“What are you talking about? What election?”
Darla looked surprised. “Why, last week at the AGM,” she said. “You must remember. Grant had your proxy.”
I stood up abruptly. “I signed a proxy voting affirmative to the company officers remaining as they were.”
“And so they did,” she said quickly. “But Mr. Dirkston held the position of chairman and it was necessary to call an emergency election to fill the vacancy. It was mentioned in the covering letter. Your proxy authorized Grant to vote in your absence. Naturally, we all knew you would want your husband in the position.”
I sat down again slowly, thinking back to the day Grant presented a ream of papers for me to sign. It was shortly after Jenny’s brush with death and I hadn’t read the documents as thoroughly as I should have. Grant gave me a condensed explanation of it all but I didn’t pay much attention.
If I was aware the leadership of Dirkston Enterprises was at stake, I certainly wouldn’t have allowed anyone to vote on my behalf. Grant must have known this and used my preoccupation and worry to his own advantage. I was appalled. Already he was manipulating me and I fell for it. I didn’t want Darla LaTrobe to see my annoyance, however, so I forced my face to remain composed.
“Yes,” I lied, “I remember now. How silly of me. And you’re right. Who else would I have voted for, even if I was able to attend?”
Darla took another sip of her tea and eyed me over the rim.
Quickly, I changed the subject. “Of course, you’re welcome here, Darla,” I said, trying in vain to lift the corners of my own mouth. “I’m sure Grant knows exactly what he’s doing.” And pigs fly!
“Yes, I’m sure he does.” She hesitated. “I think, Suzanna, that it’s his wish to continue just as before by allowing the company to run under its own steam. He’s not one to ruin a good thing and your father arranged things so the position of chairman required minimal hands-on duties. He was wonderful at delegating authority, you know. It’s only reasonable Grant would prefer to spend more time here with you, don’t you think?”
I bit back a cutting retort. I knew the woman must be well aware of the reason for our marriage and I sensed a gauntlet had been thrown to the floor between us. I didn’t back away from the challenge but replied calmly, if a little stiffly, “Luckily, Grant and I are adult enough to accept temporary separations but it’ll be nice to have him home more often. And having you here to tend to the paperwork will certainly give us more time for each other.”
I watched with a sense of victory as Darla lowered her eyes, pleased she could find no rebuttal. Enjoying her discomfort only briefly, I rose. “You must be anxious to freshen up. Have you brought your luggage?”
“Only one case, I’m afraid. I left it outside. The rest will be delivered tomorrow.”
“Fine,” I said. “Let’s fetch it and I’ll show you to the guest room.”
She nodded and we retraced our steps. I picked up the obviously expensive case and lugged it into the house and up the winding stairs.
“Don’t you have servants to do that sort of thing?” she asked.
“We have servants,” I replied through stiff lips, “but I wouldn’t dream of bothering them with something so trivial.”
I refused to let the woman goad me. I saw no reason to explain our current domestic situation. Instead, I quickened my pace and flung open the door to a guest room as far from my own room as possible. Grant’s room was nearby. This, I thought, would make it very convenient for the two of them. It could only give me reason to gloat should they be discovered in some compromising position.
“Here you are,” I said and heaved the case onto the dark paisley spread of the four-poster. “I hope you’ll find everything you need.”
It was a man’s room decorated with heavy antiques. The walls were a rich walnut and the polished floorboards were softened only by a scattering of plush, Indian rugs. The windows didn’t face the lake but overlooked the garage and the paddock beyond. The draperies were of gold velvet tied back with tasseled cords. From the center of the ceiling hung an ancient five-pronged chandelier. There was a small en suite with no bath, only a shower. The room was also renowned for being the coldest one in the house in winter.
I felt decidedly smug as Darla looked about. I knew I was being petty in choosing this room but I didn’t care. It was my way of telling Ms. LaTrobe and Grant that I wasn’t someone to be easily reckoned with.
