The Lady of Lyon House

by Jennifer Wilde

  I strolled among the gardens, feeling that none of this was real. The house, shrouded now in shadows with just a few lights burning in the windows, seemed unsubstantial. It might vanish in the mist. The garden was a maze of dark shapes and shadows, touched here and there by rays of moonlight, and none of it seemed real to me. It might all have been a stage set cleverly arranged, and I felt unreal, too.

  I wished that this was a part in the theater that I could put aside. I wished I could take off make up and costume and become once again the Julia who was secure and happy. For a while, as I strolled among the gardens, I thought about the little girl with the puppets, about Mattie and the boarding house and the noise and music and laughter of that life, and I longed to be a part of it again. Then I realized that this was foolishness. In a little while I would be crying, and tears would do no good.

  I came out of my reverie, and for the first time I became aware of the cold air. I folded my arms about me and rubbed them, welcoming the discomfort. At least it was something I could act against. I could go inside any time I wished and find the comforting warmth of my room. But I did not want to go inside just yet. I wanted to stay out here and be uncomfortable and think about what I must do.

  There was no clear course of action. I could not take matters into my own hands and bring things to a head, because I did not know what was going on. I could not go back to London. Mattie had sent me away, and she had asked me to trust her. It would do no good to go to Corinne or Edward and ask them to help me, for they would give me careful evasions and half truths and pass the matter off lightly. They were trying to protect me from something, and it seemed essential that I know nothing about whatever it was they were protecting me from.

  Everything was lovely and peaceful and I must enjoy myself. I must be a good child. I must not ask too many questions, and I must not go to the village alone. I must not talk to strangers. I must pretend, as everyone else seemed to be doing. I did not know how much longer that would be possible.

  I felt that I was trapped in the center of a silken web, the strands drawing tighter and tighter, the danger drawing nearer and nearer, and I could do nothing about it because I did not know what the danger was. There was nothing to fight. There was nothing to struggle against. All I could do was wait.

  A mist had risen from the river. It spread in swirls, moving low over the ground and coming to dance at my feet. Soon it would rise up and veil the rose bushes, and in an hour or so the gardens would be invisible. The mist churned as I passed through it, and I could feel the damp tendrils on the hem of my skirt. I was off the tiled terrace now, my shoes crunching on the damp ground. The gardens were behind me and I was walking down the path towards the river. I wanted to watch the dark waters rushing along in the moonlight.

  I passed the small clearing where the gazebo sat. It looked more dismal than ever in the darkness with its decaying roof and boarded sides. The mist swirled against it, hiding the bottom, and it seemed to be something ugly and evil floating in the gray-white swirls. I walked around the dark clump of trees that hid the river, and I could see the flimsy little pier built out over the water. The moon shed very little light, but my eyes were accustomed to the dark.

  I stepped on the pier. A frog croaked and splashed into the water and I could smell damp, rotten wood and moss. The pier seemed to rock and sway as the dark water slapped against its planks. The water moved rapidly, jet black. A ray of moonlight struck it and was drowned, the strands of silver shattered and destroyed. The mist hung above the surface of the water, gradually thickening.

  I must have stood there for over ten minutes, lost in thought. I had come outside without thinking. I had strolled in the gardens and come down to the river without giving a second thought to the darkness. No one knew where I was. They must all suppose I was in my room. I was suddenly aware of the darkness, of the black trees, of the fact that I was alone. Lyon House seemed very far away, hidden by the stretch of woods, and the night was suddenly oppressive.

  There was nothing definite I could ascribe this feeling to. There was no sound, no movement in the shrubbery, and yet my whole body seemed to be poised, listening, every sense sharply aware of my position. The water slapped against the wooden planks. A frog croaked on the other side of the river. The breeze caused the leaves to rustle slightly overhead. I stood very still. It was cold and damp and there were chill bumps on my arms. I felt someone watching me.

