Sick of Shadows (5 page)

Oh, well, thought Satisky, he could put up with it. He had a million reasons to put up with it.

Eileen Chandler always braced herself before she entered a room. She envisioned herself walking in to a hail of laughter and catcalls, and she cringed in anticipation of the ordeal. Never had it happened in real life, but years of dread had forged the possibility into a tenuous reality in her mind.

“Well, Eileen, you haven’t got time to change, so we’ll have to take you as you are. Whatever kept you?” her mother demanded.

“She was on her way, really she was,” said Alban, who stood smiling in the doorway. “She was just packing up the painting when I got to the lake.” He patted Eileen’s shoulder reassuringly. “Go and eat, kiddo.”

Eileen took her place beside Michael, giving him a quick smile and then staring absently at her plate.

“Is the painting finished?” asked Charles.

Eileen shook her head.

“How much longer will you be, dear?” asked Amanda. “I expect you want it framed before the wedding. It would look so nice on display at the reception, wouldn’t it, Lou?”

“I should be finished by tomorrow night,” said Eileen to no one in particular.

“What are you painting?” asked Elizabeth.

Eileen stared at her for a moment, and then slowly shook her head.

“That’s the bride’s little secret!” said Amanda gaily. “She won’t breathe a word ’til it’s finished.”

Thinking back on it later, Elizabeth realized that this moment was the turning point. If Eileen had answered her question, then the rest would not have happened.

E
LIZABETH SPENT MOST
of dinner dreading the inevitable after-dinner wedding conference, which she was sure Amanda would inflict on her captive audience, but to her surprise Amanda was the first to leave the dining room. She bade everyone a brisk good night, with a few reminders of tomorrow’s tasks, and hurried upstairs.

“Isn’t she feeling well?” Elizabeth asked Charles.

“Oh, she always does that. We never see her after dinner. The rest of us go into the family room and drink coffee until we can think of something better to do, which for me will be at ten o’clock. They’re showing a special on television: Enrico Fermi and the Chicago Pile.”

“A horror movie about hemorrhoids, no doubt,” snapped Geoffrey. “Come along, Elizabeth. How do you take your coffee?”

Michael and Eileen announced that they were going outside for a walk and strolled off down the hallway, holding hands.

“Well, Elizabeth, it’s nice to see you again,” said Dr.
Chandler, seeming to notice her for the first time. “How are Doug and Margaret?”

“Just fine, Uncle Robert. Mother wanted me to ask if the package they sent arrived.”

“Lord,
I
wouldn’t know, Elizabeth. I doubt if Eileen even does. You ask your Aunt Amanda in the morning. Did you see that pile of stuff on the card table?”

Elizabeth nodded.

“I just try to stay out of the way. How’s that wrist of yours doing?”

“My wrist, Uncle Robert?”

“Yes, wasn’t it you? I seem to recall one of you kids taking a tumble off that pony …”

“Oh, my wrist! It’s fine, Uncle Robert. Just fine.” And has been since I was twelve, Elizabeth thought. She barely remembered falling off the gray pony one summer and spraining her wrist. She had run to the house crying, and Dr. Chandler had wrapped it for her. Odd that he would remember. Either his memory ran strictly to medical incidents or her tumble had been the most memorable thing she had done at Chandler Grove. The doctor had bandaged her wrist skillfully, she recalled, showing considerable patience. He had been calm and in command of the situation, very much the figure of authority. Elizabeth had not seen him that way before or since.

Robert Chandler poured his coffee from Amanda’s silver coffee urn. “I hope you’ll excuse me,” he said pleasantly. “I have some paperwork waiting for me in the study.” He hurried out.

“Elizabeth, would you like the leather chair?” asked Geoffrey. “I’ll bring you your coffee. Oh, Mother’s plaid blanket is draped across the back of it. Shall I move it out of your way?”

Elizabeth smiled at the red and green cloth. “Plaid blanket! That’s the royal Stuart tartan. Leave it right where it is!”

“What ho, Cousin Elizabeth! Do I hear the bagpipes of the Clan MacPherson?”

Elizabeth blushed. “Well, there is a Clan MacPherson,
you know. They were a branch of the Clan Chattan confederation.”

“What’s this?” laughed Alban. “Another history buff in the family?”

