When the phone rang, she had thought at once, there’s Dr. Wesley. She had waited for Harold to move, lest he be seen through the opening door. Then she had rushed forth.
When they said the call had not been for her, Edie believed them. The thing to do was to wait, as quietly as could be, until her call did come. She had intended to go meekly to her breakfast and watch her chance to steal a meal for Harold Page. But there was Wendy, looking very pretty, tousled as she was, standing with her hand on the telephone. I am expecting an important call, thought Edie with a stab of irrational anger. She said, “Are you feeling better now?”
Wendy’s head snapped around on the neck as if she’d been severely shocked. “What do you mean, better now?”
“Better than you did last night?” said Edie, with mild surprise at so violent a reaction.
“Oh, why!” Wendy cast Edie out of her attention and picked up the instrument.
“Because,” said Edie, moving closer, insisting upon attention, “I’d like to ask you, now that you are calmer, whether you are really going to stick to that lie about Harold Page.”
“Oh,” burst Wendy, “what lie?” She pushed her hair out of her eyes. “I wish you’d stop nagging and nagging at me. Will you please?”
Edie heard the housekeeper say, in a warning tone, “Miss Edith …”
But she moved around to be able to see Wendy’s face. Wendy was dialing. “You may cause trouble,” Edie said, “but you’ll never prove he did it. And if you tell that lie in a courtroom, there is a law—”
“Oh, law!” Wendy whipped around to turn her back.
“No law for you?” said Edie, in cold fury. “Then why should you be afraid to tell the truth? Nothing can touch you, can it?”
“That’s right, Cousin Edie,” said Wendy looking over her shoulder, with her mouth tucked up at the corner. Then she ducked her head and her hair fell forward.
Edie heard the housekeeper, behind her. “I think …”
Wendy tossed her head high. “He doesn’t answer. He must be on his way.” She was smiling.
“All you are thinking about,” said Edie, “is marrying Ronnie Mungo—come hell or high water?”
“Right, again.” Wendy’s brow flew up. She was triumphant. She stretched like a cat.
“And you won’t even listen to me?”
“Miss Edith, I don’t think …”
“Why should I listen to you?” said Wendy cheerfully. “Why is this any of your business?”
“Why is what any of whose business?” said Granny, briskly. “Good morning.”
There she was, dressed as Lila Whitman would be dressed even at this hour, quite elegantly, in blue. She had tiny blue earrings on, very tiny “morning” earrings. Her small person was tidy and perfumed.
The group of three broke open. Wendy danced away. Mrs. Beck moved toward the dining room, with a submissive duck of her head. Edie said to Granny, “You’re very early.”
“Too early,” Granny agreed. “For the simple reason that I went to bed too early, and enough is enough. What are you talking about so early?” Her blue eyes darted from one girl to the other. Wendy was mum. She scarcely seemed to have heard the question.
“Why,” drawled Edie, “about Wendy eloping with Ronnie Mungo today.”
“Don’t you love to cause trouble!” cried Wendy, throwing her head back but keeping her eyes almost closed. It was as if there was something here she did not want to see. Edie glanced behind her and saw the tall white figure of the housekeeper seeming especially tall, especially rigid.
“Really, Wendy,” said Granny in her own lofty manner, “what are you thinking of? With Myra in the hospital, being cut up this very minute, or so Ted tells me,” Granny was in full flow, “it is very bad taste to run away and marry anybody. As for Ronnie Mungo, what is he thinking of? I wonder.”
Wendy laughed. Her eyes flashed open. She was filled with reckless elation. “Oh, he’s been lying awake, all night, thinking about the money.”
“Whose money?” said Granny, suspiciously.
“My money. I looked it up, Granny.” Wendy was insolent. “My mother’s money. You can’t do anything. Nobody can. Not now.”
Granny’s eyes, for once, steadied and she gazed coldly at her granddaughter. “We shall see,” she said.
“Yes, won’t we?” Wendy taunted her.
“My poor child,” said Granny, and Edie was surprised to hear the genuine pity in her voice, a condescending pity from one who felt herself superior—yet pity. “I have no intention,” said Granny grandly, “of wasting my energies trying to make you see what I see. Especially at this hour, and without my coffee.” Pity had vanished.