  I tried to tell myself that it was my imagination. I had been unnerved by what I had overheard and I had come outside to calm myself down. I had been on the verge of hysterics, and in that condition it would be easy to imagine things. I told myself this, but I did not believe it. If that were the case, I should have felt this earlier, and it had come upon me all at once. There was a reason for it, and the reason was not in my mind.

  I turned around, my back to the river. I looked at the path that led back to Lyon House. There were dark trees on either side, thick shrubbery pressing close. I would have to pass through several hundred yards of wooded area before I reached the gardens. I wondered what folly had ever possessed me to come here, so far away from the house. I felt weak now, too weak to move, certainly too weak to walk up that dark path. I could not rid myself of the feeling that someone was close by, watching every move I made.

  My first impulse was to rush headlong through the woods and get to the house as quickly as I could, but I did not think I could make it. I could not force myself to run. I wanted to scream, but I knew that no one at the house would be able to hear me. I stood for several long minutes, listening, trying to convince myself that there was no one there. I could see nothing but the dark black shrubbery and the thick trees. The moonlight gleamed faintly along the pathway in shiny patches. I heard a noise that sounded like heavy breathing. It took me a moment to realize that it was only the wind sucking through the cracks of the pier.

  I could not stand here forever, I told myself. I moved off the pier. The heels of my shoes sank into the soggy earth. The mist swirled about my skirts, almost knee high now, as I walked towards the path, moving slowly. Every step I took required great will power. I was almost at the beginning of the path when I saw the light. I stopped, frozen in place.

  It was back in the woods, several yards away. It was a tiny glowing orange, the burning butt of a cigar. I put my hand on my breast, sighing deeply.

  “Edward,” I called. “Is that you? You frightened me half to death.”

  There was no answer. The silence was frightening.

  “Edward! I know you’re there.”

  There was a violent streak of orange across the darkness as the cigar was tossed away, and then there was nothing but black. There was no sound, no movement. It was not Edward. I felt the flesh at my temples grow cold, and the back of my neck felt as though an icy hand had been clamped against it. I closed my eyes, and I saw clouds of blackness pressing at me, but I did not faint. My breath came in short gasps. I could not move. My knees felt as though they would collapse beneath me.

  I peered into the woods. I could not even tell now where the cigar had been. I felt the eyes watching me, and it was an acute sensation, as real as the cold air stroking my bare arms. I was standing in a small patch of moonlight, and the man in the woods could see me plainly. I stepped quickly towards the trees on the opposite side of the path. He could not see me in the darkness, just as I could not see him.

  A thorn caught my skirt. There was a loud rasping noise as the material ripped free. I plunged on. A branch struck my face. I felt the sting across my cheek, sharp and painful. I fell against the trunk of a tree, and gasped. I felt as though my lungs would burst. I must have stayed there for five minutes, the bark rough against my back. There was no sign of pursuit, no noise. I was breathing evenly now, making no sound at all, and all around me the woods were silent.

  I knew he was there. I could feel his presence nearby. He was moving quietly, as quietly as a dark shadow would move, black against black. He would stop and listen, alert
, and then move on, searching for me. He had seen me come this way and he had heard me, but he could not see me. I was as invisible as he. I had no idea who he was. I did not particularly care. I only knew that he was my enemy, the dark, faceless enemy who had brought me to this point.

  I heard the loud flapping of wings as a bird darted out of the underbrush. There was one noisy snap as a foot stepped on a dry twig, and then there was silence again, a silence filled with listening. He was quite near now. Perhaps he was close enough to reach out and touch me. The very air seemed different, laden with another presence, and I imagined that I could smell leather and perspiration, the odor of man. I heard the sharp intake of breath, and it startled me to discover that I had made the noise myself. Had he heard it, too?

  I knew that I had to move. I had to get back to Lyon House. I could not stand here and wait for him to find me. I did not know if I was brave enough to move. My body might have been tied to the tree, and my blood might have been ice. I felt numb. I flexed my fingers and was surprised to find that they moved at my command. If I could move my fingers, I could move the rest of my body. It was a discovery like that an infant makes when he learns he can stand on his own two feet and not fall.

