The Lady of Lyon House

by Jennifer Wilde

  Inside, there was an aura of lethargy. It was after noon, but the inhabitants of the boarding house had just gotten out of bed. We sat in the dining room, sleepily eyeing the food Mattie brought in from the kitchen. Bill and Bert were reading newspapers, rattling the sheets as they turned them. Old Greenley, the stage manager, dozed in his chair. Sarah sat in a corner with her knitting, having eaten earlier in the kitchen with Mattie. Addie and Stella and Janet, the chorus girls, sat with their hair up in curlers, their faces shiny with face cream, all their natural vitality subdued by the process of waking up. Laverne sat with her elbows on the table, a circulating library novel propped up in front of her. Her red curls spilled over her face as she read. I sat at the window, watching the bird as it hopped among the branches.

  I had asked Addie earlier if she had left the gate and door open. She protested her innocence, blinking her enormous blue eyes and swearing that she had shut the gate firmly and latched it behind her. She seemed quite positive about it, and I did not press the issue. In the sun spangled brilliance of day, last night’s episode seemed a dream, an ugly thing that had no reality. The only reality was the gleaming surface of the table, the silver bowl of blue and purple larkspurs, the sleepy faces of the people I knew so well and loved. Everything was normal. Everything was ordinary. It seemed impossible that a dark shadow of fear had passed over this house.

  Although I had had so little sleep, I was wide awake now. My head felt quite clear and I was alert and receptive to all the things around me. I seemed to be viewing them for the first time: the chipped blue cups and saucers, the faded pearl-gray wallpaper with its blue border, the shabby gray carpet, worn almost threadbare in places. This was real to me. This I knew. Last night, and all that had preceded it, was a bad dream. I could not believe in the figure in the fog, the voice in the darkened doorway of my room, the tense, mysterious conversation I had overheard as I stood in the darkness.

  “Cockney lad won a fortune at the races,” Bert remarked, turning a page of his newspaper noisily. “Poor lad. He’ll probably marry a duchess and live a life of misery.”

  “I could stand a little luck,” Stella replied. “Lost ten pounds last week. Fellow told me about a sure thing. The only sure thing was half a month’s pay gone down the drain.”

  “I never play the horses,” Addie told her.

  “I shouldn’t think so, Dearie,” Stella said. “It takes brains. A person has to be able to add two and two.”

  “Really?” Addie said, fluttering her long lashes. “I had no idea. How do you manage?”

  “No new developments in the Mann case,” Bert said. “Scotland Yard thinks it was done by a gang. Seems to be a woman involved. Mann was involved with some mysterious, dark haired creature shortly before the robbery and murder. Police are looking for her, as well as her accomplices.”

  “There’s always a woman involved,” Janet remarked.

  “That poor man,” Sarah said, looking up from her knitting. “Such a brutal way to die, and all for a handful of stones.”

  “Those stones are worth almost a million pounds,” Bert informed her. “Uncut, too, and easy to dispose of. They’ll probably never be found.”

  “Such dreadful things happening,” Sarah muttered. “It makes you wonder—”

  “I wonder if I dare have another roll,” Addie remarked, looking at the pot of orange marmalade. “Three already. I must think about my figure.”

  “I can’t imagine why,” Stella said acidly. “No one else does.”

  “You girls don’t squabble,” Mattie said, coming into the room with a plate of steaming sausages and fluffy yellow scrambled eggs. “If you must release hostilities, you might practice the line dance routine. It seems both of you were out of step last night.”

  Conversation subsided, and we ate the food in silence. Later, when everyone had gone about their business, I cleared the table and went into the kitchen to help Mattie with the dishes. She seemed to be nervous. It was quite clear that she didn’t want me around, but I insisted on staying. I took the dish rag out of her hand and began to dry plates and saucers, stacking them neatly on the drain board. Mattie dug her arms into a sinkful of suds, wiping the dishes with a soapy rag.

