Curse of Black Tor (3 page)

“You haven't told me why Josephine needs a companion.”

“She's made three suicide attempts in the past year. Then there's the occult fixation, of course. But she's not a psychotic. Her behavior is sometimes—bizarre, though usually rational in terms of her beliefs.
”

Martha didn't say anything. Any psychotic behavior could be called normal if judged on the basis of the insane individual's beliefs.

“Josephine leads a rather restricted life at present. She needs someone who understands her, someone versed in psychiatry. And, I've felt, someone near her in age. I do hope you'll stay with her.”

What was there to return to if she didn't stay? Martha asked herself. Whatever abnormalities Josephine might later display, on the surface she seemed only a somewhat immature young woman. Why not remain here at Black Tor and try to help her? “What about Josephine's medical care?” she inquired. “You do have a doctor seeing her?”

“A psychiatrist, Dr. Louis Marston. Naturally you'll be talking to him later on.”

Martha nodded. “I’d like to stay.”

Jules touched her arm lightly. “I know you'll be good for Josephine.”

Again Martha was terribly aware of his nearness. “Do—are you—who else lives here?” she asked, hating herself for the awkwardness of the question. If he had a wife, what would she do—turn off her reaction? Turn off a reaction she had no control over? She remembered her total response to Johann, and the memory frightened her. Is that the only way she could react to a man—all or nothing? She eyed Jules warily.

“Matthew—he's Natalie's husband. She's my father's sister, now Natalie Drew. My father's an invalid. He'd enjoy having you around if he felt better—he always had an eye for a pretty girl. Charn, of course, and another cousin, an elderly one from my mother's family—Louella Gallion. And Charn's sister, Cathleen. She's over in the States at present, but she'll be returning. An artist of sorts, our Cathleen. Very mod.”

No wife.

“Do you have a family nearby?” Jules asked.

“No. And that reminds me—I do have a friend in Seattle. You wrote me at her address. She seemed to think I'd have a problem working in Canada. Is there anything special I should do?”

“There's nothing you need do. As a private citizen I can hire anyone I choose. I don't know how it would be if you wanted to work as a nurse at a hospital here—perhaps your friend is right. But in this case…” He shrugged. “I'll see to any problems relating to your continued stay in Canada.”

All at once she felt far from home. Home? she asked herself. You have no home. Why not Canada?

“Your parents aren't living?” Jules wanted to know.

Martha shook her head. She'd been a late-in-life only child, her father had passed away when she was in high school and her mother, thank God, had died before the horror of Johann's death.

“You will, of course, be dining with us,” Jules said.

She stared at him in surprise before she realized there'd be servants in a house this size and she wasn't to eat with them. Not only Henry, but a cook, maids and likely a housekeeper, since Jules wasn't married. Unless Natalie acted as such. Martha felt alien. She'd had plenty of money, she and Johann, but they'd lived simply in a condominium apartment with a cleaning woman two days a week. This rambling house had stood there since 1880 and must require a small army of servants to keep up.

“I'll ask Ruth to show you to your room.” Jules touched a small panel on the wall and after a moment spoke into it. “She'll meet you in the foyer,” he finished.

Ruth was a middle-aged woman who wore a gray uniform with a white apron. Martha, astonished, followed her up the curving staircase. She'd had no idea maids still wore uniforms.

“The aquamarine room will be yours, miss,” Ruth told her, indicating an open door off the second-floor hallway.

Martha was relieved to find that the only stuffed animal in the bedroom was a yellow canary in a gilt cage. The room was furnished with heavy oak pieces and decorated in aquamarine. The effect was quite charming, with the delicate color giving a lift to the furniture. Tall narrow windows overlooked a formal garden, and Martha decided she faced out onto what might be called the front yard in a less pretentious home.

“Shall I unpack for you, miss?” Ruth asked, and Martha noticed that her suitcases were at the foot of the bed.

“Thank you, I'll take care of that.”

