Room Beneath the Stairs (14 page)

“Oh. That Henrietta. She was a terrier, Grey's pet. His parents got her for him when he was a baby. I think Grey loved that dog more than anything in the world. Then.…” He paused, suddenly guarded.

“What happened?”

“She died,” he said tersely.

“How did it—”

“Look,” he said, changing the subject abruptly, “I meant what I said back there!” His voice was harsh, belligerent. “Don't go wandering off by yourself. I may not be there to rescue you next time.”

His abrupt change of mood startled me. “There was no need to rescue me,” I protested. “I was merely—”

“Just do as I say!” he snapped. “Stay away from the caves. Stay out of the woods. You could easily get lost. If you want to take a walk, walk in the gardens. Stay in sight of the house.”

“You have no right to—”

He stalked off before I could finish the sentence. Puzzled by his sudden outburst of irritation, I watched his lean, black-clad figure climbing the steps and disappearing in the shadowy recesses of the veranda. In a moment there was a loud bang as the front door slammed violently. I wondered what I could possibly have said or done to cause, the explosion. One minute he was friendly, the next he was seething. He was volatile, completely unpredictable. I frowned, thoroughly bewildered by his strange conduct.

As I stood there by one of the evergreens, I saw Grey strolling aimlessly across the patio at the side of the house. He wore clinging brown denim trousers and a soft tan pullover sweater, looking like a robust college boy with his thick blond hair ruffling in the breeze. Catching sight of me, he waved and started toward me with an easy, athletic grace. Joining me, he caught hold of my arms and peered down at me jovially.

“Morning, luv,” he said. He smiled amiably and then kissed me. It was a long, lingering kiss.

“I've missed you,” I said.

“Yes?” He was pleased.

“Judy said you'd gone down to the village.”

“Yes, I—uh—had a couple of things to attend to.”

“Oh?”

“Nothing important.”

His voice was light and evasive, but I didn't pursue the matter. It wasn't that important.

“Hungry?” he asked.

“Very.”

“Cook's making a stupendous lunch, all my favorite things. It should be ready in a little while. Then we'll have the whole afternoon together. What would you like to do?”

“I haven't any idea.”

“No?” He grinned, slipping an arm around my shoulders. “We'll think of something,” he said huskily.

“Will we?”

“I imagine so. I just imagine we will.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

Wearing a dark garnet dress, my hair sleekly brushed, I started downstairs for dinner. It had been a wonderful afternoon. Boisterous, playful, Grey had shown me through the house, pulling me from room to room, pointing out various treasures, pushing me behind a door for a lusty kiss. As enthusiastic as a child, he taught me how to play billiards in the billiard room, laughing when I made mistakes, sulking a bit when I finally beat him. Later we had gone up to the bedroom, and now, moving down the wide hall, I felt happy and fulfilled … and disappointed in myself.

I had been so full of good intentions. I had intended to have a serious talk with him today, to point out the many reasons why we couldn't stay here on the island. I had intended to persuade him to leave, but Grey had teased me, wooed me, made me forget about everything but the sheer joy of being with him. It had been a wonderful afternoon, yes, but how many more would we be able to share in this atmosphere? We would talk tomorrow. Tomorrow I would be more resolute, not so easily charmed and distracted.

Lamps burned warmly in the main hall downstairs, but there was no one about. Although there were distant, muffled noises from the kitchen, the rooms down here seemed curiously deserted, like a ship at sea with no passengers, no crew. Glancing at the wall clock, I saw the reason why. I had come down a good half hour too early, having completely lost track of time after we went up to the bedroom. Grey had left to change for dinner, and I had changed and come on down without consulting the clock. Instead of going back up to my room, I decided to browse in the library for a while. Grey had whisked me through it after lunch, but I hadn't had enough time to do it justice.

