Shadows in Scarlet

by Carl, Lillian Stewart

  Hewitt stepped back while one assistant tacked information cards beneath each box and illustration and another fixed a long, narrow lamp to the top of each panel. Vernon Benedetto mopped his balding head with a handkerchief. Wayne thumped down the stairs with the miniature, which he offered to Hewitt.

  Cynthia beckoned. Wayne changed trajectory and gave the portrait to her. She held it up before her eyes, in the classic Hamlet-and-skull pose, and sighed. “Such a handsome young man. Cut down in his prime. Of course he was the enemy, we have to remember that, but Sally must have seen something in him, some sympathy for the Cause, perhaps. The Scots had been rebels themselves not long before. Here you go, Bill. Between the bones and the scabbard, I think.”

  Deadpan, Hewitt accepted the portrait and placed it in the last Lucite box. He hung it on the flat, turned on the lamps, and adjusted their shades so that they illuminated the displays without glaring into the eyes of the viewer. His minions gathered up their cardboard cartons and retreated into the faraway—and no doubt cooler—back regions of the house, passing Roy and a couple of other interpreters in the shadows of the hallway.

  Helen turned on her video camera. Cynthia fluffed up her hair with her fingertips and posed herself beside the exhibit, hands folded, one foot turned out. She smiled like she was about to start turning letters on Wheel of Fortune. “It was only last week that we discovered a human skeleton in the gardens behind Melrose Hall. Thanks to the efforts of our staff, the bones have already been identified as those of Captain James Grant, the dashing hero of one of the best-loved legends of Melrose …”

  “Luck,” muttered Hewitt. “The archaeologist’s best friend. Dumb luck.”

  Smart luck, Amanda amended silently.

  Wayne sidled closer. “Mother’s amazing, isn’t she? To have such energy at her age.”

  Cynthia was maybe a whopping fifty-five. As for her energy, she’d probably wither and die if isolated from the adulation of mere mortals. Lucy, peering from behind her husband’s bulk, caught Amanda’s eye and winked. Amanda stared. Lucy nodded and smiled, eyebrows working, as though the two of them shared some secret. What is going on with her? Amanda asked herself.

  “… thank you for your support of Melrose Hall and Colonial Williamsburg,” Cynthia concluded.

  Of course “the staff” wasn’t meant to actually appear on camera any more than the furnace stokers mingled with the first-class passengers. Funny how Amanda was thinking of furnaces. With the lights and crush of bodies, the already warm hall was sweltering. She tried fanning herself, but the fan was only coquettish ornament, and barely stirred the air. The silk of her gown stuck to her skin with each shallow breath. She sent a silent thank-you to the pharmaceutical industry for antiperspirants and deodorant soap.

  “Are you all right?” whispered Carrie.

  “Hyperventilating, as usual,” Amanda wheezed.

  “Hang in there.”

  Sweat trickled from beneath Wayne’s wig. Vernon’s head was as shiny as the polished banister. Helen’s hair straggled out of its bun and down her neck. “Over to the side,” she directed. “Point to the scabbard. Now to the portrait. Look thoughtful. Thoughtful, not spaced-out.”

  Cynthia took Helen’s direction with a resigned air, and waited while Helen changed back to her still camera.

  “Okay, Bill, this is your baby, into the picture—Cynthia, squeeze to the side—don’t worry, you’ll still be in the frame.” Carrie turned a laugh into a cough.

  By the time Helen finally switched off the lights even the impeccable Cynthia was drooping. But her production number wasn’t over yet. “Where did you put those glasses, Amanda?” she called. “Oh, I see, on the sideboard. Eight—just right.”

  Not counting the dark faces in the recesses of the hallway, Amanda thought, and looked around. But Roy and the others were gone.

  Cynthia reached into her shopping bag and pulled out a bottle of Glenlivet. “We should make a small toast to Captain Grant. Since clan Grant country is in Strathspey, where Scotch whiskey comes from, how else to toast him but with Glenlivet?”

  “Outside of the fact Dundreggan isn’t in Strathspey but further west,” murmured Carrie.

  “And there’s perfectly good whiskey made elsewhere in Scotland,” Vernon added under his breath.

  “You know what she means,” whispered Wayne. No one stepped on Cynthia’s lines.

