front of it she caught her dim reflection. The room behind her was almost in total darkness, except for the candle on the table, but she saw something in her reflection that caused her to stop and gaze at it. She stared at herself. The image was so different she almost didn’t recognize it as her own. The hair was disheveled, her face was drawn and peaked. There was a strange mistiness in the eyes. The face was hers, yet there was something different.
She shook herself. Remembering the terrifying experience she’d been put through, there was no wonder she looked strange. She suddenly felt foolish standing there in the dark of the kitchen wearing only a slip. No wonder she looked a fright. She touched the thinness of her slip and thought it odd that she did not feel cold...in fact she felt quite warm and comfortable in the snug kitchen.
It was a nice kitchen, big and roomy with lots of cabinets and work space. She’d bring in plants and start an indoor herb garden. It would be fun to cook and bake in such a delightful place.
The house was working its magic again. She almost completely dismissed the fire upstairs...the attempt on her life. Of course she would not be able to sleep in that lovely room tonight, she told herself. The room would have to be well aired tomorrow. But there were other rooms, other beds. She could never go back to Mrs. Johnston’s. She was here and she’d stay here...forever.
“Sophie?” she said, turning from her reverie. She glanced at the empty table. Sophie was gone. The kitchen was empty. The candle looked lonely burning in the center of the big table.
“Oh, well,” Maggie said as she put one cup and saucer back into the cupboard. She poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down to keep the candle company. She stared at its tiny flame, letting the dark quiet of the room nestle around her shoulders. She propped her elbows on the table and brought the cup to her lips. She cautiously tested the coffee’s strength and temperature. She frowned down at the cup, crinkling her nose as an unusual aroma greeted her nostrils. It didn’t smell at all like coffee should smell. The scent was familiar but it was definitely not coffee.
She put the cup down and stared at it for a moment, trying to identify the smell. She sniffed the air. The room seemed suddenly filled with the heavy, sweet odor...a most pleasing and delightful odor. It was an odor she’d smelled somewhere before. The fragrance was very familiar. She tried to think. She knew the smell, but from where?
She straightened in her chair when she remembered.
“Of course,” she said aloud to the quiet of the room. “It’s heather.” In a flash the one short week in the Scottish Highlands came tumbling back. That all-too-brief, wonderful week of love and sex and Rod.
Their honeymoon, which Rod had insisted they splurge on. One week was all they could afford, but it was a week crammed full of the most deliciously romantic memories. The quaint villages and rolling farmlands; the broad, rolling straths, Glen Moor, the Grampian Mountains. Yes, it had been a sublime week, one she would cherish forever. She recalled the tiny inn at which they’d stayed—surrounded by fields of heather. And they’d had their own private castle perfectly framed in their latticed windows.
Maggie sighed, breathing in the smell of heather.
Her sigh turned to a deep frown. Where was the fragrance coming from? The kitchen was permeated with it, and it seemed to grow more and more intense as the minutes passed.
She pushed herself away from the table and walked to the row of windows that overlooked a stretch of empty fields at the rear of the house. The moon was still there, guarding the silent, empty land. Nothing moved, nothing made a sound.
The smell of heather was becoming as thick as the smoke that had tried to suffocate her earlier. She tugged at the window, raised it. The night air drifted in, carrying with it a still heavier wave of the smell of heather. And with the wave of heather came a figure, far in the distance. A man was walking across the field, coming directly toward her.
Maggie pressed her face against the glass and peered out into the night. The figure was familiar. Her heart started to beat faster as she recognized the long familiar strides, the graceful swing of the arms. He was too far away to make out his face but she knew the figure well.
“Rod!” she yelled, pushing herself away from the window and rushing toward the door. She pulled it open, not caring how she was dressed or how she looked, and practically threw herself outside.
“Rod,” she called, waving her hands wildly as she ran as fas
t as she could toward the advancing figure. She ran into the field with tears of joy blurring her vision. She ran blindly forward. He was back. Rod was back. She knew he’d come. She knew he wasn’t dead. Rod was here. Everything was perfect.
The scent of heather grew still thicker.
She almost stumbled over a tangle of weeds. She brushed the tears from her eyes. Suddenly she stopped dead.