“Something far more sinister, I suspect,” said Geoffrey lightly. “I’d say that our cousin is a victim of that hereditary Southern disease, ancestor worship.”

“I am not!” Elizabeth retorted. “Dad is interested in it. And I wanted to get him a scarf for Christmas one year in the clan tartan, so I read up on the subject. It was very interesting.”

“Elizabeth! You mean you actually researched your family origins? Why didn’t you just claim to be descended from Bonnie Prince Charlie like all the other MacSnobs?”

“Because he never married!” snapped Elizabeth. “The MacPhersons fought with him, though, in the Rising of 1745, and helped him to escape after Culloden.”

“I congratulate you on your originality,” purred Geoffrey. “It seems you have been unable to escape the Southern weakness for lost causes, but at least you managed to avoid the conventional one. I would rather hear you go on about the Scottish Alamo than to hear about the Confederacy. I’ll scream if I hear one more person tell me that if we had just marched on to Washington after the first Battle of Manassas, we could have won the war in 1861.”

“Well, we could have,” said Elizabeth. “Everybody knows that!”

Alban started to laugh.

“What’s so funny?” demanded Elizabeth.

“I’m sorry, Elizabeth,” Alban managed to say. “I’m not laughing at you. You just don’t know how refreshing it is to hear somebody else get raked over the coals for being a history buff!”

“What made you interested in Ludwig? You’re not related to him, are you?” asked Elizabeth.

“Oh, no. English on both sides,” Alban replied. “I think it was the style of the man that attracted me. He was such an idealist, yearning for medieval beauty in
a world that was quickly plunging into the plastic twentieth century.”

“I’ll scream if I hear that speech again, too,” Geoffrey remarked.

“We hear rather a lot of one another’s hobbies around here,” said Louisa, smiling at Elizabeth. “Why, Charles, is that the
1812 Overture
you’re humming? Have you taken up classical music?”

Geoffrey snickered. “Tell her about covalent bonding!”

Captain Grandfather looked up from
The Sailor’s Journal
. “Can’t a man read in peace around here?”

“Probably not,” said Charles cheerfully. “I’m turning on the television in five minutes. They’re having a special on physics.”

“Nuclear subs?” asked the old man hopefully.

“No. Sorry. Atomic reactors.”

Captain Grandfather sighed. “I think I’ll say good night, then. Getting on for ten o’clock, anyway. Louisa, shall I have one of these young scoundrels walk you across the street?”

“No, Dad. Just come and turn the porch light on for me. I’ll be fine.” She stood up to leave. “Elizabeth, so good to see you again! You must come over and see us while you’re here, and tell us how Doug and Margaret are doing.”

“They’re fine, Aunt Louisa. They would have come, only Dad had a sales convention—”

“Yes, dear. We quite understand. Good night.”

Elizabeth sighed. She supposed that she would have to go on explaining why her parents hadn’t come until the day she left, although no one seemed convinced by the explanation. There really was a sales convention, although its importance had been greatly exaggerated in the excuses to the Chandlers. The fact was that neither of her parents cared to spend any length of time in Chandler Grove. Margaret Chandler MacPherson, the youngest of Captain Grandfather’s three daughters, was not very much like her sisters. She had passed up her debutante season to marry Douglas MacPherson, and had been content in a suburban existence that did
not include the country club or the Junior League. Most of her spare time was taken up with courses at the community college, where she had learned calligraphy, macramé, and conversational Spanish. Because of her parents’ lack of interest in social matters, Elizabeth had had no chance of becoming a debutante, and even though she was sure she would have hated it, she wished she had been given the option anyway. Part of the reason Elizabeth had agreed to come to the wedding was because she felt a flicker of gratitude that Eileen had chosen not to be a debutante by marrying Michael Satisky instead.

Charles, Geoffrey and Alban were crowded around the television set, fiddling with the dials. Listening to Geoffrey’s sardonic commentary on the program might have been fun, but she decided that she was too tired to stay up. If nobody was going to talk to her, she might as well go to bed.

“Well, I’m going upstairs!” she said loudly. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

The only response was an absent wave from Geoffrey.

She went upstairs, thinking what a perfect house this was for a wedding. The red-carpeted stairway was a proper setting for the wedding pictures: Eileen on the landing with her train draped in a circular pattern beside her, with the other members of the wedding party on descending stairsteps.

I’m getting as bad as Aunt Amanda! she thought wryly.

