Midnight at Mallyncourt (14 page)

Perhaps it was the sense of release after almost a week of rain, but I was in a remarkably lighthearted mood. All problems seemed minor, and the “mystery” of the east wing seemed, this morning, an absurdity I had created in my own mind. Not even the argument I had had with Edward after breakfast could deflate my high spirits. I had been in the back hall, ready to go outside, when he stopped me, a stern, icy expression on his face. Without a word, he handed me a cheap, rather battered envelope with a postmark from London.

“What's this?” I inquired.

“Jeffers brought the mail to me in the study. It seems you've received a letter.”

I examined it, surprised, and then I smiled.

“Why—it's from Laverne!” I exclaimed.

“Laverne?”

“One of the actresses from the company. I've been writing to her. I wonder what she's doing in London—”

“You've been writing to her?”

“Of course. We were very close, you see, and—”

“I see that the letter is addressed to Mrs. Edward Baker,” he said in a smooth, silken voice. “That would seem to indicate, Jenny dear, that this—Laverne person knows far more than she should.”

“She knows everything,” I replied. “Oh, don't worry, Edward. Laverne was like a mother to me. She'd never—”

“You told her about our arrangement?” he interrupted.

“Naturally. There's nothing to be—”

He was livid, his mouth tight, his blue eyes crackling with anger. For a moment, I thought he was going to seize me by the shoulders and shake me, but he managed to control his rage, growing more rigid and aloof, and when he spoke, his voice was as smooth, as silken as ever, far more chilling than heated exclamations would have been.

“You realize, of course, that you've jeopardized everything? What if your dear Laverne decided to take advantage of this knowledge? What if she decided to employ a little blackmail? If she knows about the situation, she must know how imperative it is that it be kept secret. You didn't think about that, did you, Jennifer?”

“Laverne would never do a thing like that!” I said angrily.

“Keep your voice down. I don't want the servants to hear.”

“You think everyone is vile, don't you? Just because you—you have no scruples yourself, you think everyone else—”

Flinging an arm around the back of my neck, he clapped his other hand over my mouth before I could say more. He held me like that, a thin smile on his lips as he peered down at me. I tried to break free. His grip tightened. Even though it was firmly controlled, I could feel his rage. I was furious myself as that palm crushed my lips.

“Listen to me, luv,” he said tenderly, “and listen very carefully. You will write to this woman. You will tell her we're leaving for France, that we plan to spend several weeks there and will no longer be at Mallyncourt. If she has blackmail in mind, that should hold her off for a while. You will give the letter to me when you've finished writing it, and afterwards you will write no more. Do you understand?”

I glared up at him with blazing green eyes, stubbornly refusing to nod. The smile tightening on his lips, Edward pressed his palm brutally, forcing my head back against the curve of his arm. The muscles in my neck stretched painfully. I felt I was going to smother.

“Do you understand?” he repeated gently.

I nodded. He held me for a moment more, studying my eyes, and then he released me. My anger hadn't abated one jot. I wanted to slap him across the face. I wanted to drive the toe of my shoe into his shin with a savage kick. I didn't. I didn't dare. Edward seemed amused, as though it had delighted him to display such brutal mastery.

“I hate you!” I whispered fervently.

“I think not, my dear,” he replied, relaxed now. “I could prove it to you if I cared to, but I really haven't the time this morning. I still have to check over some ledgers and make sure Lyman hasn't robbed us blind while I was out scouting for a wife.”

“You—”

“Later, perhaps, I'll prove to you what your feelings toward me really are. It should be a—most pleasant task. In the meantime, think what you like, by all means. Don't forget about that letter, Jenny luv. I'll expect you to give it to me before we go down to dinner tonight.”

Livid, I marched outside, slamming the door behind me in a most undignified manner, and, crossing the veranda, walked briskly to the white marble bench at the back of the lawn. I was so angry that I could hardly tear the letter open, but, curiously enough, the anger soon evaporated. The dazzling sunlight, the warbling birds, the heavenly scent of flowers: All cast their spell over me, and Laverne's cheerful, gossipy letter completed the job. Folding the letter, putting it in the pocket of my skirt, I began to explore the gardens, and now, an hour later, the quarrel with Edward seemed trivial.