“Rod,” she said, a little more softly as she looked to where she’d seen him. She frowned at the flat, empty land. She rubbed her eyes with the backs of her hands and smoothed back her hair.
“Rod?”
She stood there, baffled by the emptiness of the place.
She was alone. There was no one walking toward her. There was no one there in the field except herself.
“Rod!” She felt a cold tightness inside her.
She looked around. She was completely alone. There was no one there, no one but herself and the fading scent of heather.
* * * *
When she returned to the house, Maggie picked up the candle from the kitchen table and went toward the living room. She could not understand what she’d seen, or what she’d thought she’d seen. Her eyes had obviously played tricks on her.
The scent of heather was gone. It might well have come about as a result of the smoke, the burned cloth. Something had burned, producing the fragrance similar to heather; it was as simple as that. And her imagination, her longing, had conjured up a vision of Rod because she wanted him so desperately to be with her...she needed him so very much.
She felt very tired as she curled up on the couch and pulled an afghan over her. The smell of smoke lingered in the air but she did not feel threatened by it. The house would protect her, alert her to danger just as it had done earlier. Nothing would harm her, she felt sure. Whoever had set the blaze would never succeed at killing her. The house would see to that.
She’d be safe until Rod arrived. And he would come. He would find her, she said to herself as her eyes dropped closed and she snuggled deeper into the softness of the couch. She reminded herself that Sophie was wandering about somewhere in the depths of the house.
The thought did not trouble her. Poor Sophie would do her no harm. She tucked the afghan up under her chin and forced every thought out of her head. Sleep came quickly in a great untroubled quantity.
And morning came before she was ready for it. But the sounds and the smells that accompanied it tempted her out of her sleep. She stretched, luxuriating in the exquisite warmth of the room. Somewhere outside birds were chirping merrily to anyone who wanted to listen. She heard the clatter of dishes and glanced toward the door to see Sophie carrying a breakfast tray.
“Good morning,” Maggie said brightly as she uncurled herself from the couch. Sophie merely gave her a pleasant little nod and set the tray down on the huge coffee table. “The coffee smells delicious,” Maggie commented. Sophie didn’t answer. She turned and hurried away.
Maggie smiled after her, wondering if she felt guilty about what had transpired last night.
But she wouldn’t think about last night. That was in the past. Today was the beginning of a new life. Whatever came before was not to be thought of now, she told herself as she picked up the coffee cup and walked toward the window. She pushed open the casement and stood there sipping her coffee and watching the happy birds flutter and hop from branch to branch.
She finished her coffee while standing and admiring the beauty of the patio garden, the brightness of the day, the sparkle of everything around her. How good it was to be alive in so wonderful a place as this, she thought. She felt she could stand here forever.
No, she told herself, pushing herself away from the casement. There was too much that needed to be done. The bedrooms upstairs would have to be aired and cleaned. There were her trunks to send for. The electricity had to be arranged for. There was cleaning and painting and dusting and exploring.
She reminded herself of the tower room and the possibility of Sophie having moved someone else into the house. She’d search everywhere just to be sure there was no one living in the house who did not belong there.
That could wait till a little later, however. First things first. Collect Rebecca. Move in. Get settled.
She replaced her cup on the tray and buttered a cinnamon roll fresh from the oven. Nibbling on it, she trotted upstairs and into the large bedroom. The smashed window would have to be replaced immediately. The debris from the fire would have to be removed. Oh, yes, there was so much to do and she was so very anxious to get started with it all.
Her clothes smelled of smoke and after showering she felt reluctant to put them on but she had no other alternative, she told herself. She dressed hurriedly, all the time making mental notes of things that needed to be attended to once she reached Pinebrook.
She spent a short time with Sophie, who was quiet and subdued this morning. She thought it best not to bring up last night...at least for the moment. Then she got into the Mercedes and headed for Pinebrook and Rebecca.
* * * *
Mrs. Johnston gasped and dropped the feather duster she had in her hand when she saw Maggie drive up to the house. She stared at Maggie as though she were seeing a ghost.