She made a face at the yellow bridesmaid dress hanging in the closet. How corny can you get—yellow chiffon! She would want a winter wedding, and maybe—yes, maybe the bridesmaids could all wear black velvet bodices and long skirts of the MacPherson clan tartan! Now that would be stylish!

She caught herself in this daydream and laughed. It’s the house. I may have to be deprogrammed when I leave here.

The elegance of the Chandler house had impressed her more than she cared to admit. At times it was a
conscious effort to keep from showing it (Geoffrey would have a good laugh over that one). Apparently it was bad form to be impressed by anything, even if you did live in a brick ranch house with a carport, and were visiting people who lived on an estate. She should be used to it. After all, she and Bill had spent summers here as children. But that had been a long time ago, and children seemed to take any environment for granted. Now, after a span of years, it was different.

Someone tapped on the door.

“Come in!” called Elizabeth, wondering what Aunt Amanda had forgotten to tell her.

When the door opened, however, it was not Aunt Amanda who came in, but Eileen.

“Am I—I’m not disturbing you, Elizabeth?” she faltered, hesitating at the threshold.

“Well, of course not, Eileen,” said Elizabeth. “Come in.”

Eileen, who was still dressed in her painting khakis, brushed off imaginary dust and perched on the edge of Elizabeth’s bed with a tentative smile. “I wanted to thank you for coming,” she said.

“Oh,” said Elizabeth, deliberating between “Thank
you
for asking me” or a more honest “You’re welcome.” In the end she said neither.

“I see you brought the dress,” murmured Eileen, nodding toward the open closet.

“Yes, of course.”

“Mother picked it out.”

Elizabeth sighed.

“But I’m sure you’ll look lovely in it!” Eileen hastened to add. “You have such nice dark hair, and you’re taller than I am. You do like it, don’t you?”

“It’s fine, Eileen. We had to have it altered, but it’s okay now.” Except that I loathe it, she finished silently.

Eileen relaxed a little. “Well, that’s good. I hope everything goes all right.”

“I’m sure it will, Eileen. Just try not to be nervous.”

“Oh, no! I’m too happy to be nervous. Have you had a chance to talk to Michael?” Her voice softened as she said his name.

“Oh—only at dinner,” said Elizabeth.

“Isn’t he wonderful!”

Elizabeth smiled nervously.

“I knew you’d like him. Everybody does,” Eileen went on, twisting her engagement ring. “I want you to read some of his poetry, too, Elizabeth. It is so beautiful. He says I inspire him.”

Elizabeth wondered how long she could go on smiling.

“Maybe I can get him to give a poetry reading after dinner tomorrow night. He’s had three published in the campus literary magazine. Though, of course, he won’t be able to read the one he’s working on right now. It’s a wedding gift for me.” Eileen smiled complacently.

She went on talking about how she had met Michael and about the wedding plans, while Elizabeth asked herself why women became so smug when they were in love. They all behaved as if no one were important except Mr. Wonderful. (“Michael was in the library working on a poem, so I thought I’d come and see you.”)

“I feel like a fairy princess,” sighed Eileen. “I don’t suppose you’d understand, but I feel as if I’d been shut up in a tower all my life—just
looking
at life. And now that Michael has come along, I can finally begin to live.”

“Well, then, I hope you live happily ever after,” said Elizabeth. She did hope that. Eileen had been through enough unhappiness as it was, and Elizabeth wished that things would work out. And the farther from Aunt Amanda, the better, she thought.

“Thank you,” murmured Eileen. “I have to go in a minute and see if Michael is finished, but I am glad I got to talk to you. Things are so rushed these days. I guess Mother will arrange a rehearsal for us in a couple of days.”

“I expect so.”

“And I just found out that I can’t paint tomorrow because Mr. Simmons is coming over.”

“So I heard,” said Elizabeth grimly, remembering her mistake before dinner.

“It’s been so long since I’ve seen you, Elizabeth! You just graduated, didn’t you?”

Elizabeth nodded.

“And I’m getting married before you! Just imagine! I was sure you’d be the first one of us to do it, so I never even counted on the inheritance—”

Elizabeth, who had been mentally rehearsing an edited version of the story of Austin, interrupted her. “What inheritance? What are you talking about?”

“Oh, haven’t you heard about it? It’s a family joke, really.”