“What are you thinking?” he asked.
“How very peaceful this is. Not at all like London.”
“London isn’t very peaceful, is it?”
“Not at all, but I love it.”
“Then why did you leave it?” he inquired.
“It wasn’t my decision.”
“Oh? It does seem strange. I understand your puppet act was one of the primary attractions at the music hall. It seems odd that your guardian would send you off.”
“Bert and Sarah will fill my spot. They’re old favorites.”
“Do you miss them all already?”
“A little, but I’m happy to be here on the river.”
“I’m happy you’re here, too. Their loss is my gain. I won’t let them have you back for a while. You can consider yourself my captive at Lyon House. Try to get away and you’ll have me to reckon with.”
“Then I suppose I must enjoy my captivity,” I said idly.
“That’s the attitude, lass. Don’t give me a hard time and we’ll do fine. I’m mean when crossed.”
“I can’t visualize you being mean under any circumstances,” I told him.
“Oh, I can wield a whip with the best of them. Give me a dark cape and a waxed mustache and I’d be a proper villain, terrorizing widows and throttling defenseless maidens.”
“You seem to be a man of many facets.”
“Keep them guessing. That’s my motto.”
He pulled the paddle in and let the canoe drift with the current. We passed under a stone bridge, those in the water stained with moss. A long shadow fell across the water. I dangled my hand over the side of the canoe. The water was icy cold, although the sun was warm. Insects darted across the surface of the water, skimming on gauzy wings. The sun felt good on my cheeks.
“I hope your aunt didn’t mind us going off like this,” I said.
“Corinne is jealous, but she’ll get over it. She feels mistreated. She loves to sulk almost as much as she loves to rage.”
“Will she really mind?”
“Of course not. She wants you to enjoy yourself.”
“She seemed so upset yesterday,” I said.
“Corinne had one of her bad days yesterday,” Edward said. “Unfortunate for you, it being your first day at Lyon House, but don’t let it bother you. She has them frequently, but they pass, like storms. She is always in such a better mood afterwards. She’ll probably be all charm and politeness today.”
“I understand,” I replied. “I think she’s endearing.”
“That’s an odd word to apply to my dear aunt.”
“She’s different from anyone I’ve ever met.”
“That she is.”
“I think I am going to like her. She and Mrs. Crandall had a really bad scene yesterday, though. I thought they were going to tear each other apart.”
Edward Lyon frowned, his dark brows pressing together and his eyes growing dark. “Agatha is bad for Corinne,” he said. “They’re very much alike, in some ways, both old, both self-willed. But whereas Corinne is hot tempered and boiling over, Agatha is sly and stealthy. I wouldn’t have too much to do with her if I were you, Julia.”
“I felt sorry for her,” I remarked.
“Agatha? Don’t fool yourself.” His voice was somber.
“If they fight so much, why doesn’t Corinne send her away?”
He shrugged his shoulders and looked at me with extended palms. “It puzzles me,” he said, his tone lighter now. He grinned. “I think Corinne keeps her on just to have a scrapping partner. The others are very expendable, you know, the regular servants. One of her tantrums, and they pack up and leave, but Agatha stays on for another round. They both love a good fight. The eccentricities of the old—” he laughed, and I was relieved to see the good humor coming back.
The canoe drifted on down the river. We passed under another bridge and soon the river grew much wider. The willow trees were scarcer, and I began to see fields. They extended away from the bank in levels, brown and golden-brown and sometimes green. On the horizon there were oxen and men pushing plows, and sometimes cows came down to the bank of the river to drink. Soon there was nothing but the sky above us, and the currents were stronger. Edward Lyon took up the paddle again, working strenuously but without apparent effort. Around a bend, far ahead, I could see the village. The trees and spires and rooftops looked very small.
“Does the river pass right through the village?” I asked.