  I could tell that she was on edge. Several times she seemed on the verge of saying something to me, but her lips always clamped shut at the last moment. She wore a pink cotton house dress and a stiff white apron. Her iron-gray hair was coiled on top of her head, and a pencil was stuck into one of the coils. Her fingers were stained with ink, as always, and her face was a little drawn from lack of sleep. I wondered when she would tell me whatever it was that had seemed to be so important last night.

  The dishes were done and the kitchen gleaming before she summoned enough courage to speak. The kitchen was full of light, the yellow tile floor glistening, the white walls gilded with sunshine. Several pots of ivy set around, the green leaves shiny and bright. Mattie spread a yellow oil cloth over the table and took out a bowl of peas she wanted to snap. She sat down at the table and began to work with the peas. I stood by the stove, waiting. The house cat yawned and pranced across the floor, arching his back. Mattie pressed her lips tightly together. I could see her forcing herself to speak.

  “Julia,” she asked, “are you happy?”

  “Of course I am,” I replied.

  “I wondered. This isn’t much of a life for you. It isn’t healthy. We keep such strange hours. The atmosphere of the music hall isn’t the proper kind for a young girl growing up. The noise, the people—no, I don’t think it’s the right place for you.”

  “You’ve never worried about it before, Mattie,” I said. “I love the music hall. I love the people. They’re wonderful—all of them. I am gloriously happy.”

  “Are you—really?”

  “You know I am.”

  “Julia—I’ve been thinking—” She hesitated.

  “Yes?”

  “A change of pace would do you good. You’ve been looking pale and drawn recently. You need some fresh air, something to put some color back into your cheeks. How would you like to spend a month or two in Devonshire?”

  “Devonshire?”

  “Yes. It’s lovely this time of year. Not at all like London. No fog, no uproar, no polluted air, just lovely countryside. There are flowers and trees and little streams, and the sea is nearby. You can smell the salty tang in the air—”

  “How would you know, Mattie?”

  “I was born there. I lived there until I married.”

  “You want to send me away,” I said quietly. There was sadness in my voice.

  “No, darling. It isn’t that—”

  Mattie looked up at me. Her gray eyes were troubled, and there was a crease in her brow. I knew this was hard for her. She was not good at dissembling. It was not easy for her to appear off hand and casual when all the time she was sick with worry. She could tell from the look in my eyes that she had not succeeded in her little pretense, and she turned back to the bowl of peas, snapping them briskly and throwing the broken ends into a paper sack at her feet. I loved her so much. I wanted to make this easier for her.

  “You want me to go?” I asked.

  “Yes, Julia. For a little while.”

  “Will you tell me why?”

  “I can’t, darling.”

  “It—it has something to do with that man who was following me, doesn’t it?”

  “I—yes, yes it does. Bill and I are both worried about that. We think you should get away for a while.”

  I could see that she was evading something. There was something more she was not telling me. I did not doubt that the man who had been following me to the music hall was partly responsible for this decision to send me away, but I knew there was another reason, too. This Mattie did not intend to tell me about.

  “You can be honest with me, Mattie,” I said. “I’m not afraid. I want to know why you want to send me to Devonshire.”

  Mattie pushed the bowl of peas away from her. She looked do
wn at her ink-stained fingers for a moment, her head bowed. She seemed to be making some decision in her mind. She looked up at me, and her face was calm. The clear gray eyes stared into mine with a level gaze.

  “Julia,” she said quietly, “do you trust me?”

  “You know I do,” I replied.

  “And do you believe that I would only do what was best for you?”

  “Of course, Mattie.”

  “Very well. You must trust me now. You must believe that this is the best thing for you at the moment. I wouldn’t send you away if there was not a good reason. Please don’t ask me any more questions. I should only have to evade them, and I haven’t much art at evasion.”

  “All right, Mattie,” I replied humbly.