  She poured a splash of amber liquid into each glass and made sure each person had one. Amanda held the cool crystal to her nose and inhaled. The peat-smoky tang of the whiskey reminded her so strongly of James Grant’s presence on the staircase it was all she could do to keep from looking over her shoulder.

  Cynthia lifted her glass. “To Captain James Grant, of the 71st Highlanders. May all victors be as charitable to the defeated as our sainted founding fathers.”

  Wayne pinged his glass against Amanda’s. She drank. The whiskey seared her tongue and sent a dry steam into her sinuses. It was sacrilege to drink whiskey this way. She imagined a cool, rainy evening, a flickering fire, a man’s scented breath in her ear—the right man, of course, not the same old been there done that… . What she really wanted right now was a vat of iced tea, a couple of gallons to drink, the rest to swim in.

  With a chorus of coughs and throat-clearings everyone swallowed his or her drink. Helen smacked her lips appreciatively and glanced at Cynthia, but the bottle was already back in the bag.

  The glasses clinked onto the tray. Carrie trotted toward the kitchen. Helen stowed her cameras away and disassembled her lights. Hewitt bellowed for his assistants. Cynthia opened the front door and invited the crowd—which had dwindled considerably, Amanda saw—in to see the new display. “Wayne, dear, explain all of this. Remember to stay in character.”

  Wayne tugged futilely at the neck cloth swathing his neck and began, “I have just received the intelligence that the bones of a British officer were found buried in my garden. Who could have committed such an impiety I cannot say. Even now, in the midst of war… .”

  Amanda smiled. A shame he couldn’t play Page all the time. Playing an adult he became one.

  The Benedettos stood next to the sideboard with Cynthia. All three faces turned toward Amanda. Cynthia’s blue eyes checked her out like she’d check out an item in an antique sale. Amanda looked down to see if the fichu was still tucked modestly into the plunging neckline of her dress. It was, even though its dampness made it clingy.

  If Cynthia had had a sense of humor, Amanda would suspect she was setting her up for a practical joke. But no. The woman, in her own inimitable way, was just recognizing Amanda’s good work. Wasn’t she?

  Smiling indulgently, Lucy edged Vernon crabwise through the crowd of visitors and escaped. Amanda cast an envious glance after them—clouds had doused the sunshine, and the trees were bowing in a breeze—and went up to Cynthia. “Mrs. Chancellor, that miniature of James Grant.”

  Tilting her head to the side, Cynthia bathed Amanda in a cordial smile. “Lovely, isn’t it? A remarkable find, if I do say so myself.”

  “Where did it come from?”

  “I bought it in London.”

  “From who in London? Whom,” Amanda corrected quickly.

  “How kind of you to be concerned about its authenticity. You’re quite right, we mustn’t put anything on display that isn’t genuine. But not to worry. I took tea at the Savoy with Lady Norah Grant, who put the miniature on the market. Her husband, Lord Dundreggan, passed away several years ago, and these ancient families, you know, sometimes they’re a little short… ?” She left the phrase hanging tactfully in the air.

  “So the miniature was still in the Grant family? And there’s a Grant family for it to be in? Sweet.”

  “It certainly is. Lady Norah was selling some other very fine pieces as well. Inappropriate for Melrose, sadly—all I could take off her hands was the miniature. She was so—I shouldn’t say grateful, should I? Very gracious about it all.”

  Amanda visualized a delicate whi
te-haired old lady sipping tea from a bone china cup. She’d worn faded finery to the meeting, linen or silk, perhaps, out of fashion but made elegant by her refinement. So what if she had to sell up to the colonials, she’d show them what manners were.

  Cynthia took half a step closer to Amanda and dropped her voice. “Lady Norah is an odd person. A bit eccentric. In the fine old tradition of the British aristocracy, of course.” Her pearly fingertips made a fluttering gesture.

  “No kidding.” Amanda couldn’t imagine what combination of traits Cynthia would call both gracious and eccentric. Maybe Lady Norah drank her tea from its saucer or ate the paper doily beneath the cucumber sandwiches. Whatever—in Cynthia’s eyes, her title would forgive her anything short of a capital crime.

