Aunt Dimity's Good Deed (16 page)

And if Gerald went so far out of his way to visit his uncle in Kent, was it really so incredible to think that he might make a second monthly train trip to visit his father in Bedfordshire? Arthur could laugh all he liked, but I found it quite easy to believe. I reached over to plump Reginald’s cushions, then leaned back in my chair and tried to clear the red-gold haze from my mind.

“I’m convinced that Williston reacts well to Gerald,” Sir Poppet was saying, “because Gerald respects his delusions. He always brings a suitable present for his uncle—a silver card case, an enameled snuffbox, a gold watch-fob, that sort of thing.”

I wondered what kind of delusions demanded such expensive bibelots, but decided not to press the issue. I’d find out for myself soon enough. “When can we see Uncle Williston?”

“This morning would be best,” said Sir Poppet. “I’ve had my secretary advise him of your visit, and he seems to be looking forward to it. I believe that these historical discussions may prove beneficial. Are you familiar with his condition?”

“I know what caused it,” I replied. “His wife and his brother-in-law, Douglas ...” I left the distasteful details unspoken.

Sir Poppet nodded, to show that he understood, then swung his legs over the side of his chair. “Do you feel up to a stroll, Ms. Shepherd?”

We tilted a green-and-white-striped café umbrella to keep Reg and Bertie from fading in the sun, and made our way around the side of the house to a well-shaded path that dropped gradually to the edge of the small lake. Nell and Paul were on the far shore, tossing bread crusts to a cloud of clamorous swans, and they didn’t seem to notice our approach. Sir Poppet walked slowly, gazing down at the path.

“Williston was severely traumatized when he lost his wife,” he said. “He dealt with the trauma by withdrawing from the world entirely. In effect, he became someone else.” Sir Poppet clasped his hands behind his back. “I won’t bore you with technical jargon, Ms. Shepherd. I’m sure you’ve heard of patients who claim to be Sherlock Holmes or Mother Teresa or the pope. Williston chose something a little closer to home. One of his own ancestors, in fact.” Sir Poppet stopped walking and turned to face me. “Our Williston is firmly convinced that he’s the twin brother who took over the family firm in the early eighteenth century.”

“Uncle Williston thinks he’s ... Sir Williston?” I said, in some confusion.

“The diligent, conscientious Sir Williston,” Sir Poppet elaborated, “who harbored a deep hatred for a reprobate brother who went to the colonies.”

“Like the hatred Uncle Williston harbors for a reprobate brother-in-law who went to Canada,” I said, beginning to get the picture.

“Precisely.” Sir Poppet nodded. “The parallels are obvious. It isn’t difficult to understand why Williston identifies so strongly with his ancestor.”

“And you think our visit might help?” I asked.

Sir Poppet turned to gaze reflectively at Nell, who’d walked a little ways away from Paul to feed some of the outlying swans. “As I said, Ms. Shepherd—who knows? I’ve been attempting to get through to him for two years, without success. I’m willing to try a new approach.”

 

Cloverly House was a redbrick Georgian not unlike Sir Poppet’s residence. There were no bars on the windows, and the front lawn was dotted with oaks and maples, beds of cheerful red geraniums, and well-dressed patients sitting on wooden benches or strolling with white-clad attendants. Overhead, congregating clans of swallows and house martins filled a sky hazed with dust from the hops harvest—Emma wasn’t the only gardener hastening to reap the rewards of August.

Sir Poppet breezed through the entrance hall to his ground-floor office, where he stopped to confer with his secretary in professional undertones before leading us up a curving staircase to a red-carpeted corridor. When I commented on how wide-open the place seemed, he explained that violent patients were not admitted to Cloverly House and that a variety of carefully concealed surveillance devices allowed his staff to monitor the movements of every resident.

Uncle Williston was a fortunate man, I thought. Cloverly House was more like an upscale country club than a home for the mentally ill. There were paintings on the walls, flower-filled vases on the tables, and a fresh, clean scent in the air—not a hint of the antiseptic tang that made hospital visits so trying.