He had been right, of course. Under the circumstances, I should never have written to Laverne. I took her letter out, rereading it as rays of mote-filled sunlight slanted through the boughs of the elm. I wasn't really surprised to learn that the Gerald Prince Touring Company was no more. The engagement following Brighton had been disastrous, the box office receipts practically nil, and, to top it off, a fire had broken out backstage, destroying half the scenery and most of the costumes. Putting what money there was in his own pocket, Gerry had taken a train to parts unknown leaving the company stranded and, for the most part, penniless. Laverne had been fortunate. Having saved a few pounds for a rainy day, she departed for London where, miraculously, she learned from an old theatrical crony that the Haymarket needed a wardrobe mistress. She had applied immediately, got the job with no trouble at all and was now happily sewing spangles and feathers on tattered costumes, ironing threadbare gowns and mending holes in worn silk tights. Her letter was full of chatty anecdotes, and she even hinted at a possible romance with the stage manager, a gruff, grizzled chap of forty-some-odd who found her most appealing.

Putting the letter away, I sighed, thinking about those four tumultuous, highly-colored years I had spent with the company. All that seemed so long ago now, a vague, distant memory, although it had been little over a month since I had departed from Brighton. I had been lucky to get away when I did. How like Gerry to leave the troupe stranded. It was a wonder the company hadn't fallen apart years ago, I thought, resting my back against the sun-warmed brown stone wall, watching the play of sun and shadow shifting over the gravel. In the elm, a thrush sang lustily, chest puffed up as he celebrated the radiant blue sky, the heady spring air. I was pleased with Laverne's good fortune. I was eager to write and tell her so. Oh, I would write the letter for Edward, just as he had ordered, but I would write another one secretly. I would explain that she wasn't to write to me again and tell her why, and then I would give the letter to George to mail for me. Ever since I had discovered him with Susie, he was eager to serve me in any way he could.

Idly brushing a twig from my skirt, I thought about the encounter with Edward this morning, no longer angry about it. In fact, it gave me a curious exhilaration to replay it now in memory. He had been vile, true, but at least he had shown
some
emotion. I hated him, I told myself, but, deep down, I knew that wasn't true. So did Edward. I wondered about my feelings toward him. He was a fascinating creature, I couldn't deny that. I remembered that kiss, remembered the sensations I had experienced in his arms. Was I merely an employee to him? If necessary, he was ready to marry me, but that was because of greed. He hadn't mentioned that possible marriage again, but I frequently found myself contemplating it, wondering if I would agree to it. Of course not! I told myself harshly. I wanted only to finish my part of the bargain and leave. I wanted to open my dress shop. I wanted independence. Edward Baker meant nothing to me but five hundred pounds, and I would be delighted to see the last of him.

I sat up with a start as I heard the voices.

“She's such a
drab
child,” Vanessa said.

“She can't help it if she's not beautiful,” Lyman growled.

“I simply fail to understand how
I
could be the mother of such an ugly little sparrow.” Her voice sounded strange, a bit too high-pitched. “She has no wit, Lyman, no sparkle. Surely a gypsy must have switched babies on us.”

“Maybe so,” Lyman rumbled.

The voices were coming from the herb garden, immediately behind me. I was appalled, afraid they might discover me, afraid Lyman might think I was eavesdropping again. Then, as the conversation continued, I frowned, puzzled. Lyman's voice sounded peculiar, too, not nearly deep enough, and when Vanessa spoke again there was a tremulous quality, the sentence ending with a tight little squeak. I realized then that both voices were one, that both were exceptionally clever imitations. A third voice spoke. It was soft and crooning, incredibly tender.