  But if James had living relatives, it was up to them to decide what to do with his bones. Amanda asked, “Mrs. Chancellor, have you talked to Dr. Hewitt about burying the bones yet? Dr. Noel-Hume reburied the skeleton of the woman he found at Martin’s Hundred, who was killed in the Indian raid of 1622, but then, since he was never sure who she was there were no relatives …”

  “I was there, it was a lovely Anglican funeral with the rain coming down like tears.” Cynthia cut herself off in mid-sigh. “I have to run, dear. Important meeting. I’m simply frazzled sometimes from all the responsibilities, but, well, matters have to be attended to. I’m glad to make whatever contribution I can.” She gathered up her bag and patted Amanda’s forearm, leaving damp prints on her skin and a breath of floral scent in her nostrils. “Stay as sweet as you are.”

  “My greatest ambition, Madame,” Amanda replied with her deepest curtsey. She watched Cynthia cut through the tourists and disappear down the steps, then gathered up the dirty glasses and fled toward the back of the house. With a jangle of crystal and a swish of silk she burst into the kitchen, set down the tray, and seized the glass of iced tea Carrie held out to her.

  “Don’t drink it …” Carrie began.

  Amanda gulped. Pain stabbed her frontal lobe. “Damn,” she said, and collapsed into a chair.

  “… too fast.” Carrie’s mouth crumpled in a wry smile. “Sorry.”

  Amanda ran her condensation-wet hand over her face as the pain ebbed. “I know I’m fresh out of college, on my own for the first time, but do I really look that much like a little lost lamb?”

  “What?” Carrie asked.

  “Everyone’s trying to protect me and take care of me.”

  “You poor thing, to have people liking you.”

  “That’s not what I mean. It’s that Cynthia makes me feel like she’s got her knife and fork and the mint jelly ready. And Wayne—I mean, I know that being protective is his way of showing he wants me and making himself feel stronger—he’s got self-esteem issues and everything… .” She shook her head. “If I were Wayne I’d have moved to Timbuktu years ago, to get away from Cynthia.”

  “But you’re not Wayne. And Cynthia isn’t your mother.”

  Shuddering, Amanda sipped at her tea. It went down without fighting back. “Actually it was my mom who gave me my thesis topic. Sort of.”

  “Is she into antiques, too?”

  “No way. What she’s into is supporting her kids. She and my dad would take me to historic houses until their eyes bugged out, just because I wanted to go. In one of Frank Lloyd Wright’s mansions in Oak Park she commented on how small the kitchen was compared to the rest of the house—obviously Wright never cooked his own meals.”

  “Ah,” said Carrie. “She’s a pioneer in gender studies.”

  “Well, yeah, she’s a junior high home economics teacher, and was saying for years that guys ought to take her class, too.” Amanda drained the glass and hauled herself to her feet. “That is a good display Cynthia brought in. She knows her business. She’s just so, so …”

  “Yeah, she is. But don’t get on her enemy’s list. She drove a reference librarian to tears last year.”

  “Let me guess. She doesn’t shout, she uses cold contempt.”

  “A stiletto instead of a bludgeon,” Carrie agreed.

  “I’ll try to stay on her friend’s list, then. I sure do need a good reference from her. Maybe if I get an insulin injection every now and then.” Amanda gave Carrie a curtsey—a courtesy—and went back to the front of the house. She was still hot, but at least she could start looking forward to closing time.

  At the front door she picked up the next group of tourists. As Roy had pointed out, it was hard to field questions about James without stepping out of character. She took a cue from Wayne and pretended to be Sally, horrified and heart-broken at the macabre discovery at the foot of the garden. Which brought Amanda back around to wondering just which sainted founding father had shown so much charity to the defeated he’d dumped his body into a hole in the ground like garbage.

  By closing time Amanda felt as though she’d been sautéed in oil. She stood waving on the front steps while the last visitors disappeared around the corner. The clouds were dense now, blue-gray with rain, and the wind, if humid, was at least cooler than no wind at all. She turned the sign around, locked the door, and looked toward the display. Its Lucite and brass and gilt shone in the lamplight, making the rest of the entrance hall seem doubly gloomy. The morsels of bone did not shine.

  She contemplated the mottled steel length of the scabbard. It had been smoother and shinier in James’s insubstantial hands. Which wasn’t surprising. He’d been holding, she supposed, a memory of the scabbard as it had been. Just as his clothes, and his body, for that matter, were memories.