Nell had dressed for the occasion in a high-necked, long-sleeved dress in white georgette. She looked like a Victorian valentine, with her daintily ruffled collar and cuffs, but she cut the sweetness by assuming an air of unapproachable dignity—a silent reproof, I was sure, for my refusal to change out of my old sweater and jeans. I didn’t care what she thought. My touchy tummy approved of what I was wearing, and as long as it was happy, I was happy.

Sir Poppet stopped at a door halfway down the corridor. “Here we are. I’ll come back in a hour, to see how you’re getting on.”

I gave the door a nervous glance. I hadn’t expected to face Williston alone.

“Don’t worry,” Sir Poppet said. “We’ll be listening.” He winked, turned on his heel, and strode back down the corridor toward the staircase.

“Let’s hear it for carefully concealed surveillance devices,” I muttered. I glanced at Nell and squared my shoulders. “Here goes,” I said, and rapped gently on the door.

“Come,” said a deep voice.

Nell followed me into a spacious drawing room that wouldn’t have looked out of place in number three, Anne Elizabeth Court—or the eighteenth century. The walls were painted a pale leaf-green, damask drapes covered the windows, and a mirror-bright oak floor reflected fine antique furnishings. There were candle sconces on the walls and oil lamps on the tables, but no electric lights, no telephone, television, radio—no visible concession whatsoever to the modern world.

Uncle Williston sat in a shield-back chair at a Queen Anne kneehole desk, with his back to the door. Even seated, he was an imposing figure, as large as Arthur, but with none of his son’s softness. He wore a black tailcoat, black knee-breeches, white stockings, and square-toed black shoes with silver buckles. His long white hair had been pulled back into a softly curling ponytail that was held in place by a black velvet ribbon. I could see the feathery tip of a quill pen bobbing in his right hand and hear the scratch of its sharpened tip across the paper. At our entrance, he stopped writing and turned slowly, his back erect, his face an expressionless mask.

Then he gasped. Looking straight past me, he flung his arms wide and threw himself to his knees with a cry that was almost a sob.

“Sybella! I knew you’d come!”

Nell’s eyes were as wide as a deer’s in headlights. I’d warned her about Uncle Williston’s delusions, but she obviously hadn’t expected to be included in them. Nor, for that matter, had I, and I watched in wary anticipation as the old man used the chair seat to lever himself to his feet.

I was struck at once by Uncle Williston’s resemblance to Arthur and, by extension, Bill. I’d always suspected that my husband had grown his beard to conceal a weak chin, but there was nothing weak about Uncle Williston’s cleanshaven features. He had a strong jawline, a fine, high forehead, and the same expressive brown eyes that Bill hid behind black-framed glasses. If he aged as well as Uncle Williston, I mused, Bill would one day be a distinguished-looking elder statesman.

When Williston had drawn himself to his full height, he straightened his snowy neckcloth, ran a hand over his white hair, and shook out the wrist frills that fell from the sleeves of his black tailcoat. His brown eyes remained fixed on Nell’s face as he crossed over to me and, much to my surprise, pressed a glittering one-pound coin into my palm.

“I owe you much for bringing forth my lady,” he murmured. “You may go now.”

“Stay!” cried Nell, and I was perversely pleased to detect a note of panic in her voice.

Uncle Williston, however, nodded knowingly. “I understand,” he said to her. “You cannot maintain your present form unaided.” He gestured to a gilded footstool beside the door. “You may wait here, Magister,” he told me.

I sat.

Williston turned to Nell.
“Can
you take tea, my lady?” he asked. His question confirmed a suspicion that made this extremely strange encounter even stranger. Uncle Williston, it seemed, thought he was addressing a ghost. And he seemed to think
I’d
summoned her.

Nell swallowed hard, then swung into action. She raised her chin, met Uncle Williston’s gaze directly, and refused his offer. “I have not come here today for food or drink, my lord.”

“Indeed.” Williston nodded gravely. “Pray sit with me awhile, then. We have much to discuss.”

“And little time to discuss it,” Nell put in quickly. “I must return whence I came before sunset.”

Williston’s face darkened with distress, but he quickly mastered his emotions. “Then we must make the most of every moment. Come, my lady.” He motioned for Nell to take a seat on a backless settee in front of the windows.