“Don't you fret, precious. Mother loves you.
You
're not beautiful either, but it doesn't matter, you see. I love you just the same—”

It was one of the most heartbreaking things I had ever heard. It hurt, hearing that voice, hearing those words, and I was unable to help myself. Rising, I moved to the wroughtiron gate that led into the herb garden. I opened it very quietly, closed it soundlessly behind me. A small, gnarled apple tree, frothy with pink and white blossoms, grew beside one of the uneven stone walls espaliered with neatly clipped green shrubs. The child sat beneath the tree, her legs folded under her, her simple yellow dress making a wide circle on the grass. In her arms she cradled a shabby, tattered rag doll, and beside her were several more dolls, far more splendid. One was male, black hair painted on china skull, wearing an elegant suit, and one was dressed in a golden gown, obviously the pair she had been using to represent her parents.

In the sunlight, her long straight brown hair gleamed with rich golden highlights. Her pale, thin face had a pinched look, an undeniably plain face, but the sour, belligerent expression was missing. Her gray eyes, ordinarily hostile, were filled with tenderness now as she gazed down at the rag doll, her lashes casting soft shadows over the sharp, angular cheekbones. It was a poignant sight. I felt a lump forming in my throat. Unaware of my presence, Lettice continued to croon, rocking the doll in her arms. Then, gently, she placed it in the doll carriage setting beneath the tree and, sighing, stood up.

She saw me. She bristled. The tenderness left her eyes. They snapped with hostility again. Her hands clenched into tight fists.

“Hello, Lettice,” I said casually.

“What do you want here!”

“I—I don't want anything. I didn't mean to disturb you. I was exploring the gardens, and I smelled the herbs. I thought I'd come and look at them. What a lovely knot garden, all laid out in geometrical designs. I don't know that I've ever seen a prettier one—”

“Go away!”

“You don't want to be friendly?”

“I don't
need
friends. Besides, you're a grown up.”

“Does that mean I can't be your friend?”

“You feel sorry for me. I can see it in your eyes. Poor little Lettice, you're thinking. She's so lonely. She needs someone to take an interest in her. Well, you can forget that. I'm a very
bright
child, and I don't want to be patronized.”

“I see. Well, I suppose I'll just have to do without.”

“Do without what?” she asked harshly, suspicious.

“A friend. You see, I'm lonely, too. Your mother—I might as well be frank, since you're so bright—your mother doesn't care for me, and my husband has been very busy, going over the estate books. I've had nothing to do, no one to talk to.”

“You play cards with my great-uncle. You play several games with him, every afternoon. He used to play cards with
me
.”

“And you resent that. I understand perfectly. Well, that's all right. I'd much prefer to have an
adult
friend anyway. Why should I want to be friends with a child? I've no idea.”

Turning my back to her, I strolled over to the edge of the knot garden and peered at it. It was small, a patchwork of color, and beyond grew the beds of tangy-scented herbs. I could feel the child's eyes glaring at me as I bent to examine a sprig, touch a petal. When I turned, her face was like the face of a fiery young Amazon warrior.

“You still here?” I asked idly.

“I was here
first!
”

“My, you
are
a shrewish little thing.”

“You don't like me, do you?”

“Of course not. No one likes a shrew.”

“I don't
want
anyone to like me.”

“I quite understand, dear. Do go on about your business. Don't let me bother you. Oh my, what lovely dolls—” I exclaimed, pretending to notice them for the first time.

“You're too old to be interested in dolls,” she said scathingly.

“I know, dear. I gave them up
years
ago, but seeing them reminds me of Amanda.”

“Amanda?”

“She was such a dear thing—I loved her deeply. When I was lonely, when I was sad, I'd talk to Amanda. It was—very comforting. She had big blue eyes. She looked up at me. She seemed to understand every word I was saying. Poor dear, she's stuck away in a trunk now.”

“You still have her?”

“Naturally. I used to make clothes for her. I made the loveliest little gowns. Hats, too. I covered cardboard with silk, pasted tiny colored feathers on them, and—oh my, you probably think I'm patronizing you! I shouldn't have brought it up.”

Lettice scowled, intrigued in spite of herself but determined not to show it.

“Amanda's a
stupid
name for a doll!”

“You think so? Perhaps you're right, but I was inordinately fond of her just the same. She was quite the best dressed doll you'd ever hope to see. I wonder if I can still make doll clothes? It's been such a long time since I've made any. Oh well, why should I
want
to?”