Surprisingly, Darla appeared thrilled with the decor and assured me that she would indeed be comfortable. I apologized for not airing the room but added that if I’d known she was coming, a great many things might have been prearranged.
After a brief account of the household’s dining schedules, I left her to her own devices and went to my own room to pound out some pages on my manuscript. It seemed the only way to get my mind off Grant’s underhandedness.
* * * * *
Darla made herself at home immediately. Within hours, she met and ingratiated herself with Lottie and Rudy and, more especially, Colin, who made her acquaintance over an informal lunch in the kitchen. I came upon them laughing comfortably over ham sandwiches while Lottie smiled on, stirring a large pot of soup. I was famished but merely mumbled a sullen greeting, snatched slices of ham and cheese and a can of soda and retreated before anyone could comment.
I had time to notice that Darla had changed into pink slacks and a soft, designer-knit sweater. The beret was gone from her head and her slick, shining hair swung as she chatted.
The haste of my departure bordered on rudeness but I couldn’t stand to bandy small talk just now. I’d been unable to type a single, sensible word because of my fury at Grant. And now I was even more ready to find fault with him. I decided to change back into my work clothes and return to the attic. There were some pieces of furniture and bric-a-brac that I didn’t even know existed and it was soothing to sort through them and consider whether they should be kept or disposed of.
It was about two hours later that I discovered the trunk. It was made of cedar with a beautifully carved and inlaid lid. It seemed familiar but I couldn’t quite place where or when I’d seen it. It was gray with dust and practically hidden among a pile of old straight-backed chairs and cardboard boxes filled with books. I managed, with considerable difficulty, to shift the surrounding debris so I could drag the chest free.
It was dark in this particular section of the attic with the shuttered window nearby blocked by more stacked boxes. The afternoon sun beating down on the roof made the air almost unbearably stuffy and hot, despite a strong wind that moaned over the gables.
I removed my bandanna and wiped my face and neck, then attacked the pile in front of the window. I finally made enough room to lift the pane and throw open the shutters. The breeze was refreshing and I knelt there for some time while the perspiration dried on my face and my lungs took in the clean, cooling air.
Finally, I turned back to the trunk. It was unlocked and except for a minor protest from long disused hinges, it opened readily.
I was slightly disappointed to find nothing of great value. It seemed to be full of clothes and I pulled them out one at a time to inspect. I knew immediately whose clothes they were and remembered why the box was so familiar. It stood at the foot of my parents’ bed until my mother’s death and was one of the few pieces of furniture my mother brought with her to Beacon.
Most of the clothing was stained with age and would be useless. Nearer the bottom, however, lay her wedding dress and, although it was extremely wrinkled and limp, it was preserved admirably, wrapped in blue tissue paper and sealed in a cardboard box.
Beneath this was a jewelry box containing an assortment of unremarkable baubles I assumed she owned prior to her marriage to Leo. The expensive pieces he lavished on her later were locked safely in the family vault at the bank. I made a mental note to inventory those as well.
Next to the jewelry box lay a number of tattered spiral notebooks and my heart quickened as a flash of memo
ry took me back fifteen years to High Dune, when I’d nestled drowsily next to my mother. The sun was warm on my face and I was happy, though weary from running up and down the steep hill. She smiled at me lovingly and chucked me under the chin with the end of her gold pen. On her lifted knees was one of these notebooks—the journals she wrote in so diligently.
I caught my breath. I’d all but forgotten about them. Leo, in his grief, ordered all her things removed. Somehow these were overlooked. I pulled them out one by one and dragged a chair over near the window to read.
Chapter Nine
The other shape,
If shape it might be call’d that shape had none
Distinguishable in member, joint, or limb;
Or substance might be call’d that shadow seem’d,
For each seem’d either; black it stood as night,
Fierce as ten furies, terrible as hell,
And shook a dreadful dart; what seem’d his head
The likeness of a kingly crown had on.
Satan was now at hand.