  I was surrounded by the dark trunks of trees. The brush was thick and there was no path here. I would have to stumble around in the darkness and hope to find my way. I was so frightened and confused that I did not even know which direction the gardens were. I saw a dark form several yards away from me, black outlined against the night, and I was not sure that it was a tree. It wasn’t. It moved. It moved cautiously towards me, so slowly that the movement was hardly discernible, like the movement on the hands of a clock. He could not see me. I was certain of that. He was not coming directly towards me, merely in my direction.

  I edged away from the tree. I slipped behind it. I held my hands out in front of me, touching branches and trunks. I moved as quietly as I could and as quickly, but it seemed that I was walking underwater. It seemed that every step I took crashed in the night like a small explosion. My skirts rustled with scratchy rhythm. My feet scraped the damp ground. I might as well be blind, so dark it was. The underbrush seemed to reach out with thorny fingers to obscure my way. Somewhere behind me I heard a cough.

  He knew that I had eluded him, but it was only a temporary thing. He would find me. He had stopped. He was listening again. I stopped, too. I could break into a run and hope to reach Lyon House before he caught me. It was what he expected me to do. I knew that as long as he could not see me or hear me I was safe. That gave me very little comfort. I felt like an animal, being tracked by a dangerous prey. I tried to avoid panic; my only hope was to remain calm and outwit him.

  I could hear the water rushing, and I smelled the lichen and moss on the rocks at the river bank. It confused me even more. I was lost; I had no idea where I was. I had thought I was going away from the river, and it seemed I was getting nearer to it. I began to move in the other direction, holding my skirts tight and stepping lightly on the ground. For a while it seemed I had lost my prey. An owl hooted. The wind caused the leaves to crackle overhead. I heard no footsteps behind me and I stopped for breath, shivering with cold.

  A twig cracked; he was coming towards me again. He was not trying to conceal the noise now and was rushing through the woods. I realized with horror that I was standing in a patch of moonlight, plainly visible to him. I darted to one side, seeking the security of shadow. I stepped on a rock and had to grab a tree limb to keep from falling. My ankle throbbed painfully. I must have wrenched a muscle. I ran on, as heedless of noise as he.

  I came into the small clearing where the gazebo stood. It was half concealed by mist now, but it gave me the sense of direction I needed. I knew where the path was that led back to the gardens. I slipped through a group of trees and I heard him crash into the clearing behind me. My lungs were bursting and my ankle throbbed, each step an agony. I knew I could not outrun him; I leaned against a tree, waiting, resigned.

  I could see him in the moonlight through the branches of the trees. He seemed confused, as if he did not know which way I had gone. He was still in the clearing, beside the gazebo, partially hidden by the mist, but I could see that he was tall. He wore a dark coat. That was all I could tell about him in the darkness; he might have been anyone. He stood beside the gazebo, looking around, and I saw him slam his fist into his palm, disgusted.

  A bird squacked in a thicket behind the gazebo. The bird saved me. The man went plunging into the woods towards the sound, away from me. I closed my eyes as the moon disappeared behind some clouds.

  Time passed. The woods around me grew silent. I was alone. The wind stirred the branches over my head, and they groaned. The moon came out from behind the bank of clouds that had obscured it and moonlight poured through the leafy canopy, spilling silver at my feet. The night was calm. All this might never have happened. It had the quality of a nightmare come to life, but it was over now. My ankle throbbed and my skirt was torn. My sides hurt from running and I was cold. There was no sign of my pursuer; he must have thought I was back in Lyon House. I was sure that he was no longer in the woods.

  I found the path and walked slowly back towards the gardens. I was not afraid any longer. All fear, all emotion had been drained out of me, and I moved as though in a trance. My ankle did not hurt as much as it had before, but I tried to put most of my weight on the other foot. The path was bright with moonlight. The wind was strong now, tearing the mists to shreds and carrying them away. The sky was mottled gray, huge gray clouds rolling on a surface stained silver. There was Lyon House, sharply outlined.