“Coffee is ready, Mrs. Whitman,” said Mrs. Beck obsequiously. “Miss Edith.”
As Granny started to cross the room, Mrs. Beck said to her, in a different voice, in an aside. “Better let me handle her.”
Granny stopped and slowly turned her elegant head. Her whole small elegant self proclaimed that this was her kingdom. Mrs. Beck had overstepped. Granny said, with a faint fastidious lifting of her pink lip, “I think, you will find, Mrs. Beck, that, on the whole, everyone tends to go to hell in her own way, and there is no use bothering about it.” Then Granny, stepping rather high, walked proudly out of the room.
Mrs. Beck went swiftly to Wendy and touched the girl’s nape but Wendy twisted away. Staring, fascinated, Edie stood still until she realized that the housekeeper was sending her a steady stare, was watching Edie watch, was making a cold and hostile suggestion. Go away.
Edie said, “Excuse me.” She started for the dining room, to snatch at the opportunity she could see. Then she thought of something else. “Wendy, if Ron is coming for you then you won’t need your car?”
“Why?” said Wendy, sullenly.
“May I borrow it, please?”
“No,” said Wendy.
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t happen to feel like lending you my car, Cousin Edie.”
Edie could tell that Wendy was simply being difficult, for no reason to do with Edie or the car, but just to be difficult. It was intolerable.
“So that is the law?” said Edie in silky fury. “If you don’t feel like it, then you don’t do it? And vice versa?”
“Well, bully for you,” said Wendy. “Right, three times in one day!” She darted around Mrs. Beck to the bottom of the stairs. “I feel like getting dressed,” she said airily.
Mrs. Beck came striding toward Edie and she said, with her brows drawn together in a kind of aching sweetness, her voice purring, “Miss Edith, wouldn’t it be best if you didn’t argue? The automobile, after all, is Miss Wendy’s property.”
Edie said sweetly, “Of course. She may do as she likes … with the automobile.”
She went swinging furiously through the dining room, the pantry, into the big kitchen, to the breakfast room that was only partly partitioned off. Granny was sitting there, very stiff and upright in her chair.
“May I bring you some coffee?” Edie tried to swallow down the signs of her anger.
“Not at all,” said Granny. “We hire a servant.”
So Edie, behind her back, filled a cup and found a sweet roll to put on the saucer. It was all she dared to take. She put the meager breakfast well to the back of a shelf in the pantry, to be smuggled up to Harold Page as her chance arose.
She was thinking, Money? Wendy is marrying for money. Her own money, which she gets when she marries. But she didn’t get it when she married Harold Page, having been too young at that time. Didn’t she know that she was too young, as stipulated in the will? Was money the meaning of that marriage—to Wendy?
As Edie poured coffee for herself, Granny said, “As long as I have exactly what I require for my comfort, Mrs. Beck may run this house. But not unless. Will you go and tell her, please, Edie, that I wish my breakfast served at once, and I wish my toast well buttered?”
And Edie thought, This matters. This matters. Not only that she be
served, but who serves her. She thought, How terrible!
In the big room, Mrs. Beck said, “You mustn’t run away today, lamb.”
Wendy, who had been motionless on the third stair, backed from the banister to the wall and then circled downward. She avoided the woman and danced free in the room. “What do you mean, I mustn’t? It’s if I can, Becky. If Ron gets here in time. And I get away. Before they find out …”
“That Myra is dead?” said Mrs. Beck softly. She took a tiny step. “Why, I told you. I said there wasn’t any hurry. And there isn’t. Not now, lamb. Oh, I knew that you were worried. Lamb, I knew. But nothing is going to happen. They’ll blame the madman. So you needn’t run away and miss”—Mrs. Beck was near enough to touch her now—“all the pretty clothes,” she crooned, “and the presents and the parties and the flowers and the champagne …”
Wendy pushed her hair back with a nervous hand. Mrs. Beck could tell by the change in her eyes that someone was there. Edie called out, “Excuse me, Mrs. Beck? Mrs. Whitman would like her breakfast served and her toast buttered.”