  “I have a very good friend in Devonshire, Corinne Lyon. She’s a bit eccentric, but she’s a lively old thing. You’ll like her. She has a lovely country place, Lyon House, just outside a charming little village. It’s surrounded by woods and fields and there is a stream that runs through the estate. She lives there with Agatha Crandall, her paid companion, and her young nephew, Edward Lyon, who’s just finished his studies at Oxford. I’ve written to Corinne about you, and she is wild about having you at Lyon House.”

  “All the arrangements have been made?” I asked.

  “Yes. There’s a train leaving Sunday morning. You’ll go then. We shall spend today and tomorrow shopping. You’ll need ever so many things. It will be great fun.”

  Mattie continued to talk. She told me about her childhood in Devonshire and gave glorious descriptions of the countryside. She told me all about Corinne Lyon who, in her late fifties, was still the terror of the county. I listened passively, asking no questions, merely replying when it was necessary. Mattie snapped the peas and talked. She seemed relieved now, and when she looked up at me her eyes were full of tenderness that she did not try to hide. I knew that she loved me. I knew that she was doing what she thought best. She would not send me away without a good reason. I accepted that. It was enough for now.

  The music hall closed early Saturday night. We had a private party. There was an enormous cake and several bottles of cheap champagne. Old Greenley had strung crepe-paper banners over the stage, and the chorus girls had helped with the other decorations. There was a pile of gaily wrapped presents for me on a table. Now, well after midnight, glasses of champagne circulated freely and everyone was trying to force an air of merriment into an occasion that was sad. The girls were wearing their spangled costumes, and Laverne was in the new dress I had just finished. She sat at the piano, banging out tune after tune, and a few of the girls sang. Bert and Sarah had done a soft-shoe number, and Bert was already a bit drunk, sitting in a chair with a wide grin on his face.

  I opened the presents. There were new hair ribbons, a purse, a pair of scarlet slippers, a brush and comb set of plated silver, silken undergarments hidden under layers of pink tissue paper. I tried to laugh, to seem grateful, to act happy over my “holiday,” but I couldn’t manage it properly. I had to force back the tears, and it took much effort. Mattie seemed aware of this. She roamed all over the stage like a brooding hen with a flock of disconsolate chicks, refilling glasses, trying to inject a little spirit. Finally she sat down, letting the sadness she felt take over.

  Bill kept coming over to me and putting his arm about my shoulders. He seemed to be on the verge of tears, and I noticed that he had drunk far too many glasses of champagne. I cut the cake and made a wish. Addie passed the cake around, scattering chocolate crumbs all over the stage. An hour passed, everyone determined to keep up a good front. One of the girls got drunk and burst into tears. Laverne tried to calm her down. I managed to slip away during the confusion.

  The music hall was in total darkness, only the stage illuminated by a string of lights. The backstage areas were shadowy, although a little moonlight poured in through the high set windows. I climbed up the iron staircase, moving slowly and trying to make no noise. Upstairs, it was cold and damp. Everything was bathed with moonlight, serene. It was a world of velvety shadows and black floors and silvery-blue mist. I opened the door of my dressing room. Far below, I could hear the noises of the party, muffled now, distant. I sat down on the cot and took out the long red box.

  I took out Hans and Gretchen and Miranda and Dil. I held them in my arms, and tears filled my eyes. The puppets were silly things made from wood, their features painted, and it was foolish to cry now as I cradled them in my arms. But I was not crying because of the puppets. I was crying because I had to leave everything I knew and loved, and the puppets were representative of all that. Nothing would ever be the same again; I felt that strongly. I would go to Devonshire, and I would come back, but it would never be the same.

  These last two days had been frantic, full of preparations for the journey. Mattie had tried to make our shopping trips festive, and we had spent far too much money, but it had been a chore for me. For all her forced cheerfulness, Mattie had been nervous. I had noticed her glancing over her shoulder as we walked from shop to shop, and once she had taken me by the arm and guided me around a corner rapidly and into the first door we came to. I thought it odd, but Mattie laughed it off. As we stood in the shop examining bonnets, Mattie kept glancing out through the plate glass window, as though she were expecting to see someone walk past.