Ruth turned to leave, hesitated, then said, “Mrs. Drew won't like your pants at the dinner table, miss.”

“What? Oh—thanks for telling me, Ruth.” As the maid went out, Martha frantically reviewed her wardrobe. She had a long dress that would do, she thought, but she hesitated to wear it the first night at Black Tor. Otherwise, she'd packed almost all casual clothes—pants, jeans, one uniform—just in case—and a dress that might be all right for shopping but might not do for the dinner table. Evidently at Black Tor one dressed for dinner, despite Jules's claim that the household was informal.

Martha unpacked, then glanced at her watch in dismay. Only three o'clock. What was she to do until dinner was served? Should she try to find Josephine? Thinking of the rambling house, she concluded that she probably couldn't find her. She sighed and sat on the bed, then finally stretched out on top of the coverlet.

Had she acted impulsively? Was her attraction to Jules what had influenced her to take the job despite its inauspicious beginning with the stuffed cat? She shook her head. Stuffed animals. The killer whale in the foyer, the black-and-white motif of the Garrards'—

Martha drifted. There was the sullen sea, not quite an ocean though the water was salt. Gray. Then the face, bearded, a black beard, curly, arrogant. No one she knew, and yet a haunting familiarity. A slash of white through the beard, like the streak in Jules's hair. Fear gripped Martha. She was unable to breathe, to speak. A weight sat on her chest.

“Hello.”

She couldn't respond.

“Are you asleep?”

Martha opened her eyes and gazed into a childish face inches from her own. Hazel eyes stared into hers. She shook her head in confusion and tried to sit up.

Chapter Three

“You’re not an old lady,” the little girl said.

Martha managed to shift the child's weight off her chest and sit up. She looked at the girl and was startled. A white wing of hair streaked the otherwise black curls.

“My name's Sarah. Yours is Martha, isn't it?”

Martha nodded, still examining the girl with interest. Whose child was she? Jules hadn't mentioned her. Obviously she was a Garrard. “How old are you, Sarah?” she inquired.

“I'm six.” The hazel eyes regarded Martha thoughtfully. “I'm not supposed to ask you. Aunt Natalie says it's rude after you get grown up.
”

“Well, I don't mind telling you—I'm twenty-eight.”

“Will I have to call you 'miss'? When Miss Eccles was here, she got mad if I didn't. Her first name was Clara, but hardly anyone could call her that.”

“You may call me 'Martha.'”

Sarah smiled. “Miss Eccles was real old and her knees used to hurt and she couldn't climb up the stairs very good and Jo and me used to laugh but Aunt Natalie said that wasn't nice.”

“Josephine?”

“I call her Jo, but no one else can. She says that's her special name. I'm the only one who can ever call her that now.”

“So you and Josephine are friends?”

“Sometimes. When she isn't mad at me. She gets mad easy. Are you going to get dressed up for dinner?”

Martha glanced at her watch. “Yes, I’d better change.”

Sarah trailed her to the closet and watched while she extracted a simple blue sheath, the only street-length dress she'd brought. “I like blue,” Sarah said. “Your eyes are pretty.”

“Thank you. I think you're pretty, too. Ragged jeans and all.”

Sarah grinned, her eyes lighting up. For a second Martha caught a fleeting resemblance to—whom? The cousin she'd met downstairs? But she couldn't pin it down, and then the feeling was gone.

“I don't get to eat in the dining room yet because Uncle Jules says children aren't civilized until they're twelve or older.”

“He's your uncle?”

Sarah shrugged. “Aunt Natalie makes me call everyone 'aunt' or 'uncle.' She gets real mad if I forget. But I still say Jo when Aunt Natalie isn't there. She'll probably make me call you miss.”

‘Miss’ because I'm not family, just a servant, Martha thought. No ‘Aunt Martha,’ for a servant. “It's 'Miss Jamison,' in case you have to,” Martha told Sarah.

“You're nice. Will you be my friend?”