“Yes, miss,” said Mrs. Beck. “Right away.” Her mouth contorted. “I’ll butter it,” she growled in her throat when Edie was gone. She bent to the girl. “Come, lamb, think about your lovely wedding and the whole town to see you in your beautiful gown. And then when you go to Paris, or some happy place, Becky will be along to take care of you and fix your hair. And always take care of you.”
Wendy, still under the woman’s touch, went slowly to the sofa and put one knee on it. Then she collapsed, she let herself fall on the soft face down. She lay quiet.
Mrs. Beck moved around behind the sofa, and looked down. The mop of hair was over the brow. The breathing was quiet. The hand she could see was relaxed and limp, where it lay. Mrs. Beck nodded and went swiftly, almost on tiptoe, away.
She’d have to butter up the old lady, for now. It wouldn’t do to have a run-in with her. Not yet, thought Mrs. Beck with satisfaction. But one of these days.
As for Wendy, poor little lamb, she would be all right. This was all too much for her, so hard … But Mrs. Beck could take care of her. And always would. And always, always would. Mrs. Beck would run the wedding.
She passed Edie in the pantry. This Edith was a nuisance, but she didn’t count for much else, surely.
Edie was carrying the cup of coffee and she fixed her gaze on it, so as not to spill. She had good balance and her legs were lithe to obey her so that she walked fast. She sped through the big empty room. (Wendy must have gone, she thought, on upstairs to dress.) She was halfway, when the turret room door began to open, and by some peripheral sense, Edie knew it. She stopped and looked up.
“Go back!” she warned, low in her throat. “Don’t be seen!”
But he stepped out upon the balcony. Oh, dangerous! “Was it Dr. Wesley on the phone?” he said.
“Oh, no, no, not yet. Oh, listen, be careful.” Edie gazed on the coffee and hurried. It sloshed a little as she went up the stairs.
“He will call,” she said to him, earnestly, as they met on the balcony. “This is for you. Oh, please …”
The cup and saucer went from her hands to his and the liquid sloshed over the rim. “I’m nervous, Harold,” Edie said, surprising herself. “I don’t know … I just sense … Come. Eat. Aren’t you hungry?”
He lurched on his bad foot, turning, going back into the turret room. Without looking behind, Edie closed the door.
Down in the big room, Wendy was lifted up, on the sofa, like a lizard supported by its forefeet. Strands of hair fell over her eyes, but not so many that she had not seen.
Chapter Nine
THE old lady was demanding, very demanding, picky and choosy about every single thing. But Mrs. Beck was humble and strong to endure. Finally the meal was over and the old lady was left with her extra cup of coffee and the morning newspaper, which she seemed to enjoy. She habitually read every line on the society pages, and never made a comment.
Mrs. Beck felt free, at last, to scurry back into the big room.
Wendy was lying on her face, on the sofa.
“Now, lamb,” crooned Mrs. Beck, “you see? Wasn’t Becky right, lamb? Now, you should come and take your breakfast. And make our fine Mr. Ronnie Mungo wait a little bit?”
Wendy lifted up like a lizard, and said hoarsely, “What did you tell me last night?”
“I said there was no need to worry. Didn’t I say that, lamb?”
Wendy got to her knees. “What … did you do?”
Poor lamb. Afraid? “Sssh,” Mrs. Beck gave warning.
“Oh, I … You see my white uniform?” She had been very clever, very resourceful, and it was pleasant to explain. “And I made me a little nurse’s cap, out of a white paper napkin.” She hadn’t been able to find that napkin, this morning, in this room. No matter. It belonged in the house. “Nobody stopped me,” she crooned. “They won’t know. They’ll blame the madman.”
She had been very very careful. She had had to wait a long time, in the hospital, for a safe chance. But she had taken care to arrive after Mr. Whitman would have left. She had hidden her dark coat and had felt forced to go check on it, every now and then, to be sure that no one had put it helpfully elsewhere. She had walked in the corridors, testing her disguise. Carefully. No one had questioned her. But it had taken a long time for her chance to come. Not easy, to have been so patient and careful.
But around midnight, there had been a lot of excitement. By that time, the corridors were quite dim, and when everyone was suddenly so busy, then Mrs. Beck had slipped along and into Miss Myra’s room.