Moving down a hall branching off the main one, I turned a corner and eventually found the room. There were open French windows leading out to the veranda that overlooked the patio. Unlike the other rooms with their gleaming whitewashed walls, this one was somber; any wall space not given to bookshelves was covered with dark paneling. Lamps with green glass shades burned, spilling light on the faded Aubusson carpet, illuminating the great marble fireplace and the long brown leather sofa, gilding the thousands of books in their dull orange and gold and brown leather bindings. A light breeze swept through the windows, rustling the stiff green broadcloth draperies.

A painting of Carlotta hung over the fireplace, dominating the room. Done in the arty style of the thirties, it depicted a thin, wiry young woman, slouching stylishly, wearing a tailored white linen suit. One hand rested on her hip. The other waved a long cigarette holder. Blonde curls clustered about her skull in a short, bobbed cap. Her scarlet lips smiled wickedly, one brow was arched, and her blue eyes were filled with mischief. She was not at all pretty, but even in the painting she seemed to be charged with energy, radiating vitality. Dashing, rakish, she seemed impatient to rush to a party or organize a new, fun game to amuse her friends. This was a woman who found the world a fascinating place. I wondered what overwhelming grief and disappointment had caused her to turn her back on it and become a recluse in her tower apartment.

Turning away from the portrait, I spent perhaps fifteen minutes leisurely examining the exquisitely bound volumes that filled the shelves from floor to ceiling. They were, for the most part, the standard classics and dull sets of essays and history, undoubtedly purchased to fill space, the kind of books many own but few actually read. The really interesting books were crammed in various nooks and crannies in Carlotta's room, stacked haphazardly on the floor, battered and worn but, unquestionably, read. Disappointed, I turned to leave, and it was then that I heard the footsteps in the hall outside, approaching the room.

I don't know what prompted me to act as I did, but I dashed out of the room through one of the French windows, reaching the secluded darkness of the veranda just as Evan Porter and his mother stepped into the library. I should have gone on around the house, but I didn't. I stood back against the railing, watching them, fully aware that they couldn't see me. Helen, in an ivory silk suit, emerald clips on her ears, looked angry, shrewish. Evan, in dark maroon jacket and black trousers, seemed bored, his manner one of patient endurance.

“I don't care what you say!” she cried testily. “Something has to be done. We can't just—”

“Calm down, Mother. It'll all work out.”

“How can you
say
that? If you knew the agony I've gone through! After all these years—all these years of caution and planning and close supervision—to have that little tramp—”

“She's not a tramp,” he said lazily. “In fact, she's rather charming. Naive, of course, with no idea what she's gotten into, but charming nevertheless.”

“She's won you over, I see. It didn't take long!”

“This isn't her fault, Mother.”

“Isn't it? She probably tricked him into marrying her.”

“I doubt that,” he replied.

“How can you defend her? She's upset everything!”

“I'm not defending her. I'm merely trying to be sensible.”

“Sensible!” she cried. “We've got to
do
something.”

“What would you suggest?”

“We've got to get rid of her, Evan. Some way or other we've got to get rid of her.”

Evan scowled darkly. “She won't be bought off. I suggested something of the sort, and she almost flew in my face. What else do you have in mind? Would you like for me to strangle her? Or perhaps I could toss her over the patio wall.”

“Don't be facetious. This is serious!”

“I realize that, but I also realize that hysteria isn't going to accomplish anything. We have to keep calm for the time being and let things work themselves out.”

“She's no fool. What if she discovers—”

“We'll just have to be extra careful and make sure she doesn't. Burke is extremely vigilant. He's as aware of the danger as the rest of us are. He knows his job. He'll do it.”

“I wish I could be sure of that,” Helen Porter said grimly.

Stepping over to the coffee table in front of the sofa, she groped in a flat bronze box for a cigarette and lit it with the matching lighter. For a moment she smoked vigorously, puffing rapidly, exhaling clouds of swirling smoke, and then she peered up at the painting of her mother. Her expression tightened.

“What about
her?
” she snapped. “That girl was in her room this morning. What if mother says something? What if she—”

“Carlotta's not going to say anything,” Evan replied patiently. “She closed her mind to it long ago. It's something she doesn't think about. I doubt if she even knows for sure—”

“She knows, all right! She's never admitted it. She's never faced the truth, but she knows. Why do you think she stays up there, driving the rest of us wild with her pranks? She knows. She has from the first.”