“Yes. It narrows again, then goes right past the church and the inn and the post office, behind them. The inn has a terrace in back so the guests can sit at tables and watch the river traffic. There isn’t much of that today, but sometimes there are dozens of boats. The fishermen go out almost every day. The river leads out to the sea.”
We came closer and closer, and the river grew narrow. We began to pass houses and trees, and soon we passed under a great stone bridge. A little boy sat perched on it, dangling a fishing pole into the water. We were in the village now, and there were several other boats. I watched the people moving down the shady riverbank sidewalks. An old man worked on an ancient gray fishing net extended over poles, mending the tears. A woman pushed a vegetable cart heaped with carrots and beets. The houses were backed against the river, and some of them had yards that came down to the concrete bank. I saw rear windows and sometimes lines of wash. It was a curiously intimate view of the village.
There was more traffic on the river now, several fishing boats going downstream. There was a sailboat with a faded blue sail and a large, flat barge loaded with fish. We heard the shouts and cries of vendors.
“I love rivers,” I said, watching the activity. “When I was a little girl I used to love to sit on the banks of the Thames and watch the barges go past. It was endlessly fascinating.”
“The Thames this isn’t,” he replied, smiling at me.
“Look, there’s the inn,” I said.
The terrace came right down to the edge of the river, paved in flat red tiles, with a railing at the bank. There was a huge oak tree in the middle, its large limbs spreading shade over the dozen or so tables that set outside. Several people were drinking beer, and a plump waiter in a soiled white apron was removing empty steins from a table. A woman with two small children sat sipping tea while the children nibbled cakes, and an ugly man with enormous shoulders and a broken nose sat sullenly with a companion who was hidden behind a newspaper. One of the children waved at me, and I waved back, smiling.
Edward Lyon looked in that direction. The lines of his mouth suddenly grew very harsh, and his dark eyes looked flat, hard. He steered the canoe quickly over to the bank, where the concrete wall would conceal it from the people at the inn. I thought his face was pale now, and I was about to ask him what was wrong when he spoke.
“I think we should go back now,” he said flatly.
“But—whatever for?” I was bewildered by his sudden change.
“Don’t ask questions,” he said sharply;
He turned the canoe around and began to paddle in the direction that we had just come. I could see the effort now. He seemed to be straining with the paddle. The muscles bulged beneath his suit, and he paused to take off his jacket. I was frowning, but he took no notice of me. He was intent on getting away from the village.
We were silent. We passed under the bridge where the little boy was fishing. Two small companions had joined him now, and they waved at us. I did not wave back, and Edward Lyon had not even seen the children. I watched the village grow smaller and smaller as we left it behind. We had reached the wide part now, and soon we were around the bend and the village was out of sight. Only then did Edward Lyon relax.
He looked tired. His forehead was moist, and there were perspiration stains on his shirt. He brought the paddle in and let the canoe drift. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his forehead. He looked at me for a long time, still not speaking. The canoe drifted through a bed of water lilies, pink and white flowers resti
ng on flat green pads. He reached into the water and plucked one of the flowers. He handed it to me with a nod of the head. “For you,” he said.
“Thank you,” I said, a bit too prim.
“I suppose you wonder what that was all about?”
“I’m sure you had your reasons,” I replied.
“Yes, I had my reasons.”
I stroked the wet blossom, not looking at him.
“You’re not going to ask any questions?”
“I think not.”
“Good. You’re learning fast. Would you like to pull up here and have our picnic?”
“No, I—I think I’d rather go back,” I said, feeling like a sulky child.
“I’m not in much of a mood now for a picnic myself. We’ll head for home.”
He paddled steadily, and soon the willow leaves were touching our arms again. Dragonflies darted around the canoe, and once a fish jumped up right in front of us. We arrived at the boathouse and he helped me up onto the pier. We were walking towards the gardens before he spoke again.
“You are not ever to go to the village alone,” he said. “Not under any circumstances. Do you understand?”