“I'd like to be friends.” Who was this little girl who apparently didn't have a father or mother within the family here at Black Tor?

Martha found her necklace of silver and unpolished coral to wear with her blue sheath. This was as much as she could manage toward dressing up.

“Jo's coming,” Sarah said.

Several minutes passed before there was a token knock at the door and Josephine pushed it open. Sarah must have unusually keen hearing.

“I see you've met Sarah,” Josephine said. She looked at the little girl. “You'd better scoot.” Sarah went out without another word.

“She can be a nuisance,” Josephine said. “But she's lonely.”

“Doesn't she go to school?”

“No.” Josephine frowned. “Cousin Louella acts as Sarah's tutor because she was a teacher before she came to live at Black Tor. But Louella's another old woman. This house reeks of age and death. Sometimes I can hardly stand it.” She hit the gilt cage, and the canary swung back and forth crazily.

Martha said nothing.

“Look—about the tower. I—I really didn't know you weren't another of them—those grim old wardens Aunt Natalie's been foisting on me. I glanced out and saw Henry help you from the car and I just—well, I had to do something or burst. Did you ever feel you were coming to pieces, fragments showering around and about so that you'd never find them all and be whole again?”

“Yes,” “Martha said.

Josephine had been facing away from her, gazing out the window, but she swung around and faced Martha.

“You mean that, don't you?” She sighed. “Maybe you can understand, then.” She moved closer to Martha. “Did Jules tell you about me? Did he tell you I was crazy because I believe in signs and omens? Did he tell you I tried to kill myself?”

“Well—not exactly like that.”

Josephine turned her head and saw the silver-and-coral necklace on the dressing table. Picking it up, she ran the necklace through her fingers, “Coral is of the sea, and the sea is lucky for you,” she intoned, her dark eyes fixed on Martha's. “But not for me. Death waits for me there somehow, someday.”

Martha swallowed, willing herself not to show any emotion, though the words made her spine tingle.

“This necklace will act as an amulet for you because of your affinity for the sea,” Josephine went on, “and also because a friend gave it to you. A gift is always more potent than what we buy for ourselves.”

Ginetha gave me the coral necklace last Christmas, Martha thought. She's the only real friend I've ever had. A good guess on Josephine's part—but only a guess, of course.

“I like to wear the necklace,” she began, “but....”

“But you don't believe any of the rest of it—you think I’m crazy!”

“Because I don't believe anything you say to me doesn't make you crazy,” Martha said. “I'm not—not versed in the occult and can't accept what you're telling me. Nothing more.”

“Jules told you to watch me, I know he did. But I didn't try to kill myself. Sometimes I feel there's no use in living, but I'll wait for my death, not leap to meet it. I did almost die three times in the past year, that much is true.”

“I—he merely told me I was to be your companion.”

Josephine stared at her, not moving.

Martha tentatively extended a hand. “I wouldn't know how to be a—a warden, Josephine. It's presumptuous to say I'll be a friend, but I'll try to be a friendly companion.”

When Josephine still made no move, Martha touched her arm gently, then withdrew her hand.

After a moment Josephine said, “I have to change for dinner.” She nodded at Martha's bed, where the blue dress lay. “I see someone filled you in about Aunt Natalie.”

“I’m afraid I didn't think of dressing for dinner when I packed,” Martha said.

“Who does anymore? At least not all the time. But at Black Tor we might as well be back in the nineteenth century, as far as Natalie's notions go. You'll see.” Josephine started for the door.

“Will you come back and show me where we're to dine? I'm not too sure of where I am in this house yet.”

Josephine half-smiled. “You never will be, either. “I’m not and I’ve lived here most of my life. But I’ll show you where the dining room is, anyway. My bedroom is next to yours.” she gestured.

A half-hour later, Josephine reappeared, wearing an ecru muslin dress that fell to the floor. Handmade lace frothed across the bodice and decorated the sleeves. Very simple, but Martha's practiced eye told her the dress was expensive.