“Let's leave Carlotta out of this.”

“How
could
he?” she said. “How could Grey have done this to us? He's always been irresponsible. I knew we couldn't go on much longer. I
knew
something like this would happen.”

“Did you?” he asked coldly. “Then I suggest you take some of the blame yourself. You had a chance to do something years ago, but you didn't. You were too proud, afraid your smart friends in London would find out about it and drop you. I pleaded with you to—”

“I did what I had to do,” she retorted. “Your father agreed. He had a business to think about. I went through hell trying to make the right decision, trying to do the right thing, and—”

Evan made an impatient gesture, frowning. “All right, all right, we've been through this before! You did what you had to do. Okay. I accept that, I won't argue the point, but what's done is done! Grey married the girl and brought her to the house, knowing full well she might find out. If she does we'll just have to cope.”

“What if she does? What if she decides to talk …”

“We'll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

“I can't accept that. The family would be—”

“She
is
family, dammit! She's Grey's wife.”

Helen Porter stared at her son fiercely, and then, abruptly, all the anger seemed to go out of her. She seemed suddenly exhausted, worn, battered by life. Despite her chic ivory suit and emerald earrings, despite the sleek, stylish ebony chignon, she looked crumpled, somehow pathetic. Evan made no effort to console her. Jaw thrust out, he stared at her with a stubborn expression. A long minute passed. Another. Helen Porter sighed and drew herself up, summoning command, and when she spoke she was as cold and regal as she had been the first time I saw her. It was an amazing transformation.

“We'd better go in to dinner,” she said. Her voice was like steel. “I suppose I'll have to be polite to her. We've got to keep up a good front.”

Her son smiled a cynical smile. “That shouldn't be hard. After all,” he said bitterly, “we've been doing it for years.”

They left the library. Outside, on the veranda, I felt a cold chill. Although the night was warm, I was shivering. A wind rustled the shrubbery. The leaves made a crisp, brittle noise. Behind me, far below, the waves swept against the rocks with a low, monotonous sound. I was alone in the dark, and I was afraid. What were they talking about? The question repeated itself in my mind, over and over again.
What were they talking about?

I didn't know, but I knew I had been entirely wrong before. I had assumed they were distressed because they'd planned for Grey to marry someone else. When I confronted them with it, neither had denied it, but neither had admitted it either. Nor had Grey. He had been extremely evasive when I asked him about another woman. He had pacified me. He had distracted me with vows of love. All three of them had let me go on thinking that … because they were hiding something else. It had something to do with Burke, with Evan's warning this afternoon to stay in sight of the house, with Carlotta's decision to stay behind locked doors.

I don't remember going back into the library, nor do I remember passing down hallways. One moment I was huddled there in the darkness, and the next I was in the main hallway, calm, completely in control of myself, watching Grey coming down the stairs. He wore an exquisitely cut navy blue Edwardian suit and a white cambric shirt with ruffled front. His dark blond waves were neatly combed. I watched him descend—a stranger, a man I didn't know.

“Hi, luv,” he said affably. “I went by your room to get you, but you'd already come down. Smashing dress. I love that color.”

“Hello, Grey.”

“What's the matter? You seem—distant.”

“Do I? I suppose I'm tired.”

“Yeah,” he said, grinning. “That was a pretty active afternoon we put in, what with the tour and the billiards and—things.”

“They're waiting for us.”

Grey took my arm and escorted me into the dining room. Helen and Evan were already there. Dinner was one long nightmare. True to her word, Helen was polite, or at least more civil than she had been before, asking me how I liked the house, giving me bits of history about various pieces. Evan maintained a brooding silence, occasionally giving his mother a sharp look when she overplayed. Grey began to talk about his boat. It was a beauty. I would love it. He promised to take me out on it, just the two of us. We would have a picnic on the mainland.