I looked up at his face. His eyes were very serious and his mouth was grim. I nodded meekly. I did not ask questions. I was learning.
CHAPTER NINE
I COULD NOT understand his strange conduct. At lunch he was casual, all charm and pleasantness, and he talked about our trip down the river as if nothing had happened to terminate it so abruptly. I tried to find some clue in his conversation. There was none. It was clear that he did not intend to mention the incident again. He began to talk about the forthcoming fair and tried to get Corinne to show some interest in going herself. She merely snorted and peeled her peach, calling him a fool. Edward Lyon teased her a little more and then asked to be excused. He spent the rest of the afternoon in his rooms.
Corinne was in a better mood today. After lunch she insisted on taking me to the gallery and showing me all the family portraits. We walked down a long hall paved in black and white marble, the walls covered alternately with faded red velvet draperies and immense paintings of Lyons. The hall was cool and drafty, and our footsteps sounded noisily on the marble floor. Corinne pointed to each portrait in its heavily ornate gold frame and made some comment about that particular ancestor. Her remarks were wicked and witty, and once or twice she revealed a particularly salty anecdote which brought a blush to my cheeks.
The men were all sober and very stern, usually with heavy beards. I noticed the dark eyes Edward Lyon had inherited, but not one of his ancestors seemed to have his jaunty attitude. The women were tepid, only one with Corinne’s blazing red hair. At the end of the gallery there was a blank space, the wall a little yellowed where a portrait had once hung. I asked Corinne about it.
“Can’t you guess?” she replied.
“Your portrait hung there?” I said hesitantly.
“Of course. I had it removed! I didn’t want that beautiful face on display, haunting me, taunting me. I relegated it to the attic. I wanted to burn it but, after all, it was painted by a master!”
“I would like to see it,” I remarked.
“What! And make comparisons? Not on your life!”
“That’s foolish,” I said, rather rudely.
“You can talk. You are young, and quite lovely.”
“Is youth and beauty everything?”
“You’d be surprised,” she snapped, peeved.
“I’d hate to think my life was over just because I lost my youth and whatever beauty I might have possessed,” I told her.
“You think my life is over?” Corinne Lyon cried.
“No,” I replied politely. “You seem to be the one who thinks that, Mrs. Lyon.”
She tapped her foot on the marble and looked at me with a crooked smile on her heavily painted lips. Her cheeks were chalky with powder, a bright red spot of rouge rubbed into each, her lids coated with blue-gray shadow. Her make up was that of a character actress who is to play a roguish countess or a tipsy old dame, I thought. Corinne wore a robe of shiny gray velvet, trimmed with dyed blue fur. She toyed with a gray fan snapping it open and shut.
“You’re a cheeky child,” she said. She seemed to be amused.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. At last I’ve got someone who can give as well as take in a tussle. I’m tired now,” she said abruptly. “You may escort me to my room. I’ll nap till dinner time.”
We walked slowly upstairs. Corinne ran one gloved finger along the railing of the staircase, and when she found the glove tip covered with dust, she railed at a servant who was coming downstairs with an armload of linens. The poor girl, gauche and raw boned, looked panic stricken. I was slightly embarrassed, but Corinne chuckled wickedly as the girl fled down the stairs.
“Now tell me about your trip,” she said as we walked along the hall to her room. “Did you enjoy it?”
“Very much. The river was lovely.”
“I suppose Edward was up to form?”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Tosh! A girl your age should know. The man’s a scoundrel. He is my own nephew, but I know him for what he is. Don’t go letting him put ideas in your head.”
“He was a proper gentleman, very polite.”
“That must have been disappointing!”
“Why—” I stammered.
“When I was your age if a man took me on a canoe ride and acted like a proper gentleman I would have been furious!”
“Well, I’m sure Mr. Lyon had no intentions—”
“He’s a man, isn’t he?”
“I’m sure he thinks I’m a child.”