It had been too bad, in a way. Miss Myra had not looked as if she would ever say anything. But if she did, then a long dream died and Mrs. Beck knew how to save it, surely and carefully, and put an end to worry. It was simple, although chancy for a short time, of course. They had left Myra’s door propped open and Mrs. Beck had not dared to close it all the way. But she had dared to put the thing over Myra’s head and step into a shadow and wait. That was all it took. She had been a little nervous, waiting—and afterwards, tearing at it with her nails, to split it and get it off. But she had done it. Quick and easy, once she had wisely waited for her chance.
Then she had found her coat and walked four blocks to a bus, shredding the pliofilm bag as she went and getting rid of pieces. No one had questioned her. Noticed her, even. How smoothly she had done it! No one could possibly know.
“Even if they figure out what happened to her, they’ll just blame the madman,” she soothed. (Why not?)
But Wendy jumped up and whispered hoarsely to her face, “You are a fool! You are stupid!”
“Sssh. No, no. You forget. Myra could have wakened up and said it was you, lamb. We didn’t want that.”
“Stupid old fool!” wailed Wendy.
Mrs. Beck sighed inwardly and began her pursuit. She took tiny steps. She crept nearer. “Ah, now … Ah, now …” But Wendy stopped her own tiny steps away, and tipped her head suddenly to gaze at Mrs. Beck with those brilliant frightened eyes. Defiant?
Mrs. Beck thought she had better let her have it. Good and strong. “You think Myra wouldn’t have told? But oh, my lamb, remember, it wasn’t as if she had just fallen. Oh, she fell. But then you were on her, like a wildcat, and banging her head and crying and carrying on … I saw it. I heard it.”
Let the girl remember how Becky had taken her out of that. “Your daddy would have to do something about you,” she added softly, “if I told them.”
The girl bent, as if her spine snapped. “She shouldn’t have said that I was bad.”
Mrs. Beck was nodding, approvingly.
“And put on that act about an ‘old friend she was so fond of’”—Wendy was mocking viciously—“and not wanting him to get mixed up with me. The hypocrite!”
“Ssh. Sssh. I know. Her and Mr. Mungo.” Mrs. Beck licked her lips. “I told you that, when she first came.”
And so she had. She did it to turn the girl ag
ainst Miss Myra. In those days, Mrs. Beck had been afraid of Myra. So, a nasty secret, to be kept “for Daddy’s sake.” But Wendy blocked from ever being won over to Myra, no matter what blandishments the strange woman in the house might have tried. (In Mrs. Beck’s domain.) It had been a way to handle Wendy, all right. Then. But Mrs. Beck took fleeting note of the fact that Wendy had grown. “For Daddy’s sake” would never work. Not now.
“She shouldn’t have said,” Wendy whimpered, “that I was lost and I was impossible.”
“Now, lamb, don’t get yourself excited. It’s all over. There is no need. Becky’s got you out of the whole thing. Nobody will know.”
Mrs. Beck put out her hand, but Wendy ducked and skipped away. “I’m getting myself out of it,” she said. “I’m going with Ronnie. As soon as he comes. As fast as I can. Today.”
Mrs. Beck had overstepped, somehow. She knew it at once. She sucked her lip. She said quietly, “Where?”
“To Mexico. And then to Paris. And then around the whole world—anywhere, away from here. Away from this whole mess. And away from you, too.”
Well, Wendy had to hurt her sometimes, but only in unimportant ways. This would not do. Mrs. Beck said, “Mr. Mungo promised me—”
“I don’t care what he promised. I don’t want you anymore.”
All was not well—anymore. Nothing was well. My life, thought Mrs. Beck. My whole life! “Oh, but you can’t leave me here, Miss Wendy, lamb! I’m not going to be stuck here with the old lady.”
“I’m going to dress.” The girl ducked around her and ran to the stairs. So? She would do what she wanted, when she wanted? So she thought? You little fool, thought Mrs. Beck. I live your life.
“You may as well not bother,” she said coldly. She wasn’t crooning. Wendy stopped and looked. “When they find out, they’ll make you see the doctors. When they find out,” said Mrs. Beck, taking tiny steps, approaching, “that it was you who knocked your stepmother down and beat her head on the hearth, like a crazy girl.”
Turret Room Page 10