Williston’s vocabulary was not, strictly speaking, of the eighteenth century, and his mannered delivery brought to mind the fruity accents used by second-rate Shake spearean actors to signal the audience that they were hearing something highbrow that had been written sometime prior to the Great Depression. He stood with one white-stockinged leg well forward, walked with a mincing gait ill-suited to his size, and bowed with a flurry of wrist frills that would have been farcical if his expression hadn’t been so sincere.

I felt invisible in my perch near the door, but I didn’t object. I was only too glad to be relegated to the sidelines. The game being played in Uncle Williston’s mind was way out of my league.

Nell, on the other hand, was in her element. Once she’d recovered from her initial shock, she’d slipped into Sybella with an ease that took my breath away. She’d been brilliant as Nicolette, playing a role she’d invented; here she was faced with the much more difficult task of breathing life into a character about whom she knew absolutely nothing. Her concentration was disturbingly intense. Nell had lurked just below the surface of Nicolette, but she’d vanished into Sybella without a trace.

Williston remained standing, though there was room enough for two on the settee. “I told Mother you would come back, Sybella,” he said, “but she did not believe me.”

“It is the power of your belief that brought me,” Nell informed him.

“And the power of my anger that sent you thither.” Williston flung himself to his knees again and held out his hands beseechingly. “Can you ever forgive me, Sybella? I wish fervently to atone for what I’ve done.”

The undiluted agony in Williston’s voice brought a lump to my throat, but Nell was made of sterner stuff. I could almost hear her mental keyboard clicking as she calculated the best response. Too harsh, and Williston might clam up; too kind, and he might become too besotted to stay on track.

“I cannot forgive you,” she began, and as Williston’s shoulders started to slump, she added hastily, “until you have told me all.”

“All?” Williston cast a haunted glance over his shoulder. “I cannot tell you all, my lady. Not even now. Mother would hear of it. I would be punished.”

“Then tell me what you can,” Nell countered with infinite patience.

Williston’s knees cracked as he rosc slowly to his feet and asked for Nell’s permission to sit. At her nod, he flipped his tails out with a practiced hand, placed his feet with the precision of a dancing master, and lowered himself onto the settee, half-turned to face her. Nell looked as fragile as a Dresden shepherdess beside his towering figure, but her regal bearing gave her an aura of power that somehow made Williston seem smaller and more vulnerable than she.

“You were meant to marry me, Sybella,” Williston said plaintively. “That is why we took you in and managed your estates. It was clearly understood by all concerned that you were meant for me. You must have known.”

Nell nodded.

“You were so pure, so innocent,” Williston went on. “Mother warned you to be vigilant, but you were not. You succumbed to his advances. You believed his lies. You allowed yourself to be sullied by his touch.” Williston turned his head to one side, and I saw that his eyes were glistening with tears. “I could not allow it to go on, but Mother would not permit me to challenge him. It would hurt the firm, she said. The firm, always the firm ...” Williston bowed his head and groaned.

“What did you do?” Nell coaxed.

Williston straightened and his face went strangely slack. “I had no choice,” he answered, in an eerie monotone. “Surely you must see that. I had to keep you from corruption at his hands.”

“Tell me what you did,” Nell pressed.

“You know the first part,” Williston told her in the same hollow voice. “But the second part came ... after. It is the latter part, the theft, for which I can still make amends and, perhaps, earn your forgiveness.”

“How can you make amends?” Nell asked.

Williston rose and, as though sleepwalking, crossed slowly to the kneehole desk and cleared the writing surface of pens and papers. He reached underneath it, to twist something I couldn’t see, and the writing surface yawned open, revealing a hidden compartment beneath. He drew from the compartment a box. It was made of polished fruitwood, with splendidly embellished silver hinges. Williston carried the box with him to the settee.

“I can never repay you fully, Sybella,” he said. “I can never return to you the life you should have had, but I can restore a small part of what was taken. Do with it as you will. It is yours.”

Williston presented the box to Nell, who accepted it gravely and stood. I could no longer hear the keyboard clicking in her mind, or detect any sign of calculation in her actions as she lightly brushed her fingertips across Williston’s anxious brow.

“Torment yourself no more,” she said. “You are forgiven.”