  Maybe the physical remains of something, alive or inert, had to continue to exist before its ghost could also exist. Maybe you could take it with you. The ancient pharaohs might have had it right. If it was buried with you its ghost—its shade—stayed with yours all the way into—what? An afterlife? Or simply a repetition of patterns set while alive? No. James had looked right at her. He’d talked to her. He hadn’t been some kind of holographic echo talking to a long-gone Sally Armstrong. He’d been confused.

  Well, that made two of them. But the issue was academic now. Amanda turned off the lamps over the display and shrouded the artifacts in shadow. Either thunder or her stomach was rumbling as she walked the darkened corridors back to the kitchen.

  Wayne sat in a chair, his neck cloth and wig lumped on the table beside him, his curls matted against his head. Lafayette squatted on his lap, more like a lion guarding his prey than a pet being cuddled. “Carrie said to tell you she’d see us on Friday, unless we need something before then.”

  “If we get overwhelmed,” Amanda told him, “we can send an SOS.”

  “SOS,” repeated Wayne. “Save our souls. Have you ever wondered where our souls go after we die?”

  “Everyone wonders that. That’s why we have religion, to name a destination and give you a ticket to get there.”

  “What about James Grant? He never got his ticket, did he?”

  “No funeral, you mean? No. I bet your mother will organize something, with or without the modern-day Grants. A Presbyterian minister, I guess, since he was Scottish. And there’re British graves at Yorktown, aren’t there?”

  “I think so, yeah.” Wayne frowned. “But what about in the meantime? You have to stay out here with him, all alone and everything. If you’d like to move into town, Amanda, I’m sure Mother would pay for a hotel room. Or there’s our own guest house in the back yard.”

  “Thank you, Wayne, but I’m the caretaker. I have to stay here.”

  “Then I could come out here. I could leave the car up the road and walk in, if you don’t want the Benedettos to know. It’s okay, I’d sleep upstairs, just so I could, like, be in the house and keep an eye on you.”

  She couldn’t say, “I’d rather be alone with a dead body than with you.” She groped for something else. The truth, that the ghost had already come and gone? A cliche, that she could take care of herself? She settled for a firm, “No.”

  Wayne’s frown turned petulant. “You
’re just like Mother, aren’t you? You don’t need anybody. You’re tough. One tough cookie.”

  Maybe he meant that as a compliment. Maybe he didn’t. “It’s starting to rain,” Amanda told him. “That silk waistcoat will be ruined if it gets wet.”

  He looked down at his ample waist, partly concealed by the cat. “Oh. Yes. Well, if I’m not wanted here… .”

  “I didn’t say that, Wayne.” She could add some sop about what a good job he was doing playing Page, but there was no need to patronize the man. “Good night. See you tomorrow.”

  Amanda managed to separate Wayne from Lafayette and maneuver him, his bits of costume, and his umbrella out the door. She watched through the window as the huddled figure became a dark smear in the rain and then vanished.

  Sheets of water poured from the sky, drummed on the roof, and ran from the eaves in gurgling waterfalls. Creating her own waterfall in the sink, Amanda washed the eight wineglasses. She chimed them pensively together as she dried them, relieved to at last be alone.

  Yeah, right. Like she wasn’t flirting with denial. It wasn’t so much that she needed someone, it was that she’d like to have someone. She simply wasn’t accepting applications from any Tom, Dick, Harry, or Wayne.

  The rain slowed, and the thunder faded grumbling into the distance. Amanda returned the wineglasses to the cabinet in the dining room. A decanter sat on the table. She put it back on the sideboard and propped the silver tray behind it. Next door, in the library, a quill pen dribbled black ink across the blotter on the desk. She replaced the pen in its inkwell. The blot was an artistic curlicue, like a word in eighteenth century handwriting, so she left it. She’d have to pay closer attention to the visitors, she told herself. Someone was going to pocket something, and Colonial Williamsburg would take its cost out of her already slender paycheck.

  She plodded up the stairs and inspected the bedrooms. Everything was accounted for. From Sally’s window she could see a gleam of western sky. Sally’s portrait at the head of the stairs glowed faintly in the thin light, so that her expression seemed less demure than distracted.