John Milton, Paradise Lost
The diaries began when Anna was seventeen. I was enthralled as I skimmed the pages sharing her joys and tragedies, insecurities and frustrations. I began to glimpse a mother I hardly knew. Through her writing, she became more than just a pleasant maternal memory. She became a complex, interesting woman, far different from that gentle but vague entity I locked in my heart. Her essence shone through and her vivid emotions revealed a depth to her character I never suspected.
I was surprised to discover how like me she really was. Despite her stiff upbringing at the hands of strict, devout parents, she suffered many of the frustrations and self-doubts as I did. She spoke of writing—of how she longed to make it a career but knew it wouldn’t provide a suitable future for a young woman. I smiled at this. If times were different, she might have made a greater success of it than I.
In her era, marriage was all-important. Propriety and respectability were the cornerstones of life. She was trained to believe virtue and piety were a woman’s greatest assets, yet deep inside, rebellion bubbled. She was often lonely and fought daily to quell desires she was taught were sinful.
As she grew older, the turmoil of youth mellowed. Her parents died, leaving her little in the way of financial security and with no training in any solid profession, she turned to childminding as a means of support. Her interview for the position of nanny to young Colin Dirkston precipitated a rash of excited entries tinged with anticipation and uncertainty. I wished I was there for her at that time to offer her sympathy. I understood all too well those feelings of inadequacy.
I flipped forward a few pages and my eyes lit on Colin’s name.
“Colin is a sweet young thing, though I’m afraid he’s been terribly spoiled by his mother and neglected by his father. I sometimes wonder if I’ll ever be able to manage him. He’s so used to having his own way. It will be a challenge to win him over. He’s still very young and perhaps, in time, he’ll learn to trust me.”
That was the end of this particular journal. I closed it gently and sat gazing out the dormer window. The view from this height was magnificent, encompassing a panorama of Beacon’s tailored grounds, the fiery woods on either side and the strip of white beach edging the vast expanse of water. It was getting late. The sun was descending into its liquid lair, dressed in red and gold and trailing gauzy skirts across the sky, making the tumble of clouds on the horizon look like gilded dumplings. Below, the swimming pool mirrored the hues of the sky in miniature. A rising breeze rippled the surface into goose flesh and I shivered in sympathy.
Organized religion didn’t stifle my imagination. Unlike Anna, I grew up with a benevolent image of eternity and the Almighty. Despite my mother’s insistence I attend Sunday services as well as regular instruction on Christian doctrine, I took it all with a grain of salt and even actively studied other beliefs and theories on the occult and supernatural at university. It was perhaps my open-mindedness, interwoven with the belief in an afterlife, that allowed me the comfort of believing my mother and father were with me—perhaps on another plane but still able to watch over me and guide me.
Sitting there in the cooling breeze with the world stretched at my feet and heaven so close, I could almost feel Anna’s gentle hand on my shoulder. I closed my eyes and let my mind go blank, half-hoping the presence that engulfed me on those other occasions would return.
A sudden gust of wind rattled the open shutters and flung itself about the attic, kicking up dust, ruffling papers and tipping one of the haphazardly stacked journals onto the floor. I opened my eyes, disappointed and somewhat sheepish. My logical side still scoffed at the incident on the beach, yet another part of me wanted to cling to it. I refused to believe I was losing my mind, though the various suggestions I was suffering from nervous stress seemed all too possible. I didn’t want to believe this, either, so I ignored it, shutting my mind as I shut the window and turning the slide lock at the top.
I bent to retrieve the journal that had fallen to the floor. I froze as my eyes scanned the words on the page that lay open.
“Sometimes I can feel him watching me and it makes me frightened. It’s as if he knows I see through him and is waiting, like a cobra ready to strike. I don’t know what to do. If I tell Leo, he’ll probably laugh and tell me I’m imagining things.”
At that moment, a movement near the side of the chest sent me stumbling backward in fright. I half-expected to see a snake coiled maliciously there but instead Kong sidled up, rubbing his thick coat on the corner of the box and purring like a faulty engine. I let out my breath in relief and reached for the journal again but footsteps sounded nearby. I peered into the lowering gloom to see David, picking his way gingerly through the mounds of furniture.