  At night we did not go to the music hall. We stayed at the boarding house and sewed and packed. Tonight was the first time I had been back, and Mattie and I had come late, just in time for the party. I had not done my act. I put the puppets back in their box now, wondering if I would ever use them again. I smoothed Gretchen’s curls and straightened Hans’ collar. It seemed to me that the painted wooden faces were sad as I shut the lid.

  I had not lighted a lamp. The dressing room was illuminated by moonlight that floated in softly through the window. Everything was blue and black and misty silver, and a light would create a harsh effect. I sat there on the cot, watching the millions of tiny motes that whirled slowly in a bar of moonlight. I thought of all the years I had spent here in this dressing room, how I had loved it, how it made me a part of this world. Now I was being shoved out. I did not belong in Devonshire; I would not belong anywhere. My comfortable nest must be evacuated, and I felt lost and lonely.

  I heard somebody moving down the hall to one of the dressing rooms. That was strange, I thought, because I had not heard anyone come up the stairs. It did not alarm me. I had been lost in thought, and one of the girls had probably gone to the dressing room without my hearing her. It was a little strange that she had not lighted a lamp, but then I had not lighted one myself. Someone else had wanted to get away from the depressing atmosphere of the party and be alone for a little while.

  I stepped into the hall. I could hear the noise of the party drifting upstairs in muffled bursts of sound. Someone was singing. I could hear the piano. I stood by the doorway of my dressing room, hesitating. I did not want to go back down, but I supposed I must. They would miss me. I braced my shoulders and wiped a tear away from my cheek. I did not want them to know I had been crying.

  I walked down the hall towards the staircase. Some old cardboard backdrops leaned against the wall, draped with a canvas cover. There was a coil of rope and a broken pulley on the floor. I heard someone come out of one of the dressing rooms at the other end of the hall. I presumed it was one of the girls, deciding to go back down just as I had. The sound of footsteps echoed down the hall. I turned around. The hall was long and dark, dusted with moonlight. The floor gleamed darkly, and there were nests of shadow along each wall. I saw someone move stealthily into the shadows, as though afraid of being seen.

  “Are you coming down?” I called. “I’ll wait for you.”

  There was no answer. I could barely see the dark form sliding along the wall, moving slowly. A cold chill swept over me. I gripped the handrail of the staircase, my fingers trembling. I was paralyzed, unable to move. My heart seemed to leap into my throat. I clutched the railing to keep from fa
lling. I could sense the evil in the air. It was real, waves of evil flooding the hall like something tangible. It was as real as the smell of damp plaster and old face powder. A shaft of moonlight fell over the top of the staircase, flooding it with silver. Whoever was at the other end of the hall could see me plainly, while I could barely distinguish the dark form. The noise of the party seemed very far away.

  “Who is it?” I said. The words rang in the still air. They echoed and faded away, as though they had been thrown into a void.

  There was a clatter of footsteps on the staircase. Laverne was coming up. She stopped halfway, seeing me standing there. A look of alarm was on her face. She heaved a sigh of relief and then shook her head, as though in disgust.

  “So there you are! We’ve been looking all over for you. Running out on your own party—bad form, kid, very bad form. Come on down now. The girls are going to do their dance routine, then we’re going to have some sandwiches. I’ll swear! You’re exasperating—”

  I looked back down the hall. It was a long, dark alley, and there was no one lurking against the wall. The hall was empty. The dark form was gone. Waves of silver blue mist illuminated everything now, revealing yawning doorways and shadowy corners. A tiny black rat scurried over the floor. I shuddered as Laverne came on up the staircase and took my hand in hers. We went back down and I moved as though in a trance.

  The party did not seem real. Nothing seemed real. I smiled and spoke and nodded and moved around with a forced smile on my lips, but I had the sensation of moving under water. I saw the colored lights and the shabby crepe-paper banners and the remains of the cake. None of them were real. I seemed to have no more substance than one of my puppets. I seemed to jerk and move as they did, some invisible master pulling the strings. The party seemed to go on forever like some awful charade.