  All the mist had been blown away from the gardens. They were gray and black and silver, strewn with shifting patterns of shadow. Edward Lyon was standing at the edge of the patio, his arms folded on the cold marble of the railing. He wore a black cloak and it billowed away from his shoulders like dark wings. He looked startled when I walked towards him. I could see his face clearly. The wind blew ragged locks of hair across his forehead.

  “My God!” he exclaimed. “What are you doing out here?”

  “I went for a walk,” I said flatly.

  “Like that? Without a shawl?”

  “I wanted some fresh air.”

  He shook his head in disgust. He was the bewildered parent incapable of understanding the conduct of a precocious child.

  “I thought you were in your room,” he remarked.

  “I went down to the river,” I said.

  “Oh?”

  He studied me. He saw my face, and he saw the condition of my dress. Alarm spread over his face.

  “Someone followed me,” I told him. My voice was emotionless.

  “You’re certain?”

  “Quite certain,” I replied. “A man. He was watching me. I don’t know how long he might have been there. He was smoking a cigar and I saw it. I thought it was you.”

  “I’ve been in the library,” he said. “I just came outside.”

  “He threw the cigar away when I called your name. He followed me through the woods.”

  “Good Lord—”

  “He’s gone now,” I said.

  “You didn’t imagine all this?”

  I did not answer. I did not think an answer was necessary. Edward took my arm and led me into the house. We went down a narrow hallway, and he opened the door to a small storage room. It was piled full of old magazines and boxes and rain coats. Several rusty lanterns hung on the wall. I smelled mildew and yellowing paper. There were no curtains at the windows, and moonlight poured through the panes in bright rays.

  Edward took down one of the lanterns.

  “I’m going to take a look,” he said.

  “There’s no need,” I replied. “He’s gone.”

  “You go on up to your room. I’ll be back.”

  “I’ll wait here,” I said.

  “Very well. Keep quiet.”

  He left, moving very quietly. He obviously didn’t want to disturb anyone else in
the house. I stepped to the window. I saw him stop outside to light the lantern. It glowed dim yellow. Edward walked across the gardens and vanished into the first clump of trees. For a moment I could see the yellow globe moving in the darkness, and then it was gone. I still stood at the window, my cheek against the cold glass. This was all as unreal as the woods had been, the passive continuation of a nightmare.

  There were cobwebs in the corners of the storage room. When the moonlight touched them they looked like strands of gossamer. I sat down beside the window, completely calm. I wondered vaguely if I shouldn’t be having an attack of vapors, reclining on a sofa with a bottle of smelling salts. It seemed the thing to do, but I was no longer in the least upset. My ankle had even stopped throbbing.

  Edward must have been gone half an hour. I saw him coming back through the trees. He stopped to blow out the lantern before he came into the gardens, then walked quickly across the terrace and disappeared from view. He opened the side door so quietly that I wouldn’t have heard him if I had not been listening for the sound. In a moment he was standing in the doorway of the storage room. He looked irritated, as though he had been sent on a fool’s errand, and he hung up the lantern without saying a word.

  He told me that he had found no sign of anyone. I had not expected him to find any. I knew that he did not believe me. He did not say so, but he said it was very easy to imagine all sorts of things in the dark woods with trees and shadows and the wind blowing. I did not insist on the matter. It was clear that he considered me a foolish child, ready to dramatize myself at the first opportunity. I let him think so. He stretched and yawned, ready to put an end to it all. As we walked down the hall to the main part of the house, he asked me not to say anything about all this. It would upset Corinne, he said, and I agreed not to mention it.

  He walked with me to the foot of the stairs and then made a bow, mock gallant. He grinned, all charm, as though he considered the whole thing rather amusing now. I went on up the stairs without acknowledging the grin. I did not find it amusing at all.