Mrs. Johnston straightened herself, forcing herself to regain the composure she so suddenly lost. She leveled her eyes at Maggie, ignoring her friendly smile. “If you’re looking for your sister, you won’t find her in the room,” Mrs. Johnston said with an ugly sneer on her mouth.
Maggie couldn’t be angry or annoyed at anyone this morning. This was the very first day of her new life and nothing was going to spoil it for her. She didn’t know why Mrs. Johnston had looked so surprised to see her, but then she remembered that she hadn’t slept here and the old woman obviously thought she was still sound asleep upstairs in that white, sterile room.
“What are you talking about?” Maggie asked pleasantly.
“Your sister. She isn’t where she should be.”
Maggie arched an eyebrow. “Oh? And what, may I ask, is that supposed to mean?”
“Just what I said. Your sister isn’t where you expect to find her.”
“Where is she?” Maggie fought to retain her good humor.
Mrs. Johnston’s eyes narrowed. “Where else...with him, of course. Mr. McCloud.” She said the name with such distaste and with such insinuation that Maggie found herself blushing slightly.
“I see,” Maggie said flatly. She actually wasn’t all that surprised, knowing Rebecca. It wasn’t the first time Rebecca slept in a bed other than her own. Maggie never approved, of course, but there was little she could do about it. Rebecca had a mind of her own where men were concerned and, despite the many lectures, Rebecca remained true to her nature in that regard. Maggie certainly was no prude. She believed in physical love but not in promiscuity. Rebecca, unfortunately, didn’t believe in anything.
“Are they upstairs now?” Maggie asked, trying not to look surprised or shocked. She refused to give this woman the pleasure of knowing she did not approve.
“They haven’t come down,” Mrs. Johnston said, looking very righteous. “I don’t tolerate such things in my house. I want you and your sister out of here today.”
Maggie was going to ask her if she would be ordering David out as well. After all, it was his living quarters and Maggie was sure it wasn’t the first time David entertained a woman all night. But she remembered David saying he paid very well for his rooms; Mrs. Johnston was obviously the type who looked the other way when revenue was involved.
“We have no intention of remaining in your house, Mrs. Johnston,” Maggie said. She couldn’t suppress the desire to hurt. “The room you assigned to us was most unsatisfactory...so much so that I found it impossible to sleep there. I’m certain my sister felt the same.”
“Regardless,” Mrs. Johnston sneered. “You’ll pay for the lodgings.”
“Gladly,” Maggie fumbled in her purse and handed the money to Mrs. Johnston, who tucked it into the pock
et of her white apron. “I’ll get my sister now if you’ll excuse me.” Maggie waited until the woman stepped aside. She marched past and went up the white stairway with its chipped, white enamel paint.
Just as she reached the upper hall Maggie heard the sound of a door opening. At the far end of the corridor she saw Rebecca slip out of David’s apartment, hugging her suit jacket in front of her. Her hair was uncombed, her clothing rumpled.
“Good morning,” Maggie said, purposely sarcastic.
Rebecca spun around and her eyes grew big as saucers. “Maggie? What...? Where did you come from?” She stood there, staring as if she’d never seen her sister before this morning.
“What do you mean, where did I come from?”
Rebecca wilted. She lowered her head and hurried into the room where she was supposed to have slept.
“You needn’t look so guilty, Rebecca. This kind of behavior is hardly something new for you.”
Rebecca shrugged, gathering her pride back around her. “I couldn’t face this room,” she said. “You couldn’t either, I see,” nodding to the unslept-in beds.
“No,” Maggie said coolly. “I slept at the new house.”
“Yes, I know.”
“You know?” Maggie said, surprised.
“Yes. David and I drove out there and saw the car. We went in and found you sound asleep upstairs. We didn’t want to disturb you.”
“You were in that upstairs bedroom last night?” Maggie’s mind started to click away. Surely Rebecca hadn’t put the candelabrum under the window. Yet that old, troublesome memory nagged at her.
No, that was all in the past. Rebecca had changed. She shook off the thought. Rebecca had no reason now to set fire to that room. She had no reason to want Maggie dead. Still, when she looked directly at her sister, she saw the old familiar guilt in them.