He smiled amiably. “You certainly pick some damnable places to get to these days,” he said.
“And you certainly know how to scare the wits out of me,” I rejoined, though I was pleased to see him.
He reached down and picked up the fallen journal. “What’s this?” he asked, thumbing through it.
I took it away from him a little too hastily. “It’s nothing. Just some old college notes. I don’t know why Martha saved them.”
I don’t know why I felt compelled to lie to him. I only knew I wanted to keep the journals my own secret for the time being. They were my mother’s, after all and not meant for public scrutiny.
I put the books back into the trunk and shut the lid.
“Can you believe all the junk up here?” I exclaimed. “It’ll take days to go through all of it.”
He nodded, his eyes sweeping the room. “I’ll bet there’re plenty of antiques lurking about. Probably a collector’s dream, eh?”
“Well, I don’t know about that. So far, I haven’t found anything I’d want to ‘collect’.”
“Mmm, perhaps not. But you’d be surprised at what some of these items are worth. Take this chest, for instance.” He ran his fingers over the engraved lid. “This is all hand etched. Early Dutch, I’d say. Could bring you a couple of thou.”
I looked at him with newfound respect. “Do you really think so?” Then I cocked a suspicious brow. “Since when did you become an expert on antiques?”
He shrugged. “I’m no expert. But I’ve been to a few auctions in my day and they sort of piqued my interest.” His eyes roamed over my face and he lifted a hand to rub a dust smudge from my nose. I expected him to take me in his arms but instead he merely gave my cheek a gentle caress, then frowned. “Do you happen to know what time it is?”
“About dinner time?”
“About half-past dinner time! Lucky for you, Darla has diverted everyone’s attention or Lottie would be furious. As it is, she agreed to try to keep things warm while I scoured the house for you.”
I grinned mischievously. “What do you suppose would happen if we didn’t go down? How long do you think it would take for anyone to find us?”
He smiled. “No
t long, I’m afraid. Darla said you were…uh…shall we say, in somewhat of a mess when she arrived and you’d mentioned the attic.”
I scowled. Darla! Just like her to bring up my untidy appearance. “Come on then,” I said abruptly. “We’d better get going.”
We left the attic together with Kong stalking regally ahead, tail high, ears pricked. I intended to return as soon as possible to retrieve the journal. That brief excerpt left me unsettled. It was the first clue that there was a cloud over Beacon long before either of my parents’ deaths.
As circumstances dictated, it was some time before I could return to the journals. Shortly after sitting down to dinner, served by a glowering Lottie, a commotion in the front hall brought me curiously to my feet. I slipped quietly out of the dining room and down the passage.
“It’s none of your concern!” It was Colin’s voice—loud, angry.
Someone—a woman—was weeping.
Then, there was another voice. “It is my concern if it’s going on under my roof!”
I shrank back into the shadow of a doorway, recognizing Grant’s clear, officious tone.
Colin snorted. “Your roof, is it now? I see you’re not wasting any time taking over, eh?”
“Don’t change the subject. I know Alicia’s been taking drugs for some time and I want to know where she’s getting them.”
“Why don’t you ask Suzanna? As I recall, it was her pills that put Alicia in the hospital.”
At that, the sobbing rose to a crescendo. “Stop it! Stop it! I can’t listen to it anymore!”
To my amazement, it was Alicia herself. Concerned at the desperation in her voice, I left the protective shadows and strode into the fray.
“What’s going on here?” My eyes moved from Colin, rigid, red-faced, fists clenched at his sides, to Grant, tense, wary, mouth tight, eyes uncompromisingly riveted on Colin and finally to Alicia, slumped in a wheelchair, her pale face blotched, a handkerchief clutched to her nose. She raised stricken eyes to mine. As if she uttered a verbal cry for help, I moved defensively to her side and glared at the men.
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