“Good! Perhaps Edward has a little sense, after all, but I wouldn’t trust any Lyon as far as I could spit. My nephew has all their bad qualities—and then some.”
“Besides,” I continued, “I’m sure Mr. Lyon has someone else he is—is interested in.”
“That’s a modest way of putting it,” she said.
“Does he?” I asked, ashamed of the question.
We stopped in front of the door to her room. She opened it and stood in the doorway, regarding me with a curious expression, her head held a little to one side. Her eyes danced with mischief, and I felt uncomfortable. I think she guessed a great deal from my demeanor, and the old lady seemed to be delighted when a blush stole up my cheeks.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if he does,” she said waggishly. “The servants talk, and I’m not exactly deaf. No, I wouldn’t be surprised if he does.”
With this enigmatic statement she whirled into her room and shut the door behind her. I stood in the hall for a while, wondering exactly what she meant. Had Corinne heard talk about the mysterious woman who came to Lyon House? I wondered. I shook my head, thoroughly irritated with myself. It could not conceivably matter to me if Edward Lyon had a mistress who stole in to see him under cover of darkness. It wasn’t my concern at all and I tried to tell myself that I couldn’t care less about the matter.
I felt very much alone. It was late afternoon, and the house was still. Corinne and Edward and Agatha Crandall were all in their rooms, and the servants were busy with their various tasks. I wandered through the rooms, unable to explain my strange restlessness. I touched cool surfaces of furniture, examined objects, strolled through room after room and tried to banish the feeling that possessed me.
It seemed as though everyone in the house was waiting for something. Even the house itself seemed to be waiting, and the stillness now was the curious stillness before a storm, a stillness heavy with foreboding. Perhaps that explained the strange moods, the outbursts of temper, the display of nerves. Agatha Crandall with her alcohol and her secretive manner, Corinne with her flashing temper and moments of sadness, Edward Lyon and his bewildering conduct this morning: all seemed indicative of something hanging over this place. I felt it, too; it was almost tangible. I hurried outside, hoping the sunshine and fresh air would rid me of th
is mood.
In back of the house there was a shaded porch and a small drive that tradesmen used when making deliveries. A path led through vegetable gardens down to the smoke house, and beyond that was a wooded area that led down to the gazebo. I walked away from the house, moving quickly as if in flight from the melancholy that had threatened to overcome me. I would not give in to that feeling. I would not be sad. I would not pine for London and Mattie and the music hall and the life I had loved so much. It would only make things worse.
There was a stillness outside, too. The sky was gray now, and the sun slowly sank, leaving a misty trail of violet shadows in its wake. No wind rustled the leaves of the trees. It was as though the whole world was holding its breath. I walked past the vegetable gardens, past the smoke house, was soon in the woods. I could hear the water running along the riverbank and smell the crushed milkweed. The stillness, the silence, unbroken by bird or breeze, was vaguely unnerving. I could hear my own footsteps crushing the dead leaves and acorns underfoot. I wanted to cry out, to shatter the silence.
I stopped and leaned against the trunk of a tree. To my surprise, I was breathing heavily, as though I had indeed been pursued. It was foolish to have worked myself into such a state, and for no reason, I told myself, and yet I had the curious sensation that there was a reason. It was not clear, but it was there. I closed my eyes, trying to relax. I felt the rough bark of the tree against my back. I felt the woods all around me, smelled the soil and the sap, and after a few moments I was ready to laugh at myself and run back to the house and get ready for dinner. Then I heard the woodpecker.
It was coming from somewhere near the gazebo, making quite a lot of noise. I decided to go see if I could spy it. I loved birds. Back in London I had a portfolio filled with colored pictures of various kinds. I had never seen a woodpecker before, and it would be exciting to see one now. I hurried towards the sound, trying to move quietly so as not to frighten the bird away. Through the branches of the trees ahead I could see the top of the gazebo. The noise was louder, and I suddenly realized that it was no bird at all.
The Lady of Lyon House Page 9
